Murder on Nob Hill (15 page)

“I’ll start at the Department of Records,” I told him. “You may come along if you wish. But if you do, I’ll expect you to shoulder your share of the work.”

With that, I walked briskly to the nearest cable car stop. I didn’t look back to see if my indomitable shadow would follow.

F
ortunately, the Department of Records hadn’t closed because of President Hayes's visit, and we spent the rest of the afternoon poring through a mountain of records. To Campbell's credit, he uncomplainingly assumed his share of the task. Still, in the end, our search turned out to be fruitless. Nowhere could we find any mention of Peter Fowler's birth. In fact, there was no mention of his name at all.

“How do we know he was born in San Francisco?” Campbell asked at length.

I lifted my head and was surprised to realize I’d developed a dull ache between my eyes. It's rare for me to experience a headache, and I attributed it to my lack of sleep the night before. That and the strain of reading so many entries, some of them written in such a cramped hand they were difficult to decipher.

“Mrs. Hanaford mentioned they’d lived in the same San Fran-

cisco neighborhood as children,” I told him. “Before her father became a successful hotelier, of course.”

“Maybe he's using a stage name.” I could tell by his tone that he, too, was tired and unhappy to have nothing to show for the afternoon's labors.

“Yes, I’ve thought of that.” Frustrated, I closed the book I’d been perusing. “There seems nothing for it but to pay Fowler a visit tomorrow.”

“And you think he's going to smile and happily tell you all about himself.”

“He will unless he wants to end his life on the gallows.”

Campbell merely grunted. He presented a comical sight sitting across from me at the cluttered table. A smudge of dirt on his cheek gave him the look of a small boy who's been making mud pies. His tie was askew and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, displaying the most impressive set of forearms I’d ever seen. Overall, he appeared thoroughly ruffled, both in appearance and in disposition. Not for the first time, I wondered what carrot our employer had extended to induce this incongruous man to agree to such a troublesome assignment.

“Why are you doing this, Robert?” I blurted, hardly noticing that in my curiosity to learn the truth I had addressed him by his Christian name. “Following me about like some overzealous nursemaid, I mean.”

My abruptness seemed to catch him off guard. “I told you. Shepard wants you kept out of trouble.”

“I’m not talking about Shepard. His motives are perfectly clear. I meant you. What are you getting out of this?”

“That is none of your concern.” With a glare, he closed the book he’d been reading so sharply that a cloud of dust flew about his head causing him to sneeze.

“On the contrary, it is very much my concern,” I retorted. “After all, I’m the one forced to suffer your company.”

He swore beneath his breath. “Damn it all, woman, do you never give up? You’re as tenacious as a terrier digging for a bone.”

He ran a dirty hand through his rust-colored hair, causing one tuft to stand out in front like the golden horn of a unicorn. Then suddenly he stood, knocking over his chair in the process. He paid it no mind, but began pacing the room like a caged tiger. I watched him with interest. Here was a man, I thought, upon whom inactivity did not sit well. Not for the first time I wondered at his choice of careers. Surely he would have been more at home in the rugged outdoors of his native Scotland.

Abruptly, he ceased his pacing and looked down at me from across the table. His height was so great that my aching head throbbed from the need to peer up at him at such an angle.

“I see you’ll give me no peace until you’ve bled me dry,” he exclaimed. “All right, then, you shall have it. In return for keeping you out of mischief, Shepard has agreed to speak to Paulson on my behalf. I wish to act as his co-counsel in Mrs. Hanaford's upcoming trial.”

I was momentarily struck dumb by the absurdity of this remark.

“But you have no trial experience. I’m not sure you even have experience in criminal law.” I gave him a challenging stare. “Well, have you?”

“Blast it, woman, you know bloody well I don’t. But I have the ability. I’m certain of it.”

I started to retort this vainglorious statement, then stopped, taken aback by the fire in his eyes. To my astonishment, I realized that he had just revealed something extremely personal to me. This was his passion. His dream.

“That's why you left Scotland to practice law in San Francisco, isn’t it?” I said. “To be a trial attorney.”

He stood with his back to me, facing the window. Without turning, he nodded. Perhaps he felt he had already said too much. I judged the fiery lawyer to be an intensely private man.

“But how did you end up at Shepard's firm?” I persisted. “Why not stay in Edinburgh?” To my surprise, I really wanted to know.

Something of this sincerity must have shown in my voice, for he turned and walked back to the table. He stared hard at me for a moment, then righted the fallen chair and sat down.

“My father's also a lawyer. A prominent trial attorney. Too prominent,” he added dryly. “When I couldn’t escape the inevitable comparisons made between us, I decided to immigrate to the States. James McNaughton was one of my law professors at the University of Edinburgh. We kept in touch when he moved to America. When a position as associate attorney opened in Shepard's firm, James suggested my name.”

“I see.” So that was why this brute of a man had been willing to work in a closet-sized room and take orders from a man he clearly didn’t respect. It seemed that my client was to be his long-awaited reward.

“You don’t think I’m capable of handling Mrs. Hanaford's defense, do you?” he challenged.

I didn’t immediately answer. There was no doubt he could be quarrelsome and annoyingly blunt. On the other hand, I could no longer deny he had a sharp mind and was more intuitive than I’d previously credited. If he believed in someone, he might be a formidable defender. The fact remained, however, that he had virtually no trial experience. Most disturbing, and potentially damaging to the widow's case, he wasn’t convinced of her innocence.

“I honestly don’t know your capabilities,” I told him. “I do know, however, that my client desperately needs all the help she can

get. If you’re willing to keep an open mind, I see no reason why we can’t work together in the best interests of her defense.”

When he didn’t answer, I began the tedious job of replacing the dusty tomes we’d pored over for the past few hours. Without a word, he began helping me until the task was completed.

“What's on the agenda for tomorrow?” he asked as we took our leave of the Department of Records.

I gave him a sharp look. “Are you asking as one of Mrs. Hanaford's attorneys, or as Joseph Shepard's secret agent?”

He had the good grace to smile. “A little of both, I suppose. I don’t like playing the role of spy any better than you, Sarah. However, I do care that justice is served. Toward that end, I’m willing to help you search for the truth.”

I returned his smile. “In that case, I accept your offer. I plan to visit Peter Fowler at the jail tomorrow morning. Shall we say nine o’clock?”

He tipped his hat. “Until nine, then.”

I watched his retreating back until he was swallowed up by the crowd milling about in the wake of the parade, wondering all the while at the unexpected accord we had just struck. I wasn’t at all sure what to make of it, but was forced to admit that when he was so inclined, Robert Campbell could be charming.

Then, no longer able to contain my fatigue, I hailed the first unoccupied hansom that passed my way and instructed the driver to take me home.

CHAPTER SEVEN

P
eter Fowler seemed surprised but pleased when Robert and I entered his cell the following morning. He pressed for news of Annjenett, and after assuring him she was doing as well as possible under the circumstances, I asked about his own situation.

“I’m being treated well enough, I suppose,” he answered. “It's the feeling of powerlessness that's the most maddening. Time has become my enemy. Each moment is a bitter reminder that my life is no longer my own, indeed that I may forfeit it for a crime I didn’t commit. I’ve begun to suspect that even my attorney thinks I’m guilty.” He looked at us through eyes that were bloodshot and sunken from lack of sleep. “A fine thing, isn’t it, when your own attorney believes you to be a murderer?”

I glanced at Robert, who couldn’t meet my gaze. Good, I thought, happy to see that the similarity in our own client's situation hadn’t escaped him. Turning back to the actor, I asked if there was anyone we could notify on his behalf.

“My parents are both dead and I have no other family.” His expression was rueful. “I never thought to hear myself say this, but in a way I’m glad they’re gone. I don’t think I could bear to have them see me like this.”

I’d taken a seat on the room's only chair, a rickety affair that I doubted would hold either man's weight. Robert stood by the door, observing our conversation in unexpected silence.

“There are a few questions we’d like to ask you, Mr. Fowler,” I began.

“Anything, Miss Woolson. I suppose you’d like to hear my version of what happened the night I went to Hanaford's house.”

Without waiting for an answer, the actor took us through his actions the night Hanaford was murdered. I was pleased to note that his account tallied in most respects with Annjenett's. I was disappointed, however, when Fowler claimed not to have seen or heard anyone else enter the house after his arrival.

“It's difficult to hear the front door from Mrs. Hanaford's rooms,” he explained, his face a mask of frustration and despair. “You don’t know how profoundly I wish I had heard someone else come in that night. But the truth is, we heard absolutely nothing.”

“Perhaps you were too absorbed in your assignation to notice,” Robert put in.

Peter's face flushed. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful, Mr. Campbell, but I can’t allow you to malign Mrs. Hanaford like that. It's true I shouldn’t have been in her room, but I assure you my motives were honorable. I was concerned about her safety and was determined to have it out with Hanaford once and for all.”

“Thus provoking a scene that got out of hand,” Robert retorted.

“No! By the time I convinced Annjenett—Mrs. Hanaford— that the only way to end her husband's brutality was to go down

and confront him, he was already dead. Quite horribly so. I tried to keep her out of the room, but she pushed passed me. Seeing her husband like that was a terrible shock, as you can imagine. I’m afraid I was forced to put my hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out. Even in those first few moments, I realized the precariousness of our position. At all costs, we must not be found in the room with that body.”

“So, you took some odds and ends to make it look like a robbery and fled, leaving the woman you profess to love to face the police on her own.” Robert made no effort to hide his disgust.

“You make me sound like a cad,” Fowler shot back. “It wasn’t like that at all. How would it have looked if I’d been found there? We would have handed the police a ready-made motive for murder. Our only hope was to make it seem as if she’d been alone all evening. Fortunately, none of the servants saw me arrive.”

“No, but a neighbor did,” Robert pointed out.

“Yes,” Peter said soberly. “Now my worst fears have been realized. They think we killed Hanaford so Annjenett would be free to marry me. And I’m stuck in this place, powerless to clear either one of us.”

“It might help if you could account for your actions the night you were arrested,” I told him.

Peter looked confused. “The night I was arrested? What can that have to do with Hanaford's death?”

“Last Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, a man by the name of Rufus Mills was murdered,” I told him. “His body was discovered in one of Chinatown's back alleys.”

Peter gave a nervous start and came halfway up from his cot. His face grew so pale I feared he was ill.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sinking back down and belatedly attempting to make light of his reaction. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“The victim's name seems familiar to you,” I observed. “I take it you knew Mr. Mills?”

The actor met my gaze, then looked silently at Robert.

“Come on, man, you might as well tell us the truth,” Robert said. “Lying will only make matters worse.”

With a despairing look, he dropped his head. “I didn’t actually know Mr. Mills. Actually, I met him only once, when I was a young boy. He was—that is, he’d been a friend of my mother's.”

“Hemusthavebeenabloodygoodfriendtowarrantthatkind of reaction,” said Campbell. “You should have seen your face, man.”

“At one time I believe they knew each other quite well,” the actor answered. “But that was a long time ago.”

“I see.” Of course I didn’t see at all. At least not the part of the story Peter seemed unwilling to confide. Foolish man. How were we to help him if he insisted on playing these ridiculous games? “That was the night Mrs. Hanaford was arrested for her husband's murder. You, on the other hand, weren’t taken in until several hours later. Where did you go that night after you left the theater?”

Peter's face showed honest bewilderment. If he was lying, I decided, he was a very good actor indeed.

“What possible difference does it make where I went?”

“Hanaford and Mills's deaths are nearly identical,” Robert told him. “They were both stabbed to death in the—” He hesitated. “In the, er, same anatomical area.”

“Our fear is that the police will eventually connect the two crimes,” I broke in. “Especially since they’ve found no other likely suspects.”

“But that makes no sense,” Peter exclaimed. “Why in god's name would I kill a man I hardly knew?”

“That's what we’re here to find out,” Robert told him.

“If you can account for your actions that night, then Mills's death need no longer concern us,” I pointed out.

Peter shook his head. “I—I’m not sure,” he said vaguely. Sometimes I feel the need to unwind after a performance. That night I seem to recall going for a walk before returning to my room.”