The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  Anna didn’t believe him.

  “Consider yourself deputized.” Joe handcuffed Anna to the gorgeous man and bowed. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Anna’s mouth dropped open, and she made little sounds of incredulity—not just at the fact that Joe would handcuff her to a Chinaman, but that the Chinaman would let him.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Jones.” Joe gave Anna half a smile as he handed Mr. Jones the handcuff keys. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Mr. Jones threw a coat over his arm to hide the fact that he and Anna were linked together and led her down the creaky stairs to the street. He peeked cautiously out the door before exiting. Thankfully, the drunken white men were gone, or they might not have taken kindly to the sight of a white woman walking so close to a Chinese man. He must value Joe’s friendship to do him such a favor, and Joe had appeared to know he would.

  Mr. Jones towed a humiliated Anna to the new red Cadillac—the one Anna had seen parked in front of the restaurant. She dragged her feet but didn’t forcibly resist. She knew when she’d lost a battle. She’d do better to plot her return.

  He set the crank, helped her to step up and slide across the red leather seat to the passenger’s side. “I suggest you cover your head so you aren’t seen.” He reached behind into the back seat and grabbed a blanket. He handed it to her.

  “What do I care if you get beat up for abducting me?” Still, Anna knew he was right. A fight could only draw attention to the case and possibly the death of a white woman. She slipped down onto the floorboard. Her broad-brimmed hat bumped against the dash, forcing her neck into an awkward position. She threw the blanket over her head, leaving a gap from which to see. The car vibrated beneath her bottom.

  Mr. Jones gripped the wheel with one large hand. The other hung down, bound to Anna, unavoidably touching hers every time he shifted. He had corded muscles in his wrists, and smooth, strong fingers. She snuck glances at his hard-looking thighs, his shoulders, and his face. His eyes had a somber, far-away look as he stared at the road. He smelled of sweet tobacco.

  Anna wondered just what he did for work that he could afford such a boss machine as this Cadillac. She wanted to ask him loads of questions—why he seemed so sad, even before he knew about the dead white girl, what he knew about the Chinese massacre, why his fingernails were so long, whether he knew anything about the missionary women, and whether Chinese men ate cockroach pudding and rat roast, like the paper said. If so, was it good? But she felt such questioning would be undignified, as she had been deeply wronged by him and his complicity with Joe. Anna lifted her chin and lowered her eyelids to half-mast, but it was hard to look dignified when crouching beneath a blanket.

  When they approached the edge of Chinatown, near the vegetable market, Mr. Jones reached into his pocket, retrieved the key to the handcuffs, and handed the key ring to Anna. “I’ve heard of you, Matron Blanc. You’re the daughter of that banker, Christopher Blanc.”

  Anna took the key and quickly unlocked her wrist. Their hands fell apart. She stayed crouching. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “I saw your picture in the paper when you were arrested in that brothel raid.”

  Anna blushed to her ears. “I was undercover.”

  “I understand. You will go to great lengths to solve a crime. But do not try to solve this crime.”

  Anna cocked her head to look at him, hat slightly askew. “Why not? Officer Singer will come around.”

  “Chinatown is not your world. If I had my way, the LAPD would not be involved at all. We have our own way of punishing transgressors.”

  “You forget, the victim is a white woman. That’s my world, Mr. Jones.”

  “If you arrest a Chinese man and bring him to court before a white jury, guilty or not, he’ll be sentenced to hang. And it won’t stop there. All of Chinatown will be punished.”

  “I’m going to solve the crime.”

  His sad mouth stilled for a moment. “If I can’t dissuade you, then promise me this. I want to be kept apprised of this investigation. Whatever you discover, you must tell me first, before you tell anyone.”

  Anna laughed in disbelief. “I’ll tell Detective Singer first.”

  “Do I have your word on that?”

  “You have my word that I’ll tell Detective Singer first.”

  “Good. Detective Singer will tell me first. And you must tell no one else.”

  “What makes you think you can put conditions on me. What do I get in return?”

  He spoke carefully, thoughtfully. “You think the victim is a missionary. What do you know about the missionaries?”

  “I suppose they preach.”

  “The missionaries teach the men English. Sometimes they help them find jobs. Regardless of the denomination, they’re almost all women.”

  “Did they teach the apartment manager’s wife English?”

  “Do I have your word?”

  Anna nodded her head.

  “Yes.” He shifted the car.

  She groaned with realization. “They came to her apartment to give her lessons because she can’t leave the building. Her husband must not know about it. That’s why they looked nervous when we asked. That’s why she hid it, and that’s why she lied.”

  “Very good, for a woman.”

  “You must have deduced this, too, and yet you didn’t say anything.”

  His sad face broke into a cynical smile. “I didn’t have your word.”

  From her crouching position, Anna could see the tall buildings that towered above First Street, and the people on the sidewalk staring at the Chinese man driving the expensive car. Mr. Jones pulled the muddy Cadillac up in front of Central Station. Anna threw off the blanket and crawled back onto the seat with as much dignity as one could have when emerging from hiding with total strangers watching from the sidewalk. Mr. Jones got out and walked around the car, opening her door. Passersby glared. Like a gentleman, he escorted her to the entrance, though wisely, he didn’t try to hold her arm. He bowed to Anna, his shiny braid swinging forward like a rope. “Good afternoon, Assistant Matron Blanc.”

  Remembering the insult of her captivity, Anna’s face reddened again. She sniffed and snapped her head around, pushing through the door. He did not follow her. Anna flounced to her desk.

  Detective Wolf accosted her, holding the hand of a sniffling child. Anna guessed his age as four, though she was no expert on children. His clothes had patches upon patches, his nose was running, and he looked like he had fleas.

  Wolf grinned. “Thank God you’re here. This little fellow’s lost his momma.” He looked down at the boy and ruffled his tousled curls. “Don’t you cry, son. Assistant Matron Blanc will take good care of you.”

  Anna stared in fear as Wolf pressed the child’s grubby hand into her palm. “What do I do with him?”

  “Wipe his nose, for a start. Someone will claim him.”

  She opened her desk drawer and retrieved a clean handkerchief embroidered with forget-me-nots. Kneeling beside the boy, she wiped his button nose. “There, there. That’s it. You’re all right.”

  He belched.

  Anna’s forehead wrinkled. “Bad boy.”

  Wolf leaned on Anna’s oak desk, which was strewn with papers. “Was it a body in the trunk?”

  “Yes. A, um, yes.” She wrapped her arms around the child, who had begun to cry again. She squeezed. He squirmed.

  Wolf nodded once. “How did it go?”

  “Fine, thank you.” Anna decided not to tell him Joe had handcuffed her to Mr. Jones. Though it might get Joe in trouble, it was humiliating.

  “I mean, did you interview the witnesses?”

  “I did. The ladies didn’t know anything.”

  The little boy struggled out of Anna’s grip, plopped to the floor, and crawled under her desk, leaving a streak of dirt on the tile. Anna frowned intensely.

  Wolf grinned. “Feed him. And I think he needs a nap.” He sauntered away, whistling an unrecognizable tune. />
  The little boy began to wail again.

  “Stay here,” she commanded sternly. Anna hurried into the kitchen and searched the cluttered shelves until she found Joe’s dinner pail. Hoping Joe was hungry and would miss it, she returned to her desk and knelt. When she leaned in to look at the boy, he cowered. Anna pushed the pail beneath the desk. “There, there. Have some delicious . . .” She tipped the pail just a bit to look inside. “Rice.”

  Three hours later, the child was sleeping under the desk at Anna’s feet, covered with a floor-length, fur-lined cape that she kept at the station for unexpected turns in the weather. No one had come to claim him, and it had nailed her to the station.

  Anna read the case file of a seventeen-year-old girl picked up that morning for public drunkenness who now sobered up in a cell. The prisoner came from a large Catholic family and was the oldest of nine. Anna looked up from the file. This girl would know about children.

  Anna glanced at the clock hanging on the station wall. Ten hours had passed. Surely the girl would be sober by now.

  She was about to go check when Joe arrived. He sat on Anna’s desk.

  Her feathered lashes lowered, and she did not look up. “Apology not accepted. Do you know the cause of death?”

  Joe leaned over and took her hand, grinning. “No, but have a look at this.” A chain slipped through his fist and pooled in her palm. It was a swan necklace fashioned from gold, white enamel, and a spray of tiny diamonds.” Anna’s breath caught.

  “I found it on the floor of the bedroom in Lim’s apartment and figured you knew jewelry better than I do. But even I can tell that this piece is fine. It’s got an inscription. ‘To Martha, love Henry.’ I’m guessing that was Martha I just drove to the undertaker.”

  Anna’s fingertips went to her mouth. She placed the necklace on her blotter and pushed it away.

  Joe leaned down and bent close to look her in the eye. “What’s wrong, Sherlock. I thought you liked clues.”

  “I know that necklace. I know who the owner is.”

  “You do?”

  “Her name is Martha Liddle, but she’s too old to be the woman in the trunk. Besides, Martha must have died years ago. She was already ancient when I knew her. She wore it all of the time, and I admired it. The necklace would have been passed down to her daughter, Mrs. Bonsor . . . who is a little old to wear frillies, late thirties at least, but I suppose one can never tell.” Anna’s face went blank. “She has black hair.”

  “Was Mrs. Bonsor—is she—a missionary?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. They converted from Catholic to Protestant and were very excited about it.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “They are . . . were old family friends. Their daughter, Elizabeth, and I were close—the best of friends.” Anna ran her fingertips over the sparkling swan. “We’ll have to go to the Bonsors’ home.” She glanced up at Joe with pain in her eyes. “I hope it’s not Mrs. Bonsor. She’s a lovely woman. She was always very kind to me. Elizabeth would be destroyed. We never fell out, Elizabeth and I. It was our fathers.”

  Anna tried to reform her face into a smile. A clue was just a clue, not a certainty, not a conclusion. She dug a fingernail into her thumb to remind herself not to be weak and turned a limp smile onto Joe. He was staring at her with his eyebrows dipping. He put a tender, comforting hand on her shoulder. Then he took it off. Then he tentatively replaced it. Anna shook it off.

  Joe went to find the Bonsors’ address in the city directory, never noticing the sleeping child curled up like a puppy under Anna’s desk. That suited her perfectly. If Joe knew she was babysitting, he’d never let her go.

  Anna pulled the sleeping child out from under the desk by the feet and hefted him into her arms. He felt soft and, beneath the grime, smelled sweet, like a baby. She wrapped him in one of the station’s itchy wool blankets, buried her face in his neck, and rocked him. Really, she rocked herself. Elizabeth’s mother might have been murdered. He whimpered. Inside, Anna did the same. However lost and upset he was feeling, he couldn’t feel worse than Anna. Her stomach ached with dread.

  But this was no time for sentimentality. With Matron Clemens gone, Anna had to take care of the drunk girl and the motherless child, and she had a murder to solve. It was a lot to expect from an assistant matron. She wasn’t a juggler.

  She carried the boy to the cell in the back of the women’s ward where the seventeen-year-old girl was drying out. Her name, Anna knew from her file, was Mary Mumford.

  The jail cells in the ladies ward stank a harmony of bleach and urine. They comprised iron bars, cold floors, and foul messages from previous occupants scratched into the plaster. Each cell had two steel cots made up with mattresses and scratchy wool blankets.

  Mary Mumford had a cell to herself. Anna found the girl sitting up on her cot looking slightly green but relatively sober. Her homemade dress was wrinkled from sleep. She wore her tousled hair in a braid, tied with a smashed bow.

  Anna smiled too wide and for far too long. “Hello, Mary.”

  “Hello.” The girl touched her disarranged hair.

  Anna quickly unlocked the cell, juggling the keys and the boy. She gently laid the sleeping child down on a steel cot.

  The girl rubbed her eyes. “What—”

  “Thank you.” Anna hurried out of the cell and locked the door. She would find a way to make it up to her.

  The houses in the Bonsors’ neighborhood were modest. Their bright Victorian colors had whitened in the sun. No autos parked on this street—no one could afford them. Children played in the road, jumping rope or throwing balls, scattering whenever a wagon approached. Dogs sniffed about hungrily. Mothers hung out laundry on lines stretched from palm tree to palm tree.

  Anna marched dully beside Joe Singer, who carried a bag containing a dead woman’s walking shoes. He didn’t whistle or sing like he normally would. “If it’s Mrs. Bonsor, they’ll recognize the shoes. I couldn’t ask family to view a body that decayed.”

  Anna’s words sounded detached, like a recitation. “Mrs. Bonsor may or may not be the victim.”

  “They haven’t filed a missing person’s report. I checked. I think her family would notice if she disappeared for ten days.”

  “Agreed. Possibly, she lost the necklace somewhere, but it could have been stolen, or she could have sold it. I think her husband’s fortunes changed, judging from the neighborhood, and she might have needed the money.” Anna mechanically brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “The family moved, and I wasn’t allowed to see Elizabeth anymore. I never knew why. I haven’t seen Elizabeth in ten years.”

  Joe stopped in front of a tired Victorian with a lawn that needed cutting. He double-checked the address. “This is it.”

  Anna covered her mouth with gloved fingers. “Jupiter. This can’t be right.” The house looked like a shoebox compared to the grand home the Bonsors had once occupied on Bunker Hill. It seemed like a matchbox compared to the even grander estate where Anna’s father still lived with its marble stairs, gilded ceilings, and ocean views. An empty milk bottle stood on the front steps.

  “Come on, Anna.” Joe led her up the porch stairs and rapped his knuckles on the door.

  Anna tapped her foot nervously. Two full minutes passed. “They can’t be far. There’s a milk bottle from this morning.”

  The door creaked open, and Mr. Bonsor stepped into view. More than ten years and the sorrow of financial ruin had diminished him. He was slight and smelled old, like turpentine. “Well, if it isn’t Anna Blanc.”

  “Hello.” Butterflies flew in Anna’s stomach. She hadn’t yet faced her old society friends—not since the scandal. She had diminished in her own way: socially, financially. Her reputation was in tatters. She’d become a curiosity. Though, overall, she felt she’d gained, not everyone saw it that way.

  Joe stepped forward. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Mrs. Bonsor glided to her husband’s side like a curious ghost. Dark hair framed
her patrician face, and she clutched an embroidery hoop. Half of a cross-stitched cat stared out from the circle looking frightened.

  Anna’s eyes widened. Mrs. Bonsor looked old, but she most certainly lived. Anna should have felt relieved to see her. But she didn’t.

  Joe’s face showed measured relief.

  Mrs. Bonsor’s smile was warm but colorless, like weak tea. “Anna, how nice to see you after all these years. We saw your picture in the paper. How interesting your life has become.”

  She reached out and took Anna’s hand.

  Anna squeezed her fingers. “This is Detective Singer. We’ve found your necklace and have come to return it.”

  “We found it in Chinatown.” Joe reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the swan pendant and gold chain, holding it out. “Is it yours?”

  “My daughter’s.” Mrs. Bonsor smiled. “Thank you, Detective.”

  Anna felt a faint patter of distress in her chest. The lady stood aside. “Please, come in.”

  Anna and Joe stepped into a cramped room made even smaller by the busy floral wallpaper. Above the fireplace, from a portrait far too large for the space, a bearded man in antiquated military attire leaned on a sword and looked down at Anna with unabashed disapproval. A brass plaque on the portrait frame read “Brigadier General Franz Bonsor.” Anna had forgotten Elizabeth’s ancestor was a celebrated Civil War hero.

  She spoke with a nervous lilt. “It’s a lovely place. Is Elizabeth here?”

  Mr. Bonsor said, “She’s at her aunt’s in St. Louis.”

  His wife gave him a reproachful look. Mrs. Bonsor motioned them to a horsehair settee. Its arms were bare where the velvet had been rubbed away. When Anna and Joe sat, the couch sighed.

  After his wife had left to fetch the tea, Mr. Bonsor raised his voice almost cheerfully. “What do you want with Elizabeth now after all these years? Is your conscience bothering you? Or are you here to gloat?”

  Anna smiled in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was your father who reduced us to this.” His hand rose and dropped. “He’s responsible for my ruin.” He bared his teeth at her in a bitter smile.