No Pity For the Dead (24 page)

“Weel? Out with it!”

Her gaze met her housekeeper's. “It has indeed come from Mr. Smith. From Mexico,” she replied, the contents making her tremble. “He claims to have proof that Patrick is dead, and he will be shortly returning to the United States with the evidence.”

“It's about time Mr. Davies has done you the favor of being verifiably deceased,” she said, giving a brisk nod. She had never cared for Patrick. “Now you dinna have to file for divorce on grounds of abandonment.”

Celia folded the telegram and tucked it into her skirt pocket. “Tell no one, Addie. Not even Barbara.”

“Mr. Greaves might like to know,” said Addie.

“I shall absolutely not tell him,” she answered quickly. “I want to be positive, Addie. Utterly positive.”

“So I'm not to bring out your mourning?”

What a question. “Not yet.”

Because, knowing Patrick, being confirmed dead was no guarantee of the permanence of the condition.

*   *   *

A
fter having supper and briefly reviewing the records of the next day's patients, Celia retreated to the quiet of her bedchamber. She sat at her dressing table, removed the telegram from her pocket, and unfolded it, spreading it flat upon the table's surface.

Ah, Patrick. Could it be true?

She opened the drawer and withdrew the small sandalwood box tucked in the far reaches. Brushing a finger over the pattern carved upon its surface, she recalled when her brother had gifted it to her upon her sixteenth birthday. The box had seemed such a grown-up present, the sort of item one would see on a lady's writing desk, and she had been thrilled. Celia turned the key that undid the lock and opened the box, releasing its spicy aroma. Inside were Patrick's letters. The ones he had sent when she was a nurse in Scutari, after he had been cleared to return to duty and released from the hospital. When he had been trying to woo her, her heart still raw from Harry's death. She caressed the plum-colored ribbon she had wound around the stack. There were others from when he'd served with the Irish Brigade in the Americans' civil war, and she had been studying at the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania and then volunteering at Satterlee Hospital. Halcyon days, when she had come to realize that she had chosen the right path in wanting
to become a nurse. In the Crimea, she had done little more than feed soldiers or read them letters or wipe their fever-soaked foreheads. At Satterlee, however, she had discovered that there could be more to her chosen profession than merely providing companionship to patients.

And Patrick had encouraged her, his own miseries upon the battlefields of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville only briefly mentioned. He had tried to understand her. For a while, at least.

Had he been jealous that she had been so happy? Had he suspected even as he trudged through mud and filth, lived with camp diseases and poor rations, saw compatriots die horrible deaths while he survived unscathed, that she was not going to be content to be a mere wife when they were reunited? He must have, for when he came home to Philadelphia, he was not the same man who had gone off to fight three years earlier, and the flashes of anger he'd only occasionally exhibited in England became regular outbursts. Addie had grown apprehensive of him, and Celia had retreated more and more to her work, where there was safety and sanity and predictability. Her friends claimed many of the soldiers returned from the war behaving similarly—somber, angry, reliving the fighting in their dreams, sometimes not truly waking from their nightmares though they moved among the living. Those same friends had insisted Patrick would get better. Celia knew he would not.

Because between them lay the bitter truth—Patrick Davies, he of the sparkling eyes and ready wit, had married a woman with a heart of stone. Perhaps if she had conceived a child, life would have been different. Perhaps she would have tried better to love him. But she had not conceived a child, and she did not
try better to love him, though for so long she had feigned affection in hopes the emotion would take hold. But seedlings do not sprout on stone, and affection cannot readily be feigned. She had never blamed him for wanting to leave her.

But there was no joy in realizing she was finally free.

“Ma'am?”

Celia looked over her shoulder. How long had Addie been standing there, calling to her?

She stuffed the telegram into the box. “Yes, Addie?”

Addie's gaze flicked to the box, then back to Celia. She must be desperate to read the telegram herself, but Addie was too respectful to pry.

“The young woman down the road, the one who's newly wed, has scalded herself while cooking. Her husband's come to fetch you there and says hurry.”

“I shall require my elm bark poultice, some strips of linen, the bottle of spirits, and my medical bag, Addie,” she said.

With a nod Addie left, and Celia locked the box, tucking it into the drawer, out of sight and where the memories the box held could not chastise her.

*   *   *

T
he young woman, who'd recently come from some Eastern European country and spoke a limited amount of English, had bit her lip so hard while Celia tended to her burns that she'd made it bleed. The poultice would help the inflammation only so much, but the woman had been brave. Her husband had watched from the corner of their kitchen while Celia had labored in the light of a lone oil lamp, his scrutiny skeptical of Celia's abilities.

“Aiyee,” his wife groaned between clenched teeth as Celia finished wrapping the scalds with clean linen. The boiling hot
soup the woman had splashed on her arm had splattered all over the floor. Chunks of potatoes and stringy meat remained where they'd fallen, the scent of garlic and other spices heavy in the air, strong enough to mask smells of mold and bad plumbing. Work for the young woman once she'd stopped crying over her burns.

“I will leave you the poultice. Change the bandage in twelve hours and apply more at that time,” Celia instructed the husband, who grunted a reply.
Please,
Celia thought, because she would not plead with a man who would not listen. “And send a message if the burns begin to suppurate.”

“Thank you,” the young woman murmured in her small voice, resting her bandaged arm atop the stained beige dress that covered the swell of her belly. Soon there would be a child who would probably be as dark eyed and dark haired as both of his parents. Another mouth to compete for the stew.

“You are most welcome,” said Celia, who packed her supplies and made to depart.

The husband barked at his wife in their language, and the woman clambered to her feet.

“Please do not go to any trouble,” Celia said to her. She did not want the injured—and very pregnant—young woman to feel obligated to formalities. “I shall find my way out.”

It had grown dark by the time Celia descended the rickety stairs to the street, and fog blanketed the city again.

Gathering her skirts, she rushed along, her footfalls echoing dully off the buildings. Celia turned the corner at Vallejo and began the steep climb up the road. She scanned her surroundings. This section of the road was the darkest of all, the corner house currently uninhabited and the drapery of the next house always closed so tightly that not even the faintest light leaked
through. To make matters worse, the grocer's on the opposite corner was also dark, the lantern that the owner's wife usually placed by the upstairs room's window unlit.

Could I be more unfortunate?

Her rapid exhalations clouded in the night air, and she hurried as best as she could, her portmanteau banging against her right knee. Not far. She really had not far to go. In fact, she was certain she could see the welcoming flare of the oil lamp in their parlor from here.

At first, she dismissed the footsteps she heard scurrying behind her. They came from a rat rooting in the trash someone had discarded, or a neighbor's dog on the loose. Or the cat she had seen the other evening. That was all. The furtiveness of the noise was nothing to fret over. Nonetheless, she increased her pace. The footsteps—they were footsteps, not the padding of paws—matched her tempo.
I should not have gone out alone. Not after Cliff House.
Celia glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see who was following her. But the fog was dense and becoming more so. She hoisted her skirts and began to run, turning for another look back. Just as she did, the toe of her boot caught on an uneven plank in the pavement.

She stumbled, lost her balance completely. As she fell, a gunshot shattered the quiet, and she screamed.

“Might not have even been trying to shoot you, ma'am,” said Mr. Taylor, clutching his notebook and looking uncomfortable to be standing in Celia's entry hall with Addie scrutinizing him. “All sorts of unsavory types up here shooting off guns.”

“I am aware of the character of my neighborhood, Mr. Taylor,” said Celia.

She was grateful that Mr. Greaves' assistant had arrived so quickly upon receiving the message to come to the house. He apparently often worked late at the station and had been there to receive it. But Celia could not help wishing it had been Mr. Greaves, not Mr. Taylor, who had answered the summons.
He would scold me about wandering the streets at night with that concerned look in his eyes, and I would know that all would be right with the world.
Instead, Mr. Taylor appeared to be anticipating how
angry his superior would become once he learned that someone had shot at Celia, and the anticipation was making him fidget.

“And even if he was firing at you, the bullet went mighty wide for thinking he meant to kill you, ma'am,” the officer added, a notion that was not as comforting as he'd intended. “The railing it hit was a good five, six feet from where you'd been standing.”

Mr. Taylor hadn't had any difficulty locating the bullet; the owner of the house whose banister it had splintered was happy to point out the damage once he'd noticed the police officer wandering around on the street near the man's home.

“Maybe he's merely a dreadful poor shot, Mr. Taylor,” said Addie. “Just like the last time, ma'am. You getting shot at and all.”

“I was not shot at last time, Addie,” said Celia. Attacked in their kitchen by a knife-wielding killer, yes. Shot at, no.
I have come up in the world, it seems.

“Dinna quibble, ma'am.”

“Would you care for some tea, Mr. Taylor? It is never too late in the day for tea.” Celia extended a hand toward the parlor. Addie had lit every lantern on the ground floor, and the parlor blazed with light. “You can come through to the dining room and sit with us for a while before you return to the station.”

A blush spread across his cheeks. Addie took to noticing a spot of dirt on the hallway wallpaper.

“Wouldn't you prefer I go and catch the fellow who shot at you?” he asked.

“Do you honestly believe he is still loitering in the vicinity, Mr. Taylor? No, neither do I. So let us enjoy some tea, and perhaps some shortbread. Addie makes excellent shortbread.” Besides, if she did not sit, she would soon collapse, the way her knees were shaking.

“Och, shortbread after some loony's attempted to kill you,” muttered Addie. She bustled off toward the kitchen, likely happy to have an activity to take her mind off her mistress' troubles.

Mr. Taylor watched her depart. “The sooner I get to work looking for the fellow, the sooner we'll find him, ma'am, and get him off the street. So I probably shouldn't be staying for cookies and tea.”

Celia glanced toward the parlor; Addie was out of earshot. “Which of our suspects do you think it was, Mr. Taylor?” she asked. “Not Mr. Martin, who is bedridden and recovering from his attack of angina.”

“He coulda paid somebody to take a shot at you, ma'am.”

“A distinct possibility,” she said. “But the shooter was also not Mr. Hutchinson, who is still in Oakland, I presume.”

“Should still be. Mr. Greaves telegraphed the Oakland police to let Officer Mullahey know he didn't need to bring Mr. Hutchinson in, after all.”

Thank goodness Grace and Jane no longer had to worry about Frank being arrested.

“But we both gotta remember, ma'am, that we don't know if this incident has anything to do with our investigation of Mr. Nash's murder,” added Mr. Taylor.

“You're suggesting that one of my neighbors has taken a sudden, strong dislike to me?”

She was feeling short-tempered and allowing it to show. Her aunt would be most displeased with her.
It is ill-bred for ladies to be peevish, Cecilia. One must remain serene in all circumstances . . .

Celia wondered if not maintaining her serenity could be excused in this situation.

Looking uncertain, Mr. Taylor scratched his neck with the
edge of his notebook. “I'll find out what all of our suspects were doing tonight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. And please forgive my churlishness.”

“Um . . . sure. Not a problem.” He glanced longingly toward the parlor and sighed.

“Shall I tell Addie you regret not being able to stay and enjoy her wonderful shortbread?” Celia asked.

“Um . . .” His cheeks turned pinker. “If you would, ma'am.”

Did his discomfort imply he
was
Addie's admirer or was
not
? “Mr. Taylor, have you been sending flowers to my housekeeper, by any chance?”

He blinked at her. “What's that?”

“Flowers. Notes. Left on the doorstep for Addie.”

“I . . . Somebody's courting Ad . . . Miss Ferguson?”

And apparently that someone is not you.
“Indeed. Another mystery, Mr. Taylor.”

“I guess so,” he said, looking as though he did not care for this mystery, either.
Hope yet, Addie.
“I'll be going, then. Oh, and I'm pretty sure Mr. Greaves would like you to stay in your house until this fellow's caught.”

Which she might do, if not for the small problem of the meeting she had arranged with Katie Lehane tomorrow. She felt a trifle guilty over keeping her plans from Mr. Greaves, but not enough to let him know, even after what had just occurred. If she was honest with herself, she was looking forward to besting his efforts to find the killer.

“If a patient of mine sends for me,” she said, “I will have to go.”

“I thought you'd say that.” He gave his good-byes, tucked away his notebook, and bolted for the door.

As Celia shut it behind him, she heard a rustling at the top
of the stairs. Barbara, her long black braid hanging down over her robe, stood on the landing.

“Are they coming here next? To take another shot at you, and maybe me?” she asked. “I'd hoped you'd be finished with this, since Mr. Hutchinson has been cleared. Jane Hutchinson hasn't asked you to do more.”

“I must not be finished, since someone elected to fire a gun at me, Barbara.”

Her cousin clattered down the stairs, her robe and nightgown held high above her feet. “I want this to stop, Cousin. I'm tired of being afraid. I want to be safe.”

Her voice broke, and Celia gathered her cousin in her arms, letting her cry upon her shoulder. Where, though, was safe for a half-Chinese girl and her husbandless guardian?

“This will all be over soon, sweetheart.” She stroked a hand down her cousin's thick, soft hair to where the braid twined at the nape of her neck. “I promise.”

“But you can't promise.” Barbara pulled out of Celia's grasp. The severe set of her expression should have been the first warning of the salvo that was immediately to follow. “Maybe you should move.”

I am not hearing this . . .
“Excuse me, Barbara?”

“I said, you should move.”

“I cannot. I am your guardian. Your father left you in my care until you come of age.”

“I'm going to talk to my father's lawyer. He'll straighten this out and you'll see.”

“Barbara . . .” Celia reached for her, but she jerked away and stormed up the stairs. The slam of her bedchamber door reverberated through the house.

“Weel,” said Addie from the parlor doorway, the lacquered tea tray in her hands. “Where will we go now?”

“She will be fine in the morning and full of apologies, mark my words.”

Addie's only reply was an expressive roll of her eyes.

*   *   *

“H
ow close did the bullet come to striking her?” Nick asked Taylor as they walked along Dupont Street the next morning.

Nick was always amazed by his assistant's ability to find him, especially considering how vague he'd been about his destination when Mrs. Jewett had tried to pry it out of him a half hour earlier. Given the news Taylor had brought, Nick might've preferred he'd been less successful.

“Five or six feet, if I had to guess,” Taylor answered, dodging the broom of a storekeeper out sweeping the sidewalk before his business opened. “She's lucky she tripped and fell. But I let her believe he didn't mean to hit her.”

“Maybe he didn't.”

Taylor looked over at him as they waited at the intersection. “D'you think so, sir?”

“No, Taylor. I don't think so. That woman . . . I told Mrs. Davies she'd get in trouble,” Nick said, dashing across the street. He didn't like being right.

Danger finds her like a bloodhound tracks a scent.

“Maybe it
was
a random shot, sir . . . Mr. Greaves,” said Taylor, looking hopeful he'd agree.

“And maybe Norton really is the emperor of the United States,” Nick replied. “Did you tell her not to leave the house?”

“Um . . .” Taylor gave him a sideways glance. “I tried.”

“And let me guess, she gave some reason why she wouldn't comply.”

“She's mighty stubborn, sir.”

Wasn't that the truth. “Go talk to the folks in her neighborhood and find out if anybody saw anything. We need to find who it was who shot at her.” Before there was a next time and the person didn't miss.

“I'm headed there to do that,” said Taylor. “Hey, what's this business I hear about some fella sending love notes to that housekeeper of hers?”

Nick lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you weren't interested in Addie Ferguson, Taylor. Something about the fact she likes to visit astrologers?”

Taylor cleared his throat and changed the subject. “By the way, sir, the captain's heard about Nash's watch being found on Matthews' body. Says he's glad we're near to wrapping up the case.”

“Glad he thinks we are.” At least Eagan was no longer interested in seeing Cassidy accused of the crime. “I'll see you later at the station, Taylor. I'm off to talk to the owner of that dapple gray horse.”

One of the beat cops had told Taylor about a horse fitting the description Mrs. Davies had provided. It belonged to a driver who usually waited at the hack stands around Union Square. Not far at all from where Martin—and Russell—lived.

Nick set out for Union Square. It was a short walk and a pleasant one on a morning like this. The day had dawned sunny, last night's fog lifting earlier than usual, and a crisp breeze blew down off the western hills. A seagull swirled above the buildings, enjoying the view below as the city sprung to life. Somewhere distant, a manufactory whistle sounded the day's work shift, and
the Central Railroad horsecar clattered along the rails, laborers clinging to the railings. Across the way, a jeweler unrolled the awning above his store windows and tipped his hat to a woman who'd paused to admire his goods. All the trappings of civility and prosperity. But Nick was always aware that outer appearances could hide any number of vices. Just like a bespoke suit and a gold watch could conceal a criminal beneath.

Nick arrived to find Union Square quiet and empty, except for an elderly man feeding pigeons. A quick search of the encircling roads located the horse he was looking for. Luck was with him today, it appeared.

He strolled over to the waiting carriage, the black-maned dapple gray nosing its feed bag and the driver slouched on his seat, reading a newspaper.

The man perked when he heard Nick approach, and he dropped the newspaper to the floorboard. “Where you need to go?”

Nick showed his badge, which caused the fellow to scan the other nearby drivers. There weren't many—Union Square never had the same number of hacks as the streets surrounding the Plaza—and the few there were had their noses in their newspapers, too, not even noticing Nick.