Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  “But you know Dominic Noble?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “A client?” Isobel asked.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “He was engaged.”

  “I heard he died in his sleep. Surprising and tragic. But for you to be involved…” Annie leaned forward. “What really happened?”

  “Professional discretion. Same as you.”

  “Unlikely the same.”

  “Along the same lines,” Isobel said.

  Annie frowned into her tea. “Ian Noble, his father, is a brute. I imagine his son followed in his footsteps.”

  “But you don’t know for certain?”

  “I met Dominic Noble at a party once. Attractive man. But I don’t think I left much impression on him.”

  “Why do you say his father is a brute? In what regard?”

  “Social. Business. He knows what he wants, and he takes it.”

  “Women, too?”

  “I don’t have firsthand experience,” Annie admitted. “I’m more selective with my clientele, and I don’t ignore whispers. Ian Noble made his fortune in mining. From what I hear, he dotes on his daughters and is protective of them. The eldest is engaged to an Englishman in New York. The Nobles are rich, but they’re new money. They don’t fit into New York society, and most especially British society.”

  “So Ian Noble is marrying off his daughter for the title, and the titled gentleman is eyeing their money.”

  “That’s a cold interpretation,” Annie noted.

  Isobel arched a brow. “Is there another?”

  “Love, perhaps?” Annie’s voice was light and wistful. She was also an excellent actress.

  “I find that the transactional nature of high society shares alarming similarities with prostitution.”

  “One could say all relationships are transactional.”

  “True.”

  “Even your own.” It was nearly a purr.

  The edge of Isobel’s lip quirked. “Hmm,” was all she said. Some secrets were too delicious to share. “What did Dominic Noble and Katherine Hayes stand to gain from one another?”

  Annie studied her from beneath long lashes. “Katherine Hayes is considered a spinster and Dominic was a confirmed bachelor.”

  The words were heavy with suggestion. Isobel absently fiddled with a teaspoon, possibilities spinning in her mind. The only picture she had of Dominic Noble was his naked corpse frozen in terror. It was hard to think of him as an aggressor, given the method of murder.

  But there was Jacob Dixon to consider. Had Dominic gone there for a liaison with a man or a woman? Had he shared his father’s brutish nature? Lotario was fond of him, but that didn’t mean Dominic would have treated women in a lowbrow brothel the same as he had her twin.

  “How is Mr. Riot?”

  Isobel stopped tapping the teaspoon against the table. “Unless Inspector Geary is utterly corrupt, I suspect he’ll be released tomorrow. At least I hope.”

  “I find it curious that the Pinkertons are involved.”

  Isobel's eyes narrowed. “Have you heard something?”

  “I’m not a gossipmonger.”

  “Sam Batten seemed taken with you during the police raid.”

  Annie’s lips curved. “Do your questions about Dominic Noble have anything to do with the Nymphia raid?”

  Isobel returned the smile, then stood. “Enjoy your brunch.” She started to leave, but stopped at the call of her name. “Yes?”

  “The Pinkertons are not all they seem in San Francisco,” Annie said carefully.

  “I don’t like riddles,” Isobel said. Though she did, in fact, love riddles.

  “It’s not a riddle; it’s a warning.”

  24

  Rag and Bone

  It was Sunday. The day after Sarah’s thirteenth birthday. The thought stung as Riot lay on his cot, eyes on the stone ceiling, idly shuffling a worn deck on his stomach. At least he had the cell to himself. Along with his demons.

  There were plenty of those. He’d been sifting through the past decades, cataloging his numerous enemies. And that was only the ones he knew about. Every action has consequence, even the smallest ones.

  His thoughts kept returning to Liam Taft, and their conversation. Why had the agent been interested in his days as a Pinkerton? And specifically about why he and Ravenwood left the agency.

  Twenty years ago the Pinkerton Detective Agency hadn’t had an office in San Francisco, so Ravenwood took the occasional case as a consultant, which led to Riot’s recruitment as a tracker.

  Then there was that business with Jim Hagen. Nothing dramatic. Just a detective who was more criminal than lawman. It was unfortunately commonplace. A badge gave men power. And power corrupted. Though he suspected power was more akin to water on a seed that had already been planted.

  Footsteps sounded down the hallway and a guard stopped in front of his cell. “Time to go.”

  “On a Sunday?” Riot asked, climbing to his feet.

  “Inspector Geary doesn’t want you in here a minute longer.”

  The back of Riot’s neck prickled. This guard was a regular at the station, not one of Inspector Coleman’s officers. “Come on, then.”

  Riot didn’t have a coat, or anything to gather, so he squared his deck and walked out. “I believe this is yours.”

  The guard frowned at the deck. “No, that’s Blue’s deck.”

  “It’s marked.”

  The guard turned red. “That bastard,” he swore.

  Riot placed the deck in the guard’s hand. “Blisters on the back of the aces. You could turn it around on him for at least one game.”

  The guard ran a rough thumb over the back of a card. “Suppose I could. Thanks.”

  Given the cracked skin on the guard’s hands, Riot doubted he could feel the pinprick indentations. “Will my revolver be returned?”

  “Whatever you came in with.”

  The guard ushered Riot through another cage door, to where two other guards lounged at a table. The guard tossed down the tattered deck, then pushed a newspaper into Riot’s hands. “That’s why you’re being released.”

  The other two guards glared. “What’s that about, Oakes?”

  “Shut it.”

  As Oakes led the way through yet another door, Riot read the front page headline. Cameron Fry had a way with words, and Riot recognized the youth’s style. He’d gone straight at the police station and dealt them a hard blow.

  The office was subdued as Riot signed his release papers. He passed through a waist-high barrier into the lobby, and the desk officer handed over his holster and revolver. Riot checked the chambers. They were empty and his leather holster had been plucked clean of ammunition.

  “Used them all up testing ballistics,” the officer explained.

  “Of course,” Riot said. “Can I make a telephone call?”

  “No.”

  Released from jail on a Sunday with no ammunition. Riot didn’t like the feel of this at all. Was he being paranoid? Yes. But he was also alive because he was cautious. The two went hand in hand.

  Oakes hesitated at the desk. “I’m taking a smoke break,” he announced, then walked out the front door.

  There was no point buckling on his shoulder holster, so Riot walked outside a free man with his gear in hand.

  Oakes stood off to the side, as Riot squinted into sunlight. The fog had burned away, but the air had a bite.

  “I owe you,” Oakes said, raising a hand towards his holster.

  Riot was on the verge of leaping at the guard, but instead of reaching for his gun, Oakes plucked out some cartridges.

  “Don’t tell no one.” Oakes dropped six cartridges into Riot’s palm. “For the tip about Blue’s deck.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “We’re even,” Oakes grunted. He disappeared back inside without taking a smoke break.

  Splendid, even the police suspected an ambush.

  Using a column as cover, Riot watched th
e street as he loaded his revolver. Then he slung the holster on and buckled it. The weight was reassuring.

  Instead of striking off, he lingered near the station’s turret tower, searching the windows and doorways across the wide street. No hat, no coat, no billfold. At least he’d put on his boots before being arrested.

  He headed down Valencia Street. It was lined with homes and businesses squashed shoulder to shoulder. Church bells rang out the noon hour, and he began to relax. Since it was Sunday offices were closed, and families were at church, inside homes, or out in parks.

  The barren street was normal, he told himself. So why was he uneasy? Riot had learned to trust that prickling sensation climbing up his spine. The dead were the ones who ignored it.

  He ducked down the first lane he came across, and cut behind a paint supply store to hop over a fence. Then hurried through a tiny backyard garden and climbed a trellis with a yapping dog at his heels. Riot landed on the other side. A rattle of wheels and the ringing of a bell spurred him onwards. He spotted the rag-and-bone man plodding in the middle of a street lined with homes.

  Riot searched corners and windows for an ambush, as he unbuckled his holster, removed his vest, and slung the holster back on. With vest in hand, he flagged down the rag-and-bone man.

  “I need a hat and coat. What will you trade for this?”

  The man examined the fine wool. It wasn’t one of Riot’s silk gray and black vests, but it wasn’t store bought either.

  The man glanced at him. “I got nothin’ but rags. Ain’t a hole in this.”

  Riot held the man’s eyes for a tick. “I’ll take whatever you have. Otherwise, it’s likely to have a hole in it soon.”

  The fellow eyed his shoulder holster, then turned and rifled through his tottering wagon. He came out with a battered cloth cap covered in brick dust and a moth-eaten coat.

  “That will do.” Riot exchanged vest for rags. “Can you throw in a cigarette?”

  The man handed one over. “Need a light?”

  Riot held up a matchbook, then popped the unlit cigarette between his lips and struck off down the street. As he turned a corner, he noted the man exchanging his own vest for the new trade.

  With a small smile, Riot flipped up his collar, adjusted the cap low, and strode back onto Valencia Street smelling of moths and whiskey.

  25

  The Unknown

  Money was always a motive, but Isobel hadn’t expected this much of it. Jin stopped at the gate to gawk, and Sarah frowned, eyeing Isobel’s no-frills coat, split-skirt, and practical boots. “Are you sure we can call here? I’m not dressed in my Sunday best.”

  Isobel flicked her cuffs. “We’re working, Sarah. Not visiting.”

  “Didn’t you invite us along to make it look like a social call?”

  Jin stirred. “I do not think you have friends here.”

  “My ex-husband’s mansion is just down the street,” Isobel said, pushing open the gate. “And it’s even bigger.”

  It was true. While Katherine Hayes’s estate was large, it wasn’t one of the mansions that hogged an entire block. It was more along the lines of Ravenwood Manor, only well-maintained and with a gated wall around its grounds.

  When no sound of footsteps followed, she stopped and turned to find her daughters looking hesitant. “Are you two coming?”

  The girls hurried to catch up.

  “Never be intimidated by wealth. It’s only decoration. Rich or poor, everyone needs a privy,” Isobel said as they walked.

  Despite altering her words for their young sensibilities, Jin blurted out, “You mean everyone shits.”

  “Jin!” Sarah said.

  “It is true.”

  “You can’t use bad language.”

  “I just did.”

  Sarah spluttered. “Isobel, aren’t you going to say something?”

  “I’m hardly qualified to lecture Jin on language,” Isobel muttered. “And I loathe hypocrisy. Now then, be on your best behavior.” She arched a pointed brow at Jin. “Pretend you’re Sarah.”

  Jin wrinkled her nose.

  “And no eavesdropping.”

  “You have no faith in us,” Jin said.

  “Oh, I have faith in you,” she said. “Just not to behave.”

  “There’s a mourning crape, Isobel. Are you sure we should be calling?” Sarah asked as they walked up the stairs.

  A black bow was tied to the knocker with a white ribbon.

  “Clearly someone was murdered. Why else would Isobel come here?” Jin asked.

  “I do have friends,” Isobel defended.

  Jin snorted, as she stood on her tippy-toes to bang the knocker against its plate. She seemed intent on rousing the entire street.

  The door opened, and a man frowned at them. Around thirty, with a square jaw and a thin mustache. His queue nearly brushed the floor, and he wore the traditional changshan—a silk robe-like tunic usually worn by officials.

  “Miss Hayes is expecting us,” Isobel said, offering her personal calling card.

  He took the card, then glanced from Sarah to Jin, his dark gaze taking in her features, along with the oversized cap and boy’s suit she favored.

  “My daughters. Sarah and Jin.”

  A twitch of his brow betrayed surprise. “Mr. Chang,” he introduced. “I’ll inform Miss Hayes of your arrival. You may wait in the parlour, Mrs. Riot.” He bowed them inside with a sweep of an arm.

  “Is that a mummy?” Sarah asked, staring at a preserved corpse in a glass case. It was an odd thing to have in an entry hall.

  “Yes, Miss Riot,” Chang said.

  “From Egypt?” Sarah asked.

  Isobel suppressed a sigh. She supposed it was possible that the Hayeses embalmed as a pastime.

  “Mr. Hayes is a great collector of antiquities.” He showed them into a second parlour. “If you’ll wait here.”

  “Will we be meeting Mr. and Mrs. Hayes?” Isobel asked.

  “Mrs. Hayes passed away some time ago. Mr. Hayes is currently away on business.”

  Isobel nodded, and Chang left, queue and robes flirting with the carpets.

  Her daughters waited exactly thirty seconds before rushing to the door. Jin slipped through to gawk at the mummy, and after a backward glance to Isobel (who lifted a shoulder in answer), Sarah followed.

  Isobel breathed in the scent of wealth. It had a distinct smell of polish, beeswax, oils and fresh flowers, with a gleam to everything that required an army of servants. But whereas her ex-husband, Alex, preferred austere gilt and vast masculine spaces, it seemed the Hayes were the extravagant collector types.

  Unlike the entry hall, a woman’s touch was noticeable in the parlour. If not Miss Katherine Hayes, then a leftover from her mother, perhaps. Isobel paused at a charcoal sketch of sailboats at sea. Faint pencil marks flowed under the charcoal where the artist had sketched out the landscape before applying color.

  Soon enough Sarah and Jin darted back inside, and were standing innocently by the settee when the first sound of clicking heels reached the room.

  Katherine hadn’t kept them waiting long. She hurried into the parlour, then stared in bewilderment at the children. Pale, with shadowed eyes, she had the look of a person who’d just lost something dear.

  Thankfully, there were no brimming tears in the woman’s eyes. Isobel was not up to the task of comforting a distraught woman. That was Riot’s specialty.

  “I brought my daughters so it would look like a social call instead of business,” Isobel explained. “Can they wait somewhere while we speak?”

  “I didn’t think you’d come,” Katherine said. “And yes…” She gave a sad smile at the children, then poked her head into the hallway. “Will you show the children around the house, Mr. Chang?”

  “Of course, Miss Hayes.”

  Sarah hesitated before leaving. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  Katherine’s eyes brimmed with tears, and Sarah gave her hand a squeeze, before darting after her sist
er.

  Mr. Chang paused in the doorway, concern plain on his face. “Do you require tea?” he asked softly.

  “No, thank you,” she said, dabbing at her eyes.

  When Mr. Chang closed the doors, Isobel nodded towards the sketch. “Who is the artist?”

  Katherine colored. “I am. My mother insisted on hanging it there. I’m afraid only a mother would love it. After she passed, I could hardly change this room. Won’t you sit, Miss Amsel?”

  “I think it better if you do.”

  “Have you discovered something about Donny’s death?”

  Isobel clenched her jaw. She’d debated this part. To tell or not to tell? But she’d been hired to find the truth, not to sweep a veil over the woman. And she’d taken Inspector Coleman’s cryptic reply to her telegram as permission.

  “Has it occurred to you that the details of your fiancé’s death are being kept private for a reason?” Isobel asked.

  Katherine frowned. “I was to be his wife. Wouldn’t you want to know the truth?”

  “No matter how unpleasant?”

  Katherine sank into a chair and stared into the cold hearth for a time. The mantel clock ticked into silence. Then Katherine straightened, squaring her shoulders. “I must know. No matter how unpleasant.”

  “Very well,” Isobel said, with a dip of her chin. “During a police raid on the Hotel Nymphia…” she paused to let that sink in first, gauging the woman’s reaction. Katherine blinked rapidly. “A dead man was discovered in one of the upper-story rooms. A policeman recognized him as Dominic Noble.”

  Katherine was shaking her head. “That’s impossible.”

  “Unless he had a twin that died on the same day, I assure you it is not.”

  “How did he die?” she asked, her voice a thin waver.

  “Suffocation,” Isobel said bluntly. “With a handkerchief.” She left out that it had been stuffed down his throat with a carpenter pencil and he had been found naked. No use leaving the woman with a horrendous last image of her fiancé’s face.

  Katherine stared numbly at nothing. “That’s impossible,” she whispered again. “Donny… he wouldn’t.”

  “How can you be certain?”