Murder on Nob Hill (21 page)

I was struck by the similarities between Mama and Samuel, who was driven by the same dream. What would Mama say if she knew her youngest son had inherited her passion? In addition, that he was making a name for himself—even if it wasn’t the name he’d been christened. I was sorely tempted to share this with her, but in the end I knew I couldn’t break Samuel's confidence.

“Do you still have the notebooks?” I asked.

“Do you know, I have no idea,” she said, looking surprised by my interest. “I haven’t seen them since we left Williamsport.”

“Look for the stories, will you, Mama?” I said, squeezing her hand. “I’d love to read them.”

Mama looked pleased, if a little self-conscious. “They’re just the ramblings of an overimaginative child, Sarah. Still, if you’d like, I’ll try to find them. There are some old chests in the attic. I might look there.”

“Good.” I started to get up. “I’ll help you.”

Mama gently pushed me back onto the pillows. “You’ll do no such thing. If I find my funny little notebooks, I’ll bring them to you. Perhaps they’ll help pass the time while your ankle mends.”

She hesitated. “There was a reason I told you this story, Sarah. When I said you should have been a boy, I meant that your dreams, like my childhood fancies, are better suited to a man. I don’t doubt your ability to become a fine attorney, but have you considered the price you’ll have to pay? You’ll be the subject of gossip, spurned by other women, and you’ll be mocked by men in their clubs. You’ll find it difficult, if not impossible, to make a suitable match, or have a home of your own.” She took my hand. “My dear, are you willing to make such a sacrifice?”

I had thought of these things, of course. Truth be known, I didn’t relish a life alone, and it pained me to think I might never bear children. But there was a price to pay for marriage and motherhood, as well, perhaps one even more costly than that demanded of me by the legal profession.

“I do want those things, Mama, and if I knew of a way to have them both, I would. But as you just pointed out, it must be one or the other.”

She sighed, then rose and picked up my tray. “It's not the life I

would have chosen for you, Sarah, but I realize nothing I say is likely to change your mind. It never has. You were always the most headstrong of all my children. I only pray you won’t live to regret your choice.”

“If I do, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.” I looked up at her. “You could still do it, you know, Mama. Write, I mean. We’re all grown now. You could find the time if you tried.”

She looked horrified. “Your father would never permit it. You know his feelings about writers.”

I smiled. She didn’t realize it, but she had just proven my point. To be a married woman in this world meant having a man make choices for you. He could decide how your money was spent, how many children you had, where you lived and in what kind of house, even in what church you would worship.

No, I thought, as my mother carried the tray from the room. I had made the right decision. For better or for worse, I would have to live with it.

T
he next morning, I convinced Charles that it would do no harm if I sat in the back parlor, my ailing foot propped upon a stool. Because it afforded a magnificent view of the Bay, this had long been my favorite room in the house. Since childhood I had happily escaped to this retreat, never tiring of the ever-changing panorama of sea and sky and hills framed in our large bay window.

Today the scene was idyllic: there were few clouds and the water reflected a moving mirror of blue and silver. It was so clear that I could see Yerba Buena—or Goat Island, as it was usually called— as well as graceful coasting schooners and the small fleet of Italian fishing boats that serviced Fisherman's Wharf.

There I remained for hours, looking out at the Bay and reading

the stories in the little notebooks Mama had unearthed in the attic. Charming in their innocence, the tales were told with a spirited imagination I never would have guessed my mother possessed. What a shame, I thought, that such a talent remained unfulfilled because of the outdated dictates of society.

Shortly after lunch I received a surprise visit from Miss Cul-bertson. The poor woman seemed pathetically relieved to find me in more or less one piece. She regretted my sprained ankle but, like Charles, was happy I had come to no more serious harm. She was considerably taken aback when I told her of my visit with Li Ying, especially when I described his remarkable home. Since client confidentiality did not permit me to discuss the reason for my abduction, the poor woman was genuinely bewildered as to why I’d been singled out for such a dubious honor.

“I’m just grateful you’re all right,” she said when I’d ended my tale, then went on to thank me for what she generously termed my “invaluable help” in the raid. Chum Ho had been taken in by a Chinese family to be raised as their daughter. There was no use sending her back to China, she said sadly, since the girl's family would almost certainly sell her right back to the slave traffickers. Poverty in some of China's southernmost districts was extreme. Here, Chum Ho would have a good home and a chance for a brighter future than she could expect in her native land.

After Miss Culbertson's departure, I went back to reading my mother's stories until my reverie was interrupted by the sound of a voice that could belong to only one person. Our butler's usually unflappable expression registered mild surprise when I instructed him to show Mr. Campbell in.

Robert was untidily dressed, even for him, and he looked cross and out of sorts. Not bothering with even a token show of good

manners, he immediately denounced what he charmingly termed “the stupidest stunt he’d ever heard of.”

“Shepard is livid I let you out of my sight. I’ll be damned if he doesn’t blame me for the whole fiasco. What in the name of all that's holy were you thinking of, risking your life like that?”

Without waiting to be invited, he pulled up a chair and sat down, then ordered me to report everything that had happened on the raid, including how I had injured my ankle—which he’d been eyeing ever since walking in the door.

I felt a wave of resentment. How dare the odious man march into my home and toss about demands as if he owned the place!

“How did you hear about the raid?” I demanded.

His laugh was derisive. “You’re even more naive than I supposed if you think a white woman can be abducted in Chinatown without it becoming public knowledge. Miss Culbertson hadhalf the policeforce outlooking foryou.” Hiseyesboreinto mine. “I know this has something to do with that confounded note we found in Hanaford's desk, so you might as well tell me everything.”

He looked so incongruous sitting there in Mama's fragile armchair—like some oversized Chief Sitting Bull—that despite myself, my anger turned to amusement. Clearing my throat to cover a strong urge to laugh, I described my Chinatown adventures, concluding with Li Ying's assertion that Hanaford and his partners had jumped his claim in the Comstock Lode, a name commonly used to refer to the Virginia City Silver Mines.

“He admitted to blackmailing them for years,” I finished, “without the least embarrassment or guilt.”

Robert said thoughtfully, “I can’t see why Li would want to kill the geese laying the golden eggs. On the other hand, what if

Hanaford and Mills refused to make any more payments? Maybe Li decided to kill them as an example to the other two.”

“Somehow I can’t see Hanaford or Mills defying a man as powerful as Li Ying. I certainly wouldn’t want him as an enemy.” Then, reluctant as I was to tell him what I’d learned about Fowler's identity, I decided he’d better know that, too.

“You’re telling me that Fowler is Rufus Mills's illegitimate son?” he exclaimed when I was through. “Can you prove it?”

“No, of course not. But you’re missing the point. I was able to verify that Jessie Gooding did work for the Mills family as a hired girl. And the dates of her employment match up with the time Peter must have been conceived. The important thing is that Jessie raised her son to believe Mills was his father. That's what the prosecution will claim if they unearth this story.”

Robert stared at me. “You realize this puts the final nail in Fowler's coffin. Probably in Mrs. Hanaford's as well.”

“I know,” I admitted morosely. “That's why I’m telling you. I need your help to get to the bottom of this mess before the story becomes public knowledge.”

He sniffed dismissively and his expression spoke volumes.

“Don’t say it. I know who you think is guilty.” My ankle had begun to throb and I shifted it to a more comfortable position on the stool. “I admit I could be wrong about Peter, but I’m not mistaken about Annjenett.”

“We’ve been over this before, Sarah. Even you must see how well it fits together: Fowler helps Mrs. Hanaford murder her husband in order to inherit his estate. In return, Mrs. Hanaford helps Fowler plan Mills's death to avenge the wrong done to his mother.”

I stifled a groan. Stated like that, Robert's bald reasoning painted a bleak picture for my client.

He gave a sardonic laugh. “You should be working for the prosecution, Sarah. You’re handing them an ironclad case.”

I shot him a look, but I knew he was right. Instead of helping my client, I was tightening the noose around her neck.

“Fowler knows more than he's telling,” I said, hating my defensive tone. “It's time we had the truth out of him.”

“Assuming the man is capable of telling the truth—which I seriously doubt.”

“We have to make him understand it's his only chance of avoiding the gallows. I know he isn’t our client, but—”

“All right, all right,” he broke in, holding up a hand. “When do you want to visit the jail?”

“So you’re willing to help?”

“What choice do I have? You’ve made up your mind. Changing it would be like trying to stop a herd of stampeding buffalo.”

“Excellent,” I said, ignoring the unflattering analogy. “I’ll see you at the jail, then, first thing Monday morning.”

He stood and fixed me with those clear, blue-green eyes.

“Just remember, Sarah, this was your idea. Once we’re inside that cell, I mean to have the truth out of Fowler. If necessary, I’m prepared to wring it out of him!”

S
amuel had spent the weekend in the country, so I didn’t have a chance to speak to him until Sunday evening. Before he could start in on the business with Miss Culbertson, I told him what I had learned about Fowler's probable parentage, then recounted the raid we’d staged to save little Chum Ho from the highbinders, including my unwilling visit with Li Ying. To my surprise, he seemed more intrigued than angry.

“What a wonderful story this would make,” he said, journalistic eyes alight.

“Don’t even think about it!”

He laughed. “Relax, Sarah, your secret's safe with me. At least for the time being. I’d give a lot to meet this Li Ying, though. You don’t suppose—”

“No, Samuel, I don’t. Besides, I was blindfolded. I could walk down every street in Chinatown and still have no idea where I was taken.”

There was a sudden burst of laughter outside the library door. Samuel waited until the voices had passed before saying, “Speaking of Chinatown, I had a chance to speak to my contacts before I left town. It seems you were right about Mills, little sister. Evidently he’d been using opium for at least a year, perhaps longer. I don’t know what this does for your case, but it might explain why he was in Chinatown the night he was killed. Unless, of course, he was delivering a blackmail payment to Li.”

“No, I don’t think that was it. As Robert pointed out, why would Li want to kill off a good thing?”

He sat for several minutes, thinking. “You know, Sarah, maybe we’re overlooking the obvious. There's always the possibility Mills was murdered because he owed money to his opium dealer.”

I considered this. “As far as I know Mills wasn’t facing financial difficulty, although I suppose I should check at his bank. But wouldn’t it make more sense for his supplier to simply withhold the drug until Mills paid? Besides, it seems too much of a coincidence that a Chinese opium dealer would just happen to stab Mills in the same anatomical region as Hanaford's killer.”

“Stranger things have happened, but it does seem improbable.” He pulled out his watch. “It's six. I’m late for an engagement.”

“With Hortense Weslyum?” I said with a wry smile. Hortense

was Samuel's latest lady friend, a young woman I found particularly silly and superficial. Hortense, however, had two important qualities to recommend her to my brother: she was very pretty, and her father published the
Morning Chronicle
, a valuable connection for an aspiring journalist.

Samuel grinned. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been invited to attend the opera with Hortense and her parents.”

“Given Hortense's intellect and sparkling wit,” I said with thinly veiled sarcasm, “I’m sure you’ll have a stimulating evening. Do please give my regards to Mr. Weslyum. I understand the
Morning Chronicle
is searching for a new true crime serial. I’m sure he’ll find your ideas fascinating.”

Samuel pulled a face at me—the same one he’d used to tease me since we were children—then hurried off, leaving me alone to contemplate the ruinous case against my client.

I
spent a restless night filled with nightmares about Annjenett being led to the gallows, and awoke the next morning tired and mildly depressed. I was pleased to note, however, that my injured ankle felt a good deal better. Confident I’d be able to hobble about, I dressed and slipped out of the house before anyone could raiseafuss.

True to his word, Robert was waiting for me at the jail. My heart sank, however, at the sight of his dour expression.

“The police have found out about Fowler's connection to Ru-fus Mills,” he bluntly announced. “There's no point looking so stricken, Sarah. You said yourself they were bound to stumble onto Fowler's questionable paternity.”

“Yes, but not so soon. We need more time!”

“Well, we aren’t going to get it. The police have been question-