No Darkness as like Death

by Nancy Herriman

  Mrs. Davies nimbly skirted the man, as well. “I am going to ignore your continued sarcastic comments and tell you that one of those substances is chloroform,” she said. “In the room Mr. Blanchard uses to prepare his displays, he maintains supplies of various substances. Including chloroform. A gap in the tidy row of bottles hinted that one was missing.”

  “Taylor found part of a discarded chloroform bottle in the alley outside the Institute yesterday. Not far from the private entrance.”

  “A rather reckless disposal of evidence for a man who appears to have a meticulously organized and scientific mind, but perhaps he was startled,” she mused. “By Mina unexpectedly showing up, perhaps. Incidentally, his domestic did not recognize her name.”

  “If Blanchard knows Mina, you think he’d be inviting her over to his house? Introducing her to the servants?” he asked. And yes, he was being sarcastic again.

  “Mr. Blanchard was also absent from his house this morning,” she continued. “Breakfasting at Empire State, supposedly.”

  “Out and about around sunrise, perhaps taking a side trip to bash in Mrs. Wynn’s head.”

  She looked over at him, taking her attention off the uneven planks of the sidewalk and stumbling on a protruding piece of wood.

  Nick grabbed her elbow to steady her. “That was a crude remark. Sorry about that, ma’am.”

  “I tended soldiers sent to the Army hospital during the war, Mr. Greaves. I am not so easily shocked. Simply a momentary distraction,” she said, easing her arm out of his grasp with a tight smile. “Regarding the unfortunate damage Mrs. Wynn’s skull suffered, I can attest to Mr. Blanchard’s ready temper. Although his anger was likely due to finding me nosing around where I was not meant to be.”

  “I can’t imagine anybody being angry with you about that, ma’am,” he quipped. Her smile was fleeting, but reward enough. “Our witness to the attack on Mrs. Wynn thinks she heard a man’s voice.”

  “Perhaps we can now narrow the list of suspects, Mr. Greaves, and eliminate Mina from consideration. At least so far as Mrs. Wynn’s death is concerned,” she said. “Besides not being male, she is far too unwell to have risen at dawn, made her way to the woman’s lodgings, and cracked her over the head with a cobblestone.”

  “She might not be responsible for killing Mrs. Wynn, ma’am, but she’s the only one of our suspects I can definitely place at the scene of Mr. Shaw’s murder,” he reminded her. “And you don’t need to scowl at me. I honestly don’t want Mina to be guilty, either.”

  “I am pleased to hear you say so, because I can never be confident,” she replied. “I do hope you consider that Mr. Blanchard could be the source of the chloroform used to subdue Mr. Shaw, and that Mrs. Wynn was merely an opportunistic thief. The fellow has no reliable alibi for the evening of Mr. Shaw’s death and possibly for this morning, as well.”

  “My opinion of your orderly, scientific fellow is that he’s too clever to commit a crime as brutal as what happened to Mrs. Wynn,” he said. “Even with his ready temper.”

  “We know better, do we not, than to presume appearances are truthful?” she asked. “‘One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.’”

  “Shakespeare this time, ma’am?”

  “Yes. From Hamlet,” she replied. “I wish I’d known to inspect Mr. Blanchard’s clothing to assess if any items were dirty or blood-spattered.”

  “Mrs. Davies, the day you become clairvoyant is going to be a scary one.”

  She chuckled and waited for the street sweeper to finish scooping horse manure into a nearby cart, the scrape of his shovel against macadam an irritating rasp. The path he’d opened across the road wouldn’t stay clear of muck for long.

  “Ross’s cook suggested that Platt had stolen Shaw’s watch. Obviously she was wrong, but maybe he is involved,” he said. “Cassidy overheard him accusing Mrs. Wynn of stealing it, and now we’ve found it in her possession. So . . .”

  “Owen has been spying on these people?” she asked.

  “At Griffin’s request, it seems.”

  “No wonder he—” She clamped her mouth over the rest of her sentence.

  “‘No wonder he’ what, ma’am?”

  She perked her chin. If he never saw her again, it’d be the one thing he missed most. That and the spark in her clear blue eyes.

  “Given that Mr. Griffin is paying him to snoop, no wonder Owen was reluctant to accept another job, one that I had for him. A request to search Mr. Roesler’s accounts to identify all the recent recipients of Mr. Shaw’s gifts,” she said. “I aim to prove, Mr. Greaves, that Mina Cascarino was not one of them.”

  He grinned. He couldn’t help it. She never failed to astonish him. “I’m glad you’re on my side, ma’am. That’s all I can say.”

  “All that aside, Mr. Blanchard must be the one who murdered Mr. Shaw,” she stated. “Then Mrs. Wynn stole the man’s watch upon realizing he was deceased.”

  “And Blanchard killed her, even though she hadn’t identified him?” he asked. “Hadn’t even given us a description.”

  “He panicked after you questioned him.”

  It wasn’t impossible. “He is your favorite suspect, isn’t he, Mrs. Davies?”

  “Chloroform, Mr. Greaves,” she said. “And a lengthy history of professional—and possibly personal—hatred of Ambrose Shaw. Furthermore, he possesses no good alibi for either murder. Means, motive, and opportunity.”

  “How did he get the key to the Institute’s private entrance, though?” he asked as they crossed the cleared path in the street. “Don’t think he made a friendly visit to his ailing political opponent and had a chance to swipe the man’s copy. The key, I remind you, that you found in Mina’s pocket.”

  “I believe we made a pact to agree that the killer left it there, Mr. Greaves.”

  “No comment, ma’am.”

  “Here is where Mr. Blanchard’s orderly, scientific mind would come in handy, though. The fellow is resourceful and would find a way to obtain it. Perhaps he’d enrolled Miss Shaw’s assistance.” Her mouth twisted, turned down. “I wish now I’d questioned her about that key when I was at her studio yesterday. Before I lost it.”

  “She’d have denied recognizing it, ma’am,” he said. “More importantly, Mr. Ross confirms that she didn’t meet with her father.”

  “Mr. Greaves, she could be lying. She could have snuck upstairs, for example, while Mr. Ross was otherwise engaged.”

  He exhaled. “If the police force ever hires female officers, Mrs. Davies, I’ll be sure to put your name in.”

  “You are not being sarcastic again, are you, Mr. Greaves?”

  “Not at all, ma’am.”

  “Well, we need not worry about my becoming a member of the constabulary,” she replied. “The police force will never hire women, I suspect.”

  They rounded the corner. Halfway up the street stood the Hygienic Institute, its green awnings unfurled to protect the windows from the sun. Nick didn’t understand the need for the awnings; most of the rooms’ shutters were closed. He doubted business was good. Although the trade in gossip was going strong, based on the clumps of folks collected along the street who were chattering together and pointing.

  Celia Davies surveyed the onlookers. “What an unfortunate turn of events for Mr. Ross, would you not agree, Mr. Greaves? One patient dead on the premises of his medical establishment then another grotesquely murdered. And now his assistant among those suspected,” she said. “One could almost imagine that someone wished to destroy his reputation and ruin his business.”

  “There have got to be easier ways to accomplish a man’s ruination, Mrs. Davies, than by murdering folks,” he replied.

  The Omnibus Railroad horsecar rattled up the street, slowing as it passed the Institute. Letting all the passengers gawk, Nick supposed. What was going to happen once folks learned that a second patient had died, this time clearly murdered? He’d have to alert the local police to increase patrols in the area.

  “Do yo
u have an opinion as to why Leonard Shaw was visiting Detective Briggs while I was at the station, Mr. Greaves?”

  “He was?”

  A murmur swept through the crowd huddled outside the Institute’s front door, and she rose on her toes to better see. It was only Ross, glaring as he pulled down the blinds covering the large ground-floor windows.

  “You did not notice him?” she asked. “I suppose you must not have done. Mr. Shaw left the station by the main staircase, so you’d not have crossed paths.”

  “He was in talking to Briggs . . .” Nick’s wound took to aching, and he reached up to rub his arm. “All I need is for him to be interfering in one of my cases.”

  “I did try to ask why Mr. Shaw was in the station, but Mr. Briggs refused to tell me,” she said, settling back onto her heels. “Although he may have revealed all after a few more minutes of persuasion.”

  “Flirting, you mean.”

  “I was not flirting.”

  Right. “Thanks for trying, ma’am, but as annoying and incompetent as Briggs can be sometimes, he’s not stupid. Well, not completely stupid,” he said. “Speaking of Leonard Shaw, his alibi for Wednesday evening has gotten shaky. Left the meeting he was attending early. Maybe as early as seven.”

  “Well, that is intriguing.”

  “Putting it mildly.”

  Ross finished closing all the blinds facing the street. The crowd, deciding the show was temporarily over, began to drift away.

  “I should return to my clinic after all, Mr. Greaves. I have an appointment in about fifteen minutes to prepare for,” said Mrs. Davies, consulting the watch that she pinned to the waist of her dress. “But I must remark that I am struck by the coincidence that, at the very moment Mrs. Wynn departed her lodgings this morning, her killer showed up. The timing—”

  “Is mighty convenient.”

  Chapter 13

  A strip of black crepe had been draped over the Closed sign in the window of Rebecca Shaw’s photographic gallery. The blinds were drawn and the interior, from what Celia could see through the gaps, was dark and empty. She’d intended to return home, but her walk to the Institute with Mr. Greaves had brought her too near the studio to resist the temptation to speak with Miss Shaw again. Perhaps she knew why her stepbrother had been at the station that morning, or why a bottle of chloroform was missing from among Elliot Blanchard’s supplies. Was prepared to admit she had, possibly, taken her father's key to the private entrance and passed it on to her former fiancé. Or that she had critical information about who had murdered Mrs. Wynn.

  “Are you lookin’ for Miss Shaw?”

  The voice belonged to a clerk from the adjacent general merchandise shop, a fellow so lean his apron strings had been wrapped twice around his pinched waist.

  Celia never ceased to marvel that, first of all, people took notice of her peering through windows and, secondly, were all too happy to assist. The average San Franciscan was either extraordinarily helpful, unabashedly inquisitive, or excessively suspicious of strangers.

  “I am, but I see that she has closed her gallery,” she said. “Because of the death in her family, I presume.”

  “That would be right, ma’am. Her father’s gone and died,” he said. “Murdered by somebody who didn’t like his politics, I’d bet. I woulda voted for him.”

  She forced a smile; she wasn’t here to discuss the rights of former slaves with this man.

  “Do you know where I might find Miss Shaw?” she asked. “This is a difficult time, and as an acquaintance, I wish to extend my condolences, leave a small note. Perhaps she resides nearby.”

  “She lives in the apartment right above her studio.” He jabbed his thumb toward the pertinent windows. Their blinds were also closed. “The street door might be unlocked. The woman who lives on the top floor leaves it open for her daughter, who comes and goes an awful lot and don’t have a key.”

  Sometimes unabashed nosiness paid off. “Thank you.”

  He politely tapped fingers to the brim of his cap. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  Celia waited for him to return to the general merchandise shop before trying the street door, located between Miss Shaw’s gallery and a tailor’s on the other side. As the clerk had predicted, it was unlocked.

  A steep staircase, lit only by a gloomy skylight, wound up the building’s four stories. At the first landing was a door to what had to be Miss Shaw’s flat, located immediately over her gallery.

  Celia rapped on the doorframe. Please answer. Please.

  A door opened on the floor above, and feet pounded down the steps.

  “Is that you, Miss Shaw? I got that coffee for you,” said the woman, her tawny skirts lifted as she descended, revealing her scuffed half boots. A yellow tin of J. A. Folger Pioneer Coffee in her hand, she abruptly halted when she spotted Celia outside Miss Shaw’s door. “Oh. I’m sorry, I thought I heard Rebecca down here.”

  She spoke through thinly parted lips, as though ashamed of her teeth.

  “I was hoping to extend my condolences on the loss of her father, but she does not appear to be at home,” said Celia.

  “No, she went out early this morning. Probably to look in on her stepmother. The funeral’s tomorrow.” The woman lifted the tin of coffee. “I offered to buy her some coffee. She never seems to have the time to take care of herself.”

  “When was it that she left, would you say?” Around sunrise, when a widow was attacked? “I ask because I wonder when I might expect her to return. I do truly wish to speak with her.”

  “Before six, I think it was. I rise early to do my shopping before I head to the primary school on Pine, where I’m an assistant. I was just getting ready,” she explained. “I was surprised to see her. She’s not usually up and around at that hour.”

  Before six. Only if Mrs. Wynn’s boardinghouse was nearby, however, would Miss Shaw have had enough time to get there and commit the crime prior to the sun rising. Celia peeked at her watch. Almost nine. Where have you been for the last three hours, Miss Shaw?

  “Do you know if she ever returned home?” asked Celia. Or has she been gone the entire time?

  The woman’s gaze narrowed. “That’s a strange question. What’s it matter?”

  “Perhaps it does not. I believe I shall wait until tomorrow’s funeral service to extend my condolences to her,” said Celia. “A more proper opportunity, rather than intruding upon her today.”

  “Might be better tomorrow,” she agreed. “Although you’re not the only one who’s been looking for her this morning. I heard them knocking on her door, but they left before I could see who it was.”

  “Ah.” And who could that have been? “This may come as another odd question, but have you ever heard her mention a Mrs. Wynn?”

  “Don’t think so, but then she is fairly private.”

  “What about a young woman named Mina Cascarino?” she asked, pressing her luck that Miss Shaw’s neighbor would tolerate all the queries. “She is an acquaintance of Miss Shaw’s whom I’ve been attempting to locate in the city. An old friend I lost touch with.”

  “Was she one of those young women who came to her gallery for their portraits?” she asked. “For an exhibit she’d hoped to hold someplace.”

  “How fascinating. I’d not heard of this exhibit.”

  “Working-class girls, they were. They come by to visit her every so often.” The woman glanced toward her room, somewhere up in the shadows of the stairwell. “I do have to hurry, ma’am, or I’ll be late to school.”

  “I am sorry for delaying you.”

  Celia retreated down the steps and back outside. The windows of Miss Shaw’s studio had been emptied of all but a handful of photographs set in front of the closed blinds. She leaned down to examine them, the faces of strangers. One was of two women, attired in simple dresses, their arms around each other’s waist. Those working-class girls Miss Shaw’s neighbor had spoken of? None of them were Mina, though, providing a connection between her and Miss Shaw. Celia did not r
ecognize a single one, save for the image of a man captured in emulsion upon tin. A man who was Elliot Blanchard.

  “What a curious portrait to display in your window, Miss Shaw.” An image of your former fiancé.

  Nearby, a church bell rang the hour. She was going to be late for her appointment. She hurried past the general merchandise shop, where the clerk spotted her through the window and nodded. On the pavement ahead, two women huddled together, oblivious to the pedestrians having to sidestep them.

  One of the women was familiar. In fact, she looked to be Miss Shaw, dressed in black mourning attire. And the other person with her . . . Celia squinted to see better. Her deep bonnet shielded her face from view, though. She was gesturing frantically, however, Miss Shaw gripping her arm to calm her.

  How very, very curious.

  Celia increased her pace, drawing nearer to the two of them. “Miss Shaw!”

  At the sound of her name, she looked over and scowled. She exchanged a few hasty words with the other woman and sped off, down the road that crossed Montgomery, her companion heading the other direction. Celia chased after Rebecca.

  “Please wait, Miss Shaw!” she shouted, weaving through the pedestrians obstructing her progress, who glared at her unladylike headlong sprint down the street.

  “Pardon me,” she said to a woman holding the hand of a small child Celia had collided with. When she looked up, she realized she’d lost track of Miss Shaw.

  Just then, a horsecar pulled away from its stop, and a tall woman in a black dress bolted from a side alley and jumped aboard before it picked up speed.

  Blast.

  • • •

  “Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Ross,” said Nick, watching the man from the doorway of the ladies’ bathing room. “I see that you’re busy.”

  “I’m having to do the work of our cleaning staff myself, because I was forced to let them all go. Hopefully temporarily,” said Ross, scrubbing out one of the room’s two cast-iron tubs, his cuffs covered by sleeve stockings and his face red from the exertion. The space was tight and warm, the air smelling faintly metallic, and water condensed on the outside of the cold water pipe that fed one of the taps. Ross was sweating, too. Occasionally, a drip fell from the showerhead that arched over the tub he was scouring. “Have you resolved Mr. Shaw’s murder, Mr. Greaves?”