Chapter Eight
Wednesday, early afternoon, August 8, 1879
Damn that Annie Fuller! Yesterday afternoon she left him standing like a fool in the middle of the sidewalk, without the foggiest idea what she was talking about. Today he felt an even bigger fool, this time standing in the middle of Mrs. Voss's parlor, wondering what in the world he would say to her when she came in to the room. And it was all Mrs. Fuller's fault. She had argued so forcefully that a mystery surrounded the death of Matthew Voss that he'd decided to visit Jeremy today to ask some questions. What he hadn't planned on was Jeremy's absence and an invitation to tea from Amelia Voss.
Nate strode over to a chair across from the fireplace and sat down, then immediately stood up again; his frustration made sitting impossible. He knocked his ankle painfully against a footstool he'd overlooked in the dim light. Thick curtains eliminated any hint of the sunshine that sparkled outside, and the two oil lamps failed to dispel the general gloom. Dusty surfaces, musty vases of flowers that were past their prime, and a plethora of black crape that covered every available piece of furniture. God, how he hated formal mourning rituals.
He and his uncle had been in this room earlier in the week, and nothing seemed to have changed, except the accumulation of dust and the decay of the flowers. This time Nate had sent a note making an appointment to see Jeremy Voss. He wanted to show him Mrs. Fuller's list of investments and ask him why he was so certain his father faced no financial difficulties. However, when he arrived at the house the manservant informed him that Jeremy had just left and then had extended the tea invitation from his mistress. Nate never expected to see Mrs. Voss on this visit; he assumed she would be in seclusion the day after the funeral. It seemed ungracious to decline her invitation, but he wasn’t happy about it. Being in charge of probate meant that he often had to meet with the newly bereaved, and he hated this part of the job.
Nate thought of his own mother, weeping inconsolably when the letter came telling them about Charlie’s death at Chickamauga. When his brother Frank had fallen at Shiloh the year before she had just gone quiet. But somehow the death of Charlie, her firstborn, had been different. Nate had been only fourteen and felt helpless in the face of his mother's grief. The only thing he could think to do was sneak off to join up--get the bastard johnny rebs who had killed his brothers. His father had found him the first night, twenty miles from home and sleeping in a hay barn. He had never seen his mother that angry. Her fury had raged unceasingly until his father sold the farm and successfully resettled the family across the continent, on a ranch outside of San Francisco. His younger brother, Billy, only ten at the time, had thought that life on the trail was one grand adventure. His sister Laura was just a baby. But Nate knew that somehow a woman’s grief had changed their destiny.
"Mr. Dawson. How kind of you to visit. I am afraid that I was not at my best when you came last." This soft speech provided the first indication that Mrs. Voss had entered the room.
Startled, Nate whipped around, almost tripping over the treacherous footstool, and stammered, "Oh, Mrs. Voss. Of course. My pleasure. I apologize for disturbing you. Hadn't meant...expected your son, Jeremy. There seems to have been some mix-up."
Mrs. Voss glided across the room, shaking her head slightly in protest, and she gracefully gave him her hand, saying, "Please, Mr. Dawson. So kind. It is I who must apologize for my son. That is one of the reasons I asked to see you. But where ever are my manners. May I pour you some tea?"
Nate then noticed that while they were speaking, the servant, Wong, had been setting up the tea tray. At a nod from his mistress, he bowed and left them alone. Mrs. Voss sat down next to the tea tray, indicating that Nate should sit down across from her, and she began to pour out the tea. He took the opportunity to examine his hostess more closely.
She wore deep mourning, from the black ruffled cap atop her head to the black lace-edged handkerchief she clutched in her left hand. The black accentuated her paleness. Like the fine bone china of the teacup she held, her skin appeared translucent, and her elegant hands fragile enough to break at a touch. Those hands trembled slightly as she handed him a cup, and Nate felt an unexpected impulse to take them into his own to steady them.
Uncomfortable, he searched for something to say. But what do you say to someone whose husband just died and left you destitute? He couldn’t ask her about her husband’s finances; she had already indicated she didn’t know anything. It didn’t feel right to push for personal details about her family or servants, even to please Mrs. Fuller.
To his relief, Mrs. Voss didn't seem to have noticed his hesitation, since she had risen to pinch off an offending blossom on one of the bouquets scattered around the room. Shrugging perceptibly at the bedraggled state of the flowers under her fingers, she turned back to Nate and smiled.
"Mr. Dawson, I must apologize for the state of the house. Wong can only do so much, and I am afraid we are sadly missing Nellie, our former parlor maid. But these domestic trials were not why I asked you to tea."
Mrs. Voss hesitated and then moved restlessly to another vase and recommenced her pruning, while Nate mentally tried to calculate Mrs. Voss's age. She couldn't be more than her mid-forties, and, if he hadn't known she had a grown son, he would have sworn she was much younger. Too young to be a widow. Of course, Mrs. Fuller was even younger. An image of Annie Fuller flashed before him. She was offering him her hand, her warm brown eyes looking directly at his, her mouth flirting with a smile, her light brown curls capturing the sunlight with a hint of fire. Younger, yes, but she had a depth and experience that Mrs. Voss lacked. Looking over at Mrs. Voss, Nate doubted she had much experience beyond managing her house and arranging flowers. What should he say to her? His uncle always had a string of platitudes in situations like this.
Having naturally risen when Mrs. Voss had stood up, Nate placed his teacup on the table and tried again to make conversation. "Mrs. Voss, I wanted to say again how deeply sorry I, we, I mean my uncle and I are for your loss. And if there is anything in particular we could do, please let us know. I mean, anything…." Disconcerted by the warmth of the smile Mrs. Voss directed at him and the tears that filled her huge blue eyes, Nate's sentence petered out.
Limpid pools. He remembered eyes being described in that fashion once in a book, but he hadn't know what it meant until now.
Mrs. Voss dabbed at those overflowing pools with the black lace handkerchief and whispered, "Thank you so much, Mr. Dawson. You and your uncle have been most kind, but there is really little you can do, I am afraid." She then swept up the wilted flowers she had picked and stood looking helplessly around for someplace to dispose of them.
Relieved that Mrs. Voss had turned those eyes away from him, Nate searched for something helpful to say. "Mrs. Voss, I think that there is some hope your financial position may be better than we first supposed. I have been making inquiries this morning, and there are some indications of investments we didn't know anything about. I will be meeting again with your husband's banker later this afternoon. I hoped to speak with your son first, to see if he could shed any light on the issue. He seemed so sure that Mr. Voss was doing well financially; we thought he might know something that would help."
Mrs. Voss simply dumped the flowers back on the table and came back to sit across from Nate, saying, "Oh, Mr. Dawson, I am sorry Jeremy isn't here. He just isn't himself since Matthew's... I mean, Jeremy has always been highly strung, but now… it really isn't that he wants to be uncooperative. But he feels everything so deeply. He has refused to talk to the police. I'm afraid they will think he is hiding something. I don't know what to do. Normally we are so close. But he won't confide in me. I am so worried."
Noting that Mrs. Voss had dropped her handkerchief, Nate bent over and retrieved it for her before resuming his seat. "Now, there is no need to get so upset. Look, I'll tell you what. I'll leave this copy of a list of possible investments for Jeremy to glance over; ask him to get back to me. Then maybe I, or my uncle Frank, could have a talk
with him. Find out what's bothering him. Give him a little advice."
Nate pulled the list out of his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Mrs. Voss, who frowned at the pieces of paper as if they were written in Sanskrit.
"Oh, that is very good of you. I'm afraid none of this makes any sense to me. I have been wondering and wondering how Matthew planned to pay Malcolm for his shares in the company if we have no money."
Nate exclaimed sharply, "Mrs. Voss! What ever gave you the idea that Matthew planned on buying his partner out? We have heard nothing of this from Samuels."
Mrs. Voss shook her head slightly and said, "No, I don't think Malcolm knows, and since Matthew's death I really haven't known whether or not to even mention it. I think Matthew planned it all for a surprise. He only told the family Saturday night at dinner. The last time we were all together."
At this point she began to weep in earnest, and if Nate hadn't been so impatient to find out what Mrs. Voss was speaking about, he would have pulled the cord for her servant and fled. Instead he leaned closer and said softly, "Please, Mrs. Voss, try to tell me about that dinner. I think it might be very important."
Mrs. Voss nodded and said, "Please forgive me, Mr. Dawson. Silly of me to cry so much. I will try to help." She then took a deep breath and began to speak in a quiet voice, staring in front of her as if she could see the scene she began to describe.
"Everyone was at dinner but Malcolm. Matthew, Jeremy, myself, my sister-in-law. Malcolm was supposed to dine with us, but didn't. I remember having Nellie remove his place. Actually it was unusual for us to have a guest on Saturdays, as it was the maid's night out. Usually we do our entertaining on Friday nights. On Saturdays, I try to have our large meal at mid-day, so that Nellie can leave early. But Matthew had asked us all to be there. He seemed put out at first, when he arrived home around five and found the telegram from Malcolm saying he couldn't come. But then his mood changed. All the way through dinner he was in such a playful mood, teasing us all as he had when Jeremy was just a boy, making us laugh, putting me to the blush."
Mrs. Voss stopped at this point, smiling softly. Before he could say anything, she continued with a sigh, "Then, when we'd concluded the main course, and Nellie had served the dessert and left the room, Matthew took his spoon and tapped it on his wine glass for attention. Just like he would do if he were making a toast at a grand banquet. ‘What was the special occasion?’ I asked him. He said he had an announcement, but that having all his family sitting down together under one roof was special occasion enough."
Mrs. Voss again paused and glanced at Nate. "You see, Jeremy hasn't been dining at home much. A young man, he has his friends, his club. It's only natural. But I don't think Matthew understood."
"But the announcement? What was it about?"
"Well. There were several parts to it, each really more unexpected than the last. I think he had been planning this surprise for some time. He did so like surprises. Every Christmas he'd be just as he was that night at dinner. Gleeful, hugging his grand secrets to himself. He could be so generous, even extravagant. But he didn't always consider if the recipient would want what he gave them."
Mrs. Voss again faltered. Her memories now seemed darker. Giving her head a little shake, she sat straighter. "He had three announcements, really. First, that he had decided to buy Malcolm out. Said it was time for Malcolm to stop his traveling. Said the money he'd give Malcolm for his share of the company would let him start some local enterprise, settle down, and start a family. Then, he said he planned to give Malcolm's share of the business to Jeremy. The company would be now Voss and Son. After running the business in partnership for six months, he intended on turning full control over to Jeremy as a wedding present. Finally, and perhaps the biggest surprise to me, Matthew announced that he would then close up the house so the two of us could go on an extended three-year tour of Europe. Something I have always wanted to do, ever since we married."
Mrs. Voss stopped and looked questioningly at Nate. "So you see. I can't understand how Matthew could have hoped to buy out Malcolm, or turn the business over to Jeremy, or take us on a tour of Europe if there was no money. It just doesn't make any sense, does it, Mr. Dawson? No sense at all."
Chapter Nine
Friday evening, August 10, 1879
Annie thought she had never been quite so tired in all her life. She had started her job as a maid in the Voss household only that morning, but she felt as if she had been on her feet for days. As if on cue, her feet began to ache in an agonizing fashion. The desire to sit down on one of the heavily carved dining room chairs and rest her weary head on the soft linen tablecloth almost overpowered her. But she dared not. Servants did not take such liberties. No doubt Cartier, Mrs. Voss’s lady’s maid, would find out somehow and tell Miss Nancy.
Cartier, what a silly, affected name, Annie thought. I bet she wasn't born with it. She's probably a plain old Jones or something. I wonder what her first name is? Of course, lowly parlor maids don't warrant the privilege of addressing upstairs maids like Miss Cartier by their first names.
This was just one of the many rules for proper servant behavior that Cartier had been pontificating about for the past twelve hours. “I sure would like to lay down a few rules for Miss Cartier,” Annie grumbled aloud, as she angrily shoved the chair up against the table and tugged the cloth straight. Rule number one would be to treat a new fellow servant with a little kindness and concern, instead of trying to make life miserable for her.
Cartier was a very handsome woman in her mid-thirties. Apparently she had been able to parley a brief job as an assistant nursemaid in London into a career as a highly paid "lady’s maid" back in the States. Annie knew that American women were often willing to pay high wages for a maid with European "polish." Cartier was quite tall, and she used her height effectively. She displayed much of her ample salary on her back, dressing so elegantly that Annie wouldn't have been surprised if a visitor mistook Cartier for the mistress of the house.
A searing pain snaked across her shoulders and down each arm to her fingers, banishing all thoughts of Cartier. Annie, in the process of lifting a pair of heavy silver candelabra from the table to the sideboard, came close to dropping these unquestionably expensive pieces before getting them safely to their allotted places.
"Would have fractured my toes," she muttered. The blasted things feel like they are lined with lead. And they're ugly as well. Oh, for pity's sake, what am I doing? I'll never make it through tonight.
Throwing caution to the winds, she pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. This alleviated the ache in her feet somewhat, but did little to ease the persistent pain in her shoulder. She hadn't known that ironing could be so difficult. It wasn't as if she'd never ironed before. But there seemed to have been mountains of wet sheets, pillowcases, towels, tablecloths, shirts, petticoats, and handkerchiefs. Thank goodness she hadn't had to wash everything first. She could swear that the irons had become heavier and heavier as she used them, until they’d felt like massive blocks that she could barely lift from the stove. As she grew more tired, she had become increasingly clumsy, wrinkling sections that she had already ironed, having to do them all over again. She must have burned herself in a dozen places trying to determine whether the irons had heated or cooled sufficiently to be used.
Massaging the back of her neck, Annie thought, What a wretched job! How in heaven's name does Kathleen do it every week for a house full of boarders? I really must get Beatrice to hire a laundress to help her. No wonder she was worried about how well I could play the part of a maidservant! But did I listen? No!
Tuesday afternoon, when she left an obviously bewildered Mr. Dawson at her doorstep, Annie had been supremely confident of the brilliance of her plan for solving the mystery of Mr. Voss’s death and her own financial problems. She would apply as a temporary housemaid at the Voss’s, to replace the departed Nellie. This would give her the chance to get to know everyone in the house, plus any frequent visitors. She
could look for the missing assets, find out exactly what happened the night Matthew died, and determine who killed him.
Annie had not counted on the strong opposition she would encounter the next day from the three women--Kathleen, Beatrice, and Mrs. Stein—that she had assumed would help her carry out her plans.
First Beatrice had told her she was "daft to think of such a thing!” And then Mrs. Stein, who was sitting in the rocking chair by the window, put down her knitting and had added, "Annie, dear, I am afraid I must agree with Mrs. O'Rourke. I understand you are convinced there is some mystery to Matthew Voss’s death, and you think you would be able to uncover the truth if you could find a way into the household. What I don't understand is the urgency you seem to feel."
Beatrice had turned around, wiping her hands on a towel. "My point exactly, dearie. I know that for those that aren't familiar with their methods, the police can seem a might slow. But from what I hear, Detective Jackson, what’s in charge of this case, is a through and through professional. Not some do-nothing boss appointee. I warrant he'll get to the bottom of it, if you just give him time."
Annie had responded impatiently, “Well, even if the police can be convinced that Mr. Voss’s death wasn’t suicide, no matter how professional Detective Jackson is, you can't really expect him or his men to have the financial expertise or the time to track down stray investments, or even recognize the significance of records referring to those investments if they did run across them. And that is why it is crucial that I be involved. I was the one who made the recommendations to Mr. Voss, so I would be the best one to try and track down those missing assets of his."
Kathleen had chimed in, and Annie couldn’t help smiling at the memory of how earnest she had looked as she made her argument. "But Ma'am. Didn't you say Mr. Dawson was going to look into the missing stuff for you? A smart lawyer feller like him would know all about such things. And being the family's lawyer and all, he could ask questions without getting into trouble. And pardon me, Ma’am, but I can't help but think some parlor maid snooping around, looking into the master's desk drawers, would raise quite a ruckus. That is if you could pass yourself off as a parlor maid in the first place. Which would be a miracle, as I've said before. A fine lady like yourself!"
Maids of Misfortune: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 7