No Pity For the Dead (32 page)

His grip tightened, cutting off her circulation, and Celia's fingertips began to tingle. “That partner was my brother, Mrs. Davies, and the Nashes' lawyers were able to convince the judge we didn't have a case. That our claim was an offshoot of theirs and they had a right to it. We had nothing left. Nothing. Drove my brother to drink.” A shadow fell over his eyes. “And then one night he got himself trampled by a runaway horse. An accident, the cops said. Only it wasn't an accident. It was those Nash brothers, trying to get rid of trouble.”

“John, stop this nonsense,” said Maryanne, her voice wobbling. “Mrs. Davies, don't listen.”

John kept talking. “I didn't go looking for them, but when I went into that restaurant and saw them Nashes yucking it up while my own brother was dead and buried . . .” He released Celia's elbow. “I lost my head. I said some things, showed my knife. I only wanted to scare him, I swear. But you can't scare a Nash. Silas stood there and laughed at me. Laughed. And I saw red and lunged. Cut him deeper than I expected to. There was blood . . . Don't think I've ever seen a man leak so much blood before. Did he ever look surprised.”

Maryanne had started to sob. “John, don't talk crazy like
this. Mrs. Davies, don't listen to him, please. He's been working too hard.”

“That's enough, Maryanne,” he replied gruffly, his attempt at sounding Irish long forgotten. No wonder they lived here and not in the Irish neighborhood of South Beach where the residents would have detected his deception straightaway.

“You might have expected to encounter Virgil Nash in San Francisco, when so many of the men who became rich in Nevada have come here,” said Celia, her brain whirling. How could she escape? If she managed to flee, would he harm Maryanne or the neighbor girl instead? “Nonetheless, you were surprised to see him at Burke's.”

“I'd seen him once before at Martin and Company,” he answered, “but I wasn't sure it was him. Being rich had made him soft, and he'd lost part of his arm. But the second time, I knew it was him for sure.”

“You could have left San Francisco.”
Rather than kill him.

“I thought about leaving. I might've, except for the baby.” He jerked a chin in Maryanne's direction, whose sobbing had turned to hiccups. “She couldn't travel in her condition, and I wasn't going to leave her. Besides, I was tired of running. Colorado. Indian country. Texas. Mexico. So many places, always scared I'd get caught. I thought I could stay out of Nash's way, but Hutchinson asked him to come to Martin and Company one more time to talk about the work on Second Street, and he wanted me there, too.”

“Oh, John,” moaned Maryanne.

Her husband continued to explain without any prompting from Celia. In fact, he seemed relieved to finally admit the truth. “So I figured I'd arrange a meeting first and propose a deal. Tell
him that, in exchange for keeping quiet about me, I'd convince Russell and Hutchinson to oppose Martin's plans for the cut.”

“How did you plan to do that?” she asked, part of her mind engrossed in his story, the other part wondering where the neighbor girl was and what might happen if she came upstairs and interrupted them.

“I'd heard Hutchinson was friendly with that saloon girl. I'd seen them together at her place. He'd sure want that kept quiet,” he said, and Celia wondered how long John Kelly had been spying on Katie. “And Russell was an opium eater. I spotted him once. In Chinatown. Old Martin would've been mad as a hornet if he'd found out. Russell even owed Dan money.”

“What's that about Dan, John?” asked Maryanne.

“So you had Eddie take a note to Virgil Nash, pretending it was from Jasper Martin to ensure he would show up at that meeting,” said Celia.

“He came, all right. Didn't recognize me straightaway, not without my beard, but, boy, once he figured it out, was he shocked to come across me again,” he said. “I made my proposal. I should've figured he wouldn't agree. Instead, he laughed. Just like Silas had laughed. It wasn't my fault, see?”

“I'm sure you never meant to kill him,” said Celia.

“No, I didn't. I swear I didn't.”

“John!” Maryanne shouted, causing the baby to yowl. “What did you do? What are you saying? What's any of this got to do with my brother?”

“I'm sorry, Maryanne, I am,” he said, the blush of red subsiding from his cheeks. “But when Nash laughed at me, I got out my knife . . . It was over before I could think.”

Maryanne hugged her infant close, his cries muffled against her chemise. “No. No. This can't be.”

“I took his watch and money to make it look like a robbery. Wrapped him in some oilcloth left in the alley. Cleaned up. Got lucky that the coals in the box stove were still hot enough to burn the rags I used,” Mr. Kelly continued while Celia ticked through the list of possible ways she could escape. He was blocking the only way out, though, and she would never be capable of shoving him aside; he was a good three or four stone heavier than she. “Might've worked, too, if Dan hadn't run into me outside the offices when I wasn't supposed to be there. When he found Nash's body, I knew he'd think I'd killed him and put him in the cellar.”

Why won't he leave me be?
 . . . Dan hadn't meant Nash; he had meant the brother-in-law who'd constantly criticized him and made him miserable.

“How could you, John?” Maryanne cried out. “How could you? You killed my brother!”

This time, he looked away from Celia. “I didn't, Maryanne. I didn't, I swear. I went to see him, tried to explain, gave him the money I took off Nash in order to get him to leave town and forget what he saw; that's all. He had an accident.”

“Oh, John.”

With no time for a second thought, Celia swung her portmanteau and struck him in the face, surprise as much as the blow itself staggering him to his knees. She bolted past him into the hallway, running for the stairs. She heard him shout as she plunged down the steps, stumbling over her skirts.

The bottom of the staircase looked so very distant, and she could hear his feet pounding on the steps above her. She was
halfway down. Her pulse thudded in her head. The neighbor girl had come from the back of the house to stare up at them, her mouth agape. Just a few more steps. Then to the door. Maryanne screeched from the bedchamber. Two more steps. Celia tripped, tumbling to the ground, her portmanteau flying from her grasp.

She landed in a heap on the floor. Above her, John Kelly's body was outlined by the shaft of light coming from the upstairs bedchamber.

He had a pistol in his hand, the faint lamplight glinting off the barrel aimed at her. Slowly, he descended the narrow staircase until he stood on the bottom step. “I hate to do this, ma'am,” he said, looking down at her. “You've been good to my wife and me.”

Her portmanteau was within reach if she simply slid her hand over to it; but she couldn't risk betraying her intentions by taking her eyes off his face in order to determine where her medical bag lay.

“You do not wish to shoot me, Mr. Kelly,” she said, quivering so greatly that her teeth clacked against one another. “I trust you did not mean to last night, and you do not mean to now.” She scrambled to her knees, the motion inching her nearer to her bag. But her crinoline and her skirts were a terrible hindrance. “I also believe you did not mean to kill either of the Nashes. But if you shoot me now, it shall be murder and you shall hang.”

His answer to her logic was to pull back the hammer, the click seeming to echo in Celia's head.

The neighbor girl had crept into the hallway, her thin-soled boots whispering across the raggedy carpet. She stared at them both, her mouth agape.

“I'll say I thought you were an intruder,” Mr. Kelly responded to Celia. “This one here won't say different, will you, girl?”

The girl shook her head.

Celia had shifted enough to reach the portmanteau, and she wrapped her fingers around the handles. “But think of your wife. How upset she shall be. And after losing her brother . . .”

“You gonna shoot her?” the neighbor girl asked.

John Kelly turned the gun on her, and she screamed. “Shut up!” he yelled.

She screamed louder, a piercing wail, and he shot at her, the sound deafening in the confined space. The girl fell to the floor, clutching her arm, her blood a rapidly spreading bloom of crimson across her sleeve.

“I'm murdered!” the girl keened.

Mr. Kelly lowered his gun. “I'm sorry,” he stammered, gaping at what he'd done. “I didn't mean . . .”

Now, Celia. Now.

Muttering a hasty prayer, Celia clambered to her feet and swung her bag at him with all her strength.

The front door burst open and a man shouted, “Get down!”

But there was no need for Celia to drop to the ground, as Mr. Kelly lay unconscious at her feet. Her portmanteau had connected with the left side of the man's head, rendering him momentarily senseless.

She turned to face the door. “You may lower your weapon, Mr. Greaves.”

The detective exhaled and carefully returned the hammer to a safe position. “In one piece, Mrs. Davies?”

Though the entry hall was nearly dark as night, she could see the relieved expression on his face.

“In one piece, Mr. Greaves,” she replied as Mr. Taylor hurried around his supervisor. He carried a pair of handcuffs, which he quickly secured around John Kelly's wrists.

“What's happened?” called Maryanne from the top of the stairs, leaning against the balustrade, her swaddled newborn clutched in her arms. “John? John!”

“He shall recover, Mrs. Kelly,” said Celia. “Return to bed before you do yourself harm.”

“But what are you doing? Where are you taking him?” Mrs. Kelly asked Mr. Taylor, who'd roused her husband and was lifting him to his feet. “John!”

“He is going to the police station to be charged, Mrs. Kelly,” answered Mr. Greaves, holstering his gun. “And please go to bed as Mrs. Davies suggests.”

Crying, Maryanne returned to her bedchamber.

Celia collected her medical bag and knelt next to the neighbor girl, who had struggled into a seated position against the hallway wall, the blood from her wound smeared along the peeling wallpaper. There was a coin-sized tear in the sleeve of her dress. Celia grasped the fabric and ripped a larger hole, searching for an exit wound. And thankfully finding one.

“My dress!” the girl howled.

“It's already ruined. I could use some light, Mr. Greaves,” said Celia while Mr. Taylor escorted John Kelly outside. “There is a lantern in the kitchen. And water as well. I must clean her arm to see if cloth has become embedded in the wound.”

He headed for the kitchen, and Celia took out the supplies she needed, starting with her fine-tipped forceps.

“What're you gonna do with those?”

“Remove debris from the wound.”

“It's gonna hurt, ain't it?” she asked, recoiling even though Celia had yet to touch the wound.

“Only if you move.”

Obediently, the girl went rigid.

Mr. Greaves returned with a basin of water and the lantern, setting them at Celia's side. From the rear of the house came the sound of Clary Kelly's cries. “Somebody needs to tend to that baby back there,” he said.

“Perhaps you could assist in that regard until I finish seeing to . . .” Celia glanced at the girl. “To?” she asked.

The girl stared blankly at her. “Oh. My name's Lissy.”

“While I see to Miss Lissy here. What do you think, Mr. Greaves?” Celia asked.

He looked alarmed by her suggestion. “I think I'd rather wrestle a bear than try to quiet that kid.”

“It is not so difficult,” said Celia, gently cleaning Lissy's wounds, which renewed the bleeding. Lissy whimpered. Clary let out a lengthy wail.

“It is for me,” he answered, retreating up the stairs.

Men.

Celia quickly removed dress fibers from the wounds. “I will not stitch the holes closed, Lissy. Wash them with clean water and try to keep them dry so they heal properly. Here. Hold these in place while I wrap bandaging around your arm,” she said, handing the girl two squares of linen to press to the wounds.

“All this time we've been livin' next to a killer,” said the girl, watching Celia's hands as they worked. “My ma never did like him none,” she added with a sniffle.

“There. All finished.” She tied off the bandage and stood. “How do you feel? Are you too light-headed to tend to Clary?”

“I'm not takin' care of some killer's kid!”

“Clary is innocent, my dear. As is Mrs. Kelly.”

Grumbling her discontent, the girl allowed Celia to help
her to her feet. As she shuffled off to tend to the Kellys' daughter, Celia heard the girl mutter something about lousy Micks. An ironic bit of prejudice, since none of the Kellys were actually Irish.

Clary's distant cries subsided, and Celia closed her medical bag, setting it on a wobbly three-legged table shoved against the wall.

Mr. Greaves returned. “I think Mrs. Kelly could make use of your services, ma'am.”

“By the way, I am glad to see the swelling on your face has subsided, Mr. Greaves. You look far better than you did earlier today.” Heavens, it was hard to fathom that his brawl with Frank had occurred only that morning. “I shall need to remove those stitches in a few days, so do not forget to come by the clinic.”

He grinned, a crooked lift of his lips. “Is there ever a time when you're not a nurse, Mrs. Davies?”

“Is there ever a time when you're not a detective, Mr. Greaves?”

“Not one minute of the day, ma'am.”

She smiled. “It is all over, is it not?”

“Yep, it is.” He looked over at her bag. “And good work with that portmanteau. I had no idea it could make such an effective weapon.”

“A blow delivered directly to a man's temple has salutary effects, Mr. Greaves,” she replied.

“You're fortunate it does,” he said. “Because if it didn't, you'd be lying dead on this floor in a pool of blood.”

“You do not trust your ability to shoot a man menacing a female?” she asked.

“Not when that female is standing between me and the man we're talking about.”

As she looked at him, she realized how close she'd come to serious harm. She pressed a hand to his sleeve. “Thank you.”

“Thank your housekeeper for insisting that Taylor and I get over here right away,” he said, folding his hand over hers, his skin warm. “Besides, it looks like you managed just fine on your own.”

“With only a meager portmanteau.”

“You're a mighty resourceful woman, ma'am.”

“I will remember that you said that, Mr. Greaves,” she replied, slipping her hand from beneath his and keenly feeling the absence of his touch.

“I want to hear everything Kelly said to you.”

“And I shall tell you as soon as I've seen how his wife is doing. I do wonder how she shall manage. She loved him dearly, you know,” Celia added, not knowing why she told him that, as though one woman's love for a man meant he was worthy of leniency.

He did not comment, and Celia went upstairs, her steps heavy. She found Maryanne seated upright in her bed, her newborn asleep in her arms, a faraway look in her eyes.

“Mrs. Kelly?” asked Celia. “Would you care for a sedative?”

“It's a mistake,” she said, clutching her baby closer. “It's got to be a mistake, Mrs. Davies. John's not a killer. He's not like that.”

“I am sorry.”

“No, you're not!” the other woman shrieked, going from numb to hysterical in a heartbeat.

Celia went to her side and laid a hand upon Maryanne's arm. Her skin felt warm. “Mrs. Kelly, keep calm. You shall wake the baby.”

“I don't care! This is a mistake. John wouldn't hurt anybody!” she declared. “I don't care what that detective has to say.”

The baby's face pinched, and he woke with a shuddering cry.

“Oh, shh, shh,” said Maryanne, dissolving into tears as she tried to soothe the child. “Quiet there, little one. I just wish I understood. My John would never hurt anybody. He just wouldn't.”

“He was frightened. Frightened that he might be caught at last,” said Celia, clasping Maryanne's hand in hers. “He wanted to protect you and the children from what he'd done in Virginia City. It made him desperate.”

“Desperate enough to have killed some man?” she asked. Celia mentally corrected her statement—
two men
. “How could my John have done that? And to shoot that saloon girl.” Maryanne's fingers tightened around Celia's. “And you. He shot at you!”

“I trust he did not mean to hurt me. The shot went very wide.”

A tear traced a path down Maryanne's cheek, and she swiped it away. “He didn't miss her, though, did he? Or the neighbor's girl, Lissy.”

How could she reply? Celia chose silence.

“I knew there was something the matter,” said Maryanne. “These past few weeks, he's been so short-tempered with me and Clary. Shouting over nothing. And then there was that night when he came home so late, all dirty and not letting me wash his clothes, saying he'd take care of them himself and I wasn't to worry, what with the baby coming so soon. And buying a pistol the other day when he'd never had use for one before . . .” Her chest heaved with a sob. “I should've suspected. And now I don't even know who I am. Who I'm married to. I've always thought he was a good man, despite his tempers and the way he treated Dan. But I was wrong.”

“You wished to believe the best of him,” said Celia. “Besides,
what would you have done if you
had
known? Turn your husband over to the authorities? It is just as well.”

But love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.
Except that these events were hardly pretty follies, Mr. Shakespeare.

“What am I to do now, Mrs. Davies, with two children and no husband? I've got nobody here to help me. Nobody at all.” Her tears began to fall faster. “My father was right to tell me I was marrying in haste and would regret it. I should've listened to him, instead of being headstrong.”

“We
all
make mistakes. All of us.” Celia's thoughts ventured to her own hasty wedding, her own rashness. She vowed she would be cautious from now on.

I am sorry, Nicholas, but I must protect my heart.

“We all make mistakes, Mrs. Kelly. And all we can do is hope to learn from them.”

*   *   *

“T
hank you for discovering the man who killed my husband, Detective Greaves.” Mrs. Nash clutched a handkerchief trimmed in black lace, but her eyes were dry.

They stood in the woman's parlor the next morning, he and Taylor, where they'd first spoken to her about Virgil Nash's murder, among the marble-topped tables and potted ferns, the air heavily scented by cut roses. Taylor looked uncomfortable again, crushing his hat in his hand, his boots too dirty to be standing on fancy rugs. Nick had been convinced, back then, that Nash's death had everything to do with the Second Street cut, and that the men of Martin and Company had a role in the murder. Instead, it had come down to one man's desire to save himself from the consequences of a years-old crime.

Kelly had almost gotten away with it, experiencing the greatest stroke of good fortune when a witness had mistakenly thought he'd spotted Nash leaving town with his mistress. But Kelly's luck ran out when his brother-in-law became convinced there was gold in that cellar, and dug up a body instead . . .

“I'm sorry, though, that I can't return your husband's watch yet,” said Nick. “We'll need it for the trial.”

“I understand,” she said, stealing another quick look at Nick's black eye. Again she resisted asking him who'd caused it. Maybe she presumed he'd suffered the injury in the pursuit of justice. “Will this man hang?”

“John Kelly . . . Cuddy Pike has a lot to answer for—the deaths of your husband and Silas Nash. Attempts on two witnesses' lives. Which means a trial here and another in Virginia City.” That morning, a telegram had finally arrived from the police in Nevada, who were mighty interested in getting ahold of Cuddy Pike.

“So he
will
hang,” said Mrs. Nash, seeking assurances.

Nick glanced at Taylor, who was inspecting the dried mud that had fallen from his boots onto the carpet rather than offering an opinion on the outcome of the trials. Anything could happen, but Nick felt that Kelly's prospects for avoiding the noose were dim.