Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “What a mess,” Robert said with a frown. “It would be a good deal easier if Dunn really did kill himself, rather than having to deal with all these niggling doubts.”

  “I agree,” said George. “But I can’t ignore the evidence of my own eyes just for the sake of expediency.”

  “Of course you cannot,” I put in heartily. True, I had not cared for the dead man, but that did not lessen my determination to see a possible murderer brought to justice. “It is a conundrum, though, and as you say, Robert, it makes little sense. First my brother is shot, then Claude Dunn is very probably murdered in such a way as to make it appear a suicide.”

  “You think this man’s death has something to do with Samuel’s shooting?” Robert asked.

  “I have no idea,” I admitted, feeling a cold shiver run down my spine. “But the two events seem an unlikely coincidence.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The policeman George sent to Mrs. Sullivan’s house returned in considerable agitation, informing George that the wet nurse refused to speak to him or indeed even to open her door.

  “When I tried to tell her about Mr. Dunn’s death,” he reported, “she started crying and saying she’d have no truck with the police, and to go away.”

  “Does she have a husband?” George asked the man. “Did you try talking to him?”

  “She claims her husband works nights and that she won’t open her door to no man, especially not a copper.”

  “Do you know if she has the Dunn baby?” I asked the constable, hoping he had been able to obtain at least that information.

  “Couldn’t even get her to tell me that much,” he answered, looking frustrated. “I could hear all kinds of kids running around and crying inside the house, but she wouldn’t say if one of them was the dead man’s baby.”

  George looked at me in silent appeal. There was no need for him to request my assistance. I was as anxious as he was to locate little Billy Dunn and assure myself of his safety.

  “Let us see Mrs. Sullivan posthaste,” I said, donning my wrap.

  As the three men, Eddie, and I stepped outside, I was relieved to see that the rain had become little more than a drizzle, too light to bother with umbrellas, which would only have impeded our progress. It took us little more than five minutes to reach the wet nurse’s house, which was located almost directly across the road from Bruno Studds’s shack. Despite the late hour, the residence resonated with the sounds of children laughing and squabbling. Above the din, it was possible to hear a woman’s voice pleading for quiet.

  Standing on the disorderly porch, which was littered with toys, scruffy shoes, and a child’s battered wagon, I knocked smartly on the door. The same woman’s voice ordered me to go away. When I called out to her by name, however, she finally opened the door a crack.

  “Yer a woman,” she said, looking surprised to see me standing on her porch. “You ain’t with them coppers, are you?”

  “No, Mrs. Sullivan,” I told her in soothing tones. “My name is Sarah Woolson, and I was acquainted with the Dunns. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have come to inquire if little Billy is here in your care.”

  The woman glanced fearfully at the group of men standing behind me, then opened the door a bit wider. “You ken come in, Miss Woolson. But I won’t have them men in me house. ’Specially not the leatherheads.”

  “Go on, Miss Sarah,” I heard George say quietly. “We’ll wait outside.”

  Without looking back, I slipped into Mrs. Sullivan’s house, and she hastily shut the door behind me. There seemed to be children everywhere, the eldest appearing to be no more than seven or eight years old. I remembered Isabel Freiberg telling me that the Sullivans had recently welcomed their fifth child. Sure enough, I spied a cradle in a corner of the room and a basket nearby that I recognized as coming from the Dunns’ house.

  “There he be, Miss Woolson,” Mrs. Sullivan said, pointing to the basket. “Little Billy, safe as houses. I dunno how he ken sleep through all this racket, but he seems to take to it right enough.”

  I peered into the basket to find the infant sleeping peacefully, just as Mrs. Sullivan claimed, his blankets neat and tidy and tucked snugly about him to keep out the night chill.

  “You have taken good care of him, Mrs. Sullivan,” I told the woman with a smile.

  “I’m happy enough to do what I ken for the poor tyke,” she said, regarding him sadly. “Got a real bad beginnin’ in life, didn’t he? Such a wee bit of a thing, too.”

  Ensuring that none of the older children were listening, I informed Mrs. Sullivan of Claude Dunn’s death.

  “That’s what that copper kept sayin’,” she said, her tired blue eyes regarding me anxiously. “Didn’t believe him at first, but seein’ all the fuss goin’ on out on the road, I reckoned it had to be true.” She looked toward little Billy’s basket. “What’s gonna happen to him, Miss Woolson? That’s what I wanna know.”

  “I truly wish I could tell you, Mrs. Sullivan,” I replied. “We shall have to hope for the best.”

  We talked for several more minutes. I was relieved when Mrs. Sullivan agreed to keep the Dunn baby for the night, and I promised to leave word for Miss Freiberg to collect him in the morning.

  Departing the Sullivan cottage, our little group walked back to Dunn’s house in time to see the officers carrying Claude Dunn’s body out to the Black Maria. The solemn procession was illuminated by the men’s lanterns, as well as the lamps of several passing carriages traveling down the hill. The light also revealed Emmett Gardiner, Mortimer Remy’s nephew, standing in front of the house, watching the men place the stretcher into the back of the closed wagon.

  “Miss Woolson,” he said, regarding me with surprise. He tipped his hat politely. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I heard all the noise and decided to walk down to see what was happening. Was that Claude Dunn they just carried out on the stretcher? Is he ill?”

  “I fear it’s rather worse than that, Mr. Gardiner,” I answered. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Dunn died tonight.”

  He looked at me, thoroughly shocked. “Good Lord! But how?”

  Since I had no idea how much information I should impart to Remy’s neighbor, I was grateful when George came over to inspect the new arrival, Robert and Eddie following in his wake. After I had performed the introductions, George took the notebook out of his pocket. Thumbing through it, he apparently found what he was looking for.

  “Yes, here you are, Mr. Gardiner,” he said. “You were one of Mr. Remy’s guests at that reading he held at his house last week. My men questioned you in regards to Mr. Woolson’s gunshot injury.”

  Gardiner nodded. “Yes, they did. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to give them any information, since I didn’t walk down the hill.” He returned his gaze to the Black Maria, looking as if he still could not take it all in. “I was just telling Miss Woolson that I heard all the commotion from my house and came to see what was wrong. I never expected to find that Claude Dunn—I mean, that he had died.”

  “Yes, I imagine it came as quite a shock,” George commented, not without sympathy. “You live in the house behind Mortimer Remy, do you not, Mr. Gardiner?”

  I missed Emmett Gardiner’s response, as my eye was caught by something shiny reflected in the spill of lights. It took a moment for me to realize that a figure was standing motionless beneath a tree to the side of the yard. Peering closer, I thought I recognized the short, squat form of Tull O’Hara, Mortimer Remy’s crotchety typesetter. I guessed that his spectacles had briefly caught the light of one of the lanterns. George also spied the man and called out, demanding to know who was there. Instead of answering, O’Hara—if it truly was the unfriendly little man—abruptly turned and bolted down the street.

  George took off after him, then lost sight of the fleeing figure as he darted across a field. After a few minutes, he came back looking frustrated and annoyed.

  “Who in tarnation was that?” he asked of no one in particular. “Did anyone
get a look at that fellow’s face?”

  “I only saw his back as he ran down the hill,” Gardiner said. “He was very fast.”

  “I think it was Tull O’Hara,” I put in, “although I can’t be absolutely sure. O’Hara works as a typesetter for Mortimer Remy’s newspaper.”

  George looked at me, pleased, and I think a little surprised, that I had recognized the figure. “He was another fellow my men questioned after Samuel was shot. He lives somewhere down the hill, doesn’t he?”

  I nodded. “It’s the first cottage you come to at the top of the Filbert Street Steps, almost directly opposite the Sullivans’ house. Actually, it’s more of a shack, very small and not in good repair.”

  “Good. Then I’ll know where to find him.” He waved a hand at the Black Maria. “You can go now. I’ll contact the coroner tomorrow about what is to be done with the body.”

  I knew he was referring to the autopsy he planned to request, despite Lieutenant Curtis’s insistence on ruling Dunn’s death a suicide. I only hoped the coroner would be able to prove which of the men was right.

  Once the black transport van had started down the hill carrying its gruesome cargo, Lewis bade us good night and stepped into the police wagon.

  Emmett Gardiner watched as it drove off. “This is usually a quiet neighborhood,” he said, “but in just a week your brother was shot, and now Claude Dunn has died. That poor baby of his.”

  “We are all concerned about the child,” I replied.

  He started to say something, then caught sight of an elderly woman walking, rather quickly for her age, toward us.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Abigail Forester, Mrs. Montgomery’s sister,” Gardiner said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll bid you all good night. She’s a sweet old soul, but, er, a bit verbose.”

  I barely had time to return his farewell before he had turned to walk rapidly up the hill. The woman started to speak to him as he passed her, but he merely tipped his hat and continued on. By now she had seen Robert, Eddie, and me and hurried toward us in a flurry of sweeping skirts. I was taken aback to see that she was wearing a formal gown, although from the casual knit of her shawl it appeared to be a garment she had hastily thrown over her shoulders to ward off the cool night air.

  “I heard the police wagons as our guests were leaving,” she went on. “Has there been an accident?”

  The woman paused to catch her breath, affording me a few moments to examine her more closely. I guessed her to be in her late sixties or early seventies. She was of medium height and possessed the rather substantial figure that society preferred to describe as “pleasantly plump.” She was, as I had noted, wearing a purple evening dress several seasons out of date. Her head of thinning white hair was in disarray, undoubtedly due to her hurried pace down the hill, and the oddly assorted jeweled and beaded combs that had been scattered about her head as if at random appeared in danger of falling out altogether. She wore a colorfully beaded necklace, which unfortunately did not match the beads decorating her hair, while her gaudy earrings were so heavy, they seemed to be pulling down her delicate earlobes. I felt a pang of sympathy that her obvious attempt to dress fashionably had fallen so far short of its goal.

  “I am Mrs. Abigail Forester,” she said, regaining her power of speech. “Mrs. Katherine Montgomery is my sister. We live in the house at the top of the hill. But what has happened here? Please tell me the poor little Dunn baby hasn’t taken ill.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Forester,” I said, smiling. “I am Miss Sarah Woolson, and these are my companions, Mr. Robert Campbell and Eddie Cooper.” I hesitated, not sure how to explain Claude Dunn’s sudden, and violent, demise. “I assure you that the baby is fine, Mrs. Forester. His father, however—I fear there is no tactful way to say this. Mr. Dunn passed away earlier this evening.”

  Even in the dim light, I could see the woman’s face pale. She clapped a small hand to her mouth, and I feared for a moment that I might have need of the smelling salts I carried in my reticule as a precautionary measure. Owing to the unfortunate frequency with which some women yielded to the vapors, they had proven useful on more than one occasion.

  Robert must have had the same thought, for he positioned himself behind the woman in case she should swoon. Fortunately, she seemed to be made of sterner stuff.

  “I am profoundly sorry to hear that,” she said softly. “How did it happen? Was it an accident?”

  Again, I was unsure how to answer. Whether Dunn had met his death by his own hand or by someone else’s, there was no possibility of categorizing the hanging as an accident.

  I heard a quick intake of breath, and Eddie suddenly appeared beside me, eager to provide all the gruesome details. “Why, we found him hangin’ in his house, his face all swollen like an’ purple—”

  The boy broke off as I prodded him with my reticule. “That will be for the police to announce when they see fit,” I said, giving the boy a look that plainly charged him to hold his tongue. “You say you were entertaining guests?” I asked, remembering the carriages that had passed the Dunn house as the police were carrying out Dunn’s body.

  “Yes, it is my dear sister’s seventy-fifth birthday, and I insisted that we celebrate with a dinner party.” She smiled and her face lit up, becoming quite pretty. She must have been a real beauty in her youth, I thought. “I believe Katherine mentioned meeting you, Miss Woolson, when you visited Mr. Dunn yesterday? I fear she is a most stubborn woman, and dislikes having anyone fuss over her. In the end, however, I am persuaded that she quite enjoyed her party.” Her face once again clouded. “Until, of course, we heard the police bells. Oh, dear, I hardly know how I am going to tell her such distressful news. She was not unduly fond of Mr. Dunn, it is true, yet he was that poor child’s only surviving relative. And it is all so sudden, less than a week since poor Lucy died!” Her small hand once again flew to her mouth.

  I took advantage of this pause to ask, “There is no family in the area?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, no,” the woman answered sadly. “Lucy did for my sister and I, you know, and more than once I heard the poor girl say how sad it was that her new child would have no grandparents, or indeed even aunts and uncles, to fuss over it.” She seemed to suddenly become aware of the child’s precarious future. “Oh, dear, what is to become of that darling little boy? We cannot allow him to be taken into an orphanage. Mrs. Montgomery would never hear of such a thing. Oh, dear, no, she will never allow it. I must return home immediately and inform her of what has happened. And on her birthday, too. Oh, my, I am sure she will be devastated. Completely devastated.”

  She took up her skirts to hurry off, then asked in alarm, “But where is the infant now? The police didn’t take him, did they? Oh, dear, I hope I am not too late.”

  “No,” I assured her. “He’s with Mrs. Sullivan, the wet nurse. She’s keeping him with her family for the night.”

  Mrs. Forester sighed in relief. “Oh, thank heavens. Mrs. Sullivan is a fine woman. A great many children, of course, but he will be quite safe with her.” She had another thought. “My sister and I shall have to do something about the situation in the morning. Yes, that is what we must do.” She seemed once again about to take her leave, then went on, “Thank you again, Miss Woolson, Mr., er, Camden, was it?” She looked doubtfully at Eddie, then back to me. “You have been most helpful. My sister told me I was foolish to come down here so late at night, but, yes, yes, I am glad that I did. We will have to do something for little Billy. First thing in the morning. Yes indeed, that is what we shall do.” With that, she bustled back up the hill.

  “I’m exhausted just listening to that woman,” Robert said, taking me firmly by the arm and starting down the narrow road. “Hurry, we must leave before she thinks of something else to say and comes back.”

  We had made it perhaps a hundred yards when we saw the figure of a man walking up the hill toward us. His head was down, and he was obviously lost in thought, because he didn’
t appear to see us until we had pulled abreast of him.

  “Why, it’s Mr. Parke, is it not?” I said, recognizing the full head of curly brown hair escaping from beneath a dark bowler hat.

  The man started and stopped walking, looking as if my greeting had caught him by surprise. He raised his face, and I saw that it was indeed Stephen Parke, although I fear it took him a moment or two longer to as easily place the identity of the woman addressing him.

  At length, his somewhat dazed expression cleared, and he removed his hat, looking embarrassed. “Miss Woolson! Please forgive me for not recognizing you at once. I fear I was lost in my thoughts.”

  I took a moment to introduce Robert and Eddie, then inquired if he had enjoyed Mr. Wilde’s discourse on art decoration that evening at Platt’s Hall.

  “Damn waste of time, if you ask me,” Robert grumbled.

  I shot him a look, then said to Stephen, “I noticed you seated in the audience tonight with Miss Freiberg. I attempted to speak to you after the lecture, but was prevented by the push of people leaving to attend the party at the Baldwin Hotel. Since you are only now returning home, I gather that you and Miss Freiberg attended the dinner?”

  “As a matter of fact, we did,” he said, still sounding a bit unfocused. “It was generous of Mr. Aleric, although in truth it turned out to be little more than cold meat slices and punch. Still, it was a nice gesture.”

  I regarded him more closely. His usually friendly eyes appeared drawn and worried, and I noticed that he kept clenching and unclenching his hands as we spoke.

  “Is something bothering you, Mr. Parke?” I asked. My question was undeniably blunt, but I was worried about the man. I have found that the surest way to obtain an answer is to ask the question. “You look distracted.”