No Pity For the Dead (16 page)

In front of strangers, he meant.
Me specifically,
thought Celia. Although the remark was hypocritical, given his thinly concealed comment to Frank.

Dorothea Russell gaped like a beached fish, her mouth opening and closing nearly in unison with the snapping of Mr. Martin's watch lid. “Mr. Martin! I must protest this attack upon my husband. He is blameless!”

She risked much, confronting the man who employed her husband as an architect, and whose money had gone to purchase the lovely shell cameo brooch pinned at the lace collar of her expensive delaine gown.

“Dottie.” Mr. Russell shushed her with a wave of his hand. “It's all right.”

“No, it isn't, Abram. He's impugning your integrity,” she said, glaring at Jane even though Mr. Martin had been the man doing the impugning.

Jane did not see; she was clasping her hands together in her lap, her face a mask of composure as she whispered something to Grace. Mr. Martin had turned to look at her, his gaze slowly transferring to Celia. She returned his stare; she found his manner threatening, but she would not be cowed. It was clear he was not a man to cross, however, and she wondered if Mr. Nash had learned that lesson the hard way.

“He was with me that night, Jasper,” repeated Mr. Russell in his own act of rebellion, given the conversation that had just passed between them. He might be a weak link, speaking in front of Celia without restraint, but he was loyal to Frank.

“How can you even be sure, Russell?” asked Mr. Martin.

Abram Russell subsided into his chair and gestured for the waiter to come and refill his glass. More rebellion. Celia wondered how long he would continue as a partner at Martin and Company if he could not learn to control his habits.

“Virgil Nash was a terrible man who cheated all sorts of people,” said Dorothea Russell, persisting in her defense of her husband. “Any one of them must have wanted to get rid of him. Nobody liked him. A grasping, hateful person. Standing in the way of progress.”

Finished with her speech, she fanned her face with her serviette. Silence descended over the table, except for the irritating sound of Mr. Martin's watch lid.

Jane, ashen, had been listening quietly, trying to catch her husband's attention and failing. “How about we all go for a stroll
down to the beach?” she suggested. “I could use a walk to digest this wonderful meal.”

“A splendid idea, Mrs. Hutchinson,” said Mr. Russell, pushing back his chair and standing. He swayed as he assisted his wife. “I think we could all use some fresh air.”

“Some more than others,” muttered Jane.

The girls jumped up as the rest of the party stood. Celia felt every eye in the room upon them. Mr. Martin went to speak to Captain Foster while they filed out of the dining room. The girls took up the rear.

“Thank you for suggesting we go for a walk, Jane,” Celia said quietly to her. “I feared the men were about to come to blows.”

“Jasper would never resort to violence,” she replied, sounding certain. “But I'm afraid Abram will pay for his behavior today.”

“Does he always drink so heavily?” Celia asked, watching him as he passed through the front door. He was leaning more on his wife's arm than she on his.

“Not in front of Jasper.”

Celia and Jane paused just outside the door as the rest continued on, heading for the rutted drive that took carriages and promenaders alike to the beach. Grace and Barbara rushed ahead, though they both appeared more subdued than before.

“Grace told Barbara that Detective Greaves hates her father,” said Celia. “Why might that be?”

“They've known each other for years, but that's all Frank will tell me.”

Bad blood, then. Which did not bode well for Mr. Greaves' objectivity. “Jane, are you certain that Frank was with Mr. Russell
Thursday evening and the night Mr. Nash died, May twenty-eight?”

“You heard Abram.” Jane clutched her fringed shawl around her shoulders, tendrils of hair teased free of her bonnet by the sea breeze. “And Frank says he was. I have to believe him.” Her green eyes searched Celia's face. “If I do not believe him, what does that say about me as a wife? I have tried so hard, and it hasn't been easy. He and Grace . . .” She paused, tears trembling on her lashes. “He and Grace are very close, and it hasn't been easy to replace Arabella. She's a ghost in our house, a specter that refuses to leave. I try not to see the looks that pass between my husband and Grace, the secret signals, the winks—yes, I saw it, too, Celia—I try to not see them and be hurt. I try to show them both I belong, that my love is worthwhile. So I can't doubt Frank. Even if I do.”

Celia reached for Jane's hands and clasped them in hers. They were icy cold. “I am sorry it has been hard.”

“You've lost a spouse. Maybe you understand Frank's abiding grief.”

No. I do not.

Just then, a shout came from their right. Near a curve in the drive wall, a crowd had gathered, blocking carriages of those wanting to make the passage down to the shoreline. They were clustered around someone who was trapped in the middle of the group. A man on horseback had stopped to one side, his view unencumbered by bodies and hats.

“You don't belong here, China girl!” a male voice called out. Celia felt sick.

“Barbara!” she cried, and began running toward the group.
Not again. Not again!

Through a break in the mob, she could see Barbara and Grace huddled together in the center. A man in a tweed coat shoved her, but she stood firm.

“Leave me alone!” Barbara exclaimed, though she was pale. Her bonnet had been knocked askew.

“Stop!” Celia pushed through the crowd, which parted slightly, then once again merged like water flowing around a stone to fill in the gap she'd created. One or two looked over at her, interested in the source of the voice, clipped and angry, her cultured accent clear. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not seem to forge a path, the press of bodies forcing her to the rock wall lining the roadway. “She is my cousin and has harmed none of you. Shame on you all!”

At that, a few of the bystanders trundled off, looking guilty. Behind Celia, Jane squeezed through the crowd. Frank had heard the shouts and ran to join them, catching up to his wife. Celia didn't notice the Russells, but the gaunt man off to her left who was half-hidden by a rotund fellow in plaid might be Mr. Martin. He did not appear eager to help, however.

Grace wrapped her arms about Barbara and glared at the people clustered around them. “You're all louses!”

Celia's hip bumped hard against the rock wall. A man shifted, blocking her view, and she leaned over the wall to try to see around him. She had to get to Barbara and extract her from this mob.

Then she felt a hand at her side, shoving her. Distracted by her cousin's plight, she lost her balance. She grabbed for the wall, slowing her descent. But her fingers could not maintain their grip on the damp stone, and she tumbled headfirst, her hands outstretched to hold off the sharp rocks rushing ever
closer.

Celia's descent ended right before her head connected with the boulders. As she hung there with someone's strong hands wrapped around her ankles, a tremendous wave crashed against the cliff, spraying frigid seawater against her face. A sea lion looked up at her, seemingly intrigued by her predicament.

Jane was screeching. “Celia! Are you hurt?”

Celia pressed her hands against the ground and tried to twist around to see who held on to her. Her corset, as ever, prevented her.

“I am unharmed.”
Though thoroughly mortified.
The hem of her gown was inching ever closer to her hips, and the air was cold against her exposed stockings.
How bloody embarrassing.
For once, she was grateful for the stiffness of her crinoline, which had, for the most part, remained in place over her legs.

“Frank, I think Mr. Greaves has her,” said Jane.

Nicholas. Thank heavens.

But what on earth was
he
doing here?

“Mrs. Davies, I'm going to lower you down,” said Mr. Greaves. “It's not that steep right where you are. You'll be able to get your footing. Just be ready. Okay?”

“I am ready.”

He lowered her until she could support her weight. Mr. Greaves let go, and she collapsed in an undignified heap.

Celia slapped her skirt into place and sat up. The distance from the top of the wall to the ledge of rocks she'd settled on, which had seemed to stretch infinitely far away when she was falling, was in truth seven or eight feet at most. Enough of a height to have broken her neck, however, if she had landed wrong. Had the person who shoved her intended to kill her, or had it merely been an accident?

She studied the faces peering over the wall. Barbara and Grace were gaping back at her alongside Jane, whose color had drained from her cheeks. Frank stood next to Mr. Greaves, who eyed him with suspicion. Dorothea Russell had arrived and smirked behind her hand. Jasper Martin had taken up a post off to one side, apparently unwilling to be associated with the spectacle. The rest of the crowd had thinned considerably, though the sight of a woman hanging upside down over the crashing waves had to have been highly entertaining. Celia could only hope the incident would not be in the newspapers tomorrow.

“Mr. Greaves, I was not expecting you here,” said Celia with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances.

“Good thing I came along,” he said. “Looks like you needed
help. Although it was Mr. Hutchinson who grabbed you first. He seems to have damaged your skirt in the process.”

There was indeed a huge rip in her favorite dress. Better a tear in her gown, however, than to have her neck snapped in two.

“Thank you, Mr. Hutchinson.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Pretty convenient he was right there when you fell,” said Mr. Greaves.

“What are you implying?” Frank shot back.

“Gentlemen!” Celia called out, interrupting their tiff. “Rather than quarrel, perhaps you could provide some assistance in returning me to the proper side of the wall.”

Hand outstretched, Frank leaned down, but Mr. Greaves nudged him aside. “I'll take care of this. Here, ma'am.” Mr. Greaves extended his gloved hands. “However, you wouldn't need assistance if you hadn't fallen over in the first place.”

“Very amusing, Mr. Greaves.”

She grabbed his hands and scrabbled up the rock face, loosened pebbles clattering to fall into the water. In one motion, Mr. Greaves pulled her onto the top of the wall.

“Thank you,” she said to him, her breathing steadying, now that she was safe.
Or perhaps I am not truly safe.

“Don't think you would've come to much harm,” he said. “As I said, it's not all that steep right where you fell.”

“Nonetheless,” she replied. His words might indicate a lack of concern; his gaze told a different story.

Barbara rushed over and clasped Celia around the waist. Celia closed her eyes, hugging her cousin in return. “Are you all right, Barbara?” she murmured against her cousin's silk-covered bonnet.

“I want to go home,” Barbara replied.

“So do I.”

“What happened?” Jane asked Celia. “One moment, you were just a few feet in front of me. The next, you were tumbling over the wall.”

“It felt as though someone pushed me,” Celia answered, giving Barbara a tight squeeze and then releasing her.

She avoided looking at anyone in particular; Mr. Greaves was being sufficiently thorough as he examined every face for guilt.

“There was such a crush of people,” said Jane. “Frank, you had to have seen what happened, since you were close enough to Celia to grab her.”

“I was worried for Grace's safety, and my attention was focused on her,” he said. At some point he'd lost his hat, and he squinted in the sunlight. “Though I did, obviously, see Mrs. Davies fall, I didn't notice anyone push her.”

“Do you swear to that, Hutchinson?” Mr. Greaves asked him.

“I did
not
push Mrs. Davies,” he answered firmly. Frank glanced at his daughter, who intentionally evaded his look.
What does that mean?
Celia wondered.

“My husband would never harm Celia!” said Jane. “What nonsense!”

Celia clambered down from the wall with Mr. Greaves' help. Her right hip ached; she'd likely find a bruise there tomorrow.

“Did anybody see who pushed this woman?” Mr. Greaves queried the remaining gawkers. He pulled out his badge, which did not have the desired effect of encouraging anyone to be forthcoming.

“An accident, Detective. No one pushed her,” drawled Mr.
Martin. “The gravel is loose, and she lost her footing in her hurry to get to her cousin's side. That's all. Nothing sinister.”

She wouldn't correct him by pointing out that she had distinctly felt a hand on her side.

Mr. Martin extracted his pocket watch and popped open the lid. “It's time to depart,” he announced, and signaled for the hostler to fetch his carriage.

The crowd dispersed. Abram Russell, who had arrived to join his wife, took Mrs. Russell's arm and led her away.

“If you didn't push her, Hutchinson, who did?” Mr. Greaves asked Frank.

“An accident, Greaves. As Mr. Martin has said.”

They stared like two dogs circling while each assessed the strengths and weaknesses of the other.

“Barbara, go on ahead with Grace,” said Celia to her cousin. They did not need to overhear this conversation. The two girls headed quietly for the Hutchinsons' rockaway.

“First, a man you fought with turns up dead, Frank, and now, a woman you were standing near almost falls to her death,” Mr. Greaves was saying. “I don't like those sorts of coincidences. Looks bad for you, doesn't it?”

“Why not arrest me, then, Nick?” Frank dared him.

“Maybe I will. Especially since Mr. Russell, your good friend, has contradicted your claim that you two were at some saloon on Thursday night.”

Gad,
thought Celia.

“Frank, what does he mean?” asked Jane.

“He's trying to trick me into an admission, Jane. If he had any proof I'd done something wrong, he'd arrest me, but he isn't going to, because I haven't,” he said. “Everyone knows how I felt about
Virgil Nash, Greaves. I didn't like him because he turned out to be a cheat. But I didn't kill him, try to dig him up on Thursday, or attempt to hurt Mrs. Davies. So find someone else to bully.”

He stalked off to where the rockaway was tied to the fence.

“Sorry about that, ladies,” said Mr. Greaves. He tipped his hat to them and set off to question the few people who'd remained behind to watch the proceedings.

“I thought they were going to come to blows,” said Jane, pressing a hand to her throat. “This is awful. What an awful, awful day.”

“I shall prove your husband is not guilty, Jane. I promise.” But, oh dear, matters did not look good at all.

“Come back in our carriage, Celia,” she said. “I don't want to drive back with Mr. Martin, and I don't want you with him, either. Come with us. There's room if we all squeeze in tight together. Grace can sit on the front bench with her father.”

“I can return with Mr. Martin, rather than make you all uncomfortable—”

“No! No. I mean . . .” Her gaze slid to where Jasper Martin was climbing into his carriage.

Mr. Martin?
“Do you not want me to go with Mr. Martin because you thought you saw him push me?”

“But I can't be right, can I?”

Then why are you suggesting I not ride back into town with him?

“Or maybe it was that man I noticed earlier. But I was wrong about him, too, wasn't I?” said Jane. She went from looking concerned to looking concerned and confused. “I know I'm being silly, but I'd really prefer that you come with us.”

“If you insist, Jane.”

“I do. I'll tell Mr. Martin we're taking you home,” Jane said,
and headed for where Jasper Martin stood near the carriage shed.

“So what did she have to say?” asked Nicholas Greaves, who had returned to Celia's side without her hearing his approach, the crashing waves muffling the sound of his boots on the gravel.

“She thinks Mr. Martin pushed me, but she is unwilling to say as much.”

“Because that's a dangerous accusation when your husband works for the man.”

“Speaking of Frank, what is this animosity between you two, Mr. Greaves?” she asked. “It is not simply because his account for Thursday night appears to have a hole in it.”

The brim of his hat cast shadows over his eyes, concealing any thoughts that might have been revealed in them. He was never easy to read, though, in sunshine or shadows.

“Isn't it?” he asked.

“Now you are being disingenuous,” she said. “You think Frank pushed me, don't you?”

“He was the nearest to where you were standing, Mrs. Davies, although Martin wasn't so far away, either.”

“But Frank grabbed me and stopped me from falling.”

“Hmm,” he said, which was an unsatisfying response to her observation. Mr. Greaves might have a good reason to suspect Frank, and that reason might reach back years, underpinning the hatred that crackled between them like sparks off wool. But it was clear he did not wish to share that reason with her.

“Did you see any of the men from Mr. Hutchinson's work crew here?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Jane made a comment while we were finishing our meal
that she had seen one of Frank's men on the terrace outside, but then decided she was in error.”

“I didn't recognize anybody in the crowd, but then I'd only just arrived and the excitement with your cousin was already under way.”

“And why
were
you here, Mr. Greaves?” Celia asked.

“Maybe I'd developed a sudden hankering to visit Seal Rocks and see Ben Butler.”

“Why do I suspect that is not the real reason?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips even though her entire body had begun to ache and she was feeling light-headed, which made smiling a wearying exercise.

“Maybe I simply know when it's time to worry that you might be about to get yourself into trouble, ma'am,” he said.

She let the smile take hold. “I must say I am glad you do.”

*   *   *

O
wen yawned and adjusted his stance, his back aching from leaning against the wall of the corner grocery while he spied on Dan's lodgings across the way and a few doors down. Dang, but his feet hurt, too. He'd spent the morning staring at Rob Bartlett's boardinghouse and got nothing out of that, either. Other than to have somebody toss the contents of a slop bucket into the gutter near his feet, splattering his boots.

He wanted to be a cop like Mr. Greaves, though, and this was the sorta thing they did, wasn't it? Kept an eye on suspects? Sure, he hadn't succeeded at the Golden Hare last night, but he had to keep trying, didn't he? All he'd seen so far, though, was a ragtag bunch of fellas coming in and out of the front door to Dan's lodgings, looking like they were heading out to raise Cain even though it was Sunday.