The Cliff House Strangler

by Shirley Tallman

  “Of course I will,” I replied with a smile. Truly, it was impossible to remain dejected in Celia’s presence. Ever since she and Charles had moved into our parents’ home (a temporary arrangement extended indefinitely, due to my physician brother’s refusal to turn anyone away from his door, whether or not they were able to pay), I’d looked upon her as the sister I’d never had. “I’m sorry to appear so distracted. It’s been a difficult day.”

  Celia immediately sobered. Spying the newspaper tucked into the front pocket of my briefcase, she said, “I read about what happened to Mrs. Reade, Sarah. Wasn’t she one of the people you met at the Cliff House?”

  “Yes. Poor soul, she was the elderly woman who swooned after we found Mr. Moss had, er . . .” In deference to my young niece and nephew, I hesitated, not wishing to frighten them.

  “Had departed?” their mother put in tactfully. She gave a little shiver. “It has all been rather horrible, hasn’t it? Thank goodness they’ve arrested the man responsible.”

  I nodded without commenting, but Celia had always been able to sense when I was holding something back. “You don’t believe this Serkov fellow did it, do you, Sarah?” she asked, wiping bits of potato off Mandy’s face with a damp cloth.

  “No, actually I don’t, although nearly all the evidence supports his guilt. Just some silly notion I can’t seem to shake.”

  Whatever Celia was about to say was cut short by the arrival of Mary Douglas, the children’s nanny. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mrs. Woolson, Miss Woolson,” she said with a smile. “I can take the children’s dishes now, if they’ve finished. Cook has some fresh gingerbread just out of the oven, if Tom and Mandy would like to go downstairs.”

  “Yes, yes!” both children cried, jumping up from their chairs and running to the nursery door. Celia smiled fondly as they raced after their nanny. Gingerbread was a great favorite with the little ones, and Cook unashamedly used it to lure the children into her kitchen. There, she regaled them with stories from her childhood in County Cork, Ireland.

  As Tom and Mandy went whooping down the stairs, Celia rose stiffly to her feet, placing both hands on her waist and stretching out her back. Now, late in the seventh month of her pregnancy, it seemed as if her protruding stomach grew larger with each passing day. Although Celia rarely complained, it was apparent that her lower back was protesting the ever-increasing burden it was forced to bear.

  “Let’s go to my boudoir,” she said, smoothing the folds of her skirt across her extended abdomen. “I’ll ask Ina to bring us a fresh pot of tea and perhaps one or two cookies. I know it’s almost dinnertime, but I find myself ready to eat every hour or two these days. By the time I deliver this baby,” she added ruefully, “I’ll have become as big as a house!”

  Celia was still chuckling when we reached the sitting room that led off the bedroom she shared with my brother. The room wasn’t large, but it comfortably held several chairs and a cushioned chaise lounge, as well as a small oak bureau and matching tripod table, which always featured a fresh bouquet of seasonal flowers. I didn’t know how she managed it, but my sister-in-law had taken a rather ordinary room and transformed it into a cheery, peaceful haven in which to read, embroider, or receive visitors.

  In due course, our little Irish maid, Ina Corks, brought our refreshments, then left to help Cook with dinner preparations. Celia insisted on pouring the tea, then settled heavily into the padded armchair by the window. During the summer months, this window overlooked the colorful back garden my mother and Celia lovingly tended, and which supplied us with so many flowers and even a few homegrown fruits and vegetables during the summer months.

  “Please, Sarah,” she said once she was comfortable, “tell me more about this clairvoyant—Madame Karnova, is it?”

  “Karpova,” I replied, correcting her. I eyed her curiously. “I didn’t realize you were interested in that sort of thing, Celia.”

  She flushed. “I’m not, really—well, actually I do think it might be interesting if someone really could tell the future, or communicate with those who have passed over. When I was ten or eleven, I saw a magician perform at a fair. He wore a bright blue turban on his head and told fortunes. He was really quite good.” She smiled. “At least I thought so at the time.”

  “It sounds as if he impressed you.”

  “Yes, I admit he did. Nothing more than childish nonsense, I expect. The man in the turban was probably just playing silly tricks on us, and easily deceiving a gullible little girl.”

  “But if he had been a genuine psychic—assuming, of course, that there are such people—what would you have asked him?”

  “When I was just a child, you mean? Oh, most likely I would have asked if I was going to get the new dress I wanted so badly for my birthday, or perhaps a much too expensive dollhouse I fancied. Something very mundane, I’m sure.”

  “And now?”

  She shook her head, as if wishing she had never broached the subject. “This is absurd—really too fanciful of me.”

  “We all have our little fantasies, Celia. We’d be extremely dull people if we didn’t.” Taking a sip of tea, I asked, “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s behind all this?”

  She set her cup on its saucer and leaned forward in her seat. “All right, Sarah, but promise you won’t laugh. If I could consult with someone who truly possessed such a gift, I would ask him, or her, to . . . to communicate with my little Sophie.” She gave a nervous laugh. “There now, I told you it was foolish.”

  I felt a catch in my throat. Sophie was Charles and Celia’s first child, a little girl who had died of a fever when she was just two years old. Sophie had been a bright, angelic child, the image of her mother, with golden curls and a happy, easygoing personality. We had all felt her loss keenly. Belatedly, I realized that after six years, Celia still mourned the toddler’s death.

  “The desire to speak one last time with a loved one is never ridiculous,” I told her gently. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

  She looked at me with guarded hope. “You said there was a mother there, at the séance the other night, who wanted to speak to her child. Can you—would you tell me what happened?”

  I was torn between fostering the hope I read on her face and honestly sharing my opinion of Madame Karpova’s abilities. In the end, I simply described what I had seen without adding any embellishments or personal judgments.

  “Mrs. Gaylord seemed certain her little girl was standing next to her,” I concluded. “She even claimed she felt the child kiss her on the cheek. I’m afraid the rest of us saw nothing.”

  “But the mother sensed the child was there.” She considered this. “Yes, I can believe a mother might feel her child’s presence, even if no one else did. There’s such a strong bond between them. . . .” Her voice trailed off and with a sigh, she poured fresh tea into our cups. “Enough of this. I’m sure there isn’t a mother in the world who wouldn’t give anything to hold her child one last time, to feel her close and to kiss away her tears. Unfortunately, that is not how this world works.”

  She gave a little start and placed a hand on her stomach, and I knew she had just felt the baby kick. “This tiny one constantly reminds me that soon I’ll be bringing a new life into the world to join little Tom and Mandy. I’ve been very blessed, Sarah. I must never forget that.” She picked up her teacup and leaned back comfortably in her seat. “Now then, why don’t you tell me everything that happened at the Cliff House that night, starting from the beginning.”

  Celia listened quietly as I described the séance. Although I tactfully omitted the more graphic details of Moss’s death, I faithfully recounted all the other particulars, including the attack upon Yelena when she retired to the room that had originally been intended for Theodora Reade. Reaching in a pocket for my notepad, I even drew a quick sketch of where everyone sat at the séance table, the position of the lone candle, and where Madame Karpova’s murky white specter appeared.

  She sat quietly fo
r several minutes after I had finished my narrative, seemingly digesting the facts of the case as I’d presented them. It was not until the downstairs bell rang for dinner that she stirred and finally spoke.

  “Clearly, you were correct about Mrs. Reade being the intended victim and not Yelena Karpova. I’m sure you were also right that Mrs. Reade was killed because of what she saw when that bolt of lightning illuminated the room. Someone obviously possesses a very dark secret, one he is willing to go to any lengths to protect. I fear that discovering the truth will prove difficult, and dangerous.”

  She regarded me with fearful eyes. “Please, Sarah, promise me that you will be very careful. I sense a great evil at work here.”

  ______

  As chance would have it, Robert was in my office the following afternoon when Madame Karpova and her daughter Yelena once again paid me a visit. My ex-employer, Joseph Shepard, had assigned Robert a new case, which required him to conduct research at the courthouse, much as I had done for Mrs. Sechrest the day before. He had come by to invite me to a late lunch, when the Russian women arrived.

  “What are the two of you doing here again?” he rudely demanded, behaving for all the world as if this were his office and not mine.

  Yelena blanched and drew back behind her mother, whose face had darkened. “Not that it is any of your concern, Mr. Campbell,” the psychic informed him brusquely, “but I have come to ask Miss Woolson to represent my brother, who has been outrageously arrested for a murder he did not commit. It is because we are Russian that this has happened. We are treated by your authorities with suspicion and contempt.”

  Robert drew breath to give what I was sure would be a scathing response, but I managed to speak first. “Please, ladies, pay no attention to Mr. Campbell. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite. Besides, he was just about to leave.”

  “What about lunch?” Robert glared at the psychic as if she had deliberately set out to ruin his plans. “I don’t have all day. Shepard expects me back at the office.”

  “Then by all means, you must return there at once,” I told him, keeping my tone calm but firm. “As you can see, I must confer with my clients. Madame Karpova, Yelena, please take a seat while I see Mr. Campbell out.”

  “Your clients!” he exploded. “Good God, Sarah, don’t tell me you’re seriously considering taking that man’s case. Dmitry Serkov is as guilty as sin. You haven’t a prayer of convincing a jury that he isn’t.”

  Yelena, who had seated herself in one of the straight-backed chairs, started nervously at this, while her mother’s face grew even darker. In an effort to defuse the situation, I took my colleague by the arm and resolutely escorted him to the door.

  “Perhaps we can have lunch tomorrow,” I told him. “Why don’t we meet down the street at the Jackson Hotel, say at one o’clock?”

  “But I want to eat now,” he protested as I all but pushed him out of my office.

  “Good. I’m glad that meets with your approval. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” I closed the door and set the lock before he could offer any further objections, then turned to my visitors. “Now then, Madame Karpova,” I said, settling in the chair behind my desk. “I take it that Mr. Serkov concurs with your decision to engage me as his attorney?”

  Olga Karpova hesitated. “I have not yet been allowed to speak with my brother. The police treat us shamefully. But I, Madame Karpova, know his mind. He wants you to represent him.”

  It was my turn to hesitate. “Actually, I’m afraid I cannot accept the case without first speaking to Mr. Serkov. This must be his decision.”

  Madame Karpova drew herself bolt upright in her chair. “I tell you I make the decision. And I have chosen you!”

  I decided that a compromise was in order. “Why don’t I visit your brother tomorrow morning, Madame Karpova. After we’ve discussed the charges against him, we can decide on how best to plan his defense.”

  “But you will act as his attorney,” she persisted.

  “Yes, if that’s what he wishes,” I replied.

  “Good. It is what he desires. I tell you so.” She reached into her reticule and took out a lovely gold medallion attached to what appeared to be a solid gold chain. “Here,” she said, pushing it across my desk. “This belonged to my mother. Now you will take it to represent Dmitry.”

  I picked up the pendant. The piece was surprisingly heavy and appeared to be very old. The front was beautifully decorated with hand-engraved filigree, while the back had been inscribed with several words I did not recognize.

  Noticing my confusion, the woman explained proudly, “It was a gift from Maria Alexandrovna, the wife of Czar Alexander, Lord have mercy upon his soul.” Executing a hasty sign of the cross, she continued. “The czar was brutally murdered earlier this year by a student revolutionary. That is Alexandrovna’s name on the back of the pendant, engraved in Russian.” She beamed triumphantly. “You see, I am willing to pay very well to free my brother from prison.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that, Madame Karpova. Bail is almost never set in murder cases. And as I said, I will have to speak to Mr. Serkov before anything is settled.” I tried to give her back the pendant, but she stood, indicating to her daughter that the interview was at an end.

  “If you must speak to my brother before taking his case, you will please do so first thing tomorrow morning.” She made this pronouncement as if issuing a royal command. “It is my wish that you keep the medallion. Dmitry will agree that you are the best attorney for him, and then it will be settled, as you say.”

  She rose to her feet, then suddenly paused, staring at the wall behind my desk as if in some sort of trance. “You will please tell your sister that her new child will be a boy,” she unexpectedly proclaimed. “And that he will be healthy and very clever.” She chuckled, as if she found this amusing. “Yes, just like his papa. Very clever and very generous.”

  With that, the psychic swept out of my office, pulling her daughter, who had not uttered a single word throughout the entire consultation, behind her.

  The last visitor of the day walked through my office door just as I was about to depart for Rincon Hill, and what I hoped would be a quiet evening given to constructive contemplation of the day’s surprising events.

  “Samuel,” I said with some surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good evening to you, too, little sister,” he said, grinning as he helped me on with my wrap. “I have come to take you to Gobey’s Oyster Parlor for dinner, and then to the theater.”

  Straightening my wrap evenly across my shoulders, I eyed my brother with fond amusement. “That can only mean one thing. Whatever lady you currently favor has canceled at the last moment, forcing you to beg the company of your spinster sister. What’s the name of the play, by the way?”

  “It’s a revival of Snowflake and the Seven Pigmies,” he said, holding the door open for me. “The reviews caution young ladies who are ‘faint of heart’ not to attend, as the ‘tragic story will tear at the soul of all but the most stalwart.’ ”

  “What? For God’s sake, Samuel, tell me you’re not serious.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not,” he said, laughing that his joke had brought about such a splendid response. “Although that old saw really has been taken out of its well-deserved mothballs and is showing at the Tivoli Gardens. Actually, I have tickets to Richard the Third at the California Theatre. It’s supposed to be an excellent production.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard.” I felt a thrill of excitement. Suddenly, a quiet evening at home had lost its appeal. I hadn’t been to the theater in months, and, brother or not, Samuel was excellent company. “But look at me,” I said, indicating my office attire. “I’m hardly dressed for the theater, especially the California Theatre.”

  He cast a critical eye over my dark green two-piece suit, one of several garments in varying styles and colors I’d had specially made to coincide with the opening of my new office.

&n
bsp; “Hmmm. It’s true you aren’t going to set any fashion trends, but if you redo your hair a bit—and wash that ink off your fingers—I think you’ll be passable. At any rate, there’s no time to go home and change. As it is, we have to hurry if we’re to have dinner before the performance. Unless you’d prefer to catch a late supper after the play.”

  I shook my head; I was far too hungry (having missed my lunch with Robert) to wait until nearly midnight to eat. “No, Gobey’s it is. I’m famished!”

  Dinner at Gobey’s “Ladies and Gents Oyster Parlor” was always a treat, and my boiled terrapin was excellent. While we ate, I told Samuel about Madame Karpova’s strange prediction that afternoon concerning Charles and Celia’s new baby.

  “Has she ever met either of them?” my brother asked, looking surprised.

  “No, I’m sure she hasn’t.”

  “Then where in the world did she—”

  “I have no idea, Samuel. Frankly, I find it a little chilling—the way she just came out with it, I mean. We hadn’t been talking about my family, or the baby, or anything of a personal nature. She just blurted it out, like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

  “Are you going to tell Celia?”

  I thought about this. Everything Madame Karpova had said about the new baby was positive. Yet somehow I hesitated to say anything about it to our sister-in-law. Things had been going so smoothly during her pregnancy; I didn’t want to risk upsetting her over something that might well turn out to be complete drivel, as Robert would say.

  “I don’t think so. At least not yet.” I smiled at my brother, suddenly anxious to change the subject. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been able to learn about Darien Moss.”

  My brother shook his head. “All I can say is that you live a very interesting life, Sarah, especially for a woman.” He laughed and held up his hand to stave off my retort. “All right, all right, to business, then. I’ve wired several friends in New York about the fellow, but they’re having a difficult time piecing together his background. It seems clear that at some point preceding his relocating to California, Moss must have changed his name. There’s certainly no record of a Darien Moss being born in New Jersey within the time lines we’ve established. Of course, he may have been born in another state, or outside the United States, for that matter.