2 The Spook Lights Affair

by Marcia Muller

  The use of her name turned Sabina’s head. She recognized him then beneath the somewhat outlandish disguise, and was so taken aback she blurted out his name, or rather his assumed name.

  “Sherlock Holmes!”

  “Zut alors!” he exclaimed, putting a finger to his lips. “Softly, please, and without further mention of who I am.”

  “Sorry,” Sabina said in a lowered voice. “You startled me.”

  “Yes, of course.” He smiled and twirled one corner of his mustache. “Are you surprised to discover that I am still in San Francisco?”

  “No, John finally told me you came to see him. Why haven’t you returned to England?”

  “Ah, therein lies a tale. But I have neither the time nor the inclination to tell it just now. Suffice it to say that I have chosen to remain officially deceased awhile longer in order to conduct certain investigations in your city.”

  Officially deceased. When she and John had encountered this evident imposter during the bughouse affair the previous year, he claimed to have survived the Reichenbach Falls incident and for unexplained reasons to have made his way from Europe to San Francisco. He might be a crackbrain as John called him, but he was nonetheless intelligent, crafty, and almost as astonishingly adept at detective work as his namesake.

  Disguises were one of his affectations, as they were with the genuine Holmes. During the bughouse affair, he had annoyed John by showing up for an appointment posing as a derelict seaman. “I suppose your investigations are the reason for the mustache and the way you’re dressed,” Sabina said.

  “Indeed. A necessary subterfuge for the evening’s work ahead.” He studied her for a long moment. “I perceive you have been quite busy yourself today. With a young lady in a tea shop that dispenses a rather ordinary orange pekoe blend and scones with blackberry jam, a gentleman with a preference for cigars imported from Cameroon, and a ride in a hansom cab whose passenger seat was torn and exuding its horsehair stuffing. But I do hope you enjoyed the soft pretzel that served as your midday meal.”

  “… How do you know all that?”

  “Elementary, my good woman. Plain as a pikestaff when one has keen powers of observation and a trained sense of smell. The faintest residue of tobacco smoke in your clothing, a strand of horsehair of the sort used in the manufacture of carriage seats in this country, a fleck of sea salt caught on the sleeve of your coat. As for the tea shop and its wares—”

  “Never mind. I’m sure you didn’t come to regale me with your prowess, Mr. Holmes. Just what is it you want?”

  He glanced around—no one was paying any attention to them—and then whispered conspiratorially, “I have information that you and your partner will both find beneficial. I prefer imparting it to you—you are, shall we say, more tolerant and less impetuous.”

  Well, that was true enough. “What sort of information?”

  “Regarding his investigation into the Wells, Fargo robbery and yours into the sensational events on Sutro Heights.”

  “How do you know about John’s investigation?”

  “By the same scientific method I employ in all my inquiries, naturally. The gathering of observed details and other data from which I deduce a sound and if I may say so invariably correct theory.”

  In other words, Sabina thought wryly, by putting two and two together. But the only way to deal with the Englishman and his boundless ego was to humor him. “And you’ve found out something beneficial to John in your, ah, travels?” she asked.

  “Precisely. To him, and to you.”

  “What do you want in return for this information?”

  “Why, nothing at all, dear lady, except the privilege of assisting fellow private inquiry agents. As I’ve said, I have investigations of my own that demand my immediate attention.”

  “Which I’m sure you’ll bring to a successful resolution. Just what is it you have to tell me?”

  “That there is a connection between your inquiries and your partner’s,” the Englishman said. “A connection that bears a central figure—one David St. Ives.”

  Sabina frowned. “In what way?”

  “Specifically, Mr. St. Ives’s penchant for nocturnal visits to Tenderloin gambling parlors and bordellos.”

  “I already know about that.”

  “Ah, yes, but do you know that until recently, the lad often shared these adventures with a small entourage? Gay blades of similar tastes but far-more-meager financial means?”

  “Are you saying he paid for their debauches as well as his own?”

  “When in his cups, as you Americans so quaintly put it, he would often do so, yes.”

  “Would Lucas Whiffing be one of those other blades?”

  “Do you suppose he is?”

  “I don’t know. Is he?”

  Holmes assumed his enigmatic expression, the one that had driven John and herself to distraction on more than one occasion during the bughouse affair. “Perhaps.”

  “And the others? Who are they?”

  “I suggest your partner consult with the owners and employees of the House of Chance, the Purple Palace, and Madame Fifi’s Maison of Parisian Delights. I assure you he will find the discussions most enlightening. As will you in your turn.”

  “Is David St. Ives somehow involved in the Wells, Fargo robbery? Is that what you’re inferring?”

  The secretive smile, nothing more.

  “Or Lucas Whiffing? Or both of them?”

  The trolley rattled to a halt at an uphill intersection. Holmes glanced out the window. “Ah, this is my stop. I must make haste. I’ve much to do on this night.”

  Sabina quickly put a hand on his arm as he started to rise. “If you know so much about our business, why can’t you save us the trouble by telling me now?”

  “Tut, tut. I am always willing to offer a bit of aid to my compatriots, but I wouldn’t think of interfering in cases in which I am not directly involved.”

  “Wait—”

  “Bonne chasse, my dear Mrs. Carpenter,” he said, and winked, and hurried out just before the doors swung shut and the car resumed its clattering climb.

  Sabina sat quietly fuming, wishing she had given in to the urge to slap the sly smugness off the poseur’s face. Should she credit what he’d told her? Yes, she thought. Daft as the man was and as infuriating as he could be, he had an uncanny knack for ferreting out and assembling information that proved to be valid. If it was in this case, then it explained the connection between David St. Ives and Lucas Whiffing, and possibly a great deal more. It might even provide John with a key to unlock the mystery of the missing Wells, Fargo money and bring him his lusted-after reward. Though if it did, he would not be pleased to find himself once more in the debt of the bogus Mr. Holmes.

  15

  SABINA

  After freshening up and feeding both herself and Adam a light supper, Sabina ventured out again. The evening was once more gray and chilly with scudding fog, but she could still smell the sweet scent of apple blossoms that whitened the tree in the adjoining yard.

  Springtime again—a season that had once enchanted her. But no more. Now the coming of spring was a reminder that another year had gone by without Stephen. The fresh smells of growing things had the power to strip her emotions bare, and she had to lie to herself that the moisture that sometimes came into her eyes, as it did now, was caused by allergies, not lingering grief.

  With her handkerchief she dabbed her eyes dry and sternly took herself in hand. She had work to do, and work was what had enabled her to survive her loss and continue her life alone.

  A hansom cab was just letting off a couple who lived in the neighborhood and whom Sabina knew slightly. She hurried up, gesturing for the driver to wait, exchanged brief pleasantries with the couple, and then stepped aboard and gave the driver Arabella Kingston’s address.

  Daylight was waning, and lamps glowed behind house windows on either side of the block, when they arrived at Larkin Street. A large Concord carriage was parked in front of numb
er 631, so the cab drew up a short distance behind it. Sabina alighted, paid the driver, then stood for a moment in the shadow of a large elm tree to adjust her clothing as the horse clopped away. The front parlor of Arabella Kingston’s lodging house was lighted, and there was illumination in one of the second-floor windows. Miss Kingston’s room?

  She was about to start in that direction when the sound of hurrying footsteps, two sets of them, reached her ears. A pair of figures, she saw then, were coming up the sidewalk to her right, just passing under one of the electric streetlights. The one in front, a woman in coat and full skirt, clutched a large handbag and darted looks back over her shoulder. The man behind her wore dark clothing and a cloth cap pulled down low over his forehead. Rapidly he closed the distance between them, caught up to the woman and took hold of her arm, stopping her and then pulling her toward him.

  A frightened cry ripped from her throat. The assailant clapped a hand over her mouth to choke it off, then dragged her kicking and squirming into a clump of rhododendrons that shielded the darkened front of another in the row of houses.

  Sabina was already running by then, sliding a hand inside her own bag as she went. The sounds of the struggle guided her to where she could see them in the shrubbery, the man—purse-snatcher, footpad—ripping at the woman’s handbag. He yanked it free, and in the next few seconds would surely have released his victim, struck her to keep her from screaming an alarm, and then fled into the night if Sabina hadn’t intervened.

  “Let go of her and stand where you are!” she shouted.

  The footpad swung toward her. Sabina couldn’t see his face clearly, but the crouching of his body and the fact that he continued to hold the flailing woman and the handbag told her he wasn’t afraid of being thwarted by the presence of another woman. He took a menacing step toward her, growling something under his breath. And then stopped so suddenly he might have encountered a plate of invisible glass, the growl turning into a startled grunt. The reason being that he was looking directly into the muzzle of the pearl-handled derringer Sabina had taken from her bag.

  “Do as you were told. Let the woman go.”

  “You won’t shoot, lady.…”

  “Won’t I? I’ve shot bigger men than you, and slept like a baby afterward.” She took a step closer, cocking the weapon with an audible click. “Release her—now!”

  The footpad didn’t hesitate any longer. He released the woman, who moved quickly away from him and over next to Sabina. There was enough light for Sabina to tell at a glance that she was young and dark-haired beneath a feathered hat that had come unpinned and hung awry.

  “Now set her bag on the ground.”

  He did that, quickly.

  In other circumstances Sabina might have held the scruff at gunpoint until a policeman could be summoned. But doing that might require a trip to the nearest police station to file a report, thus forcing a postponement of her planned interview with Arabella Kingston. And purse-snatchers of his ilk were common menaces in the city, so plentiful that when arrested for a crime that failed to include bodily harm, they were seldom held for long in the city’s overcrowded jail; if she turned this one in, he would be back plying his trade on the streets within twenty-four hours.

  “What … what you gonna do, lady?”

  “Stand and watch you run away like the cur you are,” she said. “If you’ve a brain in your head, you’ll never show yourself in this neighborhood again.”

  “I won’t, I swear I won’t!”

  “Then run. Run!”

  He ran, stumbling and staggering and not looking back, until his footfalls faded and the darkness swallowed him.

  Sabina returned the derringer to its nesting place. “Are you all right?” she asked the woman.

  “Yes, thanks to you.” The woman seemed shaken, but not as badly so as some might have been. She bent to retrieve her bag, and when she straightened a visible shiver passed through her—aftermath of the shock she’d received. But that was the only sign of distress. “I … I don’t know what he might have done if you hadn’t come along.”

  “Fortunately I did. Do you live nearby?”

  “Yes, just three doors up the street.”

  “Number 631?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your name wouldn’t be Arabella Kingston, would it?”

  “Why … why, yes, it is. How did you know?”

  Sabina smiled. Her arrival in time to prevent the purse-snatching had been fortuitous indeed.

  * * *

  Miss Kingston’s second-floor flat was cozy and neat as a pin. Framed watercolor paintings gave it color and cheeriness—cityscapes and seascapes, flowers and trees, one of the Golden Gate Park lakes, and a recognizable scene from the California Midwinter International Exposition of the previous year. All were very good, and when Sabina commented on the fact, Miss Kingston admitted that they were hers.

  “Thank you, but they’re really not, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “On the contrary. They have warmth and charm.”

  “It’s good of you to say so, but none of the gallery owners who have seen them … well, that’s neither here nor there. I’m quite happy teaching at Miss Hillbrand’s Academy.”

  She excused herself to light a small gas stove, then fill a kettle from a pitcher of water and set it atop the stove. Her gratitude for Sabina’s rescue had prompted the invitation to have tea in her rooms. She had seemed puzzled when Sabina introduced herself and explained why she had come to Larkin Street tonight; she had read the newspaper accounts of the Sutro Heights tragedy and knew Sabina’s name, but couldn’t imagine why she would want to talk to her. A few questions about her relationship with Virginia St. Ives, Sabina said, as part of her investigation into the girl’s suicide.

  While Miss Kingston set out a tea service, Sabina took in the rest of the sitting room. A trio of small tables held what must be beloved artifacts: a pink conch seashell; a small crystal ball on a brass; a pair of agate bookends holding an assortment of slim volumes; and several framed photographs. One of the latter was a portrait of an older couple that had obviously been posed and taken by a professional photographer; another was of what appeared to be a large country house on wooded grounds, with the words “The Gables” neatly penned in to the lower right-hand corner.

  Her hostess, bringing the tea service, saw her looking at the photographs. “My parents and their summer home in Burlingame,” she said, setting the tray down on a small dinette table.

  “It seems quite nice.”

  “I suppose so, but I never liked going there when I was a child. No other homes on Badger Hill, no one to play with except for the children of occasional guests, nothing much to do except walk in the woods or wade in a stream that runs through them. I don’t know why Mother and Father keep it, since they spend very little time there anymore. They’re currently in Europe, no doubt having a marvelous time.”

  “Do they travel often?”

  “Oh, yes. Constantly. They close up their San Francisco home for long periods and let the servants go.”

  “Is that where you grew up, here in the city?”

  “Yes, on Rincon Hill. If you’re wondering why I live in this flat instead of in the family home, it’s because I have an independent nature and prefer smaller quarters.” Miss Kingston sighed—a little sadly, Sabina thought, as if there might be another reason why she chose to live here alone, one related to her parents’ constant travels. After a moment, she sank into in a deep-cushioned chair and ran a hand over her brow. Shorn of her coat and hat, she had proved to be a plain but by no means homely young woman with lustrous brown hair worn in ringlets. Normally her full cheeks would have good high color, but now she was pale and slightly damp skinned.

  “Are you certain you’re feeling well?” Sabina asked.

  “Yes. It’s just that I’ve never been … manhandled like that before.”

  “No woman should ever have to be,” Sabina said.

  “No. And for so little reaso
n in my case—I have no more than two dollars in my bag, and never carry any of my jewelry.”

  “A wise decision.”

  “In your profession, Mrs. Carpenter, you must have had experience with men like that. You were very brave and very forceful.”

  “And very angry. Yes, I have. More than I care to think about.”

  The kettle began to whistle. Miss Kingston stood to fetch it and then to pour tea for both of them. When she was seated again, she said, “Virginia’s death … it’s too horrible for words. I can’t imagine why she would have done such a thing. And in such a sensational fashion.”

  “She gave no indication of being severely depressed?”

  “No, none. She seemed quite happy, almost … bubbly at times. But then, she could also be secretive and overly dramatic.”

  “I understand the two of you were close.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call our relationship close. I suppose Virginia considered me a mentor.”

  “She confided in you?”

  “Not on personal matters, no. She was an aspiring artist, and she wanted to know what an artist’s life was like. The pleasant, satisfying, and what she considered glamorous parts—she wasn’t interested in the unpleasant aspects, such as adverse criticism. Typical of her age. Girls of eighteen, pampered ones especially, have romanticized notions of life.”

  “Did she mention any beaux?”

  “No. Nor did I ask. She came from a very sheltered background, as I’m sure you know, and I assumed that if she had any suitors, her parents would carefully screen them.”

  “All except one. Does the name Lucas Whiffing mean anything to you?”

  Whiffing’s name hadn’t been in the newspapers. Miss Kingston shook her head. “Who is he?”

  “A young man she was seeing, a friend of her brother’s. Do you know David St. Ives?”

  “No. I met him once, briefly.” And didn’t like him, judging from Miss Kingston’s tone.

  “Tell me, when did you last speak with Virginia?”