At the police wagon, Officer Mullahey said a few words to Emmeline, who looked over at Celia and Barbara before climbing up after her mother. Elizabeth reached for her daughter, but Emmeline shook off her mother’s hand and sat as far from Elizabeth as possible. Officer Mullahey took a seat up front, alongside the policeman who was driving.
“For how long were you aware of the relationship that had once existed between Mr. Palmer and Li Sha?” Celia asked Barbara as the wagon drove away.
“Do we have to talk about this now?” she asked, stepping out from beneath Celia’s protective clasp. “I’m tired.”
“It is time for there to be candor between us, Barbara.”
Her cousin bit her lower lip. “Li Sha told me about him and his gifts. I think it was right before last Christmas. She trusted me,” Barbara replied, making Li Sha’s faith sound misplaced. “Li Sha had a lock of hair from her dead sister, did you know?”
“I didn’t.”
“They came to San Francisco together, but her sister passed away within a month of their arrival. Mr. Palmer found out about the lock of hair and how much Li Sha treasured it. He bought that necklace for her—probably two or three years ago, now—just so she’d have a beautiful place to store her sister’s hair. He’s kind like that.”
Barbara’s face was shining; Celia realized it might be some time before her cousin saw Joseph Palmer for the man he really was.
“She’d sold all of her jewelry to pay off her debt to the brothel owner,” Barbara continued, “except for that locket. She’d never sell it. So when Mr. Greaves didn’t return it with her other belongings, I wondered if the murderer had taken it.”
“And that murderer could have been Mr. Palmer, Barbara,” said Celia, firmly. “But you decided to protect him anyway. You went too far.”
“I didn’t want to lose him.” Tears swam in Barbara’s eyes. “He’s the only man who’s been kind to me, Cousin Celia, besides Papa.”
“He could never have replaced your father, Barbara, if that’s what you were hoping from him.” No one could replace Lloyd Walford, thought Celia, and that apparently included her. “You should have realized that the moment you learned he’d been lying.”
Chastened, Barbara dropped her gaze and prodded at the gravel walkway with her toe.
Celia studied her cousin. “I was terrified when I found that note from Mr. Palmer in your room, Barbara. I thought it meant he’d lured you to a meeting in hopes of hurting you.”
“He never showed up. And then Elizabeth saw me and I had to go with her, since I couldn’t explain what I was really doing in Union Square. He wouldn’t have hurt me, though. I know he wouldn’t have,” she declared, and turned away.
Rose, who’d been standing near the gate, walked over to them. “What should I do now, ma’am?”
“We should wait until Detective Greaves returns with news of Mr. Palmer to decide that, Rose,” Celia answered, worried by the delay in his arrival. “It should not be long.”
“Aye, ma’am,” Rose replied. “But I’ll not be stayin’ in that house another night. Not where there’s been a murder!”
The maid turned briskly on her heel and strode back to the house.
Celia squinted up the road and spotted a swirl of dust coming off a horse’s hooves. She shielded her eyes with her hand. It was him. She ran to the gate. His face was grim, and there was blood on his sleeve.
“What happened?” she asked as he reined in his mount.
“Is Mr. Palmer okay?” asked Barbara, hurrying over to join Celia.
“Palmer’s fine, Miss Walford.” Mr. Greaves stared down at Celia from the saddle. “I found the man who attacked you, Mrs. Davies. Wagner. But I’m sorry to say I didn’t kill him.”
“I know you, Mr. Greaves. You are too good a man to take justice into your own hands.”
He pressed a hand to his wound and let a grin lift a corner of his mouth. “For him, ma’am, I might’ve made an exception.”
• • •
“You may stop cringing, Mr. Greaves,” said Mrs. Davies, apparently doing everything she could not to laugh at him outright. She’d spotted the blood on his sleeve and marched him into the Palmers’ kitchen to tend to his arm.
She made another swipe across his bullet wound with the concoction she’d found among the Palmers’ store of medications. Whatever the stuff was, it hurt like hell.
“I’ll stop cringing as soon as you’re done torturing me,” he said.
Smiling, Mrs. Davies tossed the rag into the nearby kitchen sink and set about placing a linen compress over the wound. She then wrapped a strip of cotton around his arm to hold the compress in place. The brush of her fingers against his skin warmed him in a way that wasn’t proper.
“At least I did not have to take you back to the clinic in order to use my bullet forceps,” she said. She’d not only been doing a good job of not laughing at him; she’d also been doing a good job of keeping her eyes fixed on his injury and away from his bare chest. “We shall be thankful Mr. Wagner is not a better marksman, and the ball passed cleanly through the muscle.” She surveyed her handiwork. “That should hold you for now, but you should visit your physician as soon as possible to cleanse the wound more thoroughly. I would not care for you to survive a shooting only to perish from inflammation.”
“Neither would I, ma’am.”
“And you may put your shirt back on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He slipped it on, bloodstained sleeve and all, and buttoned it up. He watched her as she returned the bottle of antiseptic to the pantry shelf. “You took a foolhardy risk coming here alone, Mrs. Davies.”
She’d made him worry more than he liked.
“I thought my cousin was in danger, Mr. Greaves. Her safety was worth the risk,” she said, collecting the squares of linen she’d instructed the Palmers’ maid to cut for compresses. “What I do not understand is why Joseph Palmer ever took up with a man like Mr. Wagner.”
“They’ve known each other since the war. Served together, apparently,” said Nick, putting his vest on over the shirt. Palmer had been willing to talk, probably hoping that if he confessed everything, he’d shoulder less blame. “When Wagner moved to San Francisco, they resumed a partnership that had begun back then. Liquor smuggling.”
Mrs. Davies pressed the squares of linen she’d been stacking to her chest. “Surely Mr. Palmer did not need the money.”
“Some men are simply greedy. And some men enjoy the thrill of operating outside the law. And some men enjoy both,” he explained. “Taylor’s combing through Palmer’s warehouse for evidence of the extent of the operation, which also included smuggling opium. Some of which went to Hubert Lange, who made a small profit when he sold the untaxed opium to his customers.”
“I trusted Herbert Lange.” She shook her head. “No wonder he has been acting so strangely. He must have thought Mr. Wagner killed Li Sha and would come for him next.”
“I think at first Lange believed Ahearn was responsible. Just like we did.”
A smile darted over her lips. “We, Mr. Greaves?”
He inclined his head. “I think it wasn’t until Tessie disappeared that Lange really began to suspect Wagner, whom Lange knew by the name of Roddy. Lange must have realized his daughter had learned about the smuggling.”
“Is that why she was killed?” she asked.
“She tried to pay Wagner to stop involving her father,” he said. “Her efforts got her killed.”
“And I suppose he sent us those warnings for some reason.” She was squeezing the scraps of linen as if she wanted to choke them. “And set those boys on us.”
“From what I’ve learned, the boys who attacked you had nothing to do with Wagner. He was responsible, though, for the rest, including the knot on my head,” Nick said. “Finding Li Sha’s body, and seeing that she’d been murdered, made him jumpy. E
vidently, both he and Palmer had been her customers at one time. Wagner must’ve thought we’d find out about that—not that I’ve ever met a brothel owner who’d tell a cop the name of a client—and start nosing around them in connection to the murder. By the way, it seems Wagner was the customer who assaulted Li Sha last year.”
“It all comes around in a circle, Mr. Greaves, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” He grabbed the squares of fabric from Mrs. Davies’ hands before she shredded them, and set them aside. “Wagner’s wife gave him an alibi for the evening Li Sha died, and he must have thought he was in the clear until you spotted him with Lange one day and he got panicky all over again.”
Good old Lange. Taylor was probably at his store right then to take him into custody.
“I do recall seeing a man talking with Mr. Lange the day after I went to Mr. Massey’s with you,” said Mrs. Davies. “But I thought nothing of their interaction. Mr. Wagner had no cause to threaten me.”
“I’d say Wagner’s not a reasonable man.”
Nick stood to gingerly pull on his coat, then leaned a hip against the table. From the direction of the parlor came Miss Walford’s voice, thanking the maid for the tea she’d brought to the girl.
Mrs. Davies heard her cousin’s voice, too. “Barbara is not blameless. Foolish child.”
“She’ll have to answer questions, ma’am, but I doubt the magistrate will charge her with a crime. He’ll probably just give her a stern lecture. It would’ve been different if Palmer had actually murdered Li Sha or if your cousin had known about the smuggling.”
“I do not think she did, but after all the mistruths my cousin has spun lately, I make no guarantees,” she said. “Do you think that if Barbara had admitted she’d known that Mr. Palmer was in San Francisco on that Monday night . . . wait. Why was he in town that night?”
“He was in Chinatown enjoying the sights,” Nick answered with a smirk. “He didn’t want his wife to find out. He’d promised her he’d stay away from the prostitutes and the gambling houses. Apparently, he’s not good at keeping promises.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Davies. “But what I need to know, Mr. Greaves, is do you think Tessie would still be alive if Barbara had told us right away that she’d seen Mr. Palmer the night Li Sha was murdered?”
Here she was, asking him again to tell her she couldn’t have prevented what had happened. “I have no way of knowing, ma’am. I wish I could say I did. It’s best not to think you’re to blame, though.”
And isn’t that hypocritical, he told himself, telling somebody else not to feel guilty?
“I shall try, but I will make no guarantees about that, either.” She gazed at him. “At least tell me that Mr. Palmer did not know of Mr. Wagner’s plans to come to my house. I can see how Mr. Palmer might be greedy, but I cannot see that he would wish me harm.”
“From what I overheard, he didn’t know of Wagner’s threats.”
She drew in a long breath and let it slowly out again. “It is all over, isn’t it, Mr. Greaves?”
“It’s all over but the shouting, Mrs. Davies,” he said.
“I believe that means yes?”
Nick grinned. “Yes, ma’am. It sure does.”
CHAPTER 18
Celia stared out the window of the hired carriage as it rattled along Stockton and passed the lovely Grace Cathedral, its tall lancet-arched windows glimmering in the sunlight. Outside the grand brick home next door, an ice wagon had paused to make a delivery. She watched the man lugging a block through the servants’ access door cut into the six-foot-tall retaining wall that held up the front yard. Another normal day for the iceman, life proceeding as it ever did, without pause or reflection upon a tragedy that had left two women dead, one with an unborn child, and a family destroyed.
The service door closed behind the iceman, and Celia lifted her gaze to the church’s bell tower, soaring into the overcast sky. The world might forget Li Sha, might not care at all about a reformed Chinese prostitute, but Celia would not forget her. Nor would she ever again marvel at how vast and deep and dark were the many secrets the human heart could hide. They were plentiful. And frightening.
The road descended and they left the church behind.
“Are we almost home?” Barbara asked, rousing, covering her yawn with a hand. She had dozed for most of the ride, leaving Celia alone with her thoughts.
“A few more blocks.”
“Thank goodness, because I’m so exhausted,” her cousin said and yawned again. She slid a glance at Celia. “Did Detective Greaves say what will happen with the Palmers?”
“Elizabeth will likely be tried for manslaughter, since he believes the magistrate will consider Li Sha’s death to be a crime of passion and not premeditated,” Celia explained, recalling what he’d told her. “If so, Elizabeth will not hang if she is found guilty. Emmeline’s fate will rest on whether, given her youth and frailty, the magistrate believes she is fully responsible for her actions.”
“I hope he’s lenient. I like Em.”
“I know you do,” said Celia. “I do wonder where she will go, however, if she is released but both of her parents remain in jail for any length of time.”
“Maybe she can come and stay with us,” Barbara suggested. “Until everything is settled.”
Emmeline Palmer in their house? A girl who had played a part in Li Sha’s murder? Celia felt sorry for Emmeline, but she was not ready to forgive her.
“I expect she has family that will want to take her in,” Celia said sternly, and saw that Barbara understood she wouldn’t back down on the subject.
“Do you think Mr. Palmer will be in jail long?” Barbara asked quietly.
“He is an accessory to their crime, and he also helped smuggle goods into the city,” Celia answered. “I expect he will be charged accordingly, but I don’t know what that will mean for him.”
“Oh.” Barbara leaned into the corner of the carriage and stared down at her hands, pressed flat upon her lap. “Where do you think Li Sha wanted to go with the money she was looking for?”
“Back to China, perhaps.” Celia glanced out the carriage window as they turned up Vallejo. “I doubt, though, she ever would have made it home.”
Not a young Chinese woman alone and without protection. She likely would have found herself a victim again, returned to the sort of life she had escaped in Chinatown.
“That peculiar Madame Philippe guessed right,” said Barbara, “when she told us there were two different people involved and that a close acquaintance had killed Li Sha. And I was so worried that she would mention Mr. Palmer.”
“Now that we know what happened, I would hardly call either Elizabeth or Emmeline Palmer close acquaintances.” Their culpability explained why they had been so eager to pay for Li Sha’s funeral. “And, Barbara, why don’t we both agree never to mention the Palmers again?”
Barbara nodded and appeared contrite. “I’m sorry. I truly am. I know I made a mistake.”
“I accept your apology, Barbara. And please, the next time . . .” Please, God, let there not be a next time. “Come to me immediately, all right?”
“Yes, Cousin.”
Their house came into view, and the cab slowed.
Addie, watching anxiously from the porch for their return, sped down the stairs. “You’re alive!” she exclaimed.
“And unhurt, Addie.” Celia climbed down and helped Barbara to the curb.
Her housekeeper crushed Celia in an embrace. “Dinna ever do anything so foolish again, ma’am.”
“I shall try not to,” she answered, her voice muffled by the sleeves of Addie’s dress.
Addie released Celia and set her at arm’s length. “Weel, you can be certain I’ll be asking Madame Philippe what are the chances you’ll be staying out of trouble. Now that you’re friends with that detective.”
Celia
smiled. She would expect the chances were not good.
• • •
“You are looking better, Owen,” said Celia the next afternoon, pushing wide the door and stepping inside the chamber where he sat propped up in bed. Owen looked tiny, swamped by an old nightshirt that had belonged to Barbara’s father, the massive carved walnut headboard rising like a wood leviathan behind his back. He needed a good head-to-toe scrub, but that could wait.
“Don’t hurt so bad.” Owen patted the bandage covering the upper half of his arm. Another bandage, hidden by the nightshirt, covered his side. “But I’m dreadful tired. D’you think you could send Addie up here with some more broth?”
“I will most certainly do that,” Celia promised, and sat on the bed.
“Addie told me they caught the fellow.”
“Mr. Wagner has been charged with murdering Tessie Lange.” That, among other crimes, which included assaulting Celia with intent to commit murder.
“I woulda been able to tell the cops where he lived, if he hadn’t given me the slip.”
“So you were the boy I saw trailing him the other night,” she said.
“That was me.” Owen peered at the bruises on her face. “But I spotted him again Wednesday night and followed him here. I tried to stop him from hurting you, ma’am, but he was too big for me to knock down.”
Celia touched Owen’s hand, resting atop the coverlet. “You saved my life. At considerable cost to yourself.”
“Takes more’n a couple knife cuts to keep Owen Cassidy down!” he exclaimed. “But I am right sorry about that whole thing with Miss Barbara. That bunch were worthless. They got it into their heads it’d be fun to beat up some Chinese. Shoulda figured they weren’t kidding. Miss Barbara, she just came along at the wrong time.” He picked at a loose thread poking up from the weave in the blue-and-white coverlet. “I ran off to find the police, but then I started thinking they’d blame me for being with that bunch and I’d get put in jail. So I turned tail and ran. I’m sorry, Mrs. Davies. That was chickenhearted of me.”
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