“I had also employed Mr. Smith, Miss Brown, which is why Jane gave you his name,” said Celia calmly. “As an ‘amateur detective,’ it would be remiss of me to not wish to resolve who caused his death.”
“You don’t trust the police to do their job?” she asked.
“Your case was the only one Mr. Smith was working on at the time of his death,” Celia continued, refusing to be cowed into silence. Or into polite, meaningless conversation. “He’d composed a list of the people at a séance you attended with your brother and Miss Genevieve Adler. You wished for him to investigate them. Why?”
Miss Brown scowled. “You intend to interrogate me. In my own house.”
“Would you prefer that a police detective come here and cause the neighbors to gossip?” she asked. “Or perhaps he should summon you to the station, where your presence might be noted and reported in the Examiner the next morning?”
“You are hardly saving us from embarrassment, Mrs. Davies,” she responded. “The police have already spoken with Arthur. At the Roman baths, of all places.”
“I might, however, avert a visit here.” Not a claim Celia could make in good conscience, but if it encouraged Justina Brown to talk, it was worth a go.
Miss Brown lowered herself onto a nearby chair, her skirts billowing in great yellow waves. “We should never have gone. The séance was Genevieve’s idea. Such a lark, she claimed. I wouldn’t allow Arthur to attend without me.”
“Did you not trust Miss Adler’s reasons for wishing to attend, Miss Brown?” asked Celia.
“I do not trust her. She’s young and silly,” she replied, her tone sparing none of the disdain she clearly felt.
“I’ve met Genevieve,” said Jane. “She’s not so bad, Justina.”
Miss Brown ignored her attempt to defend the woman. “My brother is besotted with her,” she said. “You know how men are when a pretty thing flirts with them, Mrs. Davies.”
Yes, I do.
And, were she to guess, Justina Brown was very much afraid this particular pretty thing was going to steal her brother away from her. Should she tell Miss Brown that Miss Adler had no more liking for her than Justina had for Vivi? Two women battling over the affections of one man.
“Why did you hire Mr. Smith?” asked Celia.
The woman pressed a hand to her tightly cinched waist. “My brother has received threatening letters.”
“Miss Adler came to see me this morning,” said Celia. “She mentioned those letters as well, and that Mr. Smith had come to her house to ask about them. She also tells me that the letters began arriving after the séance. You had an appointment with Mr. Smith around two weeks earlier, however. We found his appointment book with the entry.”
A muscle twitched along the hard edge of Miss Brown’s jaw. “A private matter I’d rather not discuss, Mrs. Davies,” she said. “When my brother began receiving those letters, though, I retained Mr. Smith to look into them, as well.”
Celia waited for more details, which were not forthcoming. “What was your assessment of the contents of those letters, Miss Brown?” she prompted.
The hand at her waist was joined by her other. “My brother never shared their contents with me.”
“No?” asked Celia.
“Did Arthur know who sent them, Justina?” asked Jane.
“They weren’t signed, but my brother believes a person who saw him lecture at one of his many speaking engagements was responsible,” she replied. “People can become strangely obsessed with well-known individuals. He made me see sense.”
“So Miss Kimball was not their author,” said Celia.
“What a strange suggestion,” said Miss Brown.
Genevieve Adler hadn’t thought so.
“Mr. Smith made a curious note about blackmail,” said Celia. “I presume the author of the letters demanded money in addition to the threats he made?”
“My brother is well-off and there are always people who will try to cheat you and steal from you, Mrs. Davies,” she replied. “I’d expect you to realize that.”
Because I am an amateur detective?
“Was it generally known that your brother would be at Mrs. Loveland’s that particular evening?” asked Celia.
“Several of our acquaintances were aware,” she replied. “I can’t begin to guess who Mrs. Loveland might have told, but I wouldn’t put it past her to have bruited about that an important person like Arthur would be present at one of her séances.” She rose. “Are we quite finished here? I have other appointments this morning.”
“Just a few more questions, if you do not mind,” said Celia.
“Thank you for being so patient with us, Justina,” said Jane, always quick to soothe.
She retook her seat. “I do mind, but that won’t stop you, will it, Mrs. Davies?”
Celia offered a smile in response. It was better than the sharp retort she’d rather give. “Miss Adler mentioned a carte de visite that Mr. Smith showed to her. A photograph of your brother with a young woman,” said Celia. “Did you give it to him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I thought the woman in the photograph might be Etta,” said Celia.
Miss Brown was not as practiced at concealing her reactions as Miss Adler had been; she visibly flinched. “I don’t know an Etta, Mrs. Davies.”
How else, though, had Mr. Smith come to write her name on that piece of paper if Justina Brown had not provided it to him?
“Justina, did you tell your brother that you’d hired Mr. Smith to investigate?” asked Jane.
“I thought it best not to. He’d never want me to associate with a person like that, but I am not afraid to do whatever is necessary to protect my brother. Our father died when I was very young, Mrs. Davies, and Arthur replaced him in my life,” she said. “So you see, he is more than a brother. I owe so much to him. I love and admire him very deeply.”
As I had loved my brother.
However, the shared sentiment did not soften Celia’s view of Miss Brown.
“Can you explain why Dr. Brown was observed arguing with Mr. Smith two days prior to his death?” Celia asked her.
Justina Brown scoffed. “Are you suggesting Arthur would kill the man? My brother is the best of men, utterly decent and honorable. What a horrible suggestion, Mrs. Davies.”
“Of course he is, Justina,” said Jane.
“The only reason my brother would’ve been arguing with Mr. Smith would be to convince him to leave us alone.” She exhaled. “Genevieve came here to complain that he’d been to see her. Arthur was upset. I was ashamed to admit to him that the investigator was nosing around because of me, however.”
“Where was your brother on the morning of the Fourth of July?” asked Celia.
Justina Brown abruptly stood. “This is ridiculous. You want me to provide an alibi when I just told you he had nothing to do with Mr. Smith’s death? The police should question that Mr. Griffin. Brassy and bold. A thug,” she said. “If Mr. Smith went to question him, I’ve no doubt at all how a man like Mr. Griffin would’ve reacted.”
“He was seen lurking near Mr. Smith’s office . . .” Blast. She should not have said that aloud.
Miss Brown’s smile was triumphant. “See then? He likely is the murderer.”
“He was also seen near your brother’s surgery, Miss Brown,” said Celia. “I recommend Dr. Brown be on his guard.”
Justina Brown’s color rose. “The police must arrest him. Mr. Griffin is a dangerous man and must be taken off the streets. Before somebody else dies.”
Chapter 11
Nick let the station’s alleyway door slam behind him. One day he’d pause to consider why he enjoyed doing that so much.
He was later than usual, even for a Saturday—he’d let himself lose sleep over the telegram he’d sent to Ellie—and the place was mostly empty. Except for the booking sergeant, a cheroot dangling from his fingers, and Taylor.
His assistant looked up from his desk. “Sir, glad you’re in
this morning. I’ve located our Mr. Emery.”
“Good to hear,” he said. “I’ll go talk to him as soon as I’ve looked through some of my paperwork.” The piles on his desk wouldn’t have gotten any shorter since yesterday.
“Want me to go, too?”
“We still need to locate Miss Kimball and Griffin,” answered Nick.
“There was a woman in here about a half hour ago, sir, asking if we’d found Miss McHugh yet,” he said. “Claimed Miss McHugh owes her rent.”
Great. “And I’m thinking the sergeant over there owes you a cheroot, Taylor. Along with a cigar.”
“Hey! Is that one of my new Manila cheroots you’re smoking?” shouted his assistant.
“Do you see your name on it?” asked the sergeant.
The alleyway door to the police station opened again. An officer dragged a handcuffed fellow down the steps. “I’ve got the man you were looking for, Greaves.”
“Well, Griffin, it’s always grand to see your ugly face in here.” The booking sergeant smirked at the man. “Or are you going by a different name these days?”
Griffin’s coat was dirt-streaked, and underneath it, his red vest gleamed like a blot of blood. The bruise blooming on his chin showed he’d put up a fight. Or the officer had been rough simply because he didn’t like the guy.
“I’d like to know what I’ve been arrested for,” Griffin said, unruffled.
“Why don’t you join me over here, Mr. Griffin,” said Nick.
The officer forced Griffin onto one of the two chairs waiting near Taylor’s desk.
“Guess I can’t say no, Detective.”
“I’d like to ask you about your role in the death of an investigator, Mr. R. Smith,” said Nick. Taylor took out his notebook and pencil.
“Smith? I wouldn’t bother to kill him,” the man said. “He’s not worth the noose.”
“You admit to knowing Smith.”
“Everybody knows him . . . or knew him, may he rest in peace.”
Taylor rolled his eyes.
“Why were you seen at his office not long before he made the mistake of suddenly falling to his death from the window of his room?” asked Nick.
“I wanted him to leave Ruth alone.”
First Brown protecting Miss Adler, and now Griffin protecting Ruth Loveland. Either the men in this case were exceptionally gallant or Smith was exceptionally annoying.
“Not because you wanted to get at the case files he was keeping locked in his cabinets,” said Nick.
Griffin’s eyes went comically wide. “Was he keeping a file on me? The snake.”
The guy was just hilarious. “What was he bothering Ruth Loveland about?”
“She didn’t explain.”
“You were also at Smith’s office later on the Fourth, after Smith had died.”
The fellow shrugged. “How was I to know he was dead, Detective?”
Like pulling teeth, getting anything of use out of him. “Why were you spying on Dr. Brown’s surgery?”
“Who?” he asked, having to lift both manacled hands to lazily scratch an itch above his collar.
“Don’t bother to pretend you don’t know him,” snapped Taylor.
“Dr. Arthur Brown. He attended a séance at Mrs. Loveland’s. You also were there that night,” said Nick. “You were seen near his surgery just yesterday, watching it.”
“Ah, Mrs. Davies told you she saw me.”
Damn.
“Should I . . . ?” asked Taylor, his brows raised.
“Yes.” Yes, you should warn her.
“You’re still welcome to explain why you were hanging around Dr. Brown’s, Mr. Griffin. Seeking medical advice?” asked Nick. “Or were you helping Mrs. Loveland swindle one of her clients? Perhaps you and she regularly blackmail them over the secrets you two learn during her so-called communications with the spirit world.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied. “And Ruth Loveland is a gifted medium.”
“And I’m supposed to therefore believe she’s not eager to make extra money by swindling her clients,” said Nick.
“You don’t have any evidence she’s guilty of anything, Detective,” said Griffin. “And I’m not, either.”
“Then why were you outside Dr. Brown’s surgery?”
Griffin squeezed his mouth shut. The officer jabbed him with his baton.
“Hey, that hurt!” Griffin shouted. He exhaled noisily. “Smith came by the boot store where I work. He asked me—in a very businesslike way, which wasn’t typical for him—about Brown and his ladylove, Miss Adler,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to tell him, other than I thought the Adler woman was laying it on thick with Brown.”
“That’s all he questioned you about?”
“We may have discussed one or two other, unrelated matters.” Griffin glared at the officer next to him. “And don’t jab me again, got it?”
“After your businesslike conversation with Smith, maybe you decided to learn what was so special about Dr. Brown,” said Nick. “Maybe see if there was money to be made. Is that how it was, Mr. Griffin?”
“You think I’m so all-fired interesting. Why not investigate Brown? Smith found him awfully fascinating.”
Griffin had a good point, but Nick wasn’t about to let him know that he thought so. “Tell me what you were doing the morning of the Fourth of July.”
“I was watching the parade with some mates.”
“What are their names?”
“Bill. Eddie,” answered Griffin.
“That’s it?” asked Nick. “Just ‘Bill’ and ‘Eddie’?”
“I drink with them, Detective. I don’t go to their lodgings for Sunday supper,” the man said. “I don’t know their last names.”
“A pity.” Nick stood. “Sergeant, take this fellow to one of the cells. He’s been arrested on suspicion of murder.”
The booking sergeant set down his cheroot and strode over.
Taylor jumped up from his chair and trailed Nick into his office. “He’s gotta be the fellow, sir.”
“Maybe Smith had discovered that Griffin was fleecing Mrs. Loveland’s clients. That would give him a motive to get rid of the investigator,” he replied. “Despite his claim Smith wasn’t worth a noose.”
Shouting interrupted him. Nick bolted back out into the station room.
The booking sergeant was slumped on the floor, a pair of handcuffs in his hand. “He slipped out of them.” He clambered to his feet and pointed toward the alleyway door, which hung wide open, street dust swirling down the steps.
Taylor took off at a sprint. Nick chased after him, tossing aside chairs that got in the way, taking the steps two at a time. His assistant charged toward Kearney, his policeman’s coat flapping around his legs, while the booking sergeant went the other direction.
“Where is he?” shouted Taylor, coming to a halt at the intersection with the street. “Sir, where is he?”
Nick squinted into the midday sun. A few strollers occupied Portsmouth Square. The coaches for hire parked around its perimeter stood waiting for customers, feed bags tied to the horses’ snouts, the drivers’ heads bent over newspapers. Music drifted from saloons.
“That fellow went thata way.” A cabdriver pointed toward the streets leading into the Chinese quarter. “He ran like the devil was after him.”
“I’ll get him, sir.” Taylor shouted for the booking sergeant, who skidded to a stop and joined Nick’s assistant. Together, they pelted up the road and turned down an alleyway.
Damn.
Nick turned back toward the station and caught sight of a woman hurrying his direction.
“You have extraordinary timing, Mrs. Davies.”
• • •
“We located Griffin, Mrs. Davies,” said Mr. Greaves, tossing his flat-brimmed hat onto his desk. Papers scattered and fluttered to the ground. “He was here, but he managed to escape.”
“What did he have to tell you?” Celia asked, settling on the
edge of her usual chair in front of his desk.
“Not much use in questioning somebody who’s as good at avoiding giving answers as he is at slipping out of handcuffs,” he replied. He gazed at her, his expression sober. “He knows your name, and that you told us about spotting him near Brown’s surgery yesterday.”
She wanted to smile and make a flip comment that would erase the concern on his face. You must stop caring, Nicholas.
But she could not be flip when she was just as concerned.
“I was already aware he knows my name and where I live, Detective Greaves,” she said. “He stole a card of mine I’d left with a milliner who happens to have a shop across the street from Dr. Brown’s surgery.”
His sober expression turned grim. “Don’t be reckless, Celia.”
“I never intend to be.”
Mr. Taylor hurtled into the office. “He got away, sir. Oh, good morning, Mrs. Davies.” He doffed his hat. “We couldn’t find him anywhere.”
“Send out a telegram alerting all the stations that we’re looking for Griffin in connection to Smith’s murder,” he said, taking his chair. “And have someone watch Mrs. Loveland’s flat. If he and Ruth Loveland are working together, I’d lay odds he’ll try to contact her at some point.”
“Should I have the ferries and the trains watched, too, sir?” asked Taylor. “In case he tries to make a break for it.”
Mr. Greaves nodded, and Mr. Taylor scuttled off.
“I shall do my best to be careful, Mr. Greaves,” she said softly.
“You have the damnedest ability to get into trouble, Mrs. Davies.”
“And out of it.”
“Hopefully you continue your streak of luck, ma’am,” he replied.
Hopefully. “Is Mr. Griffin also suspected of sending threatening letters to Dr. Brown?” asked Celia.
The detective exhaled and leaned back. “Since you’ve heard about those letters, why not tell me what you’ve learned.”
“I came straight here from visiting Miss Brown with Jane. According to her, he professes they were sent by some stranger who read about him in the newspaper and who seeks to capitalize on the doctor’s fame,” said Celia. “He did not permit her to read the contents, though.”
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