“Coroner? She’s dead then?”
“If it’s the same woman, yes. You may be called upon to identify the body.”
“Well, the Violet here didn’t come home last night. Boarded a month and five days. Paid twenty dollars for the month.” Mrs. Beeton opened the door.
Isobel stepped inside the sun drenched bedroom. Flowers greeted her with a pleasant scent, and a generous mirror displayed her severe reflection. The room might be cheery, but it was empty, save for the furniture and a single travel trunk on the floor. Violet had packed.
Lucie strolled into the small room, running a gloved hand over the crisp bedclothes. She turned to the mirror, and adjusted her lacy hat.
“When did you last see Violet?” Isobel asked as she gazed down at the trunk.
“Was she murdered, then?”
Isobel turned. “We’re trying to determine that.”
The landlady squinted from Isobel to Lucie. “You say you’re with the coroner’s office?” It was more reminder than question, and Isobel smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman looked relieved. And then turned her gaze on the wallpaper. Isobel waited as the landlady dredged up a memory. A great clicking ring moaned once from the foyer as the grandfather clock chimed half past four. The sound knocked the elusive thought from Mrs. Beeton’s rattled mind. “Yesterday morning. Ten o’clock sharp, on the third ring.”
“Did Violet seem despondent?”
“Why no, not at all. Pleasant girl. Always in good spirits. As I said, she paid her rent in advance. Twenty dollars for the month.”
“Was she intending to find other lodgings?”
The landlady smiled, seemingly unaware of the conspicuous trunk sitting in the center of the room. “I don’t see why. I didn’t bother her about the lateness of the second month. That’s how pleasant she was. She brought me violets once, just like those.” The landlady pointed to the three vases in the room.
“Has her trunk always been packed?” Isobel tapped the luggage.
“It was there yesterday.”
“Why did you enter Violet’s room yesterday?”
Mrs. Beeton stiffened at her tone. “To polish the doorknob, of course.”
“And a fine polishing you gave it,” Lucie enthused.
“Why didn’t you report her missing?”
“It’s none of my business,” the landlady huffed.
Isobel ignored the batty woman, and knelt beside the trunk, testing the latch. It was not locked. As she riffled through the dead woman’s worldly belongings, Lucie took up the conversation.
“Do you remember what Violet was wearing when she left?”
“A grey skirt?” Mrs. Beeton did not sound sure. “With her red hair done up like your own. Very pretty, that. And a hat with flowers. It made her look tall, but then she was, wasn’t she? Oh, what a lovely diamond!”
Lucie preened shamelessly as the landlady admired her necklace.
Splendid, the landlady was a magpie. “Was Violet wearing jewelry?” Isobel asked abruptly.
Without hesitation, the landlady answered. “She wore a lovely silver brooch with an ivory profile of a woman.” The brooch that Isobel had discovered pinned to Violet’s blouse.
Violet’s clothing was mostly of the cheap pre-made variety, but there was a single dark blue dress that was tailored. The kind that a governess or school teacher might wear. There were books, too: on spiritualism, vapid romances, theatre, nursing, and one tattered pamphlet on family planning that Comstock had declared illegal.
“Did Violet have any gentlemen callers?” Isobel asked, as she began a careful search of the undergarments.
“I don’t recall any visitors.”
The slim case wrapped in her undergarments said otherwise. The ‘hygienic device’ was fairly new. Both the pamphlet and the rubber cap were illegal (and entirely sensible as far as Isobel was concerned). Isobel clicked the box shut, and replaced it.
“Did you know she was in the theatre?”
Mrs. Beeton shook her head. “No, you’re mistaken. Violet is a nurse.” She fell silent for a second. “Dead, you say?”
“Unless we are mistaken,” Lucie soothed.
“We are not,” Isobel stated.
Mrs. Beeton wobbled, and Lucie stepped forward, taking her arm. “Why don’t you show me your parlor. The sun must be lovely this time of day.”
The two left Isobel to the trunk’s contents. Free of prying eyes, Isobel scrutinized each item, one by one, before setting it on the floor. By her estimate, the clothes would fit the tall woman she had viewed on the morgue slab. She picked up the book on spiritualism, and it fell open to a chapter entitled ‘The Restless Dead’. Underlined words leapt off the page: anger, fury, atonement, and release. There were no notes in the margins.
Isobel set the book aside, and picked up the one on nursing. A looping hand filled the margins, but since there was no title of ownership, and it appeared as if the book could have been secondhand, there was no way to know if the handwriting belonged to Violet. This hand was nothing like the severe slant on the beach.
Isobel plumbed the depths of the trunk, but found nothing else of interest. No weapons, plenty of makeup, hair dye, and one vial of lavender perfume. She turned to the trunk’s lining, searching for irregularities. Her fingers caught on a slight, square impression.
Carefully, Isobel parted the seam, and pulled out a photograph. Violet Clowes, or as she was likely known then, Elizabeth smiled from the photograph. She wore a nursing uniform and stood between two others: a woman of her own age and a handsome man in stiff collar. There was an air of familiarity between the three.
Isobel flipped over the photograph. A faint lead mark dated the picture: 1896—Hal, Liz, Elma, written in the same, looping handwriting as the nursing notes.
“That’s the property of the coroner,” a deep voice said from the door way.
Isobel did not miss a beat. Without turning, she thrust the photograph towards the Deputy Coroner. “Is your investigator still busy?”
“The morgue is still full,” Duncan August replied. “If only he were as industrious as you. I barely recognized you, Miss Bonnie.”
“It’s amazing what a change of clothes can do. A sturdy pair of shoes can increase one’s productivity. Perhaps your investigator should give it a try.”
“I’ll pass the message along.”
“The handwriting doesn’t match the writing on shore.”
“The message was written in sand, likely with a stick, hardly suitable for handwriting analysis.”
“I suppose not,” Isobel admitted, standing.
The physician examined the photograph, then looked at the empty room. “Not much here.”
“So it appears,” she said, turning her attention to the wardrobe. As she began a methodical search of the room, she related the details of her investigation. August didn’t appear to know what to do with himself, so he poked around inside the trunk.
“The landlady didn’t report her missing?”
“Mrs. Beeton is more concerned with polishing doorknobs than her boarders’ whereabouts. She’s senile and has poor eyesight. Spectacles might help,” she said absently.
“But her scones are delectable,” Lucie moaned, obscenely.
Duncan August turned on his heel, taking in the elegant, silk-scarfed woman framed in the doorway.
Lucie extended a gloved hand. “I saw you pass in the hall. I had to meet you.”
“Madame de Winter,” August said when he rediscovered his voice.
Isobel nearly threw a pillow at her twin. It appeared the Deputy Coroner was also a theatre enthusiast. “I saw you sing at the Tivoli last month.”
“I hope you heard as well.”
“A divine performance.” August looked from the singer to the dowdy would-be investigator, trying to connect the pieces. For a man who identified corpses all day, the similarities in bone structure was hard to miss.
“We’re cousins,” Isobel suppli
ed before he could ask.
“I find Annie’s activities amusing.”
“Annie?”
“Charlotte,” Isobel nearly growled, and then put on a smile. “An old joke between us.”
“She’s like a dime novel character, don’t you think?” Lucie batted her eyelashes, distracting August from her name slip. “It’s so entertaining to watch her little adventures unfold.”
“I must admit, I had not expected results, especially so soon.”
“She’s gifted.”
“Like you,” August smiled.
Lucie fluttered her lashes, and stepped forward, running a gloved hand down his arm. “Such a lovely cut on you—and those fine hands.”
Resigned to her distracting twin, Isobel focused on the trunk, ignoring the exchange of flirting words. Satisfied that there were no hidden nooks or loose papers, she opened the window and thrust half her body out the third-story window. An iron fire escape climbed the back of the building. A ledge, just under the window, ran five feet to the first railing.
Gripping the windowsill, she adjusted her center of gravity, and bent at the waist, hanging from her hips to stretch towards the ledge. A cry of alarm filled the room where her legs remained. Footsteps neared, but before a hand could grab her coat and haul her back, Isobel placed a hand on her wig, righted it, and slipped back inside. She had seen what she hoped would be there: scuff marks on the ledge.
“Miss Bonnie!”
“Entertaining, isn’t it?” Lucie gushed. “Do show me that photograph.”
With Isobel safe, August obeyed the charming woman. Isobel glanced in the mirror, and nudged her wig a fraction.
“I’m going to take these books, Dr. August. They may help shed light on Violet’s death.”
The physician left the photograph in Lucie’s hands, who casually tucked it in her handbag.
August smirked at the spiritualism book. “Are you going to consult the otherworld, Miss Bonnie?”
“The possibility appeared to be on Violet’s mind.”
“Surely you don’t believe in ghosts?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe; what matters is what Violet believed. I’ll return it when I get this sorted out—unless you’d like to wait on your investigator?”
“As Deputy Coroner, I can hire whomever I like,” he admitted. “As long as you keep me updated.”
“I am, aren’t I? Do you have an official looking card that I can present to people during my inquiries?”
August hesitated, and then brought out his billfold. He handed her a card with his name, but more importantly, his title at the coroner’s office. Pleased, Isobel tucked it away. And Lucie brought out her own elaborately embossed card, displaying it under August’s nose. He looked at it like a donkey being led with a carrot.
“Give this to the doorman whenever I’m singing and you’ll have a box seat.”
“I can’t, Madame—” August protested. “That would be bribery.”
“That’s why I waited until after you accepted my cousin’s help. Now, it’s simply an invitation. I hope we meet again, Dr. August.” Lucie placed her card in his hand, and swept out with a rustle of silk.
Isobel left a very perplexed coroner in the room, and when she joined her twin, Lucie confided, “I collected the names of the other boarders from the landlady in case you needed them.”
Isobel scanned the slip of paper. No Elma or Hal, or any other name she recognized—not surprising. “I’ll question them later.”
“Who knew a man who handles dead flesh all day could be so charming,” Lucie said after they climbed into the waiting hack.
Isobel’s eyes slid over to her twin. “Careful, Ari. August is a city official.”
“One who you’ve told a string of lies to. What if he, or anyone for that matter, recognizes you as the late Mrs. Kingston?”
Isobel did not reply. Both sister and brother played a dangerous game. But then the two had always walked a dagger’s edge.
Amid the rattling and uneven streets, Isobel opened her carpet bag, pulling out the clothes she had pilfered from Lotario’s dressing room. Dressing was as practiced and swift as any costume exchange. As in the theatre, she wore what she could of the next costume. Ladies coat and skirt were stripped, revealing a shirt and trousers. With deft fingers, she buttoned up a waistcoat, attached a stiff collar and tie, shrugged into a coat, and ripped off her wig and hat, smoothing her short hair.
“What on earth did you do to your hair?”
“I cut it,” she said, slapping a flat wool cap over the offending desecration.
Lucie patted her own hair for reassurance. “It’s dreadful. And black. The color may never be the same. You know that, don’t you?
Isobel looked at her twin. “I don’t care.”
Lucie sniffed, but let the subject lie. Instead, she removed her gloves and brought out a slim case. The seasoned actor dabbed her fingertip in the dark powder and spread it artfully over Isobel’s face. When she was satisfied with shading that gave the impression of stubble, Lucie made a few, quick adjustments to her stiff collar and tie.
“Where are you off to?” Lucie finally asked.
“Ocean Beach to question the conductor.”
“Too deep.”
Isobel cleared the faulty male voice from her throat and tried again. “If Violet left at ten in the morning,” Lucie’s approving look told her she was pitch-perfect, “then that leaves a whole heap of time before the message was carved into the sand. Can you find an excuse to stop by the Tivoli sooner?”
Lucie laughed softly. “I have a number of excuses—and one very handsome one. What do you want me to do with your clothes?”
“In the Ferry Building cloakroom, there’s a bored Southerner by the name of Richardson who doesn’t ask questions when cash is involved. Leave the carpet bag with him.”
A block from Market, Isobel thumped her umbrella on the roof, signaling the hackman to stop.
“It’s a good thing I stopped worrying about you,” Lucie said.
“Because you know I’m never careful.”
“All the same, I could come with you.”
“You’re like a peacock in a mire,” Isobel replied. “Whether it’s as Paris, Lotario, or Madame de Winter, you attract attention wherever you go.”
“I can’t help it, you know.”
Isobel smiled. “I know.” Surprising both herself and her twin, she leant over and kissed her cheek.
Before Lucie could say a thing, Isobel hopped from the hack, hit the pavement and was already shrugging into a peacoat as the fog embraced her shadow.
10
Ocean Beach
THE STREETCAR ROLLED THROUGH a silver world. Fog brushed her cheek, concealing the sand dunes to the south and the lush park to the north. For the third time in the same day, Isobel rode the Ocean and Park line. This time as Mr. Henry Morgan, a runner for the Deputy Coroner. Isobel stood on the rear platform, talking with the conductor. J.P. Humphrey remembered Violet well.
“Boarded at Golden Gate Park last night—on the last run.” There was a drawl to the conductor’s voice, a long and low sound that complimented his bowed legs. Replace his flat conductor’s hat for a Stetson, and all would be right with the man. Isobel wondered if wrangling streetcar passengers was much different than cattle.
“Did the woman say anything to you?”
Humphrey sucked on his teeth, searching for his customary tobacco. Long habit caused him to spit on the cobblestones. “Not until the end. Reached into her handbag, and pulled out a letter. Asked me to mail it for her. Funny thing was, it was addressed to the City of San Francisco.”
“Did she take the handbag with her?”
“‘Course.”
“Was anyone else on the line?”
Humphrey shook his head. “And no one was waiting at the station.”
“What did you do with the letter?”
Color rose in the unforgivable complexion of a man who spent his days under a canopy i
n the dark. “I was worried about the young woman, you see. Women don’t generally ride the last line alone. When I saw how the letter was addressed, I opened it.”
“What did it say?”
Humphrey cleared his throat. “The note said, ‘I am innocent. Think well of me’.
Isobel arched a brow, noting the use of ‘I’ and not Violet. “Was it signed?”
“No, nothing else. It was that odd, it was. So I went straight away to the life-saving station at the end of the park. Handed it over to the first surfman I found. I was worried the girl might do something foolish.”
Isobel frowned. “Was the surfman tall, blond, clean-shaven, and fit?”
“Why yes, yes he was,” Humphrey replied. The streetcar stopped at the terminus. A knot of beach goers waited in the fog, weary and joyful from a sunny day in the sea. Isobel thanked the conductor and stepped down. A strong hand grabbed her shoulder, and she looked up into the worried eyes of J.P. Humphrey. “Was the girl all right, then?”
“The woman is dead.” There was no accusation, no sympathy, just plain blunt fact in her voice. The conductor’s throat caught with dismay, but Isobel did not notice. Her feet were already moving, and her thoughts sped to the guilty looking surfman she had spoken to this morning.
✥
With ornate scrollwork and a neat little fence, the life-saving station resembled a giant-sized gingerbread cottage rather than a boat house. Its wide, double doors were open, and Isobel walked from the mist into the garage, where a thirty-six foot longboat sat on a wagon. Its wheels were a foot over her head, and the grips pointed towards the ramp, poised to spit crew and boat out to sea.
She smelled oil and grease, and noted movement under the wagon, towards the rear axle. A surfman in his blues was oiling the wheels. Unruly blond hair snuck from beneath his cap. She recognized the fit swimmer immediately.
“Tobin Gower,” she said.
The man jerked and knocked his head on the hull. Rubbing the knot on his head, he stared at the unannounced guest, taking in the flat cap, smooth face, peacoat, and trousers. His gaze fell on the umbrella in her hand, but to the unobservant, it was unremarkable.
A Bitter Draught Page 7
