Scandal On Rincon Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  Instead of returning to his seat, Samuel walked with contrived casualness to the hearth and stoked the fire that was crackling along nicely all on its own. His show of virtue did not fool our father for one moment.

  “Sit down Samuel,” Papa directed in a tone which brooked no insubordination. “Before you come up with a way to sidetrack the issue, I want to know what you and your sister were doing at the Harrison Street Bridge last Saturday night? And this time I would appreciate an honest answer.”

  I was thankful Papa's attention was on Samuel and not me, for the rush of heat to my cheeks would surely have given me away. I feared that after several successful years dodging the delicate matter of his future, Samuel was about to have his journalistic alter ego exposed to the light of day.

  To his credit—or just plain pigheadedness—my brother seemed not yet ready to admit defeat. Instead of returning to his seat, he stood with his back to the hearth, rocking back and forth on his heels as if nothing could be easier than satisfying Papa's curiosity. Unfortunately, this effort was somewhat spoiled by his clenched jaw and the anxious crease line between his eyes.

  “Ah, well it seems Sarah was having difficulty sleeping that night, and happened to see George passing by on the street.” I had to admit that he was doing a valiant job of keeping his tone casual, even if his face was not cooperating. “She called out to him, and he said they'd found a murder victim beneath the Harrison Street Bridge.” He forced a dry chuckle—laying it on a bit too thick, I thought. Be careful, brother dear, I silently told him, before you manage to place your entire foot in your mouth!

  “You know Sarah. Once her curiosity is aroused, there's no stopping her. Of course she could hardly accompany George alone at such an hour, so she woke me and, well, you know the rest.”

  “I see.” Papa looked dubious. He turned doubtful eyes on me. “So that's your story, is it? Sergeant Lewis was on his way to the Harrison Bridge on foot. That's a considerable distance from his station downtown, don't you agree, especially at that hour of the night? Interesting that he didn't make use of a police wagon—or even a cab.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but could think of nothing to say, at least not without adding yet more lies to an already unlikely story.

  “I didn't think to ask George why he chose that way to reach the murder scene,” said Samuel, by way of another pitiful explanation.

  Of course, it was no less than the truth, I told myself, as far as it went. The fact that George had arrived at the bridge in one of the police wagons—then walked to our house to wake my brother—was, if only by omission, the lie. Really, I thought, guarding Samuel's covert life was becoming far too complicated!

  “Perhaps there were no cabs handy at such an early hour,” my brother finished lamely.

  The firelight reflected in Papa's eyes, streaking them with darting shafts of flame, and making his usual jovial face appear sinister. He studied Samuel for a long, uncomfortable moment, then turned his gaze on me. I shifted in my chair, but said nothing which might thrust us any deeper into this hole we'd dug for ourselves.

  When it became clear that neither of us was prepared to add to this woefully weak fabrication, Papa shook his head and sighed.

  “Evidently I was mistaken when I assumed the two of you had matured beyond the age of ten. Don't think I'm too old or addled not to recognize when my own children are having me on. And it would be a mistake to assume that I won't eventually get to the bottom of this, because I promise you I will.”

  He continued to regard us over the rim of his coffee cup as he drained the dark liquid. This time, when he poured fresh brew from the silver pot, he added rather more brandy to his cup than he had previously. Stirring the hot liquid, he once again turned to my brother.

  “Although you hardly deserve it, I have good news for you, Samuel. I was speaking this afternoon to Arthur Cunningham, of Cunningham and Brill Attorneys, and he said his firm would be pleased to take you on as an associate when you have passed your state bar examinations.” His eyes narrowed. “You are planning to take the exams in early February, are you not, son? I believe you indicated as much the last time we had this conversation.”

  I watched my brother's Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed hard. “I, ah, actually, I haven't signed up to take them yet.” At our father's tightening expression, he quickly added, “But of course I will—first thing tomorrow.”

  “See that you do,” Papa told him sternly. “You have put off taking this last step for entirely too long. You could do a good deal worse than to accept Arthur Cunningham's generous offer. It's all well and good that you've been working part-time as a paralegal for—” He looked at Samuel questioningly. “What's the name of that lawyer friend of yours? I'm always forgetting it.”

  “Andrew Wayburn,” Samuel answered a bit feebly.

  My brother and I exchanged a quick glance. I was one of the few people who knew that Samuel's paralegal work for Andy Wayburn was more fiction than fact, a handy way to account for the income he actually brought in as a crime reporter. In truth, Andy had inherited a comfortable nest egg upon his father's death, and had engaged in little real legal work since passing his own bar examinations. As one of my brother's old school friends, he was happy to let Samuel use his name in order to explain his mysterious livelihood.

  “You know, it's strange that I've never met Mr. Wayburn,” Papa said, giving him a curious look. “You'd think that after all my years on the bench, I would have run into the man at least once.”

  “Actually, Andrew handles mostly wills and probate,” Samuel told him. “He spends little actual time in court.”

  “I see,” said Papa, although I wasn't sure if he truly accepted this explanation. “Nevertheless, it's time you join a more established law firm. At Cunningham and Brill you'll be able to experience all aspects of a distinguished practice from the ground floor up.”

  I started nervously when a log suddenly dropped in the hearth. At the same moment, I heard the lusty cries of Celia and Charles's three-month-old son, Charles, Jr.—or little Charlie, as he was known to his doting family—coming from the nursery. Almost immediately, his sister—four-year-old Mandy—joined her baby brother in a loud, and stridently off-key, duet.

  “Oh, dear,” I said, rising from my chair. “I had better help settle Mandy while Celia feeds the baby.”

  To be honest, I was relieved to have such a timely excuse for leaving the tense scene which had developed between Samuel and our father. I had long since run out of tall tales to excuse my brother's endless delays in taking his bar examinations. It was high time he dealt with the consequences of this deceit on his own.

  Samuel darted me a reproachful look as I took my leave of the library. Ah, well, I thought, repressing a small twinge of guilt. As the old saying went, my dear brother had made his bed, and now he would have to sleep in it!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The following morning I arrived at my Sutter Street office to find Eddie Cooper's brougham parked at the curb outside the building. I paused to check the gold watch pinned to my shirtwaist; it was some fifteen minutes shy of eight o'clock. While it was true that the boy had agreed to meet with me this morning for his regular reading and writing lesson, he rarely if ever arrived early. I had to smile. His punctuality, I was certain, was not due to any eagerness to commence today's instruction, but to ensure that he would have time to visit my downstairs neighbor. Dear, generous Fanny. My young protégé knew all too well which side of his bread had been spread with butter.

  I believe I mentioned earlier that Mrs. Goodman and her late husband had not been blessed with offspring of their own, which had come as a bitter disappointment to them both. Possessed of a warm and munificent nature, Fanny had formed an instant attachment to my young cabbie, and loved nothing better than to ply him with sweets and even a hearty dinner now and again. Her largesse made for somewhat shorter reading lessons, but I could not bring myself to complain.

  Obviously, her efforts were
bearing fruit. Eddie's mottled complexion appeared to have grown considerably less inflamed. His bone-thin body was filling out, and I could have sworn he'd grown at least one or two inches since I had first met him some ten months earlier during what I have come to refer to as the Russian Hill murders.

  As expected, I found the lad happily ensconced in Fanny's cozy kitchen, located behind her ground-floor millinery shop. He was seated at the table, making a good job of dunking homemade doughnuts into a large mug of hot chocolate. At my entrance, he looked up and grinned, and I was amused to see that his mouth sported a chocolate mustache, and was liberally smeared with doughnut crumbs.

  “Mornin', Miss Sarah. I got here earlier, but you wasn't in yet. Mrs. Goodman said I should wait for you in her kitchen where it was warm.”

  “And while you were waiting, you thought you should sample some of her doughnuts,” I commented wryly.

  I smiled as Fanny motioned me to a seat at the table. I had hardly made contact with the chair than a plate of freshly baked doughnuts sprinkled with sugar was placed in front of me, along with a cup of coffee. “If you continue feeding me like this, Fanny, I will end up as round and plump as a Christmas goose.”

  “Which wouldn't do you the least bit of harm,” replied Fanny, regarding me with a critical eye. “As it is, you're hardly more than skin and bones.”

  I took in Fanny's ample, grandmotherly figure and hid a smile. “Now you sound like my mother.”

  Since meeting my downstairs neighbor six months ago, I'd grown inordinately fond of her. Initially, I'm ashamed to admit, I'd considered her a friendly, if somewhat ordinary, shopkeeper, little different from the dozens of other merchants whose stores lined the streets of downtown San Francisco.

  I could not have been more mistaken! As part of an ongoing lesson in humility, I have learned to appreciate Fanny Goodman and her remarkable accomplishments. When faced with early widowhood, she'd had the foresight and courage to pool every cent she and her husband had saved, and open a small millinery shop. A store, I might add, that has proved to be remarkably successful. She is also a staunch supporter of women's suffrage. Ten years earlier she had helped organize the first annual meeting of the California Women's Suffrage Society in San Francisco, a noble cause that she remains actively involved with to this day. To my chagrin, I've learned that there is nothing the least bit ordinary about Fanny Goodman!

  “Now, what's this I hear about you and Samuel finding a murdered man Sunday morning?” asked Fanny, moving a third straight-backed chair to the table. “What in heaven's name were you and your brother doing out and about in the middle of the night?”

  Since Fanny and Eddie were both aware of my brother's secret life as a crime journalist, I was free to tell them the real story of how we happened to be at the Harrison Street Bridge at two o'clock on Sunday morning. When I finished the tale, Eddie had stopped eating and was listening with rapt attention.

  “Who was the bloke?” he asked excitedly. “Was there much blood? Do the coppers know who done it?” His eyes grew suddenly bright. “Are you and Mr. Samuel gonna help the leatherheads bag the burker?”

  When I first met Eddie, his street jargon would have made as much sense to me as Egyptian hieroglyphics. Gradually, however, I was learning to follow the boy's more colorful phraseology.

  At Fanny's confused expression, I translated, “He wants to know if Samuel and I are going to aid the police in their murder investigation.”

  “Oh,” she said, smiling fondly as she shook her head at the boy.

  “Does that mean we're gonna have a go at it?” persisted Eddie.

  “I'm sorry, Eddie, but neither my brother nor I have any intention of becoming involved in Mr. Logan's death.”

  The boy's face dropped as he dolefully lowered his head and took another large bite of doughnut. “But it happened right next to your house, or close enough that it don't matter,” he protested, his full mouth slurring the words. “Thought You'd be all het up to pinch the bloke what done it.”

  “The man who did it,” I automatically corrected.

  “That's what I just said,” Eddie replied, giving me a look which implied that he doubted my hearing ability.

  I resisted the urge to explain his grammatical error, having no wish to belabor the more minor issues of the boy's education. All in all, the lad was making excellent progress, even though I took exception to Samuel's habit of supplying him with copies of the lurid Police Gazette.

  “Do the police know why Mr. Logan was killed?” Fanny asked. “Was he robbed?”

  “At first everyone assumed it was a robbery, but now they seem to think his death might be connected to a dinner party that night at the home of the Reginald Tremaines. Actually, my parents were there as guests, as were my brother Charles and his wife, Celia.”

  “Reginald Tremaine,” repeated Fanny thoughtfully. “Isn't he the fellow who owns the Men's Emporium on Market Street?”

  “Yes, that's the man,” I told her. “I gather his store is quite successful.”

  She laughed. “It's one of the largest retail stores in San Francisco. I seem to recall that Mr. Tremaine originally came here from Sacramento some ten or twelve years ago.”

  “Closer to twelve, I believe. Evidently he left shortly after the death of his first wife. My sister-in-law Celia is a good friend of Mr. Tremaine's second wife, Faith. According to her, he arrived in San Francisco with a new wife and two small children, twins, actually, a boy and a girl. They must be sixteen or seventeen by now.”

  She shook her head sympathetically. “It's a real tragedy to lose your mother at such a tender age. I'm sure it must have been difficult for their father, as well.”

  “I'm sure it was. I haven't formally met the family, although I've seen them at church. Celia tells me the twins get along well with their stepmother, who has borne two children of her own since marrying Mr. Tremaine.”

  “What do you suppose gave the police the idea that Mr. Logan's death was connected to their dinner party?”

  “To be perfectly frank, I think they're grasping at straws. According to Samuel, City Hall is exerting pressure on the police to solve the case as speedily as possible. Robbery probably would have simplified matters, but since Mr. Logan still had some cash in his pockets, as well as his gold watch and other jewelry, they've decided to focus their investigation on the Tremaines' dinner.”

  I went on to describe what I had learned about Nigel Logan's argument with the Reverend Erasmus Mayfield that evening, concerning Charles Darwin's controversial books on natural selection.

  “Personally, I have a difficult time believing that such a relatively small—and hardly unusual—disagreement could have led to a man's murder.”

  Eddie looked up after finishing his third doughnut, once again showing an interest in our conversation. “Who's this Darwin feller the coppers think done in the bloke under the bridge?”

  As was too often the case, I had a difficult time repressing a smile at the boy's ever-active imagination.

  “The police don't suspect Mr. Darwin of being a murderer, Eddie. Charles Darwin is a scientist, a naturalist, actually.” At Eddie's confused expression, I explained, “That means he studies plants and animals. He's written several books and articles that have upset a lot of people.”

  Eddie shook his head. “Can't see why a feller would get offed because of some book.”

  “No, Eddie, neither can I. However, not everyone is blessed with your common sense.”

  Fanny and I spent the next quarter hour chatting about our city's new mayor, Maurice Blake, whose inauguration was that very day. After the turbulent reign of his predecessor, Isaac Kalloch—who built the Metropolitan Temple at the corner of Fifth and Jessie streets, only to be shot in front of this same edifice several years later by San Francisco Chronicle owner Charles de Young—the majority of the city's citizens hoped for a more peaceful administration this time around. In my humble opinion, a calm and honest municipal government was asking for a good de
al more than our fair city was capable of delivering!

  I was about to pry Eddie out of Fanny's kitchen to start his reading lesson, when the bell that hung above the front door rang. A moment later, a familiar voice rang out, “Mrs. Goodman? Are you here?”

  Fanny broke into a broad smile. “We're in the kitchen, Mr. Campbell.” She rose and went to the stove to pour another cup of coffee from the pot. “Have a seat at the table. you're just in time for coffee and doughnuts.”

  Robert inclined his head politely at our hostess. “That sounds very agreeable, Mrs. Goodman. It's uncommonly cold outside.”

  Settling himself in the chair Fanny had just vacated, he turned to me. “When I found your door locked upstairs, I thought I might find you here.” He looked at Eddie's food-smeared face, and shook his head. “I see you have availed yourself of Mrs. Goodman's pastries, Eddie.”

  “I been eatin' 'em, Mr. Campbell,” replied the boy, looking confused and a little guilty. “I don't know nothin' about this availin' business. It weren't like I nicked 'em or nothin'. Mrs. Goodman gave 'em to me on a plate.”

  This was too much, even for Robert, and I saw him fighting not to laugh. “I'm sure she did, lad. And I can see that you're enjoying your treat.”

  Reassured, Eddie grinned. “They're the goldurn best doughnuts I ever et, Mr. Campbell. You otta try one.”

  “Yes, Mr. Campbell,” urged Fanny, placing a plate and a cup of coffee in front of him. “Do help yourself while they're still warm.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Goodman.” Robert reached for one of the pastries, biting into it with obvious appreciation.

  “I'm surprised to see you here at this time of morning,” I told him.

  Robert continued chewing for a moment, then took a sip of coffee. “I'm due at the courthouse in less than an hour. Trevor Lansing is ill with catarrh today, so I am to take his place as Mr. Shepard's second chair this morning. I thought I'd stop by on my way to ask if you might agree to do a bit of work for me.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and set them on the table, well away from Eddie's sticky fingers. “I've fallen behind at the office and I'd appreciate your help. If you can manage it, of course.”