The Cliff House Strangler (29 page)

“You’ll have to excuse my friends, Miss Woolson,” Nicholas said as we took seats at the new table. “They can become a trifle boorish after they’ve had a few drinks.”

“It appears that your companions don’t approve of your friendship with Yelena Karpova,” I said. “Is that because they think she’s the reason your fiancée broke off your engagement?”

“No, that’s not it,” he said, looking embarrassed. “Yelena told me the truth about her life, you see. She said she wanted no more lies between us. I’m ashamed to admit it, but my companions ridicule Yelena because she’s a Gypsy. They think I’m risking my political future by befriending a Russian peasant. Please, Miss Woolson,” he said, hurrying on as I started to speak, “don’t judge them too harshly. They behave like this only when they’re drinking. Sober, they’re really quite decent fellows.”

“I’m sure they are,” I said, not quite truthfully. By now, I am sure you know my feelings on this subject. I have little patience with those who judge other people on the basis of their gender or skin color. This was not the time, however, to debate the inevitably volatile issue of prejudice, although I fairly itched to do so.

“Please, Mr. Bramwell, do tell me how Yelena is coping with all that has happened to her family over the last week or so.”

Before he could reply, I was jostled from behind by a man who was decidedly feeling no pain, as the saying goes. As the unsteady patron had managed to knock my hat askew, he stopped and apologized, nearly asphyxiating me with his sour breath in the process.

As the man continued his somewhat wobbly journey to the bar, Nicholas shook his head and gave me a cheerless smile. “I believe you were asking about Yelena. Actually, she’s been considerably upset, which is understandable under the circumstances. She’s so alone now, you see, and in a strange country. I’ve tried to be supportive, but I can hardly take the place of her own family, especially her mother.”

“No, of course not. Where is she staying now? Surely not alone in the hotel.”

He smiled. “One of her mother’s clients has graciously taken Yelena into her home. The woman has a daughter about the same age, so that’s provided Yelena with some comfort. At least I hope it has.”

There was a loud shatter of glass from an adjoining table, and a young woman gave a little scream as some of her escort’s beer spilled onto her gown.

During the ensuing laughter as the man attempted to mop off the woman’s bodice with his handkerchief, I took out my notebook and pencil and requested Nicholas to give me the name and address of the residence where Yelena was staying, so that I might reach the child if need be.

The young man’s face looked suddenly weary, and for the first time I noticed dark smudges beneath his eyes. I wondered if he cared more for Yelena than he was willing to admit. “I don’t know what she’ll do if Madame Karpova is found guilty of killing Serkov. Not a very likable man, as far as I could tell, but he seemed to be very fond of Yelena, and, of course, Madame Karpova. In some ways, I suppose you might say that he was the only father Yelena ever knew. Poor girl, she’s going to miss him. And now with her mother in jail—I just don’t know.”

“I promise you I’m doing everything possible to ensure that Madame Karpova is proved innocent, Mr. Bramwell,” I reassured him. “In fact, that’s why Mr. Campbell and I have come here tonight.”

He looked surprised. “You think there’s something the police missed in their investigation? But it’s been over a week since it happened. Surely any evidence that wasn’t discovered then would be gone by now.”

“Yes, that very well may be,” I told him honestly. “But we’re attempting to reexamine the events of that night through fresh eyes. If we’re fortunate, perhaps we’ll find something that was overlooked
during our initial shock over Darien Moss’s death.” I regarded him levelly. “What about you, Mr. Bramwell? Thinking back to that night, is there anything you forgot, or neglected to tell the police? Perhaps something you’ve since remembered?”

He was silent for several minutes, and I was pleased to see that he was taking the question seriously. “It doesn’t matter if it seems inconsequential,” I urged. “The smallest detail, even one that seems totally unrelated to the crime, may turn out to be of vital importance.”

Nicholas shook his head, then was forced to raise his voice as several men at the bar began a noisy argument. “I wish I could help you, Miss Woolson, truly I do. I’d do anything to prove Yelena’s mother innocent of this awful charge. But I can think of nothing I haven’t already told the police.”

He closed his eyes, as if reliving that terrible evening in his mind. “What remains most vivid in my memory is the expression on Yelena’s face when the lightning flashed—you know, after the candle blew out. She looked absolutely terrified. I don’t know, perhaps it was a sixth sense warning her that something horrible was about to happen. She’d witnessed so many of her mother’s séances, yet she seemed to know this one would be different in some ghastly way.” He smiled sheepishly. “Perhaps she’s inherited some of her mother’s psychic abilities. I understand it runs in the family.”

“Yes,” I agreed doubtfully. “There’s always that possibility.”

I looked over and saw Robert standing at the main saloon door, which led in from the front hall. “I must go now,” I said, getting to my feet. “But I want to thank you for being honest with me, and for the comfort and companionship you’ve offered Yelena. As long as she doesn’t form the wrong idea about your intentions toward her, I think your support will prove to be very good for her indeed.”

Nicholas also stood. “I only wish I could have been of more help, Miss Woolson. Madame Karpova and Yelena are very fortunate to have you on their side. I’ve never before known a woman attorney, but I must say I’m impressed with the success you’ve
achieved over this past year. I think Yelena’s mother is in very good hands.”

Thanking the young man, I took a moment to walk to the back of the room and peek through the door I had originally sought to investigate. I’d expected it might lead to the dining room, but I was mistaken. Instead, it led to two washrooms, one for ladies and one for gentlemen. While these were conveniently placed, considering the amount of alcohol being consumed in the saloon, I was disappointed that they provided no new insights into our investigation.

I joined Robert, hoping that he’d had better luck, but it seemed he had not. Moving away from the cacophony coming from the saloon, he led me down the hall to the entrance to the dining room.

“You were right about the door behind the screen,” he said. “It leads into the kitchen. The kitchen itself has four doors, the one I just mentioned, one leading into the hall outside the saloon, one that goes down into the larder, and one that leads outside. I don’t see how any of this helps us, though, except to substantiate your theory that Serkov used the entrance behind the screen to sneak back into the dining room during the séance.”

A feeling of deep frustration settled upon me. Until then, I hadn’t realized just how much I’d been counting on our visit to the Cliff House to reveal something useful. Why had I allowed myself that absurd hope? I wondered. No one was likely to remember anything helpful so long after the fact.

I had not counted on Eddie Cooper. Robert and I were about to go looking for the lad, when I noticed his eager face peering out at us from behind the Japanese screen. Caring not one iota that he was most inappropriately dressed for a dining establishment of this caliber, he strutted across the room, seemingly oblivious to the curious stares of the diners.

“I got Cook to remember somethin’, Miss Sarah,” he proudly announced. “It ain’t much, but like you always say, sometimes it’s the little things what count the most.”

“What is it, Eddie?” I asked, unable to hide my excitement. “What has he remembered?”

The boy was practically bursting with pride. Looking from Robert back to me, he paused a moment intending, I suspected, to increase the suspense.

“Come on, boy,” Robert said impatiently. “Out with it.”

Eddie beamed. “You remember that bloke what attacked the Russian girl the night that Moss feller was done in?”

“Yes,” Robert and I replied simultaneously.

“What about him?” Robert asked.

“Well, Cook says he seen a feller runnin’ full chisel through the kitchen and out the back door. Said he knocked over a basket of spuds and never so much as picked one of ’em up.”

“Did he see his face, Eddie?” I asked.

The boy screwed up his face as he thought about this. “No, I don’t think so. He did say the bloke moved pretty frisky, like he had a herd of buffalo on his tail.”

Robert and I looked at each other, probably thinking the same thing. Without a description of the villain’s face, the running figure could have been any man at the séance, including Dmitry Serkov, although it was difficult to imagine the unwieldy man moving that quickly.

“You’ve done very well, Eddie,” I told the boy. “Better than either of us, as a matter of fact. But we’ll need to talk to the cook ourselves. There are one or two questions I’d like to ask him.”

Eddie looked doubtful. “He’s pretty busy right now, Miss Sarah. He warn’t too happy to talk to me, but I kinda got in his face, if you know what I mean. In fact, he used some words I don’t think you’d approve of.”

“No, I probably wouldn’t have approved. The important thing, though, is that you found out something new about the case. That was a fine piece of investigating.”

I turned and whispered something to Robert, who surprised
me by replying that he’d taken care of that matter upon our arrival at the restaurant.

“The maître’d told me it wouldn’t be too long now,” Robert added quietly.

“I imagine you’re hungry, Eddie,” I said. “How would you like to have dinner here tonight?”

The lad’s eyes grew large as saucers. “Here? With you and Mr. Campbell? I ain’t never eaten in a fancy place like this before.” He appeared so excited, I was afraid for a moment he might actually reach out and kiss me. I was surprised when that thought led to my almost wishing he would. “That would be a real frolic, Miss Sarah!”

“I assume that means you’d like to stay,” Robert said, trying not to smile at the boy’s eager face.

“Yes, sir, I truly would.”

We were seated less than fifteen minutes later at the table Robert had requested by the window. Without discussing the matter, Robert and I automatically made sure that Eddie was given the seat facing out over the water and Seal Rocks below. The evening light was fading, but it was still possible to see the waves breaking below the cliff, as well as spot one or two ships offshore. Since it was an unseasonably warm evening, several windows had been left open, so we could hear as well as smell the ocean and all its sea life below.

Unlike our last visit, when we were beset by the worst storm of the season, now dozens of sea lions, otters, and California seals frolicked upon the rocks. One stellar sea lion was so huge, he seemed to tower over the rest of the mammals, proudly raising up on his front flippers as if to proclaim his sovereignty over the herd. Despite the serious business that had brought us to the Cliff House, I couldn’t remember when I’d enjoyed such a wonderful evening. It was heartwarming to watch Eddie’s delight as the monster bull barked and roared and laboriously pulled himself over even the highest rocks.

Dinner was excellent. I had taken Nicholas Bramwell’s suggestion and ordered the halibut, while Robert and Eddie had steak. There was but one uncomfortable moment, when I realized we were sitting not far from where our table had been situated for the séance. I experienced a moment’s disquiet as I once again imagined Darien Moss’s limp body slumped in his chair, his neck dripping blood onto his immaculate brown jacket. Fortunately, this disturbing vision was fleeting, thanks to Eddie’s animated chatter. Even when he was at his most annoying, it was virtually impossible to remain depressed when in Eddie Cooper’s company.

After dinner, we managed to speak to the cook during a brief lull in his food preparation. Chewing on the stub of an unlit cigar, and barking orders to everyone employed in his kitchen—his voice nearly as loud as the bull sea lion’s, I thought—he merely reiterated what Eddie had already told us.

A man dressed in a long black cape, with a black hat pulled low over his face, had come running hell-to-split through his kitchen and out the back door into the storm. Yes, he’d knocked over a basket of potatoes, as well as a pitcher of milk lying on a counter. “Made a right mess of the place, too,” the cook informed us. And no, he hadn’t been able to get a good look at the bounder’s face.

“Do you remember if he had a beard?” I asked.

He thought about this, then said he didn’t think so. But the bloke had run through his kitchen so fast, he didn’t think he’d care to swear to that in court.

When asked why he hadn’t reported this to the police, the cook insisted it wasn’t his business to do the foxes’ work for them. Having said that, he turned his back to us and promptly went back to his work.

Since Serkov’s death had sidetracked me from telling Robert about the extra copy I had made of the notes from Moss’s diary, I had Eddie drive to my home first, before taking Robert on to his boardinghouse. Instructing the boy to wait with the carriage, Robert and I went inside.

The house was surprisingly quiet. I had just decided that everyone must have retired for the night, when I saw a light coming from the back parlor. There, I found Samuel talking quietly with his friend George Lewis in front of a welcoming fire. My brother seemed unusually subdued, as did the police sergeant.

“There you are,” he said as Robert and I joined them. After the usual courtesies had been observed, Robert and I took seats on the sofa. Before returning to his own chair, Samuel quietly closed the parlor door, explaining that he didn’t want to wake the entire house.

“What’s wrong, Samuel?” I asked. “I can tell by your face that something’s happened.”

“I’m not sure what we have to report will even concern you, Sarah,” he said. “George and I decided we’d let you be the judge. I asked him to stay so that he could tell you about it himself.”