No Quiet among the Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  The names were not all that Mr. Smith had scribed upon his notepaper beneath that word. He’d written brief descriptions, likely obtained from Miss Brown when he had interviewed her.

  “Miss Justina Brown,” Celia read aloud, the first name Mr. Smith had recorded. He’d provided no adjectives for her, but he’d have no reason to, as the woman was his client, not a suspect in a blackmail scheme.

  The next name was that of Miss Brown’s brother, which Mr. Smith had circled. Dr. Arthur Brown. Sober and decent. Upstanding physician.

  His sister’s loving description, no doubt.

  According to Jane, Dr. Brown was around forty years of age and had been previously married. Jane was unaware of what had happened to his first wife, other than a vague impression she had passed away under sad circumstances. She could come up with possible reasons Mr. Smith had circled the doctor’s name, but at this point all those reasons were mere speculation.

  Celia slid her fingertip down the page, resting on the next name.

  Genevieve “Vivi” Adler. Excessively handsome. Flighty. Why interested in séance?

  “An intriguing comment to have made.”

  Furthermore, why had Miss Brown even bothered to mention her brother’s fiancée to Mr. Smith? Unless she had been the subject of the blackmail. Whatever the reason, the description suggested there was little love lost between the two. Perhaps, even, a hint of suspicion about the woman on Miss Brown’s part.

  Jane had told Celia that Miss Adler was fifteen years younger than Dr. Brown and related to a rich East Coast family. Her wealth might draw the interest of a blackmailer. Jane had made no particular observation about Miss Adler except to say that she was very lighthearted and made Dr. Brown happy. Was there a scandal in her past worth concealing, and might Dr. Brown have been eager to keep that event quiet?

  “But to stop Mr. Smith from his enquiries, which Justina had hired him for, would have been a most serious response, Dr. Brown.” Better to simply pay the money to the blackmailer.

  Unless he did not have the amount demanded.

  Next on the list was another man. Mr. Emery. Watchful. Jane was not acquainted with any Emerys, and no first name was given. Celia wrote a large question mark next to his entry. He was someone to learn more about.

  Beneath Mr. Emery had been written another woman’s name. Miss Nell Kimball. Unconnected to the others. Anxious. Poorly dressed. A comment that revealed a reason Miss Brown might be suspicious of her. Celia tapped the end of the pencil against her teeth. A woman with minimal means might be a blackmailer in search of funds. How could she have known that the target of her plot would be at that séance, though? Unless the scheme had been concocted that very night, taking advantage of information the victim had revealed in a fit of emotion at a séance.

  And when Mr. Smith had come asking questions . . . well, that could not be tolerated.

  A Mr. Griffin was the next person on the list Mr. Smith had compiled. He had provided no description of the fellow, however.

  “Curious. I wonder why.”

  The final name belonged to Mrs. Ruth Loveland. Spiritualist. Strange, like such folks are. The séance had taken place at her lodgings. Celia wondered if Addie’s astrologer knew Mrs. Loveland and what she thought of the woman. They operated in the same world. They might be acquaintances.

  Alongside the list, Mr. Smith had scribbled a solitary name—Etta—which Celia had copied. He’d not included any accompanying comment. Was it the nickname of someone in attendance, or a jotting unrelated to this particular case?

  Celia sat back in her chair and set down her pencil. Picking up the paper, she scanned what the investigator had written and all that he’d not.

  “Mr. Smith, you have left us more mysteries than answers.”

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .

  Celia narrowed her gaze. So, where to begin to unravel the knots?

  With the only person, perhaps, whose name Mr. Smith had deemed important enough to circle.

  • • •

  Mrs. Ruth Loveland held her séances in a set of rooms just off Market Street, near the former location of the Yerba Buena cemetery. Her name, along with a declaration that she was a Spiritual Physician, was printed on a small placard next to the building’s main door. Instructions indicated she could be found on the second floor.

  Taylor caught up with Nick outside the door. “I’ve got news, sir. Went to talk to Dr. Brown, but his assistant said he wasn’t in his surgery yet. Because of the holiday yesterday.”

  “Thanks for letting me know, Taylor. I’ll head to Brown’s surgery later today.”

  “That’s not the real news, though,” he said. “I stopped by the station, and when I was there, one of the fellows told me they have a probable name for the red vest guy that tobacconist mentioned.”

  “And?”

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  Nick frowned. “Why don’t you just tell me and let me be the judge.”

  “The fellow’s got a few names actually, sir,” said Taylor. “He’s a cardsharper and a swindler. Griffin is the name he’s been using lately. Is fond of wearing red, I guess.”

  “Griffin.”

  “He was at the séance. Right? Maybe we’ve found our man and we don’t need to visit this spiritualist lady.”

  Maybe. “Check at Smith’s to see if he was investigating Griffin and has a file on him.”

  “Already did that, sir,” said Taylor. “And he was. Mullahey’s started reading through Mr. Smith’s papers like you wanted. He found a file on Mr. Griffin. So I guess he couldn’t have been the fellow who’d opened Smith’s cabinet and rifled through his papers. Otherwise he would’ve taken it. Wouldn’t he?”

  “Unless his personal file wasn’t actually the one he was after.”

  Nick stared up at the building, fog drifting in white wisps in the sky overhead. It was a nondescript brick structure three stories high along bustling Market Street. A comfortable area that the prosperous Dr. Brown would be willing to visit, unlike some of the streets nearer the Barbary, where other folks like Mrs. Loveland plied their trade.

  “Time to see what Mrs. Loveland can tell us.”

  “Maybe I should go help Mullahey at Smith’s office,” said Taylor, eyeing the woman’s placard.

  Nick looked over at his assistant. “You reluctant to go in, Taylor?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Don’t be getting queasy. She won’t bite.”

  Inside, a narrow staircase hugged the wall, which was covered in a patterned dark brown paper that sucked up the daylight coming through the arched window above the front door.

  The stair treads creaked as they climbed, and the air smelled spicy-sweet. Like the incense the Catholics burned at their churches.

  “Pretty creepy, sir.”

  “The stairwell in your lodging house isn’t any nicer, Taylor.”

  “Maybe so, sir, but at least it doesn’t smell weird.”

  A door at the second-floor landing opened, and a woman stepped through. She was of typical height for a woman, but thin enough to be described as scrawny. Not even the blue-and-yellow bloomer costume she wore, white trousers ballooning beneath her short skirt, could hide her thinness.

  The room’s light at her back cast her face in shadows. “Are you looking for me, gentlemen?”

  “Whoa,” Taylor exclaimed, tripping on the stair tread below Nick. “How’d she know?”

  “If you’re Mrs. Loveland, we are,” said Nick. He discovered the source of the smell; it came from inside her rooms. “I am Detective Nicholas Greaves. This is my assistant, Mr. Taylor.”

  Taylor couldn’t stop staring at the woman’s trousers. Nick had read about the outfit in the newspaper, that it was often worn by women pressing for suffrage or temperance or both. Causes supported by the female members of the spiritualism movement.

  Mrs. Loveland didn’t appear bothered by his assistant’s curiosity. No doubt she’d been stared at often enough.

/>   She moved, and more of the room’s light fell on her face. She was younger than Nick had been expecting, and handsome. She also had the most piercing blue eyes he’d ever seen. A blue that was almost violet in color. “Do the police require my services now?”

  “We’re not here for a séance, ma’am,” said Nick, sweeping his hat from his head. “But we are here to ask you about one you hosted a couple of weeks ago. Late June. The folks who attended were being investigated by a man who died yesterday under suspicious circumstances.”

  “Ah, yes. Come inside,” she said, holding the door wide for them.

  Mrs. Loveland led them into the front room overlooking the street. A large circular table sat in the very middle, looking innocent, but Nick wondered how many secrets had spilled from the lips of distraught patrons who’d taken up spots around it. In front of the room’s lone tall window, a domed brass birdcage occupied a pedestal. Its inhabitant, a yellow songbird, hopped from one perch to another. On one wall, the spiritualist had hung a wreath made of hair collected from dearly departeds. An unnecessary reminder of death, he thought. Books, magazines, pamphlets and papers were stacked everywhere. Nick surveyed some of the titles; they were mostly about spiritualism and universal suffrage. Votes for all, even the recently freed slaves. The anti-Reconstruction types wouldn’t agree with her opinion.

  “Would you care for some refreshment?” she asked, a wry smile on her mouth.

  Taylor was the source of her amusement; he’d taken to gaping at the contents of the room like he’d either landed inside a circus tent full of oddities or the den of a witch.

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” answered Taylor, prodding a porcelain figurine on the mantel as if it might come to life.

  “Are you interested in spiritualism, Detective?” Mrs. Loveland asked Nick.

  He set down the book he’d been thumbing through. “Only as it might impact my investigation, ma’am.”

  She tilted her head to one side to peer at him. “The spirits are interested in you. They long to speak with those they’ve left behind,” she said softly. “They have much to tell us, you see. About God. About our place in the world and how we might achieve that higher plane in the afterlife. Be comforted, Detective. Your loved ones are happy.”

  Taylor sucked in a startled breath. “Sir!”

  Nick wouldn’t be lulled into believing this woman knew anything about the loved ones he’d lost or their supposed happiness. “Taylor, take out your notebook, if you will.”

  Mrs. Loveland smiled again; her expression—serene, observant—unnerved him. “Please do sit, gentlemen. We will all be more comfortable.”

  She took a seat on the chaise while Nick and Taylor pulled out two of the chairs set around the table.

  Nick retrieved the list of names Smith had recorded and handed it to her. “Do you recall this particular séance, Mrs. Loveland?”

  She examined the paper. Taylor, his pencil hovering over his notebook, waited for her to speak. The yellow songbird released a lengthy trill. The wind carried through the open parlor window the distant whistle of a San Francisco and San Jose train from the depot near Valencia.

  “June 19. A Wednesday. Hm,” she said. “Let me consult my notes, gentlemen.”

  She stood and crossed to a walnut secretary against the wall. She pulled a key from a pocket in her skirt and unlocked the front, folding it down to reveal the cubbyholes inside. She pulled out a slim leather-bound book and relocked the writing desk.

  “Do not look surprised, Mr. Taylor,” she said, retaking her seat. “I keep careful notes of all my consultations with the spirit world, just as you keep notes for your Detective Greaves.”

  Taylor blushed and stared down at his notebook.

  Mrs. Loveland leafed through the pages. “Ah, yes, here we are.” She drew one of her fingers down the length of a page. “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  She closed her book. “I do recall. There was a great deal of unhappiness among my guests, as well as among the spirits who spoke through me to them.”

  “‘Unhappiness’? Were they angry?” asked Taylor.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Taylor. Not angry. The spirits are beyond the emotion of anger. Such a feeling is a petty human one,” she replied. “But they can be sorrowful.”

  Nick resisted groaning. “What were the spirits sorrowful about, Mrs. Loveland?”

  “Now, Detective Greaves, do not permit your skepticism to cloud your mind. You are more thoughtful and intelligent than that,” she said.

  “Please answer my question, ma’am.”

  “I cannot provide details. What occurs at a private séance is kept in confidence,” she replied.

  “If you’re called as a witness in a murder trial, Mrs. Loveland, you won’t have a choice about whether or not you can provide details. So why not tell me now.” When I might be able to do something useful with the information.

  “The investigator was just as persistent,” she said. “He is the one, I presume, who is dead.”

  “Smith came here,” said Nick.

  “He did. Several days after the séance you are inquiring about,” she said. “He was primarily interested in both of the Browns and Miss Adler for reasons he did not share. I had little to tell him.”

  “What were the Browns looking for from the séance?”

  Her gaze took in both Nick and Taylor. It was steady and sure. “Dr. Brown’s fiancée was very upset when her mother reached out. Miss Adler sought blessings over their approaching wedding, but did not receive the response she desired.”

  “Her mother told her to cancel the wedding?” blurted Taylor.

  “Not precisely, Mr. Taylor. Merely a request that her daughter wait a while longer,” the woman replied. “She is so very young.”

  “And the Browns?” asked Nick.

  She reached up to caress a silver cross hanging at her throat. “Miss Brown wore a stern expression on her face most of the evening. That is what I recall,” she said. “I believe she disapproved of Miss Adler’s request that Dr. Brown attend. Miss Brown is very protective of her brother. He became unwell during the séance, so perhaps her concern was warranted.”

  “In what way unwell?” asked Nick. Taylor’s pencil scratched over the surface of his notebook.

  “He became faint,” she replied. “His face turned pale, and he loosened his necktie as though he struggled to breathe. His sister was very alarmed. The doctor’s attack passed quickly, but Miss Brown insisted they leave. Which they did not long afterward.”

  “Did anything occur during the séance that might have brought on his attack?” he asked. “In your estimation, Mrs. Loveland.”

  “I don’t exactly recall. I was deep within my connection to the spirit world, you understand, and not attentive to what was happening around me.” She gazed past Nick toward the table behind him. “Many people are overcome by their experiences. I have come to expect strong emotional responses.”

  “What about Mr. Emery and Miss Kimball?” asked Nick.

  She contemplated the names on the list. “Mr. Emery attends quite often,” she said. “He is alone in the world and draws comfort from speaking with those who have gone before him. A harmless, if lonely, fellow.”

  “Who specifically does he want to speak to?”

  “He enquires about a friend he lost in the war,” she replied. “The loss remains deeply troubling for him.”

  Did Emery still hear his friend cry out to him, like Nick heard his friend Jack’s cries? Remembered the sight of his friend’s blood seeping like a crimson river? Down his muddy jacket, onto the ground. Blood everywhere.

  Mrs. Loveland was watching him. She’d made him remember Jack; he’d be visited by nightmares tonight. He looked over at Taylor, who was keeping his head down, bent over his task. He’d learned long ago not to talk to Nick about the war and what he’d been through.

  “This time, Mr. Emery’s friend did come forward when called, though he had little to say to comfort Mr. Emery,” she said. “His occ
upation brings him into regular contact with former soldiers, and he thinks often of his dear friend as a result.”

  A terrible job to have, if you wanted to forget.

  “What about Miss Kimball?” Nick asked, finding composure by focusing on the task at hand. He’d think about Jack later. “What was your impression of her?”

  “A very anxious woman. She appeared intrigued by the Browns and Miss Adler. Although such wealth as they so openly display is meant to draw attention, isn’t it? However, Miss Kimball didn’t ask me to contact anybody—which is not too unusual for my visitors, Detective—and no one presented themselves.” She regarded Nick with those piercing eyes. They held sympathy Nick didn’t want from her. Or from anybody. “Sometimes the spirits seek us out, whether we wish them to or not. You do understand, do you not, Detective?”

  What did she want from him? A confession that he was haunted by his sister Meg, by Jack? By the gray-coated soldier, just a kid, Nick had faced on that battlefield?

  “Anything to tell me about Mr. Griffin?” asked Nick. “He’s been seen hanging around Mr. Smith’s office lately. Any idea why?”

  “None, Detective Greaves,” she replied calmly. “Mr. Griffin is an acquaintance, nothing more. He assists with my guests, if needed.”

  “In what way?”

  “By making them comfortable,” she said. “At times, the men who attend are uneasy. Embarrassed. Mr. Griffin’s presence is appreciated.”

  Taylor flipped to a fresh page of his notebook. The songbird trilled and hopped around.

  “There is another name on that list. Just a first name. Etta,” pointed out Nick. “Did a woman with that name attend that night?”

  Mrs. Loveland answered without consulting her notebook. “No.”

  “Did the name come up during your . . . communications with the spirit world, maybe?” he asked.