With another yawn, she crossed the threshold between the dining room and kitchen. She heard a sound, the faintest rustling, and paused. Barely able to make out the table that she knew was directly ahead of her, she felt her way forward and set down the heavy tray. Her pulse hammering, she peered into the room’s black shadows.
“Hello?” she said, her voice wobbling.
The noise did not come again. It had probably been a mouse.
It was then she noticed a chink of light between the back door and its frame. The door was open. Addie would not have left it ajar.
Celia turned to flee just as a hand grabbed her from behind. The other clapped over her mouth, silencing her scream. The hard end of a blunt object jabbed into her stomach where her assailant clutched her. A knife? It had to be the butt end of a knife.
She fought against him, flailing her legs, her stocking-clad feet hitting his shins. He grunted and she struck out again, as hard as she could, and knocked him off balance. She flung back an elbow, connecting with his arm. The collision broke his hold on the knife, which clattered to the floor and skidded across it.
“Help!” she screamed, and he slapped his hand over her mouth again.
She bit down on his fingers, tasting blood. He cursed and started dragging her toward the rear door. She had to get free. The more she struggled in her assailant’s grasp, the tighter he held her, his fingers digging into her cheek and chin. He stank of liquor and cigar smoke.
Celia tried again to scream, but the sound didn’t make it past his fingers. He butted her head with his, sending her senses reeling, and she stumbled.
Grumbling, he yanked her to her feet and continued to pull her toward the door. But he was not headed outside. He was trying to recover the knife, which must have ended up between the pantry and the doorway.
Celia clutched his arm and lifted herself, kicking out, trying to knock over the stool she knew was somewhere nearby. He angrily jerked her backward. They were almost at the door now. She had to find a weapon. One hand was free, but she couldn’t reach far because of the way he held her. They reached the pantry, and he turned to search for the knife. His hold slackened, and Celia hastily groped along the edge of the small table near the wall, looking for something, anything. Her fingers connected with a heavy pan, and just as he eased his grip on her arm to crouch and hunt for the knife, she lifted the pan and swung backward. The blow glanced off his head, and he bellowed with rage. He seized the knife and swiped it at her. Free of his grip, she flung herself out of his reach, falling to the ground.
“Addie! Help!”
The outside door burst open, and a boy, silhouetted in a hazy shaft of moonlight, shot through the doorway and into the kitchen.
“Oy, there!” he yelled.
Taken by surprise, her assailant lashed out with the knife, connecting with the boy’s arm. Owen recoiled, his back smacking against the hard edge of Addie’s oak prep table.
“No!” Celia screamed.
Again the man swiped at Owen with the knife and lunged for the open door. He ran outside, his heavy boots thudding down the stairs. Celia dropped to Owen’s side. She felt for his arm and found warm, sticky blood, a great quantity of it. The assailant had sliced through more than just the boy’s arm.
“Owen?” she said, wishing she could see more than the dim outline of his face and the darkening pool spreading across the floor. No. No!
Overhead, footsteps pounded along the hallway and down the staircase.
“Addie! Addie, come quick! To the kitchen,” she shouted.
“I saved you, ma’am,” Owen said, gasping for breath. He attempted to sit up and slumped against her arm.
“Owen?” He did not respond. “Owen!”
Light bobbed through the dining room, and Addie rushed into the kitchen with a candle. “What’s happened?”
“He’s fainted, Addie.” Now that there was light in the room, Celia could see how badly Owen had been cut. There was a deep wound on his arm and across his chest as well. “Light the lantern in my examination room and gather my supplies.”
Addie hurried through the connecting door to the clinic, the desk lamp flaring inside.
“You were very foolish, Owen,” Celia said, gathering the hem of her petticoat and pressing it to the gash in his arm. The cotton quickly turned red.
Addie returned and gathered Owen’s legs while Celia clambered to her feet and lifted his shoulders. Together, they carried him to the clinic, Owen’s blood trickling to the floor, and lowered him as gently as possible to the examination bench.
Addie collected what Celia required. “Your carbolic, ma’am. And your silk thread and needle,” she said, handing the items over. She held the lantern aloft. “Oh, poor wee bairn. What have you gone and done, Owen Cassidy?”
“He saved me, Addie.” Tears pooling in her eyes, Celia swabbed the wounds with the carbolic solution. “He saved me,” she said, threading the needle and starting to sew.
• • •
“You were damned lucky,” said Nick, staring at Mrs. Davies, who was scrubbing blood off the oilcloth-covered floor of her kitchen, seemingly every lantern she owned called into service to illuminate the room.
Earlier that evening, they hadn’t been able to pin anything on Wagner and had been forced to let him go once again. And by the time Nick had finished interrogating the boy who’d earlier assaulted Mrs. Davies and her cousin, along with the kid’s father, and drawn up assault charges, it had gotten late.
He’d gone to Celia Davies’ anyway, even though he’d been in a foul mood, because he’d made her a promise. His mood had gone from foul to panicked when he’d been forced to pound on the front door to get anybody to open it. By the time Addie Ferguson had shown him into the house, Mrs. Davies had just finished stitching up a scruffy Irish boy while a hysterical Barbara Walford sobbed from her perch on the staircase.
The watcher had finally escalated his attacks from cryptic messages and disemboweled rats to a direct assault. And Nick hadn’t been there to stop the man. He could’ve lost Celia, too.
“I am aware of how fortunate we are, Mr. Greaves,” said Mrs. Davies, dipping the rag into a wooden bucket, the water inside red with Owen Cassidy’s blood.
Addie Ferguson dumped a second bucket of water into the corner sink. “’Twas Owen who saved us,” she said with a frown, pumping the tap handle until fresh water splashed into the bucket. “And now he’s upstairs, clinging to life!”
“He should recover, Addie,” Mrs. Davies said, the rag swirling across the floor. But to Nick she didn’t sound all that certain.
“You need to move to the hotel in the morning, ma’am,” he said. “That fellow tried to kill you. He might try again.”
“That was my intention, but now I cannot leave Owen.”
“Then bring him with you.”
“He lost too much blood and is very weak.” She gazed at the damp encircling where she knelt. Blood had splattered everywhere, and a trail of it led through a nearby doorway. The iron pan Mrs. Davies had used to thump her assailant on the head lay against the baseboard where she’d dropped it. The Cassidy kid was asleep in an upstairs bedroom, probably resting in a soft bed for the first time in years, Barbara Walford assigned the task of sitting watch over him.
“It appears Owen also bruised several ribs when he fell against the table there,” she said. “It would be dangerous to move him now. I simply will not consider doing so.”
“Then pay somebody you trust to watch him,” he said. Why in hell did she insist on being so stubborn? “You’ve got to leave this house and go someplace safe until we catch the man who assaulted you!”
Celia Davies looked over at him. Her pale eyes were red rimmed, and strands of hair straggled down one side of her face. The boy’s blood was a rusty streak across her skirt and on her cheek where she’d accidentally wiped some. Her attacker had
left a bruise along her chin. He’d kill the man. Honest to God, he’d kill the man.
“You do not need to shout at me, Mr. Greaves,” she said with more calm than he was feeling. “There is no one I trust to tend to Owen. He saved my life, and now I shall save his. It is plain and simple.”
“’Tis no use trying to change her mind, Detective,” tutted Addie, sounding resigned to her mistress’s pigheadedness.
Nick drew in a deep breath and then released it. “At least tell me what you remember about your assailant, ma’am.”
“All right.” Mrs. Davies dropped the rag into the bucket and moved to stand. Nick helped her to her feet. “I cannot recall much. It was dark in the kitchen. Far too dark to see.”
Her housekeeper moaned. “’Tis my fault. I must have forgotten to lock the door afore I went to bed.”
“You did not forget, Miss Ferguson,” Nick said. “The door was forced.” The lock on the side gate had been broken as well, the hasp yanked off the hinge.
“Perhaps that was the sound that woke me, then,” said Mrs. Davies.
“Can you remember anything about the man?” Nick asked. “His height, weight? Any smells that might suggest a line of work? What about his clothes?”
She mulled over his questions. “He was taller than me, given that when he struck my head with his, he hit the crown of my head. It seemed he was stocky, but that might have been the thickness of his clothing. He did not speak, so I cannot tell you what his voice was like, or if he had an accent of any sort. As for aromas . . . the smell of a cigar was distinct. And alcohol. Also, he wore heavy boots. I heard them against the floor.”
“He had to be the man who’s left the notes and that rat, Detective Greaves,” said her housekeeper.
“There will also be a sizable bruise on his forehead from where I struck him, Detective.” Mrs. Davies’ glance took in both him and Miss Ferguson. “If the bruise does not identify him, I do not know what will. I only wish I’d landed a better blow and knocked him senseless.”
“Taylor and I will visit everybody we’ve come to suspect and see if they have signs of the injury you caused,” he said. He pushed away from the table he’d been leaning against and gathered his hat. He pointed it at her. “And, Mrs. Davies, if you still refuse to go to a hotel, then don’t even think of leaving this house until I’ve caught the man.”
She didn’t blink or cringe. Worse, she didn’t agree. He could tell she wasn’t going to listen to him. Damned woman.
“He attacked me in my own kitchen, Mr. Greaves. Which makes me question if there is much difference between the security of the street and that of my home,” she replied soberly. “If I am called to tend to a patient, I shall leave.”
He slapped his hat atop his head. “Then, go buy a gun.” He turned to the housekeeper, her mouth agape. “Don’t let her out of your sight. You got it?”
“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Greaves,” she said, which didn’t sound like much of a promise at all.
• • •
“How is he?”
Celia looked up to see Barbara standing in the doorway to her father’s bedchamber, her fringed shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“I am glad to see you looking better this morning, Barbara.”
Celia placed Owen’s bandaged arm beneath the covers and considered his sleeping face, the long lashes on his closed eyes, the freckles sprayed across his nose and sallow cheeks. His forehead glistened with sweat and his pulse raced, but his condition had greatly improved from last night. After Mr. Greaves had departed, Celia had been able to feed Owen some broth, but the lad had taken only a few sips before falling back asleep.
Celia stood to leave the room. “As for Owen, his wounds have not become inflamed, so that is good news. But he is still very weak.”
“So you won’t leave him,” Barbara said.
“No.” She shut the door and considered her cousin. “I sent a note to the Palmers first thing this morning asking if you can stay with them. Elizabeth has already responded that since Emmeline has been feeling better lately, she will send someone to collect you this afternoon.”
“Oh. The Palmers.” Barbara’s grip on the shawl tightened.
“I thought you would be happy to go to them.”
“Yes, because I’m sure he wouldn’t hurt me . . .” She blanched and looked away.
“He? Who do you mean, Barbara?”
“The watcher, of course.” She tried to smile. “I’m tired, and I have a headache. I think I’ll go back to bed for a while.”
She tried to walk off, but Celia grabbed her arm and halted her. “You do not mean the watcher, Barbara. You mean someone else in particular.”
“You’re hurting me, Cousin. Let go.”
“All along, you have known something critical and held back,” Celia accused her. “I was nearly killed last night, Barbara. You cannot have wanted that to happen.”
“He wouldn’t do that!”
“Who, Barbara? Who? You must tell me!”
Barbara was trembling. “I thought I saw him. The night Li Sha died. When he wasn’t supposed to be in town . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Days ago, Barbara had mentioned someone being out of town . . . Mr. Palmer. That was whom she’d mentioned. Her cousin had even asked Celia if she knew if he was back after attending to business outside the city.
“You mean Mr. Palmer, don’t you? Elizabeth told us he was looking at farm property the night Li Sha died and did not return until Tuesday.” But here was Barbara saying quite the opposite. “Did you see him, though?”
“I can’t be certain. It was late—we were returning from the society meeting and I was upset because of the ladies. You remember. But I looked out the carriage window and I thought I saw him riding along Kearney. His roan horse is so distinctive. But it couldn’t have been him, could it? Mrs. Palmer wouldn’t lie about her husband being away from the city. So I’ve got to be wrong, don’t you think?” Barbara asked, wanting Celia’s reassurance of his innocence. She could hardly give it. “Besides, he didn’t have any reason to hurt Li Sha.”
“Not one that we understand.” Celia could think of a possible reason, however, and it involved the baby Li Sha had been carrying. Although Dora had been certain the child was Tom’s.
“But the Palmers were good to her,” continued Barbara. “Despite what she’d been, some fancy prostitute who got enough gifts to buy herself free. They paid for her funeral, after all.”
“If he is so innocent, then why did Mr. Palmer lie about his whereabouts?” Celia asked quietly.
“He didn’t lie. I must be wrong about seeing him. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. I knew you’d misunderstand.” Her cousin’s chin wobbled, and tears started in her eyes. “You’ve got everything all wrong, Cousin Celia. All wrong,” she cried, breaking free of Celia’s grip and rushing down the hallway as quickly as she could, seeking the solace of her room.
CHAPTER 16
Taylor intercepted Nick on his way to the station after another visit to Uhlfelder’s lodgings.
“Figured out why we haven’t seen hide nor hair of Ahearn, sir . . . Mr. Greaves,” said Taylor, trotting alongside. “And why he wasn’t at the meeting last night. For the past two days he’s been locked up in the Santa Cruz County calaboose for brawling. Don’t know what he was doing down thataways, but I guess it means he didn’t attack Mrs. Davies last night.”
“And he couldn’t have thrown that rat onto her porch Tuesday night, either,” said Nick, halting on the street outside city hall. “He still might’ve killed Tessie Lange, if she was murdered on Monday.”
“Suppose so.”
“What about Lange or Palmer?” Nick asked. “Have you had a chance to check on them?”
“Both of them were out earlier when I went looking for them. Lange’s neighbor says he’s at the undertaker, making arrangeme
nts for his daughter’s funeral. Palmer’s clerk claimed he was in a meeting too important to be interrupted. Consulting with our Mr. Douglass, apparently. But wasn’t there something in the paper about Palmer and his wife hobnobbing at a fancy party last night?”
“Which would mean he didn’t attack Mrs. Davies, if it’s true,” said Nick, tipping his hat to a pair of ladies strolling past.
“Guess not, sir,” said Taylor. “Did you talk to the saloonkeeper?”
“Uhlfelder was out as well, but his landlady saw him this morning. Not a bump or bruise on him.” One suspect down, too many to go.
“I’ll go find Lange,” said Nick. “What’s the latest on Wagner?” They might have released the man last night, but he was still a suspect.
“Wagner wasn’t at the customhouse this morning. His boss says he fired him last Friday. Apparently, Wagner was missing a lot of work, and his boss had had enough, but now they’re shorthanded. The man was hopping mad, needing to inventory some smuggled opium they’d apprehended off a merchant vessel fresh in from China. Something like two hundred or more five-tael boxes.” Taylor shook his head over the amount. With a one hundred percent tax on opium, there were plenty of people out to make money by sneaking it in beneath customs’ noses. “Wagner wasn’t at home, either. But his wife was there, as ready as ever to tell us he was with her last night after the meeting.”
“I’ll give her credit for being loyal.”
“Oh, and Eagan looked fine this morning when I saw him, sir,” added Taylor.
Two suspects down. But the mention of Eagan brought the Men’s Benevolent Association to mind.
“I keep wondering how many men are in that Monday night association, Taylor, and if the group includes our smuggler.” Now, that would give Eagan a reason to discourage Nick from investigating Palmer. “I need all their names.”
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