Time of Fog and Fire

by Rhys Bowen

  “How do you do, Professor Flannery,” I said, as the old man attempted to stand up. “Flannery is my mother-in-law’s maiden name.”

  The young priest took his elbow and helped him to stand. “A good name, Mrs. Sullivan,” the professor said. He had a shock of untidy white hair and a bushy white beard. He peered at me through bottle-thick glasses. What’s more he was wearing a tweed jacket when the rest of the room was in evening attire. “I’m pleased to see a fellow countrywoman,” he said in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper. “And you’ll have to excuse me. I caught a devil of a chill on the train across the country and I’ve quite lost my voice.” He pulled a big handkerchief from his pocket and held it up to his face as he coughed.

  “I’ll get you some water, Professor,” the priest said.

  “Not necessary. I’ll survive,” the old man said. “But I wouldn’t say no to a whiskey.” He turned to me. “So which part of Ireland are you from, my dear?”

  “From County Mayo.”

  “Ah, the wild west,” he said. “So you’ve come from one wild west to the other. Quite a journey.”

  “I don’t live in Ireland any longer,” I said. “I live in New York. I came out here to meet my husband but I don’t know if they told you. He was killed in an accident, before I arrived.”

  “So I heard. What a shock for you,” he said, and then turned away again to cough. He tapped the priest on the arm. “Father, I’m thinking this might not have been a good idea, to come out in the night air. I’m thinking perhaps we should make our excuses and go if you don’t mind too much.”

  Bella was passing and reacted to this. “Oh, no, Professor. You can’t go yet. We have some wonderful musical performances planned. Some of our local opera stars have agreed to sing for us. I wouldn’t want you to miss that for the world.”

  “And I wouldn’t want to disturb their singing with my coughing,” he said. “No, it wouldn’t be right.”

  The priest helped him to his feet. “I must apologize,” the professor said. “I have to make sure I’m over this before the great performance. I couldn’t disturb Caruso with a cough.”

  “I do understand,” Bella said. “So good of you to come. You won’t have a little supper before you leave?”

  “I think not. Good-bye, Mrs. Sullivan. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

  The priest assisted him from the room. He must have been a big man once but he was horribly bent over and shuffled out, leaning on his stick.

  “He looks too frail to have undertaken such an arduous journey, doesn’t he?” someone commented.

  “Ah, but he’s the authority on Bizet,” Bella replied. “He knew the composer when they were young music students together in Paris. It will be such a treat for him to hear Caruso sing Carmen.”

  “A treat for us all,” one of the ladies said.

  “If you happen to like opera,” Mayor Schmitz said and got a disapproving look from his wife. “Frankly I think it would be better without the singing.”

  This produced a laugh from the crowd.

  “You must watch what you say, Eugene,” Mr. Ruef said. “Visitors will get the impression that San Francisco has no culture.”

  “You’re not drinking, Mrs. Sullivan,” the man standing next to me said. It was the Scot, Mr. Douglas. “Try the local champagne. It’s not at all bad. I think California has the makings of a good wine-growing area.” He reached at a passing tray and grabbed a glass for me. “It’s called Big Tree, but don’t let that put you off.” He grinned. “I’m thinking of planting grapes myself. There are certainly enough people in this city who enjoy their wine.”

  I hardly heard him. I was suddenly feeling very unsettled, as if something had happened or someone had said something important but I hadn’t quite caught it. I looked around the room, trying to think what I might have missed.

  “So where is the great man himself?” one of the men demanded. “Where is Caruso?”

  Bella spread her hands in apology. “I tried to lure him here tonight. I told him there would be lobster and champagne and caviar, but alas he refuses to leave his hotel room. He is resting before the performance, so I’m told.”

  “Maybe after the initial performance tomorrow night he’ll be more willing to mingle with us,” Mr. Crocker said. “You can invite that upstart Giannini to join us and he can talk with a fellow Italian.”

  “Come now, Crocker,” Mayor Schmitz said. “Would you condemn a man just because of his ancestry? He is trying to make himself a fortune just like every man here tonight. Whether he will ever succeed in creating a bank only time will tell.”

  “But I promised you opera and opera you shall have,” Bella said, stepping in to intervene between the two men. “After supper we’ll have the stars of our San Francisco opera performing for us. And between ourselves I think they are quite as good as these people they are bringing in from New York City. I can’t think why Caruso insisted on singing only with the Metropolitan Opera.”

  “He is very temperamental, so I hear,” one of the ladies said. “He performed Carmen with them last year so he knows what to expect.”

  “Great men always are temperamental, especially artistes like Mr. Caruso,” Bella replied. “But give him time. We’ll charm him with our friendly California ways.”

  Now that I had been introduced I was forgotten and willingly shrank to the shadows at the edge of the room, looking for my chance to slip away. More guests arrived until the room was uncomfortably crowded and hot. I was interested to see that the police chief was among the newcomers and that Bella greeted him warmly. The police certainly did not mingle with the highest levels of society in New York. Beside him was a muscular young fellow, rather swarthy and arrogant in appearance. Unlike his chief, who was in tails, the younger man was in police uniform.

  “I believe you know my young lieutenant Teles, Mrs. Rodriguez,” Chief Dinan said. “I thought it wise to have a police presence here, just in case the great man himself puts in an appearance. We can’t be too careful, can we?”

  So he was taking my suggestion that an attempt might be made on Caruso’s life seriously. “Unfortunately Señor Caruso has turned down my invitation for this evening. Maybe tomorrow at the Crockers’, after the first performance?” she said. “But do make yourself at home, both of you.”

  Chief Dinan looked around and nodded politely when he saw me looking at him. “I’m glad to see you’re getting out and about, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said. “Always better to accept things as they are and move on.” Then he moved through the assembly to chat immediately with Mr. Ruef and the mayor. Very thick together, I thought.

  The champagne was going to my head as I had eaten very little and I was glad when a gong sounded and we were invited through to supper. A magnificent spread was laid out in the dining room, everything from lobster and oysters to cold chicken and poached salmon. There were great bowls of fruit and all kinds of salad. I helped myself to a little cold salmon and chicken as well as various salads. It seemed that no type of food was impossible to get here. In New York there was no lettuce this early in the year. Nor grapes or peaches! Even so I found it hard to do more than nibble. My stomach felt as if it was tied into knots. I found that I still couldn’t shake off that restless, uneasy feeling. Something had happened or was going to happen, I thought. Something very important. I looked around wondering if other guests had picked up my tension, but they were all drinking and laughing without a care in the world. I decided this might be a good opportunity to slip away before we were seated for the musical portion of the evening.

  As I came out into the hall I saw that the front door was just closing and that several people had just arrived. Bella came flying out to meet them.

  “Our opera stars are here. How wonderful,” she called toward the dining room. “Welcome, welcome. Everyone is so looking forward to this.” She held out her hands to them. “Madame Bernini—such an honor. And you, Mr. Richter.”

  “And our pianist, Mr. Dupont,” the woman
said. In speech she had a soft, low voice.

  A thin man with a bald head and skull-like face stepped from the shadows at the front door and bowed to Bella.

  Bella looked flushed. “Francis will show you where to put your coats and then we’ll have the drawing room arranged for you to perform. We are so excited. It’s so good of you to come. Will you not take a little refreshment first while the room is being arranged?”

  As the three of them went off with Francis, Bella realized with surprise that a man still stood by the front door. He was dressed in a traveling coat and had black hair and dark eyes.

  “You!” Bella said. “What are you doing here, Señor Garcia?”

  “I had business to attend to in San Francisco and thought I should look up my dear old friend Señora Rodriguez,” he said in slow and heavily accented English.

  “So kind of you, but as you can see, I am hostess for a big party tonight. We are about to hear some opera.”

  “No matter. I can wait,” he said. “I can join your party if you like?”

  “No,” she said brusquely. “I don’t think that would be the right thing at all. Why don’t you come back in the morning, then we can talk in peace?”

  “About the old days on the ranch, no?” He smiled then. “Such happy memories.”

  More guests were leaving the dining room. Some of them wandered into the hallway.

  “Did the singers arrive, Bella?” one woman asked. “Should we go and take our places?”

  “Yes. Please do.” Bella was clearly distracted. “The performance will start shortly.”

  Her fists, I noticed, were still clenched.

  Señor Garcia still stood there unmoving. “You want me to go?” he said.

  “That would be best,” Bella said. “Come back in the morning. Then we can talk.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, smiling broadly now. “Then we can talk. I have much to tell you—about the improvements on the ranch. We do much excavation for new building. Beautiful … but expensive.”

  Bella opened the front door and he gave her an unctuous bow before he walked out into the night. He must have been wearing some kind of pomade or hair oil because a rather unpleasant sickly smell lingered in the hallway.

  I realized that it must look as if I was eavesdropping. In truth I hadn’t wanted to cross the hall when Bella was engaged with other people. But now she turned around and saw me. She put a hand up and distractedly patted her hair.

  “Such a surprise,” she said. “The man who bought our ranch. I never expected him to turn up in San Francisco. What a small world it is.” And she managed to give me a bright smile. “Come. The music will be starting.”

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go up to my room now,” I said. “I’m afraid I have a headache. All the gaiety has been a bit much for me.”

  “Of course. I understand. Would you like Ellen to bring you hot milk?”

  “Nothing, thank you. Please go back to your guests.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I must go back to my guests. Of course.”

  And she patted her hair again before she went back into the drawing room. I was intrigued as I went up the stairs. Clearly meeting Señor Garcia again had upset her, although he seemed pleased to see her. An old romance? I wondered. Had Señor Garcia pursued her when she lived in New Mexico? She had certainly seemed flustered. Perhaps I’d learn more when he returned tomorrow morning.

  I let myself into my room. In the drawing room a piano started to play and then a soprano voice echoed out of the drawing room and filled the front hall with sound. It was a lovely voice but so powerful. Overwhelming when it wasn’t on a stage in a big theater. I wondered how long the performance would continue and hoped I’d be able to sleep. Gratefully I closed the door of my room behind me and leaned against it, feeling the comforting solidity of the wood against my bare back.

  I sat on the bed for a while, then undressed and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up over me. Now that I was alone again the black despair threatened to overwhelm me once more. I would not give in to grief. I would do everything within my power to find out who wanted my husband dead. And I remembered the strange and unsettled feeling that had come over me halfway through the evening.

  Think, I told myself. What did you see or hear this evening that was important, because something happened in that room. I went through the encounters one by one. Mr. Douglas. The mayor and the unpleasant attorney. General Funston and the police chief, who clearly did not like each other. The nice young priest and the old professor with a bad cold. But none of them had said anything that was in any way relevant to me or to Daniel. I shut my eyes and tried to sleep. “Home,” I whispered. I wanted to go home. I didn’t belong here. Tomorrow I’d badger the police chief to have my husband’s coffin delivered to me and we’d be off.

  My eyes shot open as I heard the smallest of clicks. I turned to the door but it was still closed with a strip of light shining under it unbroken by the shadow of a person who might have been standing outside. Then, as I looked around the room, I saw the French door to the balcony slowly inching open. The thought raced through my mind that I had locked that door earlier in the day. Before I had a chance to sit up I saw the shape of a man coming into my room. In the half darkness he was just a big shadow, moving cautiously. Then, to my amazement, he turned toward me and the light from the streetlamp below revealed a white beard, a tweed jacket. I sat up.

  “Professor Flannery?” I demanded, shocked. I had not taken him for the sort of man who creeps into ladies’ boudoirs. But at least I was no longer terrified. “What on earth?”

  He crossed the room with remarkable speed and agility and sat on the bed beside me. I noticed he was no longer wearing glasses.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. “Leave this room instantly. You should be ashamed.…”

  I heard him chuckle.

  “I’ll scream for help. You’ll be sorry. I’m not a delicate little lady, as you’ll soon find out.”

  His hand came over my mouth. I tried to fight him off. “Molly,” he whispered in my ear. “Stop struggling. It’s me.”

  As I looked up, confused, he ripped off the beard and put his finger to his lips. It was Daniel.

  Eighteen

  My heart leaped in my chest, pounding. I stared at him as if I were seeing a ghost. Only this ghost was living and breathing. I could feel his warm breath on my cheek. Then he took my face in his hands and kissed me. His lips were warm and demanding against mine. That more than anything reassured me that this was my husband, and that he was most certainly alive.

  “But you’re dead,” I managed to gasp at last. Tears sprang into my eyes. “They told me you were dead.”

  He nodded. “They think I am.” He wiped a tear away from my cheek with his fingertip. “Don’t cry. It’s all right. It’s all going to be all right.”

  “I know,” I said, still crying. “I still can’t believe it.”

  Daniel looked around the room. “Where is Liam? Did you leave him at home?”

  “No, he’s upstairs with a nursemaid. He’s fine.” I stared at him hungrily, taking in every detail of that beloved face. “I’ve seen your grave. Who did they bury in your place then?”

  “The poor fool who was standing with me on that cliff top,” he said. “He arranged to meet me out at Lands End. That’s an area of cliffs where the Bay meets the ocean.”

  “I know,” I said. “I went out there today.”

  A burst of applause came from downstairs. Daniel looked up, then back at me again. “Suddenly,” he continued, “these men appeared out of the darkness and pushed us over the edge. He plummeted straight down to his death. I was lucky. I sensed a movement behind me before they struck and was slightly forewarned when they pushed me. A bush was sticking out a few yards down the cliff where I fell. I grabbed onto it and managed to stop my fall. My feet found a narrow ledge and I clung there, hoping that the bush would conceal me from anyone looking from above.”

&
nbsp; His eyes held mine and I nodded for him to go on.

  “I could sense they were looking over to check that we were dead. Then I heard footsteps and voices going away. One of them was actually laughing. They were pleased with themselves.”

  “What monsters,” I said. “What did you do?”

  His eyes were sparkling in the light from the streetlamp. “As you can imagine I was battered and winded. I didn’t dare move for a while but eventually I made my way down to the bottom of the cliff. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you, and I thought I was done for several times when the rock crumbled and I slithered. My poor friend was quite dead, sprawled on the rocks. He had fallen headfirst and his face was a horrible mess. Then an idea came to me. We had both been wearing similar dark suits. Carefully I changed his identification for mine. Then I tossed my hat into the waves. Let them think that we had both perished.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I picked my way around the shoreline until I could clamber up to the path. I realized, of course, that I couldn’t risk being seen again in the city. I heard the sound of a church bell tolling eleven o’clock. Then I saw the dome of a big church. I made for it and lucky for me a priest was crossing from the church to the rectory. I called to him and asked him for sanctuary. My guardian angel must have been watching over me twice that night because it turned out to be Father O’Brien. A more decent guy you couldn’t find anywhere. I told him my whole story.” He sighed. “Of course he wanted to know why someone had tried to kill me.”

  “That’s what I want to know too,” I said. I was holding his hand. It was warm and real and I still couldn’t quite believe it. “Who were those men?”

  “As to that, I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “Hired thugs, probably, but I have a good idea who might have sent them.”