No Comfort for the Lost (21 page)

“I do not know how long to expect the proceedings to take, Elizabeth. I am thankful, however, because the delay allows—” Celia nearly said “us.” “It allows the police more time to find Li Sha’s true killer.”

Elizabeth tucked her brows into a sympathetic furrow. “Oh, Celia, I know this is hard to accept, but your brother-in-law has to be the person responsible.”

Has to be?
“Since he has been in jail, a man has been watching our house and leaving threatening notes.”

Elizabeth gasped. “Threats? Celia, that’s dreadful!”

Bloody hell,
thought Celia, instantly regretting the burst of outrage that had caused her to tell Elizabeth. Next she’d be blurting out the entire list of suspects. She would
not
, however, mention last night’s gutted rat, now buried in the dustbin for later disposal.

“I did not mean to alarm you, but the reason I mentioned this man is that with Tom in jail, he can be neither the watcher nor the author of the notes. It is possible this person wishes to frighten Barbara because she is Chinese, but it is also very possible he murdered Li Sha and wishes to frighten us into silence. If that is the case, it is not at all reasonable to think my brother-in-law
has
to be responsible for killing Li Sha. Someone else is.”

“If there is somebody else out there who murdered her, Celia, then you’re all in terrible danger!”

“Elizabeth, please keep your voice down,” hissed Celia, mindful that Barbara likely sat in the dining room on the other side of the closed doors.

Elizabeth leaned forward. “You should leave town, you know. You and your cousin. Get away from here, for your own safety. I have been warning you.”

Yes, you have.
Celia sipped her tea and considered the woman seated next to her.

“Elizabeth,” she said, setting her teacup on the saucer, “on Monday when I was returning from a visit to Chinatown, I encountered your husband. He made an interesting comment to me.”

Elizabeth’s recoil was subtle, the slightest shift of her torso farther away from Celia. If Celia hadn’t been watching closely, she might not have observed the motion.

“And what was that comment?” she asked.

“He mentioned the trinkets and jewelry that Li Sha had been given by her former clients. He knew she had sold them. I found it strange that he knew about the items at all.”

“What are you implying?” asked Elizabeth, her voice edged with anger. “That my husband knew Li Sha beyond the one time he’d met her?”

Was
that what she was implying?
Perhaps it was.

Elizabeth read Celia’s answer in her eyes. “He made a supposition, Celia. How else could she have escaped the brothel except to have bought her way out? And I presume he knows, like many men know, that prostitutes are given gifts.”

“That does seem reasonable.”

Elizabeth was not placated by Celia’s response. With a frown, she glanced at the clock chiming on the mantel and stood.

“I must leave now for a meeting,” she said coldly. “I’m grateful to find Barbara not seriously injured, but you all need to be on your guard, Celia. You’ve been imprudent to get involved with the prostitutes in Chinatown and now to be asking questions . . . it’s simply reckless. Dangerously reckless.”

She swept out of the room, charging ahead before Celia could open the front door to see her out. Elizabeth hurried down the steps as heavy raindrops began to fall, her silk umbrella forgotten in her haste to depart.

• • •

“
A
re you sure you want to see this again, Greaves?” Dr. Harris wiped his hands down his dark apron, though Nick didn’t notice anything on them that needed wiping. Maybe it was a habit.

“I want to be certain it’s her, Harris.” Nick took a step farther into the coroner’s gas-lit examination room. The windows were shut against the rain, and the noxious stink was stronger than usual. “I didn’t have much chance last night before you got there.”

When a pair of firemen had brought the body out of the building, carrying it on a plank of wood that served as a makeshift stretcher, the crowd had surged forward to gawk. It was all Nick and the constable could do to restore order.

“She might be hard to recognize.” The coroner contemplated the sheet-covered form lying on the table. “Last night, a few of my jurors fainted dead away when I asked them to examine the body. One of them declared he was going to decline any request that required him to assess the cause of death on remains as repellently disfigured as hers are.”

“You know I don’t faint, Harris.” Nick gripped the brim of his hat in his right hand and gently kneaded his bruised forearm with his left. He couldn’t work out how a man did a job like this. Harris had a nice medical practice. He wasn’t coroner because he needed the twenty-five hundred dollars he got paid each year.

Harris eyed his forearm. “I thought it was your left arm that bothers you.”

Nick had stopped using the sling, tired of the nuisance. The bruises still ached enough to have kept him awake last night, though. “A small run-in with a man and a cudgel.”

“Ah.”

The coroner peeled the sheet down to the woman’s shoulders. Nick winced. Her hair had been burned off, and the left side of her head and neck looked like a crisped piece of chicken. A deep gash ran from one side of her throat to the other. Her face—what remained of her face—was barely recognizable, her lips and nose and ears shriveled and blackened. But Nick could still identify enough to know who it was.

He swallowed down bile. She should’ve come to the police; they might have been able to protect her, but it was too late now. “That’s her. That’s Tessie Lange.”

“As you can see,” said Harris, “her throat was slit, which was what killed her. Likely done before she was dumped in that warehouse. Undoubtedly the fire was set to cover the killer’s tracks, but he must not have known about the drunk who, according to the locals I talked to, has been sleeping there for weeks. If it weren’t for the fuss the man raised, the building might have burned around her and we’d never have known who she was.”

Nick looked away from the body; his stomach was becoming as weak as Taylor’s. “I guess that’s something to be thankful for.”

“It definitely is, given how many folks come through here who are never identified.”

“Was there any money or jewelry on her?”

“Nope.” Harris replaced the sheet.

Then she might have met with the person she’d intended the money for.

Nick gestured toward the body on the examining table. “Don’t let her father see that.”

“I’ll do what I can, but the magistrate will prefer that a family member make the formal identification. Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet. But I believe I know somebody who has an idea.”

• • •

“
D
on’t you think it’s time to tell me who you were afraid might hurt your daughter?” Nick asked Lange, who was slouched in a chair in his upstairs kitchen. Rain drummed against the window, and it was cold and dank in the room. Nick guessed nobody had lit the stove since Tessie had run off.

“I need a name, Mr. Lange, if you want me to find her killer.”

Lange’s head hung slack over his chest, and his spectacles dangled from the fingers of his right hand. “My poor, sweet daughter.”

“Your poor, sweet daughter knew a murderer,” said Nick. “I’m also guessing she’d gone to meet him with the money she received for pawning her mother’s jewelry. Maybe you’ve got some idea of what she hoped to achieve.”

“No. No.” Lange sank lower in the chair, the defeated husk of a man who’d failed to protect his only child.

“Who was the man you told me you’d seen around your store?” asked Nick. “The one you needed to warn Tessie about.”

Lange sobbed. “Roddy,” he said, surrendering up the name. “He said to call him Roddy.”

“What did Roddy want?”

Lange slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes were bloodshot. “He wanted me to buy smuggled opium from him. I would then split the profits I would make when I sold my formulations at a higher price. I refused him.”

Smuggling.
Damn.
Mina had told Nick that the German saloonkeeper was involved in smuggling, too, but that wouldn’t have involved opium. And God only knew how many opium smugglers there were in San Francisco. Probably not a one of whom was actually named Roddy.

“So you refused him,” said Nick. “Why didn’t he leave you alone after that?”

“He wanted to be certain I did not inform the police of his request.”

“Is that why you thought he might’ve wanted to hurt Tessie? Because she’d seen or overheard something?”

“I did not think she had ever seen him,” said Lange. “I did not believe she would be in danger at first. Not until she disappeared.”

“But even after she left without a message, taking all her mother’s jewelry, you didn’t tell me the truth.”

“I was very afraid of him. I am a foolish man.”

Wasn’t
that
the damned truth. “Where can I find Roddy?”

“I do not know.”

“You don’t know or you won’t say?”

Lange held Nick’s gaze, possibly the steadiest thing Nick had seen the man do since he’d first met him. “I do not know.”

• • •

T
he contents of Li Sha’s ragged carpetbag, plus the few items she’d been wearing when she had died, were strewn across the bed in Uncle Walford’s unused chamber. Elizabeth Palmer’s visit had made Celia more determined to find a clue—any clue—that would reveal who had killed Li Sha. Celia was tired of suspecting everyone, not knowing who was innocent and who might be a murderer. Moreover, she was tired of sensing that the answer lay among Li Sha’s belongings, but she hadn’t the wits to see it.

While a steady rain pelted the street-facing window, Celia surveyed each object. There was a lovely sapphire-colored silk tunic with an intricate, brightly colored design embroidered along the edges: a remnant of life in the parlor house and an expensive item Li Sha must have been reluctant to discard, no matter the memories that must be attached to it. Underthings and a pair of cotton stockings with a hole in the heel, which she’d probably meant to repair. Two lacquered combs for displaying in glossy hair. A tiny book filled with Chinese characters in red ink. And no jewelry, other than the cheap earrings Celia had given her, the rest sold.

Celia exhaled. She’d hoped for clues and all she saw were the sad remnants of a desperate woman’s life.

That’s all?
Barbara had said. She had expected more. But staring at the contents was not offering Celia any answers.

She was packing away the last of Li Sha’s belongings when Addie strode into the room, a piece of paper in her hand.

“Not another note,” said Celia.

“This one’s from Owen, ma’am.” Addie peered at the carpetbag. “Have you discovered anything?”

“No.” Celia snapped the bag closed and set it on the floor. She took the note from Addie. “Why did Owen not wait and speak with me?”

“Poor lad. Dripping like a wet dog, he was,” said Addie. “He claimed he had something important to do and couldn’t stay to visit. So he handed me that note and ran off.”

“I did not even realize he could write,” said Celia.

“Someone must have helped him.”

Celia broke the seal, a ragged lump of wax, and flipped open the paper.

Tell Miss Barbara I’m sorry. I didn’t know they wanted to hurt her. I should’ve stayed to help. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to her and to you, too, ma’am. I’ll get that fellow who killed Miss Li and then you’ll be happy with me again.

Respectfully yours,

Owen C

Celia’s heart constricted.
Then you’ll be happy with me again . . .

“That foolish laddie. What has he gone and done?” said Addie.

Celia tucked the note into the pocket of her skirt. “He is taking a great risk.” All in hopes of gaining affection.

“And, ma’am, Madame Philippe has come. She wants to speak with you. I’ve shown her to the parlor.”

Full of questions, Celia headed out of the bedchamber and down the stairs.

Madame Philippe stood in the center of the parlor, appearing even more subdued and small beneath the room’s tall ceiling.

“Madame Philippe, may I offer you some refreshment?” asked Celia, gesturing toward the settee.

“Thank you, but no. My visit will be brief.”

“Have you more news for us?” asked Addie, hovering in the doorway behind Celia.

“I have been thinking about Miss Lange,” said the woman. “I should have told you when you came to visit yesterday. When I saw in the newspaper that Miss Walford was injured, I realized how important what I have to say could be.”

“Yes?” asked Celia.

“Miss Lange came to me to ask about a stranger, a man who frightened her. A man who worked with her father. But his visits were late at night, after the store had closed.”

Only disreputable men made late-night visits to conduct business. Apparently, there was more to learn about Hubert Lange.

The astrologer’s gaze moved between Celia and Addie. “Miss Lange believed this man was pretending to be someone he was not. That he was dangerous. She asked me where he could be found.”

“Is he the man who’s been watching our house?” asked Addie breathlessly.

“This I do not know,” answered Madame Philippe. “I do not see clearly where he can be found. I saw water and told that to Miss Lange. She seemed to understand and was satisfied.”

“Did Miss Lange believe that water suggested this man works near the wharves?” asked Celia. Perhaps even the wharf where Li Sha was discovered.

The astrologer inclined her head. “She may have. I cannot say more than that.”

Had Tessie learned where this man worked or lived and gone to confront him? It might explain her disappearance. “Thank you, madam.”

The woman made a polite bow and followed an excited Addie to the vestibule. “Miss Lange was right about how wonderful you are, Madame Philippe,” Addie declared, handing the woman her waterproofed cloak. She opened the front door and peered through the rain. “That Officer Taylor’s finally come, ma’am.”

Celia stepped through the door after the astrologer and bade her farewell. Madame Philippe tugged the hood of her cloak over her head and descended the stairs.