The Cliff House Strangler

by Shirley Tallman

  The way he smiled at me made me feel like a spinster school-teacher I’d had many years ago. She’d been a severe, if well-meaning, woman, who never hesitated to voice her opinion, even when it had not been asked of her.

  “Believe me, Miss Woolson,” he said, “the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt Yelena.”

  I was about to impart a final bit of advice, when the jailer impatiently called out from the door leading to the cell block that he couldn’t wait for me all day. With a final warning look at the young man, I turned and started down the corridor to Madame Karpova’s cell.

  My visit with my client was necessarily short. I was mainly concerned with seeing how she had weathered the night, and ensuring that she was being afforded adequate medical care and personal protection. To my relief, she informed me that she was feeling considerably better and that a nice man named Sergeant Jackson, had checked on her all night along with a jailer she didn’t know.

  When Yelena assured me that, because of her mother’s poor health, she was being allowed extended visitation privileges for the next day or two, I felt it safe to leave. Secretly, I guessed that the increased leniency stemmed more from the hope that Yelena might prevent her mother from any more suicide attempts than from concern for my client’s health. Since our goals in this instance happened to coincide, I was happy enough to overlook the motivation.

  Before I left the station, I entrusted a note in a sealed envelope to the guard at the front desk, addressed to Cecil Vere. In it, I requested that he keep a close eye on Madame Karpova when he came on duty later that afternoon. I have to admit I was becoming a bit worried that he still hadn’t sent word to the jail explaining his absence. The guard was of the opinion that Vere had simply tied one on the day before and had been too hungover to make it in to work.

  “He’ll show up this afternoon,” he assured me. “Always does. Good man is our Vere.”

  Walking to the nearest omnibus line, I boarded a horse-drawn streetcar and set off to see Mrs. Sechrest at Annjenett Fowler’s home for abused women. I was utilizing public transportation as much as possible these days, so that I might adequately reimburse Eddie Cooper for his increased duties as my hack driver. I truly was beginning to rely on Eddie, not only because he was so dependable but also because of his unfailing enthusiasm and eagerness to do whatever was necessary to help in my investigations. I was also discovering that the boy possessed a very keen eye, a great advantage in my line of work, especially in those parts of town where I felt less than comfortable.

  If Alexandra had not confided the location of the safe house, I would never have located it. Of course, the primary function of a safe house is to provide a hideaway where the women’s abusers cannot find them. In this regard, the property Annjenett had chosen was perfect, being indistinguishable from its neighbors on the respectable middle-class street. The tiny bit of garden to either side of the stairs was neatly tended, and of course there was no sign posted anywhere on the house to announce its true function.

  My knock was answered by a pretty young maid dressed in a plain black dress covered by a starched white apron. A small white cap perched atop a head of lovely brown hair, which had been pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

  Curtsying but failing to open the door so much as an inch wider, she politely requested my name and the nature of my business. Presenting my card, I assured the young woman that I was a friend of Mrs. Fowler, and asked to see her mistress if she were in. The maid nodded, promised to see if Mrs. Fowler was receiving, then softly closed the door, leaving me standing outside. It was opened again in a matter of minutes, and with a cry of delight, I was pulled into the arms of my old friend and very first client, Annjenett Fowler.

  “My dear, dear Sarah!” she exclaimed, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “What an absolute delight to see you again.” She flung the door open and beckoned me inside. “Please, come in. I’m sorry you were kept waiting at the door, but it’s our policy to admit no one until we can vouch for the person’s identity and the purpose of the visit.

  I couldn’t help but smile at her radiant face. It was a far cry from that of the pale, frightened woman who had sought my help at the beginning of the Nob Hill murders. Ever since then, Joseph Shepard had continued to insist that I had stolen Annjenett from beneath his nose. Since he and his firm had been doing almost nothing at that time to help the poor widow—whose husband had been brutally murdered several weeks earlier—I’d felt not the slightest modicum of guilt for stepping in to remedy the situation.

  “A most sensible precaution,” I said, taking a seat in the comfortable yet simply furnished parlor.

  After requesting that the maid notify Mrs. Sechrest of my arrival, Annjenett asked her to please bring us coffee. She then leaned forward in her chair and begged me to tell her everything that had happened since our last meeting, which had been several months ago at her wedding to the talented and extremely handsome young actor Peter Fowler.

  I spent a pleasant five or ten minutes giving her a capsulized version of leaving Joseph Shepard’s firm and setting up my own law practice. Without revealing attorney-client confidences, I went on to tell her about Mrs. Sechrest’s divorce and the upcoming hearing.

  Her pretty face grew solemn. “Oh dear, that is what Alexandra most feared. Although I think she has suspected all along that her husband would challenge her for custody of the children.” She shivered. “He is a very nasty man, Sarah. You should have seen the bullies he sent to kidnap their sons. They knocked Alexandra to the ground, picked up the boys, and tossed them into a waiting carriage. It all happened so quickly, the poor woman had no time to call for help.”

  “How did Luther Sechrest discover your location?”

  “He hasn’t. At least I sincerely hope he hasn’t. His men grabbed the boys several blocks from here when their mother took them shopping for new shoes.”

  “At the very least, it sounds as if they’ve narrowed it down to your neighborhood. I suppose you have a plan in place should they identify the actual house.”

  She gave a long sigh. “I’ve done what I can, of course. Unfortunately, I don’t dare notify the police, since two policemen’s wives have taken shelter here, both of them viciously beaten by our so-called guardians of the law.” She looked over my shoulder with a broad smile. “Ah, Alexandra, there you are.”

  Mrs. Sechrest silently entered the room, her uncertain smile revealing she was not sure if my being there heralded good news or bad. I wished with all my heart it was the former.

  “Mrs. Sechrest, how nice to see you,” I said, rising from the sofa and reaching out to take her hand.

  “Miss Woolson, do you have new information about my case?” Somewhat warily, she took the seat next to mine on the sofa.

  Annjenett Fowler stood. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I have duties I must attend to. I’ll leave you to discuss Alexandra’s case in private.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fowler,” Alexandra said to her benefactor. “That’s kind of you. Truly, I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Annjenett said, looking embarrassed. “I’m just grateful I had the wherewithal to help you and the others. Sarah, I’d like to say good-bye to you before you leave.”

  With a parting smile, Annjenett swept from the room. Both Alexandra and I watched her depart, a splendid figure in a light blue day gown and practical walking shoes.

  “Now then, Sarah,” my client said, bracing herself. “You might as well tell me the latest news and get it over with.”

  I smiled, but I feared it fell short of the reassuring gesture I had intended. I was pleased to see that the bruises on her face—the result of her last encounter with Luther Sechrest—had faded. Unfortunately, it was all too evident from her solemn, worried eyes that the emotional bruises he had inflicted were as raw as ever.

  “Yes, I do bring news, Mrs. Sechrest.” I tried to keep my voice calm, in a mostly futile effort to allay her fears. “I’m
afraid your husband is determined to put the matter of child custody before a judge. The hearing will be held next Friday. It will be necessary for you to be present.”

  Alexandra deflated before my eyes like a balloon that had been pricked with a pin. “I see,” she said weakly.

  Next came the most difficult part of our meeting. Taking a bracing breath, I said, “Mrs. Sechrest, I need you to be brutally honest with me. What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Gideon Manning?”

  “Gideon Manning?” she repeated, obviously taken aback. “You mean my sons’ tutor?”

  “Yes, that’s the gentleman I’m referring to.”

  “But I don’t understand.” Her direct gaze showed no sign of comprehension. “Why are you asking such a question? What can Mr. Manning have to do with any of this?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wishing it had not fallen to me to deliver such distressing news. “I’m afraid there’s no tactful way to put this. Your husband is accusing you of having an affair with Mr. Manning.”

  Alexandra looked at me as if I’d slapped her across the face. “What? Is he mad? How can he believe such a thing?”

  “Quite frankly, I don’t know if he actually does believe it. He’s simply using it as grounds for having you declared an unfit mother.”

  This time, she looked at me in stunned silence, then managed to say in a very small voice, “But he can’t do that. Can he?”

  “Before I answer, I must repeat my earlier question. How would you characterize your relationship with Mr. Manning?”

  I watched the color drain from her face. “Oh, dear Lord, I truly never expected Luther to stoop so low.” Her eyes pleaded with me to understand. “Mr. Manning and I were friends, Miss Woolson, nothing else. I know it sounds, well, unusual to be friends with your children’s tutor, but we found that we had much in common. Our love of poetry, for one thing, and of art, particularly the Impressionists. Luther cares little for these pursuits. His life revolves around his work and his clubs, and the friends he spends most of his evenings with. He never took me to the theater, or to a concert, or, indeed, to an art museum. It was so wonderful to find someone who shared my interests.”

  “Are you telling me you spent time alone with Mr. Manning?” I tried not to let her see my growing alarm.

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” she admitted. “But I promise you that nothing improper occurred between us. Nothing!”

  “Do you know of anyone who could substantiate that claim in court? Someone who might have come into the room when you and Mr. Manning were together? Perhaps one of the children, or the servants?”

  She shook her head, by now thoroughly frightened. “No, I can’t think of anyone. Oh, Miss Woolson, surely you don’t think—”

  I sighed. “Unless we can refute this charge, I fear Mr. Sechrest will use it to good advantage during the custody hearing. But we cannot allow ourselves to become pessimistic. We must direct our energy into fighting these allegations.”

  She immediately brightened. “Yes, that is exactly what we must do.”

  “All right, then,” I said in a businesslike tone. “How long has Mr. Manning been tutoring your sons?”

  “Let me see. About two years, I should say.”

  “And where do you and the tutor usually meet?”

  “Sometimes in the library, where we would read poetry, especially poems by Lord Byron, Shelley, and, of course, Keats. In good weather, we occasionally took walks in a park not far from our home.” She looked up at me from beneath long lashes. “Once or twice, we—we met in Mr. Manning’s sitting room.” She gave a small flinch as she admitted this, realizing, no doubt, how damaging it sounded.

  “And during those times, you were alone with Mr. Manning?”

  “Yes,” she replied softly, again lowering her eyes.

  “How often did you meet with him, Mrs. Sechrest?”

  “Not often. Perhaps once a week, sometimes twice. My husband keeps Mr. Manning quite busy. In addition to his tutoring responsibilities, he performs clerical duties for Luther, including monitoring, filing, and answering his correspondence—at least his business communications.”

  “I see. So would it be correct to say that you and Mr. Manning often met in the evening?”

  She nodded.

  “And how long did these meetings generally last?”

  She looked at me, her lovely face pale. “Are all these questions really necessary, Miss Woolson?”

  “I’m afraid they are. If for no other reason than to make you aware of what you will be up against in the courtroom. You must be prepared to answer these, and far more personal questions, during the custody portion of the hearings.”

  “More personal?” she asked with a stricken look. “Can you—can you give me an example of what I may expect?”

  “For one thing, you will be asked to describe your feelings for Mr. Manning, and whether you were ever intimate with him.” I studied her face carefully as I added, “Will you be able to answer truthfully that you were never on those terms with him?”

  “No!” She looked flustered, and her face flushed bright pink. “I mean yes, I will be able to swear that we were never . . . intimate. Do you think they will believe me?”

  “I honestly don’t know. It depends upon so many factors—the judge, your husband’s testimony, how convincingly you come across to the judge. It’s really impossible to guess.”

  “But you don’t think I have much of a chance, do you? I can see it written on your face.” She had a sudden thought. “What about Gideon—Mr. Manning, I mean? Will he be asked to testify? If he corroborates my story, Miss Woolson, won’t that—”

  “I’m afraid it will do little to help you,” I replied truthfully, determined that the time for false reassurances had passed. “It is, after all, in his best interests to deny the allegations. He would be ruined as a tutor if it was even rumored that he’d been intimate with the lady of the house. The judge will take his motivations into consideration.”

  “Yes,” she said as the full and terrible reality of my statement became clear to her. “Yes, I can see that he would.”

  “I doubt we shall encounter any difficulties proving that your husband abused you throughout most of your marriage. But can you think of anything he’s done that is outside the law? Perhaps in his business dealings, or in his personal life?”

  She looked startled. “You mean do I know if he’s committed a crime?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. If we can prove he’s engaged in some sort of illegal activity, it would cast doubt on his integrity, which, in turn, might cause the court to question his allegations against you.”

  Her face lit with sudden hope, only to be dashed a moment later. “Knowing Luther, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he has not always been completely honest in his business dealings. Unfortunately, there’s no way I can prove it.” She was silent for several moments, then went on. “I don’t know if this will help, but Luther regularly spends a good deal more money than he earns.”

  I drew in a deep breath at this first sign of an Achilles’ heel. “Has Mr. Sechrest ever mentioned where this extra money comes from?” I asked.

  She shook her head, looking ever more dejected. “The few times I got up the courage to ask him, he always told me that what he did with his money was no concern of mine.” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Miss Woolson, I know you’re doing the best you can, but I cannot believe we have a hope of winning. I just don’t know how I’ll be able to go on living without my children.”

  I gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, realizing as I did that I could feel the bones beneath her skin. Dear Lord, I thought, she is becoming thinner by the day! I would have given anything to promise that we had a legitimate chance of reclaiming her children. How incredibly sad that the best I could offer was a pat on the arm.

  “Believe me, Mrs. Sechrest,” I said, meaning every word, “I promise to do everything humanly possible to fight these charges. After that,” I added mo
re quietly, “we shall have to place the matter in God’s hands.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Robert was waiting outside his boardinghouse when Eddie and I arrived in the brougham at five o’clock that afternoon to pick him up. He was hardly inside the carriage when I broke the news of Madame Karpova’s so-called suicide attempt the day before, then went on to recount her surprising revelations to me the afternoon she’d been arrested for Dmitry’s murder.

  “So, you see, the two were actually lovers,” I concluded, “not brother and sister, as they claimed.”

  Robert was silent for a moment, presumably digesting this new information. At length, he said soberly, “I see. In some ways that makes the situation even more tragic. Madame Karpova and Serkov had been together a long time. She must be regretting it terribly by now.”

  I gave him a hard stare. “What do you mean, regretting it now?”

  He looked honestly surprised. “Why, sorry she killed him, of course. What else would I mean? Once she had time to think about what she’d done, she couldn’t live with the guilt.”

  “Good Lord, Robert! You sound just like Lieutenant Ahern. Why is it you both automatically assume she tried to kill herself?”

  “Come on now, Sarah, don’t be naïve. At the very least, it demonstrates guilt by association, both in Moss’s and Mrs. Reade’s murders. Serkov must have threatened to expose her complicity in the crimes, and she stabbed him before he could go ahead with his betrayal.”

  “You know my feelings on that subject,” I said as the carriage dipped going over a large pothole.

  “Blast it all, it’s not a matter of knowing your feelings; you’ve made them perfectly clear. It’s trying to understand them that’s giving me a headache. This is the only explanation that makes any sense.”

  “To you, perhaps, but not to me. I was there yesterday; you were not. Madame Karpova did not attempt to kill herself. She looked completely bewildered when I told her what had happened. I’m convinced someone drugged her coffee at lunch. Then, when she was unconscious, they set the stage to make it look as if she’d committed suicide.”