No Quiet among the Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Nick, letting her talk because it calmed her.

  “But I’ve never liked it here,” she said, the skin around her small eyes wrinkling as she squinted out the window. “It’s too noisy. Too smelly. Too . . .”

  “Too different from Iowa?”

  “Too different from Iowa. I’ve never been comfortable.” She looked over at one of the photographs, a stiff studio portrait of a family. “I’ve been wanting to go home for months, be with my sisters and their children, hear the birds in the meadow, watch the fireflies sparkle in the woods on a June evening.”

  She was making him homesick, now. “But you didn’t go back.”

  “No. I was to adapt,” she said. “Look what’s happened as a result.”

  “Hopefully the doctor will be correct and your husband will be fine,” said Nick.

  She didn’t reply. Maybe she’d prefer the doctor to be wrong so she could talk Josiah Friedman into moving back to Iowa.

  “When did your husband go out last night, Mrs. Friedman?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Some time after I went to bed. I sleep heavily and didn’t hear him leave.”

  A brown bottle on a gate-leg table against the wall, its label faded but still legible, might explain her deep sleep. Laudanum. Maybe she made use of the medication to calm her distress over living in the city, among the sort of people who made her uncomfortable.

  “When I awoke this morning, I realized he hadn’t been to bed,” she continued. “I went downstairs, thinking he might’ve remembered some unfinished work in the shop and fallen asleep there. It does happen sometimes. But all the doors were locked tight, even the back one we use when we come down from our rooms.”

  She paused, Nick letting her take her time.

  “Then I noticed the policemen across the street at Mr. Smith’s. I went to ask them for help. When I mentioned I was searching for my husband, one of them said they’d found an injured man inside and had sent for a doctor. Josiah’s face was bloodied and the back of his head . . .” She looked over at Nick. “It could’ve been so much worse, Detective. He could’ve been killed.”

  Mrs. Friedman’s breath caught on a shudder. Nick didn’t have any words to comfort her or ease her mind; he never did. Comforting was what Taylor was good at.

  “Do you have any idea why your husband had gone into Mr. Smith’s office, ma’am? Has he explained?”

  “He doesn’t remember much. Oh, he’s said some gibberish about flickering lights and smelling women’s perfume.”

  “He said women’s perfume, not lime-scented cologne?” asked Nick, recalling the scent Dr. Brown liked to wear.

  “Women’s perfume, Detective, but the doctor thinks Josiah is confused because he was concussed,” she said. “He told me not to push Josiah too much. My husband needs time to rest.”

  “And before Mr. Friedman went to Smith’s . . . he didn’t tell you he meant to go over there?”

  “Right before I fell asleep, he came into our back room there to tell me he’d seen lights moving about inside Mr. Smith’s office,” she said. “I told him it was probably one of the policemen who’ve been guarding it and to not mind. To leave the matter alone. But he didn’t, did he?”

  “I take it your husband is the type of man who likes to solve problems on his own.”

  For the first time since Nick had been standing in her parlor, she looked him full in the face. “Yes. He is. Always curious. Always eager to step in,” she said. “He envied Mr. Smith’s occupation. I believe a part of him wishes he could be an investigator. It must sound like a strange wish for the son of Iowa farmers.”

  Not to a man born on a farm in Ohio who’d ended up a police detective in a city over two thousand miles away.

  “Did he know Mr. Smith well?” he asked.

  “Mr. Smith came into our store all the time to buy his cigarillos. He liked to talk about his work, and my husband was always interested,” she said. “Were you the police officer Josiah talked to and told about the man with the red vest? The fellow who’d been spying on Mr. Smith?”

  Nick nodded. “We located him, but he escaped custody.”

  “My husband was positively intrigued by that man. He’s convinced the fellow was somehow involved with Mr. Smith’s most recent case,” she said. “There was blackmail involved as well, according to Mr. Smith. Josiah concocted an idea and claimed that Mr. Smith falling to his death was proof that he’d gotten too curious about dangerous people. Just like my husband.” She pressed her lips together, hard, and looked over at the doorway again. “He shouldn’t have gone over there. He had no business poking around. He should’ve alerted the police, but he didn’t.”

  Nick tapped his hat back onto his head. “Thank you for your time, ma’am. If your husband recalls anything else about what happened last night, you can contact me at the station.”

  “You find the man who did this, Mr. Greaves.”

  “I plan to, ma’am.”

  • • •

  “Neither Mr. Taylor nor Mr. Greaves are in?” Celia asked the lone policeman inside the station. She peered past him toward the detectives’ office door, firmly shut.

  “Nope. It’s Sunday, and it’s only me in here,” he said.

  “They must still be busy investigating what happened with the man who was assaulted.”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am,” he replied stiffly. “But if you’ve got a crime you’d like to report, or a complaint you’d like to submit . . .”

  Did the police often receive complaints?

  “If you would, I need to leave a message for Detective Greaves.” She took a scrap of paper from Mr. Taylor’s desk. “It is most critical that he read it as soon as possible.”

  He handed her a pencil, and she jotted down her message that she’d met Miss Kimball—in case he did not read the note she’d left at his lodgings before seeing this one—and that the young woman had run off.

  “Miss Kimball’s that woman Taylor was looking for,” said the policeman, reading her note. “The one he put a notice in the papers for.”

  “She came to my clinic yesterday, but she has unexpectedly disappeared,” said Celia. “That is what I need Mr. Greaves to know. Overnight, Miss Kimball fled her lodgings with all that she owns and no explanation of where she’d gone.”

  “That so?” he asked. “Well, you’re the second one this morning to come asking after her.”

  It could not have been Molly; Celia had come straight to the station after leaving the lodging house.

  “A fellow wearing a red vest, perhaps?” she asked. Although the police knew Mr. Griffin; it could not have been him, either, could it? Unless this particular officer was unfamiliar with the man. “What did he look like?”

  The policeman tucked his chin as if belatedly realizing he had said too much. “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

  “You will inform Mr. Greaves about this man, however, will you not? He will then inform me, as Miss Kimball is a patient of mine and I am deeply concerned for her welfare,” said Celia. “So perhaps you might make an exception and answer my question now, rather than force me to wait for Mr. Greaves to supply the information. Which he is certain to do.”

  He chewed the inside of his cheek and peered at her. “The fellow called himself Smith. Didn’t stay long after I told him we didn’t have any information on Miss Kimball, though. Cleared outta here quick.”

  • • •

  “Is there fresh news, Detective Greaves?” Dr. Brown folded his napkin atop the dining room table and pushed back his chair. The woman sitting across from him fixed her sharp gaze on Nick’s face. Their family resemblance was unmistakable—same somewhat bulging brown eyes, same angular jawline. He’d interrupted their Sunday lunch, apparently.

  “Justina,” the doctor continued, “this is the police detective who interviewed me at the baths. Mr. Greaves, my sister, Justina Brown.”

  Nick nodded at the woman, who frowned in return. Maybe Miss Brown was
unhappy that their food—roasted chicken, jelly, bottled peaches, fresh bread—was getting cold. Maybe she was unhappy to be disturbed on a Sunday. He wasn’t happy to have to be here, either.

  “I am glad I caught you both,” said Nick.

  “You’re fortunate. We don’t always have lunch together,” said the doctor. “I usually eat in the city during the week, but I never miss a Sunday.”

  Miss Brown smiled beatifically at her brother. “Your company is always welcome, Arthur.”

  How sweet. Nick stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

  “I won’t take up too much of your time, Dr. Brown, Miss Brown,” said Nick. “I thought I’d let you know that a man has been attacked after spotting an intruder inside Mr. Smith’s office.”

  Miss Brown gasped.

  Her brother was more composed. “Are you free to tell me who, Detective?”

  “A man who lived across from Smith’s office.”

  “His attacker was undoubtedly a burglar not wanting to be discovered in the act,” said the doctor, sounding convinced. Or attempting to sound convinced. “I appreciate being informed before reading the news in the papers, Detective. Thank you for coming by.”

  He picked up his napkin and laid it across his lap, ready to return to eating.

  “Arthur, the detective has come to our house because he thinks we might have information. Or because we’re suspected,” said Justina Brown. “Isn’t that true, Detective Greaves?”

  “Since you mentioned it, Miss Brown, I’d welcome you both telling me where you were last night.”

  The doctor’s frown matched his sister’s. “Here, naturally. Not out burglarizing Mr. Smith’s office,” he said. “How ridiculous to question us.”

  “You were at home all night?” asked Nick.

  The doctor pinched his mouth shut.

  “Go ahead and answer him, Arthur,” said Miss Brown. “He won’t leave until you do.”

  He shot a look at his sister before answering. “I didn’t have any engagements last evening,” he said. “I met with some colleagues yesterday afternoon to discuss my addressing an upcoming symposium. When that concluded, I came home for a quiet dinner, and I’ve been in the house ever since. I’m sure the servants will confirm that.”

  No trip to the Roman baths. “And what about you, Miss Brown?”

  “You do suspect us both,” she said. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I should never have hired that man. I’ve brought this trouble on us.”

  “It’s not your fault I began receiving those letters, Justina,” he replied gently. “Besides, you’ve already apologized enough. She recently explained about hiring Mr. Smith, Detective, and I’ve forgiven her.”

  “How generous,” said Nick. “So, Miss Brown? What were you doing last night?”

  “I attended a meeting of the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid, Mr. Greaves,” she said. “A few of us stayed afterward to discuss the plans for our upcoming fund-raising fete. When our business was finished, I hired a cab to bring me home.”

  The door at the rear of the room swung open, and a servant carrying a pot of coffee stepped through.

  “I’m glad you’ve come in, Annie,” said the doctor. “Tell the detective here where I and my sister were last night.”

  The girl gaped. “The detective, sir?”

  “Yes, Annie. Just tell him.”

  She glanced between him and Nick. “Dr. Brown and Miss Brown were at home last night, Detective. The doctor spent time reading in his study until Miss Brown came back from her meeting. They shared a late supper together.”

  “What time did Miss Brown return?” asked Nick.

  The girl balked, looking over at Justina Brown. She exhaled sharply. “It’s all right, Annie.”

  “Around nine, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said the doctor smugly. The girl hastily poured out fresh coffee and scuttled off. “Is that all, Detective Greaves?”

  “Not quite.” He drew the carte de visite from his inner pocket and set it on the table. “Mr. Smith showed Miss Adler this photograph of you, Dr. Brown, with a woman. And when asked about it, you denied giving the carte de visite to the investigator, Miss Brown.”

  She scowled. “I’d hoped that my conversation with Mrs. Davies would have been kept in confidence.”

  “This is a murder investigation. No conversations that might be important to my case should be considered confidential,” said Nick. “Do you continue to deny giving this photograph to Mr. Smith?”

  “I did not give it to him.”

  She might be telling the truth. She might not.

  “Who is the woman, Dr. Brown?” Nick slid the photograph closer to him.

  A muscle in the man’s jaw flexed. Justina Brown half rose out of her chair to examine it.

  “Arthur, that’s Miss Stevenson,” she said.

  “Ah, I believe you’re right, Justina.”

  Then why not say so from the start?

  Miss Brown retook her chair. “She was the sister of an acquaintance of ours from Sacramento, Mr. Greaves.”

  “I’m from Sacramento, too,” said Nick. “I didn’t realize you and your brother were from there, Miss Brown.”

  The Browns exchanged quick glances.

  “We lived in that area before moving to San Francisco a few years ago,” said Dr. Brown.

  “A small world, as they say. I’ll have to ask my family who still lives there if they know you,” said Nick. “Or if they know Miss Stevenson.”

  “They don’t live in Sacramento any longer,” said the doctor. “Moved back East, in fact. But we did often take holidays together. In fact, that photograph was taken at the hot springs in Calistoga. Wasn’t it, Justina?”

  She nodded politely and sipped at her coffee.

  “What is Miss Stevenson’s given name?” asked Nick.

  Miss Brown set down her coffee, the clink of cup on saucer the ringing chime of good china.

  “Her given name is Arvilla. Not Etta.” She gave a self-satisfied smile for having figured out why he’d asked. “Mrs. Davies has also asked me about this woman, and as we’ve both explained, my brother and I don’t know somebody by that name.”

  Nick slid the brim of his hat through his fingers, letting the silence stretch for a moment. A clock upon the room’s fireplace mantel chimed the hour in dainty tones.

  “Mrs. Loveland was asked to mention Etta’s name at the séance. Presumably to get a reaction from one of the folks in attendance.” He rested his gaze on Dr. Brown’s face. Was the man sweating? Not all that easy to tell from where he stood. “Two different people have told us that the person who reacted was you, Dr. Brown. That you fell ill and left the séance as quickly as you could.”

  “My brother is afflicted with bouts of indisposition, Detective,” said his sister before the doctor could answer. “His practice has been very busy lately. It’s a strain on his nerves.”

  The man didn’t look delicate to Nick.

  “So your sudden bout of ill health didn’t have anything to do with hearing Etta’s name mentioned.”

  “Of course not,” replied the doctor. “How could it? I don’t know the woman.”

  “Miss Kimball left the séance when you did,” said Nick. “I’ve been told it seemed like she wanted to talk with you. What did she want?”

  Brown shared a glance with his sister. “Miss Kimball?” asked the doctor.

  “You remember, Arthur,” said Miss Brown. “She wanted to share a cab home, Detective Greaves. But we declined to permit her to join us—I believe she resides nowhere near our house—and that was the end of our conversation.”

  “Ah,” said Nick. “Back to this carte de visite. Any logical explanation for how it ended up in Smith’s possession?”

  “No idea. Logical or otherwise,” said Dr. Brown.

  “The person who gave it to Mr. Smith undoubtedly wanted to upset Genevieve, Detective,” said Miss Brown, who seemed to have all the answers that day.

  “Apparently it did upset her,” s
aid Nick.

  “Of course showing her that photograph would. She’s terribly jealous of Arthur, Mr. Greaves. Alarmingly so,” she replied. “The Stevensons once hoped that my brother would court Arvilla, but she and Arthur were only friends and nothing more. Although I expect Genevieve wouldn’t understand.”

  “How long, exactly, have you and Miss Adler known each other, Dr. Brown?”

  Brown’s face flushed. “What’s that question supposed to mean? Are you suggesting I’m being rash?”

  Possibly.

  “Arthur, please, do calm yourself,” soothed his sister. “Detective Greaves is merely attempting to rile you.”

  And by all accounts, he was succeeding.

  “I just wouldn’t want you to be taken advantage of, Dr. Brown. That’s all.” Nick tucked the carte de visite in his coat pocket. “A prominent man like you has to be careful of the folks he associates with.”

  “I thank you for your concern, Mr. Greaves, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he replied. “And I believe it’s time for you to leave.”

  Chapter 16

  “She’s not in right now, Detective Greaves,” said the maid who’d answered the door at the Adlers’. She blinked nervously. A policeman showing up sometimes did that to folks. “Miss Adler went out for a drive to Cliff House with her father. I don’t know when they’ll be back, but I’ll tell her you were here.”

  The Adlers had rented a stately house only two blocks from where the Browns lived. Conveniently close. Brass and mahogany and leaded glass windows gleamed. Behind the maid, a massive bouquet of roses occupied a table against the corridor wall, their fragrance scenting the air. When he arrived home at Mrs. Jewett’s, Nick was usually greeted by the smell of something burning on her leaky coal stove and the sound of her yelling at his dog to stop barking. Her house wasn’t anywhere near as fine as the Adlers’ home, but he’d take his rooms any day. If he was an Adler, he’d have to worry about tracking dirt onto the polished marble tiles, or upsetting the master of the house with the way Riley sometimes smelled when he returned from a romp outside.