“I have an investigation to conduct, Mrs. Davies,” he said, restoring the notebook to his pocket.
She scrambled to her feet. “You are not going to be rid of me so easily, Mr. Greaves. I intend to be with you when you talk to my brother-in-law, because I will not let you coerce him into some sort of confused confession.”
He clenched his jaw. She was too stubborn for her own good. “I’m not giving in this time.”
“You cannot stop me from following you. I have made Tom a suspect, and I feel answerable to what might happen as a result.”
“And I’ll have Taylor arrest you for interfering with an investigation.”
“Be practical. Tom will more readily speak to me than to you, as will anyone else who knew Li Sha. Especially if you are considering questioning any of her Chinese acquaintances. I truly did mean what I said about wanting to see justice served, proper justice, and for that to occur I’m convinced you need my help.”
He stared at her long and hard. She didn’t budge.
“Have I told you yet that you remind me of my little sister?” he said.
“I am trying to imagine you with a younger sister, Mr. Greaves. You must be very protective of her.”
“I was,” he answered, all the pain of Meg’s death as fresh as if he’d received the news yesterday rather than almost three years ago. “Once.”
“I am so sorry. I did not realize . . . ,” she stammered.
He stepped around her, bound for the door. When she did not immediately make a move to follow, he glanced over his shoulder. “I thought you were coming.”
She rummaged through her reticule, left money on the table, and hastened to his side. “You will not be sorry.”
“I sure hope not, Mrs. Davies,” he said, frowning. “I sure hope not.”
CHAPTER 4
“I’ll not be believin’ she’s dead.” Tom Davies was defiant. “You’re wrong.”
Mrs. Davies, seated on a chair across the table from her brother-in-law, slid Nick an uneasy glance. If she suspected he already disliked the man, she was right; Tom Davies was a hotheaded Irishman.
Standing in the shadowed corner of the man’s rented room, Nick shifted his weight to the other foot and waited. Davies would eventually calm down enough to be interviewed. Until then, he’d let Mrs. Davies offer condolences, because Nick never did anymore. The consequences from the one time he’d assumed a suspect’s innocence when he was a green police officer had eliminated any temptation to make the same mistake twice.
“The detective is not wrong, Tom. I’m sorry.”
Davies scowled. He was good-looking in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way, well muscled for a clerk with a desk job. Though it was probably good-paying work, Davies couldn’t claim to own many furnishings—just a table, a few chairs, and an oil stove in the opposite corner, a small chest of drawers, a trunk. A folding partition screened off the farthest corner. Dust covered every surface, and a slick of grime blackened the baseboards. If Li Sha had lived here, she hadn’t been cleaning Davies’ room or leaving feminine touches behind.
The room’s two dirty windows were closed tight. Tom Davies lived south of Market, near Tar Flat, which meant breathing the stench from the Donahues’ gasworks. Distilling coal into gas produced sludge, and the sludge was piling up thick to the east of the works, exuding stink into the air. Some folks thought the fumes cured lung ailments. Nick was pretty sure the fumes would eventually kill a body.
He shifted his weight again and noticed a stain on the tattered rag rug. It might be from spilled coffee or something else. However, Davies’ lodgings were more than a mile from the wharf where Li Sha had been found. If she’d been killed here, that was a long way to haul a body without any means of transportation.
“But I know you’re wrong about it bein’ her,” Davies insisted, and stood. “So thanks for finally comin’ to visit, Celia, but you can leave now.”
“Sit down, Mr. Davies,” said Nick. To his surprise, the man complied. “Mrs. Davies, tell him once more.”
“Tom, the Chinese girl who was found in the bay is indeed Li Sha. I saw her body only a couple of hours ago.”
Davies’ shoulders sagged. “You’re wrong,” he repeated, but the fight had gone out of him.
Nick stepped farther into the room. He’d commit Davies’ responses to memory. With a suspect this jumpy, pulling out his notebook might make the man less willing to talk. “Were you with Li Sha two nights ago?” he asked.
“I wasn’t.” Davies’ gaze leaped between them. “Wait. Why are you askin’ me that? You think I’d kill her?”
“No,” Mrs. Davies denied it, stretching fingers across the scarred wood surface to touch his hand. “Of course not.”
“But he does!” Davies accused, pointing at Nick. The man’s biceps tensed within his white shirtsleeves. When they’d arrived at the boardinghouse, Davies had just come home from his clerking job and was down to his vest, black neckcloth untied, dark jacket hung on a hook by the door. There was an ink stain on his left cuff, but no old blood that Nick could see. Davies might have two or three shirts, though. “And you think it, too. Don’t you, Celia?”
She withdrew her hand. “Tom, please simply answer the detective’s questions, so that he can discover who did hurt Li Sha.”
Davies slumped into his chair.
Nick asked, “When was the last time you saw Li Sha?”
“A few days past. A week, maybe.” He shrugged. “I don’t recall.”
“I thought she lived here. That the two of you were . . . close.” His intentional pause was loaded with meaning.
Davies’ eyes narrowed. “I loved her. Maybe that’s hard for you to understand.”
It wasn’t hard at all; he’d once loved where he shouldn’t have. “Where was she staying, then, if she hadn’t been here? At the Chinese Mission?”
“I don’t know where she’d gone to.”
To the person who’d killed her?
“Tom, when you did see her last, did Li Sha seem all right?” asked Mrs. Davies.
Nick sighed. “Mrs. Davies, can you let me ask the questions? It is my job.” He’d allowed clear, pale eyes and hair that shone like gold in the sunlight to make him foolhardy. He should’ve sent her home and had Taylor stand guard to keep her out of here, in case she got the idea to show up anyway.
“My apologies, Mr. Greaves.”
Her brother-in-law answered her question. “Li Sha was fine when I saw her last.”
“Where were you Monday evening?” Nick asked.
“I was at Mitchell’s place that night,” he answered. “The saloon around the corner.”
Mrs. Davies cast Nick another uneasy glance, but she didn’t need to worry about Davies’ admission. If Nick came to suspect every man who spent his evenings drinking in saloons, he would have to arrest half the town.
“Will anybody remember seeing you at Mitchell’s that evening?”
“See? He is thinkin’ I killed her. That’s why you brought him here, ain’t it, Celia? Patrick was right about you. You’re a hard woman.”
She flushed and dropped her gaze.
“Tell me about that evening, Mr. Davies,” said Nick.
Davies looked at him. “I’m not goin’ to Mitchell’s often. Just an occasional night here or there, you see? A lot of the fellows were drunker than me. One of them bought me a whiskey. Felt sorry for me. But I’m not recallin’ who, exactly.”
“Why’d he feel sorry for you?”
Davies didn’t answer, glancing over at his sister-in-law, whose lips were pressed into a thin, pink line.
Nick made a stab at a probable reason. “Did you think Li Sha had left you and that was why you hadn’t seen her for days?”
“I don’t know!”
He’d guessed correctly, then. “And you were jealous and angry and went lookin
g for her. Things got out of hand—”
“That’s not what happened at all!” A quiver rippled through Davies’ body, and he clenched his fists. Nick tried to imagine them clutching a knife in anger. It wouldn’t take much for a man of Davies’ size to kill a tiny woman. “I loved her, and I wanted her here with me. She was gonna have our baby. I wanted to raise it right.”
“You sure the baby was yours?” Nick asked, ignoring the disapproval that flashed across Celia Davies’ face.
“Did you tell him it wasn’t, Celia?”
“No, Tom.” She turned to Nick. “Haven’t you learned enough, Mr. Greaves? I will vouch for my brother-in-law’s character, if that is what is required.”
She intended to vouch for the character of a man she rarely saw. A man who didn’t seem to like her.
“So you believed Li Sha’s claim that you were the father?” he asked Davies. “You’re telling me you don’t think she’d been with another man. A man who might have killed her.”
“It was my baby.” He swallowed. “If it was a girl, we were gonna name her Katie. After me ma. She woulda been mine. Me little girl . . .” His voice broke, and he began to sob.
Nick felt pity despite his wish not to. What a god-awful business he’d chosen to be in, following in Uncle Asa’s footsteps. His uncle never would’ve felt pity for a suspect. “What about the bruises on her face? Did you give her those?”
“Must you, Mr. Greaves?” Mrs. Davies accused. “Can you not cease the questions? Tom is too upset to go on, and clearly not responsible for her death.”
The world was not that black or white to him, and nothing about this case was clear. Yet. “I thought you wanted justice for Li Sha. That’s all I’m aiming to achieve.”
“Of course I want justice.” She stood and rested a protective hand on Tom Davies’ shoulder. “I also want a measure of compassion.”
“I can’t afford compassion during a murder investigation, Mrs. Davies,” Nick replied, and turned back to Davies. “I need an answer. Did you give Li Sha the bruises on her face?”
“Honestly,” Mrs. Davies protested.
“I didn’t.” The man dragged a hand over his pasty face and looked up. “I would never kill her. I loved her.”
As though professed love kept men from killing their women. “So, you were drinking at Mitchell’s all evening. What did you do afterward?”
“Came home. Fell asleep. Woke up late for work the next mornin’.”
And no one could confirm or deny his whereabouts. “Can I look around a little before we leave?”
“You’ll be doin’ it whether I say yes or no,” answered Davies.
Behind the partition was a narrow bed covered by a patchwork quilt, a washbasin and mirror with a crack in the glass, a lidded chamber pot painted with roses, and a narrow chest of drawers, a pair of muddy boots tucked beside it. A second white shirt, the left cuff also smudged with ink, hung on the wall. Another rag rug much like the one by the table lay next to the bed. Nick pushed it aside with his toe to see if the rug hid any bloodstains. It did not.
When he rejoined them, he noted that Mrs. Davies had moved apart from her brother-in-law and a tense silence filled the room.
“Let’s go,” he said to her. He’d seen enough.
He grabbed his hat from atop the chest where he’d left it and strode through the door, out into the hallway. Within seconds, he heard Mrs. Davies say good-bye to Tom followed by the rapid tap of her boot heels behind him.
• • •
“Thank you for not arresting him.” Celia jogged to keep pace with the detective’s long strides.
Mr. Greaves shot her a look. If she could see the expression in his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, she might better understand him. Though on second thought, learning to read this man might prove a dangerous occupation.
“I don’t have enough evidence,” he said. “But I will check his alibi, even if you are willing to vouch for the character of a man who calls you a hard woman.”
“As I have said, we are not close.”
“How did Tom and Li Sha meet? You haven’t explained.”
“It’s my understanding that Tom met her at Mr. Lange’s,” she answered, skirting a grocer hauling crates of gin into his shop. “Tom’s office is only a few doors down the road from the apothecary shop. He knew Mr. Lange’s daughter, Tessie, and met Li Sha during one of his visits, I presume, and fell in love with her. Their courtship proceeded rapidly. Before I knew it, Li Sha was carrying Tom’s child and sharing his room.”
When Li Sha had further informed Celia that Tom had offered to marry her, she had been astonished. Perhaps all the Davies men were impulsive when it came to matters of the heart.
“And somewhere along the way, their relationship turned sour,” said Mr. Greaves.
“Given that she had moved out, that must be the case.”
Likely thinking that was the last to be said on the matter, he removed his notebook from within his coat, along with a pencil, and started scribbling notes, looking up only to avoid colliding with telegraph poles and gaslight posts.
“Do please slow down, Mr. Greaves.”
He did not.
“Since you’ve dismissed the anti-Chinese groups as being responsible for killing Li Sha, whom else do you consider a suspect?” Celia asked as she trotted after the detective. “Because I cannot fathom who would harm her. She really was a gentle, quiet creature.”
“I didn’t say I’ve dismissed the anti-Chinese groups, Mrs. Davies.”
“Are they your main suspect, or is Tom still the primary one? Or someone else?”
He exhaled loudly; she surmised she was annoying him. “Most times the killer is an acquaintance of the victim, ma’am. An acquaintance has motive and opportunity,” he said without taking his gaze off his notebook.
“Which means I might know the killer as well.” What a horrible notion.
“It’s possible.”
“What shall I say to Barbara and my housekeeper about Li Sha?” she asked.
“Whatever you do, don’t describe the body. It’ll be better that way. Easier for them.”
But not so easy for me. “If they have any information or suspicions, I will let you know. And I will try to discover where Li Sha might have been living since leaving Tom.”
“Thank you.”
The notebook at last returned to its pocket, Nicholas Greaves paused on the corner in the lee of a bank building, its iron door and shutters locked tight. A party of horsemen and horsewomen galloped down Market Street, laughing and shouting, blocking the road. Based on their accents, they were fellow Englishmen and well-off, their costumes the finest Oxford Street in London could provide. Mr. Greaves watched them pass, appearing unimpressed with their self-satisfied high spirits.
Celia contemplated Nicholas Greaves. His suit of clothes was not of the highest quality, although serviceable and adequately tailored, and his footwear needed a polish. He seemed to be a man who might have pulled himself up by his bootstraps, another saying of the Americans. What might he think of her, though, if he learned she was once as privileged and careless as those riders?
He looked down and caught her staring. Her cheeks warmed and she glanced away. They started across the road.
“Would you like me to speak to Li Sha’s former associates in Chinatown?” she asked. “I can take my cousin with me. She speaks their language. And a guard, of course. The local constables help me—”
“This is my job, Mrs. Davies,” he interrupted.
“They will not speak to a policeman.”
“They won’t speak to you, either. Who might they think killed Li Sha? They’ll most likely think it was one of their own people. Or a customer. And if they suspect a Caucasian customer, they can’t testify,” he pointed out unnecessarily, since she was already familiar with the unfair law that
prohibited the Chinese from bearing witness against whites.
“Yes, Mr. Greaves, but—”
“Either way,” he continued, “the women of Chinatown are in no position to voice their opinions or offer names. They would be risking their necks.”
“I cannot do nothing.”
“You’ve given me a direction for my inquiries and provided plenty of information. That’s more than enough, ma’am.” He looked down the street and halted his steps. “You can take the omnibus from here to where you live.”
“You uncovered where I live while you were fact gathering on me?” What else did he know about her?
“Didn’t get the exact address, however.”
“Which surprises me.”
“Don’t get any ideas about heading to Chinatown to ask questions, Mrs. Davies.” He frowned at her, a further attempt to intimidate. “My advice to you is to go straight home. It’ll be dark soon, and I’d rather not hear about you at the morning station briefing.”
“Do not tell me you are worried for me, Mr. Greaves.”
His eyes searched her face. “Mrs. Davies, I hate to say I am.”
The horsecar rolled to a halt, discharging a handful of Germans and Poles from the wharves and Irishmen from just about everywhere else. She watched them as they dispersed along the road, their accents and swagger reminding her of Patrick.
Mr. Greaves helped her board and paid the fare over her protests. “Compensation for your time,” he said.
She clung to the railing as passengers shoved past her. When she reached a seat, she lowered the window and leaned out.
Mr. Greaves tapped fingertips to the brim of his hat. “Good evening, Mrs. Davies,” he called out from the curb, “and good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” She lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t be so hopeful, Detective Greaves.”
The horsecar lurched forward before she could be sure of his response. But she thought he might have chuckled.
• • •
After he’d seen Mrs. Davies off, Nick took a detour through Chinatown before heading home. Until this case, he hadn’t paid much attention to the anti-Chinese groups. He’d expected their righteous indignation would soon burn out, once they realized they weren’t getting anywhere and the Chinese were in San Francisco to stay. But if Mrs. Davies’ half-Chinese cousin was scared . . . well, there might be more heat behind their indignation than he’d thought.
No Comfort for the Lost Page 6