“None of your business,” he replied, primly.
“I noticed a definite spring in your step, but I couldn’t account for it, until now.” Never mind that Riot had been sitting down when Tim first walked in. A point he nearly voiced, but stilled his tongue—it would likely steer the conversation into uncomfortable waters.
Tim removed a small tool from his pocket and began scraping out his pipe into the wastebasket. “And it is my business,” the old man murmured, sullenly. “I won’t be around forever.”
The quiet words seemed louder than a shout. Riot eyed the top of his friend’s wrinkled pate with concern, but Tim appeared ornery as ever. “What does your age have to do with Bel and me?”
“Because every detective needs a partner.” There was an emphasis on the last word.
“Maybe I’ll get a cat,” Riot quipped. “Besides, you have plenty of years left in you.”
“By whose count?” huffed Tim.
“Your own. You never did learn how to add properly.”
“That tongue of yours will get you into trouble, boy.”
“Far too late for that.”
16
A Woman's Mind
ATTICUS RIOT STOOD IN the upper-story rooms where a hopeful couple had once lived. He was surrounded with touches of life: a framed flower, hand-stitched details on the tablecloth, a souvenir from Sutro Baths—all gone cold. Death lurked under the pleasant facade, and today, Riot’s old friend smelt acrid. Sharp bile mingled with blood and an overpowering attempt to scour the smell with lye.
“What time did the woman call on Elma?” Riot asked the landlady.
Mrs. Fleet was a kindly woman, a widow of his own age, with plump cheeks and a sturdy disposition.
“A bit before noon,” Mrs. Fleet answered.
“How long did this caller remain?”
Mrs. Fleet sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I left, you see. Three times a week, I meet with my knitting circle.”
“Were visitors rare?”
“Very,” the woman said. “Hardly any at all, aside from the occasional client who hired her for stitch work. She was a lovely girl.”
“Were you close?” he asked, gently.
“I wouldn’t say close, but we got along amiably. I think it’s important to give boarders privacy, especially the newly-wedded, so I let them be as much as possible. Elma was a nurse, that much I know. Used to talk about some of her patients. She worked at Cooper Hospital here in the city.”
“Do you know why she quit working as a nurse?”
“It’s not proper for a woman to work when she’s married,” Mrs. Fleet lectured. “Elma may have attended nursing school, but I’m sure it was only until she could secure a husband.”
This naturally led into his next line of questioning. “Did Elma seem happy with Mr. Dunham?”
Mrs. Fleet smiled. “Mr. Bert has boarded with me for many years. He’s a dear, and she seemed happy with him. I never heard raised voices. Young love, you know.”
Riot did not precisely know, but he nodded anyway. And waited. There was an introspective look in the woman’s eye. He dared not disturb the forming thought.
“You know, there was something—it might not mean anything.”
“No detail is inconsequential,” Riot reassured.
“Elma was always keen on meeting the postman. Said it was to save me the trip. She’d sit in the bay window and wait. The slightest noises would startle her.”
“Did she ever receive letters?”
“I assume so.”
“Did you ever see one of the letters?”
“She was quite persistent.”
“About Elma’s visitor, the woman, what did she say precisely?”
“She asked if Elma was at home, and if she might speak with her. I asked after her name, and she simply said she was an old friend who wanted to surprise her, so I went and called Elma down.”
“And was Elma surprised?”
“She seemed puzzled, a bit wary, as if she didn’t recognize the visitor. The woman said, ‘Don’t you remember me? It’s Violet.’ I showed them into the parlor and offered to fetch tea, but the woman said she wouldn’t be long.”
“And Elma said nothing?”
“No, nothing at all, so I left them to their business.”
What Riot would not give for a nosey landlady. “Can you describe this woman?”
The questions continued, answers returned, until Riot had emptied the poor woman’s head of minutiae. The mysterious visitor began to take shape, matching Violet’s description: near to six feet tall, fine bones, reddish hair, pale green eyes, a high, stiff collar on a starched blouse, a short grey jacket and a matching walking skirt that brushed the ground. And a beaded handbag.
“And there was her brooch. It had a little flower on it.”
“A flower?”
“Yes, carved from the ivory.”
✥
Footsteps approached, and then stopped. Riot did not look up. The familiar heel to toe rock and scent of tobacco told him all he needed to know.
“Anything?” asked Tim.
“An eye full,” Riot drawled. “Elma’s journal details every progressive day and symptom of a woman with child. It’s a wonder women let us men anywhere near.”
“Don’t question divine providence.”
“All Elma wrote about, save for the last page, which was ripped out to pen her suicide note, was of her delicate condition.” Riot looked up from the page, casting his eye around the bedroom. “She seems a dedicated journalist, but this only starts when she discovered she was with child—a month after Bert and she were married, mind you.” Riot gently closed the leather bound book, and set it on the writing desk. “I found two other notable items.” He produced a slip of paper. It was a list of banks in the city. All crossed out. “Then there are these, likely left over from her nursing days.” Riot flipped open a nursing book and tapped a margin.
Tim peered at the neat notations. “C.T. 3:00 pm,” he read aloud. His face screwed up in confusion. “A lover?”
“Could be any number of things.”
Tim blew out a breath. “Yet another reason to recruit Miss Bel. She could help us decipher the mind of a woman.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Riot stated.
“It’s about time we hired a lady detective,” Tim persisted. “Pinkerton’s been employing women since the War. If it weren’t for Ravenwood and his damn prejudices, I’d have hired a few over the years.”
“Then ask her, Tim. I’m not going to stop you. I just won’t be the one to do it,” Riot said firmly. He turned to the room. “The clothes in the wardrobe and jewelry aren’t what I would expect of a woman who made a nurse’s wage. Her husband said she had those things when he married her.”
Tim scratched his head, squinting at the list of banks. “I can see a nurse nicking medicine for profit, but why have a list of crossed out banks?”
“That’s an excellent question.” Riot opened the next booklet, on the treatment and diagnosis of insanity. Symptoms were circled: staring, vacant eyes, headaches, hearing voices, hallucinations, hysterics, absence of menstruation, and the list went on. The words stung. According to the paragraph, Riot should have been locked up years ago.
“The rest of the book is neatly underlined, while these are circled.”
Tim squinted at the page. “Maybe Elma was worried about her friend Violet? From what you told me, she was already half-way to the mad house.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Tim rocked on his heels and looked around the room with the innocence of a child. “Not me, no sir.”
“Says here that denial is a main indicator.”
“Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.”
“Did the neighbors see anything?” asked Riot.
“There’s a charming gossip-monger across the way who saw the visitor. Claimed the woman had a limp, and came by a hack.”
Riot arched a brow. “I don’t suppos
e this neighborhood spy had a description of the hack?”
Blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “As if I’d tell you. You’ll have me scouring every single hack in the city.”
Riot waited.
“Yes, the old woman did,” Tim sighed. “Enough of a description to maybe find it. There aren’t many corpulent hackmen who wear a straw hat.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll telegram my person in the Union,” Tim said, scratching his beard in thought. “Might take awhile.”
“I have a few to send off myself.” Riot fished out his silver pocket watch, and consulted the hands. He closed it with a click. “You might find something in here that I missed. See if you can find anything out about that list of banks. I’ll stop by the brother’s residence today.”
“And the county hospital?”
“Tomorrow. I’ve an engagement tonight.”
“With Miss Bel?”
“Leave it, Tim.”
The old man gave a low whistle, and changed the subject. “It strikes me as odd that the husband knows so little about his wife. Even with a quick wedding, seems as though three months would be plenty of time to acquaint themselves.”
“Young love?”
Tim pinned him with an eye. “I’d wager a burning urge in the loins and the natural consequences.”
Riot glanced at the diary. “Two months of vomiting, constant urination, and mad cravings for salted beef, sardines, and licorice—mixed together.”
Tim displayed his gold teeth. “I was once holed up with a lady who had a constant craving for wood shavings.”
“No wonder the police were so quick to blame Elma’s suicide on hysteria,” Riot mused.
“But a woman with child doesn’t usually crave poison.”
“What happened to your lady friend?”
“Tired of me, packed her things, and moved to Oregon. Her son became a lumberjack.”
✥
“Fled you say?” Atticus Riot asked the landlady.
Mrs. Irish was as proper as they came, with grey-streaked hair, a high collar, and a cameo brooch at her throat.
“Mr. Hal—that’s what I call him—flew out the door, just like that. He’s not been back since. It’s not like him. I reported him missing on Thursday, but the police said that young men will do that. They’ve not sent anyone to investigate.”
“I hope, in the absence and carelessness of the police, that you will allow me to assist.”
Mrs. Irish eyed the black raven on ivory paper. The letters shone, giving the card an official appearance. Ravenwood Agency was known in San Francisco. The woman switched her gaze to the detective’s attire, from the top of his hat, to the cut of his suit, and finally, she met his eyes. There was worry in those eyes. “I would be most grateful, but what has brought you here? It says you’re a detective.”
“I’m afraid I have some ill news for Mr. Erving. His sister is dead.”
The woman closed her eyes, briefly. And gave a slight shake. “That’s ill news indeed.”
“Were you acquainted?”
“I met her twice. A respectable lady.”
“So I’m told. Were her visits amiable?”
“Of course, Mr. Hal was happy to see her.”
At the landlady’s invitation, Riot stepped inside, removing his hat. True, it wasn’t uncommon for a man to pick up and leave, not in a transient city like San Francisco, but Mrs. Irish did not strike him as a woman who tolerated a negligent lodger. Riot’s instincts were prickling, the same feeling he had whenever a game was about to turn sour.
“Is Mr. Erving your only lodger?”
“He is,” she sighed.
“What happened the day he disappeared?”
“Mr. Hal came home from work on Tuesday. He was in a splendid mood. He went upstairs, still whistling, then returned with two theatre tickets—to the Tivoli no less. He went back upstairs, the whistling died, and next thing I know, he shot right out the front door.”
The landlady showed Riot to a second-story room, a spacious one, with its own private bathroom. The first thing Riot noted was a pair of spectacles sitting on the side table. “Did he wear these for reading?”
“No, not for reading, but for far away things. He never left the house without his spectacles. You can see why I’m worried.”
Riot did indeed. He was near to blind without his own. Under the watchful gaze of the landlady, Riot conducted a thorough search of Henry’s belongings. The man was tidy, near to meticulous. The bookshelves were full of medical manuals. He questioned the landlady.
“Henry is studying to become a physician, but he ran into hard times, and had to put aside his studies,” she replied.
“Where did he attend college?”
“Here in the city, at Cooper Medical College.”
“Do you know if he was courting anyone?”
The landlady smiled. “I think so, but I never met her. When he first came to live with me, about a year ago, he was very despondent, but his mood gradually brightened. He seemed to be getting back on his feet.”
Judging by the notations in the books, Henry Erving was close to attaining his medical degree. The desk held a journal, leather bound and much abused, but not near as detailed and insightful as Elma’s. It was typical of a busy man. Dates, with cryptic references to the day’s activities: V —G.G. was written at least three times a week, starting a month and a week ago. Precisely the time that Violet Clowes had returned to San Francisco.
Riot flipped further back, until he found what he was looking for: ‘V —Y.M.C.A.’ approximately when Violet returned from her job as a caretaker and fell ill.
“No accusation intended, Mrs. Irish, but why did you wait until Thursday to report his absence? Did he make a habit of staying away from his rooms?”
“Only for a night, once or twice a week. I never asked where he went, and he never said.” Color rose on her cheeks. Even a proper lady such as herself was not naive to a young man’s habits. “When he didn’t return Wednesday evening, I began to worry.”
November 2nd 1898 caught Riot’s eye, the same month Violet had first tried to kill herself. The initial V was penned in the journal. Riot stood and walked to the shelves, scanning the books until he spotted a familiar manual on insanity. Tucked in the pages of madness, Riot discovered a photograph. The gentleman was chiseled and handsome and possessed a professional air.
There was no notation on the back.
“Did Mr. Hal ever have any visitors?”
“No, he was a quiet lodger. We got along well. Although,” she said, “there was a gentleman who called on Tuesday. He said his name was Garrett, and that he was a friend from work wanting to repay a loan. However, his story didn’t add up, because if he was a friend from work, he would have known Mr. Hal wasn’t at home. I didn’t invite the caller inside.”
The landlady had a right to be suspicious, and he appreciated her cunning mind.
“Did you inform, Mr. Hal?”
“No, I didn’t get the chance.”
“Do you recognize this man?”
Mrs. Irish looked at the photograph and quickly shook her head, but then she paused, and took the photograph from his hand, studying it carefully. “This man looks very similar to the man who visited, only the fellow Garrett was of a rougher sort. He was a large, broad-shouldered young man with a crooked nose.”
Riot tucked the photograph back into the book. “Do you mind if I take Mr. Hal’s journal and this book?”
“If you think it will help.”
“I do,” Riot reassured. “And I’ll give the police a firm nudge.”
17
The Absent Lodger
ELABORATE PHAETONS ROLLED UNDER twin arches into a grand courtyard. As Isobel walked past, she dusted off her coat, feeling ill at ease in the grandeur of the Palace Hotel. She was loathe to enter the place. The wealth, the finery, the opulence, brought back uncomfortable memories of the long, drawn out role she had assumed to foil Kingston—that of an imp
ulsive socialite. Sharing his bed was of secondary concern. Kingston was not a kind man, he was not a gentle man, but then neither was she; Isobel was a hunter, and the man had never penetrated her mind.
Still, losing grated on her, and failing had been a blow. For all her strength and determination, she had abandoned the game, staged her own death, and ran without an ounce of proof against her blackguard of a husband. All she had to her name was a list of his clients, his associates, a stack of coincidence, and not a single crack at his safe.
Patience, Riot had told her. She needed it in spades. Advice that would have served her well before confronting Kingston with her suspicions. But that was an ongoing catastrophe for another time.
Isobel reined in her thoughts as she walked into the Palace grocer. Parisian labels, cheeses and elaborate breads, Belgian chocolates, and a dizzying array of goods filled the pristine shop. She swept her eye over the crowd, searching for anyone who might have known the late Isobel Kingston. Fortunately, her peers wouldn’t spare a first glance in her current guise: a scholarly working girl, come to gawk at the wares.
She located the shopkeeper, a crisp, white-aproned man in his fifties. He promptly greeted her with a perpetual smile. Isobel remembered the man from when she had shopped with Kingston. Small chance that he’d recognize her as the stylish young wife who once hung on the attorney’s arm.
“How can I help you, madame?” the shopkeeper asked. He did not blink at her attire, or show her a wit less attentiveness than he had to the woman who threatened the displays with the width of her hat.
“I won’t keep you—” she glanced at his name tag, “Mr. Perkins. Do you have an employee by the name of Hal?”
The man considered her question. She nearly marked this lead off; however, when she produced her photograph, recognition lit the shopkeeper’s eyes. “That is Mr. Henry Erving. Yes, he works here. Perhaps I can assist if Mr. Erving was helping you with a matter?”
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