Scandal on Rincon Hill (4 page)

“Here, Miss Woolson,” she said, handing me the document. “I was certain you would wish to see it.”

I took the spool, slipped off the ribbon, and unrolled the papers. Quickly I scanned the amazing contents. To my considerable surprise, the contract appeared to be properly prepared and signed. What in the world, I wondered, would persuade a man of Gerald Knight's position to risk public censure if this document ever came to light?

“I'm surprised Mr. Knight allowed you to keep a duplicate of
the agreement. If your relationship were to deteriorate in any way, your copy could prove embarrassing to him, to say the least. As you say, he's married with a family, not to mention his standing in the community.”

A pink flush spread prettily across her cheeks. “Actually, Miss Woolson, the copy Mr. Knight gave me contained no signatures. He said it was simply to remind me of the terms of the contract. He placed the single signed document in a wall safe he maintained in my home.”

I eyed her pointedly. “If the original contract is locked inside the safe, how do you happen to have it with you today?”

Miss Bouchard drew herself up in the chair as far as possible without disturbing the infant in her lap, and lifted her chin defi-antly.

“I did not think it right for Mr. Knight to possess the only signed copy of the contract, while I had nothing but a few pieces of paper to
remind
me of the terms we had agreed upon.” She wrinkled her small, slightly upturned nose. “As if I required a reminder! Fortunately, he kept other papers inside the safe that I assumed he preferred his wife not see, and was obliged to open it regularly. Each time he did so, I committed to memory at least one number of the combination. By the time I realized I was with child, I could open the safe on my own.”

I decided not to comment upon this confession, at least not at the moment. “Who drew up the contract?” I inquired instead.

“Mr. Knight did, but I insisted upon several changes before I would sign it. He agreed to these modifications.”

At that moment, the baby awoke and shook her tiny fists in the air, then screwed up her little mouth preparatory to a wail. With a series of soothing sounds, Brielle gently jiggled her daughter until the baby once again subsided into a peaceful slumber.

“I see.” Again, I was taken aback to learn that Mr. Knight had allowed Brielle to effect any changes whatsoever in the document. What sort of power did this child wield? I asked myself. It came as no surprise, of course, that the newspaperman would do every-thing
possible to insure that no one else ever read that document. All too many men in San Francisco kept a mistress, but it would hardly do to name names and broadcast the particulars to the entire city. Even San Francisco society had its limits!

“You must see why I was so determined to learn how to open the safe,” she said. “It was the only protection I had against the very thing that has now happened.”

“That was astute of you. You appear to have been unusually well educated, Miss Bouchard. Your parents are to be commended.”

“Yes,” she agreed, and for the first time since entering my of-fice, avoided my eyes. “They were extraordinary people.”

“You use the past tense. Am I to understand that they are deceased?”

Her head came up abruptly. Again those unwavering violet eyes stared directly into mine. “I cannot see what my parents could have to do with this business, Miss Woolson. I have been on my own for several years now, and take sole responsibility for my affairs.”

“I apologize, Miss Bouchard. I did not mean to infer otherwise.”

I stifled the urge to inquire why mention of her parents should illicit such a defensive reaction. Had she left home because of family friction? I wondered. Yet she could not bear her parents too much animosity if she did not hesitate to characterize them as extraordinary. Most peculiar. But then there were more than a few things about Brielle Bouchard I found tantalizingly curious.

Unexpectedly, the young woman shifted the baby's weight in her arms and stood. “I'm confident you will require a day or two to study the contract,” she announced matter-of-factly. “If it is agreeable with you, I shall return on Wednesday morning and we can discuss the matter at greater length.”

Startled, I regarded her in surprise. “That won't be necessary, Miss Bouchard. I can look the document over right now and we can—”

“I would prefer that you make a thorough study of it.” Once
again, she reached into her reticule with her free hand, this time drawing out several bills and placing them on the desk. “I am prepared to offer you forty dollars as a retainer. We can settle on the remaining balance once you have had an opportunity to examine the papers.” She closed her reticule and turned to leave.

I swiftly rose to my feet, perturbed and not a little taken aback that I had somehow lost control of the interview. “Please, Miss Bouchard, wait. What address may I use if it becomes necessary to contact you?”

“I doubt that need will arise,” she replied coolly. “As I said, I shall return here the day after tomorrow. At the same time, shall we say?”

Before I could answer, the young mother swept to the door, then, once again shifting little Emma in her arms, turned the knob and was gone.

I
spent the next hour studying the contract Miss Bouchard had signed with Gerald Knight. The document itself was easy enough to comprehend; the subject matter, on the other hand, was irregular to say the least!

The contract read much as Brielle described. Gerald Knight agreed to support Miss Brielle Marie Bouchard for a minimum of three years, on condition that she remain his exclusive and devoted mistress. It went on to promise that Mr. Knight would maintain Miss Bouchard in a house on Pacific Avenue, with adequate servants and a generous monthly allowance, again on the condition that she entertain no other gentlemen, or in any way prove unfaithful to him. Finally, the document specified that Miss Bouchard must hold herself available to Mr. Knight at any hour of the day or night, according to his convenience.

After perusing the agreement for the third time, I sat back in my chair, frankly amazed. The girl was astonishing! Not only was she one of the most exquisite young women I'd ever seen, but she
possessed a clever mind and an abundant measure of audacity. I could not bring to mind a single woman of my acquaintance—even one twice Brielle's age—who would have had the temerity to coerce a man like Gerald Knight into signing such an agreement.

Unfortunately, I thought, brewing a cup of tea on the brazier I keep in the back room of my office, Miss Bouchard's courage and foresight had likely gained her little. Even if the young woman had, as she insisted, been faithful to Knight, there was no way to prove that her child had been sired by him. In the end, it came down to her word against his, and I knew well enough that few people would side with a prostitute, even if they suspected she was telling the truth.

Unless, I reflected, I could devise a plan to force the newsman to take responsibility for Brielle and her child. To be honest, nothing would please me more than to see men like Gerald Knight—who habitually deceived their wives with an endless string of paramours—held accountable for their actions. I experienced a small thrill of excitement at this thought. Given Miss Bouchard's circumstances, it would be a difficult if not impossible task, I told myself. And yet . . . already my mind was busy churning over possibilities.

I was just carrying the tea back to my desk when my outer door was suddenly flung open and Robert Campbell burst into the room like a spring-released jack-in-the-box. My brusque friend, who was, until several months earlier, my colleague at the law firm of Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton, and Hall, had the regrettable habit of showing up unannounced and uninvited whenever the mood came upon him.

Without so much as a word of greeting, he slapped a copy of that morning's
San Francisco Tattler
on my desk. “Now what outrageous mess have you gotten yourself involved in?” he said, sinking his tall, muscular frame into the chair facing my desk.

“And good morning to you, as well, Robert,” I said, reaching
for the paper to see what all the fuss was about. I did not have to look far. Midway down the front page appeared the headline
BATTERED BODY FOUND ON RINCON HILL
. Of course, I thought, the discovery Saturday night would have been too late to make the Sunday editions, and so had had to wait until this morning. I was not surprised to find that the article had been penned by my brother's nemesis, Ozzie Foldger.

“Hmm,” I murmured. “I can't believe Samuel allowed Foldger to scoop him on this story.”

With a pleased harrumph, Robert handed over a second newspaper, then leaned back in his seat, his intense turquoise eyes focused unblinkingly on mine. “Scooped, nothing. Your brother's account of the discovery in the
San Francisco Chronicle
is just as thorough, if not as sensational.”

“There is tea in the back room,” I told him without looking up from the newspapers. “Why don't you pour yourself a cup while I read these?”

I hurriedly scanned Foldger's piece and instantly saw what Robert was referring to. He had described Nigel Logan's unfortunate death in far more graphic detail than had Samuel. His article, along with so many lurid details, was sure to appeal to those of our citizens with a taste for the prurient, and thereby sell more copies than its competitors. It would also boost the
Tattler'
s well-deserved reputation as a scandal rag.

Glancing down the column, I was dismayed to see that Samuel's rival had gone on to report that Judge Horace Woolson and his son Samuel, along with his daughter Sarah, were inexplicably present at the scene. Taking care not to say anything which might precipitate a lawsuit, Foldger nonetheless managed to convey a tone of vague suspicion, going on to point out “Miss Woolson's penchant for involving herself with the seedier elements of our fair city.”

I felt my face grow hot as I dropped the
Tattler
and pushed both newspapers to the side of my desk. Looking up, I found Robert smiling at me with smug satisfaction.

“So, I repeat, what have you gotten yourself involved in this time?”

I regarded him evenly. “I have not become involved in anything which need concern you.”

“Please spare me, Sarah,” he said, chuckling. “You attract murders like metal to a magnet. I can't imagine another woman in this city leaving the comfort of her bed to go out looking for bodies in the middle of the night.”

“I did not go looking for bodies, as you so colorfully phrase it. George Lewis knew that Samuel would want to be the first reporter on the scene, and brought us there.” I shuddered, remembering poor Mr. Logan's battered corpse. “Actually, it was quite horrible.”

“I'm sure it was.” He nodded gravely toward the newspapers. “According to Samuel and that other fellow, the police have no suspects.”

“Sadly, that's true. The men who discovered the body claim they saw a figure scrambling up the opposite embankment. Unfortunately, it was too dark for them to describe the villain.”

With a rather too theatrical sigh, Robert leaned back in his chair, his body language feigning indifference. “I can see that you're bursting to share all the grisly details, Sarah, so you may as well tell me the story from the beginning. The articles say the dead man carried no identification, yet the police claim to know his name, and that he taught science at the Jesuit university.”

I rolled my eyes, but in the end gave him a brief outline of Saturday night's gruesome adventure.

“And the men who found the body can't tell the police anything about the figure they saw running away?” he asked when I was finished.

“No. It mightn't have even been the killer, but merely a beggar or street urchin they inadvertently frightened off.”

“That's possible, I suppose. And your father says he'd just met this biologist fellow at a party he and your mother attended a few hours earlier?”

I nodded. “He claimed he particularly remembered Mr. Logan because of an argument he had with the Reverend Erasmus Mayfield, who was the guest of honor.”

“Oh? What kind of argument?”

“According to my father, the Reverend Mayfield took exception to Logan extolling Charles Darwin's theories on evolution.”

“Oh, that ridiculous nonsense.”

I looked at him curiously. “Have you read Darwin's work, then?
Origin of Species
, or
The Descent of Man
?”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, very nearly knocking over his teacup. “Yes, yes, I've read them. Or, at least I've skimmed through as many pages as I could stomach. The whole notion that the human race started out as some sort of amoeba crawling out of the sea is pure nonsense.” His eyes fixed on me. “Don't tell me you agree with that claptrap?”

I admitted that I had not yet formed an opinion on the matter, then added, “However, I'm well aware that a number of religious institutions strongly disagree with Mr. Darwin's hypotheses, given that it goes against the story of Creation as written in the Book of Genesis.”

“And they bring up some valid points. But you can't be seriously suggesting that this Logan fellow was killed because he defended Darwin's wild theories of natural selection?”

“Not at all. I merely offer it as a possibility. Given the timing of the murder, Nigel Logan's public disagreement with the Reverend Mayfield must be taken into account.”

“Just a minute, Sarah. You can't suspect that the Reverend Mayfield had anything to do with this? My God, according to these newspaper accounts, Logan was beaten to death with a hefty section of two-by-four!”

“I know how he was killed, Robert, I was there, remember? I simply believe a victim's last few hours of life must always be examined.”

“All right, you've examined them. Now, try looking at the
crime logically. You know the number of undesirables who trek under that bridge every night. Logan was very likely set upon by a group of toughs.” He regarded me through narrowed eyes. “I don't like that look on your face, Sarah. Surely you don't mean to involve yourself in this business.”