Maids of Misfortune (28 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven:
Friday morning, August 15, 1879

The old scarred kitchen table was covered with fourteen oil lamps, standing in neat rows as if soldiers on parade. Each base had been cleaned and refilled, with the silver burners polished to gleaming brightness, each wick had been trimmed or replaced and was standing at attention, and the glass chimneys had been thoroughly scrubbed with soda and water so that not a speck of soot marred their surfaces. Annie sat slumped in a chair looking at these neat rows. It had taken two hours of hard work to achieve this martial scene of perfection, and these were only the lamps from the first floor. She still had two more floors of lamps to clean, and even if she put off cleaning the rest of the lamps in the house, she still had to return the lamps to their proper places before lunch. This meant going up and down the back stairs fourteen times, since she could only carry one lamp at a time, filled as they were to the brim with oil.

But first she had to clean up herself. She held up her hands for inspection and noted with little surprise that they were covered in greasy black splotches and that her fingernails were etched in black. Without thinking, she began to tuck in a stray curl of hair that had escaped and dangled over her right eye, when she snatched back the offending hand.

With a short laugh that threatened to disintegrate into a sob, Annie smoothed back her hair with both hands.
What difference does it make? I’m sure that my face and hair are already polluted by now. I must look like a chimney sweep. What I wouldn’t give for a bath!
Annie shifted forward to prop her head in those grimy hands, leaning her elbows on the table and causing her army of lamps to clink and rattle, as if preparing to march.
If only they could march themselves right up the stairs to take up their duties throughout the house.

In this new position, Annie was forced to notice a sour smell that emanated from her skin and mingled with the sweeter smell of the oil. She had put on her last clean chemise and drawers yesterday, thinking that she would be going home last night. But she hadn’t gone home, despite her promise to Nate. Mrs. Voss had asked Annie as she cleared the dinner dishes if she would postpone her night out again, with the promise that she could have tonight off and half of Saturday as well.

Annie had nodded yes, mentally defending herself to Nate.
What else could I have said to Mrs. Voss?
No, I can’t stay and help out, despite the fact that you have learned today that your son may be arrested for murdering your husband, despite the fact that you face a night alone in this house with no one but your sister-in-law, who hates you, and a lady’s maid who may be the actual killer?

She had sent another note with Wong, again informing Beatrice that she would be staying another night, again hoping that Nate would get the message as well. As a result, here she was, her fifth day as a servant, and she wasn’t sure that her black jersey waist and skirt would ever come clean of the accumulations of carbolic acid, bluing, coal dust, and kitchen grease. Before she had to serve lunch, she would have to see if the under things she had washed in the morning were dry yet and switch back to her black wool dress that she had hung out to air. But she didn’t think that anything but a bath would really remedy the way she smelled or felt. And a bath was a good eleven hours away, since she didn’t think she would be able to get away before nine tonight.
Saints above, I hope I didn’t smell this way yesterday afternoon when Nate was sitting across from me. Or the night before on the garden bench!
Annie shuddered.

She didn’t know how Wong kept looking so clean, given all the work he did. And, Cartier, it was hard to imagine her with dirty hands or soiled clothes, although she must have done some harder domestic work at some time. For the hundredth time, Annie wondered about Cartier’s background. Did she come from a wealthy family fallen on hard times, which might explain her attitude of superiority?
Where was Cartier anyway
? The lady’s maid had unexpectedly volunteered to do the marketing, but she should have been back by now. Annie hoped some newspaper reporter hadn’t stopped her. This morning, the presence of the patrolman that Nate had requested had kept the newsmen away from the front of the house. Or maybe they had simply lost interest. The
Chronicle
had been full of some awful carriage accident that had happened in Golden Gate Park.

Annie looked at the clock on the wall and realized with a start that Cartier had been gone for nearly three hours. With sudden elation, Annie realized the best explanation for Cartier’s extended absence would be that she had fled the house, perhaps the city.
This was as good as an admission of guilt!

Energized by the thought that Cartier’s disappearance would shift the attention of the police away from Jeremy, Annie began the long process of returning the lamps to their allotted places throughout the first floor. As she did so, she tried to figure out the best way to alert the police. She decided if Cartier still hadn’t returned by lunchtime, she would tell Mrs. Voss; she could express concern about Cartier’s safety and suggest the police should be notified. It would be even better if Nate stopped by, because she knew he would take Cartier’s disappearance seriously. She had been rather expecting that he would show up this morning, if only to find out why she hadn’t gone home as planned last night. She couldn’t help wonder what he had found out about Samuels. Whatever it was, it seemed irrelevant now, unless it turned out Samuels was Cartier’s mysterious gentleman friend.

Much to Annie’s disappointment, Nate didn’t come, and she didn’t have a chance to talk to Mrs. Voss at lunch, since Miss Nancy had taken one look at Annie’s smut-covered person and decided that Wong should do the serving at this meal. While Wong had informed his mistress that Cartier had not returned from her errands, it did not appear that Mrs. Voss had done anything about this information. So it was with some anticipation that Annie entered Mrs. Voss’s sitting room mid-afternoon with the afternoon tea. Here was her chance to convince Mrs. Voss that she needed to inform the police about her missing lady’s maid. She had just gotten up the nerve to say something when there was a discreet knock at the door, and Wong came in and handed Mrs. Voss an envelope, saying that there was a gentleman downstairs who had asked to speak with her.

“Oh, Wong, you don’t think it is one of those prying newspaper men do you?” Mrs. Voss asked anxiously, taking the envelope from him while simultaneously dropping her embroidery scissors.

As Annie watched Mrs. Voss open the envelope, she thought to herself that the woman had aged years in the two days since her son had been led off by the police. And Miss Nancy was no better off, becoming, if possible, even grayer than before, slipping around corners, clutching a Bible that appeared to give her no solace. When Jeremy had been taken away, it was as if the flame that burned within her had been snuffed out. Only the occasional gleam of fury in her sunken eyes revealed that those embers still glowed. Annie had thought that the threat to Jeremy would unite these two women, if only in a temporary truce; but Miss Nancy’s insistence that she have breakfast and lunch in her room separately from her sister-in-law suggested that even the polite fiction of a family had dissolved with Jeremy’s absence.

A sharp exclamation from Mrs. Voss caused Annie to look up from the tea she was pouring, spilling some of the tea into the saucer.

“Oh, my! Yes, Wong, do bring Mr. Wellsnap up.” Mrs. Voss continued to read the letter, shaking her head and emitting periodic little outbursts of, “My heavens.”

As she mopped up the spilled tea, Annie’s curiosity was thoroughly aroused.
Who could this mysterious visitor be
? But the man Wong ushered into the sitting room turned out to be one of the least mysterious-looking men Annie had ever encountered. Mr. Wellsnap appeared to be in his mid-thirties, although his round, clean-shaven face, rosy moist lips, baby-fine blonde curls, and soft soprano voice may have caused Annie to underestimate his age. Standing uneasily just inside the sitting room door, his hands fidgeting behind his back, Mr. Wellsnap looked for all the world like a young boy trying to avoid being punished for some prank. A young
well-to-do
boy, since his dark navy suit, Annie could see, was of a soft light wool, probably an expensive cashmere, and was finely tailored to fit his short, very round frame. The gold that gleamed on his pudgy fingers and at his cuffs and collar, completed the impression of wealth.

This young man bowed deeply and then said, “Mrs. Voss, I would like to introduce myself. I am Ambrose Wellsnap, and I apologize for intruding upon you in your time of grief. But I knew you would be worrying about Bertha, that is my fiancée, Miss Cartier, and so I had to come. I laid out all the bare particulars in the note, which I see you have in your hand, just in case you were not able to see me; I am most gratified that you have permitted me to apologize to you in person. I am afraid that I have imposed on you egregiously by engaging in a clandestine courtship of Bertha. I know that there is a bond between a lady and her maid, which should not permit the withholding of secrets. And I know that my own dear mama would have found it unbearable to think that her Theresa had embarked upon an engagement without her blessing. I want to assure you that I shoulder all blame because my lovely Bertha would never have done so if I had not imposed upon her the strictest silence. Please say you will forgive me?”

At this point, Mr. Wellsnap had whipped out a tasteful pale blue silk handkerchief and mopped his slightly moist brow, giving Mrs. Voss a chance to speak.

“Dear Mr. Wellsnap, please calm yourself. I am sure there is nothing to forgive. Please sit down and let Lizzie pour you a cup of tea. Am I to understand from your note that you are a neighbor and that you and Miss Cartier met through a mutual interest in gardening?”

Annie had thought that Mrs. Voss sounded just a wee bit incredulous at that point, but she herself had been willing to believe anything was possible now that she knew the first name of the imperious lady’s maid was
Bertha.

As Annie poured and served him tea, Mr. Wellsnap went on to tell a tale of heart-felt sentimentality. How Cartier, passing by his house, which was just two blocks down Geary and where he lived with his
darling mama
, had complimented him on the roses he was tending, at first mistaking him for the gardener since he was dressed for this task in his very oldest clothes. How this first conversation had led to others, then an invitation to walk in Woodward’s Gardens, and eventually to love. How Mr. Wellsnap had wrestled with the difficulty of how to acquaint his delicate mother with the news that her devoted son had found another woman with whom he wished to share his life, while convincing her that this had not lessened his affection for her.

Then there had been the terrible misunderstandings, when his mother, upon learning of his
beloved Bertha,
had suffered a shocking collapse. This was really all his own fault, he assured Mrs. Voss, because he had been so desirous of being able to offer his
beloved
a haven from the terrible tragedies that had visited the Voss household that he might have been a tad too forceful with his mother. The result had been that he had been prevented from making his usual rendezvous at the Gardens this past Sunday and his poor
beloved Bertha
had thought he abandoned her. This in turn had led to an unfortunate lovers’ quarrel on Tuesday evening. But all had been explained and forgiven this morning when he accosted his
beloved
as she passed his house on the way to do the marketing. And now the engagement was public, and he was here at the home of his
beloved’s
esteemed employer to gather her things and install her in his own home, pending their marriage, which would occur as soon as his
dearest mama’s
health permitted.

Mr. Wellsnap concluded his tale by saying, “My dear Mrs. Voss, I assure you that Miss Cartier had wanted to return and tell you about these events herself, but I insisted that my
beloved
be spared the heartache of saying goodbye in person to the mistress she loves so. I can only hope that you can forgive me for stealing your precious maid away.”

Mrs. Voss, who had remained silent and unnaturally still during this recitation, stood up and moved with her usual grace towards Mr. Wellsnap, her hand outstretched, and said, “Oh dear Mr. Wellsnap, what wonderful news for Miss Cartier. Of course I forgive both of you, but please let Miss Cartier know that I would love to be able to call on her once everything is settled.”

I only hope that I can be so forgiving
, Annie thought as she moved to pick up the handkerchief that Mrs. Voss had dropped,
since you have blown apart my theory that your beloved was behind the murders of Matthew and Nellie.

Chapter Thirty-eight:
Friday morning, August 15, 1879

Nate would have enjoyed this chance to be on horseback again, but as he made the ride east to find the Johnson ranch, which was located in the San Bruno foothills, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was wasting precious time. Yesterday evening, after speaking with the irate stable owner Jasper Steckle, he felt obliged to look further into Malcolm’s alibi. While the story that Samuels had given Steckle about the deserted ranch had a ring of truth to it, he would still have to check it out. This had meant he had to stay in Redwood City overnight, which bothered him. He had really hoped that he would be able to see Annie at her home and convince her not to return to the Voss household this morning. But he knew that if he went back with the story about Samuels sleeping in the Johnsons’ barn but no hard proof, she'd insist on doing something rash, like asking Samuels himself. As soon as he got back to the Baker Hotel, he'd telegraphed his Uncle Frank to find some diplomatic way to ask Samuels what he had actually been doing Saturday night.

After sending off his telegram, Nate had made a brief stop at the Hotel bar and retired early, eager for a good night's sleep. Unfortunately, about eleven, soon after he'd dropped off to sleep, there had been a knock on his room door. The Baker Hotel’s twenty-four hour telegraph service was in top form. Popper stood at the door with a telegram from Nate's uncle, who had evidently gotten right on Nate's request. It read as follows.

SAMUELS RODE TO JOHNSON RANCH STOP JOHNSONS AWAY STOP SPENT NIGHT IN BARN DRINKING WITH OLD SOUSE NAMED POCO STOP POCO MAY NOT REMEMBER VERY WELL STOP FRANK

Nate had groaned and spent the next hour or so wrestling with the problem of what to do if an old drunk named Poco was able to provide an alibi for Samuels. If Samuels was the murderer, he was a God-damned clever one. He could have ridden out to the ranch first, knowing no one would be there that time of year but Poco. Anyone with a slightest knowledge of ranching would know this was round-up time. He could have then given the old man a bottle of whiskey and snuck off as soon as Poco had begun to nod. If questioned, the old man would probably swear that Samuels had been with him all night. Meanwhile, Samuels could have ridden on to San Francisco, and the whole detour would only add an hour or so to the trip. Not impossible.

It wasn't a perfect alibi; might even be a weak one if he ever got Poco on the stand, but it was a hell of lot better than Jeremy's nonexistent one. Of course, there was also the problem of explaining how Samuels could have gotten into and out of the locked house. He might have gotten Matthew to open up for him, but how did he get out of the house, leaving the doors locked behind him, without a key? And everyone swore the doors were locked and the keys all accounted for in the morning. This was another reason the police were so convinced Jeremy must be the murderer. He had a key. Nate had finally fallen asleep some time past one o’clock in the morning and consequently had woken up much later than he’d intended.

His late start meant that he would be lucky to make it back to Redwood City by noon, and then he still had to catch the train to San Francisco. While he knew his uncle was there to handle things if Jackson decided to go ahead and charge Jeremy, he felt bad about being gone this long, and he really minded not having made his promised meeting with Annie last night. As his horse came over the crest of the last hill, Nate sighed with relief to see that the Johnson ranch was far from deserted. The corrals were half-filled with cattle, smoke rose from the main house, and the clang, clang of metal came from the barn, all suggesting that the Johnsons were definitely at home and that maybe he would be able to get some definitive answers.

Nate had grown up on a ranch, and it wasn't difficult to see that this was a place in the midst of fall round-up. A tall young man with the characteristic bowed legs of someone who was more used to riding than walking strolled over to where Nate was tying up his horse. Nate tipped his hat, stated his name, made a few intelligent comments on the herd in the corral in front of him, and then he asked if he could speak to Mr. Johnson or whoever was in charge. The young man smiled and tossed his head in the direction of the main house.

"Mr. Johnson's my pa. He's in the house; reckon you can hear him from here, swearing up a storm. Ma will be right glad for some company. Pa's horse slipped out from under him up country and bust up his leg. He's so ornery we practically had to rope and tie him to get him back home. Now he's so fidgety being tied to the house that he's ready to bite nails."

Within a few moments of making the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, Nate felt completely at ease. Here were people he could understand. Knowing how people like the Johnsons worked, he didn't try and rush them but let the conversation meander around the weather, price of hides, the recent hay crop, and the unfair railroad rates before he got to the point. Then, after he felt that he had sufficiently established his credentials, not as a lawyer but as a rancher's son, Nate brought up the question of Malcolm Samuels.

"Now ma'am, sir, I'd sure like to tarry longer, but I need to head on back to Redwood City soon to catch the afternoon train. So if you don't mind, I'd like to ask a few questions about the last time your friend, Malcolm Samuels, visited here. As I told you, I represent the estate of his late business partner, Matthew Voss. And, not to put a too fine point on it, there are some problems. The police have decided that there are some suspicious circumstances surrounding Mr. Voss's death, and they have taken into their heads that his son might be involved. Now you can imagine the distress this has caused Mrs. Voss. Poor woman, widowed like that unexpectedly, and now to have her only son pulled in by the police for questioning."

Here, Mrs. Johnson expressed her heartfelt sympathy, and Mr. Johnson frowned. Nate thought to himself that this couple would be particularly sensitive to the plight of Matthew’s widow. Mr. Johnson's accident had been very humorously recounted, but Nate knew that it had been only luck that it was Johnson's leg and not his neck that had been broken. Not wanting to distress them further, he continued, hoping to wrap things up quickly now that he'd gotten to the issue at hand.

"Mrs. Voss has asked me to look into things, just make sure the police have all the facts. That is why I'm attempting to track down the whereabouts of everyone on the night Mr. Voss died, Saturday, August fourth. Now, Mr. Samuels said that he stayed here that Saturday night, drinking with one of your ranch hands, Poco, and I'd wondered if you could ask Poco, if he is around, to step in and confirm this for me."

Nate caught a startled look between the Johnsons that sent a chill up his spine. Mr. Johnson moved restlessly in his chair, rubbing his thigh above the splinted leg, as if it ached. But when he began to speak, his tone was light, although Nate thought the jocularity a bit forced.

"Well now, Mr. Dawson, it seems to me that old Malcolm must have gotten his dates mixed. I've told him time and again, he'd better watch it. If he keeps up with that hard living, he'll turn out to be as forgetful as old Poco. Samuels makes it down to Redwood City on business at least once a month. He knows that we're usually gone all of August, and he's nice enough to stop by and check on Poco for us, although I wish he wouldn't feel the need to bring Poco his little gifts. I have a lot of affection for that old man, and he'll live a lot longer if he gets only his bottle of beer every night. The binges aren't good for him. When we got back to the ranch this time, Poco said Samuels had been by to visit the week before and they'd had a good old time. Frankly, I'm surprised Poco remembered that Malcolm was here at all, and I wouldn't be surprised if Malcolm might be a bit hazy about it all if he kept Poco company. That was probably what happened."

Nate interrupted. "You're saying Malcolm did come to visit Poco but not on the Saturday night that Matthew Voss died?"

"Not if Voss died on August fourth. That was a night I won't forget because that was the night my wife and sons brought back half the herd, with me laid up in the wagon as useless as a broken-down horse. My sons spent all night getting the herd settled, with a very sober Poco's help, and we didn't see hide nor hair of Malcolm Samuels all that night. And you can be damn sure there's nothing wrong with my memory."