A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

  Miss Taylor’s eyes lit up, and Isobel felt like a pie sitting on the windowsill. The woman snagged on her words and ran.

  “I’m that excited, I am,” Miss Taylor grabbed her hand and pumped it with vigor. Isobel didn’t quite know what to say, feeling as if she had been the one recruited, not the reverse. Was there a rule against that in the detective business? Surely Sherlock Holmes had never been recruited by one of his Irregulars?

  An Irregular. Isobel did not know what to do with one. She had never considered establishing a network of informants—she preferred to work alone. What did one do with an Irregular? Isobel tilted her head, studying the switchboard operator. What was an Irregular, but a pawn? She knew what to do with pawns. Having a piece in play, on guard and alert, was better than none at all. Hopefully sacrifice would not be needed.

  Isobel deftly extricated her hand from the enthused woman. “I’m afraid I’ve given out all my calling cards for the day,” she lied through her teeth. “Would you happen to—”

  “Of course I do,” Miss Taylor unbuttoned her handbag, and thrust a paisley calling card decorated with cats under the detective’s eyes. Isobel carefully accepted the card, trying not to look at it any longer than necessary. “I am that thrilled, I am. Was one of the people in the photograph murdered? The woman who I thought lives here? I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “I can’t discuss the matter at this time,” she replied smoothly. “I require ears and eyes, Miss Taylor, not tongues. I’ll be in touch.” Isobel gave a slight nod that was returned with an equally cryptic wink. No doubt, the woman’s shelves would be filled with all sorts of fanciful material.

  Isobel gathered up her things, and walked out of the dining room. Out of the ten lodgers, she had caught eight. Two recognized Violet, four weren’t sure, and two didn’t know her at all. And no one had heard strange noises in the night, or so they claimed. All in all, it was a wasted morning.

  Isobel found Mrs. Beeton polishing doorknobs on the third floor. She reintroduced herself for the fourth time, explained that she was with the coroner’s office (again), and finally coaxed the landlady to open Violet’s door.

  The room was empty, except for furniture and flowers. Duncan August had taken Violet’s earthly belongings into custody. Not that there had been much.

  Isobel made a slow revolution as she recited the words in sand. “Violet loves kindness. And she does not always get it in this country.” Sorrow, or the last prod of a cruel mind?

  Having grown up with nine brothers, Isobel knew that tongues could be wickedly sharp. Whether large, or small, a family could be a battle ground of cruelty and spite. Siblings knew precisely how to cause pain. And Isobel had generally answered taunts with a fist and a kick and a hasty retreat. She’d been a furious scrapper who’d made up for her diminutive age and size with dirty tricks.

  As her mind spun in all directions, grasping for thoughts to untangle this knotted puzzle, her eyes landed on the flower vases. Three bouquets burst with violets. She was glad that the wall paper didn’t contain more of the purple flowers.

  Isobel bent over the freshest bouquet and sniffed. Sweet and calm. Relaxing for a girl who had been plagued with headaches.

  She sniffed at the next arrangement of violets. Nothing. Isobel returned to the first, and sniffed again. The sweetness was gone. She stepped back, looking from one to the next. The petals were in varying stages of decay. Most women discarded the wilting bouquet and replaced it with a fresh one. Why keep all three?

  During her two years at a finishing school, Isobel had noticed the puzzling preoccupation her fellow prisoners had had with pressing flowers between pages of books, saving little notes, or treasuring a ribbon that was won at a fair where a young man had spoke to them once.

  Foolishness, in her opinion. If Isobel wanted to remember something, she remembered it. Sentimentality was a nuisance. She rubbed a dry, brittle petal, and watched it crumble. Suspicious, she plucked the bouquet out of its nest and tossed the flowers on the desk. The water in the vase was clean, a bit murky, but nothing alarming. She picked up the vase and swirled it around, looking for any hint of something hidden at the bottom. Nothing. For the sake of thoroughness, she slowly emptied the water into a washbasin, and checked again—still nothing. She repeated the process on the remaining two vases but her efforts were unrewarded.

  Isobel considered her options. This was not the end of the line. Lotario would indelicately be asking questions at the Tivoli. She had yet to call upon the home where Violet worked as a caretaker. There was the Kiralfy Theatre Company and unknown nursing school, but both were likely out of the city. As for tracking down the spiritualist with whom Violet may have consulted—that would be like looking for a cork dropped into the bay.

  A dash of pink called to Isobel. She eyed the bit of ribbon wrapped around the stems. All pink. She untied each, and laid them side by side. The fabric was identical. Given the degrees of decay in the violets, all three ribbons had been cut from the same cloth over a two week period.

  Isobel smirked, snatched the ribbons, and marched out of the room.

  ✥

  A yawn cracked Isobel’s jaw. As she walked through the early morning fog, she reflected on how soothing Riot’s visit had been. They had talked for hours; comfortable in silence, in the lap of waves, and unhurried to fill the gaps between.

  This morning, when she had awoken to Watson’s plaintive demand for food, she realized that she had drifted off to sleep, probably while talking or listening, and was still dressed in her male garb with the added addition of a blanket.

  Despite her dreamy fatigue, the thrill of an investigation had propelled her out of bed. She had needed to catch the lodgers before they left for the day. Coffee, she decided, was the thing for her at the moment.

  The city was wide awake, and the newsboys were already hoarse. She exchanged nickel for newspaper, and found an empty chair in a crowded cafe. With coffee ordered, she turned to the morning edition of the Call.

  A satisfied curve lifted her lips. The words Mysterious Savior Foils Attack was on the front page, a small paragraph that continued on page three. A much exaggerated event, but not entirely untrue—simply pieces reassembled from another time. What mattered, were the bits that could be confirmed.

  There were plenty of witnesses who saw a woman faint on Market, and as for the ambulance men, Isobel had praised them to heaven, claiming the woman had fled the ambulance out of concern for her reputation. Isobel wagered that Davies and Cook would keep their lips sealed.

  Neat and Tidy. Not bad for a first day.

  Isobel turned the pages, raised an eyebrow at an advertisement for Doctor Sanden’s Electric Belt and Suspensory for Weak Men, and scanned the rest of the paper.

  Finding no mention of Violet’s suicide, Isobel looked to the other tables. When she spotted her prey, she stood, and walked over to the gentleman reading the Chronicle. “Excuse me,” she smiled, shyly. “I’m so sorry, but might we trade?”

  Before the startled man could reply, she wrenched his paper from his hands and replaced it with the Call.

  The gentleman’s mouth worked. Before words emerged, she retreated to the corner with her prize. The Chronicle did not mention a woman who wrote her will in the sand either. Apparently, suicides were not news. Such deaths were common place; everyday occurrences of desperate people who were at their wit’s end in a city that did not care (unless one managed to kill oneself in an inventive way).

  Isobel counted out pennies for her coffee, frowned at her scant remaining funds, and decided a trip to her other job was called for. Streetcars, telegrams, and telephone calls added up—to say nothing of her dock fees.

  When the man with whom she had exchanged papers abandoned his table, she tucked the Chronicle under her arm and appropriated a biscuit and bacon from his left over plate. Gathering pride around her like a mantle, she raised her chin, and strode out with her breakfast.

  ✥

  The operator pulled back the elevat
or doors and voices assaulted her senses. Bracing herself, Isobel walked into the newsroom, spotting a feminine form disappearing down an adjoining hallway.

  Isobel nearly ran after the glimpse of swishing fabric. It was too early, and she was too tired to cope with the bang and drone of the desks. She hoped Cara Sharpe had not forgotten her.

  The Sob Sisters inhabited a room at the end of the hall. When Isobel entered, three women looked up, their gazes shrewd and assessing. Cara was not present.

  There were five desks in all, a window that let in sunlight and fresh air, and only three typewriters clacked—a less chaotic beat than the cavernous newsroom. It was bliss.

  “I hired on yesterday,” Isobel said by way of introduction. “Charlotte Bonnie.”

  “You’re the one who shot down McCormick in five minutes,” said a straight-laced woman with a severe chignon.

  “Charming fellow,” Isobel replied.

  The other two women laughed. One, an older woman who looked as though she had seen it all, and the younger, a woman who looked as though she wished she hadn’t seen a thing.

  The severe woman introduced herself as Sara Rogers. The older woman went by the name of Rose, and the younger by the name of Jo Kelly.

  “We don’t assign desks since it’s rare for all of us to be in the office at once,” explained Sara. “If the desks are full, you’ll have to wait, or find an empty one in the corral.”

  “Not a problem.” A breeze ruffled the papers on the desk closest to the window. It was empty, so she took it, not minding the disturbance one bit.

  “Who hired you?” asked Rose.

  “I hired myself.”

  Kelly snorted. “Have you published already?”

  “The Mysterious Savior,” Isobel replied.

  “So you’re H.B. Finn.” The older woman made a sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a cackle that had a tinge of madness in it. “Cock and Bull story,” she wheezed.

  “Got her front page,” Kelly pointed out.

  “All front page articles are rubbish,” Sara said, primly.

  The three women grinned, and turned back to their machines.

  Isobel searched through the drawers, discovered a supply of paper, and fed a piece into her typewriter, preparing to spin a yarn about the girl who wrote her will in the sand. But the sight of the typists working brought her up short. She watched Sara’s fingers fly over the keys for a minute, and then tried to mimic the finger placement. Finishing school had not included any practical lessons that involved earning a wage—unless she counted snagging a wealthy husband. Every tutor and student in attendance would have frowned with disdain at Isobel for abandoning her breathing gold mine.

  The keys felt odd beneath her fingers, spread out as they were, but it seemed a more efficient way than her two fingered jabbing technique. Determined, Isobel applied herself to the task.

  Sometime later, she surfaced, realizing that two of the women had left. Jo Kelly remained, reading over a manuscript. Isobel frowned down at her watch, and hastened over to the mousy desk editor.

  Mr. Griful looked as though he had been trapped in the curve of his horseshoe-shaped desk all night. The comparison was fitting. The editor represented the luck everyone beseeched to get their story into the papers. Isobel resisted the urge to rub his balding head; instead, she said, “You published my article about the mysterious savior yesterday, under my nom de plume H.B. Finn.”

  “No guarantee for today,” he said gruffly, taking her latest story.

  “It’s an exclusive story. No other newspaper will have it.”

  With interest, the man squinted at the words, and Isobel left him to it with her breath held. She sunk into the chair at her non-desk, and stared out the window, thoughts flying.

  After a time, she became aware of the touch of eyes. Isobel glanced to the only other occupied desk.

  Kelly smiled. “You look familiar.”

  Her heart lurched.

  With effort, Isobel kept her voice casual. “Most people do. I was thinking the same about you. Berkeley?”

  Kelly shook her head. “Saint Mary’s.”

  One hook detached itself from Isobel’s heart. “Maybe at a cathedral, then?”

  “I don’t think so.” Kelly looked thoughtful. “Are you Catholic?”

  “Only when I have to be.”

  Kelly smirked.

  “How long have you been with the Call?” asked Isobel.

  “Six months now. I cover the society news. Who’s who and all that fuss.”

  And there was the hook that remained. Isobel did remember the woman from the dizzying number of social engagements she had attended while investigating Kingston. Isobel’s marriage to Kingston had made a grand appearance in the newspapers, followed by her disappearance and death, but thankfully, the photograph of her was obscure. Still, Kelly was fashionably dressed, and pretty—just the type to mingle at social functions.

  Not liking this line of conversation, Isobel deftly knocked it far away. “Say,” she leaned in conspiratorially. “Who’s Cara Sharpe?”

  Kelly’s eyes widened a fraction. “You don’t know? She’s a long time reporter and has the editor’s ear. If there is a story, Cara will sniff it out, or drag it out kicking and screaming; better than most out there.”

  “And you?”

  “I do well enough,” Kelly shrugged, and reached for a cigarette. “It’s a cutthroat business.”

  “So I’m told,” Isobel replied, and changed tack. “Is there an archive in this building?”

  “Down in the basement.” Kelly’s hand shook as she opened a silver match safe. “They keep all the old newspapers, there. It’s cold and dark.”

  Despite the sun and flare of match, Kelly shivered, taking a shaky drag. Whether the blonde, fair-skinned Irish woman disliked the archives in particular, or dark places in general, Isobel could not say, but the fear was there.

  “I’ll look for it. Thank you.” Isobel stood, said her goodbyes, and went to harass the editor.

  Mr. Griful handed her five dollars.

  “For an exclusive?” she asked, sharply.

  “Unsolved, unknown—it’s a start, but not an exclusive,” he argued, avoiding her gaze.

  Isobel wagered she was being short changed. She narrowed her eyes at the mousy man, snatched back her paper, and slapped down her five dollar bill. “I’ll take my story to the Chronicle, then.”

  Mr. Griful shuffled papers around his desk. “I’m busy here. I doubt they will want it,” he said by way of dismissal.

  Isobel marched towards the elevator. Half-way there, Mr. Griful abandoned his bluff, hurrying through the desks to intercept her.

  “Miss Bonnie, wait, please.” He motioned her to the side, and she arched a brow, waiting. “I’ll be generous. How about six dollars?”

  “Here is how it’s going to play out, Mr. Griful. I will demand fourteen, and you’ll offer eight, and so on. But what I really want is ten, so unless you’re prepared to pay me what my article is worth, then I’ll take my story elsewhere.”

  “Fine.”

  “And ten for each additional article.” The editor’s mouth worked, but one look at her face sealed the deal.

  “Ten it is.”

  13

  Madmen and Violets

  AN IRON FENCE SURROUNDED the overgrown property. The fence climbed with the hill, until it towered over her head. Beyond its iron, the house where Elizabeth ‘Violet’ Foster had worked hid in a forest of pine and eucalyptus. But whether the fence was guarding the street or the house, Isobel could not say.

  She stopped at the gate. It was locked. Curtains covered the house’s grimy windows, and hedges spilled onto the front walkway. Perhaps the old woman who Violet had cared for was a spinster without kin? Still, it seemed strange that no one would step forward to claim, or even sell, a house in San Francisco.

  With skirts, jumping the fence during the day would attract attention, so Isobel walked on, circling the block until she found a promisin
g lane that dove down the hill behind homes.

  There was a locked gate at the back, too. But the fence was wood instead of iron. Isobel scanned the ground, noticed a scuff mark in the dirt, and tested the nearby board. It was loose.

  Removing her hat, she squeezed through the opening. A button caught and popped off her coat, and she cursed under her breath as she fought through the tangle on the other side. Detaching herself from the last bramble, she stepped onto a narrow track.

  Birds chirped and leaves rustled. The backyard might have been peaceful if the whole of the place didn’t feel as if it were holding its breath—waiting. The windows were like eyes, and their watchfulness pricked her senses.

  Cautiously, Isobel approached. Shotguns were an acceptable way to greet trespassers, and despite the neglected appearance, there were scuff marks on the path that led to the grocer’s door.

  Sparing a glance at the windows, Isobel crouched, studying the marks in the dirt. Unfortunately, the ground was hard and she was no tracker—not like in the stories at any rate, and while she had been on the look out for an authentic Indian Scout her entire life, she had not found any willing to teach her. Of the marks she could make out: one was a large boot with a long stride; the other a smaller foot, possibly a child’s; and the third, was most definitely the square impression of a woman’s heel.

  Isobel stood, dusting off her walking skirt as she scanned the back of the house. With a mental shrug, she marched up to the porch, and pounded her umbrella against the door.

  A faint noise, like scurrying rats, sounded beneath her feet. She squinted through a crack between boards, into the shadows underneath. But all was quiet in the echo of her demand. She knocked a second time, and then, on a whim, tried the door knob. It was locked. A newer mechanism by the look of it.

  Isobel stepped off the porch and squinted at the upper-story windows. “So is the house deserted or have the owners gone on holiday?” she asked the lurker under the porch.