Scandal on Rincon Hill (2 page)

“He hasn't been touched,” Officer Kostler told his superior. “And no one else has come along, or even crossed the bridge, for that matter.”

One of the two men standing apart from the policeman regarded George in some distress. His round, full face appeared very pale in the spill of lantern light.

“It's late and damn cold,” he said, his voice none too steady. “Can we be on our way now? We know nothing more about this horrible crime than we've already told you.”

“Just a minute,” said George. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pencil and notebook. After jotting down their names and addresses, he informed the two men that they were free to leave. “But we may want to speak to you again at a future date, so please inform us if you plan to leave town.”

The men nodded gratefully, then scampered up the hillside as quickly as they dared, given the dim light and unsure footing.

When they were gone, Samuel moved closer and felt the man's face. “He's still warm, and this is a chilly evening. Most likely he was murdered within the past half hour.”

“Yes,” George agreed. “That skews with the witnesses's account. Too bad they weren't here a few minutes earlier. Might have scared off whoever did this, and saved the bloke's life.”

My brother peered down at the sad figure who, a short time earlier, had been as alive as any of us standing here now. “Who is he?” he asked his friend. “Have you gone through his pockets?”

George nodded. “That was the first thing I did when I realized the poor sod was beyond mortal help. Whoever did him in took
his wallet, but left his gold pocket watch and the two gold rings he's wearing. There were a few bills stuffed into one of his pockets. Of course it's hard to tell if anything else is missing until we speak to his family.”

“So you think it was robbery then?” asked Samuel.

“Looks like it,” George replied. “Probably a case of the poor bugger being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“But, George, that makes no sense,” I said. “Why would a thief leave behind cash and valuable jewelry?”

“That's easy enough to explain, Miss Sarah,” George said with a cheerless smile. “The knuck sees this fellow crossing the bridge and decides to take advantage of the opportunity. He takes the mark's wallet, but before he can grab anything else, he hears a carriage on the bridge and the sound of voices. He very sensibly skedaddles off before anyone has time to see his face.”

“I don't know,” I said, still not convinced. “Why kill the poor man? Surely the thief ran little risk of being identified on such a dark night. Why not just render his victim unconscious, rob him, then leave before he came to? Surely there was no need to beat the man's head in, er—” Out of my side vision I caught a glimpse of the victim's battered upper torso and swallowed hard. “Like that.”

“Who knows, Miss Sarah?” said George. “Sad to say, we see this sort of thing all too often. These rounders care little enough about their victims. Just as soon kill them as not.”

I knew what he said was true, but I continued to be troubled by the excessively violent nature of the crime.

Before George could respond to these concerns, Samuel nudged my arm and nodded up the slope. Following his gaze, I spied a stout figure making his careful way down the hill with the aid of a kerosene lantern. As the light swung back and forth in front of his face, I was dismayed to recognize the newcomer as our father.

When Papa grew closer, I saw that he was wearing the old topcoat he kept on the back porch, along with the gardening boots which were also stored there. I suspected that beneath his coat he might well be wearing nothing more than his nightshirt. His hair
was mussed, and he looked none too happy. I glanced quickly at Samuel, who shared my surprise at this unlikely addition to our group.

“Papa,” I called out. “What are you doing here?”

My father did not immediately respond, seemingly busy saving his breath for the arduous descent. Even when he finally reached us, he spent several moments taking in deep gulps of air before endeavoring to answer my question.

“I heard the two of you leave the house,” he said, once his breathing had steadied. “You made enough noise to wake the dead. Couldn't imagine why in tarnation you were stomping hell-bent down the stairs in the middle of the night. I managed to follow your lanterns, although there was no need for you to walk so blasted fast!”

His eyes fell on the crumpled body lying beneath one of the bridge supports, and he stopped short. “Who is this?” His voice was less strident as he regarded the unfortunate man.

George was the first to answer. “We don't know his identity yet, sir. Whoever did this made off with his wallet.”

My father moved closer to the body. He appeared to be paying particular attention to the man's clothing and shoes. For the first time, I realized the victim was wearing evening dress; he had evidently attended the theater, or a soiree of some kind that evening.

“May I turn his head?” Papa asked George. “I'll try not to disturb anything else.”

George nodded, but seemed puzzled why my father should make such a request. We all watched silently as Papa pushed up his sleeves and gently moved the man's head until he could more clearly see his face. Bringing his lantern closer, he studied the victim's features for several long moments.

“I think I know this man,” he said at last, stepping almost reverently back from the body. “His condition makes it difficult to be certain, but I believe his name is Nigel Loran, no, wait, it was Logan, Nigel Logan. If I am not mistaken he is—
was
, rather—a botanist or biologist of some sort. My wife and I met him for the first
time last night, at a party we attended in honor of the Reverend Erasmus Mayfield's twenty-fifth ordination anniversary. Mayfield is the rector at the Church of Our Savior.”

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Logan lives?” George asked Papa. “It can't have been too far away for him to walk home so late at night, instead of taking a cab.”

My father thought for a moment before replying, “I believe I heard someone say that he had a room in a boardinghouse on Harrison Street, several blocks beyond the bridge. I seem to recall that he taught science at the University of San Francisco. You know, the college run by the Jesuits?”

Indeed I did know. This renowned institution had been established in 1855 by the Jesuit fathers. Located on Market Street between Fourth and Fifth, it was now widely regarded as one of the city's foremost academies of higher education. If Mr. Logan had taught classes there, he must have been an accomplished scholar.

“Tell me more about the party you attended last night, if you would, Judge Woolson,” requested George. “I've sent for some of my men and a wagon to transport the body, but while we wait I'd like to hear about this Logan fellow.”

“I can't say that I know much more than I've already told you,” Papa said thoughtfully. “In fact, the only reason I remember the young man at all is because of the argument he had with the Reverend Mayfield.”

“And what argument was that, sir?” asked George, once again opening his notebook and moving closer to Samuel's lantern. Pencil poised, he regarded Papa with keen interest.

“It was just the usual folderol between the church and the scientific world, this time over Charles Darwin's theory of evolution.” Papa harrumphed, displaying grave misgivings that the human race could possibly have developed from a lower form of animal species. “Logan began quoting from Darwin's latest epic,
The Descent of Man
, and not surprisingly the Reverend Mayfield took exception to this reference, as well he should. I'm sorry to say, the
two of them went at it hammer and tong for some little time before our host managed to break them up.” He chuckled. “I thought for a while the two might actually come to blows over the idiotic book.”

“You said the Reverend Mayfield became upset?” inquired George, looking up from his pad.

“I'd say he was a damn sight more than upset,” answered Papa, still smiling at the memory. Then, for the first time he regarded the younger man as if just now realizing where his questions were leading.

“Wait a minute, George,” he went on. “What are you getting at? It's true that both men were agitated, but if you're trying to imply that the Reverend Mayfield was so angry he followed Logan and murdered him because he disagreed with his beliefs, you're barking up the wrong tree. I've known Erasmus Mayfield for fifteen years, and he's one of the few ministers of my acquaintance that I consider to be a true man of God.” He nodded toward the crumpled body. “I assure you, sir, that the Reverend Mayfield is incapable of violence, much less the degree of brutality visited upon this unfortunate soul.”

George raised a hand, obviously in an attempt to calm my father. “Please, Judge Woolson, I didn't mean to imply that I thought Mr., er, the Reverend Mayfield killed Mr. Logan. I'm just trying to collect information about the victim, particularly the time leading up to his murder. It occurred to me that maybe someone else, someone who overheard the argument, say, might have been so het up about Nigel Logan's support of Mr. Darwin's book, that he thought to teach the young scientist a lesson. And maybe that lesson went too far and the man accidentally killed the fellow.”

I considered this highly unlikely, and said so. “Come now, George, churches have been railing against Darwin's hypothesis for over twenty years. I can't imagine anyone at the Tremaines' party becoming so distraught over Logan's argument with the Reverend Mayfield that he would bludgeon the man to death.”

Samuel nodded in agreement. “Sarah's right. Excuse the pun, George, but the severity of those blows to Logan's head strike me as overkill. This attack has the feel of a more personal crime, as if the killer bore an intense grudge against the fellow.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” commented George, unconvinced by this argument. “I see cases like this every day, more than I care to recall. And I've come across many a rough who'll beat a man to death for the sheer love of the kill. Doesn't seem to matter if he knows the bloke or not.”

Samuel seemed about to offer another objection, but was distracted by the sound of a police wagon clattering across the bridge. Papa, Samuel, and I remained standing by the body, while George and Officer Kostler went to meet the men. A few minutes later, they returned with three uniformed policemen, two of them carrying a stretcher.

Before George would allow them to move the body, however, he asked one of the new arrivals to sketch the scene, paying particular attention to the position of the corpse in relationship to the bridge support, as well as its rough distance from the top of the dirt embankment.

“This isn't exactly police procedure,” he commented, directing a self-conscious look at my father. “But Fuller here has a good eye and does a bang-up job with a sketch pad. I find it helps me remember the condition of the body and where we found it. I've heard that some police departments back East have actually started to take photographic pictures of crime scenes, but so far we haven't been able to convince the commissioner that it's worth the expense.”

“I think it's a wonderful idea, George,” I said, regarding him with newfound respect. Ever since he had made sergeant earlier that year, he seemed to be developing into a fine detective. “Imagine how helpful it would be to have a true repre sen ta tion of a murder site, one that could be examined at a later date for missed or overlooked evidence?”

Papa looked skeptical. “Considering all the time it takes for one
of these photographer fellows to get a halfway decent likeness of their subject, I can't see the process being of much use to the police for years to come, if ever.”

With this somewhat cynical pronouncement, my father turned and commenced the laborious climb back to the top of the embankment. Samuel and I waited where we were until Fuller completed his sketch (which was remarkably good considering how quickly it had been rendered), then watched as the remaining policemen loaded the victim's body onto the stretcher. Given the steep grade leading up to the waiting police wagon, George and Samuel were forced to lend a hand in order to prevent the stretcher bearers from losing their precarious foothold and sliding down the hill, taking their heavy burden with them.

I followed this procession, steadying my lantern in an effort to see where I was placing my boots. Even then it became necessary for Samuel to take hold of my hand and pull me up the final half-dozen feet or so. As he did, I was dismayed to see a taxi pull to an abrupt stop by the side of the bridge. I recognized the man who exited the carriage as Ozzie Foldger, a crime reporter who frequently competed with Samuel for stories.

“Who do you suppose tipped him off?” murmured my brother, eyeing the short, tubby little man who had a well-earned reputation for the ruthless tactics he all too often employed in his quest to scoop other reporters. “Sometimes I think that man has a telegraph machine installed inside his head.”

Foldger gave Samuel a mocking smile, nodded in some surprise to me, then blinked in astonishment when he recognized our father standing by the police van. The reporter acknowledged Papa's presence with a polite tip of his cap, then pulled out his own notebook and pencil and set off to corner Sergeant Lewis. George shot a helpless look at my brother, then with unhappy resignation began to answer Ozzie's rapid-fire questions.

With a muttered oath, Samuel kept a wary eye on his rival, as the stretcher bearers loaded the body into the police wagon. Seemingly using this as an excuse, George broke away from Foldger, bid
my father and me a hasty good morning, and joined Kostler and their fellow officers for the ride to the city morgue. With another sardonic smile, Ozzie Foldger pocketed his notebook and got back into his waiting cab.

As Papa, Samuel, and I started for home, I was unnerved to see our father silently considering his youngest son, a perplexed look on his face. I could tell that Samuel, too, felt the tension which hung over our heads like a heavy swirl of morning fog. Indeed, the unspoken strain between my brother and father seemed to build with each step we took, until the short, two-block walk home felt closer to a mile.