No Pity For the Dead (26 page)

“You mean to go to the man's funeral, ma'am?” asked Addie, aghast. “To investigate?”

“Indeed, because everyone who was closely acquainted with Virgil Nash should be in attendance. It is possible some might have known Mr. Nash and his brother in Virginia City. Some might even recall the man who killed Silas Nash and be able to provide a description.” One that matched Katie's.

“You canna take to interrogating mourners. 'Tisn't right!”

“There is a risk my actions will eliminate any chance Mrs. Nash shall invite me for tea in the future, is there not, Addie?” Celia asked teasingly.

“Och, get on with you! And if they toss you onto the street, I'll nae be surprised!”

I shall not be surprised, either.

She handed Addie the folded piece of paper. “Give this to Owen. I need him to take it to either Mr. Greaves or Mr. Taylor. It contains information about a note sent to Mr. Nash the day he was killed.”

Addie tucked the message into her skirt pocket.

“I also need you to send a message to Jane that I will come to her house as soon as I'm able.” Celia closed her appointment book and stood. “And please tell the patient I am expecting at twelve that I cannot see her today after all. Hopefully she will not lose her temper with you this time as she did before. And have Barbara speak with my patient expected at one, should I not return by then. It is a simple follow-up evaluation, which she can handle.”

“'Tis unchancy to go to that funeral, ma'am. The killer might be there.”

Which was the very reason she was going. “If I discover his identity, I shall inform the police immediately,” she said. “Oh, and Addie, perhaps you should say nothing to Barbara about my specific plans for the day. Merely say that I have gone out. Agreed?”

“Aye. You can be certain I'll nae tell Miss Barbara you've gone to your doom!”

*   *   *

T
he coffeehouse across from the offices of Martin and Company had large windows that permitted sunlight to stream into the main room and glint off silverware and the polished
wood floor. When Celia stepped through the door, the hum of conversation dipped. The reason was plain—she was the only woman among the handful of men slurping coffee and catching up on news. It was not improper for a woman to enter a coffeehouse, but those who did were unlikely to be wearing mourning attire.

The proprietor, a broad-faced man with a gleaming white apron tied over his clothing, rushed up to her. “Can I help you, ma'am?”

“I was expecting to meet a friend here.” Celia scanned the coffeehouse again, even though the space was not so large that she would have missed seeing Katie, not with the girl's vibrant red hair and boisterous nature to mark her out. Perhaps she had decided not to wait, although Celia was not that tardy, and Katie was not the sort to be impatient. However, it was possible the proprietor had deduced the girl's occupation and tossed her onto the street. “She has red hair and is quite lovely. Has she already departed?”

“Nobody who looks like that has been here, ma'am. But you're welcome to sit and wait for her,” he said, raising a hand to whisper behind it. “Don't worry about the men in here. It's the usual crowd and they're no more dangerous than a pit of fangless snakes.”

An interesting comparison,
she thought. “While I am waiting, I would like a cup of coffee, if you will.”

“Absolutely, ma'am.”

Celia took a seat at a window-side table, feeling the eyes of every male customer upon her. She half turned her head and caught one of them staring at her; when she met his gaze, he grinned, revealing teeth stained by tobacco.

The proprietor delivered her coffee, and Celia clutched the
warm cup while she looked out the window. What she supposed was the typical traffic rumbled past, accompanied by a host of pedestrians—laborers, businessmen, matrons, servants, Chinese laundry boys. She did have a good view of Martin and Company from this vantage point, along with the stationer's next door. A customer emerged, attended by a lad toting wrapped purchases. As she watched them walk off down the street, Celia wondered if the boy was Eddie. If so, she'd missed the opportunity to question him herself.

Her fellow patrons eventually lost interest in her, and the coffee cooled until she did not wish to drink it any longer. It was now half past eleven, according to her Ellery watch, and Celia concluded that Katie would not be coming. She could think of several possible explanations, most of which she did not like.

Please merely have forgotten that you had agreed to meet me here, Katie.

Celia rose and left payment upon the table. “Thank you,” she said to the proprietor, and swept out onto the street. She surveyed the length of the road one last time before rushing to catch the streetcar heading south toward the church.

Most likely, Katie had simply changed her mind. When Celia had suggested the meeting yesterday, she had not looked keen on the idea. Perhaps she had decided it was not in her best interest to endanger herself by identifying murderers. Celia was beginning to think she was right.

The woman who answered Jasper Martin's door showed Nick to a room at the rear of the house. Besides the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco, Nick could smell linseed oil and turpentine, and the scent of roses through the open window currently providing a sunny view of the back garden.

“Policeman to see you, Mr. Martin,” the woman droned to her employer. Martin was reading a newspaper—the
Mercantile Gazette
, it looked like—as he sat in a chair with his legs stretched out on an ottoman, a rug tossed over them.

The thick carpeting underfoot had muffled their footsteps, and Martin looked over, startled from his concentration on his newspaper. His domestic hoofed it before Martin had a chance to tell her to take Nick back to where she'd found him.

“Ah, Mr. Greaves. Seems early in the day for a visit by a
detective.” He folded his paper and tossed it onto a nearby table. “I also suspect my doctor would not approve of my entertaining a police officer. But I find myself curious. Has another of Mr. Hutchinson's workers been found dead?”

Nick dragged his hat from his head. “The night Nash's body was found in the cellar, you were observed running down an alley behind your offices, Mr. Martin.”

“Now I definitely know Johnston wouldn't want me to talk to you about something like that.”

Johnston must be his doctor. “Can you explain your actions that night?”

“I don't think I can, Detective, because I don't recall such an event.” He turned to smile at a yellow songbird that trilled in an ornate cage nearby. When he turned back to Nick, he was still smiling, but there wasn't any way the expression was genuine. “It doesn't sound like something I would do. There's clearly been a mistake.”

“The driver of the wagon waiting for you thinks otherwise.”

“The man's wrong.”

“Furthermore,” Nick continued, “just a few minutes earlier, other witnesses encountered a man who'd been attempting to remove Mr. Nash's body from your office basement. They chased him out of the building and down the alleyway. This man climbed into the wagon I've mentioned and was left off at the corner just a couple dozen yards from your house here.”

The bird stopped singing. Maybe it could sense the tension in the room, which would make it a very intelligent bird.

If Martin had broken even a drop of sweat, Nick couldn't tell. “I went by that evening to make sure the offices had been
locked. I don't trust Mr. Hutchinson's workers when they've been left with the key.”

He's going to confess,
thought Nick. He wished Taylor were with him to take notes.

“When I went around to the back, I found the rear door wide-open. Furious, I went inside to see if anything had been stolen. Good thing I did. The carpenters had left a pile of wood scraps behind, when they know they're supposed to remove all their rubbish. I had one of the neighborhood boys take a message to the stable to bring a wagon to haul the refuse away. The one that was waiting for me at the end of the alley.”

“At that hour?” asked Nick. Martin's story sounded like bunkum to him.

“Why wait until the morning?”

“Most folks would.”

“That's not how my business operates,” said Martin. “So you see, there was an innocent explanation for the wagon, Detective Greaves.”

“Then what's your innocent explanation for why you were seen running down the alleyway and jumping on board it?”

“I found a body,” Martin quipped, pausing to remove his watch from its pocket. After checking the time, he started to snap the lid open and shut repeatedly. As if in response, the little bird in the cage hopped from one perch to another, a flitting blur of yellow. “While I waited for the wagon to arrive, I went back inside the building and noticed light coming from the cellar. A lantern had been left burning. And the stink down there was overwhelming; just about knocked me backward. That was when I saw what remained of Virgil Nash. I didn't at first realize it was Virgil, of course.”

“And you decided to dig him up to get rid of the evidence.”

“No, Detective. Despite the smell, I wanted to know who it was. That's not a crime, is it?”

Nick didn't respond; he'd only cuss at Martin if he did.

“So I began digging,” Martin continued. “Conveniently, the men who'd been working down there had left their shovels behind. It wasn't easy work, let me tell you. And then I heard voices and footsteps coming from upstairs. I didn't know who they were or what they wanted, but I knew I didn't want them to find me, so I left what I was doing and took the back stairs to the second-floor offices. I hoped they'd go away, and I could leave without being detected. Interestingly, I discovered it was simply a boy and Mrs. Davies—I'd met her at a party Mrs. Hutchinson hosted some time ago—and they had no intention of going away. They heard me, and I had no choice but to flee. In hindsight, I realized that was stupid, since I had every right to be there and
they
were the interlopers. I should've had them arrested for trespassing.”

The clicking of the watch lid was setting Nick's teeth on edge.

“Did you kill Virgil Nash, Mr. Martin?” Nick asked. “Or maybe you had him killed? You were overheard saying you wished he were dead. And you sent him threatening notes.”

Martin chuckled. “Those weren't my idea.”

“One of your partners?”

“Why assign blame when the subject is deceased?”

Just some fellows having fun. How amusing.
“Did you kill Nash?”

“No, Detective. As much as I wished Nash would go away permanently, I would never kill him—or have him killed—then
bury him in my place of business and risk having him found there,” he replied, his words as smooth as old bourbon. “Haven't you considered that my partners and I were well aware that men were scheduled to work in the cellar? How can you possibly think any of us are responsible? Only a fool would bury a body on his own premises when he knows others would soon discover it.”

A fool or a very clever man who wanted to seem innocent.

“By the way, corroborating the story you told me earlier, Jean-Pierre has claimed you were eating at his restaurant until late Thursday evening. Guess you weren't.”

“He said that, did he?” Martin asked. “Then I suppose I regret my impulse to own up to my role in this escapade.”

Nick contemplated Jasper Martin. He didn't care for men like him, men whose success made them confident that the rules didn't apply to them. In this city, they were as thick as a blanket of cottonwood fluff on a June day; everywhere you walked, you stepped on one.

“How about this question,” said Nick. “Did you push Mrs. Davies over the wall at Cliff House, afraid she'd spotted you running off on Thursday night?”

“I had no reason to be worried about what she'd seen. Although thanks to her visit yesterday, I know she has also come to the same, wrong conclusion as you have. Poor woman. You should tell her to keep out of police business.”

Nick had lost track of how many times he'd tried to tell her just that.

“I've got one more question for you, Mr. Martin. Then I'll leave you to your recovery.” Nick ran the brim of his hat through his fingers. “Where were you last night?”

“And why are you asking me that?”

“Somebody shot at Mrs. Davies.” It wasn't news; the story was already in the papers.

“Looks like someone's trying to kill her. She should be more careful.” Martin returned his watch to its pocket. “I was here, of course, Detective. Enjoying my bed rest, my dutiful housekeeper paid to stay by my side all night. You can ask her all about it. On your way out.”

Jasper Martin retrieved his newspaper and, with a jerk of his wrists, snapped it open and resumed reading.

*   *   *

T
he Church of the Advent stood south of Market, near manufactories and working men's lodgings, close enough to the gas works that the stench might reach the pews, should the wind shift. A neighborhood that residents of the Nashes' status would normally seek to avoid. Celia could not decide if the choice marked them as more tolerant of the rougher classes or merely less willing to take a carriage across town to a church in the more genteel areas along Stockton or near Union Square.

The tall steeple, overtopped by the lantern that brought to mind a crown, came into view. A hearse from the undertaker's stood arrayed in black at the foot of the steps, the horses' heads weighed down beneath elaborate trappings. Several carriages formed a line along Howard Street, liveried drivers waiting their turn to move forward. A steady stream of mourners climbed the church's front steps, many greeting one another, a convivial sea of dark clothing, black ribbons flapping in the wind.

It was an even greater crowd than she'd expected for a man who, according to Katie, had few friends.

“Stop here,” cried Celia, pounding on the roof of the hack.
She needed to get out now if she was to scrutinize the remaining arrivals and observe any guilty looks on guilty faces.

The hack came to such a sudden halt, she was nearly thrown from her seat. The driver opened the door, and she scrambled down.

“There is no need to wait for me,” she told him, handing him his fare. “I shall fetch a horsecar for my return.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, shutting the door and climbing back onto his bench.

Celia hurried across the road and found a spot near the front of the crowd where she could easily see and be seen by those disembarking from conveyances. She attempted to make eye contact with every man as he arrived. Some smiled—one fellow even winked—but others hustled forward, disliking the bold attention of a strange woman that caused them to glance at their wives to see if they'd taken note. None of the men, however, looked remotely guilt-ridden.

“Is that it, then?” someone in the crowd asked his companion as the arrivals thinned and finally dwindled to nothing. “I was expecting somebody important.”

“The Emp's here,” the companion said.

“I meant somebody
really
important. Not a crackbrain who's convinced he's the emperor of the United States.”

Celia glanced back to see if she could spot the people having the conversation.

“Who important liked Nash? My brother knows a fella who knew him in Virginia City,” said the one man. “According to him, Nash was a real swindler.”

“Aren't they all?” his friend asked, and they walked off.

Aren't they all.

Celia looked up at the church. The rightmost of the double front doors remained open; perhaps she could find a seat and continue her observation of the attendees.

She climbed the short flight of front steps and entered the narthex. A distinguished-looking man halted her before she could charge through the vestibule doors and into the nave.

“The service is about to begin,” he said to her, shifting to block her entrance. As though to underscore his statement, the church bells began to ring.

Celia peered around his shoulder. He was taller than she by half a head, which made the attempt difficult. Beneath the peaked ceiling painted light blue, well-dressed mourners chatted in hushed whispers, and Mr. Nash's casket waited at the head of the aisle. Off to one side, she thought she spotted the feathered top hat and tattered uniform of Emperor Norton. To the other side, a massive bouquet of white flowers filled a corner.

The man noted the direction of her gaze. “Those came from Levi Strauss,” he said with some pride. “But you still can't go in. I don't want my sister disturbed by a late arrival.”

An usher came down the aisle and shut the doors in Celia's face, deepening the shadows in the narthex.

“I am so terribly sorry for arriving late.” Celia smiled her apologies at the man, who was handsome, with his even features. She wondered if his sister, Mrs. Nash, was also handsome. Celia was familiar with the woman's beautiful roses, but she had never seen Mrs. Nash in person. “Perhaps you will not mind if I stand here and wait for the service to conclude, in order to extend my condolences to your sister at that time.”