Taylor’s face was a mass of confused wrinkles. “Mr. Emery sent the letters to Dr. Brown because he was trying to blackmail him?” he asked. “Did he kill Mr. Smith, then?”
“It’s possible.”
“What’s Miss Kimball’s role, though?” asked Taylor. “Is she working with Mr. Emery?”
That urgent conversation at Mrs. Loveland’s séance . . . hell, maybe she is.
“Since we don’t have any idea where she is—or if she’s even in San Francisco any longer—we’re going to have to learn from Emery what her role is,” said Nick. “I’m heading over to Gabbard’s store to corner him.”
“Want me to come with you, sir?”
“No, but have Mullahey or one of the other officers head to Emery’s boardinghouse to see if they can get into his room and search it. Meanwhile, you bring Brown in here,” he said. “It’s time he tells us all about Lucetta Kimball. The pale, unhappy woman in a carte de visite.”
Chapter 22
“A.J. hasn’t been in all week, Mr. Greaves,” said Mr. Gabbard, scowling into the rain misting the air outside his store. “I thought he might’ve been having one of his attacks—from the war, he says, all the bad memories—so I stopped at his lodgings this morning on my way in here, to see if he was holed up in his room. The landlord said he’s been around, but went out early today. He didn’t come to work, obviously.”
Water dripped off the awning stretched overhead, missing Nick’s hat brim and rolling icy cold between the collar of his coat and his neck. Damn.
He moved closer to the building to avoid getting soaked. “Emery didn’t explain where he was headed?”
“No, and I sure hope I don’t have to hire somebody to replace him. He’s not always the friendliest fellow, but he’s good at what he does.” Gabbard peered at Nick. “Why are you looking for him again?”
“I needed to talk to him about when he worked at the state hospital in Stockton.”
“That place. He sure doesn’t like to talk about it,” he said.
“Has Emery ever mentioned knowing a Dr. Arthur Brown?” asked Nick. “He also worked at the state hospital.”
Gabbard screwed up his face into a web of wrinkles. “Lessee . . . no. Can’t say I recollect him mentioning Dr. Brown at all,” he decided. “Like I said, A.J. gets mighty touchy about his time at the asylum.” He leaned in. “Got me to wondering if he’d been an employee or an inmate. Ha ha!” he barked. “Just joking. I know he was a carpenter there, Detective. Saw his references.”
“If Emery does come in today, contact me at the police station,” said Nick. “Without letting him know, of course. I don’t want him disappearing again.”
“Neither do I,” said the shopkeeper. “If you find him first, tell him he’d better get in here today or he’s fired.”
Nick gave him a sideways glance before stepping out into the rain. “If I find A. J. Emery first, Mr. Gabbard, he won’t be coming into work today.”
• • •
“Have you heard from Miss Kimball, Molly?” asked Celia. “Is she all right?”
A spattering of morning rain had dampened the thin cloak the girl had tossed over her shoulders, and a strand of wet hair straggled down the side of her face. Wind swept up Vallejo and across Celia’s porch, stirring the girl’s bonnet ribbons. She shivered.
“We should go inside where I can have Addie fetch you a warm cup of tea,” Celia suggested.
“Don’t have the time, ma’am. I’m late to get to my job at the restaurant,” she answered, tugging the cloak around her body. “But I am here because of Nell. She sent for me last night.”
“Thank goodness she is all right,” said Celia. “Where is she?”
“She’s hiding away. And when I told her about the fellow who’d been watching for us when we left your place the other night, she was terrified. I think she would’ve run off again right then, if her leg wasn’t hurting her so badly,” said Molly. “Nell isn’t well at all, Mrs. Davies. I don’t think she’s had more than a bite to eat since Sunday, and she’s all feverish and achy. She looks bad.”
“Let me get my bag—”
Molly grabbed Celia’s arm, stopping her. She had strong hands. “Nell wouldn’t like that. I promised her I wouldn’t tell anybody where she is. And if I can’t keep a promise, if I can’t stick by her, who will?”
More people offering promises and keeping secrets.
“Why are you here, Molly, if you do not want me to go to Nell?”
“I was hoping you could give me something to take to her. A plaster or a salve or a tonic of some kind.”
“Tell me where she is. Please,” she said. “I am the best person to help her. You know that I am.”
Molly drew in a long breath and released it, decision made. “She’s in a room off Battery. Behind a locksmith’s,” she said. “I’d show you, but I need to get to work before it’s time to serve lunch.”
“Thank you.” Celia turned toward the house.
“Ma’am, be careful,” said the girl. “Just in case that fellow is anyplace nearby. I don’t know who he is, but if he’s got Nell as frightened as she is, he’s not somebody to mess with.”
• • •
“No luck, Taylor. Emery hasn’t been at the prosthetics store this week.” Ever since Nick had talked to him at his lodging house. “Tell Mullahey to go to the magistrate. I want a warrant for Emery’s arrest. Suspicion of blackmail.” And maybe even murder.
“Yes, sir.” Taylor nodded at the closed door to Nick’s office. “Dr. Brown’s inside and fit to chew nails.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
Arthur Brown’s back was as straight as a board, and pressed so flat against the chair he sat on that it looked like he was tied to the wood frame. He was scowling, too, every angle of his hard-edged face sharpened by the expression. Not even the bushiness of his goatee hid the taut line of his jaw.
“How dare you have me hauled in here like some common criminal,” he growled.
Nick withdrew the carte de visite from his coat pocket, where it was getting bent from all the carrying about. He gave the image a long, meaningful look. He shouldn’t have needed Emery to point out the desperation in the woman’s eyes. He should’ve also seen the subtle slant to her torso as she leaned away from the man standing at her side, as if repulsed by his touch and reluctant to brush up against him. Nick could imagine what he’d done to Etta to cause her to act that way.
Bile rose, and he slapped the carte de visite on his desk surface. “This is an interesting photograph, Dr. Brown.”
“That again.”
“Yes, that again. That again because it’s the key. The explanation to this whole mess.” He placed his finger atop the photograph and spun it so it faced the doctor. “Care to tell me once more who the woman is?”
Brown twitched, his body jerking as if he intended to leap to his feet. Where would he go, though? Taylor had finished talking to Mullahey and barred the door with his body. Even though he wasn’t all that large of a man, he was stronger than he appeared. And not afraid to knock the doctor to the ground, if required.
“Relax, Dr. Brown,” said Nick, taking his chair behind his desk. “How about I tell you who the woman is. Lucetta Kimball. Right?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? You can’t be certain now? When you and your sister were positive the woman was Arvilla Stevenson. Huh.” Nick drew the photograph toward him. “Interesting that you also recalled the Stevensons living in Sacramento, when the story I’ve heard is that they actually used to reside in Stockton.”
“I’ve known a lot of folks over the years. Acquaintances from social functions, friends and family of fellow physicians . . . it was an honest confusion.”
“You forgot where the woman who wanted to marry you lived?” asked Nick, shaking his head. “That’s cold.”
Taylor chuckled. Brown pinched his mouth shut.
“So why not tell me about Lucetta Kimball, Dr. Brown?” said Nick. “Inter
esting, isn’t it? Her last name? Same as that of the woman who attended that séance at Mrs. Loveland’s place.”
“The woman in that photograph was a patient of mine,” he said. “It was taken many years ago. I do not recall anything else about her.”
“The photograph was taken at the state hospital. In Stockton,” said Nick. “Where you and your sister used to live, which you also neglected to tell me.”
Brown narrowed his gaze. “Why would it be important for me to tell you that I’d lived in Stockton, Detective Greaves? I didn’t realize I was supposed to supply you with a list of all my positions prior to coming to San Francisco. I’d taken a job there after my wife had died.”
Nick tapped the woman’s image. “She’s Etta, isn’t she? The name Mrs. Loveland agreed to say in your presence. So that one of the people at that séance could judge your reaction to hearing it,” he said. “How did she die? Suicide? Or was she shoved off the roof?”
“Lucetta Kimball was a patient of mine,” repeated Brown. “I treated many women at that hospital. There were only two of us on staff and six hundred inmates at any given time. Six hundred, Detective Greaves. Most only stayed with us a couple of months. Several died. A few—and it was only a few—chose to take their own lives.” He folded his arms, the gold watch chain slung across his belly glinting. Taylor impatiently shifted his stance. “If she took that path, I’m sorry. A tragic end to an unhappy existence. I can’t be expected to remember them all, or tell you anything about them. Even if I wished to, I couldn’t. Medical histories are private matters, and I must honor that.”
How noble.
“But I’d wager, Doctor, you didn’t take photographs with all those hundreds of patients. Just this one, Miss Lucetta Kimball,” said Nick. “Oh, maybe there were one or two others whose images you wanted captured for . . . a memento? Special young women like Miss Kimball. She is rather pretty. And delicate, from what I can see. Vulnerable.”
“It’s not my photograph,” he insisted. “I’ve never owned it. I regret that Justina fabricated that story about the woman being Arvilla Stevenson. She sensed my agitation and sought to protect me from your interrogation.”
“How thoughtful of her to lie for you, Doctor.”
Brown glared.
“I’ve heard the rumors that folks believed you were responsible for Etta Kimball’s death,” said Nick. “No wonder you left your position at the state hospital and didn’t want anybody to know. You’d have a hard time drumming up business in San Francisco with that stain upon your reputation.”
“I was not in any way responsible for that woman’s death!”
He might believe he was innocent. He might actually believe it.
How else could he sleep at night?
Nick picked up the photograph and examined it. “A lovely young woman. Didn’t she appreciate your attention? Did she try to rebuff you, complain to the attendants? But none of them would listen, would they? Not to the ravings of a madwoman.”
“Lucetta Kimball was a depressed individual.”
“Well, at least you remember her now.” Nick returned the photograph to his desk drawer and closed it.
The doctor exhaled, his body deflating like a punctured balloon. “They did blame me. Etta . . . I shouldn’t have paid her so much attention. Folks misunderstood.”
Taylor looked at Nick and perked his eyebrows.
“But I swear on the Holy Bible I didn’t touch her, and I certainly didn’t push her off that tower,” said Brown. “The rumors, though, nearly ruined me. Justina and I were shunned. We had to leave Stockton. They even dragged the memory of my late wife into it. As though her death was suspicious instead of what it had been caused by, nervous exhaustion.”
Nick could only speculate what might have led to the deceased Mrs. Brown’s nervous exhaustion.
“Years go by, and then Miss Nell Kimball shows up at a séance you’re attending,” said Nick. “It had to be startling to have a Kimball introduced to you. Then to hear Etta’s name mentioned . . . You fell ill. Told Miss Brown and Miss Adler you needed to leave. Not because of a sudden bout of sickness, but a sudden realization the jig might be up. That you were finally going to have to pay for the crime you’d committed.”
“No.”
“Miss Kimball was now face-to-face with the man responsible for Etta’s death,” said Nick. On the long boat ride from Stockton, it had all made sense. “She chased after you that night, wanting to talk to you, probably to accuse you. To get the revenge she must have hungered for ever since Etta fell from the roof of the hospital.”
Brown jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. “This is all lies!”
Taylor righted the chair. “How about you sit back down, Doctor?” He took hold of the man’s shoulders and pressed down.
Reluctantly, Brown sat. “You’re still trying to connect me to that investigator’s death.”
“Maybe,” said Nick, leaning back. “Or maybe I’m simply trying to gain justice for a young woman who lies buried in a state hospital cemetery with only a number on a stone marker to indicate her existence.”
“If Miss Nell Kimball blames me for her relative’s death, she’s the one you need to be questioning, not me,” said Brown. “She’s deluded, hysteria brought on by her grief. I’ve seen the condition often enough.”
Pain shot through Nick’s old wound, down the length of his arm. Uncle Asa had suggested that Meg spend some time in the county hospital to “calm her nerves.” Nick had left his sister in his uncle’s charge, but he’d never expected the man would try to commit her. Sweet Meg. She’d always had strong emotions—she’d been a Greaves, after all—but her moods had always passed quickly. Asa had changed his mind about sending Meg to the hospital.
Hell, maybe he shouldn’t have.
For six months later, Nick’s baby sister was dead by her own hand.
“Sir?” prodded Taylor, bringing Nick back to the here and now.
Nick nodded at him, and Taylor relaxed.
“Not long after the séance, the photograph surfaces,” said Nick. “Probably included with one of the threatening letters you received. Sent to you because the person sending it wanted you to remember Etta. Remember what you’d done.”
Brown stared at him down the length of his nose. “It may have been among those letters. I don’t open my mail. I have others to do that,” he said. “Because of my lectures, I get a great deal of correspondence from crackpots and people wanting me to donate to this or that cause, or to recommend some quack remedy they’re hawking.”
“Does your sister open your mail at your house?” asked Nick.
“She handles the correspondence that arrives there, yes.”
“So perhaps Miss Brown discovered the photograph among those letters,” he said. “She took it to Smith, correctly discerning its importance. That the woman was connected to the threats they contained.”
“However Mr. Smith obtained that carte de visite, Detective Greaves, I have no doubt Miss Kimball is the author of those letters,” said Brown. “The woman is a menace and must be located and jailed. She likely even killed that investigator, who was on her trail. Deranged. Undoubtedly deranged.”
“If you’re suddenly so concerned about a deranged woman like Miss Kimball running loose on the streets, why didn’t you mention her to me when I first talked with you about those letters?” asked Nick. The doctor didn’t answer. “Ah, I know. You didn’t want anybody to learn about your highly suspicious—unethical? criminal?—relationship with Etta Kimball.”
“I did not harm Etta,” he spat.
Nick considered the doctor, who calmly returned his scrutiny. “Encountering Miss Kimball wasn’t your only bad luck the night of that séance, was it?” asked Nick. “Because A. J. Emery, a regular Wednesday visitor to Mrs. Loveland’s, was also there.”
“Mr. Emery. Yes. So?”
“You don’t remember him from the state hospital?” asked Nick. “Because he used to work at the asylum, too.”
Realization darkened the doctor’s eyes. “That’s why I thought he looked familiar,” he said. “Then it’s Emery you want. Or the both of them, Miss Kimball and Mr. Emery together. Trying to blackmail me over malevolent gossip, killing Mr. Smith to hide their guilt. I’m innocent, Detective Greaves. I always have been.”
Always? Damn, but he might never be able to prove otherwise.
A rapid series of knocks were followed by the office door opening. “Got the warrant, Mr. Greaves,” said Mullahey through the opening. “And one of the officers found this at Emery’s boardinghouse. Not much to see, but you might be interested and all.” He handed Taylor a small sack.
Nick’s assistant looked inside. “A handful of ashes, sir. Looks like some burned paper.”
“The remnants of Smith’s files, maybe?” asked Nick.
“Oh, and the Adlers have been stopped in Oakland,” said Mullahey. “Trying, they were, to hop a stagecoach to Nevada.”
Nick thanked him, and the officer shut the door again.
“What’s this about the Adlers?” asked Brown.
“I’ve asked you before, but now I’m really curious how well you know your fiancée, Dr. Brown,” said Nick. “Her background. Her antecedents.”
“Her antecedents?” He scoffed. “I’m marrying a lovely young woman, Detective, not purchasing a thoroughbred racehorse.”
“Have you ever lent her father a sum of money?”
“My interactions with the Adlers are none of your business.”
“Were you aware that Miss Adler and her father had departed San Francisco yesterday?” asked Nick. “The bulk of their meager bank accounts drained of funds.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he sputtered. “Vivi? Left town with her father?” He glanced over his shoulder at Taylor before glaring at Nick. “What are you two playing at? Vivi wouldn’t go anywhere without telling me her plans.”
“Perhaps if you had spent some time investigating her antecedents, Dr. Brown, you might have learned that she and her father are probably not rich folks from back East.”
No Quiet among the Shadows Page 25
