Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  I held up a hand. “There is no need to describe the scene, Mrs. Carr. I was there later in the evening and witnessed it for myself. It will not be a memory easily erased from my mind.”

  She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath of air, then released it in a rush. “I’m sure I screamed when I saw him, but I can’t remember much of anything, to tell the truth. I know I ran home and sent our son, Donny, down the hill to fetch the coppers. They got there later—I don’t know what time. After that, it seemed like the police were coming and going for hours. I went to bed, but I hardly slept a wink all night.”

  “That is certainly understandable. With such a terrible shock, I don’t suppose you noticed anything out of the ordinary at Mr. Dunn’s house. Was he alone? Did you straighten or move anything that might have been in disarray?”

  This last inquiry caused her to regard me suspiciously, as if only now speculating about the nature of my questions.

  “Why do you want to know?” she asked, her voice sharper now. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Miss Sarah Woolson, Mrs. Carr. I’m an attorney involved with the case.” I felt a twinge of conscience at offering yet another misrepresentation of the truth, but I steadfastly ignored it. “I would truly appreciate anything you could remember about what you saw last night.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” she asked in surprise, subjecting me to a long, appraising look. “If that don’t beat all!”

  My vocation, however, seemed to overcome her misgivings, and she sat for several moments considering my question. Finally, she shook her head.

  “No, I don’t think anyone else was there, leastways I didn’t see no one. And sure as you’re sitting there, I didn’t touch nothing.” She gave a little shiver. “To tell the truth, I was too flummoxed to move. I suppose I must have dropped the tray, but it’s mostly a blur.”

  “That’s perfectly all right, Mrs. Carr,” I told her reassuringly. “You have been most helpful.”

  I heard a male voice call out something from another room and assumed it was Mr. Carr requesting his wife’s attention. Rising from my chair, I thanked my hostess and then took my leave of the house.

  The sun was beginning to set as I started down the hill. I passed Claude Dunn’s cottage, pausing for a moment as I recalled the dreadful events of the night before. Had it been just over a week since Samuel was shot? It seemed more like an eternity. No wonder I was tired; the past seven days had been some of the most taxing I had ever experienced. Wearily, I decided to pay a quick visit to the neighbors who resided on the other side of Dunn’s house, then make my way home.

  The sounds of boisterous children reached me as I approached the neighbor’s front door. The young girl with black hair who answered my knock informed me that her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Flattery, were not at home. In a single rush of breath she told me that her name was Clara, that she was sixteen, that she was minding her little brothers, and that moreover she was in the middle of cooking dinner and if she didn’t get right back to the kitchen, her chops would burn.

  I thanked her and was about to leave when I thought to ask if she or her parents had seen or heard anything unusual around seven o’clock the previous evening. Her reaction to this simple question took me by surprise.

  The girl’s dark eyes grew large and frightened, and she commenced wringing her small hands in front of her food-smeared apron.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t,” she blurted out. “Mama said I was imagining things and that we shouldn’t get involved with the police anyways, as it was none of our business.”

  With that, she started to close the door. I’m ashamed to admit that I used my boot to hold it open.

  “It’s all right, Clara,” I said with what I hoped was a soothing tone. “You can tell me. I’m not with the police, and I won’t inform your mother. What did you hear last night?”

  The poor child looked conflicted, and I feared she would end up rubbing all the skin off her hands. Then she put her head out and looked carefully in either direction. There was no one in view.

  “I did hear something last night, miss. It was a kind of cry, or maybe more like a yell. I don’t exactly remember now, but it was loud ’cause I could hear it over the rain.”

  “Where did the cry come from?” I asked, holding my breath as I awaited her response.

  “It was from next door, you know, where that man Mr. Dunn lives. I mean, who used to live there. It sounded like he was really scared, or maybe fightin’ with someone, I’m not sure. Mama said I couldn’t hear nothing like that because of the rain bein’ so loud and all. But I know what I heard, miss, no matter how loud the storm was.”

  “I believe you, Clara,” I told the girl, “and you did the right thing by telling me. And you think you heard Mr. Dunn cry out at about seven o’clock?”

  She nodded. “It had to be about then, ’cause I’d just finished washin’ up the dinner dishes, and was puttin’ the bread away in the pantry—that’s the room closest to Mr. Dunn’s house, you see.”

  There was a loud noise from inside the house, and the sound of the boys grew louder again, as if they were fighting over some toy or other.

  “Sorry, miss, but I gotta go,” the girl said. “My brothers go at it something awful, and I’m sure my chops will be burned black by now.”

  With a quick look that might have been of regret, she slammed the door closed, and I could hear her yelling at her little brothers to behave themselves. I stood on the front porch for a few more moments, thinking. I would have to pass this information on to Sergeant Lewis immediately, I decided. If Clara really did hear Dunn cry out, then it made George’s murder theory a great deal more plausible.

  The afternoon sun was fading rapidly by now. Anxious to take my leave of Telegraph Hill, I walked a block or two down the muddy road, then took what I thought would be a shortcut through a small grove of trees. Suddenly, the quiet around me was shattered by a loud bang. My brain barely had time to register it as the same noise I’d heard the night Samuel was shot when the trunk of a nearby tree exploded. Shards of bark flew in all directions, scaring off a trio of goats that were grazing in a neighboring field and striking me painfully in my face and neck.

  I cried out and fell to the ground. Then, following some innate sense of self-preservation, I half crawled around the tree until it stood between me and whoever had taken the shot. I am not ashamed to admit that I was badly shaken; my body had begun to tremble, and I was suddenly very cold. Despite the chill, I realized that beads of perspiration were forming on my forehead and that the vision in my right eye was blurring.

  “Dear God!” I croaked, barely recognizing my own voice. I sucked in several deep breaths of air, trying to bring my quivering body under control. Had someone really fired a gun at me? And in nearly the same place where Samuel had been hit?

  Attempting to stop the flow of moisture into my eyes, I wiped a hand over my brow. I stared incredulously at the red, sticky mess on my fingers.

  It was not perspiration running down my face, but blood!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I cannot say how long I remained huddled behind the tree, my body shivering in shock. Perhaps because of this overriding fear, my senses were on full alert: I was keenly aware of every sound, every stir of the leaves, every breath of wind, even the smell of fresh dung emitted by a team of horses laboring up a nearby street. The onset of dusk made it difficult to see who, or what, lay behind me, which merely served to increase my terror. Was the shooter still there, waiting for me to move so that he could discharge another bullet? Or had my cry and sudden collapse convinced him that he had hit his mark?

  As if reciting a mantra, I kept reminding myself to breathe. It was imperative that I bring myself under control and make my way down the hill before the encroaching darkness became even more pervasive. Then again, perhaps the cover of darkness would be my friend, I thought uncertainly. It might serve to hide me from the madman lying in wait somewhere behind me—if he was still there. Ag
ain I raised a hand to wipe at my forehead as more blood dripped down my face. Why were my thoughts in such turmoil? This unaccustomed confusion was nearly as frightening as the knowledge that someone was trying to kill me!

  Condemning myself for such a sad display of cowardice, I took in a final deep breath, counted to three, then leapt up from behind the tree trunk. In an effort to make myself as small a target as possible, I darted this way and that behind the remaining trees. My skirts caught and tore on brambles, and more than once I tripped over protruding roots, but I dared not stop. Blood continued to trickle into my eyes from the cuts on my forehead until I could barely see where I was going, and my heart beat wildly as I waited for another shot to ring out. Still, I did not slow down until I had nearly reached the wooden steps that led down the hill.

  To my relief, I saw no one at Tull O’Hara’s cottage and slipped behind part of an old rotting fence that at one time must have enclosed the small property. I stood there for several moments, fighting to catch my breath, constantly peering around the sagging wood to see if I had been followed. Reassured that no one was in pursuit, I forced myself to take stock of my situation. For the first time, I noticed my torn and filthy skirts. Even worse was the blood that had trickled down my face to stain my bodice. I must have presented a terrible sight. How could I make my way down the stairs without attracting unwelcome attention? Even when I reached the street, would a conductor allow me to board his omnibus in such a disreputable condition?

  Then there was the question of where I should go. I had intended to go directly to George Lewis’s police station to report what young Clara Flattery had heard the night before. Now, of course, I had even more reason to see him. But my timepiece indicated that it was nearing seven o’clock. Would he even be at the station this late? I wondered. In light of my past experiences with the police, I think I may be forgiven my stubborn determination to confide this afternoon’s alarming events solely to my friend George.

  After much thought, I decided that I did not care to walk into the station looking as if I’d made my way there through a battle zone, especially as there was a possibility George had already left for the day. What if I happened upon Lieutenant Curtis? I already had enough people warning me away from Telegraph Hill without Curtis actually forbidding me to go there.

  In the end, I decided that it would not matter if I notified George tonight or in the morning. Moreover, I shrank at the thought of spending more time in public than was absolutely necessary. After tearing off strips from my petticoat, I wiped at the blood on my face as best I could, then went to work on my shirtwaist. To my dismay, these efforts merely smeared the blood, making the matter worse. Without a mirror, I had no way of knowing what my face looked like. Well, I thought, it would have to do. I could not remain concealed behind Tull O’Hara’s shack all night.

  I brushed the dirt and leaves off my skirts and then did my best to arrange the torn remains in some semblance of order. Hoping that the rents and stains were not too noticeable, I stiffened my spine and set off down the steps. Once I reached Sansome Street, I searched for a cab, deciding it would be faster and considerably more private than public transportation. How I wished Eddie were waiting for me with his faithful dappled-gray instead of having to endure the curious, and in some cases distasteful, stares of people who passed by me on the street. I must look even worse than I imagined, I thought in dismay when one woman stopped and offered to help me reach a hospital.

  Thankfully, I did not have to wait overlong for a cab. Doing my utmost to ignore the coachman’s questioning eyes as they traveled over my disordered and blood-smeared clothing, I allowed myself to be handed into the vehicle, and we set off for Rincon Hill.

  My next challenge, of course, would be sneaking into my home unobserved. It was nearly dinnertime, so I would have to speedily wash and change my clothes or plead a headache and avoid joining my family altogether.

  To my relief, slipping into the house unnoticed proved easier than I had anticipated. I could hear our butler, Edis, speaking to Papa in his study, and Mama had evidently not yet come downstairs. Cook and our maid, Ina, were occupied in the kitchen preparing for dinner. Delighted to find the coast clear, I hurried up the stairs and into my bedroom. I had just begun to remove my boots when there was a soft knock on the door. For a moment, I froze and thought to ignore it. Then better sense prevailed, and I realized that this would merely create more problems than I already faced. Opening the door a crack, I was relieved to see that it was Samuel. Before I could invite him in, he pushed past me, closing the door gently behind him.

  He started to speak and then stopped, mouth open, as he stared at me in alarm. “Good God, Sarah, what happened to you? Are you all right?”

  “Shh, please,” I said, placing a finger over my lips. “I’m fine, but I don’t want to alarm Mama or Papa.”

  “Never mind them, you’ve already alarmed me.” He reached into a pocket with his good hand and drew out a hip flask. “Here, take a good long sip of this. You’re as white as that bed covering.”

  Shaking my head, I pushed the flask away. “You don’t look particularly hale and hearty yourself,” I told him, thinking that he appeared a bit peaked. Then I remembered that he had snuck out of the house that morning to visit the book publisher. So much had happened since then, it seemed that whole days had passed rather than mere hours. “How did you fare at Moure and Atkins?”

  “Not now. First I want to know what happened to you.” He pushed the flask firmly into my hand. “Drink some of this, Sarah. Now! Trust me, it will help.”

  I started to refuse it again, then decided that perhaps the whiskey might be just what I needed. It burned going down my throat, but I felt almost instantly revived.

  “Thank you,” I said, handing it back to him. “Now you really must leave. I have to change before Edis rings the dinner bell.”

  “Not so fast,” he said, practically pushing me down onto the edge of the bed. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened. You look as if you’ve been in a street brawl—and lost!”

  Once more, he pressed his flask on me. “Take another sip, Sarah. You still look far too pale.”

  I took another mouthful of the strong drink, then, resisting his insistence that I remain seated, rose from the bed. “If I don’t change now, I’ll be late for dinner.”

  Using my washbasin, I splashed water onto my face and neck, this time with the aid of a mirror. No wonder people had been regarding me peculiarly. My brother was right, I looked as if I had just fought my way through the Battle of Bull Run. I had no idea how I would be able to explain away the scratches and cuts.

  “There’s no point in not showing yourself, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, as usual reading my mind. “Those scratches are going to appear even more brutal tomorrow, so you might as well face the music tonight.”

  “But what am I going to tell everyone?” I groaned, realizing he was right. Even if I tried to skip dinner, Mama would be sure to visit my room afterward to see what was wrong. I wasn’t sure if I was experiencing some residual shock, but my limbs felt unsteady and I feared that the whiskey had gone straight to my head. I decided that sitting down for a few minutes might not be a bad idea after all.

  “Sarah, that’s enough prevaricating,” he said as I sank beside him on the bed. His voice was serious, and his blue eyes regarded me with concern. “Tell me exactly how you received those cuts and bruises and tore your gown to pieces. And I want the truth!”

  With a sigh, I briefly related my trip that afternoon to Telegraph Hill. When I told him about the gunshot, he uttered a curse and stared at me in disbelief.

  “Good Lord, Sarah! Somebody actually tried to kill you? Did you go to the police?”

  I shook my head wearily. “No. It was late, and I feared that George might have left the station for the day. And I was such a mess. I just wanted to come home.”

  “But you have to tell him. The sooner the better.” He stood and began
pacing the room. “This is deadly serious.”

  I gave a little shudder. “An apt choice of words, Samuel. Don’t worry, I intend to see George first thing in the morning. Although I don’t know what good it will do. The police have done little enough to catch this shooter.”

  Too restless to sit any longer, I rose, pulled a clean gown from my wardrobe, and retired behind my dress screen. I could hear my brother continue to stride back and forth across the floorboards as I changed. After listening to one or two more mumbled curses, I stole a peek at him from behind the partition. He was staring out the window into the front garden, his handsome face set in lines of angry determination.

  “Samuel?” He appeared not to hear me speak. “Come now,” I prompted, “you must have some thoughts on the subject.”

  “Oh, I have thoughts all right,” he replied, his voice grim as he turned away from the window. “I don’t like this one bit, little sister. Shooting at me was bad enough, but shooting at you? What in hell is happening on that Hill?”

  I sighed. “I wish I knew.”

  He regarded my face thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to believe that you were the actual target the night of Wilde’s reading after all. Else why would the shooter attempt it again?”

  I stopped in the act of fastening up my dress and stepped out from behind the screen. Motioning for him to finish the task, I said, “I still say that makes no sense. Who would want to kill me?”

  “I don’t know. But the fact is that someone tried. What about this Ricardo Ruiz?” he said, then stopped. “No, it can’t be him. I was shot before the SPCA first approached you to represent them. He would have had no reason to harm you—at least not then.”