“A happy coincidence,” she said. “Or giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, to quote Mr. Shakespeare, bringing A. J. Emery at last around to the outcome he deserved.”
She did love her Shakespeare quotes.
“By the way, when I visited the state hospital, I found the exact spot that photograph was taken in,” he said. “Smith must’ve brought the carte de visite to his lodgings. Maybe along with other items relating to the case. All of which Emery discovered in Smith’s room. He must’ve become worried there was more at Smith’s office, though. So he stole Smith’s keys and headed there to grab whatever he could find that might incriminate him. After all, Emery wasn’t just a blackmailer any longer. He was a murderer.”
“And, fortunately for us, prone to dropping things.” Celia Davies finished tidying her uncle’s portrait and wiped her fingers together. “I presume you will have to inform Miss McHugh’s brother that you have located her.”
“Maybe the news can be delayed until Miss McHugh has recovered and the good doctor or his sister help me pay for a ticket sending her to wherever she’d like to go.”
She lifted her brows. “So she can keep running?”
“It’s the best I can do, ma’am.” He couldn’t do more; he was risking his position on the police force helping Corrie McHugh. “Taylor’s gone over to the Friedmans’ to see if he can pick the man’s brains about who it was who assaulted him in Smith’s office. Maybe his memory has returned and he’ll help us prove it was Emery searching for that photograph he’d dropped.”
She pressed her hands to her waist. “Ah, Detective Greaves, I have a minor confession to make.”
“If you’re going to tell me it was you—”
“Certainly not,” she said. “It was Mr. Griffin.”
He squinted at her. “How do you know that?”
“He followed me to Miss McHugh’s rooms today,” she said. “When Mr. Emery leaped at me with his knife, she screamed, and Mr. Griffin came running. We spoke long enough for him to reveal he was the one who struck Mr. Friedman.”
“Friedman had mentioned the smell of perfume . . .”
“Mr. Griffin is a trifle vain, if you have failed to notice. He wears scent. Rose water, to be precise.”
A dandy and a hero. Great. “I’m grateful to him for his part in stopping Emery from hurting you worse than he did, ma’am, but I don’t understand why he was anywhere near Miss McHugh’s rooms to begin with.”
She gazed at him a long time before answering. “Mr. Griffin has been watching me because he thinks I will lead him to my husband, who owes him money, Mr. Greaves.”
Like a warning shot, pain seared through the old wound in his arm. “Your husband’s dead, ma’am.”
“Mr. Griffin assures me he is not.”
Nick took a step back, as if putting distance between them could stop the pain in his arm from spreading any farther. “How is it he’s alive?”
“That I have yet to learn.” She resumed staring up at her uncle’s portrait. “Mr. Griffin took advantage of Mr. Smith’s death to rifle through his office in order to locate the files Mr. Smith had been collecting on Patrick. Mr. Griffin is holding them ransom in exchange for the sum owed him.”
His grip on the brim of his hat tightened. What damned, rotten luck. Falling for the wrong woman again. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
He didn’t need to explain what he was sorry about; he saw the regret on her face. “So am I, Nicholas. I wish I knew what to say or what I can do.”
“Convince your husband to divorce you?”
She gave a sad smile that quickly faded. “Patrick has a financial need to remain wed to me. So long as that is the situation . . .”
The man would never release her.
Nick tapped his hat onto his head and, on an impulse, drew her near and bent down to press a kiss to her cheek. Her skin was cool and soft, and her hair smelled of lavender.
“Goodbye, Celia,” he whispered before releasing her.
Her eyes, pale and lovely, peered at him. “It will not be goodbye forever, Nicholas.”
He didn’t respond.
Instead, he turned and walked away.
• • •
Celia stood by the window in her examination room staring at the road until her back ached and her neck grew stiff from not moving. It will not be goodbye forever, Nicholas.
It cannot be.
The Hutchinsons’ familiar tilbury pulled up at the curb, and Grace tumbled down from the seat before her father had brought the carriage to a full halt. Barbara descended more reluctantly, her carpetbag clutched in her hand. She stared up at the house and spied Celia at the window. Celia waved; her cousin did not.
“Miss McHugh has awakened and had a bite to eat, ma’am,” said Addie from the doorway. “And you’ve a message from Mrs. Wheaton. Seems she’s back at her house and wants you to know she’s well.”
“I shall visit her tomorrow to see for myself.”
Addie came to stand next to her at the window. “’Tis good that Miss Barbara is home at last.”
“Go down and help her with her bag, Addie.”
“You should greet her first, ma’am,” her housekeeper replied. “’Twould be for the best of the both of you.”
“Would it? Barbara does not seem happy to be home, based upon her stubborn refusal to budge from the pavement.”
Grace had started up the steps and turned around when she realized Barbara was not following. Frank Hutchinson was motioning at Celia’s cousin to go ahead. It was somewhat gratifying to see that Barbara ignored his entreaties as readily as she ignored Celia’s.
“You canna take out your unhappiness upon Miss Barbara for Master Patrick, the divil, coming between you and Mr. Greaves.”
“What am I to do, Addie? Patrick is alive and in debt to Mr. Griffin and . . . what am I to do?”
“Have faith that time will provide a solution, ma’am,” said Addie, her voice gentle.
Have faith. When had faith ever solved anything, either? She’d had faith Harry would return from the Crimea alive. She’d had faith Patrick would love her for who she was, not who he wanted her to be. She’d had faith that she would learn to be a good mother to Barbara.
Yet, here I am. As lost as ever. As uncertain as ever.
As determined as ever to move forward.
She smoothed the skirt of her dress, an indigo blue one she had found carefully folded in a trunk, for she no longer needed to wear black, and lifted her chin.
“Prepare Barbara’s favorite meal for dinner, Addie. We should celebrate that we are all together once more.” Down at the street, Angelo had run from his house to throw his arms around Barbara’s waist, thrilled to see her. Celia smiled at Addie. “I do not need to rely upon faith when I have you and Barbara at my side. We will find a way. We always have.”
Addie nodded. “Aye, ma’am. Aye.”
Author’s Note
In 1867, at least four “Spiritual Physicians” were practicing in San Francisco. Spiritualism has its roots in the 1840s, but the years after the Civil War saw an increase in adherents, as well as those merely curious—or skeptical—about its claims. Relatives who’d lost loved ones in that bloody conflict sought the comfort a spiritualist might provide. The movement was about far more than using séances to probe the world of the beyond, however, and promoted progressive ideas such as universal suffrage. By the turn of the century, it claimed millions of followers. Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle became a believer. Spiritualism, however, was dogged by fraud, which gradually reduced its popularity and the number of supporters.
The California state mental asylum was established in Stockton in 1851. Within a few short years, the need for expansion became clear, and a series of construction projects were undertaken. They proved to be inadequate. By the mid-1860s, the hospital was severely overcrowded and the conditions abysmal. With a new wave of spending also came improvements in the treatment of the inmates. Unfortunately, the situation did not last
, as a steady stream of patients in the following decades led to diminished standards of care. What little remains of the hospital can now be found on the campus of California State University's Stanislaus–Stockton Center.
Finally, I must thank the folks at Beyond the Page, especially my editor, Bill Harris, for enabling Celia and Nick to live again between the covers of a book. You have my heartfelt appreciation for all you’ve done.
Books by Nancy Herriman
Mysteries of Old San Francisco
No Comfort for the Lost
No Pity for the Dead
No Quiet among the Shadows
Bess Ellyott Mysteries
Searcher of the Dead
A Fall of Shadows
Stand-Alone Novels
Josiah’s Treasure
The Irish Healer
About the Author
Nancy Herriman left an engineering career to take up the pen and has never looked back. She is the author of the Mysteries of Old San Francisco, the Bess Ellyott Mysteries, and several stand-alone novels. A winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award, when she’s not writing, she enjoys singing, gabbing about writing, and eating dark chocolate. After two decades in Arizona, she now lives in her home state of Ohio with her family.
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