Scandal on Rincon Hill (6 page)

“Logan must have enjoyed a private life,” said Samuel, a bit defensively. “Perhaps he was carrying on an affair with a married woman and her husband had only recently discovered it. Or maybe he had gambling debts and the lender grew tired of waiting to be paid back. Just what do we know about Nigel Logan, anyway?”

“Not very much,” replied Papa, rolling his eyes in amusement at Samuel's imaginative speculations. He drew on his pipe and stretched his feet out until they were closer to the fire. “When Reginald Tremaine introduced Logan to me the other night, he indicated that the young man taught natural science at Saint Ignatius College, you know, the school that just moved to Van Ness Avenue. Anyway, he said that Logan's specialty was botany.”

“Yes, but all of that is public knowledge,” said Samuel. “Surely you must have overheard something about his private life.”

“Why in Sam Hill would you suppose that? I had no reason to care one way or the other about the silly young pup.” Papa's gaze sharpened as he regarded his youngest son. “Samuel, why this sudden interest in what went on at that party, or about the personal life of a man you saw just once, and then only when the poor soul lay dead at your feet?”

My brother's expression instantly changed to one of profound innocence, a transformation he had smoothly perfected over the past several years, ever since giving birth to the Ian Fearless persona.

“No reason, really,” he said, feigning a casual, indifferent tone. “I was just curious. It's not every night someone is killed so close to our house.”

“No,” Papa agreed. “And we can be grateful for that. I told your sergeant friend to take a look at the Chinese coolies who've been attacked in that area more than once since that absurd Cut began. Gangs of young white scoundrels like nothing better than to stand on the bridge and hurl rocks down upon the poor Johnnies coming and going from Chinatown to the docks. That is, when they aren't actually taking sticks and poles to them. Wouldn't blame the Chinese one jot if they decided it was their turn to take a whack or two at any white man foolish enough to be wandering about at that time of night. As far as I'm concerned, that theory makes a damn sight more sense than trying to place the blame on a respectable church minister.”

“What did George have to say about that suggestion?” I asked.

Papa shrugged. “Not much, but then no surprise there. I've noticed that once the police get a bee in their bonnet, it takes more than a flyswatter to shoo it out. After more than twenty years on the bench, I've come to the sad conclusion that the San Francisco police squad is not composed of the sharpest tacks in the toolbox.”

Papa drew on his pipe, then once again used it to emphasize his point. “Mark my words, sooner or later even our dull-witted men in blue will be forced to conclude that Logan's death was a tragic but all too common case of a robbery gone awry. Sad to say, even
Rincon Hill is not immune to violence, especially at that godforsaken hour of the night.”

I sensed that Samuel was about to argue this point. Fearful that this would only succeed in pushing his foot even further into his too inquisitive mouth, I rushed in to change the subject. I was about to inquire about the upcoming Christmas party my parents were planning the weekend after next, when Papa held up his hand.

“Speaking of the Tremaines, your mother mentioned that Celia has invited the family over on Wednesday night to celebrate Mrs. Tremaine's birthday. Evidently she and Celia have become good friends.”

Samuel looked at him in surprise. “That sounds a bit insensitive. What with Nigel Logan dying shortly after he left their house Saturday night.”

“That's what your mother thought,” Papa replied. “But Celia seems determined that the murder had nothing to do with the Tremaines, and that it shouldn't stand in the way of honoring her friend's thirtieth birthday.” He pulled on his pipe, then chuckled. “When you reach my age, birthdays become a trial to be borne, rather than a cause for celebration.”

“It sounds like something Celia would do, though,” I put in affectionately. “She has such a kind heart.”

“Too kind, I sometimes think. I hope one day it doesn't lead her into trouble.” Samuel stretched and rose from his chair. “I have an early morning, so I'm off to bed.”

“Not so fast, son,” Papa said. “There's something I want to discuss with you.”

My father's expression reminded me of the look he often assumed when he was presiding over a trial. It did not bode well for my unfortunate brother.

Sure enough, Samuel darted me a worried look as he turned slowly back to face Papa. “Of course, Father. What is it?”

Instead of returning to his seat, Samuel walked with contrived casualness to the hearth and stoked the fire that was crackling along
nicely all on its own. His show of virtue did not fool our father for one moment.

“Sit down Samuel,” Papa directed in a tone which brooked no insubordination. “Before you come up with a way to sidetrack the issue, I want to know what you and your sister were doing at the Harrison Street Bridge last Saturday night? And this time I would appreciate an honest answer.”

I was thankful Papa's attention was on Samuel and not me, for the rush of heat to my cheeks would surely have given me away. I feared that after several successful years dodging the delicate matter of his future, Samuel was about to have his journalistic alter ego exposed to the light of day.

To his credit—or just plain pigheadedness—my brother seemed not yet ready to admit defeat. Instead of returning to his seat, he stood with his back to the hearth, rocking back and forth on his heels as if nothing could be easier than satisfying Papa's curiosity. Unfortunately, this effort was somewhat spoiled by his clenched jaw and the anxious crease line between his eyes.

“Ah, well it seems Sarah was having difficulty sleeping that night, and happened to see George passing by on the street.” I had to admit that he was doing a valiant job of keeping his tone casual, even if his face was not cooperating. “She called out to him, and he said they'd found a murder victim beneath the Harrison Street Bridge.” He forced a dry chuckle—laying it on a bit too thick, I thought. Be careful, brother dear, I silently told him, before you manage to place your entire foot in your mouth!

“You know Sarah. Once her curiosity is aroused, there's no stopping her. Of course she could hardly accompany George alone at such an hour, so she woke me and, well, you know the rest.”

“I see.” Papa looked dubious. He turned doubtful eyes on me. “So that's your story, is it? Sergeant Lewis was on his way to the Harrison Bridge on foot. That's a considerable distance from his station downtown, don't you agree, especially at that hour of the night? Interesting that he didn't make use of a police wagon—or even a cab.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but could think of nothing to say, at least not without adding yet more lies to an already unlikely story.

“I didn't think to ask George why he chose that way to reach the murder scene,” said Samuel, by way of another pitiful explanation.

Of course, it was no less than the truth, I told myself, as far as it went. The fact that George had arrived at the bridge in one of the police wagons—then walked to our house to wake my brother—was, if only by omission, the lie. Really, I thought, guarding Samuel's covert life was becoming far too complicated!

“Perhaps there were no cabs handy at such an early hour,” my brother finished lamely.

The firelight reflected in Papa's eyes, streaking them with darting shafts of flame, and making his usual jovial face appear sinister. He studied Samuel for a long, uncomfortable moment, then turned his gaze on me. I shifted in my chair, but said nothing which might thrust us any deeper into this hole we'd dug for ourselves.

When it became clear that neither of us was prepared to add to this woefully weak fabrication, Papa shook his head and sighed.

“Evidently I was mistaken when I assumed the two of you had matured beyond the age of ten. Don't think I'm too old or addled not to recognize when my own children are having me on. And it would be a mistake to assume that I won't eventually get to the bottom of this, because I promise you I will.”

He continued to regard us over the rim of his coffee cup as he drained the dark liquid. This time, when he poured fresh brew from the silver pot, he added rather more brandy to his cup than he had previously. Stirring the hot liquid, he once again turned to my brother.

“Although you hardly deserve it, I have good news for you, Samuel. I was speaking this afternoon to Arthur Cunningham, of Cunningham and Brill Attorneys, and he said his firm would be pleased to take you on as an associate when you have passed your state bar examinations.” His eyes narrowed. “You
are
planning to
take the exams in early February, are you not, son? I believe you indicated as much the last time we had this conversation.”

I watched my brother's Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed hard. “I, ah, actually, I haven't signed up to take them yet.” At our father's tightening expression, he quickly added, “But of course I will—first thing tomorrow.”

“See that you do,” Papa told him sternly. “You have put off taking this last step for entirely too long. You could do a good deal worse than to accept Arthur Cunningham's generous offer. It's all well and good that you've been working part-time as a paralegal for—” He looked at Samuel questioningly. “What's the name of that lawyer friend of yours? I'm always forgetting it.”

“Andrew Wayburn,” Samuel answered a bit feebly.

My brother and I exchanged a quick glance. I was one of the few people who knew that Samuel's paralegal work for Andy Wayburn was more fiction than fact, a handy way to account for the income he actually brought in as a crime reporter. In truth, Andy had inherited a comfortable nest egg upon his father's death, and had engaged in little real legal work since passing his own bar examinations. As one of my brother's old school friends, he was happy to let Samuel use his name in order to explain his mysterious livelihood.

“You know, it's strange that I've never met Mr. Wayburn,” Papa said, giving him a curious look. “You'd think that after all my years on the bench, I would have run into the man at least once.”

“Actually, Andrew handles mostly wills and probate,” Samuel told him. “He spends little actual time in court.”

“I see,” said Papa, although I wasn't sure if he truly accepted this explanation. “Nevertheless, it's time you join a more established law firm. At Cunningham and Brill you'll be able to experience all aspects of a distinguished practice from the ground floor up.”

I started nervously when a log suddenly dropped in the hearth. At the same moment, I heard the lusty cries of Celia and Charles's three-month-old son, Charles, Jr.—or little Charlie, as he was known to his doting family—coming from the nursery. Almost
immediately, his sister—four-year-old Mandy—joined her baby brother in a loud, and stridently off-key, duet.

“Oh, dear,” I said, rising from my chair. “I had better help settle Mandy while Celia feeds the baby.”

To be honest, I was relieved to have such a timely excuse for leaving the tense scene which had developed between Samuel and our father. I had long since run out of tall tales to excuse my brother's endless delays in taking his bar examinations. It was high time he dealt with the consequences of this deceit on his own.

Samuel darted me a reproachful look as I took my leave of the library. Ah, well, I thought, repressing a small twinge of guilt. As the old saying went, my dear brother had made his bed, and now he would have to sleep in it!

T
he following morning I arrived at my Sutter Street office to find Eddie Cooper's brougham parked at the curb outside the building. I paused to check the gold watch pinned to my shirtwaist; it was some fifteen minutes shy of eight o'clock. While it was true that the boy had agreed to meet with me this morning for his regular reading and writing lesson, he rarely if ever arrived early. I had to smile. His punctuality, I was certain, was not due to any eagerness to commence today's instruction, but to ensure that he would have time to visit my downstairs neighbor. Dear, generous Fanny. My young protégé knew all too well which side of his bread had been spread with butter.

I believe I mentioned earlier that Mrs. Goodman and her late husband had not been blessed with offspring of their own, which had come as a bitter disappointment to them both. Possessed of a warm and munificent nature, Fanny had formed an instant attachment to my young cabbie, and loved nothing better than to ply him with sweets and even a hearty dinner now and again. Her largesse made for somewhat shorter reading lessons, but I could not bring myself to complain.

Obviously, her efforts were bearing fruit. Eddie's mottled complexion appeared to have grown considerably less inflamed. His
bone-thin body was filling out, and I could have sworn he'd grown at least one or two inches since I had first met him some ten months earlier during what I have come to refer to as the Russian Hill murders.

As expected, I found the lad happily ensconced in Fanny's cozy kitchen, located behind her ground-floor millinery shop. He was seated at the table, making a good job of dunking homemade doughnuts into a large mug of hot chocolate. At my entrance, he looked up and grinned, and I was amused to see that his mouth sported a chocolate mustache, and was liberally smeared with doughnut crumbs.

“Mornin', Miss Sarah. I got here earlier, but you wasn't in yet. Mrs. Goodman said I should wait for you in her kitchen where it was warm.”

“And while you were waiting, you thought you should sample some of her doughnuts,” I commented wryly.

I smiled as Fanny motioned me to a seat at the table. I had hardly made contact with the chair than a plate of freshly baked doughnuts sprinkled with sugar was placed in front of me, along with a cup of coffee. “If you continue feeding me like this, Fanny, I will end up as round and plump as a Christmas goose.”

“Which wouldn't do you the least bit of harm,” replied Fanny, regarding me with a critical eye. “As it is, you're hardly more than skin and bones.”