Miss Dupree inclined her head. “Considering our recent revelation, we’ll end early today, but I want a report on Hamlet by tomorrow.”
Tobias groaned and clunked his head on the desk.
Sarah Byrne Riot checked her chain watch for the tenth time. She sat alone on a bench in Golden Gate Park with a clear view of the track. Well, as clear as the fog allowed. She had watched the gray mist spill over the hills like a slow wave before washing over her.
It was cold and lonely, and even the horseback riders and bicyclists had gone home. She really didn’t want to be out here after dark. Sarah checked the cryptic note again. There were creases in it from her repeated consultation. She had followed the bizarre directions exactly as written. It had been an exhausting amount of boarding cable cars, riding a few blocks, disembarking, walking back to where she’d started, only to get on another cable car, then finally coming to Golden Gate Park, where’d she’d followed a winding path to this bench.
A few people still strolled the pathways. Couples out for an evening, maids walking dogs, and a man selling roasted peanuts.
Sarah watched as a portly man with gray whiskers and tinted spectacles meandered towards her. With a sigh of relief, he sat down on her bench, raised his hat to her, and wiped his forehead with a kerchief. He was out of breath.
“Are you all right, sir?” she asked.
His suit was stretched and worn, but he was dressed as a gentleman with walking stick and gold watch.
“I’m thankful to sit for a time. I hope you don’t mind if I share your bench, Miss.”
Sarah perked up at his accent. He drawled in a nasally way, and dropped his R’s. “You’re from Tennessee,” she said.
The man started in surprise. “Why, yes. My people are from there, and I do say you are, too. What a happy coincidence!” He sat a little straighter, folding his gloved hands over the top of his cane.
Sarah smiled at him.
“And why is a pretty young lady waiting here all alone?”
“I was out for a walk like yourself, and thought I’d rest.”
“Mason Kelly.” He extended a gloved hand and she shook the tips of his fingers.
“Sarah Byrne Riot.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Riot.”
“Likewise.”
Mr. Kelly consulted his watch. Then huffed. “Seems to me the fellow you’re waiting for is late.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “How did you—”
Mr. Kelly nudged his tinted spectacles down, showing off his eyes—long, narrow, and dark, there was a very familiar glint of humor shining from them.
“Mr. Sin!” she gasped. Sin Chi Man, pronounced See-in Chee-mahn, was a mysterious detective in Chinatown. He had saved her from her uncle’s murderers, and she had stayed in his underground hideout for months while Atticus and Isobel sorted out the dangerous mess that had put her life in danger. At first she had been terrified of him, but he proved to be a perfect gentleman. He had taught her calligraphy and music, and all sorts of things. He was the man she was waiting for. The reason why she had tied a black ribbon around a laundry sack.
Sin dropped his drawl. “It’s fortunate everyone is currently out of earshot.”
Sarah blushed. “Sorry, but I… How…” she stammered. “Your accent was very good.”
“Is it?” He seemed pleased.
She nodded.
“I spent months listening to you,” he said.
“I don’t talk that much.”
Sin raised his brows.
“I was bored. You were the only one there.”
“And when you left peace was restored to my humble abode.”
“Good for you.” She poked his stomach. “What are you using for padding?”
He swatted her hand away.
“Did you eat a pig?”
Sin ignored her teasing. “I have been most amused by the newspapers of late.”
Sarah sighed. “I’m not.”
“I failed to teach you discretion. You could go into hiding and erase your name from society like me.”
“I don’t think that’d do much good. There’s a spy in our house.”
“Did the spy make you kick the man at the theater?” He looked at her with curiosity.
Sarah frowned at him.
“I hope you didn’t contact me to deal with some petty spy under your roof?” he asked.
“It’s my sister. Jin.”
“She’s the spy?”
“No, she’s in danger.”
“From whom?”
“Herself,” Sarah said. “Least that’s what Grimm says. They both came back one night with bruises. He’s been trying to protect her, I think. She’s up to something in Chinatown and she won’t tell anyone anything.”
Mr. Sin looked off into the distance, his hands still folded over his cane. He was a tall, thin man, but it was difficult to picture him as such with his disguise. Even his chin was flabby. Having helped Mr. Lotario don a disguise, she knew he would be impressed.
“I heard a report that a negro man and a Chinese child robbed three men coming from the theater.”
“Grimm would never rob anyone!” she insisted.
He looked at her sideways. “Can you say the same of your sister?”
Sarah ground her teeth together. “I won’t vouch for Jin.”
“It’s rumored the child attacked a man and stabbed him with a knife.”
“That sounds like her.”
Sin considered this. “But you want to help her?”
“Of course. I just don’t know what she’s up to. It can’t be good, though. She won’t tell Atticus and Isobel much. Did you know there’s a bounty on them?”
Sin inclined his head. “I would be surprised if there wasn’t. Considering.”
“Can you… have someone take the posters down?”
Sin ignored that. “What do you know of your sister’s life before?”
“I don’t know anything. She won’t tell me. But she has heaps of scars and I think her parents are dead. I’m not really sure.”
“Did you ask?”
“She doesn’t like me much.”
“And yet you kicked a man in the shin for her.”
Sarah shrugged. “Family has to stick together.”
“You are family on paper only.”
“It’s the only sort I have, Mr. Sin.”
Sin nodded, once. “I’ll watch her. But…” He held up a long finger. “Tell this Grimm not to follow her anymore. He has attracted attention.”
“All right. I’m not sure he’ll listen to me since I can’t tell him about you.”
“Tell him you have found help,” Sin said simply. “And you—you must not go into Chinatown.”
“Not even to a restaurant?”
“You know what I mean, Miss Sarah,” he said severely.
“What about the theater?”
He glanced at her, annoyance flaring. “Do not go looking for your sister. The tongs are fighting for dominance and the Quarter is a dangerous place right now.”
She frowned.
“And you would find the theater boring, I think,” he said.
“I was stuck with you for months. If I could survive that…”
“Insolent child.” But he said it lightly. Without a word, he snatched the crumpled note from her hand, got up and left. She watched him disappear around a bend.
Sarah stood and frowned at the darkening trees. If she hurried, she could make it home before the sun winked out.
As she hurried towards the closest cable car terminal, she marveled at the life she’d landed herself in—a gunfighter for a father, a detective for a mother, a hellion for a sister, and here she was, meeting a mysterious Chinese man dressed as a Tennessee gentleman at dusk.
San Francisco was an odd sort of place.
29
A Clash of Minds
Isobel watched a parade of reporters stream in and out of the Sutter Street house. Sergeant Detective Dillion w
as hungry for fame, so he had jumped on a chance to give a tour of his crime scene. Naked girl and all.
Riot was cool and distant beside her. “You shouldn’t have alerted the press.” His voice was tight.
“They didn’t even look at her, except for that patrolman leering at her breasts. Dillion stomped around the room like he was Sherlock Holmes incarnate, making a show of examining things. He’s an utter idiot.”
Riot set his jaw.
“Weston won’t be able to sweep this under a rug. You know exactly what he was doing. Death by ‘natural cause’ only requires a signature, but murder requires work from him. With as much press as this will generate, he won’t be able to ignore it.”
Riot leaned closer, holding her gaze. “Ravenwood Agency prides itself on discretion. We were hired for that very thing, and now you’ve broken that trust.”
She raised a brow. “We were hired to find Ella. She’s dead. And the man who murdered her is still out there.”
“We don’t know that, Bel.”
“Do you really believe she died of natural causes? Or that she killed herself? Would death by suicide have comforted the family? Suicide brings scorn; murder brings sympathy and aid.”
Riot squared his shoulders. He wasn’t backing down, but his voice remained calm. “Are you certain she didn’t kill herself?”
“It’s obvious.”
“What evidence do you have? What proof?”
“For God’s sake, Riot. Surely you don’t believe Hawkins was some innocent bystander in this?”
“You should have consulted with me first.”
“Well, now we’re even,” she growled.
Riot held her eyes in silence. He would let her come to her own conclusion about her impulsive outburst. “This isn’t easy, Bel. I know. I’m frustrated too. But those reporters will drag the Spencer family through the mud.”
“The press would’ve caught wind of it eventually,” she argued. “This is about finding Ella’s killer, not her family. They’re going to grieve regardless.”
“You know I don’t think like that.”
“What would you have done?” she asked.
Riot adjusted his hat. “Searched for the murderer quietly. Reporters and police will only muddy the waters.”
“They could also fluster Hawkins into making a mistake.”
“Or drive him into hiding,” he countered.
“Forcing the coroner to reassess the cause of death now will make it easier to convict this villain when we run him down.”
“Will it?” The way he said it—so quiet and calm—sent a chill down her spine. Did Riot plan on turning this man over to authorities? How many victims had been let down by the so-called justice system? How many murderers had escaped a noose? A girl of no means from a family without connections, one that set their daughter loose to run around the city—it wouldn’t make for a very sympathetic jury.
Truth is our aim, Riot had told her once. And as she studied her husband, she wondered, at what point would he pull the trigger himself?
“Let’s inform the family before the press starts knocking on their door.”
Mr. Lewis Fletcher opened the door. He must have seen the lump caught in Isobel’s throat because his greeting died on his lips.
“You found her,” Lewis said instead.
“We did,” Riot said. “I’m afraid I have bad news, Mr. Fletcher.”
Lewis let them inside. To stall the inevitable, he began to prattle. “Mother’s doing much better, and the baby. And Reverend West arranged help from the church, so I sent Miss Maddie home.”
“Lewis,” Riot said.
The man stopped, and stiffened. “Surely you can convince the scoundrel she ran off with to marry her? We can—”
“Your sister is dead.” It was blunt. And soft.
Isobel was glad Riot was there to deliver it. She supposed there was no delicate way to announce death. No way to soften something so final.
Lewis paused, then closed his eyes, and when he opened them something close to relief passed over his eyes. “I see. How?”
“We don’t know yet. We found her in an empty house on Sutter. No obvious signs of death. Regardless of your mother’s feelings, I suggest you request a post-mortem.”
Lewis stared at the floor, scrubbed clean, smelling of beeswax and lemon polish. His home was finally in order, but his life was crumbling around him. “I’ll, uhm… Be sure to send me the bill for your services.”
“We intend to keep investigating,” Riot said. “I think your sister was lured to that house and murdered by a man she thought was a friend.”
Lewis’s head snapped up. “Mr. Riot, I beg you to leave it alone. I don’t want my sister’s reputation dragged through the dirt.”
“You don’t care whether your sister’s murderer is brought to justice?” Isobel asked.
Lewis ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not that. It’s… I have worries enough about the living.”
It clicked then. “The Masonic Temple,” Isobel said. “You’ve applied for aid, and if your family is involved in a scandal, the Board of Relief may not help you.”
Lewis flushed. Anger, shame, and defensiveness came out. “Please, leave. I thank you for your services. I suspect the police will be along…”
“Lewis, is that Ella?” a female voice called from the kitchen. Mrs. Spencer came out a moment later carrying a cup of tea in one hand. Some color had returned to her face, and her hands no longer shook.
That would all change in a blink.
The woman stopped. “You found my Ella, didn’t you?” Mrs. Spencer whispered.
Lewis hurried over, but his mother shrugged away his attempts to seat her in the parlor. “Tell me,” she demanded.
Riot told her.
The cup shattered when it hit the floor, and it was a long time before her wailing stopped.
30
The Lone Outlaw
Tobias White was abandoned. Sarah had run off, Jin was moping in her attic room, and Grimm wasn’t ever game for anything. That left the task to him.
The Lone Detective.
But doesn’t every detective have to have a partner? He narrowed his eyes, mind working furiously.
The Lone Boy? No, he decided quickly. People would call him the Lonely Man when he got older. The Lone Pirate. He smiled to himself, but then frowned. Why would a pirate be alone? That would mean his boat was small.
Outlaw. That was it. The Lone Outlaw.
Having decided on a suitable name, he turned back to the task. He twitched a drape, and squinted through the gap at a door. Mr. Hughes’s room was on the third floor, along with Sarah’s, Mr. Löfgren’s, and the big turret room. The other boarders lived on the second floor. Miss Dupree on the first. And Jin in the attic. And his family got the entire basement to themselves. It was a big house. Bigger than Tobias had ever known. And was easy to get lost in.
The stuffy grandfather clock in the entryway chimed five times, and like clockwork Mr. Harry Hughes came out of his room, locked his door, and made his ponderous way downstairs. Dinner wasn’t served till eight, but Mr. Hughes liked to read for three hours in the library. He mostly napped.
Tobias got on his belly and slithered towards the railing slats. He pressed his forehead to the gap, and looked over the dizzying edge, all the way down to a wood floor. Mr. Hughes came in and out of view as he wound his way down the staircase. A great iron chandelier hung from the ceiling over the empty space.
Tobias was not allowed to swing on the chandelier. His mother forbade him before he even got a chance to try, and for some reason she reminded him weekly.
Tobias waited for the library door to close, then darted over to Mr. Hughes’s room. The door was locked as expected. He took out the ring of lock picks that Mr. Tim kept in the stable house. They looked like keys, but they weren’t made for any single lock. More like possibilities of locks. With this kind of old lock, all Tobias had to do was find a similarly shaped key. And with as much tim
e as Tobias had spent studying his ma’s ring of keys, he already had a false key in mind.
To his own ears, he sounded like the rag and bone man clomping down the street. Palms sweating, he worked the pick in the keyhole and turned. It didn’t work. Tobias swallowed, spared a furtive glance over his shoulder and quickly selected another.
Click.
It was like a chorus of angels started singing all at once. In his excitement, Tobias dropped the lock picks and they clattered to the ground like a cymbal burst. He snatched up the ring, put his back to the wall, and looked as innocent as he could be.
But no one came, except a large cat. Watson’s tail waved sinuously in the air as the cat sauntered up the stairs.
Tobias blew out a breath. Before his mother appeared, the Lone Outlaw slipped into Mr. Hughes’s room.
Only there was a flaw in his master plan. Now that he was inside the room, he didn’t know what to do. Tobias stood with his back to the door. The curtains were open, but the sun was falling and it was dark in the cramped room. He let his eyes adjust.
The room smelled of pipe smoke and polish, and while it was clean, it was brimming with belongings. Hats, shoes, smoking jackets, an entire wall of little paintings in ornate frames: idyllic visions of countrysides, of flowers and horses and dogs.
A washbasin, a desk inhabited by porcelain figurines, and a bed were ensconced between stacks of newspapers. Tobias walked over to the desk. It was locked.
He fiddled with Mr. Tim’s ring of thief keys. Why did Mr. Tim have these? And he wondered, not for the first time, why Mr. Hughes would write such a horrible newspaper article. The cheerful man didn’t strike Tobias as a spy, but then maybe that was the purpose of spies.
Tobias lifted the top of the desk. A stack of paper, an ink vial, blotter, pen, receipts stuck on a spike, and… Tobias looked back at the receipts. There were an awful lot of them. What did Mr. Hughes even do for work? As far as Tobias could tell the man ate breakfast, sat in the conservatory, went for a walk, then headed to his room for a nap, and then down to the library where he napped some more until dinnertime. Every day.
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