No Comfort for the Lost (18 page)

She looked at them expectantly. “Begin.”

“Where can we find the killer of our friend?” asked Addie, describing Li Sha. Out of respect for the girl, Addie omitted the detail that Li Sha had once been a prostitute.

“Tell me the day and the time of this horrible act,” said the astrologer.

“Monday last week, late at night,” said Celia. “Or early Tuesday morning. We do not know precisely.”

“Then what I read may not be accurate,” Madame Philippe said.

Addie murmured sympathetically. Barbara grumbled under her breath.

Madame Philippe drew a book from the edge of the table over to her.
An Introduction to Astrology
was inscribed on the spine. She flipped it open and began consulting pages filled with tables and written explanations. As she read, she paused occasionally to fill in some of the circle’s segments.

At last, Madame Philippe returned her pen to its holder and gazed at them, her eyes moving from one to the next, smiling when her gaze alighted on Addie, a true believer. “The sun is in Leo. Was your friend injured in the upper body?”

“She was,” answered Celia. Among them, she was the only one who knew the details of the crime.

Barbara stiffened and stared at the woman. “You’re guessing.”

“I merely tell you what I see.” The astrologer’s fingers glided over the paper as if she could feel the symbols she’d drawn there. “Saturn is in the house of friends. She knew the person who killed her. They were cordial acquaintances.”

“Besides the three of us, there are very few people whom Li Sha might have considered cordial acquaintances,” said Celia.

“The people she used to work with, undoubtedly,” offered Barbara. “Or Tom,” she added, her voice flat. At least she did not glance at Celia for a reaction to that comment.

Or a client, thought Celia. But not Connor Ahearn.

“Anything else, Madame Philippe?” asked Addie.

“I do not wish to mislead,” Madame Philippe said. “The placement of the moon suggests travel, but that is all I can add.”

“She wanted to leave town,” said Addie. “Och, this is sending shivers across my skin.”

“So you can’t say anything more particular about the killer?” asked Barbara.

“We need to ask a specific question,” said Addie, plunging ahead. “Can you tell us what this awful person looks like, Madame Philippe?”

“I can attempt this.” Again, her fingertips caressed the chart, smearing ink that had yet to dry. She frowned and flipped through her reference book again. “Saturn is in conjunction with Mars. The killer is a person of rash disposition.”

“Can she mean Tom?” asked Barbara, her hands clenched together in her lap. “He’s rash. We’ve learned he has a terrible temper, haven’t we? Maybe he did kill her, after all.”

Celia peered at her cousin, who had gone from skeptical to believing in the span of a few short minutes. “I would expect most killers to be of rash disposition, Barbara.”

“It is not certain that the killer is a man,” said Madame Philippe. “But I cannot say the killer is a woman, either. The chart, it is not clear.”

“Then it could be Tessie Lange, ma’am,” Addie murmured to Celia.

“Did Miss Lange ever mention Li Sha to you? Or a man named Connor Ahearn?” Celia asked Madame Philippe. “Addie has told me Tessie uses your services.”

The astrologer’s gaze narrowed. “What is asked within these four walls, madame, is kept in confidence. I cannot discuss what my other clients have asked of me.”

“Of course,” replied Celia. She should have foreseen that might be the woman’s response.

“Maybe you can tell us what’s happened to Miss Lange, Madame Philippe,” said Addie. “She might be in trouble.”

“Do you know the date of her birth? I do not keep the records of my clients, for their privacy, and therefore do not have the information,” explained Madame Philippe.

Addie shrugged and looked at Celia, who shook her head.

“Then I am unable to answer your question,” Madame Philippe said, politely remorseful.

“’Tis a pity,” Addie said, sounding crestfallen. “But you still haven’t told us what the person who killed Li Sha looks like, Madame Philippe.”

“Given the location of Saturn here,” she said, pointing to a spot on the chart, “the killer may be of medium size with dark hair.”

Not auburn haired, thought Celia.
And now
I
seem willing to believe that Madame Philippe possesses extraordinary insights.
It was becoming easy to understand people’s fascination with Spiritualists, when she herself was so desperate for answers.

“Dark hair could also describe Tom,” said Barbara.

“A description that applies to any number of people, including some of the women Li Sha once worked with,” said Celia, not happy that her cousin kept bringing up his name. “It might even describe you, Barbara.”

“I didn’t kill Li Sha!”

“I know you did not.” It was perhaps one of the few things Celia
could
be certain of. “I am simply making a point.”

Madame Philippe was observing Celia. “You have been looking for this killer. Do I help in your search?”

“You have given me much to think about, madame.”

“I’ve remembered what else we wanted to ask,” said Addie. “On Saturday and Sunday, someone left warning notes at our door. Who was it?”

Madame Philippe contemplated them. “I regret the request, but two more charts will require more money.”

Celia handed over another dollar coin, precious funds when she had decided that the woman had nothing useful to tell them.

“At what times were these notes left at your door?” the astrologer asked, and extracted two fresh pieces of paper from the unseen supply located at her knees.

“One was left at eight or nine in the evening on Saturday,” said Celia. “The other, at six in the evening on Sunday.”

The ritual of consulting the book was repeated, and signs and numbers filled the segments of the circles on the papers. When she was finished, Madame Philippe exhaled a long, slow breath, her gaze skimming over them.

“There is another,” she said. “Not the one who killed your friend. A person seeking to rise in his station. But that is all I can read.”

“Two different people?” asked Barbara, her eyes wide.

Was it possible? Celia hadn’t considered that could be the case.

Addie muttered unhappily, “Now we’ve two to be wary of, ma’am. ’Tis dreadful.”

“I wish I could tell you more that would help,” the astrologer said, her small hands pressed together in a prayerful pose.

“Thank you nonetheless, Madame Philippe,” said Celia. The visit had not brought Celia any nearer to identifying a killer—or killers—but it had managed to alarm them all. She stood, and the others did likewise. “The hour grows late, and we need to return home before dark.”

Celia gathered her shawl and turned to depart. The astrologer followed, opening the door for them.

Madame Philippe turned her attention to Celia, the expression on her face somber. “You wish to help the ones who are most helpless.”

“Yes,” replied Celia. “I always have.”

“That is good. I see that you are strong for the task.” The astrologer gripped Celia’s fingers and looked into her eyes. “But you must be stronger, because what I have read tells me this person will kill again. There is danger, Madame Davies. Much danger.”

“Taylor, in the office now,” ordered Nick.

Taylor jerked out of his desk as though Nick had snagged him with a fishing line, and scurried after him.

Nick strode into the empty detectives’ office. Briggs must have found something better to do today.

“Douglass has an alibi for the evenings in question.” Nick sat at his desk, the castors on the chair squealing. “On Mondays he’s at the Men’s Benevolent Association meetings with Palmer. And Eagan.”

Taylor whistled. “Whoa, sir.”

“Any more news about the fire?”

“Talked to the fire marshal,” said Taylor. “His men have determined the blaze was started in two spots, one behind the laundry and another behind the saloon. No idea yet who might be the arsonist, though.”

“So the laundry wasn’t the sole target, then.”

“Guess not. And the saloonkeeper’s still scarce as hen’s teeth. Maybe he’s run off.” Taylor chuckled. “One of the local wags suggested the German’s wife is responsible. Apparently she was in a temper because her husband likes to visit Chinatown. Don’t rightly know what good it does her to burn their own saloon to the ground, though.”

“What about Tessie Lange? Anything new on her?”

“Her friends didn’t have any idea where she is. And when I was at the shop, Lange kept muttering, ‘I should have warned her’ over and over, but I couldn’t get him to say what or who he should’ve warned her about. He was pretty drunk,” added Taylor.

“I can’t blame him. I’d probably be drunk, too.” For Lange, the bad news was piling up like turds in a cow pen.

“I went to the ferry offices to ask if a woman who looked like Miss Lange had bought tickets in the past couple of days, but no luck there. I’ll keep looking for her.”

“See if Mullahey has time to help out. If he doesn’t, ask one of the other men. We have to find her.” Nick unlocked the desk drawer, wanting to review his case notes. “What about Ahearn?”

“Haven’t got to the ironworks where he’s employed yet, sir. I’ll be heading back out in a bit.”

“Let me talk to him. You stick with trying to figure out where Tessie Lange has gone and with digging up that German saloonkeeper.” Nick pulled the drawer open, but it was empty. His case notes were missing. “Have you been in my desk, Taylor?”

“I don’t have a key, sir . . .”

“One of my notebooks is missing.” He eyed Briggs’ desk. “Does Briggs plan to come back soon?”

“I dunno.”

Nick stood and went over to the man’s desk. He rattled the top drawer. Locked. He looked around for a suitable tool with which to pry it open. Grabbing Briggs’ letter opener, Nick squatted on his heels and slipped it into the crack between the drawer edge and the desk frame.

“Sir! What are you doing?” Taylor asked. He glanced out into the main office and shut the door. “You can’t break into Briggs’ desk. Eagan’ll string you up!”

The letter opener didn’t work. “Do you still have your old lockpicks?” Nick asked.

“Don’t involve me, sir! I need this job! I give money to my family to feed my brothers and sisters!”

Nick held out his hand, palm up.

Taylor sighed, rummaged through one of his pants pockets, and pulled out a set of lockpicks hanging from a metal ring. He handed them over. “Gotta say I think this is it, sir. It’s been nice working for you.”

Nick slid his arm out of the sling to free up his right hand. “I’m just trying to prove something to myself, Taylor. Don’t worry.”

He wriggled the thickest pick into the lock mechanism, trying to move the levers that would release the bolt. Finally, he got the levers aligned and the bolt slid free.

Just then, Briggs barged through the door. Taylor retrieved his picks and stuffed them into his coat pocket. “What are you doing in my desk, Greaves?”

“Looking for my notebook.”

“I don’t have your notebook.”

Nick hunted through the drawer, encountering the sticky remains of something that might’ve once been food but not finding his notebook.

Briggs looked smug. “See?” He sauntered across the room and slammed shut the drawer. “Your boss is slipping up, Taylor.”

A handful of police officers had collected around the open office door. “I’m betting you can take him, Greaves,” one called out. “Even with your bum arm!”

“He’s got two bum arms,” corrected the man next to him.

“I’m still betting on you!”

The others snorted and Briggs glared. “I don’t need to take your case notes to prove you’re incompetent, because I already
know
you are. You only got this job because of Asa Greaves, not because you’re actually worth a damn.”

Just then the wall of men parted as Captain Eagan shoved his way through. “What in hell is going on here?”

The policemen scattered, leaving Nick, Taylor, and Briggs behind.

“I found him breaking into my desk, sir,” said Briggs.

“Have you got an explanation for that, Greaves?” asked the captain.

“A notebook’s missing from my desk.”

“No, it’s not.” Eagan held up the notebook, then tossed it onto Nick’s desk. “I decided to read through your notes and see what you’ve been doing. You haven’t made much progress, have you? Well, this is your last day on this case.”

“Even if the daughter of the man who employed that dead Chinese girl has disappeared?” Nick asked. “Tessie Lange is in trouble, Captain. We have to find her.”

“Women run off all the time, Greaves,” Eagan said, and turned on his heel to leave.

“I’ve got another question, Captain. Can you tell me what goes on at the Men’s Benevolent Society meetings on Monday nights?” Nick called after him. “The meetings you attend with Douglass and Palmer, a couple of men linked to that same murdered girl. How many friends of yours knew her?”

Eagan’s shoulders twitched, but he kept on walking.

• • •

T
hey headed home, Barbara pensive and Addie preoccupied. Celia had thought she might learn something from Madame Philippe, but her observations had only left Celia with a stew of confusing thoughts and conflicting opinions.

She’d been trained to be logical, her months at the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania having taught her to record her observations, consider possible causes, and tend to patients by following reasoned and methodical steps. A reliance on superstitious sentiment or outdated treatments was to be discouraged, cleansed from her brain like suppuration from a festering wound. An astral chart was not logical, and listening to Madame Philippe was not reasonable.

Nonetheless, Celia didn’t believe she could ignore the woman’s warning. There was too much truth in it.

“Even Madame Philippe says we’re in danger,” said Barbara, returning the hostile stare of a boy loitering in the doorway of a dentist’s office. “I told you we should leave town. I can’t stay any longer.”

Celia could no longer disregard her cousin’s concerns. “Addie, send a telegram to the hotel in Healdsburg and inquire if they have rooms available.”

“We canna go without you, ma’am,” protested Addie. “’Tisn’t safe to leave you alone. Not with that watcher person.”

“Perhaps Elizabeth and Emmeline might like to take a trip to the geysers,” said Celia. “What do you think about asking them, Barbara, and leaving Addie with me?”

Her cousin’s brow furrowed. “Maybe.”

Celia heard a commotion up ahead. A wagon loaded with timbers had broken an axle and spilled its contents onto the street. The pile of wood had tumbled everywhere, scattered haphazardly like a giant game of jackstraws.

“Clean this mess up!” shouted a shop owner whose entrance was blocked.

The wagon driver bellowed back in a mix of Italian and English. A man in the boisterous crowd that had gathered shouted for fisticuffs.

“Sì!”
the driver agreed, with a broad grin. He peeled off his coat and handed it to a bystander.

“We should go around to the next street,” suggested Celia, and they made use of a nearby alleyway. It was quieter here, the occupants all apparently enjoying the spectacle on the main road. They were not taking the path alone, though; Celia heard footsteps behind them.

When they rounded the corner at the end of the alley, she glanced back and spotted a boy several dozen feet behind her. She wasn’t certain he was following them; the lad might simply be taking the same route in order to avoid the commotion. But her skin tingled with alarm, and she began to walk faster.

“Here. Let us take this lane.” Celia tugged Barbara’s arm and guided her to the left. “It parallels Montgomery, and I believe there is another alleyway not far from here that will return us to the main road.”

“Why are you walking so fast?” her cousin protested. “My foot hurts.”

“I have suddenly recalled some urgent business back at the clinic.”

Barbara resisted Celia’s attempt to hurry her. “I can’t keep up.”

“You must try.”

“Och, ma’am,” said Addie. “I dinna care for these unchancy roads so near the warehouses.”

The footsteps behind them doubled in number, and Celia risked another backward glance. Now there were two boys, both grinning. They had turned down the same lane, and they were definitely following them.

Suddenly, the path Celia had chosen felt ominous. The narrow alley was dark and filled with the litter of people’s lives—an abandoned shoe with a great crack in its sole, splintered slats from an old crate, shards of glass from discarded bottles. The air stank of refuse and raw sewage, and there was nothing but closed doors and shuttered windows on all sides.

“Are those lads following us?” asked Addie, whispering into Celia’s ear, her voice wobbling.

The two boys had become four, gathering mass like a rolling snowball. She was certain one of them was the boy who’d been lounging in the dentist’s office doorway. Their voices echoed, and one called out “China girl!” followed by raucous laughter. The end of the lane was so very distant.

“Hey! China girl!” another cried out. “What’re you doin’ outside of Chinatown?”

Barbara looked over her shoulder at them. “Leave me alone!”

Celia’s pulse thudded. They were only boys, the youngest probably ten, but two were carrying chunks of cobblestone and the tallest had found a broken bottle, which he swung menacingly.

“Can you run?” she asked her cousin.

“No!” answered Barbara, close to tears. “I can’t!”

A chunk of stone whizzed past their heads, pinging against the pavement.

“You are going to have to try.”

Celia took off, dragging Barbara with her. Addie screeched and bolted. The boys started chasing them, their laughter and shouts rising in pitch and fever, like a pack of wolves on the hunt. And they were the prey.

“Help!” shouted Celia, sliding on a patch of kitchen waste. A dog barked from behind a door. No one came to help them. Another chunk of cobblestone landed near her feet.

Barbara stumbled and fell to one knee, pulling Celia down with her. Addie skidded to a halt.

“Go on!” Celia shouted to her. “Get help! The police station isn’t far.”

Addie hesitated, then dashed through a break between the buildings and was gone.

• • •

“
G
ood luck with Ahearn, sir,” said Taylor, doffing his policeman’s cap and striding off toward Chinatown again.

Nick rounded the corner and headed down Clay. The ironworks that employed Ahearn was located on Front about half a mile away. Nick was looking forward to showing his police badge to Ahearn’s boss and causing as much trouble as possible for the man.

He was crossing Montgomery when he heard a woman’s shouts. A load of lumber had spilled into the street, and next to the pile, two men were exchanging punches. The neighborhood constable seemed to be entertained by the scuffle and was ignoring the source of the screeching, a woman who jumped about him like a marionette in a show at the Academy of Music, her arms flailing.

Nick was about to continue on when he realized who she was.

“Miss Ferguson!” he yelled, rushing down the road. His injured right arm bumped against his side, shooting pain up to his shoulder.

“Och, Detective Greaves!” she said. “You must come quick. It’s Mrs. Davies and Miss Barbara. They’re in terrible trouble!”

She ran off, knowing he would follow.

• • •

T
he boys had vacillated about attacking them for longer than Celia had dared hope. Shielding her cousin with her body, Celia faced the boys. One decided the wait had been long enough and heaved a rock. It missed Celia and struck the wall at their backs.

“Leave us alone!” Barbara shouted from behind her.

“What do you think yer doin’ ’ere? This ain’t yer part of town,” said the apparent leader, the tall one.

“Walking like anybody else,” Barbara answered, her voice strong.

The boys sniggered. None of them looked older than fourteen. They were hotheaded children who would grow up to become dangerous men.

“You ain’t got no business leaving Chinatown,” said the youngest, smallpox scars dotting his cheeks. He lifted the stone in his hand but appeared uncertain of what to do with it now that they’d cornered their prey.

“If you leave us alone, I will not report you to the police. Go home, boys,” said Celia, hoping Addie brought help soon. She did not trust her ability to calm this lot.

“Go home?” The tallest stepped nearer and swung the broken bottle. “Hear that, mates? She wants us to go home! Ain’t that funny? Why don’t you tell your China girl to go home?”

Barbara stepped out from behind Celia’s protective cover. “You’re lily-livered to pick on women.”

Another of the boys, a gap showing in his teeth, had come to the leader’s side. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Barbara retorted.

Before Celia could get between them, the boy shoved her cousin hard, and she fell to the ground.

“Barbara!” Celia helped her cousin to her feet. Barbara had cut her palm on a shard of glass, and the wound dripped blood onto her skirt.

“Leave her be!” cried Celia, trying to push the boy away. But he was stocky and strong, and he fought off her efforts.

And then, down the length of the alley, a familiar face caught her eye.

“Owen!” she shouted to him. But instead of coming to their aid, he fled down a side alley. “Owen!” Surely he hadn’t joined these wretches.