Angelo nodded. “Sì, Signora. Your house.”
Gad.
• • •
“Ma’am?” Addie’s knock was soft, gentle as her voice. “Will you nae come done for a bite to eat?”
Celia moved back from the window in Barbara’s bedchamber. Of all the rooms on the first floor, it had the clearest view of the rear yard and alleyway.
“Is it that late already?” she asked.
“You’ve been up here for a good hour, ma’am.”
Standing at the window dreading that she would spy a man in a red waistcoat slinking about. All she’d observed, however, were sparrows in the neighbor’s forlorn tree and Angelo’s siblings playing a rough game of tag next door.
“Starving yourself will do you no good,” continued Addie. “Besides, I’m afraid that at the rate wee Owen has been eating in the kitchen, there’ll be no food left for the rest of us!”
“Thank goodness Owen is feeling better.”
The doorbell chimed. “Och, a patient at this hour?”
“Perhaps Mrs. Wheaton has finally returned.”
“If her husband let her.” Addie bustled off.
After a final survey of the yards behind the house, Celia closed the venetian blinds and turned away from the window. Watching for Mr. Griffin would not stop him from stalking her. What did he want from her? Was she truly so dangerous to him? She’d not hide in the house, wondering and fretting.
Addie returned. “’Tis not Mrs. Wheaton, ma’am.”
“That is odd.” And worrying. The wound upon the woman’s neck had been too serious to presume it had already healed. Celia would have to visit her tomorrow; it was growing too late in the day to go to the Wheatons’ now.
“’Tis two young ladies,” said Addie. “One with a terrible injury on her lower limb. An accident, said her friend who brought her.”
“Set aside some dinner for me, Addie,” said Celia, sweeping past her.
Downstairs, Celia tidied her hair and entered her clinic.
“I’m sorry that we’ve come so late, ma’am,” said the young woman standing in the center of the room. She smiled an apology. “But my friend has a cut on her leg and it looks awful bad. She was in an accident out on the road the other day.”
She indicated the woman hunched upon the corner chair, who would be quite handsome if she were not so pale and drawn.
She looked up at Celia. “We didn’t need to come. I can’t pay you.”
“I explained to her that you don’t take any payment,” said her friend. “She still didn’t want to come, but I scolded her that she needed a doctor’s help and you were the best person to see. Plus, you’re not far from where we live, so it was an easy walk.”
“I am not a doctor,” said Celia, wiping her hands upon a clean towel kept in the room and drawing over her desk chair to sit near the woman.
“I know, but I’ve heard about you, Mrs. Davies, from some of the other ladies who live at our boardinghouse. How kind you are to everybody, no matter who they are.” Her eyes widened. “Is it true you solved a murder?”
The seated woman groaned. “Molly, we should go.”
“Tell me what is the matter,” said Celia, resting the back of her hand against the woman’s forehead. Warm with fever, but not so hot that she was in immediate danger.
She stared at Celia. The dark hair framing her narrow face deepened the shadows under her eyes. “I had a collision with a cart. I fell and scraped my legs on the edge of the curb.”
“It was on the Fourth, Mrs. Davies,” said her friend, Molly. “Everybody was so reckless that day. I saw a little boy nearly get pinned beneath a carriage. Nobody was paying no attention at all. Nell was simply crossing the street when a cart came barreling around the corner and slammed into her! Isn’t that right?”
“Does it really matter what happened?” asked Nell crossly. The woman was feverish and in pain; her ill temper was understandable.
“Please lift your skirts for me. Just enough so I might examine your lower limbs,” said Celia.
The young woman did as asked. She’d wrapped torn bits of material around both her shins, which bulged the stockings she wore. “It’s my right leg mostly.”
She reached beneath her petticoat, untied her garter, and rolled down her stocking. Blood had seeped through her improvised bandaging, staining the cloth.
“This might hurt, Miss . . . could you please tell me what your last name is?” she asked her patient.
She didn’t immediately answer, forcing her friend to respond. “It’s Kimball, ma’am. Nell Kimball.”
Miss Nell Kimball. Oh my.
“This might hurt, Miss Kimball.” Celia began to peel off the bandage. The material stuck to the wound, and Miss Kimball winced. Removed, Celia tossed the soiled cloth onto the floor. The scrape, an angry red, oozed from beneath the ointment someone had spread upon it. “Can you find my housekeeper and tell her to bring a basin of fresh hot water?” she asked Miss Kimball’s friend.
The young woman hurried off.
Celia went to the cabinet containing her medicines and retrieved her cerate of zinc. “We have been trying to find you, Miss Kimball.”
“‘We’? You mean the police,” she said. “They put a notice in the newspaper. My landlady saw it and threatened to kick me out of my room. Said she didn’t need lodgers who the cops were after.”
“You should have responded.”
“I’m not guilty of anything.” Her gaze fixed on Celia’s. “I . . . I didn’t want to get involved in whatever they wanted to talk to me about. It’s hard enough trying to survive without getting tangled up with the police.”
“I understand. Perhaps you can speak with me instead. A safer option than going to the police station.” Celia paused to listen for Molly returning. Miss Kimball might not want her friend to overhear. More importantly, Miss Kimball might not answer honestly in front of her. “You went to a séance a couple of weeks ago. A man was investigating the people who attended, because of a series of ominous letters one of them received afterwards. Did he ever contact you? A Mr. Smith. He died the other day. Suspiciously, I should add.”
Miss Kimball’s eyes widened. Was she the woman in the photograph with Dr. Brown? Celia’s recollection of the image suggested she wasn’t, but she could be mistaken.
“I never spoke with an investigator,” she said.
Celia could hear Addie and Molly just outside the door linking her examination room to the kitchen. She had so little time to ask questions. “Do you know Dr. Brown, Miss Kimball? He was the recipient of those letters.”
“Only from that night,” she said with an edge to her voice. “An unpleasant man. Just like his sister and fiancée. Miss Brown pursing her lips and frowning at everybody. Miss Adler asking for a softer chair cushion and a colder glass of water . . . None of them liked that Mrs. Loveland keeps a leather diary with information on the people who consult her. They were disrespectful the whole evening.”
Celia wondered if Mr. Greaves knew about that diary.
“Miss Adler says that you ran after them when they departed the séance.” Celia would not mention that she’d called Miss Kimball a “banshee.” “Why?”
She winced and reached for the wound on her leg. “I had this stupid idea that Miss Adler knew a friend of mine, but she didn’t.”
“Was this friend’s name Etta?” asked Celia. “She seems to be the key to all of this.”
“Etta?” She glanced toward the door, which opened. Her friend bustled through with Addie, carrying a tin basin.
“Here you go, Mrs. Davies.” Molly glanced at Miss Kimball. “Are you all right, Nell? You look even paler than before.”
“My leg is hurting. That’s all.”
Addie set down the basin, and Celia washed and cleaned the wound, working as quickly and carefully as possible. Molly hovered nearby, murmuring comforting words.
When Celia finished, she wrapped the scrape in clean linen and instructed Nell Kimball how to
tend to the injury. “I would like to see you again tomorrow.”
The young woman finished tying off her garter and dropped the hem of her skirt over her legs. “I’ll try. Come on, Molly.”
Her friend gripped Miss Kimball’s arm. “Thank you, Mrs. Davies. For helping Nell,” she said and guided her out of the house.
“She looked pitiful,” said Addie, closing the front door behind the two women.
“We have found our mysterious Miss Kimball, Addie,” said Celia, striding back into her examination room to look out the window. Miss Kimball and her friend were gingerly descending the front steps. “I hadn’t much opportunity to ask her about the séance, unfortunately.”
“We need to tell Detective Greaves that you’ve found her, ma’am.”
“Did she say where she lived?”
“No, she didna say anything at all.”
“It can’t be far. They said they walked here from their boardinghouse.” Celia crossed the room and went into the kitchen. Owen, stuffing a large forkful of potatoes into his mouth, looked over.
“Owen, I have a task for you,” she said. “Are you strong enough for it?” His color was good, and based upon his healthy appetite, he appeared to be on the mend. “Only if you are strong enough, though.”
“I am, ma’am!” he announced around the food in his mouth and jumped up from his seat. “What can I do?”
“Two women just left. I would like you to follow them so I can learn where they live,” she said. “But it is best that they not spot you.”
“I can do it. I’ll be as stealthy as a black cat hunting mice in a dark cellar.”
Before she could say more, he ran from the kitchen.
Addie looked over at her, her face a mix of concern and reproach. “Should you have asked the poor lad to go, ma’am?”
“He’s the best for the task, Addie. He shall be all right.”
I hope.
• • •
“You can go home, Taylor,” said Nick.
“You sure, sir?” Taylor tucked his notebook into his coat pocket. “Maybe I should head over to Mr. Emery’s boardinghouse again and ask him about that conversation he had with Miss Kimball at the séance. See if he’s in, this time.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Will do, sir. I sure wish we could figure out who that young lady is with Dr. Brown, though.” Taylor nodded at the carte de visite, sitting atop Nick’s desk.
Nick picked up the photograph and peered at it. It wasn’t likely it had been taken anywhere around San Francisco; the terrain was too flat. And all the staring in the world wasn’t going to reveal the name of the woman seated alongside Arthur Brown. Nick couldn’t even glean from her image what she was feeling as she sat there, her posture as rigid as a statute made of marble.
“I’ll visit the Browns tomorrow and show it to them.”
“On Sunday?” Taylor sounded appalled. “They won’t like that. I mean, a Sunday, sir.”
“How long have you worked with me, Taylor? You know I don’t care if they like it or not.” Nick set aside the photograph. “Did Mrs. Davies discover what she was looking for in her files at Smith’s office?”
“She said she did.”
What had she wanted to learn? More details about her dead husband? Maybe she missed him. Maybe—
Captain Eagan pushed open the office door. “Taylor, what are you still doing here at this hour? Looking for an increase in pay, maybe?”
He blushed. “Helping Mr. Greaves with a case, sir.”
“I’ve heard about that case,” he said. “You can go, Taylor.”
Nick’s assistant grabbed his hat from the hook where he’d hung it and beat a retreat.
Eagan’s black eyes fixed on Nick’s face. “I hear you’re looking into a suicide and thinking it’s a murder, Greaves.”
He would hear about his investigation into Smith’s death. Not all of the detectives on the force liked Nick any more than Eagan did.
“I have time to both search for Miss McHugh and look into the fellow’s suspicious death, Captain. He was an investigator.”
“What did Dr. Harris have to say?” asked the captain.
“Based on his examination, Harris thinks it’s likely the investigator was shoved out the window of his room to his death.”
“Any family?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
Eagan scowled. “Which means there’s nobody around to care whether or not he was murdered.”
Nobody except for me.
And Celia Davies. Who cared about all sorts of folks most people—people like Eagan—wouldn’t ever bother with.
“If somebody’s out there killing investigators, sir, who might they target next?” asked Nick. “Police officers? Can’t have that.” An argument that might persuade the captain.
Eagan scrubbed his hand down the length of his right jaw, his fingertips tangling in his mutton-chop whiskers. Mrs. Davies had once described his facial hair as magnificent. Nick would never be so complimentary.
“I’ll let you keep on with the investigation for now, Greaves,” he said. “But I want that McHugh woman found.”
“She could have left the city,” Nick pointed out. “Or she could be dead.”
“Her brother was convinced she’s still alive and still in town. As long as he’s convinced, so am I,” said Eagan. “Along with the boardinghouses, check the women’s asylum and the insane wards in the county hospital. Mr. McHugh mentioned that he hoped Miss McHugh hadn’t ended up like their half sister. Made it sound like she might be a lunatic.” He smirked at Nick. “Maybe she killed your investigator.”
• • •
Shadows lengthened and deepened upon the road outside Celia’s house. Celia, standing out on the porch, wrapped her mother’s crimson shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Where was Owen? He had left—she consulted her watch—almost an hour ago.
Blast.
The smells of evening meals being prepared had drifted off on the fading breezes, and candles and lamps would soon be lit in parlors and bedchambers as night descended. Children had been called home from their play. The rattle of carriage wheels and the clop of horses’ hooves were lessening. And somewhere out there was Owen Cassidy. She should not have sent him to follow those women. His strength was not fully recovered. He might have collapsed, weak and spent. Or perhaps she’d sent him into danger. Mr. Griffin, out there, in the dark.
Remain calm, Celia.
She paced the length of the porch, watching for any movement that might be a teenaged boy rushing her direction.
Please, Owen. Please come back.
“Do you see him, ma’am?” asked Addie from the doorway.
“No . . .” Celia halted, peering into the encroaching darkness. “Wait. I might. Yes. There he is.”
“Weel, just in time, for my nerves were on their last thread.” Addie dashed down the steps, calling out to Owen.
The boy walked slowly up the road. Addie met him before he reached the bottom of the stairs and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. He did not shake off her support.
“He’s weak, ma’am,” she shouted up at Celia.
Addie helped him climb the steps. He mustered a smile for Celia.
“Owen, I am sorry,” said Celia. “I should not have sent you to follow them.”
Addie whisked him into the entry hall.
“That’s all right, ma’am. I’m okay,” he said. “I found their house. They live right behind the church.”
“Take him to the settee, Addie,” she said.
“The settee?” he asked, eyes wide over the prospect of being treated like a guest. “Right below Mr. Walford’s painting and all?”
“Sit down, Owen,” said Celia.
Addie helped him onto the striped silk. He cast an eye over the fine material he’d found himself permitted to sit upon.
“I’m not so tired from following them. They didn’t move fast at all. The one lady, the dark-haired one, limped, and h
er friend had to help her walk,” he said. “They didn’t even know I was following them. Didn’t look back once.”
“Thank you, Owen,” said Celia, sitting down next to him. “You did excellent work.”
“Aw. It was nothing,” he said. “It was when I was coming back that I had to hurry. It took me so long to get back, ma’am, because I decided not to come straight here. I went the other direction for a while, then turned up the hill. I had the darnedest time trying to shake him. But I did finally.”
“Who do you mean?” asked Celia.
“That fellow,” he said. “The one that was trailing after me a couple blocks from here. He’d been hiding near the ladies’ boardinghouse like he was waiting for them.”
Addie went ghostly white. “Och, no.”
Chapter 14
“Mrs. Davies.” Nicholas Greaves’s landlady, working her cream-colored gloves over her fingers, stood on the pavement outside the house where he boarded. She eyed Celia with the mix of mistrust and speculation she always gave her, suspicious of an unaccompanied yet polished and well-educated woman who regularly attempted to visit Mr. Greaves alone.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jewett. I see that I have interrupted you on your way to church,” she said.
“You have, and I’m sorry, but he’s not home.” She bobbed her head to punctuate her comment, the mass of ribbons and silk flowers affixed to her bonnet jiggling.
“No?” Celia glanced up at the house, toward his window overlooking the street.
“No, but not because he’s gone to services,” she said. “Though I tell him all the time he should go. Some preaching and singing would be good for his soul. But my poor son never listened to me, either.”
“Perhaps you can leave a message for him. I have important news on a case he is currently investigating.” Celia scribbled a brief note on the back of one of her cards that she’d located Miss Kimball. It was not large enough to also include that Owen had seen a strange man—possibly Mr. Griffin—near the woman’s boardinghouse. She gave the card to Mrs. Jewett. “Please see that he gets that as soon as possible.”
The woman tucked it into her embroidered handbag. “I don’t know when he’ll be back, Mrs. Davies. A police officer came to fetch him. Something about a fellow being attacked.”
No Quiet among the Shadows Page 15
