The Cliff House Strangler (19 page)

To say that I was surprised by this pronouncement would be an understatement, given that the last time I’d seen the young man he’d been escorting Yelena Karpova to the theater. “How do you do, Miss Radburn?” I politely replied. I started to reach out my hand, then thought better of it. Aldora Radburn did not seem the type of person to shake hands with a woman she very probably mistook for a common shop girl.

“Nicholas and Miss Radburn are to be married next summer,” Mrs. Bramwell informed me proudly, unaware of her husband’s involuntary flinch as she made this announcement. Clearly, Mr. Bramwell was not as enamored of the match as was his wife.

“Aldora is the eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Milford Rad-burn, who have recently taken up residence here in San Francisco,” Mrs. Bramwell continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Radburns, Miss Woolson. They are a very old and distinguished Boston family. Actually, the Radburns are distant relatives of Queen Victoria.”

“How nice to be related to a queen,” I said. “Have you ever met Her Majesty, Miss Radburn? I understand she is still in mourning for her late husband, Prince Albert.”

“I have not yet been honored to meet Her Majesty,” Aldora replied, displaying all the arrogance I might have expected from the old girl herself. “Nicholas and I plan to commence our honeymoon
by sailing to England. My mother has arranged for us to be presented to the queen at that time. Mama is Her Majesty’s third cousin.”

“How nice,” I repeated, finding it impossible to think of anything more original to say. Actually, I found myself feeling rather sorry for Nicholas, and I wondered how he felt about this marriage. He’d seemed so happy in Yelena Karpova’s company the previous evening. I had a hard time imagining the handsome young man spending the rest of his life with this pretentiously vain younger version of my sister-in-law Henrietta!

I was well into my second glass of sherry, and wondering how I could unobtrusively draw my brother aside to ask him about Lieutenant Ahern’s peculiar comment, when the mountain came to Muhammad, figuratively speaking, of course. Under the pretext of showing me a new painting he had recently acquired, Frederick led me into his library and demanded to know the real reason I had suddenly appeared at his door.

“And don’t tell me it was because you just happened to be passing by, Sarah. I know well enough that Mama and Papa practically have to drag you over here. Now, what’s going on?”

“All right, Freddie,” I responded, addressing him by the nickname I knew he abhorred. “I’ll come directly to the point. I happened to meet Lieutenant Ahern at city jail this morning, and he said something decidedly odd about you.”

Frederick opened his mouth and stared at me. “Ahern? You mean that blustering little Irishman who couldn’t put two ideas back-to-back to save his life? And what in heaven’s name were you doing at city jail?”

“I was there to interview a prospective client,” I replied coolly, ignoring his censoring look. “And yes, that is the Lieutenant Ahern I’m referring to, although I think you underestimate him.”

“Never mind that, Sarah,” he said brusquely. “What did that idiot say that was so important you had to barge over here and disrupt our dinner party?”

“That’s interesting, Freddie. Lieutenant Ahern used the same word only this morning to describe you.”

My brother’s face puckered until it resembled a dried prune. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Damn it all, Sarah, spit it out or leave. You seem to go out of your way to cause trouble. And stop calling me Freddie!”

I’m ashamed to admit that I was beginning to enjoy this little discussion. Please believe me when I say that for years I’d tried to grow closer to my eldest brother. Sadly, it was becoming increasingly apparent that those particular twains were never destined to meet. In fact, as time passed, I found the unfortunate chasm between us growing into a substantial abyss.

“He said, and I quote, ‘I’m warning you that if that brother of yours isn’t more careful in his political dealings, he just may find himself a resident of city jail.’ Now, why would Lieutenant Ahern say such a thing?”

My brother appeared to have no ready answer, but at least I had managed to capture his attention. “Are you certain that’s what he told you? I find it exceedingly hard to believe. That annoying little weasel wouldn’t have the nerve!”

“Well, apparently he does.” I eyed him squarely. “Now, what have you been up to that Lieutenant Ahern would make such a threat?”

Frederick drew himself up, indignant and very angry. “I have been performing my duties as a California state senator, that’s what I’ve been ‘up to.’ ” He glared down at me. “I think you’ve made up this entire thing just to aggravate me.”

“Why in the world would I do that? According to Ahern, you’ve been associating with people who are questionable, or who may be operating outside the law. I only came here to warn you.”

“Next time, stay home,” Frederick snapped. “And keep your nose out of affairs you know absolutely nothing about. You are a woman, Sarah, and, contrary to what Father has led you to believe, women are physically and emotionally incapable of comprehending
such matters. Go home and knit something and leave business like this to your betters.”

“Frederick,” an angry voice interrupted. I looked over, to find Henrietta glaring at us from the doorway. “I have been searching all over for you. Dinner will be served in ten minutes and you are neglecting our guests.”

“I’ll be right there,” Frederick replied. “Sarah is just leaving.” Moving with unusual alacrity, my brother helped me on with my wrap and, while Henrietta returned to her company, walked me to the door—probably to ensure that I actually left. He had started back to the parlor, and I was halfway out the door, when Nicholas Bramwell hurried down the hall.

“Miss Woolson,” he said softly. “Might I have a quick word with you before you leave?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied curiously.

“I saw you at the theater last night,” he began. “You must wonder why I was escorting Miss Karpova when I’m engaged to another woman.”

“It’s none of my business, Mr. Bramwell. However, I hope you won’t do anything to hurt Miss Karpova. She’s very young, and hardly sophisticated in matters of the heart.”

The young man drew himself up, looking wounded that I would suggest such a thing. “Please believe me, Miss Woolson, that’s the last thing I would ever do.”

“Then you must be honest with both young women. Miss Radburn seems very fond of you. This kind of deception all too often leads to disaster.”

He looked crestfallen. “Yes, I know. It’s an awkward situation. You see, Mother has her heart set on my marrying Miss Radburn. She feels it would be an advantageous match—for my political career. The problem is that I care very deeply for Yelena and—”

“Nonsense! Of course you don’t care for that girl. She is nothing more than a common Gypsy.”

Nicholas and I turned, startled to find that Mrs. Bramwell had
come upon us from behind. For such a large woman, I was amazed she could move so noiselessly.

“Mother, I—”

“Nicholas, come to your senses. Any alliance with that girl is out of the question. It would result in your political ruin. I have sacrificed far too much to allow such a catastrophe to happen.”

“You misunderstood, Mother. I was merely telling Miss Woolson that I found the Karpova girl attractive. Nothing more.”

“Of course there will be nothing more,” his mother stated with finality. “I will see to that. Now you will return to the parlor at once. You must escort Miss Radburn in to dinner.”

She turned to me, a spurious smile pasted on her fleshy face. “Miss Woolson, I wish you good night.” And with that, she took her son by the arm and led him back to the parlor.

I hurriedly slipped out the door, grateful to be out of my brother’s home and free to breathe deeply of the clean night air.

A
fter a light supper Cook had kept warm for me in the kitchen, I joined my father in his study for an after-dinner coffee, which, as was his custom, he generously laced with brandy. Everyone else was out of the house except Charles and Celia’s children, who were snugly tucked in their beds.

I treasured these rare evenings alone with Papa, both of us comfortably ensconced in front of the fire, sipping our coffee and chatting, or simply enjoying a companionable silence.

Tonight, however, Papa was not in a good mood. Slapping a copy of that morning’s
San Francisco Chronicle
on the table between our chairs, he proceeded to describe yet another derogatory article that had been written about my brother Frederick.

“It’s that Rudolph Hardin again,” Papa said, showing me the story he’d circled in pencil. “Damn the man! Now he’s accusing Frederick of catering to special-interest groups, at the expense of his own constituents. I happen to know that it’s all a pack of lies.

Blast it all, anyway, I’d give my best putter if Frederick could sue the blackguard for slander.”

I took the paper and glanced over the piece. True enough, my brother’s old nemesis from law school had once again fabricated an accusation against Frederick which, as far as I could tell, seemed mainly comprised of supposition and innuendos. Unfortunately, Hardin had worded the statement very cleverly, ensuring that Frederick would have a difficult time suing him for liable.

I patiently listened while Papa raged on about the iniquities of the press in general and Rudolph Hardin in particular, until he finally wound down and seemed to tire of the subject. Appearing far more relaxed, he poured out the last of the coffee—naturally adding a generous allotment of brandy—and inquired how my new law practice was coming along.

Sipping my coffee, I told him about Mrs. Sechrest and her determination to divorce her abusive husband, after which we spent some time discussing the child-custody issues we were certain to face when the case came to court.

“It’s all going to boil down to whether Mrs. Sechrest can prove her husband to be an unfit father,” Papa said, filling his pipe and striking a match to the bowl. “You realize that won’t be easy.”

“Yes, that’s what I tried to tell her. I don’t think we’ll have any difficulty proving Mr. Sechrest to be an abusive and drunken husband. But even Mrs. Sechrest admits that to date he hasn’t ill-treated their two young sons.”

“Hmmm.” Papa pulled contentedly on his pipe and considered the problem. “Is there any way your client can demonstrate that her husband’s drinking or violent tendencies are escalating? So much so that she fears her boys may be in danger?”

“That’s our plan,” I said, “although I’m not sure it’s going to work. The problem is that Sechrest surrounds himself with lackeys who will undoubtedly swear to anything he asks them to. It may well turn out to be her word against his.” I drained the last of my coffee. “Then, too, the case is further complicated by the children’s
gender. If they were girls instead of boys, we might stand a better chance of gaining custody. But two boys, both of them over seven—” I let my words hang between us.

“You have your work cut out for you, my girl. No doubt about it.”

Papa rang for our butler, Arthur Edis, and requested more coffee. I watched as our old retainer carried in a fresh pot and set it down on the table. Suddenly, I was struck by how much the man had aged over the past few years. It’s funny, I thought, but when we see someone every day of our lives, we tend not to notice the graying hair, the stiffening gait, or even the new wrinkles. Edis had been with my parents since well before I was born, quietly seeing to the family’s comfort and anticipating our needs. He must be over seventy by now, I thought, and with a little start, I realized how different the house would seem if he were not there anymore.

Papa regarded me after Edis had left the study, the old servant silently closing the door behind him, as always. He must have guessed my thoughts, for he said, “Edis is beginning to show his age, isn’t he? Mind you, the man has only five or six years on me, so I suppose the same thing can be said in my case.” He chuckled. “Of course, growing old is infinitely better than the alternative.”

Papa freshened our coffee cups from the new pot, then added another generous dollop of brandy to each. “Now then, my girl, why don’t you tell me all about that séance you and Robert attended. And how that journalist fellow happened to end up with a guitar string around his neck.”

I had told the story so many times by now that I was surprised to realize Papa hadn’t yet heard it, at least not with all the details. But then we’d had little time alone together for the past few weeks, and I was reluctant to go into it in front of Mama, who tended to take the subject of murder very much to heart. Taking my time—for I trusted my father’s judgment and was eager to hear his opinion—I started the tale from our arrival at the Cliff House. I included Lieutenant Ahern’s interrogation, both that night and the
next morning, and finished by describing the attack on Yelena Karpova in the room I later learned had originally been assigned to Theodora Reade.

Papa did not immediately respond to my account. He seemed to be quietly contemplating my narrative as he repacked his pipe bowl and once again lit it with a match.

“A strange story,” he said at length. “Sounds like something out of a dime novel. I gather you believe Mrs. Reade saw the killer during that flash of lightning before the candle was relit.”

“Yes. I’m sure that’s why she was murdered.”

“I used to be good friends with her late husband, Ralph Reade. We played chess by the hour at our club. Got to be quite a competition between us.”

“Yes, that’s what she told me.” “I met Mrs. Reade only once or twice, but she seemed a nice woman, if a bit on the quiet side. Why do you suppose she didn’t tell Lieutenant Ahern immediately what she’d seen? That is, if you’re right and she really did witness the reporter’s death.”

“I’ve asked myself the same question,” I replied, sipping my coffee. “She fainted almost immediately after we discovered Moss’s body sprawled in his chair, and she appeared confused and disoriented when I spoke to her later that night. When she was leaving for home the next morning, she said something about her eyes not being as good as they used to be.”