Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  She nodded, and Riot tucked it safely away. “If I take you to a hotel, the police are sure to be involved. But I’ve a house in Pacific Heights. There’s other children there, and there’ll be a warm fire and a hot meal.”

  “I don’t want to put you out, Mr. Riot.”

  “It’s no trouble. We’ll sort this out.” One way or another.

  Sarah Byrne looked at the big house with surprise. Every light in the house seemed to be shining through the windows. “Detective work must pay well. I’ll be frank, Mr. Riot, I don’t have much cash to pay you for your services.”

  “This is more of a neighborly good deed, Miss Byrne. And I don’t live here alone. It’s a respectable boarding house. But if it will ease your pride, I’m sure the landlady wouldn’t turn down an extra pair of helping hands.”

  “It would ease my pride,” she said as they walked around to the grocer’s entrance. The moment they climbed the steps, raised voices pierced the wood, and Riot regretted using the word respectable.

  “…I put my foot down at lockpicking, Mr. Tim.”

  “It’s a useful thing to know. Everyone ought to know how to open a lock.”

  “Not my boys, and not Maddie.”

  “Even better for a pearl like her to know. In case she has to get out of a jam. Those are right useful things to know,” Tim retorted.

  “I suspect you’ve been teaching my children how to pinch pockets, too.”

  “Only in theory,” Tim hastened.

  “Well, theory has a way of turning into doing. Tobias pinched my reading glasses from my pocket today.”

  There was a grumble, and an uncomfortable shift of a chair.

  “You cannot be teachin’ my children such things,” Miss Lily stated.

  “I taught A.J.,” Tim shot back.

  “We’re negroes—police don’t need another reason to point fingers at us. You throw those kind of skills in, and a lawman won’t think twice about accusing my boys.”

  Miss Lily always lost her properness when upset. Riot regretted coming around back. Before overhearing anymore of the argument, he quickly opened the door. As soon as it opened, the voices cut off.

  Tim sat at the kitchen table looking dejected, and Tobias, Grimm, and Maddie wore similar faces. Riot might have laughed at the sight of an old man and three children sulking if it hadn’t been for Miss Lily’s anger.

  “Mr. Riot.” Lily turned to him, and was startled to see his young guest.

  “This is Miss Sarah Byrne,” Riot said. “She’s just in from Tennessee. Alone,” he added. The adults instantly took that bit of information in. “She’s in a bind until we get a few things straightened.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Miss Lily said with a warm smile. She extended her hand.

  “Ma’am.” Sarah nodded, and hesitated, staring at the dark, outstretched hand as if she weren’t sure what to do with it. Miss Lily only smiled, and kept her hand out. After a moment, Sarah shook it.

  “She’ll be earning her keep,” Riot said, noting Sarah’s hesitation. “Is there a room free that she could make up?”

  “There is. Maddie and Tobias, go show our guest where the linens are. I’ll heat up some food for the both of you.”

  Whipcord thin, fast as lightning and without much thought, Tobias White bolted from the kitchen. Maddie, as poised and stately as her mother, looked to the ceiling with a sigh. It took the boy a full five seconds to remember his charge. His footsteps returned, and he slid back into the kitchen, grabbed Sarah’s hand, and motioned her to hurry.

  She went. They might not have shared the same color, but they were close enough in age, and where children are involved, that generally breaks down all kinds of walls.

  “You don’t mind me teaching them other things like knots and woodworking,” Tim huffed. He liked to teach. He knew just about everything, and took it as his sworn duty to pass that knowledge on to anyone willing to learn. Unfortunately, Tim didn’t differentiate between what was proper and what was useful. To him, tatting and lockpicking were on the same level.

  Before Miss Lily could formulate a rebuke, Tim stood and stomped off to his stable house. Grimm remained, looking as grave as his name.

  Riot cleared his throat, and took the chair beside the mute boy. As he reached for a piece of bread on the table, a low voice stopped him dead.

  “Mr. Tim teaches us good, Ma,” Grimm rasped.

  His mother spun on her heels, and looked at her son with wide eyes. Time seemed stuck, and Riot shook the shock from his bones. He didn’t want to make anything out of the young man’s decision to speak. It might chase him back from wherever he had just surfaced.

  “He’s a good teacher,” Riot agreed. “Taught me most everything I know.”

  “Is he your father?” asked Grimm.

  “More like a wayward uncle.”

  Grimm nodded, absorbing the information. Drained of words, the young man rose, and with a nod to his mother, left.

  Miss Lily abruptly turned back to the stove. From the tilt of her shoulders, he knew she was crying.

  “How long has it been?” he asked.

  “Over six years,” she said, her voice unsteady. “He hasn’t uttered a word in all those years.”

  Riot didn’t ask why. She’d tell him when she was ready.

  Miss Lily wiped her eyes, and composed herself. She put tea in front of him.

  “I found Miss Byrne waiting at the ferry building,” he said, adding his customary drop of milk.

  “How long was she waiting?”

  “She told me one hour, but I wager it was two considering the ferry schedule,” he replied, and went on to tell her the whole of the story. “I’m hesitant to involve the police. Not yet, at any rate. The law is not always on a child’s side.”

  “Amen to that,” she said, setting down a plate of warmed pot roast and potatoes. “We’ve that extra room for now. And if Mr. Morgan or another guest should need a room, Sarah can stay with Maddie.”

  “Thank you, Miss Lily. That’s very kind of you to offer.”

  She laughed. “It’s your house. With the arrangement Mr. Tim worked out with me—it’s in my best interest to manage it well.”

  Riot might have smiled, but his mouth was occupied with the results of her excellent cooking. When he had swallowed, he said, “Where Tim’s stomach is involved, there’s no price too high.”

  6

  A Shiver of Sharks

  Cold. She was so cold. Isobel opened her eyes. And blinked. Her world was pitch black. A coarse fabric moved against her flaring nostrils. It smelled like old potatoes. She tried to swallow, but only coughed and choked on a parched tongue. Fiery needles burrowed into her shoulders. She shifted, trying to relieve the pain, but she could not move her arms. There were bonds around her wrists, and a hard rod pressed against the inside of her elbows and back. She was trussed as soundly as a hog.

  Her attackers were not amateurs.

  With that realization, her heart began to gallop, to flutter in its cage. Her breath came fast as she fought against the bonds. The world was crushing her, and she wanted to run.

  After an excruciating minute of panic, Isobel slapped her mind back in order, and forced herself to relax. She thought of her cutter, and swimming, and she imagined Riot’s calm eyes. She thought of their outing two days before, and an ache stabbed at her heart. She wanted to go back to that pond—to the memory and the man. To be anywhere but here.

  Wishing was fine and lovely, but it did nothing to fix her current situation. And then she felt eyes on her.

  Too late to play dead. “Hello?” she asked. She instantly regretted the question. Her throat croaked. Sand coated her lips from her struggle on the dunes.

  How long had she been here?

  Footsteps came quickly. There was little warning. She tensed a moment before a boot pounded her stomach. The kick drove the air from her lungs, and stunned her diaphragm. She tried to roll away, tried to curl into a ball, but it was useless with her hands wrenched b
ehind her back and her ankles bound.

  Rough hands grabbed the rod pinning her in place, and wrenched her upright and onto her knees. Isobel finally sucked in a desperate breath, and tried to stay calm. Her cap was absent, but the rest of her clothes, save her coat, remained. There was that, at least.

  Whispers echoed dully in her ears. A hushed discussion that she strained to hear, but the snatches of sound were distorted.

  “Where is the girl?” a heavily accented voice finally asked. The words were quick, and the came out more like da and girl was missing the R. English was not the speaker’s first tongue. Chinese. Her mind reeled.

  A boot slammed into her lower back, and she fell forward. There wasn’t sand under her. It felt more like hard-packed dirt. Did the sack smell like potatoes, or was the moldy scent from her surroundings? All this and more came in a flash of pain. And it knocked her tongue into action.

  “I was looking for a fellow’s horse!” she quickly said, sensing the boot hovering over her head. She was wrenched back up by the rod, her knees barely touching the dirt. A new kind of fire laced across her shoulders.

  She sensed movement, and something hit her forehead. Isobel flinched, but the impact was paper light. Again, something pegged her head, and bounced off. One by one, right after another, a dull whisper touched the sack over her face.

  “Ravenwood Detective.” The Cantonese accent was not kind to English R’s. Another whisper of air, and she felt the sharp point of paper. The agency’s cards—her cards that she had been so proud of—the very ones she had handed out to give her an official air. ‘Official’ was the last thing Isobel wanted now.

  “I don’t know anything about a girl.” For once, she spoke absolute truth. It came from her bones, and it felt odd on her tongue. “A fellow lost his horse on the road. I was looking for it—Wilson is the horse’s name—but look, if you want the horse, keep him. I won’t say a word.”

  She didn’t say any other words—a boot knocked them right out of her. She tried to fall forward, coughing and gasping, but the rod at her back and a strong hand held her just off the ground.

  As the shock subsided, and pain settled in, she became aware of voices arguing in Cantonese. There were at least two, maybe three. She tried to concentrate past the pain, but even she found it hard going. And her Cantonese was only passable for a dim-witted three-year-old.

  “You work for Ravenwood.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m new,” she blurted out with a gasp. “I’ve only been there a week.” Again, absolute truth.

  The hushed conversation renewed, and Isobel strained to understand. But the sound of a striking match made her knees goes weak. She couldn’t fall, so she only hung there, shivering. The smell of cigar smoke wafted through the sack. It smelled familiar. Before she could place the scent, someone stepped quickly forward. She tried to retreat, but that was useless. Whoever had her by the rod at her back was strong and solid. It was likely the same man she had shot. The same who had held her face to the sand. That grip was as unyielding as iron.

  The man behind her grabbed her hair through the sack, and wrenched back her neck, exposing her throat.

  Heat taunted her through the cloth, and smoke filled her nose. “I’m looking for a horse! A man had an accident on the road. He said his horse tripped on a log. The fall broke his leg and the streetcar picked him up!” The desperation in her own voice sickened her. She was terrified.

  A cool length of steel pressed against her throat, and then the blade tilted, the tip sliding beneath her collar. The razor-edge ripped through cloth, cutting waistcoat and shirt in one easy sweep. Hands gripped the edges of fabric and ripped them apart, exposing her flesh. Cold air brushed her breasts. And the room went achingly quiet as she knelt, head back, nostrils flaring, waiting for the inevitable. But Isobel was never one to wait for fate.

  “You’ve heard of Ravenwood agency—you know their reputation. So you know Atticus Riot will be looking for me. That’s not a man you want on your trail,” she threatened. She would have spat if not for the hood over her head.

  She felt a coward, tossing out Riot’s name, but it held weight, and it was the truth. He would find her. And invoking his name was the only play she had left.

  Hurried whispers flew back and forth like a tennis match. One of the men hissed some words: din gau. She thought she recognized one of the words as dog, but couldn’t imagine why they were talking about a dog. Did they plan to feed her to a pack of them?

  Sharks would be easier.

  Footsteps crunched, a feeling of movement made her tense, but instead of the expected blow, a heavy door opened. She heard the wash of waves for a moment. The hand holding her let go, and she fell forward. The men left, taking the smell of cigar smoke with them.

  The door slammed shut, and Isobel was left gasping on the floor. Cold dirt was under her breasts, her abdomen throbbed, and she coughed into her hood, feeling as if she were about to retch. Every muscle in her body shook. Desperate, she fought and tugged at her bonds until blood warmed her hands.

  7

  A Tangled Web

  Monday, March 4, 1900

  “Is Mr. Walker at home today?” Riot asked. The sun had risen half an hour ago, and although the rain had stopped, the sky was still a dismally undecided gray.

  The servant shook his head.

  “Were you informed that he’d be having a guest visiting from Tennessee?”

  “No sabe.” The man shook his head. Then half-bowing, half-shuffling backwards with a smile on his face, he closed the door.

  Riot stood on Lee Walker’s doorstep, considering his options. There weren’t any back doors in this narrow lane, but there was a basement entrance here in the front. As he walked down the stairs, he looked over the railing, eyeing the cramped little stone steps and the narrow passage that led to a small door. Two locks, easy enough.

  Riot strolled to the waiting hack at the end of the lane. Grimm calmly held the reins, and Tim sat beside the young man, chatting and smoking away as if it were a two-way conversation. Grimm didn’t seem to mind the older man’s company, and Riot was reminded of his own younger self. Quiet, hurting, and distrustful. There was no better man to bring a damaged youth out of his shell than Tim.

  “Anything?” Tim asked.

  Riot shook his head. “No Sabe.”

  “Does the Chinaman speak a different dialect?”

  “No, but he spoke passable English yesterday.” Riot spoke fluent Cantonese, but he was always reluctant to play a hidden card too early. “I think he’s hiding something.”

  “For his employer, or himself?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Time for a distraction?”

  “I had hoped you might be up for one. There’s a basement door. Give me five minutes.”

  Tim hopped off the seat, and poked his head inside the hack. He rummaged under the seat, and brought out a suitcase of supplies. As Tim whistled and rocked back and forth on his heels, Riot looked over his shoulder. There was an assorted array of armament.

  “Are you planning on selling a gun to the residents of a house I’m breaking into?”

  “I don’t have much else.”

  “Always caring.”

  Tim snorted, and eyed the street. “Hold on. A chimney sweep with a cart just passed.” Before Riot could say a thing, Tim trotted off at a speed that defied his age. The man moved like a leprechaun, all bounce and energy.

  In less than ten minutes, Tim returned with a chimney sweep’s cart. Riot didn’t bother asking how he’d convinced the owner to part with his livelihood, but he suspected the chimney sweep would be found in a local saloon.

  Riot strolled back down the narrow lane, keeping in the shadow of homes, and then ducked down the basement steps. He waited until Tim stomped up the porch, making a racket with brooms, poles, and char buckets.

  The lock gave way to Riot’s skilled hands, and as soon as the door above opened, he slipped inside the basement. It smelled of mold
, but was clean and free of clutter. Voices came and went from upstairs, Tim being far louder than anyone—the old man’s voice bounced off the surrounding houses. Riot got to work, trusting to Tim’s stubborn persuasion.

  The cramped basement was dark, and held little of interest. He walked up the stairs on soft feet, and cracked the door. He could hear the servant arguing with Tim, and based on the clatter of sound, could well imagine Tim bringing all his tools into the hallway.

  Riot stepped into the hallway, and was struck by the finery. An expensive runner covered the polished floors, and a glimpse of fine furniture told him that the rest of the house was equally decorated. He walked towards the front door, and caught Tim’s eye. He had his poles halfway inside, and when he saw Riot, he promptly dropped the whole armful.

  The servant hissed, and started yelling. One didn’t need to understand the language to get the gist of his words. Riot slipped past the servant’s back as he bent to gather the filthy supplies, and disappeared up the stairs.

  Whatever Miss Byrne’s uncle did for employment, it seemed to pay generously. Although the house was not in Pacific Heights, any house in San Francisco was expensive. And judging by a quick survey of the rooms, it seemed he lived here alone.

  Riot entered Walker’s office, and began rifling through a desk. He was meticulous, and careful, and not a paper’s edge was out of place when he finished. Short of opening the safe that hid behind a painting, there were few things of interest: the card of an attorney by the name of Fields, receipts for restaurants and tailors, and a stack of collection notices for tabs at various saloons. Riot thumbed through the bank book. It showed a large sum of money deposited two years earlier, and a steady decline in funds since. The balance was less than two hundred dollars. Not near enough to settle his debts.

  Riot hurried into the man’s bedroom. Walker’s suits were tailored, and he possessed as many polished shoes as Riot had hats. It seemed every well-dressed man had his passion.