Before they could lead her through the door, she cried out at the magistrate, “You will regret this injustice, sir. I, Madame Karpova, see all, and your fate grows ever more imminent. You will not live out the week.”
Judge Mortimer Raleigh’s face grew dark. “Are you threatening me, madam?” he demanded, his voice equally acerbic.
“I reveal only what I see,” she replied sonorously, her voice projecting into every corner of the courtroom. “Be prepared. Before many more days pass, you will stand before your Maker.”
Handling her more forcefully, the two bailiffs hurriedly pulled Madame Karpova out of the chamber. The judge stared after her. Despite his stern expression, his ruddy face appeared considerably paler.
______
What made you tell Judge Raleigh he’d be dead before the week is out?” I asked Madame Karpova when we were back in her cell. “That is not going to earn you any friends in court.”
She shrugged her slender shoulders. “I did not like him, but what I said about his death is true. I, Madame Karpova, see these things, even when I have no wish to.”
Despite my better judgment, I couldn’t resist asking her how she did it.
“I know it in many ways. Sometimes, I simply sense it. More often, I see those who are about to die on their deathbeds, or in their coffins. A few times, I have observed a person surrounded by a bright light, and I know then they are about to cross over. It upsets most people to know they are near death, so I rarely tell them unless they ask.”
“But you told Judge Raleigh because you didn’t like him.”
“He acts like he is God, sitting on his bench passing judgment on those he considers beneath him.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “I wanted him to know that he is only human, no better than the rest of us.”
Her expression suddenly changed. She no longer looked confident, as she invariably did when discussing her psychic powers. In its place, I saw anxiety reflected in her dark eyes, and I knew she was thinking of her daughter.
I spent the next half hour attempting to reassure her that Yelena was in good hands. I had paid a visit to the home where the girl was temporarily residing, so I was able to reassure her mother that she was receiving excellent care and comfort through this difficult time.
When I was finally able to take leave of my client, I did not immediately exit the jail. Instead, I sought out Sergeant Jackson and the young guard, Jimmy Wolf, who had become my allies since the attack on Madame Karpova. Both promised to continue looking out for her safety. After a good deal of persuasion, they agreed to let it be known throughout the jail that they were tasting her food before it was delivered to her cell. This last concession, I suspect, had been granted more to appease me than because they believed anyone would attempt to drug her meals. I cared little about their motivation, as long as they faithfully carried out my instructions.
Later, while riding on the omnibus, I examined the address George had given me for Cecil Vere’s fiancée. It seemed that Annie Fitzgerald lived in a women’s boardinghouse south of Market Street, or South of the Slot, as it was more commonly known. It was a respectable neighborhood, mainly comprised of young immigrants, typically employed in unskilled or semiskilled jobs.
Annie Fitzgerald was a small, thin young woman with brownish red hair tied back in a bun and light blue eyes that were puffy and red-rimmed from crying. She was dressed in a plain but neat brown dress with few frills. I judged her to be in her early twenties, and probably quite pretty when not suffering the pain of such a devastating loss.
Upon hearing that I’d been acquainted with her Cecil, Miss Fitzgerald readily invited me inside the simply furnished room that was her home. Directing me to take a seat in the more comfortable of the room’s two chairs, she hurried to a small table containing a spirit lamp and the necessary accoutrements to brew tea.
“I was about to brew meself a cup,” she said, carefully measuring out a rounded tablespoon of tea leaves. “It won’t take but a minute.”
When we were seated facing each other in our chairs, and sipping remarkably good tea, Annie Fitzgerald begged me to tell her everything I knew about her Cecil, including how we had met and when I had last seen him.
I explained that I was an attorney—eliciting the usual surprise and incredulity—then went on to relate how I had met Cecil while visiting one of my clients at the jail.
“He was invariably cheerful and polite,” I said, helping myself to one of the home-baked cookies Annie had served on a clean but slightly chipped plate. “He spoke of you often, as well as your upcoming marriage. He was very much in love with you, Miss Fitzgerald.”
She smiled even as tears formed in her eyes. “That was my Cecil, always goin’ on about me and about our weddin’. Settlin’ down and startin’ a family was all he ever talked about, the silly ol’ bear.” Tears streamed down her face, but she seemed not to notice. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”
I was struck with sudden guilt, knowing I had handled this badly. I realized I should never have mentioned Vere’s continual talk about his fiancée, or their plans to marry. Her wound was still too raw to discuss such intimate emotions, especially with a stranger. I had merely succeeded in causing the poor woman fresh pain. When would I ever learn to think before I spoke?
As if reading my thoughts, Annie said, “I’m sorry to break down like this, Miss Woolson. Can’t seem to help it, no matter how hard I try. But I’m awful glad you told me what my Cecil said about how much he loved me an’ all.”
She rose from her seat to fetch a handkerchief from a bureau drawer. “His death”—she swallowed hard, fighting off fresh tears—“his death came just when everythin’ was beginnin’ to look so good fer us. He’d come into some money workin’ extra shifts at the jail, and haulin’ crates down at the docks on his day off.” She managed a weak smile. “He was so excited. Said he figured it was enough money fer us to get married right away, instead of havin’ to wait another year, like we’d planned. Then the next day—sweet Jesus, the very next day, he was gone!”
Tears spilled, unchecked, down her cheeks. Feeling helpless to comfort the poor woman, I said gently, “I’m so sorry, Miss Fitzgerald. I should never have bothered you at a time like this.”
“No, Miss Woolson!” she exclaimed, raising her tear-stained face. “You were good to my Cecil. You comin’ here like this—a lady like you carin’ enough to come see me—that means more than I ken say.”
She blew her nose into the neatly mended cloth, then met my eyes with unsettling directness. “I told you this ’cause I wanted you to know why I’ll never believe that he was gamblin’ the night he was killed. I swear, as God is my witness, he weren’t no gambler. He used to say he worked too hard fer him to be handin’ his money over to some card sharp.” The glistening blue eyes bore into mine, as if begging me to believe her. “Whatever Cecil was doin’ at the waterfront that night, Miss Woolson, it weren’t to gamble!”
“I believe you, Annie. I don’t think Cecil would have touched your savings, especially not to gamble.”
I hesitated, not wishing to add to her distress. But the question had to be asked. “Annie, can you tell me if Cecil acted troubled or worried after Mr. Serkov was murdered at the jail last Thursday afternoon? Did he mention what happened?”
“He told me everythin’ that went on down at that jail,” she said with obvious pride. “Cecil didn’t much like that Russki fellow. Said he complained about everythin’ and caused trouble with the other prisoners. Still an’ all, now you mention it, he did seem upset the day the bloke got hisself stabbed. Said he had to think things through before he could talk to me about it, which weren’t usual.”
She gave an unexpected smile. “He cheered up some when he told me about the extra money he’d come into, though. I don’t know how he was able to save up so much cash, but that were my Cecil, always full of surprises.” Tears once again began rolling down her wan cheeks. “That was the last time I ever seen him, Miss Woolson.”
/> I waited patiently while she fought to regain control of her emotions. Sensing her embarrassment, I said, “Crying isn’t a bad thing, Annie. It isn’t good to keep all your grief bottled up inside. It won’t bring back your Cecil, but it will allow the healing to begin.”
“It’s real kind of you to say that, Miss Woolson, but I don’t know as I’ll ever heal. Cecil was me life. I can’t think how I’m gonna get along without him.”
I leaned forward and patted her hand, the skin rough and reddened by years of hard labor. “I can’t begin to understand your grief, Annie. But I know from others that, with time, the healing does begin. You’ll never forget Cecil, nor should you. But eventually you’ll find the strength to go on living without him. He would want you to do that, my dear.”
She attempted another smile, then, giving a loud sniff, returned to the bureau and pulled another clean handkerchief from the drawer. “I know yer right, Miss Woolson, but it’s just hard right now. I got a sister who’s comin’ in from Modesto tonight to stay with me fer a while. It’ll do me no end of good havin’ her here.”
When I took my leave some minutes later, I was grateful to know that Annie would soon have her sister to help her bear the shock and grief. Still, the visit had drained me, and I broke down and hired a passing cab to take me to Annjenett Fowler’s home for abused women.
During the ride, I reflected on what Annie had said about Cecil not being a gambler, an assertion which served to reinforce my own sense of the man. But what had really caught my attention was her statement that he’d recently earned enough extra money to move their wedding up a full year. I hadn’t wanted to challenge the poor girl over the source of this sudden windfall, but it did cause me to wonder. That seemed a great deal of money to make in such a short time, especially when he had only one day off a week in order to pick up extra work. Could it have been payoff money to keep silent about Serkov’s death? I wondered. If so, why had Vere been murdered? Did the real killer not trust Cecil to remain quiet about what he’d seen?
When my cab reached Annjenett’s safe house, I was forced to put the matter aside, at least for the time being. The same young maid answered my ring, only this time she recognized me and I was shown directly to the parlor. Alexandra Sechrest joined me almost immediately, looking even more worried and drawn than the last time I’d visited.
We spent several minutes speaking of inconsequential matters, after which I inquired if she could give me Gideon Manning’s address. “I must meet the man before the hearing,” I explained. “There are several questions I wish to ask him.”
A shadow crossed Alexandra Sechrest’s lovely face. “I would prefer not to involve him in this, but I suppose that’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid it is.” I placed little hope on the answer to my next question, but it was necessary to ask. “Please, Mrs. Sechrest, have you been able to think of anyone who might verify the platonic nature of your friendship with Mr. Manning?”
Alexandra Sechrest let her breath out slowly. “I’ve given it a great deal of consideration since our last meeting,” she said at last. “Unfortunately, I cannot think of anyone who could swear to it in a court of law.” She tilted up her chin in an unexpected gesture of defiance. “Unless someone never leaves your side, is with you every day and night for weeks on end, how could they possibly swear to such a thing?”
“They couldn’t, of course.”
She gave a dry little laugh. “The thing I find most absurd about my husband’s accusation is that he has engaged in countless extramarital affairs. He no longer makes much of an effort to be discreet.” The laugh turned into a half sob. “Yet no one takes the slightest interest in his infidelity. It is so terribly unjust!”
Not trusting myself to get started on a subject that rankled the very core of my being, I merely stated that I agreed and let it go at that—for the moment.
Alexandra was studying my face, as if trying to gauge my thoughts. All the while, she betrayed her nerves by twisting and un-twisting the long, slender fingers that lay in her lap.
“Miss Woolson, I beg you to tell me the truth. What will happen to my sons if Luther convinces the judge that I’m an unfit mother?”
I considered how best to answer this question. I preferred that my client enter the courtroom on Friday feeling positive about her prospects. On the other hand, she would have to be prepared for the worse, which, at this juncture, appeared the most likely culmination of the case. In the end, I decided that only the truth would serve.
“I fear they’ll be sent to live with their father,” I said, forcing myself to go on even as I observed the anguish on her face. “Your husband has enlisted the services of a very competent attorney, who will seize upon any opportunity to win his case. You must realize, Mrs. Sechrest, that the most damaging accusation a man can make against his wife in a custody battle is that she is immoral. I can think of no court that would give such a woman custody of her children, especially two boys over the age of seven.”
She sank back into her chair, appearing suddenly exhausted and drained of hope. Clearly, she had not allowed herself to truly contemplate the idea that she might permanently lose her sons.
“Dear Lord,” she said in a very faint voice. “What are we to do?”
Now that Mrs. Sechrest was aware of the worst that could happen, it was time to rekindle at least a small flame of hope. I infused my voice with purpose and resolve.
“We will start by questioning Gideon Manning. Until this past week, he was in your husband’s employ, whereas you’ve been out of the house for more than a month. We can only hope that he is privy to, or perhaps has overheard, some of your husband’s plans. We must also learn what Mr. Manning will say if he is called upon to testify during the hearing.”
“Surely Luther wouldn’t call Gideon to testify on his behalf,” she said, looking askance.
“No, but we certainly will. That’s one of the reasons I must speak to him. It’s important to determine what kind of witness he’ll make on the stand.” I drew out my notebook and began jotting down notes. “I must also visit your neighbor, the woman who took you in last week after Mr. Sechrest’s attack. What was her name again?”
“Mrs. Jane Hardy,” she said. “She is a widow.”
“Yes, I’ll make a point of speaking to her. Also, have you talked to your sister yet? You said she saw some of the bruises your husband inflicted.”
“I’ve spoken to her, but she’s reluctant to appear as a witness. She’s concerned about our mother and the effect this will have on our family’s reputation.” She lowered her eyes. “There has never been a divorce in our family. Mama is of the opinion that I did not try hard enough to make it work. She’s of the old school, which does not believe in airing one’s dirty linen in public, no matter the provocation.”
“I see,” I said, although in truth I found it hard to countenance a mother who would prefer her daughter to remain in an abusive marriage rather than to lose face in the community. “The question is, Will your sister stand up for you despite her misgivings?”
“I think—well, at least I hope she will,” she replied, looking uncertain. “I know she believes I should have my boys. And she and my mother have never cared much for Luther. Yes,” she pronounced with more conviction. “I will ensure that she appears on my behalf.”
We spent the next half hour going over our strategy for the divorce hearing, after which I caught a brougham to the address Alexandra had given me for her boys’ former tutor. It was not Gideon Manning’s residence, but his brother’s house in the Mission District. Since Manning had been a live-in tutor at the Sechrest home for the past two years, Alexandra thought he might have gone there until he could find a place of his own.
I was in luck. A pretty young woman with thick brown hair braided about her head answered the door. She looked a bit fatigued as she attempted to balance a fidgety baby boy of about ten or eleven months on her right hip, but she still managed a broad smile. “Yes, miss? Can I help yo
u?”
Giving her my name, I explained that I was representing Mrs. Sechrest in her divorce and would like to speak to Mr. Gideon Manning. After a moment’s hesitation, and a curious look that traveled from my hat to my boots, she threw open the door and invited me inside.
It was a small house, simply furnished, but neat and clean. There was a homemade hooked rug in the hallway, and several pictures hanging on the walls looked to have been painted by a talented amateur. I could hear the sound of a slightly older child playing with a barking dog somewhere upstairs.
“I’m Loretta Manning,” she told me. “Gideon is my husband’s younger brother. He’s been staying with us for the past week.” She shifted the plump, wriggling baby to her other hip, then said, “I think Gideon is upstairs in his room. If you’ll please wait in the parlor, I’ll tell him he has a visitor.
Thanking her, I made my way into the room she had indicated. The parlor boasted a comfortable-looking sofa and several armchairs, a well-stocked bookcase, and a pianoforte located in the recess of a large bay window. The fireplace mantel contained a matched set of pewter candlesticks and several family photographs, including one of two small boys, the baby I had just seen and a boy of about three, probably the one I could hear running around upstairs. A mending basket lay on the floor beside one of the chairs, and a book had been left open, facedown, on an end table, as if the reader had been suddenly interrupted. It was a friendly, cozy room, one that the family actually used, rather than reserving it for the sole purpose of receiving guests.
I had been waiting only a few minutes when a tall, clean-shaven young man wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a rather inexpensive, although presentable, brown woolen suit joined me. He had a full head of sandy blond hair, an angular but pleasant face, and very penetrating dark brown eyes, which regarded me quizzically.
The Cliff House Strangler Page 25