Mr. Taylor returned, shutting the office door to the noise and the smell of the outer office, and sat in the chair tucked against the wall behind Celia. His ever-handy notebook rustled as he pulled it from his coat pocket.
“The good doctor gave us a similar story.” Mr. Greaves rubbed the ache in his arm. “What else did Justina Brown tell you?”
“She admitted to hiring Mr. Smith to investigate those letters,” replied Celia. “She also says the reason she’d had an appointment with Mr. Smith earlier in June was a personal matter, which she did not wish to discuss.”
“We know something happened at that séance that upset the doc, though,” said Mr. Taylor. “He had that fit Mrs. Loveland told us about, sir, which caused the Browns to leave straightaway.”
“He fell ill?” asked Celia. “Miss Brown did not mention this attack of illness to me.” She surely had not forgotten.
“Her brother forgot to tell us about it, too. Which makes me wonder why, as well as what triggered it,” said Mr. Greaves. “Maybe I’ll learn something about that fit when I talk to Mr. A. J. Emery.”
“Perhaps Dr. Brown feigned an attack in order to provide an excuse to leave the séance, which I gather he attended simply to please his fiancée,” she said.
“Or Mrs. Loveland was lying about it,” said Mr. Greaves.
“I questioned Miss Brown about the Etta Mr. Smith noted,” she said. “She maintains that she does not know a woman by that name.”
“Dr. Brown has also suffered a bout of amnesia where that name is concerned,” he said. “Forgetfulness seems to be a problem with the Browns.”
“Why will they not tell us all the facts?” asked Celia. “We can hardly help if they withhold information.”
“Because there’s something they don’t want us to know, Mrs. Davies.”
“Wait,” interjected Mr. Taylor. “Who the heck . . . ’scuse me, ma’am. Who did kill Mr. Smith? Mr. Griffin or Dr. Brown?”
“Miss Brown would like us to believe Mr. Griffin is responsible,” said Celia. “She called him a thug.”
“A good description, but what about Mr. Emery? Or why not Miss Adler or Mrs. Loveland or Miss Brown herself?” proposed Mr. Greaves. “The door to Smith’s room was open, allowing easy access. And it doesn’t take much force to shove to his death a man leaning through a window to watch a parade. Especially one who might’ve been drinking and not all that attentive.”
“If Miss Brown employed Mr. Smith to investigate, why would she then seek to kill him?” asked Celia.
“An elaborate plot?” suggested the detective. “Or she didn’t like what he’d discovered?”
“I had another visit this morning, Mr. Greaves. From Miss Adler. She came to the house early, keen to discuss those letters,” she said. “She blamed Miss Kimball for sending them. Said the woman acted like a banshee at the séance, chasing after the Browns when they left.”
Mr. Taylor’s brow wrinkled. “I’m confused. Which of them are we supposed to focus on? We can’t suspect them all.”
“Perhaps there is evidence in Mr. Smith’s office we have yet to uncover that will provide help, Mr. Greaves.”
“It’s been examined pretty thoroughly, ma’am,” said Mr. Taylor.
Nicholas Greaves was eyeing her. “Do you have a specific reason to want to have us search again?”
“A photograph Mr. Smith showed to Miss Adler. An image of Dr. Brown with an unnamed young woman,” she said. “Has it been found among Mr. Smith’s files?”
The detective glanced over at his assistant, who shook his head.
“Wonder if that photograph is what the person who rifled his office was after,” said Mr. Greaves.
“We should search again to see if the carte de visite might still be in Mr. Smith’s office somewhere,” she said. “I did interrupt that person. Perhaps they did not remove it.”
Mr. Taylor got to his feet. “I’ll get right over there, sir.”
“I would like to accompany you, Mr. Taylor.” For there was another reason she wanted to search Mr. Smith’s files, and the reason’s name was Patrick Davies.
“You should go home, Mrs. Davies. It’s safer for you there,” said Mr. Greaves.
“I would be in the company of your very able assistant.”
He massaged the ache, the never-ending ache in his arm and sighed. “You really don’t know how to be careful, do you, Mrs. Davies?”
• • •
Taylor had whittled down the list of Emerys in the city directory to the one who most likely was the man at the séance that night. A. J. Emery worked at an artificial limb store run by a Mr. Gabbard, one of only two such businesses in San Francisco. Nick supposed back East, nearer to where the war had been fought, they’d be everywhere, catering to former soldiers who’d had their limbs hacked off in surgeons’ tents, or wherever a table, a saw, and some cover from the weather could be cobbled together.
The signs painted on the store’s bay windows indicated that crutches, trusses, artificial limbs, and other supplies could be purchased inside. For the people who needed those limbs and crutches, however, a sense of wholeness might be more useful but awfully hard to buy.
As he stood there, the front door opened and a fellow on crutches tottered through the opening. His left pant leg was pinned up; the bottom half of his limb was gone.
Nick rushed to hold the door wide for him. “I’m sorry.”
The man’s gaze swept over Nick. “What’ve you got to be sorry about? You’ve got both legs,” he spat and shambled off, the stub ends of his crutches thumping against the plank sidewalk.
A man in a well-tailored suit had followed his customer out onto the street. “Well, sir, how may I help you?” he asked, examining Nick for any obvious injuries in need of wood replacements.
My injuries aren’t quite so obvious.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Emery who works here.” Nick dragged out his badge from inside his coat.
The man squinted at it. “A policeman?”
“Detective Greaves. Are you Mr. Gabbard?” asked Nick.
“I am,” he said. “What’s he done?”
“I just want to talk to him about a séance he recently attended.”
“Oh, that. He does blather on about séances and speaking with the departed all the time. He got me to go with him once. Ridiculous stuff,” he scoffed. “The other fellow wanted to talk to him about some séance, too.”
“Who? Mr. Smith?” And here I am, tracing the man’s footsteps.
“That was the name he gave,” said Gabbard.
“How long has Mr. Emery worked for you?”
“Since early sixty-five? Yep, I’m pretty sure that’s when I took him on,” he answered. “Hasn’t ever caused me any problems. Can’t always say that about men in this town. Ex-miners, and all.”
Gabbard turned and peered into the depths of the store. Past the walls with floor-to-ceiling shelves holding parts of legs—wooden feet, lower limbs with leather straps and bracing or a laced sleeve to wrap around the thigh—on one side. Crutches and artificial arms and hands and hooks on the other.
When they’d brought Nick into the surgeon’s tent to attend his stab wound, there’d been another soldier inside whose leg had been shattered by a minié ball. The man had been knocked unconscious with chloroform. Nick wished he’d been out cold, rather than wide awake to hear the rasp of the bone saw, the thump of the removed limb being dropped onto the floor. Nausea, shock, had given way to anger. Anger that neither of them would be the same person they’d been before the war. Nick had been more fortunate, he supposed, able to walk out of an army hospital with all his parts. He didn’t always feel fortunate, though.
“He’s in the workroom. Follow me.” Gabbard was already striding off toward the rear of the store by the time Nick realized what he’d said. The fellow was no doubt eager to get a policeman out of the shop area where customers might notice.
He parted a curtain and pointed at a fellow in an apron who hunched over
a workbench beneath a grimy window. He was busy attaching a small metal hook to the palm of a wood hand. Tools, scraps of leather, other projects to be completed spread across the table surface. The room smelled of cowhide and petroleum oil.
“A.J., there’s a policeman here to speak with you. A Detective Greaves.”
Emery jolted upright. “A cop? Why? What’s going on?”
“Thank you,” said Nick to the store owner, dismissing him.
The curtains swished shut behind the man.
“Why are you here, Detective?” said Emery, swiping his palms down the apron draped over his thighs. His hands were large for a man of his average size, and muscles rippled beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves. More muscle than Nick might expect from a fellow who spent his day sewing leather and riveting bracing to imitation legs.
“I’m sorry to disturb your work,” said Nick. “Especially since I hear I’m not the first person to come and talk to you.”
“Customers come in here all the time to have me adjust their implements.”
“I’m talking about a visit by Mr. R. Smith.”
Emery shifted on his stool to better look at Nick. His clean-shaven face had small features, but a penetrating, watchful expression.
“He wanted to know about a séance I attended two weeks ago,” he said.
“What a coincidence,” said Nick. “That’s why I’m here, too. Maybe you can tell me all about that séance, too.”
“I don’t get why it’s so important. It was just a couple of hours at the rooms of a spiritualist lady.”
“When Smith came here, what did he ask about?”
“What I could tell him about the other folks,” he said, wiping his palms across his apron again. “I didn’t know them, aside from Mrs. Loveland, of course. I’ve gone to her place before. Lots of times. Shoot if she didn’t claim to be speaking to my friend in the beyond this time. Answered questions I had that only he could answer.”
“A good con.”
He shrugged. “You’re welcome to think so. But I trust her.”
Nick rested one hip against the edge of the workbench. Emery hurried to move an awl out of the way. “And Mrs. Loveland is the only one you knew.”
“I’ve run across Mr. Griffin there before,” he said. “He’s too friendly. And was awfully interested in Miss Adler. They even spoke that evening, which I wasn’t expecting of a woman with her sort of wealth.”
Which I wouldn’t expect, either. “What about Miss Kimball?”
He smiled over his recollection. “Quiet. Sorta pretty. Didn’t have much to say,” he replied. “Neither did the doctor and his sister. She especially didn’t look like she wanted to be at Mrs. Loveland’s. Kept glaring at everyone in the room.”
“That’s all you recall?”
“From that night. But I heard from Mrs. Loveland that Mr. Smith had attended a séance last week wanting to ask her questions, too.”
“You frequently speak to Mrs. Loveland about who attends her séances?”
His forehead pinched, a flicker of uncertainty about how to answer the question. “We’re friends. I’m at her place pretty often, and she trusts me, I suppose,” he said. “But sure as eggs is eggs, Mrs. Loveland wouldn’t have been happy Smith had come to a séance. She doesn’t have time for folks like him. Folks who aren’t believers.”
“How unhappy might she have been?”
“She’s got a temper.” He laughed. “I’ve seen her throw other skeptics out of her rooms. Doesn’t hesitate to call out folks who poke fun at her. They usually skedaddle as soon as she starts shouting.”
Interesting. “Did you notice what might’ve caused Dr. Brown to have a sudden attack?” asked Nick. “I’ve heard he fell ill and left soon afterward.”
Emery squinted, even though the light coming through the window hadn’t grown any brighter. “Mrs. Loveland began to talk with a spirit—I don’t remember who the spirit was trying to reach—but it was after that. Brown went red in the face. Worried his sister.”
“By any chance was this spirit named Etta?” he asked, watching Emery’s reaction. Which revealed about as much as if Nick had asked the question of the nearby turning blanks.
“I really don’t recall. Sorry.”
At least the fellow confirmed Mrs. Loveland’s tale about Brown’s sudden attack. “Did Smith ask you about some threatening letters Dr. Brown had received?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know anything about them,” Emery replied. “He also said something about Miss Adler that made me wonder if he’d been watching her for a while.”
Justina Brown’s private matter she’d wanted Smith to look into, maybe. Don’t like your future sister-in-law, Miss Brown? Enough to hire an investigator.
“What about a photograph Smith was showing around . . . did he show it to you?”
“Nope.”
“Can you tell me what you were doing the morning of the Fourth of July?” asked Nick. “The reason I’m asking you all these questions is because Mr. Smith is dead.”
Emery swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his collar. “Really?”
“You didn’t read about it in the paper?”
“I don’t read the papers. Everything in ’em is just sensational stories trying to get folks riled up,” he said. “Was Smith murdered?”
Nick didn’t reply.
“If he was, I didn’t have any reason to want to kill him,” Emery continued. “Mr. Smith’s questions were annoying—I had a lot of work due that afternoon he came by—but not like I’d want to murder him.”
“Where were you the morning of the Fourth?” Nick repeated.
He drew in a long breath. “I wandered around a bit that day. Don’t much like the noise of the fireworks. I served with the Eighth Kansas volunteer infantry during the war.”
“I was at the Battle of the Wilderness,” said Nick, sympathizing with the man despite his aim to never commiserate with a suspect.
Emery’s eyes, dark as walnuts, focused on Nick as if seeing him fresh. “Then you don’t like fireworks either, I’d guess,” he said. “Had a few lagers at a saloon. Didn’t do anything else in particular.”
“Can anyone vouch for you? The saloonkeeper, maybe?”
“The Fourth is always a busy day. Nobody notices who’s coming and going.”
As Harris had observed, the perfect day for a murder.
Chapter 12
“She’s okay. You can let her inside,” Mr. Taylor said to the bored street policeman blocking the door to Mr. Smith’s office.
The officer gave Celia a baleful look. “I’ve been told only Detective Greaves can go in.”
“C’mon, you know I work for him.” Mr. Taylor strode forward, and the policeman moved out of the way.
Celia swept inside. The shades were pulled, and shadows lay heavy in the room. The space smelled of Mr. Smith’s cigarillos. Maybe it always would.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” said Mr. Greaves’s assistant.
“Quite all right, Mr. Taylor. The police officer is only doing his job.”
“Where do we start? We searched all this.” He gestured at the tall wood bureau tucked against the wall, its many-sized drawers ajar, papers haphazardly shoved into its pigeonholes.
“Perhaps the photograph slid beneath one of the cabinets, for instance. Or was mistakenly placed in another file.”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
“So we search again, Mr. Taylor,” she said.
“Yes, sir . . . um.” He blushed as bright as a persimmon over his gaffe. She did not realize she sounded like Mr. Greaves. “I’ll do that, Mrs. Davies, ma’am.”
Celia scanned the drawers until she found the one labeled D–F. If Mr. Smith had a file on Patrick—or a file on her—she would find it inside.
Mr. Taylor began rifling through various drawers, pulling out loose sheets of paper, the manila envelopes stuffed with Mr. Smith’s notations and other items relevant to his investigations.
She quickly l
ocated the envelope labeled with her name and withdrew it from the drawer.
“Did you find something, ma’am?” asked Taylor.
“I am merely intrigued by the file Mr. Smith kept on the investigations I’d employed him for.” There was no separate file for Patrick. Just a single large envelope with Davies written on the outside in sprawling script. “I hope you do not mind if I indulge my curiosity about what he’d collected.”
He returned papers to a cubbyhole and began searching another. “Go right ahead, ma’am.”
She took the envelope over to Mr. Smith’s desk and sat. There were two sets of papers inside, one for Owen’s case and one for Patrick’s. She hastily thumbed through Owen’s paperwork, bound together with a steel paper pin. Brief notes indicated that Mr. Smith’s investigation had led nowhere. He’d attached a newspaper clipping to the back. Owen’s original notice seeking news of his parents. How unutterably sad.
Patrick’s file was far larger than Owen’s. Mr. Smith had traveled extensively in search of her husband. Apparently, he had also interviewed a substantial number of individuals about Patrick, their names scrawled across a sheet of paper, none of whom Celia knew. Strange, indecipherable shorthand accompanied some of the names. On the topmost sheet of paper, Mr. Smith had stamped CLOSED, along with a message to himself to collect his final payment from Celia. When he had returned from Mexico with Patrick’s death certificate, they had both been confident the search was finally over. How wrong they may have been.
“How are you faring, Mr. Taylor?” she asked.
“Still haven’t found that photograph, ma’am,” said Mr. Taylor.
He pushed aside an empty rubbish bin and went down on his hands and knees to peer beneath furniture. She did not envy him the task; the floor was filthy. Street dust, tracked-in dried mud and horse manure, cigarillo ashes, and pencil shavings littered the ground.
She returned the file labeled with her name to its original location.
Mr. Taylor grunted and shimmied backward, getting to his feet. The knees of his gray trousers were covered in grime. “Nothing down there, ma’am.” He slapped at his knees.
“The shadow I saw the morning of the Fourth must have taken it. Only it was not a shadow, but a thief,” she said.
No Quiet among the Shadows Page 13
