Murder on Nob Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  The only thing I had accomplished since Mrs. Broughton's funeral was the brief I’d promised my employer regarding the carriage driver who refused to pay damages to Rebecca Carpenter.

  Although Shepard's only response to my long hours of work was an absentminded grunt, Eugene Ackroyd, the associate attorney in charge of the case, seemed delighted and felt certain Mrs. Carpenter had an excellent chance of obtaining payment.

  I should have been pleased, but oddly, I was not. No matter what task I set myself, Annjenett's tortured face was never far from my thoughts. The days flew by with appalling speed as her trial date grew closer. I had Samuel, Celia and even Robert running about like amateur sleuths, yet despite our efforts, we weren’t one step closer to proving the unfortunate woman's innocence.

  But there was another distraction: I began to fear I was being followed. Since I had no desire to wake snakes until I was certain, I told no one of my suspicions. Instead, I took steps to learn if my fears were justified, or merely the result of an overactive imagination. I varied the time I left for the office, as well as the direction and method I took to get there. When walking, I’d cross the street, then suddenly double back, all the while checking to see if anyone was behind me.

  The results of these experiments were maddeningly inconclusive. Once or twice I caught sight of a suspicious individual, only to have him seemingly disappear. I’m not nervous by nature, but I soon found myself jumping at every unexpected noise and imagining sinister scenarios for every stranger who passed me on the street. I tried to tell myself I was just overwrought by fatigue and worry over Annjenett's case, but the certainty that someone was dogging my every move grew stronger with each passing day.

  Samuel, Celia and I arranged to compare notes when the rest of the family was out of the house. My brother's report was short and disappointing. Despite speaking to almost every member of

  the Bohemian Club, and as many Pacific Union Club members as he could reach, no one had seen Benjamin Wylde on the nights in question.

  “That doesn’t mean he's a murderer,” Samuel insisted. “He could have been any number of places, all of them perfectly innocent.”

  “Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully. “It's unfortunate we don’t have the resources available to the police. Speaking of which, have you heard from George?” Several days earlier, I had asked Samuel to speak to George about the possibility of placing a police guard outside Wylde's house. If I were wrong in my suspicions, no harm would be done. But if I were proven right, a life might be saved.

  “I saw him,” my brother said without enthusiasm. “The police refuse to believe that the attacks on the Broughtons had anything to do with the murders. Which means, of course, that Fowler and Mrs. Hanaford remain their chief suspects. Sorry, little sister, but there's no way they’re going to place a watch on Wylde's house.”

  I was frustrated, but not surprised. As usual, our newly formed police department's first concern was political expediency. It was a wonder their unfortunate new uniforms didn’t come equipped with blinders.

  “They can see no farther than their noses,” I pronounced wryly, then turned to Celia. “Has Ina spoken to her sister yet?”

  “They met in the park yesterday,” she answered. “But I think it best if Ina relates the conversation herself.”

  Our little maid was sent for, and she entered the room looking ill at ease. After a quick curtsy, she kept her eyes downcast, her reddened hands twisting nervously in front of her spotless apron.

  “Go on, dear,” Celia urged. “Repeat what you told me.”

  Ina's gray-green eyes darted to Samuel, then back down to the floor, and I realized he was the reason for her reticence.

  “It's all right, Ina,” I told her reassuringly. “Whatever you have to tell us may be said in front of Mr. Woolson.”

  She gave me a pained look. “It's not a proper sort of thing to talk about, ma’am,” she said plaintively. “Lotty was that upset to tell me. And I’m her sister!”

  A small shiver of anticipation tingled down my spine. “What is it, Ina? Anything you say will be held in strict confidence.”

  Ina looked near tears. “I would never tell anyone, ma’am, if it wasn’t for that poor woman who fancies Mr. Wylde. She deserves to know.” The poor girl's wide eyes sought validation.

  “If you can help our friend, Ina, it's the right thing to do,” I agreed quietly, refusing to meet my brother's eyes.

  “That's what I told Lotty, ma’am,” Ina said, sounding a bit more confident. “And she was that happy to help. It wasn’t hard to find out that Mr. Wylde hasn’t left the city since Easter, but he's gone a lot all the same. I mean, he spends nights and some weekends away from home an’ all.” Ina's cheeks colored bright pink. “It was when Lotty tried to find out where he might have met that lady friend of yours that she found—” Her voice trailed off, and once again her eyes traveled nervously to Samuel.

  “Go on, Ina, please,” Celia prompted.

  Ina swallowed. “Well, Lotty was dustin’ Mr. Wylde's study and happened to open one or two of his desk drawers.” She regarded us nervously, as if fearing our reaction to this brazen revelation, then hurried on. “Well, Lotty come across some books—and some pictures. A nasty lot, they were, too. Sure ‘n not the sort of things any decent lady would want anything to do with. Nor the man who owned ‘em. I thought you should know so's you could warn the poor woman who's so taken with Mr. Wylde.”

  “Oh, my!” I said, as I suddenly imagined the nature of Lotty's

  find. The fact that Celia had already heard the story did nothing to lessen her discomfort at hearing it a second time. Only Samuel seemed to find the situation amusing.

  “Come, ladies,” he said smiling. “It may seem shocking, but it's not unusual for a man to keep items of that nature.”

  “There's somethin’ else,” Ina said, looking miffed at Samuel's reaction. Reaching beneath her apron, she pulled out a small white rectangle of cardboard. “Lotty found some of these in Mr. Wylde's drawers. She didn’t think anyone would notice if she took one.” She hesitated, then rushed on. “They were buried under bits of lace and odds and ends of ladies’ apparel—intimate apparel,” she added, eyeing Samuel triumphantly.

  She had our full attention; even Samuel had leaned forward in his chair. I took the object from Ina. It was a white business card depicting the head of a black masked devil over four pick axes grouped together in a circle, handles upright.

  “I’ve seen this before,” I said. “In Mr. Hanaford's desk.”

  Samuel rose from his seat and, looking frankly baffled, took the card from me. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Celia looked over his shoulder. “What can it mean?”

  I was so surprised to see the card again, I’d nearly forgotten Ina, until she said, “The worst of it is that one of the other maids came in while Lotty was pokin’ about. Quick as a wink, Lotty went back to her dustin’, but she's that worried the maid saw what she was doin’. Our Lotty will be sacked for sure if Mr. Wylde finds out.”

  “Don’t worry, Ina,” I reassured her. “Please assure Lotty her secret is safe with us.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” she said, looking relieved.

  We thanked Ina, then when she’d left the room, put our heads together in an effort to make sense of Lotty's find.

  “At least now we know for sure that Wylde was in town when the attacks occurred,” I began.

  “Yes, but we still have no idea if he left his house on those nights,” protested Celia.

  “Or if he did, where he went,” Samuel put in.

  Celia eyed Wylde's card with distaste. “Do you think this awful thing is meant to be some kind of a joke?”

  “That's what Robert and I thought when we found its twin in Hanaford's study,” I said. “Now I’m not so sure.”

  Samuel held the piece of cardboard up to the light and for the first time I noticed that it was slightly yellow. “This has probably been buried in that drawer for year
s. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the case.”

  “Possibly,” I mused. “But what about the undergarments Lotty found?”

  “It could be clothing his wife left behind when she moved to Paris,” Celia ventured.

  “And he keeps them in the desk drawer in his study?” I shook my head. “No, I can’t help feeling there's more to this than meets the eye.”

  The following morning I paid a visit to Annjenett. As usual, her face lit with expectation when she saw me, and I felt guilty that I was unable to report any significant progress on her case. She blinked back tears of disappointment, but her determination not to hold me to blame merely exacerbated my feelings of failure.

  We spoke of several personal matters she wished me to attend to on her behalf, then she begged for news of Peter. I tried to present the actor's trial in a positive light, but she saw through my fee-

  ble lies. The last thing I wanted was to cause her more pain, yet that was exactly what I had done, not only because of my awkward untruths, but because I could offer no real hope.

  We talked a bit longer, but I did not mention the planned insanity plea. I saw no reason to burden her with Paulson's plan as long as there remained the slightest chance I might change his mind. When it was time to leave, I showed her the card Lotty found in Wylde's study, but could detect no sign of recognition on her pale face. Whatever Hanaford's reason for possessing such a card, I was convinced he had not shared it with his wife.

  I left Annjenett with a heavy heart. The awful shackles of pow-erlessness hindered my movements and slowed my thoughts. There must be something I had not tried, some clue I had overlooked, some page I had left unturned. But what?

  Exiting the jail, I again ran into Thomas Cooke and was forced to repeat our bleak progress on his daughter's case. Then, not expecting anything to come of it, I showed him Wylde's card. To my surprise, he regarded it as if it was a venomous serpent.

  “You’ve seen this before?” I asked.

  “N—no,” he stammered, but the lie was clearly written on his drawn face. I was surprised to detect revulsion and outright fear there as well. “It—it is just rather dreadful, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, it was discovered at the home of—”

  “Excuse me, Miss Woolson,” he interrupted so suddenly that I gasped at his rudeness. His face had grown pale, and he seemed visibly agitated. “It is growing late. I must see my daughter.” With that he turned and walked hurriedly into the jail.

  A few days later, Robert and I shared a carriage to Paulson's office. Peter's trail was in its fifth day, and we were meeting

  to finalize Annjenett's defense before her trial began the following week. I readily admit that I was not happy at the thought of seeing Benjamin Wylde, who would also be in attendance. I knew, of course, that the conference was little more than a formality. Paulson and Wylde had already decided that insanity was our only recourse. Robert, of course, agreed with this strategy, and even Samuel felt there was little choice under the circumstances.

  It was a silent ride, Robert and I both lost in our thoughts. I had tried for days to learn more about the mysterious cards. After Thomas Cooke's curious reaction to it at the jail, I had shown the card to Eban Potter at Hanaford's bank. If anyone was privy to the four miners’ secrets, I thought it would be him.

  I had been prepared for the bank manager to deny having seen the card before, or perhaps, like Mr. Cooke, to show repugnance or fear. To my surprise, he had merely seemed amused.

  “My, my,” he’d said when I’d handed him the card. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

  “You know what it represents?” I’d asked hopefully.

  “I’m not sure that is the word I would use. Unless one takes it to represent the foolish bravado of youth. The four partners had them printed when they returned from the mines. I think they wished to depict themselves as daring adventurers.”

  “You mean they actually gave these cards out socially?”

  “More as a joke really. Once they’d settled back into the business of everyday life, I’m sure the novelty wore off, or more likely, they began to find the cards an embarrassment. As I say, I haven’t seen one of them in years.”

  “Are you certain the cards didn’t symbolize—” I had hesitated, then opted for candor. “Well, something more sinister?”

  A strange look had crossed his face at this; initially I took it to be a reaction to what must have seemed the ramblings of an anxious

  female. In hindsight I wasn’t so sure. Had I touched on something he didn’t wish me to know—or pursue?

  “You would know, wouldn’t you?” I had pressed when he didn’t answer, “if there was a more ominous meaning to the card?”

  “My dealings with the partners were quite amicable,” he’d reassured me. “I’m certain I would have been aware of any menacing connotation. Believe me, Miss Woolson, it is a mistake to read more into those absurd cards than youthful imprudence.”

  I’d left the bank manager feeling oddly deflated. Now that the repugnant little cards had been explained, I wondered how I could have thought them evil. Desperation had led me to grasp at straws, I decided. Still, as I sat next to Robert in the bouncing carriage, I could not shake the recurring feeling that I was overlooking something important. What it could be, however, perched maddeningly just beyond my reach.

  When we arrived at Paulson's office, we were greeted by the jovial attorney who, as usual, exuded confidence that he had matters well in hand. I continued to like the man personally, but had long since given up hope that he had either the ability or the inclination to actually help Annjenett.

  Wylde came in a few minutes later and the meeting began. It went much as I’d expected. Paulson and Wylde had decided upon Annjenett's defense before our arrival. The damaging case being presented against Peter even as we spoke served to solidify their position. There could be little doubt how the jury would decide. And when Peter's trial was over, the state would accuse Annjenett of being an accessory to her husband's murder. As feared, there was talk of charging her as an accessory in Rufus Mills's case as well. The only possible defense against such overwhelming evidence, Paulson patiently explained, was insanity.

  The attorney went on to outline our roles during the trial. He, of course, would act as chief counsel. Campbell—as per his agreement with Joseph Shepard—would be second chair. I would take notes on the proceedings and, if necessary, search for legal precedents pertinent to our case. In other words, I was to act as Paulson's secretary and general errand girl—a position that under other circumstances I would have been happy to fill if it would have helped Annjenett. Since I so strongly disagreed with the strategy Paulson was determined to follow, I was not happy at all. Once again I argued my client's innocence, but it was useless. Her fate had been sealed. And we had yet to step inside a courtroom!

  When the meeting was over, Paulson asked Robert to remain to go over last-minute strategies. Recognizing that as my cue to leave, I exited Paulson's office. I was about to join a group of people waiting on the corner for an approaching horsecar, when my arm was suddenly seized from behind. I spun around to see Benjamin Wylde standing over me, his raw-boned face dark with fury.

  “Unhand me this instant!” I demanded, tugging to free my arm.

  Ignoring my pleas, he pushed me into a doorway. His voice was tightly controlled, his eyes malevolent slits. “You try my patience, Miss Woolson. Why have you been prying into my affairs?”

  My heart caught in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. His grip tightened on my arm until I winced in pain.

  “You’re not as clever as you think,” he hissed. “I’m aware that your brother has been making inquiries at my clubs, and that you have asked about me all over town. You were foolish to persuade one of my servants to spy on me. Lotty Corks has been dismissed without references. What happens to her now is on your conscience.”

  “That's unfair. She—”

  “The girl betrayed me!” His
face drew so close I could feel his

  hot breath on my cheek. “What did you hope to discover, Miss Woolson? What was so important that it has cast a young girl out on the streets to beg for her survival?”

  “That was cruel and unnecessary!” I protested, the injustice of his act overcoming my fear. Worst of all, I knew he was right. A dismissed servant lacking references might well be reduced to begging or, in dire cases, to selling her body. My voice shook in anger and with the knowledge that my actions had brought disaster upon Ina's sister. “Lotty acted in innocence. She thought she was facilitating an affair of the heart.”

  “More fool she,” he said in a pitiless voice. A couple walked by and Wylde pulled me deeper into the recessed doorway. “I’ll ask you one last time, Miss Woolson. Why have you been spying on me?”

  “I’m interested in any person connected to Hanaford and Mills,” I managed as his terrible glare filled my vision.

  The dark shadows played upon his sharply angular face until, to my frightened eyes, it resembled a ghoulish specter. “And you think I may be involved in their deaths?” His tone mocked me. “Weren’t you afraid I might decide to make you my next victim?”

  “This is hardly a laughing matter,” I said shakily. “A woman's life is at stake.”

  His fingers dug into my arm. “That woman may be you unless you stay out of this business.”

  He was gone before I could release my breath, but I was shaking so violently it was several minutes before I could move. The audacity of the attack—in broad daylight and on a crowded street—left me numb. I was willing to swear that I had glimpsed pure evil in those shadowy eyes. I shuddered, remembering the steel-like hands that had pinned me to the wall. Had those same hands slashed the life's blood out of two men, or held the reins that crushed an inno-