The Cliff House Strangler (32 page)

George Lewis cleared his throat nervously, while Ahern fixed me with an angry glare. “I’ll thank you to stay out of this, Miss Woolson. We have not come here to question your brother, but to arrest him.”

Frederick gasped, his eyes opened wide in shock. He seemed to be trying to speak, but no sound issued from his mouth.

Henrietta leapt off the sofa, her bony face bright with anger. “That is preposterous! It is—it is an outrage!” Her voice was shrill with righteous fury.

“I apologize for distressing you, Mrs. Woolson,” Ahern replied without looking at her. His eyes remained riveted on Frederick, as if expecting him to bolt at any moment.

“Lieutenant,” I cried out. “My brother never even met Dmitry Serkov. Why would he wish to—” Catching the expression on George Lewis’s face, I broke off. He gave the slightest shake of his head, as if trying to warn me of something.

Lieutenant Ahern was regarding me in bewilderment. “Serkov?” he said. “What in the name of Mary and Joseph does Dmitry Serkov have to do with this?”

I stared back at him, equally confused. “But you said—”

Once again, I could see George was trying to send me a message, this time with his eyes. I was far too upset to play this game of charades! “If it has nothing to do with Mr. Serkov, Lieutenant Ahern, then why are you here?”

“If you can control that bloody tongue of yours for one damn minute,” Ahern shot at me angrily, “then you’ll find out, won’t you?”

George Lewis looked at me with profound regret as he reluctantly followed Ahern across the room to stand in front of my brother. Frederick remained stock-still, as if frozen in shock. Apparently, he was as unable to move as he was to speak. The second uniformed policeman remained stolidly in front of the parlor door, having obviously been instructed to block any ill-considered attempt by my brother to escape.

“Senator Frederick Woolson,” said Ahern in a somber voice. “I arrest you on the charge of accepting illegal bribes from Mr. Edgar Bramwell, and other contractors—as yet unnamed—and delivering payoffs to various public officials involved in the construction of the new City Hall building. You are advised that anything you say will be duly noted and may be used against you in a court of law.”

N
ot surprisingly, Frederick’s arrest threw the entire family into a turmoil. Henrietta was in hysterics as they led her husband away in the police wagon, and the moment the van was out of sight, she turned on me in a fury. As the result of some convoluted reasoning, it appeared my sister-in-law held me responsible for this outrage, mainly, I gathered, because I associated with known murderers and other criminal riffraff. My scandalous behavior was dishonoring the entire Woolson family, she accused, and had now directly led to Frederick’s ruin. How, she wailed, would they ever again be able to hold up their heads in polite society?

Although thankfully no one at home blamed me for my brother’s arrest, the news was greeted with incredulity and shock. Upon hearing that her eldest son had been taken to jail, Mama, who had never been prone to vapors, turned very white and came dangerously close to collapsing. It required our combined efforts to urge her to take a sleeping draft and retire to her bed.

As soon as Mama fell into a deep sleep, my grim-faced father hired a hansom and commanded the driver to take him to city jail.
As a county superior court judge, he would undoubtedly use his influence to arrange for a speedy arraignment and reasonable bail or, ideally, convince the magistrate to release my brother on his own recognizance. Frederick’s heretofore-blameless record, as well as his position as a state senator, would work in his favor, assuring the court that he was a reputable citizen who presented a negligible flight risk. Inevitably, though, whether he waited in his home or at the jail, he would be called upon to account for his actions.

Since there was little I could do to aid my brother, at least in the matter of his arraignment and bail, I forced myself to go on with my scheduled duties. Madame Karpova’s own arraignment the following morning went as expected. After pleading not guilty to the charge of murdering Dmitry Serkov, she was ordered to be held over for trial. I had already advised my client that, because the crime was a capital offense, the judge would almost certainly refuse to set bail. Even forewarned, Madame Karpova did not accept the verdict with dignity, or indeed with any degree of self-possession. After unleashing a string of what I took to be Russian profanities, it required two bailiffs to usher her from the room.

Before they could lead her through the door, she cried out at the magistrate, “You will regret this injustice, sir. I, Madame Karpova, see all, and your fate grows ever more imminent. You will not live out the week.”

Judge Mortimer Raleigh’s face grew dark. “Are you threatening me, madam?” he demanded, his voice equally acerbic.

“I reveal only what I see,” she replied sonorously, her voice projecting into every corner of the courtroom. “Be prepared. Before many more days pass, you will stand before your Maker.”

Handling her more forcefully, the two bailiffs hurriedly pulled Madame Karpova out of the chamber. The judge stared after her. Despite his stern expression, his ruddy face appeared considerably paler.

______

W
hat made you tell Judge Raleigh he’d be dead before the week is out?” I asked Madame Karpova when we were back in her cell. “That is not going to earn you any friends in court.”

She shrugged her slender shoulders. “I did not like him, but what I said about his death is true. I, Madame Karpova, see these things, even when I have no wish to.”

Despite my better judgment, I couldn’t resist asking her how she did it.

“I know it in many ways. Sometimes, I simply sense it. More often, I see those who are about to die on their deathbeds, or in their coffins. A few times, I have observed a person surrounded by a bright light, and I know then they are about to cross over. It upsets most people to know they are near death, so I rarely tell them unless they ask.”

“But you told Judge Raleigh because you didn’t like him.”

“He acts like he is God, sitting on his bench passing judgment on those he considers beneath him.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “I wanted him to know that he is only human, no better than the rest of us.”

Her expression suddenly changed. She no longer looked confident, as she invariably did when discussing her psychic powers. In its place, I saw anxiety reflected in her dark eyes, and I knew she was thinking of her daughter.

I spent the next half hour attempting to reassure her that Yelena was in good hands. I had paid a visit to the home where the girl was temporarily residing, so I was able to reassure her mother that she was receiving excellent care and comfort through this difficult time.

When I was finally able to take leave of my client, I did not immediately exit the jail. Instead, I sought out Sergeant Jackson and the young guard, Jimmy Wolf, who had become my allies since the
attack on Madame Karpova. Both promised to continue looking out for her safety. After a good deal of persuasion, they agreed to let it be known throughout the jail that they were tasting her food before it was delivered to her cell. This last concession, I suspect, had been granted more to appease me than because they believed anyone would attempt to drug her meals. I cared little about their motivation, as long as they faithfully carried out my instructions.

Later, while riding on the omnibus, I examined the address George had given me for Cecil Vere’s fiancée. It seemed that Annie Fitzgerald lived in a women’s boardinghouse south of Market Street, or South of the Slot, as it was more commonly known. It was a respectable neighborhood, mainly comprised of young immigrants, typically employed in unskilled or semiskilled jobs.

Annie Fitzgerald was a small, thin young woman with brownish red hair tied back in a bun and light blue eyes that were puffy and red-rimmed from crying. She was dressed in a plain but neat brown dress with few frills. I judged her to be in her early twenties, and probably quite pretty when not suffering the pain of such a devastating loss.

Upon hearing that I’d been acquainted with her Cecil, Miss Fitzgerald readily invited me inside the simply furnished room that was her home. Directing me to take a seat in the more comfortable of the room’s two chairs, she hurried to a small table containing a spirit lamp and the necessary accoutrements to brew tea.

“I was about to brew meself a cup,” she said, carefully measuring out a rounded tablespoon of tea leaves. “It won’t take but a minute.”

When we were seated facing each other in our chairs, and sipping remarkably good tea, Annie Fitzgerald begged me to tell her everything I knew about her Cecil, including how we had met and when I had last seen him.

I explained that I was an attorney—eliciting the usual surprise and incredulity—then went on to relate how I had met Cecil while visiting one of my clients at the jail.

“He was invariably cheerful and polite,” I said, helping myself to one of the home-baked cookies Annie had served on a clean but slightly chipped plate. “He spoke of you often, as well as your upcoming marriage. He was very much in love with you, Miss Fitzgerald.”

She smiled even as tears formed in her eyes. “That was my Cecil, always goin’ on about me and about our weddin’. Settlin’ down and startin’ a family was all he ever talked about, the silly ol’ bear.” Tears streamed down her face, but she seemed not to notice. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

I was struck with sudden guilt, knowing I had handled this badly. I realized I should never have mentioned Vere’s continual talk about his fiancée, or their plans to marry. Her wound was still too raw to discuss such intimate emotions, especially with a stranger. I had merely succeeded in causing the poor woman fresh pain. When would I ever learn to think before I spoke?

As if reading my thoughts, Annie said, “I’m sorry to break down like this, Miss Woolson. Can’t seem to help it, no matter how hard I try. But I’m awful glad you told me what my Cecil said about how much he loved me an’ all.”

She rose from her seat to fetch a handkerchief from a bureau drawer. “His death”—she swallowed hard, fighting off fresh tears—“his death came just when everythin’ was beginnin’ to look so good fer us. He’d come into some money workin’ extra shifts at the jail, and haulin’ crates down at the docks on his day off.” She managed a weak smile. “He was so excited. Said he figured it was enough money fer us to get married right away, instead of havin’ to wait another year, like we’d planned. Then the next day—sweet Jesus, the very next day, he was gone!”

Tears spilled, unchecked, down her cheeks. Feeling helpless to comfort the poor woman, I said gently, “I’m so sorry, Miss Fitzgerald. I should never have bothered you at a time like this.”

“No, Miss Woolson!” she exclaimed, raising her tear-stained face. “You were good to my Cecil. You comin’ here like this—a
lady like you carin’ enough to come see me—that means more than I ken say.”

She blew her nose into the neatly mended cloth, then met my eyes with unsettling directness. “I told you this ’cause I wanted you to know why I’ll never believe that he was gamblin’ the night he was killed. I swear, as God is my witness, he weren’t no gambler. He used to say he worked too hard fer him to be handin’ his money over to some card sharp.” The glistening blue eyes bore into mine, as if begging me to believe her. “Whatever Cecil was doin’ at the waterfront that night, Miss Woolson, it weren’t to gamble!”

“I believe you, Annie. I don’t think Cecil would have touched your savings, especially not to gamble.”

I hesitated, not wishing to add to her distress. But the question had to be asked. “Annie, can you tell me if Cecil acted troubled or worried after Mr. Serkov was murdered at the jail last Thursday afternoon? Did he mention what happened?”

“He told me everythin’ that went on down at that jail,” she said with obvious pride. “Cecil didn’t much like that Russki fellow. Said he complained about everythin’ and caused trouble with the other prisoners. Still an’ all, now you mention it, he did seem upset the day the bloke got hisself stabbed. Said he had to think things through before he could talk to me about it, which weren’t usual.”

She gave an unexpected smile. “He cheered up some when he told me about the extra money he’d come into, though. I don’t know how he was able to save up so much cash, but that were my Cecil, always full of surprises.” Tears once again began rolling down her wan cheeks. “That was the last time I ever seen him, Miss Woolson.”

I waited patiently while she fought to regain control of her emotions. Sensing her embarrassment, I said, “Crying isn’t a bad thing, Annie. It isn’t good to keep all your grief bottled up inside. It won’t bring back your Cecil, but it will allow the healing to begin.”

“It’s real kind of you to say that, Miss Woolson, but I don’t
know as I’ll ever heal. Cecil was me life. I can’t think how I’m gonna get along without him.”

I leaned forward and patted her hand, the skin rough and reddened by years of hard labor. “I can’t begin to understand your grief, Annie. But I know from others that, with time, the healing does begin. You’ll never forget Cecil, nor should you. But eventually you’ll find the strength to go on living without him. He would want you to do that, my dear.”

She attempted another smile, then, giving a loud sniff, returned to the bureau and pulled another clean handkerchief from the drawer. “I know yer right, Miss Woolson, but it’s just hard right now. I got a sister who’s comin’ in from Modesto tonight to stay with me fer a while. It’ll do me no end of good havin’ her here.”

When I took my leave some minutes later, I was grateful to know that Annie would soon have her sister to help her bear the shock and grief. Still, the visit had drained me, and I broke down and hired a passing cab to take me to Annjenett Fowler’s home for abused women.

During the ride, I reflected on what Annie had said about Cecil not being a gambler, an assertion which served to reinforce my own sense of the man. But what had really caught my attention was her statement that he’d recently earned enough extra money to move their wedding up a full year. I hadn’t wanted to challenge the poor girl over the source of this sudden windfall, but it did cause me to wonder. That seemed a great deal of money to make in such a short time, especially when he had only one day off a week in order to pick up extra work. Could it have been payoff money to keep silent about Serkov’s death? I wondered. If so, why had Vere been murdered? Did the real killer not trust Cecil to remain quiet about what he’d seen?