No Pity For the Dead (28 page)

Jane Hutchinson waited to continue until the young woman was out of earshot. “Have you discovered who killed Mr. Nash?”

Nick gripped the brim of his hat. “Not yet, ma'am. But I think we're close.”

“Then why have you come?”

“I would like to speak with your husband,” he said. “Has he returned from Oakland?”

“About an hour ago. He's in the garden at the moment,” she answered. “Shall I show you back?”

“That's why I'm here, ma'am.”

“Of course. This way, please.”

He followed her through the house and out into the rear yard. Frank was seated on a white-painted iron chair near their flower garden, reading a book, the proper gentleman at his leisure. The bastard.

“Darling, Mr. Greaves is here.” She smiled at her husband, and it made Nick's chest hurt to see the desperate affection on her face.
He's not worth it, Mrs. Hutchinson. Not worth it at all.

Frank glanced up from his reading. “Can't say I've missed seeing you, Nick.” He set an ivory bookmark inside his book and closed it. He looked over at his wife, waiting near the garden door. “I can entertain Mr. Greaves, Jane. You don't need to stay.”

“Should I have Hetty serve lemonade?” she asked, her gaze darting between the men. She was anticipating trouble.

“Somehow I suspect Mr. Greaves isn't in the mood for lemonade. Am I right, Nick?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hutchinson, but not this time.”

“All right. Please excuse me, Mr. Greaves.” A rustle of floral-printed skirts, she swept off, glancing back before she reentered the house.

“Why are you here, Nick?” Frank asked. “Come to arrest me after all? Grace told me what you had intended.”

“You're a bastard, Frank.”

“As if I've never heard that from you before.” He set the book on the iron table at his side and stretched out his legs, pausing to flick a piece of grass off one knee of his pants. “But maybe you'll explain why you've decided to make this announcement today. Is Virgil Nash's murder not keeping you busy enough, and you're so bored, you need to bully me?”

“I know about Katie Lehane.”

Frank shot a look toward the house. “Keep your voice down. She doesn't need to hear.”

Nick strode over, and Frank stood. “How long, Frank? How long have you been visiting her?”

“Don't make it sound like I've slept with her, Greaves. We just spend time together, talking. Playing cards.”

Now he'd heard it all. “How delightful. Playing cards and making small talk every Tuesday and Thursday night.”
When you should be here, with your family.

“I stopped visiting her regularly weeks ago.”

“What, moved on already?”

“You
would
think the worst.” Frank glanced toward the house again. “Listen, Katie's funny and sweet and plays a mean game of beggar my neighbor. That's all that happened.”

“I've got to hand it to you—the timing was perfect on your part,” said Nick, wishing Frank looked more remorseful than he did. “You got the alibi you've needed for the night Nash was killed.” Nick stepped nearer. He clenched his fist, unclenched it again. “But a saloon girl, Frank? You couldn't be more original than that?”

“Like all of a sudden you're so righteous, Nick?” He scoffed. “Don't claim to be better than me. You, whose stupidity killed my cousin.”

“Don't bring Jack into this.”

“Why not? Jack is what it's always been about between us. Your guilt that Jack died because you disobeyed an order. My order.” Frank punched Nick's shoulder, hard enough to dislodge his hat. “I should've seen you court-martialed. It's what you deserved.”

Nick swung at him, his fist connecting with Frank's face and shooting pain through his hand.

Frank staggered backward and fell to the ground. He wiped a hand over his split lip; there was blood on his fingers. “I'll see you reprimanded for this.”

“And make sure everybody knows why I hit you? You think anybody would blame me?” Nick reached down and grabbed Frank's coat lapels, hauling him to his feet. “Did you do this to Arabella, too? Huh? Sleep with other women?”

“Oh, now we're talking about Ara—”

“Did you?” Nick shook him. “Did you, Frank?”

“Don't be absurd. You think I'd bother with other women when I had Arabella?” Frank wrapped his fingers around Nick's hands and pried loose his grip. “I know you loved her, Nick. Mooning after her like a lovesick schoolboy. But she was mine. Mine!”

Nick felt his face go hot. “She was too good for you. You didn't deserve her, and you don't deserve Jane, either.” He bent down to retrieve his hat. “You're an idiot,” he said as he brushed the grass from it and set it on his head. “A damned idiot.”

He turned his back to Frank. A stupid move, because in moments he was flat on the ground, seeing stars.

Celia tugged the Hutchinsons' front door bell again and waited for a response. Jane had to be home; she had asked Celia to visit. Furthermore, someone was there, because she could hear shouts emanating from the rear of the house.

Suddenly the door swung open to reveal a wide-eyed Hetty. “You've got to get them to stop, ma'am! Mrs. Hutchinson is back there, trying to pry them apart, and I'm afraid she's going to get hurt!” she cried. “It's just a good thing Miss Grace has gone out and isn't here to see this!”

“What?” Celia asked, confused.

“Mr. Hutchinson and that detective fellow.”

Gad.

Celia gathered her skirts in her fists and ran down the hallway to the rear of the house, Hetty pounding after her. She burst
through the garden door to see Nicholas and Frank wrestling in the grass. Not wrestling—beating each other. And Jane futilely attempting to intervene.

“What in heaven's name!” Celia cried. “Mr. Greaves!”

“Stop!” screeched Jane, giving up on her efforts to pry the men apart and resorting to pummeling her husband's back. She grabbed the collar of Frank's coat but lost her grip and tumbled to the ground.

“Jane, what on earth is going on?” Celia asked, helping Jane to her feet and dragging her friend away from the melee.

“They're punching each other,” Jane replied unhelpfully.

“You
are
a bastard,” shouted Nicholas Greaves before landing a fist on Frank's midsection.

One of Jane's neighbors had come to her upper-floor window to stare down at the fight. At any moment, Celia expected to hear a policeman banging on the Hutchinsons' front door.

“Mr. Greaves! Frank! Cease this at once!” Celia kicked Nicholas' boot, which had the hoped-for effect of getting him to pause and glare at her. Unfortunately, Frank took advantage of the break and delivered a blow to the detective's face.

“Frank!” Jane wrested herself free from Celia's clasp and grabbed her husband's shoulders, successfully wrenching him off Mr. Greaves. “Quit this now!”

Frank, breathing hard, rolled away. His face was bleeding in several places, and what wasn't bleeding was covered in dirt. “Jane, go back into the house.”

“I won't. I intend to stay here until you stop this nonsense.”

Frank glared at Nick. “Tell
him
to stop this nonsense.”

“You son—” Nick glanced over at Celia and held his tongue. “I'm only stopping because there are ladies present.”

“Thank goodness, then.” Jane dropped to her knees at her husband's side. She retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and blotted it over his face. “I would now like somebody to tell me what this was all about.”

Celia exchanged a look with Mr. Greaves. She was positive the fight had been over Katie Lehane.
How horrid.

“I had a brother, Jane. Men always fight about the silliest things,” said Celia, entering into the conspiracy of silence to save Jane's feelings. Her friend already felt inadequate in the shadow of Arabella's memory. There was no need to add to her misery. “Perhaps this little scuffle is best forgotten. Don't you agree, gentlemen?”

“Sure,” said Mr. Greaves. “Don't you agree, Frank?”

“Go to hades, Greaves,” said Frank, brushing off his wife's efforts to clean his face. “Please, Jane, that's enough.”

Mr. Greaves lurched unsteadily to his feet. He tried to frown at Celia, but his lips were swollen and cut, and she suspected that the effort hurt. “Thanks for your help.”

“As it appears I facilitated the conclusion of this brawl, you are most welcome for my help,” she responded, holding her hands stiff at her sides to keep from running them over his wounds. The one on his left cheek would likely leave a scar. “It seems most fortunate I arrived when I did and was able to get you two to cease your ridiculous quarrel. Unless you wanted it known that you were exchanging fisticuffs with a person connected to one of your investigations?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“Not in the least, Mr. Greaves.”

“Oh, I think you are.” He retrieved his hat, lost during the scuffle, and dusted it off. “I'll be taking my leave, Mrs. Hutchinson. Good day to you.”

“Please stay, Celia,” said Jane. “I do want to talk to you.”

“Given this . . . altercation, I believe it best that I leave as well,” she said, observing the miserable look on Frank's face. Maybe he would explain the cause of the fight to his wife and prove to be the man Celia had come to believe him to be. She sincerely hoped so. “Shall I come by tomorrow instead?”

Jane nodded. “Thank you.”

Celia caught up to Mr. Greaves in the hallway.

“I was wrong about that woman being a delicate flower,” he said. “She's got backbone.”

“Jane?” Celia asked. “Yes, she does. As for you, you should come to the clinic. That cut on your cheekbone requires stitching. Unless you prefer to bleed everywhere.”

“I knew you were enjoying this,” he said, not waiting for Hetty to materialize in order to open the front door for them. He ushered Celia through, banging it shut behind them. “And you don't need to take care of me, ma'am.”

“Apparently I do, which makes me wonder who tended to you before we were acquainted.”

“Don't think I ever got into scrapes before we were acquainted, Mrs. Davies.”

“Ah yes. The sedate life of the San Francisco police detective,” she said, allowing him to take her elbow as they descended the front steps.

“It
was
pretty boring.”

Despite her upset, she laughed.

“Be that as it may, your cuts do require attention,” she said as they reached the pavement and turned up the road. His left eye was swelling, but at least the cut beneath it had ceased dripping. She rooted through her reticule for a handkerchief and gave it to
him. “And please do wipe your face. You shall alarm the citizenry if you walk about looking like that.”

He did as she ordered and rubbed off the drying blood. “Here.” He handed back her thoroughly stained handkerchief. “I'll have Mrs. Jewett sew up the cut. She's pretty good with a needle.”

“You shall do no such thing, Mr. Greaves. I insist on stitching it myself,” said Celia, tucking away the handkerchief. “Furthermore, you will want to hear all that I learned from Mr. Levi Strauss about the man who killed Silas Nash. He witnessed the crime.”

“You went to talk to Levi Strauss?”

“I did,” she said. “He described a man who had a distinctive characteristic in common with the man Katie encountered at Burke's. A man whose cheeks turned unusually red when agitated.”

“So Pike
is
in San Francisco,” he said. “Does that describe any of our suspects, though?”

“Not that I am aware, Mr. Greaves. But more worryingly,” said Celia, “I had an appointment with Katie this morning to see if any of the men at Martin and Company could possibly be the man she encountered at Burke's. But she never arrived for the meeting.”

“Do you think she forgot?” he asked.

“I am wondering if she changed her mind. She was not keen to help identify a man who could be a killer, which I completely understand.”

“Or she didn't change her mind, but was prevented from coming.”

Fear fluttered in her stomach. “I was hoping to avoid that conclusion, Mr. Greaves.”

“Not thinking the worst doesn't make it go away, ma'am,”
he answered, looking grim, which worried her more than her own fears.

“Then we must try to find her, and quickly,” said Celia, increasing her pace.

Mr. Greaves matched her stride. “I thought you wanted to stitch my cut first.”

“I suggest we do not waste time, then.”

*   *   *

“M
r. Greaves, you look awful!” Grace Hutchinson announced from where she stood in the center of Celia Davies' parlor, her expression somewhere between horror and amusement. Her mother, Arabella, would've given him the exact same look before laughter won out. Mrs. Davies' cousin, standing next to her friend, wasn't horrified or amused. She was clearly furious.

“Thanks, Miss Hutchinson,” he answered, which cracked open the cut on his bottom lip that had healed shut on the way here. Maybe he just shouldn't talk. Since his wounds had come from trying to beat her father to a pulp, he didn't have much good to say, anyway.

“Grace, I did not realize you planned to visit us today,” said Celia Davies, discarding her bonnet.

“Bee sent for me,” she said, her gaze never leaving Nick's face. “Golly, Detective Greaves.”

“Indeed,” responded Mrs. Davies. “Come into the clinic, Detective. And before you let loose your temper, Barbara, please inform Addie that I am in need of hot water. Quickly, please.”

Miss Walford stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. He expected Grace to go with her, but she didn't, choosing instead to trail after Nick and Mrs. Davies. “What happened, Mr. Greaves? Were you assaulted by a criminal?”

Nick choked back a response and dropped onto one of the chairs situated inside Celia Davies' examination room. He was starting to hurt nearly everywhere, which he realized when his behind met the hard wood of the seat and the impact jolted through his body.

“He and your father had a small disagreement,” said Mrs. Davies as she rounded up supplies and set them out upon the compact table at his side.

“My father did this?” asked Grace, amazed by the possibility. “Does he look this bad, too?”

Mrs. Davies glanced over at Nick and then at the girl. “Yes, Grace. He does.”

“Man alive! This didn't happen because of what I said, did it?”

“You should discuss that with your father,” Mrs. Davies said evasively, and snipped a length of silk suture. Lighting the oil lamp on the table, she turned its flame high and drew it closer to Nick. She propped a cool fingertip beneath his chin and tilted his head. He could smell the lavender that always scented her clothes, and he wondered if she noticed him take a deep breath of it. “Not too many stitches. Three or four only, perhaps. The cut is not as bad as I feared.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Her cousin came in with the pot of hot water wrapped in a towel, which she set near Mrs. Davies. She was still frowning, which made Nick wonder what was bothering her. It wasn't like she was mad that Frank Hutchinson had roughed him up. No, he suspected her mood had everything to do with her guardian's propensity for bringing home trouble.

“Addie said she'd like to come in here herself and see what's happened to Mr. Greaves, but she can't leave her cooking,”
Barbara Walford said. “She's also curious about what you learned at Mr. Nash's funeral, which explains where you were while I had to take care of your clinic for you.”

“You went
there
, too?” Nick asked. She'd had a busy day. Getting pushed over a wall and then shot at wasn't enough to slow her down, apparently.

Mrs. Davies' response was to go on as if he hadn't spoken. “I will tell her later,” she said, and poured a quantity of the water into a waiting bowl. She opened a glass vial labeled
TINCTURE OF CALENDULA
and counted out drops into the water. “And Mr. Greaves has enough spectators as it is.”

“Addie also says your patient yelled at her.”

Lines of tension creased the skin around Mrs. Davies' mouth. “I am sorry for that, but I had matters to attend.”

“Don't be cross, Bee,” said Grace, taking her friend's hand and squeezing. “She's trying to help my father so he isn't blamed for killing that man.”

“Why not resume whatever you two girls were doing earlier?” Mrs. Davies asked, dipping a cloth into the water and dabbing Nick's cuts. “Perhaps you should practice your music for your Independence Day fete, Grace.”