Bloody Lessons: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

by Locke, M. Louisa

  Annie assured her that anything that a person said to Nate, if they retained his legal services, would remain confidential. She refrained from asking any other details because Barbara seemed nervous, but she would tell Nate that if Barbara didn’t come to him, he might want to seek her out.

  She thought, however, it might be good to change the subject. As they turned onto Geary she said, “You mentioned Mr. Hoffmann having a temper. Were you thinking of someone he had lost his temper with who might have written the letter?”

  “Well, there is the janitoress, Mrs. Washburn. It is my understanding she has worked at Girls' High ever since it opened in ’71, and I have heard her complaining to the other teachers that Hoffmann doesn’t ‘treat her right.’ I actually heard him once being quite sharp with her about some breakage in the chemistry classroom. And while I haven’t heard anything from the students about him raising his voice in the classroom, there was one incident last spring in the teachers’ room. It was after school, and I overheard an argument between him and Mr. Stoddard, the other math teacher at the time. I believe Hoffmann was calling him lazy or a lazy thinker. In any event, Mr. Stoddard didn’t return this fall, and I understand that Mrs. Rickle, who replaced him, is considered a very competent teacher.”

  There was silence for a few moments as they turned into the front steps leading up to Clement Grammar where they were to meet Jamie and Laura. Barbara said hurriedly, “Annie, before we meet up with Laura and Jamie, I do want to ask you something. Talking about men with tempers reminded me. Last Wednesday, I got here a little early, so I went on up to the third floor to find Jamie and Laura, and I ran into a man who was leaving her classroom. Laura seemed quite upset, and the man looked rather menacing. I don’t mean to pry, but considering what happened a few weeks ago, I wanted make sure you knew about this incident.”

  “Oh, thank you, you were right to mention it, but Laura did tell me about it. The man is Seth Timmons, a former classmate from San Jose Normal who is now teaching, I believe, at Pine and Larkin Primary. He was also a very close friend of Hattie Wilks. Laura briefly thought it might have been him in the alley but has now decided he wasn’t the man. Instead, it seems there is a young hooligan she taught last fall named Buck who is a more likely candidate.”

  “My goodness. I thought she had no idea who the man was.”

  “I know. I wish she had been more forthcoming at the start. But she barely knew me three weeks ago when this all started, hard as that is for me to imagine now. I think she was embarrassed. But I am glad you have seen Timmons. Do let me know if you see him hanging about. From her description, he sounds like just the kind of brooding, heroic man that a young woman like Laura might find fascinating. Nate is planning to go and have a chat with him, and then we may be able to assess better if he is a threat to her physical well-being or to her heart.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Wednesday evening, January 28, 1880

  "Wuld that I was an artist & had the material to paint this camp & all its horors or the tounge of some eloquent Statesman and had the prileage of expresing my mind to our hon. rulers at Washington, I should gloery to describe this hell on earth were it takes 7 of its ocupiants to make a shadow." Sgt. David Kennedy, Andersonville Prison diary, July 9, 1864 (Original spelling preserved.)

  Nate walked steadily up Union Street toward Russian Hill. The incline was gradual most of the way, and he had only about eight more blocks until he reached his destination. He could use the exercise after eating one of his boarding house cook’s heavy and unappetizing dinners. The clouds, having broken up and dissipated during the day, left the night clear and cold, and street lamps created welcome pools of light at each corner. He’d gotten Seth Timmons' address today from the Board of Education offices on the third floor of the new City Hall. He hoped he would catch Timmons at home, although Lord only knew exactly what he was going to say to him. Did you attack my sister? What about the old familiar adage? What are your intentions in regards to my sister?

  He was going to feel like a fool whatever he said, but he didn’t know what else to do other than meet the man in person and let him know that Laura wasn’t without her protectors in town. So far, he’d abided by Laura’s plea that he not tell his parents anything about the attack or any of the details surrounding Hattie Wilks’ death, but he wanted to be able to give a good accounting of himself if they ever did find out. Laura promised she would write their mother and tell her about Hattie, so he figured he would soon receive a letter from his mother asking for a report on how Laura was holding up.

  Nate paused at the corner where the North Beach and Mission Street Railroad turned north up Mason, waiting for one of the cars to rumble past before crossing the street. He used the light from the gas lamp to check the time on his pocket watch. It was already seven, the sun long set. He turned up his overcoat collar since the next stretch of Union was steeper and the wind from the west was biting. A few minutes later, as he got to Taylor, he looked up to his left, where the house lights marched up to the rim of Russian Hill, and then to the right, where the hill plunged down to North Beach. He loved the views from this part of the city.

  He took a deep breath and thought he could smell salt water. Angel Island looked like it had a few beacons lit on the headlands, but it was more likely to be the lamps on a steamer coming down the Bay. When he moved from the ranch to live with his uncle and go to Boys’ High, he spent every Saturday on the docks, dreaming of sailing to the Sandwich Islands or exploring the North Pole with Charles Francis Hall. One of the reasons he continued to stay in his cramped attic rooms in the Vallejo boarding house was for the short walk up Telegraph Hill where he could see every section of the peninsula laid out before him.

  Reaching Leavenworth Street, the highest point of his route, he looked around, taking in the extraordinarily beautiful sight of the moon rising up over Mt. Diablo across the Bay. He wished Annie was next to him, viewing the night sky. He thought about their cab ride home last evening. The memory of the long, intense embrace just as they arrived at the boarding house warmed him. Yet he wondered how she would react if he wasn’t so careful about limiting the time they spent alone.

  He thought about Miss Wilks and Andrew Russell. Had their need to keep their relationship secret caused them to break the bounds of propriety? Had a buggy ride into the empty by-ways of Golden Gate Park one late night led to a passion that swept away all reason, all sense of responsibility? For the first time, he wished he’d paid more attention to the braggarts at college when they detailed their sexual conquests. Maybe then he wouldn’t worry as much about some invisible line he mustn’t cross. Did Annie know where that line was? She’d been married, so presumably she was more experienced in these matters than he was, but that thought didn’t comfort him at all. Neither did the realization that his own little sister might be facing some of the same questions he was facing. Maybe it is a very good thing she has such a negative view of marriage and men. I will feel a darn sight more comfortable if she just concentrates on getting a law degree!

  *****

  Nate turned right when he got to Larkin and began to search for Timmons’ address. Where it should have been, all he could see was a small shoemaker’s shop squeezed between a greengrocers and a bakery. All three establishments were shuttered for the night. Then he noticed a narrow passageway between the shoemaker’s shop and the bakery. The set of wooden stairs leading up to a second story landing would have been invisible without the light shining out of a window above the bakery. When he got to the top of the steps, he saw a pale strip of light around the badly hung door and could hear movement within. He knocked and waited nervously, still not knowing what he would say.

  “I’m sorry, Jenkins doesn’t live here, the shop will reopen at seven tomorrow,” said the man who opened the door.

  “Are you Mr. Timmons?”

  “Yes I am. Just who are you?” Timmons asked, giving Nate a long stare and not budging.

  “I’m Nate Dawson, Laura Dawso
n’s brother. We need to have a talk.”

  Timmons’ grey eyes narrowed and traveled down to where Nate’s open coat revealed a holstered gun at his hip. He then shrugged and turned away, moving back into the center of the room with unspoken confidence.

  Nate looked swiftly around, noted a bedroll and a bare mattress on an old iron bedstead, a small, pot-bellied stove with a coffee pot and what smelled like a can of beans sitting on top. There was a stack of wooden crates that held clothing, eating and cooking utensils, and a good number of books. A chair and small table, with more books and a kerosene lamp, stood next to the one bare window at the back of the room. A hook on the wall next to him held a black Stetson, a belt and holster with a standard Army-issue Colt. Timmons was in stockinged feet, and his well-worn boots were on the floor under the hat and gun.

  Nate had assumed the strong smell of leather was coming from the shoemaker’s shop below until he noticed that a full saddle and tack sat next to the chair at the back of the room. A tin of saddle soap lay open on the table. Immediately transported to the bunkhouse of his father’s ranch, he relaxed. This was a man he could deal with.

  “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by this visit,” Timmons said, pulling the chair around and nodding a clear invitation for Nate to sit.

  Nate hesitated, then sat down as Timmons picked up the saddle soap and a cinch and sat on the bed to continue working on the leather.

  “Laura didn’t ask me to come. Probably going to give me a tongue-lashing if she hears of it but then, from what I hear, you aren’t a stranger to that side of her,” Nate said, bringing forth a quick grin from the man across from him.

  He went on, “Seems like whatever happened this fall when she was teaching at Cupertino Creek might have followed her to San Francisco, and I wanted to hear your thoughts on that before I made any decisions about what I should do.”

  Timmons head stayed bowed over the cinch for a few moments, and Nate speculated about how old he was. His face was lined and weathered, and there was definite grey in his hair and mustache. Yet, he’d moved easily, and his hands, while showing the effects of hard work, didn’t exhibit any of the telltale swollen joints most cowboys had by their forties.

  When the silence continued, he said, “Laura says you fought with a Pennsylvania regiment. My older brothers were with the Department of Ohio troops. When did you sign up?”

  “Sixty-three. I was sixteen. I lied and said I was eighteen. By that time, they would’ve taken me if I was twelve, but you know how it was,” Timmons responded, then went silent again.

  Nate was startled. The math said this man was only three years older than he was. Of course, that three-year difference was the reason Nate’s father had tracked him down and dragged him home when Nate tried to sign up after his older brothers died at Shiloh and Chickamauga. That three-year difference meant Nate didn’t end up dead or in the dreaded Confederate Andersonville Prison as this man had. It also meant Timmons was thirteen years older than Laura.

  Cranston, the new law partner to the firm, kept telling Nate that well-placed silence was one of the best tools for interrogating a witness, but he suspected the man in front of him had more patience with this game than he did, so he said, “Tell me about Buck Morrison.”

  “Stupid, arrogant son-of-a-bitch. But don’t you worry. I’ll take care of him,” Timmons spat out.

  Nate felt the temperature in the room drop. Keeping his voice calm and matter-of-fact, he said, “Mr. Timmons, you will not take care of him, not if it means you ending up in jail and my sister’s name in the papers. Now, once again, tell me about him, so I know what I need to do next.”

  Timmons glared at him for a moment, his jaw clenched, then he visibly slowed his breathing and went back to working the leather. He said, “I could tell he was trouble the first day I stopped by to check on…your sister. Miss Hattie Wilks had asked me to look in on her since it was on the way up Cupertino Creek where I go camping. She said a boy in Laura’s class was being disrespectful. First day I showed up, I could see this Morrison was crowding her as she came out the door to the school house. She wouldn’t tell me anything but his name, but I could tell she was upset.”

  After a moment, Nate prompted him, saying, “So you decided to lend my sister your protection.”

  “I asked around at the local store after I dropped her off where she was boarding. Didn’t like what I heard. Father is a big fish in a small pond. Son a bully. Thought I ought to keep an eye on her.”

  “Did you ever speak to him…before you…”

  “Beat the living daylights out of him? Only once. Second time I stopped by, I ran into the worthless bastard skulking in the trees outside where she was staying that week. I told him what I would do if he didn’t leave her alone. I thought he’d gotten the message fair and square. She seemed more at ease the next weekend, so I thought that was that.”

  “Until…”

  “Until it wasn’t.” Timmons leaned forward, looking Nate in the eye. “I don’t need to apologize to you for what I did. I suspect you would have done the same. I am sorry I frightened her. Should have waited until she was gone.”

  “And you think Buck might be the man who attacked her?”

  “Could be. Just like the little coward.” Timmons paused, put down the cinch, and stood up, saying, “Look, last week, after your sister told me what happened, I wrote to a friend of mine in San Jose. Asked him to ride up to Cupertino Creek, find out where Buck was earlier in the month. Get his address if he’s here in the city.”

  “And you’ll let me know what he finds out and promise to stay out of it,” Nate replied, standing up in turn.

  Timmons paused, shrugged, then held out his hand towards Nate, saying, “No promises. But I will let you know what I find out, before I do anything. If, in return, you let me know if anything else happens to your sister.”

  *****

  “You say he survived Andersonville Prison?” asked Mitchell, the medical student who lived in Nate’s boarding house as he lounged against the door to Nate’s attic room.

  “Yes, one of my sister’s professors mentioned he was a ‘Plymouth Pilgrim,” Nate replied, pouring out a finger of whiskey into a tumbler and handing it over. “You remember, that group of Union soldiers who got captured at the Battle of Plymouth in ’64. From what he told me, he would have been no more than sixteen or seventeen when the Rebels tossed him into Andersonville Prison.”

  “God, what a hell-hole it must have been,” Mitchell said. “I had an older cousin who spent a few weeks there before being shipped out. Would scare the dickens out of us telling stories about some gang of prisoners who terrorized the rest of them. Said if the trots or starvation didn’t get you, the Raiders would.” Mitchell fingered his ginger mustache, then threw back the shot of whiskey.

  Nate sipped his drink more slowly. When he’d gotten back home from visiting Timmons, he ran into Mitchell on the stairs. Between his studies at the University medical school and his job as an orderly at St. Mary’s, Mitchell was seldom around, so Nate invited him up for a nightcap.

  Mitchell shook his head. “He wasn’t ever quite right after that, you know. My cousin. Drank, got into fights, never could settle down. Sort of disappeared around ’74, family’s not heard from him since.”

  “Sounds a lot like Seth Timmons,” Nate said. “Don’t know about the drinking, didn’t see any sign of it, but he looks like he has moved around a lot and lived hard. While he seems to be trying to keep it under control, there’s a nasty temper there that I wouldn’t want to rouse.”

  “And you think this Timmons is courting your sister?” Mitchell snorted and held out his glass.

  “I don’t know. He certainly seems to have taken on the mantle of her protector. Needless to say, that it makes me uneasy. But if he can find out about this Buck Morrison, who was harassing Laura, I’ll be in his debt.” Nate poured another inch of whiskey into Mitchell’s glass.

  “Well, Nate my boy, I would keep an eye on him.
Half our charity beds at St. Mary’s are filled with down-on-their-luck soldiers, from both the North and the South. Banged up in barroom brawls, dying of liver disease, some of them just plain out of their heads. That war left a lot of good men permanently damaged. One of the ward doctors says they have something called ‘soldiers heart.’ Seems to me, a fellow broken like that isn’t such a good marriage prospect for any young woman.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Friday afternoon, January 30, 1880

  "The Books of the Debtor should likewise specify both the quantity and the value of every article bought by him, unless bills are received of goods purchased, which is always preferable." ––Mayhew's Practical Book-Keeping: Embracing Single and Double Entry, Commercial Calculations, and the Philosophy and Morals of Business,1866

  “Please read the pages in Mayhew that cover ‘Cash Accounts,’ ‘Rules for Debtor and Creditor Entries,’ and ‘Bills of Parcels’ for next Wednesday’s class,” Annie said, noting with satisfaction that everyone seemed to be taking down her words on their slates. She continued, “Since I have been informed by Mr. Hoffmann that you have already read the material up to page forty, you shouldn’t have any difficulties with the terminology.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fuller,” was the group’s response, which made Annie feel like giggling. It was disconcerting to have thirty-eight senior-class girls give this response, in unison, to her every statement. She’d been extremely nervous when she and Hoffmann walked into his late afternoon math class, but he’d done a wonderful job of paving the way for her in his introduction. He emphasized how fortunate they were to have someone with practical experience in bookkeeping as his substitute, and she could tell from the girls’ response that they were inclined to treat her well for his sake. That alone was a good recommendation of his character, but she knew she needed to remain impartial. It wasn’t just her job to find out who sent the accusatory letters about Emory, Dottie Anderson, and Hoffmann but to find out if there was any truth to the allegations.