Scandal on Rincon Hill (38 page)

“Or every young man, Ian Fearless,” I teased, calling him by the pen name he used when writing his crime articles.

“Ugh. I wish you hadn't brought that up.”

“Sorry, but I've been wondering what you plan to do about the position in Arthur Cunningham's law firm. It's a big decision.”

He shook his head. “I've been looking over some of Father's law books. Heaven help me, I've been out of school too long.” He gave a rueful smile. “You realize, of course, that I'm going to have to spend all my time studying if I'm actually going to take my bar exams in February.”

“Well, if you decide to go through with it, let me help you. It'll be easier with two of us.”

“Don't worry, Sarah,” he said dryly. “If I actually agree to take the bloody exam I'm going to need all the help I can get!”

“Papa will be a good resource, too.”

“Oh, no,” he protested with a grimace. “I can't afford to let him see how hopelessly far I've fallen behind. Don't forget, he thinks I've been working as a part-time paralegal since law school.”

“Have you actually done any work for Andrew Wayburn?” I asked, referring to his law school friend who passed his own bar examinations shortly after graduation.

“At first, yes. Then when Andy's father died and left him settled with a small fortune, he all but gave up his law practice. The scoundrel decided it was more fun to play than to work, although he did continue to let me use his name to explain the money I was earning as a crime reporter.”

In an effort to change what was obviously an unwelcome subject, he inquired how preparations for Saturday night's Christmas party were coming along.

“I've managed to avoid most of the hullabaloo,” he said with a chuckle. “Although Mama tagged me to decorate the tree with the popcorn and cranberry strings Tom and little Mandy made. And, of course, I placed the angel atop the tree.”

“A task you've performed ever since you were ten years old,” I pointed out. “Come on, Samuel, you can't fool me. I know how much you enjoy trimming the tree.”

“You have to admit that it requires a certain keen eye for symmetry,” he said with a smile. “I've already begun to train little
Tommy. At the rate he's growing he'll soon be tall enough to take over the job.”

“Speaking of the party,” I said, eyeing him curiously. “What lucky lady have you invited?” I find it difficult to keep up with my brother's active social life. I believe I've mentioned more than once that, as an extremely handsome bachelor, he enjoys great popularity with the young ladies in town.

“I've decided not to ask anyone. Actually, Catherine Butler and I are—well, let's just say that we've had a bit of a misunderstanding. I think it's best to allow her time to cool down.”

I swallowed a smile. “I see.”

“What about you? Have you invited a guest?”

I thought back to the kiss I'd shared with Robert several nights ago, and once again realized how much it had complicated my life. Weeks ago, when I'd first invited him to the dinner party, all had been as usual between us. Now I sensed he was as uncomfortable over the situation as I was. Perhaps too uncomfortable for him to attend? I wondered. If that was the case I determined I would not attempt to change his mind.

To my surprise, this thought brought about an immediate pang of regret. The idea of Robert sitting home alone, while our family celebrated the holiday with good cheer and good friends, bothered me more than I would have expected. The truth was, I truly did not want to see him alone for the holidays.

“Sarah?” Samuel said, nudging me with his shoulder. “Have you fallen asleep?”

“Sorry, I was thinking of something else. Actually, I asked Robert to the party some time ago.”

“Have you now? And Mama has invited Pierce Godfrey.”

I silently nodded, having no desire to voice my concerns about such a potentially volatile situation.

“Hmm,” he said, giving me a teasing, sidelong look. “All things considered, it promises to be an interesting evening, don't you agree?”

W
hen I reached city jail, I was unhappy to see that Fan Gow and Lee Yup's cell was as odiferous as it had been upon my initial visit. Once again the jailers had allowed the chamber pot to overflow with waste, and the air smelled positively foul. Sun Kin Lu, who had accompanied me into the jail, wrinkled his nose and hastily covered his mouth with a piece of cloth. I did not bother. I was so angry that I marched to the cell door and called out for the guard, demanding that he immediately empty the bucket.

“And wash it out with soap and water before you bring it back,” I ordered. “How would you like to be forced to live in such filth?”

Grumbling beneath his breath, the sullen jailer shuffled unhurriedly over to the pail and picked it up. As he carried it across the cell, I thought I caught him mumbling the words “ain't like Johns are really human or nothin',” before he exited the cell, banging the door closed behind him.

Fan and Lee had sprung to their feet the moment Sun Kin Lu and I entered their cell, both indicating that I should take a seat on their respective cot. I smiled with a smidgen of reluctance, but for civility's sake chose the bunk closest to where I was standing. I noticed with relief that the bedding appeared a good deal cleaner than it had previously, and two rough wool blankets were neatly folded at the foot of each cot. I was thankful that at least these small comforts had been afforded the prisoners.

The purpose of today's call was more to reassure my clients that they had not been deserted, than to pass on news about their case, and Sun and I did not stay long. In an effort to lift the young men's spirits, I exuded more confidence than I felt. After yesterday's arraignment, I realized more clearly than ever that if I failed to locate the real killer there was little hope of proving my clients innocent.

If I'd felt discouraged upon entering Fan and Lee's cell, the guard I had berated for neglecting their chamber pot could not wait to pile on the agony upon our departure.

“I hear the coppers are gonna pin the murder of that science fellow onto those Johnnies of yours.”

I swung around to face the jailer. “Do you have news about Mr. Logan's case?”

The unpleasant man smirked, no doubt delighted at having so thoroughly captured my attention. “Seems like the gents who found his body have changed their story about seein' only one man runnin' away from the scene. Now they're claimin' they mebbe saw two blokes hightailin' it outta there.” His small eyes gleamed maliciously. “They say that mebbe it was a couple of Chinamen.
Your
Chinamen, I reckon.”

He moved closer, and I had to hold my breath when I was assaulted by his foul breath. He gave me a leering wink. “Say, how's about you fixin' me up with one of them fine lady friends of yours from that cathouse I read about in the papers? I hear they know how to show a feller a mighty fine time.”

Leaving the nasty guard roaring with laughter, I hurried off to locate the officer in charge. Without official verification that the disagreeable jailer was telling the truth about the new charge about to levied on my clients, I refused to believe a word he said.

I was in luck. My old friend Sergeant Jackson was on duty. The sergeant had been kind enough to help me with a former client, who had been incarcerated in this very jail during the Cliff House case several months ago. I knew I could count upon him to give me an honest answer.

“I'm afraid he's right, Miss Woolson,” Jackson told me solemnly. “The police are planning to accuse your clients of Mr. Logan's murder, along with Mr. Hume's. I expect the official charge will come sometime this afternoon.”

“But I spoke to the men who found Mr. Logan's body,” I protested. “They assured me they saw only one man running from the bridge. And they said nothing to indicate the man was Chinese.”

Sergeant Jackson's face was sympathetic. “I know, Miss Woolson, and I'm sorry. I've been to see those two Johnnies, and to tell the truth I feel a little sorry for them. I tried to ask them one or
two questions, but they don't speak a word of English.” He raised his shoulders fractionally, as if to emphasize the hopelessness of the situation. “I wish I could help you, I truly do. But if a witness changes his mind, well, there's not much we can do but take his word for it.”

“Yes, I know,” I said with a sigh. “The situation just keeps going from bad to worse. The next thing you know, they'll be accusing my clients of murdering Patrick O'Hara, as well. Even though they were locked up here in a cell at the time the poor young man was killed.”

He smiled. “Well, at least you don't have to worry about that, Miss Woolson. We arrested a man this morning for O'Hara's death.”

I looked at him, shocked. “You did what?”

“We arrested one of O'Hara's customers. Seems the Irish boy had become a bit too friendly with the man's wife. The powers that be figure that in a fit of rage, the fellow stabbed him to death with the ice pick. Not much of a mystery there, after all. We see that kind of thing all too often, I'm afraid.”

“Has the man confessed to the killing?”

“Not yet, but the boys upstairs are working on it. He'll come clean sooner or later, you can be sure of that.” He appeared to have second thoughts about these words, for he quickly added, “All legal, of course.”

I
exited city jail in a daze. If Patrick O'Hara had been murdered by a different villain than the one who killed Nigel Logan and Dieter Hume, then my theories were all wrong. In a way, I supposed it made more sense that the crimes were not connected. After all, Logan and Hume had been friends, had both attended the same dinner party the night of the first murder, and had both been beaten to death beneath the Harrison Street Bridge. Patrick O'Hara, on the other hand, had probably never met the first two victims, and had been stabbed to death with an ice pick inside an ice cream parlor.

Why, then, did this new arrest seem so wrong? I could not explain why I felt as I did, but I simply could not accept that a second killer had murdered the young Irishman; the pieces just would not fit together in my mind. I was going to have to give these latest developments some serious consideration.

I was mulling the situation over as I walked toward the public horsecar line, when I caught sight of a man about half a block ahead of me ducking inside a doorway. There was something about this movement that struck me as suspicious, almost furtive. I had only caught a quick glimpse of the figure, but I was certain it was Ozzie Foldger. The nerve of the man, I seethed. After the appalling article he had written the day before, the dreadful little reporter was still following me!

Hastening my step, I strode purposefully up the street until I reached the place where I thought I had glimpsed the man. It was a tobacconist's shop, and the door still stood wide open. Walking to the entrance, I looked inside and spied a short man, wearing a dark brown cap, ducking behind a display of cigars and chewing tobacco. It was the cowardly reporter, all right. Without hesitation, I marched inside the shop and directly over to the display.

“Mr. Foldger,” I said, in a voice loud enough to command the attention of every man in the store. “Come out from behind that shelf immediately.”

Instead of complying, he slipped around the end of the display, and out of my sight. I quickly followed and caught him up before he could slip outside and back onto the street.

“You are nothing but a spineless weasel, Ozzie Foldger,” I exclaimed, catching him by the sleeve of his coat, and pulling him back inside the store proper. I noticed the clerk eyeing us in some alarm, while two or three customers stopped their shopping to see what the commotion was all about.

“How dare you follow me for over a week, spying on my every move. My father is right, you are the very worst example of exploitive journalism.”

When the little sneak attempted to push by me and out the
door, I quickly blocked his way by placing myself between him and his only route of escape. In order to flee, he would be forced to physically knock me over.

“Hey,” the clerk behind the counter said, “ain't you that reporter from the
Tattler
? The one who's always writing about some scandal or other?”

“He is, indeed,” I informed the man, when a sulking Foldger declined to answer.

“He's the one who wrote about that woman attorney defending those two Chinamen,” declared one of the shop patrons.

“Wait a minute,” exclaimed his friend, who stood beside him holding a box of cigars. “That's you, isn't it?” He poked his friend on the shoulder and nodded at me. “You're the lady attorney. I've seen your picture in the paper.”

“I'm sure you have,” I said dryly. “However, you might want to take the time to learn more about the man writing the articles. Mr. Foldger, here, gives very little thought about whose reputation he ruins, even though the harm caused by his lies and innuendoes, once in print, often cannot be reversed. He invades people's privacy, then writes whatever twaddle he thinks will sell newspapers.”

I drew closer to the despicable reporter. We were very nearly the same height, and I was able to stare him straight in the eye. The little worm squirmed uncomfortably, pulling his head back in an effort to avert my gaze. I took hold of his coat lapel, forcing him to meet my gaze.

“I am warning you, Ozzie Foldger,” I told him in a low, resolute voice. “If I ever catch you following me again, I shall report you to the police. You might also want to keep in mind that I have three older brothers, each of whom is more than capable of teaching you a lesson you will never forget.”

I threatened him with this, knowing full well that my eldest brother Frederick would turn and run at the first mention of a fight, and that my brother Charles, as a healer, would never join in. Unless I were in physical danger, even my brother Samuel—who was a skilled pugilist—would most likely claim I had gotten myself
into the fix, and now I could get myself out of it. But I did have three brothers, and Ozzie had no need to know more than that.

I continued to stare into his small, squinty eyes for another minute, then released his lapel and stepped aside, leaving the doorway clear. Without a second's hesitation, Foldger bolted out of the tobacconist's shop and into the street.