“What else would I conclude from the statements you’ve made, Detective? Your questions?” he asked. “If a reporter has spotted me coming into the station . . . Damn it all.” Blanchard dropped onto his chair again.
“Can anybody vouch for you, Mr. Blanchard?”
“Nobody will vouch for me, Detective, but the absence of an alibi isn’t enough of a reason to blame me for Shaw’s death,” he answered, his color slowly returning. “Obviously, we’ve had our differences. I’ve admitted as much. But I’m no fool. I wouldn’t go to the Hygienic Institute and assault Shaw. Has somebody claimed they saw me there? Have they?”
Nick studied Blanchard. “Did I mention that Mr. Shaw was at the Hygienic Institute?”
“It wasn’t a secret. Everybody knew he’d gone there because of his heart,” he said. “Guess his opportunity to learn if their treatments work got cut short.”
“Have you ever partaken of the water cure at the Institute?” Had use of a key to a private entrance, perhaps. A key he hadn’t returned.
“I’ve never had the need, Detective,” he replied flatly.
“Ah.” Nick got to his feet. “Taylor, escort Mr. Blanchard out. And make up a story for the reporters, if there are any outside, about why he’s been to visit us.”
Taylor put away his notebook and took the man’s elbow.
“And, Mr. Blanchard,” added Nick, “don’t make any sudden plans to leave San Francisco. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The fellow shook off Taylor’s grip. “They’re lying, though, Detective Greaves. The Shaws. Lying about Ambrose Shaw being followed. Lying about me.”
“Why would they do that, Mr. Blanchard?”
“Because they want to destroy me. Even now. Even after Ambrose has died,” he said. “And hell if they aren’t going to succeed.”
Chapter 7
“Miss Campbell, I apologize for not properly greeting you when you initially arrived.” Celia paused in the parlor to hand the wrapped photographs to Addie, which she’d had to fetch from Jane’s house where she’d left them.
Her housekeeper raised her eyebrows, a silent query about what Celia had learned from Miss Shaw and why it had taken her so long to return home.
“Later, Addie,” whispered Celia, stripping off her gloves and bonnet and handing them to Addie as well.
Miss Olivia Campbell, Barbara’s tutor, rose from the chair she’d taken at the dining room table. She wore a severely dark dress, rather old-fashioned in its cut, the color of which caused her to appear sickly, especially given her thin, ash-brown hair. Her attire was likely chosen to make her seem older and more mature than her four-and-twenty years.
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Davies. I didn’t mind. It gave me a chance to talk to Miss Walford for a few minutes before we began the assessment.”
She cradled her left hand in her right, holding it tight against her waist. The arm was thin and frail, partially paralyzed from a childhood disease. Diphtheria, perhaps. Celia hadn’t requested the specifics when Miss Campbell had interviewed for the position last week.
“Nonetheless, I do apologize,” said Celia, sitting opposite her and Barbara.
“Thank you for engaging me to assist your cousin,” said Miss Campbell, retaking her seat. She had bright eyes but a reluctant smile. Perhaps she was used to being judged and found wanting; the effort of a smile wasted upon people who could not look beyond her limp hand to observe the good, the intelligence in her. Little different than the way people looked at Barbara. “My assessment this morning tells me that Miss Walford is very intelligent.”
Barbara shot Celia a glance questioning if Celia had instructed Miss Campbell to make that claim.
“I’ve heard nothing but good about you, Miss Campbell,” said Celia.
“Have you? Not everyone is willing . . .” Her words trailed off.
To speak well of you or employ your services because of your physical flaws?
“I do not care what everyone else is willing or not willing to do,” said Celia. “I only care about how you can help Barbara.”
“My cousin seems to think I need to add to my education,” said Barbara. “I was dismissed from the nearby grammar school two years ago when some of the parents complained about my being there. Because my mother was Chinese.”
“I’m sorry,” said Miss Campbell.
“Their reactions are not your fault, Miss Campbell,” said Celia.
“Nonetheless, I am sorry,” she replied. “Despite your past experience, I hope you’re looking forward to our lessons, Miss Walford.”
“My cousin has convinced me they’re necessary.”
“And you don’t believe they’re necessary? But they are, Miss Walford,” said Miss Campbell, her voice rising on a tide of passion. “Education is the rebuttal to those who’d limit who we can be or what we can do. Don’t you agree, Miss Walford? You simply must agree.”
For the first time in weeks, since Grace Hutchinson had gone off to the Young Ladies’ Seminary in Benicia and left her bereft, Barbara smiled. A warm, wonderful smile. I have not chosen wrong. She had chosen precisely the right young woman to instruct Barbara.
“Yes, Miss Campbell,” Barbara said. “I agree.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Campbell. “If it’s acceptable to you, Mrs. Davies, I’d be happy to begin my work with Miss Walford immediately.”
“It is completely acceptable, Miss Campbell,” said Celia. “Tomorrow morning?”
“Perfect. Thank you,” the young woman replied. Her gaze took in Barbara. “Miss Walford promises to be an excellent student. I’m looking forward to our time together.”
“No Chaucer, though,” said Barbara.
Laughing, Miss Campbell stood. “No Chaucer, Miss Walford.” She tugged on her cotton thread gloves, her weak left hand struggling to ease the crochet-work over her right. Task completed, she collected her small leather case. “I’ll be going, then.”
She exited the house and descended the steps to the street.
“Libby’s okay,” said Barbara, once Miss Campbell was out of earshot.
“Libby?” asked Celia.
“Miss Campbell said I could call her by her nickname.” Barbara waved at her tutor, who’d paused on the pavement to look up at the house. Miss Campbell waved in return before proceeding along the road, the small leather case she carried swinging at her side.
“I am glad you like her.”
“So am I,” said her cousin, striding back inside.
Addie exited Celia’s examination room. “Weel?” she asked, once she was certain Barbara had strolled out of earshot.
“Miss Campbell will be most excellent.”
“That’s not what I was asking, ma’am.”
“I have lost that key, Addie,” she replied. “But not before discovering that it did fit the lock in a private side door to the Institute.”
“I’ll nae believe it of Miss Mina.”
“The police will.” Even Nicholas Greaves, who knew the young woman far better than either she or Addie did. “I cannot fathom how she obtained it, though.”
“But what was Miss Mina’s motive? To be rid of some annoying fellow who’d been giving her candy? If we believe that box at Bauman’s was even hers.” Addie folded her arms, unwilling to be swayed. “Not Miss Mina. She’d have thought of another solution.”
“Addie, she’d not be the first woman to strike out in desperation,” said Celia. “But before you accuse me of giving up on her, I shall go and speak with Herr Bauman. He will know if Mr. Shaw had indeed been bothering Mina, and if she’d been upset as a result. And if she indicated she’d planned to go to the Institute to confront the man.”
“And what if you find she had planned to go there, ma’am?”
“As they say, I shall cross that bridge when I come to it.”
• • •
Nick climbed the steps leading from the basement station to the side alley and strode over to where Taylor waited at the curb.
; “Mr. Blanchard took a cab back to his house, sir,” he said around the lit cigar clenched between his teeth. Smoke puffed from his mouth. “There weren’t any reporters outside, which made him happy.”
Nick paused to scan the streets around the station. It was another habit of his, this endless watchfulness. As was typical for the middle of the day on a dusty Portsmouth Square, the surrounding streets were busy with pedestrians. The usual hubbub, including a street vendor hawking “magic razors.” Preferable to the one last week selling rattlesnake oil. He should have an officer make sure the man had a license.
“Inform the cops who work Blanchard’s neighborhood to keep an eye on him. Just to make sure he doesn’t pack up and catch a train out of town,” said Nick. “Also, check if Shaw even remotely hinted when he made his complaint that Blanchard was the person tailing him. We need to confirm Leonard Shaw’s accusation.”
“Will do, sir,” he said. “Why’d you let Mr. Blanchard go free, though? He’s got a motive and he doesn’t have an alibi.”
“Hating a man because he insults your wife doesn’t always lead to acts of revenge, Taylor.” Thank God. “And we can’t get around the fact that all the evidence we so far have points to Mina Cascarino.”
Taylor plucked his cigar, smoked down to a stub, out of his mouth. “Want me to try to talk to Miss Mina this afternoon?”
Because Mrs. Davies might let Taylor up to see her, when she’d thrown up barricades preventing Nick?
“I need you to check on that robbery at Blanchard’s house, find out what you can learn. If it’s even relevant.” Which I’m not sure it is. “I’m going to Miss Shaw’s photographic studio and see what she knows about Elliot Blanchard and her father. Then I’m off to the Hygienic Institute. I’ve learned that a few patients have had belongings stolen while staying there. I need to hear what Ross has to say. Find out if we’ve had any reports about thefts at the Institute too, Taylor.”
“What’s somebody stealing from patients got to do with Mr. Shaw’s death though, sir?”
“Maybe Shaw was the victim of a robbery attempt gone bad,” he said. “But that’s what we need to figure out.”
“Detective Greaves!” A policeman in his gray uniform hailed him from across the street. He ran over once the traffic allowed.
“Did you have a chance to speak with Ross’s cook, Mullahey?” Nick asked him.
Mullahey greeted Taylor with a nod. “I did, Mr. Greaves. She confirmed what the others have said—that she didn’t see a stranger inside the building after visitin’ hours. She also told me Mr. Ross left around quarter past seven. He stopped in the kitchen to speak with her before he went home. After that, she helped Mr. Platt tidy up the parlor until he told her she could go. Before seven thirty.”
“The same as what Platt said,” said Nick.
“She didn’t know at all about the ruckus Mrs. Wynn caused, or that Mr. Shaw had died, until this mornin’ when she arrived for work at the Institute,” Mullahey added.
“So the intruder had to have used the private staircase in order to not be spotted by Mr. Platt or Miss Newcomb. Or by any of the other patients. Right?” asked Taylor.
Mullahey leaned in. “Unless this person was a ghost, Taylor.”
“Very funny, Mullahey.”
Nick thanked him and, tugging the brim of his policeman’s cap, he strode off.
Taylor dropped his cigar stub onto the sidewalk and crushed it with the heel of his boot. “Where does this leave us, sir?”
“Well, it seems Platt and the cook have vouched for each other.” If they were both telling the truth. “Also, the other patients—aside from Mrs. Wynn, busy discovering a trespasser on the premises—were in the parlor having a rousing game of cards and Ross was on his way home. That’s where we’re at.”
“Suspecting an intruder,” said Taylor, frowning. “Like Miss Mina.”
• • •
Rebecca Shaw’s photographic gallery stood on Montgomery, two short blocks south of the police station. Nick arrived just as a young couple in their Sunday best strolled out of the studio. The man nodded a greeting and murmured to the woman at his side, something amusing that made her giggle.
A memory of a long-ago visit to a photographer stirred, the sound of Meg’s voice as she teased Ellie about the dress she’d chosen to wear for the portrait, Ellie chiding her to try to settle herself for once, Nick laughing at both of his sisters. But it was a memory so fleeting it could have been the hastily detected scent of a passing woman’s perfume, or a barely sighted sparrow darting from shrub to shrub, and he was grateful when it vanished as quickly as it had entered his mind.
At the ring of the bell above the shop door, Rebecca Shaw stepped through a side doorway with a smile, a heavy apron tied over her dark, plain dress. She was tall—taller than he’d imagined for a reason he couldn’t fathom—and had a confident bearing. The light streaming through the window caught in her rich auburn hair.
“Are you looking to make an appointment to have your portrait taken?” she asked.
Nick crossed the sunlit space, beneath a dozen somber faces staring down from the walls, peering out from frames propped on tables and easels, the smell of chemicals sharp in the air.
“No.” He flipped back his coat to show his badge. “I’m Detective Greaves.”
Her smile slid off her face. “A policeman has already been here to tell me about my father. So if you don’t mind, I have work to finish before I close.”
She turned on her heel and headed for the room she’d come from. Marched past her camera and the painted canvas backdrop—a fanciful scene of a hillside—that had probably been used for the couple he’d encountered on the sidewalk.
“Miss Shaw, I need to ask you some questions,” he said.
“It’s not convenient for me right now.” She ducked inside the room, and Nick followed. The overpowering tang of chemicals, the small window cut into the exterior wall inadequate to air out the space, caused him to cough.
“I must be used to the smell by now,” said Miss Shaw, examining the photographs suspended by clips to dry.
Porcelain and glass dishes were arrayed on a table, and bottles of chemicals—glacial acetic acid, alcohol, distilled water, cyanide of potassium, nitrate of silver—lined wood shelves. Salted paper sat alongside a supply of frames. All of it carefully arranged. A reflection of Miss Shaw’s personality, perhaps.
“I can’t help that it’s not convenient, Miss Shaw,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
She slid him a look. In the darkness of the space, it was hard to read her expression, judge if her confusion was genuine. “Is it normal protocol for the police to intrude upon grieving family members?”
It is when they might have critical information. “How about we return to the main room where we’ll both be more comfortable, miss.”
Reluctantly, she left, stripping off her heavy apron as she walked. She tossed it onto a large glass case in the center of the gallery. “I don’t know how I can help you, Detective.”
“I spoke with your brother and Mrs. Shaw this morning.”
“My stepbrother,” she corrected, toying with a slim gold bracelet she wore on her left wrist. She had long fingers with short nails, discolored by chemicals. Many women would be embarrassed to show their hands, if they looked like Rebecca Shaw’s. She didn’t strike him as a person who cared what others thought. “What did Leo and Delphia have to say about my father’s sudden death? Something that has given you a reason to come here and ask questions.”
“What can you tell me about Mr. Elliot Blanchard?”
“What has he got to do . . . my father’s death was not natural, was it?” she asked. “Was it, Detective?”
“As you guessed, the coroner suspects foul play.”
“And Leo has implicated Elliot . . .” She let out a mirthless chuckle. “He’s always hated him.”
“You know Mr. Blanchard well, Miss Shaw?”
“We have a close acquaintance,” she re
plied. “Used to. No longer, since he and my father ended up on opposite sides politically.”
“Did your father ever complain to you about a suspicious person following him?”
Her expression didn’t change; maybe the idea of somebody stalking her father wasn’t so remarkable. “A suspicious person like Elliot, you mean? If Delphia and Leo have blamed Mr. Blanchard, they’re lying,” she stated. “And my father never complained to me, because we haven’t spoken in months, Detective Greaves.”
“I was told you’d visited him at the Institute this week.”
“I did—upon his request—but after a few minutes of waiting in the Institute’s parlor, I figured he’d decided against meeting me after all. So I left.”
“The parlor? You mean he didn't give you a key to use?” asked Nick.
She gave him a strange look, tilting her head the way Riley would sometimes do when the dog was trying to process something Nick had said. “My father didn’t give me a key to use, Detective Greaves. The front door was unlocked. I went straight in.”
Okay. “What about your stepmother’s relationship with your father?” he asked. “Was it a happy one?”
She surprised him by laughing. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”
Enough of an answer to his question.
Outside, a fire engine clattered past on the street, its bell ringing. The commotion drew her attention, giving Nick time to better study the interior of the gallery. Examine the carefully arranged portraits and the few landscape photographs on display. If they were her work, she had talent. He wondered who’d financed the place.
“They’ve gone a ways up the street, thank God,” she said. “I’m always afraid of fires. And earthquakes.”
“Don’t you have insurance for your business here, Miss Shaw?”
She answered his question with one of her own. “How much longer is this going to take, Detective?”
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