No Darkness as like Death

by Nancy Herriman

  “Mary Ann Newcomb fancies him to be the thief, although the conversation Cassidy overheard contradicts her,” said Nick. “At least as far as Shaw’s watch is concerned.”

  Taylor puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “Hope that Mrs. Wynn is at her lodgings this morning, so we can get a straight story.”

  “If she’s not there, Taylor, she’s probably on a train by now.” Nick turned the corner, the bustle of a nearby fruit stand sending up a hum of noise. Apples, pears, figs, and plums were piled neatly in wood baskets, the smell of fruit warming in the sun drifting their direction. “Might be headed to Arizona, for all we know.”

  Or Mexico, like Patrick Davies had done when he’d abandoned Celia and left San Francisco.

  “We’ve got Tokay grapes,” called the stand owner, women in headscarves and thick shawls crowding around him. “And fresh apricots today.”

  “I like grapes,” said Taylor. “Wonder if I should get some to take home.”

  “Since when do you like grapes?”

  “Well, Miss Fer— ahem.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve always liked grapes, sir.”

  Right. “Later, Taylor.”

  They arrived at the lodging house, no more impressive-looking in the foggy morning light, and climbed the short flight of stairs to the door.

  Nick pointed at Taylor’s cigar. “Put that out.”

  “But I’m not finished, sir . . .” He frowned. “Yes, sir.”

  He bent and stubbed it out on the stone step while Nick rang the bell. A harried young woman—a girl, actually, around fifteen or sixteen years old—answered, a wet washrag dripping in her hand. Not the landlady, this time.

  “What? Oh, my,” she said, taking in Taylor’s uniform.

  “We’re here to speak with Mrs. Wynn,” said Nick.

  “I can . . . um . . .” The chambermaid hunted around for somewhere to drop the rag, decided the empty boot rack in the entryway worked, and wiped her damp hands across her apron. “I can take you to her room, Officers.”

  “She’s here?” asked Taylor.

  “So much for Mrs. M. notifying us that the woman had returned to her lodgings, as we’d told her to do,” said Nick.

  A female resident in a drab cotton dress wandered out of the dingy parlor at their right. “What’s going on?”

  “The police are here to see Mrs. Wynn,” said the girl who’d answered the door.

  “Again?”

  “Oh, dear,” the girl exclaimed and scuttled up the fraying carpet covering the stairs, trailing the smell of beeswax and strong lye. Nick and Taylor climbed after her, all the way to the top floor and the rooms tucked beneath the eaves.

  “She didn’t come down for breakfast, so I guess she’s still in her room. The one at the end.” The girl pointed. “There.”

  Taylor rapped on the door. “Mrs. Wynn? Police.” He leaned his ear against the door and rapped again. “Mrs. Wynn? Nothing, sir.”

  “Do you have a key?” Nick asked the chambermaid.

  “Sure.” She rummaged through a pocket and produced a key ring. “Should be . . . let’s see . . . this one.”

  The girl, her hand shaking, slipped the key into the lock and turned. “Mrs. Wynn, sorry to—why, she’s not in here, Officers. And all her stuff’s cleared out!”

  Nick stepped into the empty room just as a woman outside released an ear-splitting scream. He sprinted to the window and yanked it open. Down in the cobbled yard, a young woman, a pile of laundry at her feet, noticed him.

  “She’s dead!” she screeched, pointing toward a shed. A pair of booted female feet protruded, the rest of their owner’s body hidden by the building’s overhanging roof. “She’s dead!”

  Chapter 12

  “Got here as soon as I could, Greaves,” said Harris, exiting the rear door of Mrs. Wynn’s lodging house.

  “Thanks, Harris,” said Nick, standing next to the shed to block the view of the bloodied woman on the ground behind him. Residents gawked from every window that faced the yard, even though most couldn’t actually see the body because of the building’s overhang. Occasionally, a face popped over the alley wall. Nosy passersby. “The victim’s back here.”

  The coroner pushed aside the drying bed linens, which flapped on ropes tied between the lodging house and the side fence.

  “Well, that’s a mess.” He squatted next to the body and felt the skin of the woman’s face. He then dipped a finger into the puddle of blood that spread dark red across the gravel beneath her head, rubbed it against his thumb. “Body’s cold. Blood fairly well congealed. She’s likely been dead a couple of hours at most. Do you know who she is?”

  “Althea Wynn. The woman we’d interviewed as a witness in the Ambrose Shaw case,” answered Nick. “We also found a gold man’s watch and fob chain in a concealed pocket of her petticoat. Likely his.”

  The items weighed down Nick’s coat pocket. Worth enough, if pawned, to support an unpretentious person like Mrs. Wynn for at least a year. He’d have to inform Mullahey they weren’t going to need that warrant to search Platt’s lodgings for the watch, after all.

  “Well, this was the perfect space to stash a body, if you didn’t want it discovered right away,” said Harris. He gently removed her blood-soaked bonnet, crushed from the blow to her head, and prodded the damage done to her skull. “Struck with some force. Good thing Officer Taylor isn’t out here to get nauseated.”

  His assistant had a weak stomach. As it was, the sight of Mrs. Wynn’s hair caked with gore was turning Nick’s. He’d seen too much blood during the war, too often smelled its metallic tang to ever tolerate the sight or smell again. He looked away.

  “Mrs. Wynn had been attempting to leave town,” said Nick, nodding at the carpetbag and small trunk resting near the alley gate where she’d set them while she’d undone the latch. “Her room was emptied of all her belongings some time after we tried to speak with her yesterday.”

  “Sadly, she didn’t get far.” Harris gently lowered Mrs. Wynn’s head to the ground and pulled out a cloth to wipe his hands.

  “Let me get somebody to bring you a washbasin.” Nick ran back to the lodging house and shoved open the rear door. The frizzle-haired cook, who’d been skulking on the other side, jumped backward. The kitchen—the dry sink crowded with dirty breakfast dishes, a pot bubbling on the cooking stove against the wall—smelled of grease and rotting vegetables. “We need a basin of water out here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she squeaked.

  “I don’t think our victim was killed in this exact spot, Greaves,” said the coroner once Nick returned. “Based on the disarray of her skirts and the snags on her stockings, she was dragged behind the shed. In fact, you might observe faint lines from her heels in the gravel there.”

  Disgust tugged at Nick’s gut. “Was she assaulted, Harris?”

  “Sexually?” Harris frowned and glanced at the body. “I’ll check, of course, but I don’t think so. Murdered and hauled to this spot where she might not be noticed right away.”

  The cook elbowed a path through the hanging laundry, the tin basin she carried splashing water as she scuttled across the yard. She set it next to Harris, shot a glance at the blood on his hands, went white, and ran back off.

  Harris rinsed his fingers, staining the water red. “I suspect she was struck with a heavy rough-edged object, like a broken brick or cobblestone. There was some residue on the bonnet. It absorbed most of the blood she’d shed.”

  “Can you tell if the assailant was a man or a woman?”

  The coroner considered the question. “Given the angle . . . not a short person,” he said, emptying the basin onto the ground and getting to his feet. “Although our victim here is rather small herself.”

  The rear door opened again, and Taylor led Giulia DiPaolo through. A long braid of her hair hung over her shoulder, and she clung to it, her hand trembling.

  “Miss DiPaolo heard something, sir,” he said.

  “This is dreadful, Detective Greaves,” she said, her
voice trembling as much as her fingers. “Poor Mrs. Wynn. Who could’ve done this to her?”

  “What was it you heard, Miss DiPaolo?” asked Nick.

  She swallowed hard, her gaze darting at Mrs. Wynn’s prone corpse before hastily shifting back to Nick’s face. “I heard a cry around sunrise. My room is the one right there.” She turned to point at a window two floors below Mrs. Wynn’s room. “The sound woke me up. I thought it was the gate hinges squealing, at first. But then there was a truly eerie noise, like a screech from a wounded animal. I went to the window and saw a shadow moving in the alleyway, but it was so dark. I may also have heard a voice, a man’s—”

  “A man. Are you sure, Miss DiPaolo?”

  “Pretty sure,” she answered. “At the time, I assumed I’d heard the alleycats fighting and went back to bed, even though I had to get up not long after.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry. Truly. I wish . . .”

  “I doubt you could’ve prevented what happened, Miss DiPaolo,” said Taylor, soothing as usual.

  “Taylor, take Miss DiPaolo back inside, if you will. And ask if anybody else heard noises at sunrise or saw somebody out here,” said Nick. “When you’re finished with the lodgers, question the neighbors.”

  “Yes, sir.” Taylor led her back inside, the door opening to a rush of questioning voices before they were cut off by it shutting again.

  “Taylor discovered a broken part of a discarded chloroform bottle outside the Hygienic Institute, Harris,” said Nick, waiting as the coroner finished drying his hands. “We can’t prove it’s the one used in Shaw’s death but my money’s on it.”

  “I didn’t imagine it would ever be found, Greaves.”

  “Wish I could identify who’s responsible for killing him and Mrs. Wynn, though. Here. Let’s go see what we can find out in that alley.” Nick tugged open the gate, sending more busybodies scattering in all directions, their heels kicking up gravel. “Hey, hey! Police! I need to talk with you,” he shouted, trying to get any of them to stop and answer questions. None of them obliged. “Damned nuisances. They’ve probably trampled any evidence out here.”

  “However, I believe we’ve located our murder weapon.” The coroner pointed at a pile of stones and crumbling bits of brick against the fence. “There, Greaves.”

  “I believe you’re right, Harris,” said Nick and retrieved the broken half of a cobblestone, one edge smeared with blood.

  • • •

  “Detective Greaves is out, ma’am,” said the lone officer in the police station. “Only Mr. Briggs is in right now,” he added, pointing his pencil at the closed door to the detectives’ office.

  “I shall leave a message for Mr. Greaves, then,” said Celia.

  “Fine by me, ma’am.”

  Celia went over to Mr. Taylor’s desk, wondering where all the rest of the policemen were, for there were desks aplenty in the room, indicating the number of officers employed by the force. However, those desks and chairs were almost always empty whenever she came to visit. Even the turnkey who also booked new jail arrivals was absent from his corner standing desk. Odd that she did not know his name, given all the times she’d been to the station. Perhaps one day she would ask Mr. Greaves about the fellow.

  Or perhaps you will not, Celia. The sooner she accepted that she’d see little of Nicholas Greaves in the future, the better.

  She sighed, which caused the policeman to peer at her. “I shall be out of your way soon, Officer. Do not worry about me.”

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  Lovely.

  She stripped off her gloves and searched for a pen, ink, and notepaper on which to write. She needed to inform Mr. Greaves about Mr. Blanchard’s supply of chloroform—she’d only glimpsed the label of the bottle, but it was clear what she’d read—as well as his domestic’s confirmation that he had no alibi for Wednesday evening.

  “Need help there, ma’am?” asked the officer, leaning back in his chair.

  “Did Mr. Greaves or Mr. Taylor mention where they were headed this morning?” She located what she required and took a seat in Mr. Taylor’s chair. The objects atop his desk smelled strongly of cigar smoke. A much more pleasant aroma than the general stink of the room.

  “I’m not allowed to say. But maybe I can help.” He stood and squinted at her note. “Have you got a crime you’d like to report?”

  “Oh, dear, I’m not allowed to say, Officer.”

  He muttered something uncomplimentary and sat back down.

  Should she include in her message that she’d received a warning note from an unknown sender? Mr. Greaves would only chastise her for getting involved in police matters. Deciding against informing him, Celia finished writing and went over to the closed door to the detectives’ office. It suddenly swung open, and she jumped backward.

  “Sorry to startle you, ma’am,” said the fellow who’d opened the door. Portly and rather short, his eyes met hers at nearly the same level. He dragged his fingertips through his beard—a doughnut crumb trapped deep within its mesh of hairs—as he examined her. “Aren’t you—”

  “Yes, I am, Detective Briggs.” She’d met him before and misliked him nearly as much as Nicholas Greaves did. “I am Mrs. Davies.” She held up the note. “I was hoping to leave this message for Mr. Greaves.”

  “He isn’t here, but I can see he gets it, once I’m finished.”

  He stuck out his hand, and Celia snatched the piece of paper out of his reach. “The message can wait.”

  A man stepped into view behind the detective, his fingers busy reseating his hat upon his head. “Thanks for all your help, Detective. I appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem,” said Mr. Briggs, his smile what some would describe as oily. “Not a problem at all, Mr. Shaw.”

  Leonard Shaw? What could he want and why was he speaking with Detective Briggs and not Mr. Greaves?

  Before Celia could pose the question to him, he’d doffed his hat at her and marched past, quickly crossing the police station on his way to the main staircase.

  “Was that Mr. Leonard Shaw?” she asked Detective Briggs.

  “Yep.”

  “I read about his father’s death at the Hygienic Institute,” she said. “What an astonishing incident and quite suspicious. Was he here to discuss it with you?”

  Mr. Briggs dropped the grin he’d been wearing. “That is police business, ma’am.”

  “Oh. Of course,” she replied, coquettishly touching the sleeve of his coat. “Silly of me to presume you might share your opinion on the matter.”

  He glanced at her hand. “Well, I might be able to tell you one or two things, ma’am.”

  The alleyway door opened and Nicholas Greaves descended the steps, a broken cobblestone in his hand. Celia straightened, her cheeks hot.

  “Mrs. Davies?” he asked. His gaze took in the detective at her side. “Briggs.”

  “Greaves,” the detective replied in a tone as hard as Mr. Greaves’s had been. “This here lady’s got a note for you.”

  “Don’t let us interrupt your doughnut-eating, Briggs,” he replied.

  “Ha ha.” He smirked and stomped back inside the detectives’ office.

  Mr. Greaves turned to her. “What exactly was going on there with Briggs, Mrs. Davies?”

  “Nothing at all, Mr. Greaves,” she replied. “And may I ask why you are holding a cobblestone?”

  “You may.” He looked down at the broken stone. “It was used to murder Mrs. Wynn.”

  • • •

  “Mrs. Wynn stole Mr. Shaw’s watch and fob chain?” asked Mrs. Davies, her skirts hiked in order to match Nick’s pace, her boot heels rapping crisply on the wood sidewalk. “As least we have resolved who stole the items, but so many other questions do remain.”

  “And if I find answers, I’ll be sure to share them with you.”

  “No need for sarcasm, Mr. Greaves.”

  The morning had turned warm and fair. He’d prefer that they were strolling someplace pleasant, like path
s at the Willows or admiring plants inside one of the hothouses at Woodward’s Gardens, rather than trudging down Kearny toward the Hygienic Institute. He’d also prefer that Jack Hutchinson, his closest friend, hadn’t died during the war, that Meg was still alive and their father had forgiven Nick before he’d passed away, that Patrick Davies hadn’t returned to torture them both. But he rarely got what he wanted.

  “Nevertheless, her death and Mr. Shaw’s are clearly connected, Mr. Greaves,” she said, oblivious to the miserable wanderings of his mind.

  “Hard not to come to that conclusion.” He glanced over at her. Her jaw was set, her brain no doubt attempting to outstrip his in a race for solutions. “You know you don’t have to accompany me, ma’am. You’re free to return to your clinic.”

  “I am fully aware I need not accompany you, Mr. Greaves, but you’ve not permitted me the opportunity to relay what I discovered this morning.”

  Here she was doing police work again. He’d scold her but his warnings never stopped her. Maybe he was glad they didn’t. “You could just hand me your note.”

  “I do not comprehend why you are being so difficult.”

  Don’t you? Don’t you understand why being near you bothers me so much? “What did you learn, Mrs. Davies?”

  “Firstly, Mr. Blanchard’s domestic departs at six, verifying that he has no alibi for Wednesday evening.”

  “He’s already admitted that, ma’am.” But he did appreciate her confirming what they’d been told.

  “Secondly . . .” Her mouth turned upward in a self-congratulatory grin. “Mr. Elliot Blanchard collects insects.”

  “That’s what you discovered?”

  “Obviously, Mr. Greaves, I learned much more than that piece of information,” she replied tersely. “Apparently, there are certain substances used to suffocate the creatures in order to halt their flutterings, which would damage their wings.”

  “How fascinating,” he said, stepping around a grocer’s clerk dragging a loaded handcart through a doorway and out onto the sidewalk.