No Comfort for the Lost

by Nancy Herriman

  “You are no coward, Owen Cassidy. And I am proud of you.”

  The eyes he lifted to her were full of happiness. “And I’m gonna get Addie a husband. Just you wait and see!”

  “I believe she is interested in that fellow who delivers meat from the Washington Market.” Although, for all that Addie spoke about urgently wanting a husband, she didn’t act eager to claim one.

  “Him?” Owen scoffed. “You mean the one who’s always grinning at folks?”

  “You could describe the man that way.”

  “Pshaw, he’s not half as good as my mates,” declared Owen. “I mean, my mates that don’t try to beat up Chinese folks, that is. I ain’t with them anymore, ma’am,” he added solemnly. “I promise.”

  “Oh, Owen.” She leaned down to hug him close.

  His injuries made him squirm only a little.

  • • •

  “Ahearn’s back in town, sir.” Taylor closed the detectives’ office door behind him, and Nick heard him settle into his usual chair. “He made a visit here to point out how wrong we were about suspecting him. Mullahey gave him an earful.”

  Outside, clouds hung low, and a spurt of sandy dust rattled across the street, spooking a cab horse waiting on the corner. Nick had made his report to Eagan that morning, and Tom Davies had been freed within half an hour. Meanwhile, both of the Palmers had returned home, two of Mr. Palmer’s business partners—loyal men who’d soon be going down with that sinking ship—having posted bond the minute the magistrate had leveled charges. Joseph Palmer had been charged with violating revenue laws as well as being an accessory after the fact for concealing his family’s role in Li Sha’s death. His wife had received a manslaughter charge, and not the involuntary kind. The judge hadn’t been impressed by her pleas that she had been defending her daughter against the attacks of an unarmed, pregnant Chinese girl.

  The lawyers, however, had yet to get ahold of her case. God only knew, the woman might still walk free.

  As for Emmeline, given her age, poor health, and repeated dosing with laudanum, the judge had decided she was of weak mind, weaker than her fourteen years. He had decided not to charge her as an accomplice and had let her go.

  Nick shoved away from the window and turned to face Taylor. “Did Harris think the knife we found on Wagner could have been used on Tessie Lange?”

  “Yep, he thinks it’s possible,” said Taylor. “And I’m convinced Wagner’s boots match the prints at Mrs. Davies’ house. He even likes to smoke the occasional cigar, courtesy of Mr. Joseph Palmer’s supply.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Wagner won’t be going back on the confession he gave you, especially since his wife’s singing a new tune about where he was all those evenings.”

  “Good work, Taylor.” There would be justice for Tessie. He should feel better about the outcome, but Nick had learned that the satisfaction of successfully closing a case never lasted long.

  I’m trying, Meg. I’m trying to make it up to you.

  Taylor was grinning over the compliment. “Mullahey brought Uhlfelder in this morning, too. Caught him trying to board a steamer headed for points north,” he said. “He knew, all right, that Roddy’s real name was Wagner. He’d met him at one of the Men’s Benevolent Association meetings. Wish he’d decided to share that bit of news with us.”

  Nick hadn’t been able to get Captain Eagan to admit that he’d ever suspected Palmer and Wagner and Uhlfelder, fellow members of that association, of being criminals. Maybe Eagan hadn’t.

  With apologies to his uncle Asa, who’d practically worshiped the captain, Nick would be keeping an eye on Dennis Eagan from here on out.

  “And you were right to be suspicious about Palmer, sir,” Taylor went on. He’d discovered false-bottom barrels in Palmer’s warehouse, their only purpose to conceal contraband. “Once Lange’s done squealing on Palmer to try to save his own neck, and Palmer’s finished doing time, he’s gonna have to skedaddle for sure. He won’t have a lick of reputation left.”

  “I got distracted by Ahearn, though,” said Nick, massaging the old ache in his left arm. “That was a mistake.”

  “Well, in the end we found Li Sha’s killers and got the men responsible for Tessie Lange’s death, sir . . . Mr. Greaves. Sir.”

  All’s well that ends well. Wasn’t that something Shakespeare had written? Nick decided he’d have to ask Celia Davies.

  He considered his assistant. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Taylor? I think we both deserve a break.”

  “But I’ve got that jewelry-theft case to look into for the captain.”

  “Well, get on with it, then.” Nick lifted his hat off the office’s oak hat rack. “But if anybody asks, I’m taking the rest of the day off. I’ve got a visit to make.”

  “To Mrs. Davies?” asked Taylor, winking.

  “Yes,” he confirmed. Why not admit it? “To Mrs. Davies.”

  • • •

  Celia stepped onto the porch just as a wagon trundled up and stopped behind the hack she’d sent for.

  Excellent timing. “Addie, there is a delivery here for us. Please attend to it,” she called through the open front door.

  Addie, wiping her hands on her apron, walked into the vestibule. “A delivery?”

  “Yes. From that butcher’s stall at the market. Doran’s.”

  “What?” Addie strode out onto the porch. Her brows shot up her forehead as she stared at the wagon. “You’re having us get meat from the grinning galoot now?”

  The man in question turned toward the house at that moment and, with a tip of his cap, grinned broadly. At least, thought Celia, he looked to have all of his teeth.

  “Good morning, Miss Ferguson!” he called out.

  “What have you done, ma’am?” Addie asked, her hands a whirlwind of agitation across her apron.

  “I have given your husband hunting a nudge, Addie,” she replied, descending the steps toward the hack. “And have him come around to the back, please.”

  “Aye, ma’am, but . . . but, ma’am!” Addie cried.

  “Good day,” said Celia to the deliveryman. “Mr. . . .”

  “Michael Knowles,” he replied, tipping his cap again. Actually, he wasn’t bad looking at all.

  Up on the porch, Addie scowled down at them. Celia chuckled, gave the hack driver the name of her destination, and climbed aboard. She set down the bouquet of tulips that she’d received from the garden of an apologetic Mrs. Douglass. The chairwoman might never recover from the revelation that her husband had attended Men’s Benevolent Association meetings with three criminals. Celia leaned against the cushions with a contented smile. As the carriage wheeled away, she heard Addie bellowing instructions at Mr. Knowles. Perhaps not the best way to begin a romance, but not the worst way, either.

  • • •

  “Driver, I shall only be a few minutes,” Celia said to the man.

  He nodded and tugged his hat down over his eyes, propped his boots on the dashboard, and proceeded to snooze.

  Celia opened the gate and walked toward the Chinese section of the cemetery. She stopped before the nearby grave that had been dug just a few days ago.

  She turned her back to the city sprawling over the low hills beneath Lone Mountain, to the bay and its ships, to the lands looming beyond the water. A small wooden headstone, painted white, marked the head of the plot and already tilted slightly in the sandy ground, as though it had been hastily and carelessly placed. Celia straightened it and read the brief inscription. Li Sha. Friend. And the date of her death. Nothing more, but what else was there to say?

  “I have brought you flowers,” she said, resting the tulips atop the grave’s bare earth. They were a lovely mix of yellows and reds. “And a few pieces of Addie’s wonderful shortbread. It is a tradition for your people to bring offerings of food, I believe.”

  She retrieved the ca
refully wrapped shortbread from her reticule and set it next to the flowers. “You should have come to me for the money, Li Sha.”

  But perhaps the girl had sensed that Celia, knowing the futility of any attempt to flee, would have succeeded in talking her out of leaving San Francisco. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to explain to Celia why she needed to leave in the first place—because Tom, Celia’s own brother-in-law, possessed an abusive streak that Celia had never suspected.

  Patrick’s brother was not a murderer, though, and she could rest content in the assurance that she’d done what she could to clear his name.

  Celia smiled down at the grave. “I shall come back every year, Li Sha, as your family would do if they were here to remember you. I shall come with offerings.”

  She would come because she could not visit the grave of her brother, Harry, who’d been buried thousands of miles away, outside of Sebastopol. And because she had no grave for Patrick, possibly drowned, possibly not, the weight of uncertainty a heavier burden on her than a confirmation of his death would have been.

  After a farewell, she turned and noticed the man waiting at the gate.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” said Detective Greaves when she reached him.

  “Your presence would not have disturbed me,” she answered truthfully.

  “Addie told me you were out here. I wanted to let you know that your brother-in-law has been released from jail.”

  “I wonder what Tom will do now,” she said. “I wonder if he will leave town.”

  “Probably,” he said. “For all its great size, San Francisco can be a small place. Too small to hide in.” He nodded toward Li Sha’s grave. “If the preachers are right and she can see us here on earth, ma’am, I’d guess that she’s pleased you’re honoring her.”

  “That is my wish, Mr. Greaves.” Celia gazed up at the face that had become so familiar to her. “I suppose this is good-bye for us.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, ma’am.”

  “Then I will see you again?” she asked, the question sounding needful, which she never wanted to seem.

  A strand of hair, loosened by the wind, fluttered against her cheek, and he tucked it behind her ear. The touch of his fingers made her shiver.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Davies,” he answered with a lazy smile. “To quote a blond-haired Englishwoman we both know—you’re not going to be rid of me so easily.”

  He tapped fingertips to the brim of his flat-crowned hat and strode off toward his waiting horse.

  Leaving her to smile after him.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  On the morning of February 12, 1867, a “disgraceful riot in San Francisco” occurred, as the headline in the Sacramento Daily Union blared two days later. On that day, approximately thirty Chinese workers were grading lots in the South Beach area when they were attacked by a gang of white laborers. Predominantly Irish and unemployed, the laborers blamed the Chinese for taking their jobs. When the police finally quelled the riot, dozens of Chinese workers had been severely beaten and the shacks they’d erected to live in had been burned to the ground. Justice was swift, and each rioter was fined five hundred dollars and sentenced to ninety days in jail. Rather than discouraging further hostile acts, however, the men’s punishment added fuel to the fire, and the Anti-Coolie Association sprang to life. In the coming years, the violence would swell far beyond riots.

  Anti-Chinese sentiment had been riding high for years before that February day in 1867, and the Irish weren’t the only ones who resented the Chinese presence in California. The meeting that took place at the American Theater in early March, which called for the cessation of Chinese immigration, was only one of many meetings that would follow. Ordinances and laws against the Chinese culminated in the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. For the first time in United States history, a federal law prohibited immigration based upon ethnicity. Although the law was ultimately repealed in 1943, negative attitudes toward the Chinese would take far longer to subside.

  My descriptions of the city and of the Chinese quarter are based on descriptions from the time; not every observer was a reliable one, however, and prejudices of the period color the accounts given. The snippets of the speech given at the American Theater were taken from a report in the Sacramento Daily Union. Also, for the bits of Cantonese dialogue included in the book, I have chosen to use the spellings found in John Chalmers’ 1907 English and Cantonese Dictionary. Interpretations have changed over time. Lastly, whereas the majority of the characters in this book are fictional, Atkins Massey and Dr. Stephen Harris were real people. My characterization of these prominent citizens of San Francisco is my own creation, though.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I could not have written this book without the help and encouragement of many people. First off, I must thank the amazing editorial staff at New American Library, especially Ellen Edwards, who worked tirelessly to whip my manuscript into shape. Your insight made all the difference. Also, I have to thank my agent, Natasha Kern, who has weathered many a storm with me. You have my eternal gratitude for your sage advice and endless support. To my author sisters at Serious Writers—Donna, Jane, Pat, and Robin. Monthly desserts, laughter, and writing talk; what else could a girl ask for? Also, I extend my appreciation to Peter Leavell, historian and author, who cheerfully answered even my stupidest questions about the Civil War. I’m fortunate to call you a friend. And to Sarah Log, who aided my research of the Cantonese language. Any errors are mine and mine alone. Furthermore, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my critique partner, the fabulous author and former ER nurse whose medical expertise has saved my butt numerous times, Candace Calvert. You have been with me since the beginning and have kept me from quitting more times than I can count. I give thanks for you every day. Lastly, to my family—thank you for understanding why we’re ordering takeout for dinner again. Love you all.

  The grisly discovery of a decaying body in a cellar places Celia Davies’ young friend Owen in danger and draws Celia and police detective Nicholas Greaves into a complex murder investigation in the next intriging Mystery of Old San Francisco from Nancy Herriman,

  NO PITY FOR THE DEAD

  Available in print and e-book in August 2016.

  Read on for a brief excerpt . . .

  San Francisco, June 1867

  I’m in for it for sure. Dan and his buried treasure. Dang it all.

  Owen Cassidy glanced over at Dan as the lantern sent the man’s shadow dancing over the cellar wall. He didn’t know how long they’d been digging, but they were both down to their sweat-soaked shirtsleeves, and Dan had been cursing under his breath for at least the past quarter hour.

  Dan Matthews swore again as another hole revealed only sand and rocks and bits of broken construction rubble used to level the building lot. “Anything there yet, Cassidy?”

  “Nope,” Owen said.

  Soon. Dan would give up soon, and they could stop and pretend they’d never been looking for gold. It had to be soon. Owen was tired of breathing in the dust they’d stirred up, most of it from the coal heaped in the corner, and his left palm had an ugly blister that was sure to burst. Plus, he was scared that Mr. Martin would discover that two of the workers he’d hired to refurbish his offices had been down in the cellar poking around. They’d lose their jobs for sure.

  Worse still, if Mrs. Davies found out what he was doing, she’d scold the skin plumb off him. And Owen never wanted her mad at him. She was as close to a parent as he had left.

  “You sure Mr. Martin would bury gold down here?” Owen asked. “I mean, beneath his offices and all?”

  “Where better? His house, where some nosy maid might find it?” Dan replied. “Who’d ever come looking down here? And why do you think he’s in an all-fired hurry to have this cellar bricked over, when it’s been fine as it is for so long, huh? ’Cause he wants his money covered over for safekeeping and none the wiser, that’s
why.”

  Dan sealed his commentary with a nod. It did make sense. Sort of.

  And then it happened. If only Owen hadn’t shifted to his right and begun a new hole.

  The sound his shovel made was suddenly very different from the clang of metal on stone. “Dan?”

  Dan almost fell in his haste to reach Owen’s side. “You’ve found it!” he crowed. “It’s old Jasper Martin’s bag of gold!”

  He dropped to his hands and knees and started clawing at the ground, forgetting about his own shovel in his haste to reach the wealth he was certain they’d found.

  “What the . . .” Dan drew back, his face going as white as a lady’s fine handkerchief. “Shit!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “Why won’t he leave me be?”

  “Who, Dan? What?” Owen asked, trying to get a look past the man’s broad shoulders. He couldn’t believe what he saw peeking around the peeled-back edge of a length of oilcloth.

  Owen felt his stomach churn, and he clapped a hand to his mouth. Because what he saw sure did look like a blackened, rotting arm.

  “Shit!” Dan shouted for good measure before bolting for the steps, Owen hard on his heels.

  • • •

  “Mrs. Kelly, you must stay off your feet if you do not want this baby to come too soon.”

  Celia Davies sat back, the cane-seated chair creaking beneath her, and clasped the hand of the woman grimacing on the bed. Maryanne Kelly’s skin was clammy and her pulse rapid. In the adjacent room, the Kellys’ infant bawled, adding to the tension. Twelve months since that child had been born and already another was on the way, and more quickly than it should have been.

  “But I’ve nobody to help, Mrs. Davies.” Maryanne pressed her lips together as beads of sweat popped on her upper lip. She’d been experiencing night pains off and on for the past week, and Celia worried for her and the baby. From what Celia’s examinations had revealed, the fetus was small and not particularly energetic; an early birth might threaten the child’s survival.