The Cliff House Strangler

by Shirley Tallman

  I sat waiting for a response. None was forthcoming. Yet every inch of Robert’s stiff body proclaimed his contempt for this declaration of my client’s innocence.

  “Robert, didn’t you hear me?” I demanded, holding on to the seat as Eddie took a corner too fast and we nearly collided with a fruit vendor. We could still hear the merchant’s curses from a block away. “Someone tried to murder her! If I can’t find a way to keep her safe in that place, then the next time the killer tries, he may succeed.”

  “Of course I heard you,” he responded at last. “I’m sure half of San Francisco heard you. That doesn’t mean I agree.”

  “You are so frustrating! The blinders you wear are just as dense as the ones on Eddie’s horse. For heaven’s sake, open your eyes. If Madame Karpova was seen to have taken her own life out of guilt for killing Dmitry, the case would be closed. Three murders tied up in one neat package.”

  “Naturally, they’d be closed. They would have caught the killers—of all three victims!” He looked at me, thoroughly exasperated. “Damn it all, Sarah, why do you always have to make everything so blasted complicated? Just once I’d like you to admit that the simplest answer is usually the correct one. Serkov murdered Moss because he was about to expose their little dog and pony show. He killed Mrs. Reade because she witnessed this murder. When he threatened to implicate his lover, she stabbed him to death. Now, what could be simpler than that?”

  I held my tongue. Everything Robert said made logical sense; I was hard-pressed to say why I found his logic so difficult to accept. Mama had often chided me for being stubborn. She was probably right. On the other hand, there are times when one has to listen to one’s instincts. Mine told me that Dmitry Serkov did not murder Darien Moss or Theodora Reade. Madame Karpova might be a charlatan, but I did not believe she was a cold-blooded killer. Since I lacked even a shred of evidence to support these feelings, however, I preferred to spend the remainder of the bumpy ride in uncomfortable silence rather than in verbal sparring, which neither of us would win.

  We arrived at our destination, to find it teeming with carriages. I had completely forgotten that Saturday evening was the busiest night of the week at the Cliff House. Yet, even if I’d remembered, I wouldn’t have wanted to put the trip off for even one more day. We’d simply have to do the best we could despite the crowd.

  On this evening, I was truly able to appreciate the Cliff House in all its considerable glory. There it was, perched spectacularly high upon the cliff, the Pacific Ocean crashing upon the boulders below. The Seal Rocks, which had loomed up as sea monsters the night of the séance, could now be clearly seen, a peculiar arch in the largest one giving it a very picturesque appearance.

  I had already given Eddie his instructions. After dropping us off at the front entrance, he was to park the brougham, then somehow make his way into the kitchen. I hadn’t taken into account how hectic it would be, but Eddie had met the cook the night of the séance, and he was a clever lad. I still hoped he might learn something new that the cook had failed, or forgotten, to tell the police.

  As the boy descended from his perch to assist me out of the brougham, I noticed one of his Rollo books had fallen from the driver’s seat onto the gravel.

  He picked it up, then looked at me a bit sheepishly. “Thought I might have a chance to read some,” he said rather unconvincingly, especially when I could clearly see the latest copy of the Police Gazette tucked into the seat padding. Catching the direction of my gaze, Eddie quickly jumped back onto the carriage seat and clicked his horse toward the stables.

  Robert had been assigned the task of investigating the dining room, in particular the door that had been hidden that night behind the Japanese screen. If Serkov did sneak back into the room during the séance, he would have had to use this door. I had a good idea where it led, but it was always best to be sure.

  “What am I supposed to be looking for?” Robert asked as we made our way to the main entrance.

  “Anything that strikes you as suspicious or out of place, or just plain odd.” I sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, Robert. To be honest, I really don’t know what we’re looking for. Anything that might shed some light on the case.”

  He gave me a strange look before reaching out to open the door. “You know that I consider this trip to be a wild-goose chase. And you are without a doubt the most annoying, obstinate, headstrong person I’ve ever met, male or female. Once you agree to defend someone, you simply will not give up until you’ve turned over every rock, examined every insect crawling beneath it, and followed every possible lead, no matter how slim or improbable.”

  His broad sunburned face broke into an unexpected grin, which actually made him look quite handsome, in a rugged, slightly skewed sort of way. It’s a shame he doesn’t unbend and smile like this more often, I thought. I was surprised to find myself quite enjoying the effect it had on his overall appearance.

  Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “Don’t take this as a blanket approval of your tactics, Sarah, but if I’m ever unfortunate enough to get in trouble with the law, I want you to represent me.”

  Before I could respond to this startling and totally out-of-the-blue compliment, he opened the door and was nudging me inside. I caught a quick glance of his face before he walked off toward the dining room. He was actually blushing!

  I decided to commence my part of the investigation in the saloon. Naturally, this area now looked very different from the way it had on the evening of the séance. Every table was full of raucous men, all of them drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes, cigars, or, in a few cases, pipes. The smoke hung over the room like a dense and exceedingly pungent fog, making it difficult to draw breath without falling into a fit of coughing.

  I was not surprised to count fewer than a dozen women in the room, most of them gaudily dressed, their faces flushed, their demeanor a bit giggly from consuming too much champagne. All of the women displayed a great deal of cleavage, and a great many were smoking cigarettes or small cigars. I trust I am not a prude; normally, I would not fault a woman for indulging in a behavior that is usually reserved for a man. Mimicking a habit, however, that must surely be every bit as unhealthy for women as it is for men appears to me not only foolish but sadly lacking in good female judgment. Under any other circumstance, I would have been more than happy to escape the noise and putrid air. As it was, I vowed to make my inspection as brief, albeit thorough, as possible.

  Since, as I had stated to Robert, I had no real idea what I was looking for, I decided to start my search with an open door located on the opposite side of the room. As I made my way around men standing at the bar or carrying drinks to their tables, I became conscious that a number of male eyes were focused on me. Some grinned fatuously, while others studied me with open curiosity.

  One particularly inebriated man approached me, waving a shot glass of whiskey, and, leering rudely, invited me to join him for, as he put it, “a horn or two.” As I was attempting to maneuver around him, I was surprised, and I’m not too proud to admit, relieved, to spy a familiar face in the crowded room. It was Nicholas Bramwell.

  Ignoring the stares and a few crude comments directed at me, I made my way over to his table. Nicholas sat with three other young men, all of them well groomed, sporting neatly tied cravats and wearing fashionable suits. Four top hats sat perched neatly on a hat tree beside the table. As I reached the group, all four men politely rose to their feet.

  “Miss Woolson,” Bramwell said, giving me a welcoming smile. “How very nice to see you. Have you come to dine? I hear that the halibut was freshly caught this morning and has been prepared in a delicate wine sauce.” He looked behind me, as if searching for my companion. “Surely you haven’t come all the way out to Land’s End by yourself?”

  “No, Mr. Campbell escorted me.” I indicated that the young men should resume their seats.

  Nicholas Bramwell remained standing and proceeded to introduce his companions. Two of his friends had al
so passed the California Bar examination within the past few months, and one was planning a career as a surgeon.

  I politely declined to join their party, or allow them to buy me a sherry, explaining that Robert would be wondering where I’d gone off to.

  “It’s quite busy on a Saturday night, isn’t it?” I said, raising my voice so as to be heard over the din. “I didn’t realize the Cliff House had become so popular.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the young man studying medicine. “It’s become all the rage, especially on the weekend. I’m sorry to say it has also become greatly admired by tourists.”

  One of the new California attorneys nodded his head in agreement. “Yes. So much so that it’s worth one’s life to get a decent table in the dining room. We put our names in almost half an hour ago, and we’re still waiting to be seated.”

  The other new lawyer, whom I suspected had already had rather too much to drink, laughed and raised his glass. “But who’s complaining?” He looked at me. “Are you sure we can’t get you a sherry, Miss Woolson? Or perhaps you’d prefer some champagne, or a flip?” Once again he raised his glass, and everyone at the table laughed. “The Cliff House makes the best flips in town.”

  “Thank you, but no,” I replied. Flips, made with beer, rum, and sugar, were very popular these days. I’d tried one once, just to see what the fuss was about, and found the drink entirely too sweet, and a great deal too strong, for my taste.

  Preparing to resume my inspection of the door to the rear of the saloon, I said to Nicholas, “Before I leave, Mr. Bramwell, would you please tell me how Miss Karpova is getting on? She was still quite upset when I left her with her mother earlier this afternoon. “I purposefully did not mention where I had left them, not wanting to call attention to the fact that Yelena’s mother was in jail.

  For some reason, Nicholas’s three friends seemed to find this statement exceedingly funny.

  “Oh, oh, Nikki boy,” said the boy who had had too much to drink. “The lady is asking about your little sweetheart.”

  One of the other young men began making the most unpleasant kissing sounds with his lips, while the third said, “Yes, do tell us all about her, Nikki boy.”

  Nicholas Bramwell’s face turned brick red—whether from anger or embarrassment, I wasn’t sure—and he took hold of my arm. “Let’s move away from these b’hoys, Miss Woolson. I believe we can find a bit more privacy over there.”

  As he led me off to a small table that had just been vacated, one of the men called out, “Nikki, when are you going to take your little girlfriend out to meet Nancy? She’d get a real kick out of it.” This comment propelled the young men into fresh fits of laughter, causing customers at nearby tables to give envious looks, as if they thought they were missing out on great fun. Was the Nancy they were referring to one of young Mr. Bramwell’s special friends? If so, I failed to see why it had elicited so much hilarity. I was about to ask him to explain the joke, then decided it was none of my concern.

  “You’ll have to excuse my friends, Miss Woolson,” Nicholas said as we took seats at the new table. “They can become a trifle boorish after they’ve had a few drinks.”

  “It appears that your companions don’t approve of your friendship with Yelena Karpova,” I said. “Is that because they think she’s the reason your fiancée broke off your engagement?”

  “No, that’s not it,” he said, looking embarrassed. “Yelena told me the truth about her life, you see. She said she wanted no more lies between us. I’m ashamed to admit it, but my companions ridicule Yelena because she’s a Gypsy. They think I’m risking my political future by befriending a Russian peasant. Please, Miss Woolson,” he said, hurrying on as I started to speak, “don’t judge them too harshly. They behave like this only when they’re drinking. Sober, they’re really quite decent fellows.”

  “I’m sure they are,” I said, not quite truthfully. By now, I am sure you know my feelings on this subject. I have little patience with those who judge other people on the basis of their gender or skin color. This was not the time, however, to debate the inevitably volatile issue of prejudice, although I fairly itched to do so.

  “Please, Mr. Bramwell, do tell me how Yelena is coping with all that has happened to her family over the last week or so.”

  Before he could reply, I was jostled from behind by a man who was decidedly feeling no pain, as the saying goes. As the unsteady patron had managed to knock my hat askew, he stopped and apologized, nearly asphyxiating me with his sour breath in the process.

  As the man continued his somewhat wobbly journey to the bar, Nicholas shook his head and gave me a cheerless smile. “I believe you were asking about Yelena. Actually, she’s been considerably upset, which is understandable under the circumstances. She’s so alone now, you see, and in a strange country. I’ve tried to be supportive, but I can hardly take the place of her own family, especially her mother.”

  “No, of course not. Where is she staying now? Surely not alone in the hotel.”

  He smiled. “One of her mother’s clients has graciously taken Yelena into her home. The woman has a daughter about the same age, so that’s provided Yelena with some comfort. At least I hope it has.”

  There was a loud shatter of glass from an adjoining table, and a young woman gave a little scream as some of her escort’s beer spilled onto her gown.

  During the ensuing laughter as the man attempted to mop off the woman’s bodice with his handkerchief, I took out my notebook and pencil and requested Nicholas to give me the name and address of the residence where Yelena was staying, so that I might reach the child if need be.

  The young man’s face looked suddenly weary, and for the first time I noticed dark smudges beneath his eyes. I wondered if he cared more for Yelena than he was willing to admit. “I don’t know what she’ll do if Madame Karpova is found guilty of killing Serkov. Not a very likable man, as far as I could tell, but he seemed to be very fond of Yelena, and, of course, Madame Karpova. In some ways, I suppose you might say that he was the only father Yelena ever knew. Poor girl, she’s going to miss him. And now with her mother in jail—I just don’t know.”

  “I promise you I’m doing everything possible to ensure that Madame Karpova is proved innocent, Mr. Bramwell,” I reassured him. “In fact, that’s why Mr. Campbell and I have come here tonight.”

  He looked surprised. “You think there’s something the police missed in their investigation? But it’s been over a week since it happened. Surely any evidence that wasn’t discovered then would be gone by now.”

  “Yes, that very well may be,” I told him honestly. “But we’re attempting to reexamine the events of that night through fresh eyes. If we’re fortunate, perhaps we’ll find something that was overlooked during our initial shock over Darien Moss’s death.” I regarded him levelly. “What about you, Mr. Bramwell? Thinking back to that night, is there anything you forgot, or neglected to tell the police? Perhaps something you’ve since remembered?”

  He was silent for several minutes, and I was pleased to see that he was taking the question seriously. “It doesn’t matter if it seems inconsequential,” I urged. “The smallest detail, even one that seems totally unrelated to the crime, may turn out to be of vital importance.”

  Nicholas shook his head, then was forced to raise his voice as several men at the bar began a noisy argument. “I wish I could help you, Miss Woolson, truly I do. I’d do anything to prove Yelena’s mother innocent of this awful charge. But I can think of nothing I haven’t already told the police.”

  He closed his eyes, as if reliving that terrible evening in his mind. “What remains most vivid in my memory is the expression on Yelena’s face when the lightning flashed—you know, after the candle blew out. She looked absolutely terrified. I don’t know, perhaps it was a sixth sense warning her that something horrible was about to happen. She’d witnessed so many of her mother’s séances, yet she seemed to know this one would be different in some ghastly way.” He smiled sheepishl
y. “Perhaps she’s inherited some of her mother’s psychic abilities. I understand it runs in the family.”

  “Yes,” I agreed doubtfully. “There’s always that possibility.”

  I looked over and saw Robert standing at the main saloon door, which led in from the front hall. “I must go now,” I said, getting to my feet. “But I want to thank you for being honest with me, and for the comfort and companionship you’ve offered Yelena. As long as she doesn’t form the wrong idea about your intentions toward her, I think your support will prove to be very good for her indeed.”

  Nicholas also stood. “I only wish I could have been of more help, Miss Woolson. Madame Karpova and Yelena are very fortunate to have you on their side. I’ve never before known a woman attorney, but I must say I’m impressed with the success you’ve achieved over this past year. I think Yelena’s mother is in very good hands.”

  Thanking the young man, I took a moment to walk to the back of the room and peek through the door I had originally sought to investigate. I’d expected it might lead to the dining room, but I was mistaken. Instead, it led to two washrooms, one for ladies and one for gentlemen. While these were conveniently placed, considering the amount of alcohol being consumed in the saloon, I was disappointed that they provided no new insights into our investigation.

  I joined Robert, hoping that he’d had better luck, but it seemed he had not. Moving away from the cacophony coming from the saloon, he led me down the hall to the entrance to the dining room.

  “You were right about the door behind the screen,” he said. “It leads into the kitchen. The kitchen itself has four doors, the one I just mentioned, one leading into the hall outside the saloon, one that goes down into the larder, and one that leads outside. I don’t see how any of this helps us, though, except to substantiate your theory that Serkov used the entrance behind the screen to sneak back into the dining room during the séance.”