The Cliff House Strangler (28 page)

I drew in a deep breath at this first sign of an Achilles’ heel. “Has Mr. Sechrest ever mentioned where this extra money comes from?” I asked.

She shook her head, looking ever more dejected. “The few times I got up the courage to ask him, he always told me that what he did with his money was no concern of mine.” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Miss Woolson, I know you’re doing the best you can, but I cannot believe we have a hope of winning. I just don’t know how I’ll be able to go on living without my children.”

I gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, realizing as I did that I could feel the bones beneath her skin. Dear Lord, I thought, she is becoming thinner by the day! I would have given anything to promise that we had a legitimate chance of reclaiming her children. How incredibly sad that the best I could offer was a pat on the arm.

“Believe me, Mrs. Sechrest,” I said, meaning every word, “I promise to do everything humanly possible to fight these charges. After that,” I added more quietly, “we shall have to place the matter in God’s hands.”

R
obert was waiting outside his boardinghouse when Eddie and I arrived in the brougham at five o’clock that afternoon to pick him up. He was hardly inside the carriage when I broke the news of Madame Karpova’s so-called suicide attempt the day before, then went on to recount her surprising revelations to me the afternoon she’d been arrested for Dmitry’s murder.

“So, you see, the two were actually lovers,” I concluded, “not brother and sister, as they claimed.”

Robert was silent for a moment, presumably digesting this new information. At length, he said soberly, “I see. In some ways that makes the situation even more tragic. Madame Karpova and Serkov had been together a long time. She must be regretting it terribly by now.”

I gave him a hard stare. “What do you mean, regretting it now?”

He looked honestly surprised. “Why, sorry she killed him, of course. What else would I mean? Once she had time to think about what she’d done, she couldn’t live with the guilt.”

“Good Lord, Robert! You sound just like Lieutenant Ahern. Why is it you both automatically assume she tried to kill herself?”

“Come on now, Sarah, don’t be naïve. At the very least, it demonstrates guilt by association, both in Moss’s and Mrs. Reade’s murders. Serkov must have threatened to expose her complicity in the crimes, and she stabbed him before he could go ahead with his betrayal.”

“You know my feelings on that subject,” I said as the carriage dipped going over a large pothole.

“Blast it all, it’s not a matter of knowing your feelings; you’ve made them perfectly clear. It’s trying to understand them that’s giving me a headache. This is the only explanation that makes any sense.”

“To you, perhaps, but not to me. I was there yesterday; you were not. Madame Karpova did not attempt to kill herself. She looked completely bewildered when I told her what had happened. I’m convinced someone drugged her coffee at lunch. Then, when she was unconscious, they set the stage to make it look as if she’d committed suicide.”

I sat waiting for a response. None was forthcoming. Yet every inch of Robert’s stiff body proclaimed his contempt for this declaration of my client’s innocence.

“Robert, didn’t you hear me?” I demanded, holding on to the seat as Eddie took a corner too fast and we nearly collided with a fruit vendor. We could still hear the merchant’s curses from a block away. “Someone tried to murder her! If I can’t find a way to keep her safe in that place, then the next time the killer tries, he may succeed.”

“Of course I heard you,” he responded at last. “I’m sure half of San Francisco heard you. That doesn’t mean I agree.”

“You are so frustrating! The blinders you wear are just as dense as the ones on Eddie’s horse. For heaven’s sake, open your eyes. If Madame Karpova was seen to have taken her own life out of guilt for killing Dmitry, the case would be closed. Three murders tied up in one neat package.”

“Naturally, they’d be closed. They would have caught the
killers—of all three victims!” He looked at me, thoroughly exasperated. “Damn it all, Sarah, why do you always have to make everything so blasted complicated? Just once I’d like you to admit that the simplest answer is usually the correct one. Serkov murdered Moss because he was about to expose their little dog and pony show. He killed Mrs. Reade because she witnessed this murder. When he threatened to implicate his lover, she stabbed him to death. Now, what could be simpler than that?”

I held my tongue. Everything Robert said made logical sense; I was hard-pressed to say why I found his logic so difficult to accept. Mama had often chided me for being stubborn. She was probably right. On the other hand, there are times when one has to listen to one’s instincts. Mine told me that Dmitry Serkov did not murder Darien Moss or Theodora Reade. Madame Karpova might be a charlatan, but I did not believe she was a cold-blooded killer. Since I lacked even a shred of evidence to support these feelings, however, I preferred to spend the remainder of the bumpy ride in uncomfortable silence rather than in verbal sparring, which neither of us would win.

We arrived at our destination, to find it teeming with carriages. I had completely forgotten that Saturday evening was the busiest night of the week at the Cliff House. Yet, even if I’d remembered, I wouldn’t have wanted to put the trip off for even one more day. We’d simply have to do the best we could despite the crowd.

On this evening, I was truly able to appreciate the Cliff House in all its considerable glory. There it was, perched spectacularly high upon the cliff, the Pacific Ocean crashing upon the boulders below. The Seal Rocks, which had loomed up as sea monsters the night of the séance, could now be clearly seen, a peculiar arch in the largest one giving it a very picturesque appearance.

I had already given Eddie his instructions. After dropping us off at the front entrance, he was to park the brougham, then somehow make his way into the kitchen. I hadn’t taken into account how hectic it would be, but Eddie had met the cook the night of the
séance, and he was a clever lad. I still hoped he might learn something new that the cook had failed, or forgotten, to tell the police.

As the boy descended from his perch to assist me out of the brougham, I noticed one of his Rollo books had fallen from the driver’s seat onto the gravel.

He picked it up, then looked at me a bit sheepishly. “Thought I might have a chance to read some,” he said rather unconvincingly, especially when I could clearly see the latest copy of the
Police Gazette
tucked into the seat padding. Catching the direction of my gaze, Eddie quickly jumped back onto the carriage seat and clicked his horse toward the stables.

Robert had been assigned the task of investigating the dining room, in particular the door that had been hidden that night behind the Japanese screen. If Serkov did sneak back into the room during the séance, he would have had to use this door. I had a good idea where it led, but it was always best to be sure.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?” Robert asked as we made our way to the main entrance.

“Anything that strikes you as suspicious or out of place, or just plain odd.” I sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, Robert. To be honest, I really don’t know what we’re looking for. Anything that might shed some light on the case.”

He gave me a strange look before reaching out to open the door. “You know that I consider this trip to be a wild-goose chase. And you are without a doubt the most annoying, obstinate, headstrong person I’ve ever met, male or female. Once you agree to defend someone, you simply will not give up until you’ve turned over every rock, examined every insect crawling beneath it, and followed every possible lead, no matter how slim or improbable.”

His broad sunburned face broke into an unexpected grin, which actually made him look quite handsome, in a rugged, slightly skewed sort of way. It’s a shame he doesn’t unbend and smile like this more often, I thought. I was surprised to find myself quite enjoying the effect it had on his overall appearance.

Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “Don’t take this as a blanket approval of your tactics, Sarah, but if I’m ever unfortunate enough to get in trouble with the law, I want you to represent me.”

Before I could respond to this startling and totally out-of-the-blue compliment, he opened the door and was nudging me inside. I caught a quick glance of his face before he walked off toward the dining room. He was actually blushing!

I decided to commence my part of the investigation in the saloon. Naturally, this area now looked very different from the way it had on the evening of the séance. Every table was full of raucous men, all of them drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes, cigars, or, in a few cases, pipes. The smoke hung over the room like a dense and exceedingly pungent fog, making it difficult to draw breath without falling into a fit of coughing.

I was not surprised to count fewer than a dozen women in the room, most of them gaudily dressed, their faces flushed, their demeanor a bit giggly from consuming too much champagne. All of the women displayed a great deal of cleavage, and a great many were smoking cigarettes or small cigars. I trust I am not a prude; normally, I would not fault a woman for indulging in a behavior that is usually reserved for a man. Mimicking a habit, however, that must surely be every bit as unhealthy for women as it is for men appears to me not only foolish but sadly lacking in good female judgment. Under any other circumstance, I would have been more than happy to escape the noise and putrid air. As it was, I vowed to make my inspection as brief, albeit thorough, as possible.

Since, as I had stated to Robert, I had no real idea what I was looking for, I decided to start my search with an open door located on the opposite side of the room. As I made my way around men standing at the bar or carrying drinks to their tables, I became conscious that a number of male eyes were focused on me. Some grinned fatuously, while others studied me with open curiosity.

One particularly inebriated man approached me, waving a shot glass of whiskey, and, leering rudely, invited me to join him for, as
he put it, “a horn or two.” As I was attempting to maneuver around him, I was surprised, and I’m not too proud to admit, relieved, to spy a familiar face in the crowded room. It was Nicholas Bramwell.

Ignoring the stares and a few crude comments directed at me, I made my way over to his table. Nicholas sat with three other young men, all of them well groomed, sporting neatly tied cravats and wearing fashionable suits. Four top hats sat perched neatly on a hat tree beside the table. As I reached the group, all four men politely rose to their feet.

“Miss Woolson,” Bramwell said, giving me a welcoming smile. “How very nice to see you. Have you come to dine? I hear that the halibut was freshly caught this morning and has been prepared in a delicate wine sauce.” He looked behind me, as if searching for my companion. “Surely you haven’t come all the way out to Land’s End by yourself?”

“No, Mr. Campbell escorted me.” I indicated that the young men should resume their seats.

Nicholas Bramwell remained standing and proceeded to introduce his companions. Two of his friends had also passed the California Bar examination within the past few months, and one was planning a career as a surgeon.

I politely declined to join their party, or allow them to buy me a sherry, explaining that Robert would be wondering where I’d gone off to.

“It’s quite busy on a Saturday night, isn’t it?” I said, raising my voice so as to be heard over the din. “I didn’t realize the Cliff House had become so popular.”

“Oh, yes,” said the young man studying medicine. “It’s become all the rage, especially on the weekend. I’m sorry to say it has also become greatly admired by tourists.”

One of the new California attorneys nodded his head in agreement. “Yes. So much so that it’s worth one’s life to get a decent table in the dining room. We put our names in almost half an hour ago, and we’re still waiting to be seated.”

The other new lawyer, whom I suspected had already had rather too much to drink, laughed and raised his glass. “But who’s complaining?” He looked at me. “Are you sure we can’t get you a sherry, Miss Woolson? Or perhaps you’d prefer some champagne, or a flip?” Once again he raised his glass, and everyone at the table laughed. “The Cliff House makes the best flips in town.”

“Thank you, but no,” I replied. Flips, made with beer, rum, and sugar, were very popular these days. I’d tried one once, just to see what the fuss was about, and found the drink entirely too sweet, and a great deal too strong, for my taste.

Preparing to resume my inspection of the door to the rear of the saloon, I said to Nicholas, “Before I leave, Mr. Bramwell, would you please tell me how Miss Karpova is getting on? She was still quite upset when I left her with her mother earlier this afternoon. “I purposefully did not mention
where
I had left them, not wanting to call attention to the fact that Yelena’s mother was in jail.

For some reason, Nicholas’s three friends seemed to find this statement exceedingly funny.

“Oh, oh, Nikki boy,” said the boy who had had too much to drink. “The lady is asking about your little sweetheart.”

One of the other young men began making the most unpleasant kissing sounds with his lips, while the third said, “Yes, do tell us all about her, Nikki boy.”

Nicholas Bramwell’s face turned brick red—whether from anger or embarrassment, I wasn’t sure—and he took hold of my arm. “Let’s move away from these b’hoys, Miss Woolson. I believe we can find a bit more privacy over there.”

As he led me off to a small table that had just been vacated, one of the men called out, “Nikki, when are you going to take your little girlfriend out to meet Nancy? She’d get a real kick out of it.” This comment propelled the young men into fresh fits of laughter, causing customers at nearby tables to give envious looks, as if they thought they were missing out on great fun. Was the Nancy they were referring to one of young Mr. Bramwell’s special friends? If so,
I failed to see why it had elicited so much hilarity. I was about to ask him to explain the joke, then decided it was none of my concern.