by Dianne Day
“I just do. I’m a detective,” I said with more than a little satisfaction. I leaned forward and patted the table in front of the chair where he’d been sitting. “Sit down again, please, and I’ll tell you why I think it’s entirely possible Jeremy McFadden killed Abigail Locke—or had her killed. About Ingrid Swann, I’m not yet sure. However, if you want Frances free to work with you, the best and fastest way is to let me continue to work this case and hope I can find evidence enough on Jeremy McFadden to have him arrested. If money is a concern—”
“Of course it’s a concern,” he snapped as he resumed his seat, “money is always a concern. But more than that, I’m appalled by this theory you’re putting forth. Whatever makes you think such a thing?”
“Jeremy found out that Frances was leaving the house to go to Mrs. Locke’s séances. He was so unhappy about it that he … became violent with her, then kept her locked in the house a virtual prisoner for days.”
“Nonsense! She has her own way out. We have seen that.”
“Why are you defending him? Because he’s a man, a husband, is that it?”
“Because … because, it’s just so damn unreasonable. And she does have her own way out, you can’t argue that.”
“He locked up her clothes, Patrick. Frances came to me one morning in her dressing gown, under a thoroughly disreputable rain slicker. I’m telling you, if you aren’t careful you’re going to get her in a lot of trouble.”
I could see credulity growing, though slowly, on his face. “And you think her husband would … kill Abigail, just to keep his wife from going to her séances ever again? That sounds so … bizarre.”
“Yes, I grant you that. But he’s powerful enough to do almost anything he wants. I don’t think McFadden did the actual killing himself, I think he paid someone else to do it.” Maybe even you? I wondered, even as the other words were coming out of my mouth. “And more as a lesson to Frances than to the medium herself. Sort of a warning, in the manner of suggesting that if anyone or anything came before himself in his wife’s affections he would see that it was taken from her.”
Patrick’s eyes opened wide, as if to capture the maximum light; then he let his head fall loosely on his neck, slowly, gravely shaking it back and forth. When finally his voice rolled out, it sounded sepulchral. “I didn’t know. I had no idea. If you had any idea how special Frances is, how potentially great her talent … that was all I could think of.”
I was reminded that he seemed to have forgotten Abigail Locke and her talent pretty quickly, but I did not say so aloud. What I said was: “So you see why I must continue the investigation. But about the money, tomorrow I’ll make up a bill for what you owe so far, and we’ll go over it together. Any time I put in from now on, I’ll work at half the rate I quoted you. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes. The money is coming from Abigail’s estate anyway. I’ve barely two pennies to rub together on my own. And it’s true Abigail may not like my spending her hard-earned dollars to set myself up with another medium.”
“Medium? I thought you said Frances was a natural somnambulist.”
“She is, but a somnambulist is a particular kind of medium.”
“One who requires a partner,” I said somewhat acerbically.
“That is true,” he acknowledged.
“Mrs. Locke could have worked without a partner?”
“Indeed, yes. She had no need of anyone except her spirit guide. I simply made things more convenient for her, established some order in her life. And I”—he put his hand over his eyes for a moment—“loved her.”
When Patrick Rule removed his hand, that emotion blazed from his face. Only briefly, like the last bright flash of a guttering candle, and then it was gone. But I did not doubt that I had seen it, or that I had understood what I’d seen. From that moment on, Patrick Rule was off my list of suspects.
“Thank you for telling me that,” I said softly.
He merely nodded, then passed his hand over his eyes again. In that position, with his eyes closed, he said, “Now perhaps you’ll tell me what you meant by invoking Emperor Norton.”
“I meant only to buy us time,” I said, “to give Frances something to do while I try to get solid evidence that her husband is Abigail’s murderer. And besides, Patrick, if you are going to believe in Spiritualism, then you certainly wouldn’t want to slight the Emperor. Frances truly believes he is a kind of, well, avuncular figure of the spirit world for her.”
He removed his hand and looked at me resignedly. “I’ve read her automatic writing. It’s an ability of a far lower order and will only drain her energy to no purpose should she go back to it. On the other hand, the Emperor is not a harmful spirit, as I had at first feared. I am at least satisfied on that point. I do believe now that Abigail Locke was killed by some human hand, without the influence of the spirits. And you may be right, Fremont Jones, her husband may be responsible. I can’t say you yea or nay.” He unfolded himself and stood up.
“Now, I’ll say good night. I believe I could sleep for a week,” he said, and murmuring assurances that this was a good idea, I accompanied him to the front door. Then breathed a sigh of relief when he had gone and I had locked it behind him. I was safe, and my case was safe as well.
———
Within twenty-four hours it became obvious that Frances did not want a breathing space during which to commune with her Emperor—or any other kind of space. Having tasted … what? Danger? Excitement? The power of being linked hypnotically with Patrick Rule? Having tasted these things, it seemed Frances could no longer be still. All traces of timidity and docility had been erased from her character; and while I was naturally enough glad to see this—for I am entirely in agreement with Susan B. Anthony on the subject of the subjugation of wives to their husbands, i.e., that there should not be any—nevertheless I did worry about Frances.
Greatly daring, she had called me from her husband’s study the very next morning. “Jeremy isn’t here, Fremont,” she explained when I asked how she’d managed it. “I made Cora open the door so that I could use the telephone. She has a key. Keys. Cora has all the keys.”
I heard from Frances a little gasp, as of indrawn breath, and then a slightly hysterical laugh. She said, “I should have them, you know. I’m the wife. But no, not in this house. The housekeeper has all the keys. I could just make her give them to me, couldn’t I? I could just do that. I wonder why I never thought of it before?”
“Frances,” I put in quickly, “do get hold of yourself. Just now, it’s very important you not do anything unusual at all. Promise me.”
“Oh, all right, I promise. I do see your point.”
“I am very glad to hear it. What were you calling me about?”
“Oh, about Emperor Norton. I talked to him last night. Everything is fine, really. But he does want me to do that, that thing for him. You know? That I wrote in the automatic writing?”
I knew. I found myself nodding as though she could see me. “I remember,” I said.
“Fremont, I just can’t … I mean, I’ve got to work with Patrick. I’ve simply got to. You don’t know what this could mean to me.”
“I think I do,” I said cautiously. “But if you could see your way clear to waiting just a few days, I think you’d be safer.”
“I’ll leave him! Jeremy, I mean,” Frances hissed into the telephone in a heavy whisper. “We’ll just go away. Run away. Patrick and I can make money together, he told me we could.”
This was serious. I had to dissuade her. “Don’t do anything, go back up to your room, wait for me. I’m coming over.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue, Frances. I’m coming over! I’ll be there shortly.”
By the time Wish Stephenson and his mother arrived, I was ready to leave. “I could be out all day,” I said to them both. “Something important has come up.”
“A break in the case?” Wish inquired.
“No, not exactly. More like the possibility
of something really bad happening, and I have to do what I can to prevent it.” I turned away from Wish to his mother. She had removed her hat and coat and was hanging them on the clothes tree near the door.
“Edna,” I said, “I have a job I think you’re going to love.”
“Well now, dearie,” she said brightly, “that’s a fine way to start the day.”
That was how the news of Ingrid Swann’s, shall we say highly colorful, husband came to the attention of San Francisco’s press. Edna immediately got on the phone, told a friend, who told a friend, who told a friend, who was a reporter for the afternoon paper, the Examiner. And a photo of the charming fellow subsequently appeared, along with a speculative article, that very afternoon.
To think they must have held the presses for such a visage! It was a bit much. But the J&K Agency, which figured prominently in the article, came out sounding every bit as sharp and promising as I’d hoped we would.
———
Midafternoon: I was wandering the streets and hills of San Francisco, bent on an impossible task that had been set for me by a ghost. The ghost of a madman, Emperor Norton. Actually the task had been set for Frances, but she had hired me to do it. Not that I would actually accept pay from a friend, but we could work that out later.
That she should hire me did make a certain amount of sense, I suppose. The Emperor’s instructions were so bizarre, she would never have been able to follow them herself; even in the unlikely event that her husband would trust her out of his house long enough to accomplish anything.
Having come downtown on the Powell Street cable car, I got off at Union Square, entered right into the square itself, and walked up to the Dewey Monument, which featured a woman poised on one foot on top of a column. I looked up at her, knowing that the model for that statue had been none other than society matron Alma Spreckels (known as Big Alma to distinguish her from her daughter, Little Alma) in her extremely handsome youth. This statue had not been here when Emperor Norton died in 1880. Nevertheless, his instructions said: “Start at the statue in Union Square …”
“This is mad,” I muttered, “utterly and insanely mad.” Well, of course it was; the Emperor himself had died insane, so why should his instructions from the grave be any different?
I looked at the instructions again, scribed in the loopy hand that constituted Frances’s automatic writing. “Walk northwest two blocks.”
That was more easily said, or read, than done. There were no streets moving in a northwesterly direction, only due west or due north. I was getting a headache. I decided to take a midafternoon break in that delightful little restaurant in the City of Paris, which just happened to be diagonally across from Union Square.
I folded Frances’s papers and stuck them deep down inside the unfashionably large leather bag I carry in lieu of purse or reticule, and after looking both ways (what with the proliferation of automobiles, one cannot be too careful) I crossed the street to that august, not to mention extremely large, department store.
It was a pleasant place to be, buzzing with conversation, brisk with myriad transactions, full of color to delight the eye and fragrance to tease the nose. I will have to bring Father here, I thought, as I took an elevator made of brass mesh down to the basement floor where the restaurant was located.
Each section of the store had its own distinct wares and the odor that went with them, like a series of miniature bazaars all under one roof. After leaving the elevator I passed by a tobacconist (pipe tobacco, a kind Father used—or so I thought, but then he was much on my mind—with a faint whiff of cherry to it); a candy shop (chocolate—it made my mouth water); cut flowers, much fancier, longer-stemmed than those carried by the flower vendors in their carts out on the street; and so on. Finally I reached the restaurant. Having arrived at an odd hour (which I could identify no further than that it must be midafternoon—it had been a confusing day so far), I had not long to wait before being seated.
I ordered a pot of tea and a plate of cookies and settled back to appraise my situation. I had struck a bargain with Frances: I would do the Emperor’s task on her behalf, provided I could sandwich in the work between the other things I was doing for the far more important murder investigation, and I would daily report to her my progress, which she would then relay to Emperor Norton. I forbore to ask how, if she was communicating with him through automatic writing, she got her messages to him. Presumably his to her came out of the pen onto the paper in the Emperor’s own handwriting, though it was Frances’s small hand that held the real pen; but who was taking care of the process the other way round? It was true that the loopy script she produced when in the trance state was not at all the way Frances usually wrote; it was also true that the loopy script she produced resembled more a style of penmanship that had been popular in the previous century.
Hmm, I thought; if he was as popular as I’ve heard, some public institution around here will have a copy of something he wrote, one of his edicts perhaps, and then I could compare that to what Frances has done … It would be interesting. Trivial as it seemed, my curiosity was definitely engaged.
Even though the task itself was ill-defined.
17
———
The Hands of Time
A penny for your thoughts.”
The familiar words, uttered in a warm, masculine voice, startled me near out of my wits. It was what Michael might have said if he had come across me here at the City of Paris, musing and staring idly into space, with my tea growing cold and my plate of cookies untouched.
But of course it was not Michael who had spoken. It was my coworker, Wish Stephenson. And actually his voice was nothing like Michael’s—aside from his being also a man. Michael has a deep, rich voice, whereas Wish’s is lighter, shades more gentle.
“I wasn’t really thinking,” I said, looking up—way, way up. Always tall, he seemed even taller to me from my vantage point behind a decidedly small tea table. “What brings you, Wish, into a place like this?”
He grinned, shrugged, and stuck his hands in his pockets. Every now and then it struck me anew how much better he looked out of his police uniform; and in fact it struck me now. He was wearing a style of clothing considerably less buttoned-up, more casual than those dark suits men usually wear from one day to the next; indeed his outfit reminded me of the way the men had dressed in Carmel—those men who were considered, and considered themselves, Bohemians (whether or not they were actual members of the Bohemian Club—though in fact most of them were).
“Surveillance,” Wish said, still grinning, “undercover. May I join you, Fremont?”
“Of course. So that’s the reason for the, er, more casual style of dress than you were wearing this morning.” He did look quite nice, in trousers that shade of beige the English call fawn (which I have never quite understood because fawns in my experience have spots, but who can argue with fashion?) and a tweed jacket in some appropriately tweedy brown, beige, and black mix, plus a chocolate-brown sweater vest.
“In a word,” Wish said, “yes.” He then addressed himself to the plate of cookies, and I bade it a silent, fond farewell. In fact I would not have been much surprised if, when he had worked his way to the bottom of the cookies, he started crunching on the plate as well.
In the meantime the waitress came and brought another pot of tea, and Wish explained as he ate and drank that he was tracking a woman’s husband’s movements, and had happened to see me crossing the street from Union Square. His new client, the woman, was looking to catch the husband in an illicit affair, perhaps of business, but most probably of the heart.
“How did she hear about us? I mean J&K? Or about you?” I asked, always curious now to know how to increase business.
“She knows someone who knows Michael.”
“Ah. I see,” I said, inevitably wondering if she might know Michael herself … but I put that thought right out of my mind.
“He knows a lot of people,” Wish said.
“Um-hm.
But now I think on it, I can’t see what good it will do her for you to catch her husband out,” I said, lifting my teacup and then putting it back down. I had poured from the new pot, and the cup was too hot to put to my lips. “I mean, it isn’t as if an affair is against the law or anything. It’s just … immoral.”
Wish shrugged, simultaneously licking his fingers. Poor manners or not, I did not find the gesture offensive at all. It was more something a boy would do, and there was so much of the boy still in Wish that his finger-licking was rather endearing.
“Perhaps she will use it to blackmail him,” I mused, still wondering.
“Perhaps,” said Wish, now applying napkin to fingers, “but even so, that’s not the reason I took the case. It’s a boring sort of case in itself. However, this fellow belongs to all the top clubs, Fremont, all of them. And the wife—she’s from one of those society families—has arranged—don’t ask me how she did it, I don’t want to know—guest status for me at the clubs. I’m supposed to be a cousin or something, visiting for two weeks from out of town. Don’t you see?”
I frowned. “No. I’m afraid I do not see.”
“I can contribute something to your case. See what I can hear about Jeremy McFadden. See if there’s anything to that rumor about Ngaio Swann. Get myself placed on the inside, that’s what we’ve been wanting to do, isn’t it? And all while I’m still working my own case.”
Oh yes. That was what we’d been wanting to do, and it was the one thing that I as a woman could never, ever do, because the clubs were for men only. I tried to keep my pea-green envy out of my voice: “That’s … good, Wish. I’d appreciate it, especially as I’ve taken on something extra for Frances. I can use the help. But tell me, what rumor about Ngaio Swann?”
“Oh, hey, that’s right, you haven’t heard it yet. Something my mom picked up today. On the telephone of course. She’ll have written you a note about it.”
“So what’s the rumor?”