“Someone’s bound to know something.”
“The press does have its uses,” he conceded. “At best, however, they are a double-edged sword.”
“Regardless of the edge, it can be wielded.”
“Is that why you’ve put yourself in yet another precarious position?”
“I know no other place to live.” She tossed down the newspaper and piled the China on the tray, setting it on the floor with a rattle.
Riot retrieved his gathered evidence and set the items on the table. Isobel added her own photographs, letters, and pamphlets to the pot, and then proceeded to rearrange the items to her satisfaction. He watched with amusement.
Isobel ignored the man. She began with the medical journals, cringed at Elma’s pregnancy account, and read through Henry’s cryptic listings. After a time, she became aware of a fluttering sound, and looked up, puzzled. Riot had a deck of cards. His eyes were far away, but his deft fingers manipulated the cards with a flourish. A blur of white, a perfect arch; back and forth, squaring edges to begin again, this time shooting the cards from hand to hand, a foot apart.
She picked up the photograph of the unknown man. “You found this tucked in Henry’s medical manual on insanity?”
“The landlady said he resembled Garrett, the man who visited earlier on Tuesday, only rougher, although she couldn’t be sure if it was the same person.”
“He looks familiar,” Isobel murmured.
Keen eyes focused on her. The shuffling stopped. “How so?”
Isobel sat back and tucked her feet on the chair. She stared at the photograph, and then closed her eyes, trying to summon the source of familiarity. “I’m not sure,” she sighed. “But he does remind me of Henry in the other photograph. Brothers, maybe?”
“Could be.”
The cards continued their rhythmic shuffle, and she chewed thoughtfully on a nail. Isobel looked at the photograph of the three friends: Elma, Hal, and Violet. “All three of them had medical training. Henry ran out of funds. Elma supposedly quit working after she was married, but what about Violet? We don’t really know why she threw her medical career over for the theatre, or if she even did. Sister Mary wasn’t sure if she was working as a nurse or governess when she tried to commit suicide the first time.”
“According to the notations in Hal’s journal, it looks as though Violet’s first suicide attempt was a trigger of some sort.”
Isobel tapped the circled passages on insanity. “Do you think Elma and Hal were worried about her sanity?”
“Certainly seems that way.”
“According to these indications, I should be committed.”
“I’m afraid I’d have to surrender myself, too.”
Isobel looked at the stoic man across from her. “You? I don’t believe it.”
The cards stopped. “On most days I wear a convincing mask.” His tone was as flat and serious as a hammer cocking.
Isobel searched his eyes for a hint of humor. There was none. She swallowed, considering the gravity of his statement. “Well then, we’ll be insane together,” she said lightly. “Erm—separately together.”
Warmth entered his eyes. “I’m in good company, then. Separately, of course.” The cards began to fly. And she watched for a moment, mesmerized. “I can stop shuffling if you like. It’s a habit of mine. It used to irritate Ravenwood to no end.”
“It reminds me of the waves,” she replied. “Does my twin offend you?”
Riot tilted his head in consideration. “I can’t say I understand his—preferences.”
“I think we got mixed up in the womb,” she explained, hastily. “Neither of us quite fit where we ought to.”
He waited for silence to fall again, leaving her holding her breath for his answer. When he spoke, it was slow and clear. “Bel, I’m not a preacher, I’m no lawman, and I’m not a judge. I only take issue with the brothers who try to murder you.”
“Lotario is a lover, not a fighter. Besides, he’s terrified of guns.”
“Then I have no issue.”
“You’re a rare man, Riot,” she smiled.
“Not rare,” he corrected, “only a detective who, whether I cared to or not, has seen all there is to see in the Barbary Coast.”
“Donkeys and all?” she asked, suggestively.
Riot’s cards shot from his hand mid-shuffle. The skin above his neatly trimmed beard turned a darker hue.
She smirked across the table. “Don’t think you’re the only one who has roamed unsavory streets.”
He cleared his throat, and bent to gather his cards. “I’m beginning to see why your parents sent you to a lady’s finishing school.”
“You can teach a woman to be a lady, but that doesn’t make her one,” she reminded, plucking up a fallen Queen of Hearts. She held it out to him and he paused before taking it. When he finally moved to accept it, his fingers brushed her own.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Bel.”
Despite her bold words, Isobel’s cheeks heated. She quickly focused on the evidence, hoping Riot was too flustered to notice. “This case reminds me of dominos,” she mused. “One falling right after the other. First Henry shot out of his house Tuesday evening—we have no idea why. But something certainly must have spooked him.”
“Then Violet visits Elma on Wednesday.”
“And Elma drank the poison sometime in the afternoon.”
“Next,” Riot took up the recitation, “Violet shows up at Golden Gate Park around six in the evening. She waits, presumably for Henry, but he doesn’t show.”
“So she leaves down a path and turns up, hours later, on a streetcar headed to her death.”
“It’s not a far stretch to think she went to the house.”
Isobel nodded in agreement. “That would certainly account for the missing hours. I wonder if she discovered him in the bath? Maybe she feared that she’d be blamed for his death. That would explain the note she left with the conductor.”
“They might have quarreled,” Riot added.
Isobel made a face. “Love,” she twisted the word. “It shouldn’t be so complicated. If it works, it works; if it doesn’t, shake hands and part ways.”
“The heart does not always abide by logic.”
“Then the heart should be ignored. Love is here,” she tapped her head.
“Most would disagree.”
“What do you think?”
“As long as it’s somewhere, Bel.”
When her mind came up with no reply, Riot set aside his cards and leaned forward, turning the letters and notations towards him. “I requested a postmortem on Elma; unfortunately, with the amount of burns from the acid, it’ll be hard to tell if she put up some sort of fight. From the sound of it, the bathroom was a mess.”
Isobel grimaced. “That sort of poison doesn’t take you down quietly.”
He reached into his coat pocket and unfolded his magnifying glass. The lens hovered over the handwriting, comparing Elma’s journal with her final note of innocence. “Ravenwood could spot a forgery in seconds,” he murmured.
“Well Ravenwood isn’t here, now is he?” Isobel switched sides, so she could peer at the lettering. “And I sincerely doubt he could have distinguished Lotario’s writing from mine.”
She sensed a smile on Riot’s lips.
“None of this makes a jot of sense.”
“No,” Riot agreed. “But actions rarely do. Imagine if someone were to try and unravel your puzzle.”
She snorted. “You did.”
“So I did,” he acknowledged. “But you’d give any investigator a run for his money with all your nom de plumes, sporadic actions, and cross-dressing.”
“Why thank you.” A sudden thought sparked in the shadows and lodged itself in the light. “The brooch.”
“Hmm?”
“Violet’s brooch. You said Elma’s landlady claimed Violet had a brooch with an ivory flower on it, but Mrs. Beeton said the brooch was of a woman’s profile, which I found pinned
to Violet’s blouse in the morgue—is Elma’s landlady reliable?”
“She seemed so, but I don’t honestly know. What are you thinking?”
“That it’s a troubling detail.”
22
Divergence
TWO CASES INTERTWINED. A dividing of forces was required, and Isobel was glad for it. Piecing together burnt documents was time consuming tedium. She gladly abandoned Riot to the task.
A bag of clothes was waiting at the Ferry Building cloak room. She tipped the bored attendant, and walked to the Pagan Lady. Watson was on guard, sleeping. Mr. Morgan disappeared below deck and Charlotte Bonnie emerged. Armed with umbrella, pistol, and evidence, she marched to the end of the dock. And stopped.
A hack waited. Grimm sat in the seat, holding the reins. She nearly greeted him by name, but recalled that he only knew her as Mr. Morgan. Still, he looked at her, and then nodded towards the cab.
A cheerful face appeared. The door opened, and Tobias hopped down, a slash of white splitting his dark face. He removed his cap. “Mr. Riot said we should wait for a lady here. A Miss Bonnie.”
“Did he?” she asked slowly.
The boy nodded. “We are to be your hackmen for the day.”
Isobel nearly walked around the hack, but Tobias was brimming with youthful excitement. She supposed this was an escape from his letters and chores.
Isobel steeled her resolve. “You can tell Mr. Riot—” she faltered, relenting to practicality. Not having to walk across town ten times over had its benefits. “That I thank him.” She climbed inside the hack.
Tobias shut the carriage door, and slung his arms over the window, hanging on the side. “Are you related to Mr. Morgan, ma’am?”
“We’re cousins. Do you always ask too many questions?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t you dare stop.”
Tobias grinned. “Where to, ma’am? Grimm, my brother there, don’t talk.”
It was an excellent question. Where to begin. The three friends in Violet’s photograph spun in her mind. Elma, Hal, and Violet—now all dead. Apparent suicides.
“Cooper Medical Hospital.”
The carriage rolled forward, and Tobias climbed along the side, settling himself beside his brother.
✥
The sterile hollowness of an institution surrounded her. White walls, polished floors, and bright lights. The hallways were scrubbed of the very life it strived to save.
A starched nurse directed Isobel to the teaching wing, and a secretary seated her in an office sitting room. A half an hour later, the secretary beckoned Isobel inside the dean’s office. She stopped in front of Professor Fischer’s desk. He was balding, severe, and had shrewd eyes.
This was not the first time Isobel had stood before a college dean. During her two months at Berkeley, she had been called in front of such a desk three times.
Professor Fischer rose, offering his hand. “Miss Bonnie. I’m told you are with the coroner’s office.” A distinct German accent placed him as Saxon, and a narrowing of his eyes screamed skepticism.
“I’m investigating a trio of deaths on behalf of the Deputy Coroner. Two of the deceased attended Cooper College, and I believe the other might have worked as a nurse. I need to see their student records.”
“I’m afraid I can’t permit that. Not without a court order or permission from next of kin.”
“Murder may be involved.”
Professor Fischer looked at her, unwavering. “Then you should have no problem obtaining a warrant. I’m a busy man, Miss Bonnie.”
Isobel looked at the man. He was rigid and unyielding. She turned to take her leave, felt him relax, and when she had reached the door, stopped, drumming her fingers on the umbrella handle.
“I think it’s wonderful that your fine college has instituted a nursing program.” She whirled, and smiled. “For the last five years, every class has been full.”
“If you will excuse me.”
“Of course I will.” She marched back and made herself comfortable in the chair opposite. “One of the women whom I’m investigating attended your nursing school, and the other may have worked as a nurse here. The initial police report says that they committed suicide.”
“Unfortunate.”
“It is, isn’t it? Your college has taken great pains to maintain a high level of decorum, assurance for families who are wary of sending their daughters to a college.”
“I do not see the relevance of this conversation.”
“Money is always relevant in San Francisco,” she countered. “And tuition for your fine college does not come cheaply. It’d be a shame if word reached the newspapers, tying your college to the suicides. I can see the headline now—front page: Academic Pressure Drives Women to Suicide. All in big bold letters. How many students would be withdrawn?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I am painting a picture for you. Let me peek at the records and I will make sure that your school is never connected with their names.”
“I will not be bullied, Miss Bonnie.” The professor drew himself up. “And I will not break regulation.”
Threat was no match for a German’s sense of protocol.
“Can you at least identify them?” she relented. Isobel produced her photograph. “Do you remember these students? Surely that is not against regulation?”
“No, it is not.” He studied the photograph. “Henry and Elma Erving. Brother and sister. And their friend, who worked as a nurse, Elizabeth Foster.” He pinned each as he spoke.
Isobel was surprised that a dean remembered the students so quickly.
“Why did they leave?”
“Hundreds of students come and go. I do not remember.”
“But you remembered their names.”
“I have an eye for faces.” There was more, but he wasn’t about to elaborate. She tried Riot’s tactic, and waited, staring up at the man. Silence deepened. Visions of whacking the dean over the head with her umbrella and calling it an accident began to hiss their insidious temptation in her ear.
Isobel cracked and cleared her throat. “What about this man?” She produced the photograph that Riot had found in Henry’s medical manual. “Do you recognize him?”
The professor stiffened. Yes, he did, but he did not say it.
“Good day, Miss Bonnie,” he said curtly.
✥
Further questions were met with the threat of forceful removal. Isobel took her leave. Frustrated by an answer close at hand, she walked off her anger, wandering the manicured grounds at a brisk pace.
The fog had rolled its lazy self away, allowing the sun its token appearance for the afternoon. A nurse wheeled a patient onto the terrace, her uniform starched and stiff, highly impractical for her duties. She placed the break on the bath chair, fluffed her patient’s pillow, and sat on a bench with another nurse. The two struck up a conversation like old friends.
Friends. Ever the outcast in all things, friendship was something that Isobel knew little about. If Violet had left, and Elma continued to work at the hospital, then perhaps Elma had other friends. She watched the two nurses for a time, then removed her coat and draped it over an arm (only a tourist would be caught in San Francisco without a coat). Summoning an amiable smile, she approached the two women. “Pardon me. I was wondering if either of you might know an Elma Erving?”
The younger nurse shook her head; the second remembered her, but not well.
“Is there someone who worked with Elma?”
There was: a Miss Faith.
After innumerable inquires and wrong turns, Isobel located Miss Faith, a rail-thin nurse who appeared to be in her late thirties. Her uniform looked as though she added extra starch for the thrill of it. All in all, she did not look like a promising gossip.
Isobel waited outside of the ward, watching the nurse feed a patient. It was tedious. Somewhere in the middle of the bowl, the patient fell asleep. Before the nurse could m
ove onto her next patient, Isobel ambushed her.
“Yes?” Miss Faith asked when the stranger approached.
“Charlotte Bonnie. I’m told you are acquainted with Elma Erving.”
“I am.”
“Can we talk outside?”
“I’m very busy, Miss Bonnie.”
“Were the two of you friends?”
“Yes.”
“She killed herself two days ago,” Isobel said plainly.
Tears welled in the stern woman’s eyes and flowed right over her cheeks. She wobbled as if Isobel had kicked her in the stomach. “Bastard,” the woman breathed.
Isobel blinked. Not what she had expected. She hastened forward, took the stunned nurse by the arm, and ushered her outside into fresh air. She planted the woman on a stone bench in the shade, and awkwardly looked elsewhere as the nurse cried into a handkerchief.
Perhaps tact would have been advisable. Too late. When the uncomfortable bit was over with and Faith blew her nose, Isobel looked at the woman.
“I didn’t realize you were close,” she said by way of apology.
“I’ve known Elma for years. How did it happen?”
Isobel told her, and at the end, Faith blew out a shaky breath.
“Do you know why she wrote that note?” Isobel asked.
Faith shook her head, but the gesture was unconvincing.
“You said bastard. Why? Were you calling Elma one?”
“Of course not.”
“Then who?”
“It’s not my place.” Faith stood, and Isobel felt like sand was slipping through her hands. “I have patients to tend to.”
“Henry Erving and Elizabeth Foster both killed themselves too. Or so it seems. All within a day of each other. I’m not convinced it was suicide. And if there is a chance it wasn’t, then don’t you think Elma’s husband should know?”
Faith paled, but she did not wobble. She stood, staring at the trees for a time, and Isobel let her be. Finally, her shoulders deflated, and the nurse turned. “I was referring to Charles Thorton.”
“Who is Charles Thorton?”
A Bitter Draught Page 19