No Quiet among the Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  “Whoa! Was it Mr. Griffin?”

  “I do not know.”

  Owen paused to sort through what he’d heard, his thin face a study in concentration as he stared at a spot on the floor. He was smarter than he believed himself to be, far more resourceful than many adults she had known, let alone any other teenaged boys.

  He looked up then and in his eyes she saw the man he would become. One day, someday, he would be a great success, thought Celia. Despite the hardships and the setbacks he’d suffered in life, Owen was a survivor. How proud she was of him. How she loved him like the son she would never have.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Davies?” he asked.

  “Feeling a trifle sentimental, Owen,” she replied, smiling to ease the worry on his face. “I miss Barbara, but I think it best she stay with the Hutchinsons for a few more days.”

  “I miss her, too,” he said. “And Grace, when she comes around.”

  Owen was smitten with Grace Hutchinson. She expected, however, that Frank Hutchinson had grand plans for his daughter that did not involve a romantic relationship with a poor, orphaned Irish boy. No matter how scrappy and intelligent that boy was.

  “Is that everybody that was at the séance, ma’am?” he asked.

  “We next turn to Miss Adler, Dr. Brown’s fiancée,” said Celia. “She is a wealthy young woman whose sudden interest in returning to the spiritualist’s for a second séance may be tied to a diary Mrs. Loveland keeps on her clients.”

  “What’s in it that Miss Adler doesn’t like?”

  “A worthy question.”

  “Miss Adler wouldn’t want to kill Mr. Smith, would she?” asked Owen. “Not if he was trying to find somebody who’d been threatening the man she’s set to marry and all. She’d want him to track down that person and have him arrested.”

  “We would normally assume that, Owen.”

  “Has Mr. Greaves found any clues in those letters that might reveal who’d wrote . . . written them?” he asked.

  “As far as I know, only Dr. Brown has ever read them.”

  Owen frowned. “So we’re trusting him about what they had to say?”

  “I am afraid so,” she replied. “We must also consider Mrs. Loveland, the spiritualist. I attempted to speak with her this afternoon, but she would not answer the door. I think she was inside her flat, however.” Or, at least, someone was.

  “Maybe she’s afraid, ma’am.”

  “I expect to learn more about her tomorrow night when I attend that séance Miss Adler is going to be at.” Within an hour of Celia’s return from Mrs. Loveland’s, a response had arrived saying Celia was welcome to attend. “I shall at last be able to meet her and see for myself what I think, as well as discern Miss Adler’s intentions. I may even encounter Mr. Griffin, the confidence man, there.”

  “Won’t that be dangerous, ma’am?” asked Owen. “What if she’s a killer? Or he turns out to be?”

  “I shall be very careful.”

  He puffed out his chest. “I should go along. I can protect you.”

  “Thank you, Owen, but no.” For I shall risk only one of our lives this time.

  Chapter 17

  “How can I help you this morning, sir?” asked the agent at the telegraph office with a barely concealed smirk.

  “I’ve got more than three words for you to send today,” answered Nick, trying to come up with a reason to arrest the guy and not finding one. Sarcasm wasn’t a crime, unfortunately. “But to the same recipient.”

  The agent dragged over his paper and pencil. “Go ahead.”

  “‘Need information Stevenson, Brown families. Late of Sacramento.’ Got it?”

  “I believe I can manage that, sir.” The man wrote down Nick’s message.

  Ellie might not appreciate being asked to help with his police work, but she and their father knew anybody who was anybody in Sacramento. The Browns’ story about Arvilla Stevenson simply didn’t add up.

  Making Nick question what else they might be lying about.

  • • •

  The night had passed without a message from Mr. Greaves. Celia scowled over her breakfast, her ill humor infecting Addie, who set Celia’s plate of toast and eggs on the table so firmly that the adjoining teacup clattered upon its saucer.

  Celia looked up at her. “There has been no message from Mr. Greaves?”

  “No, ma’am, he has not sent a word.”

  The morning newspaper had provided further details on the man assaulted in Mr. Smith’s office. The tobacconist who owned the shop across the street—and whose assistant had told her where to find Mr. Smith’s hotel—had been bludgeoned interrupting a burglary. According to the official police account. She itched to learn if the official account was the actual, correct account.

  “You will be interested to hear what I’ve learned from Madame Philippe about Mrs. Loveland,” said Addie.

  “You spoke with your astrologer about her?”

  “I did.” Addie pulled out one of the dining table chairs and sat. “She told me that ever since Mrs. Loveland’s husband passed on last winter, the woman has become desperate for clients. She’s taken to advertising in the newspapers,” she said. “Madame Philippe believes she is low on funds.”

  “Which might explain why she has befriended Mr. Griffin,” said Celia. “Mrs. Loveland may have become a blackmailer. Perhaps Mr. Griffin will be at the séance tonight, eyeing me as their next potential victim.”

  “Och, ’tis a chancy undertaking, ma’am, you going to that woman’s.”

  “I have to go, Addie. I promised Jane I would be there,” she replied.

  The doorbell chimed.

  Addie rushed off to answer it. She returned with a note. “From Mrs. Wheaton, ma’am.”

  Not from Nicholas Greaves. Blast.

  “I should have looked in on her earlier. It has been nearly a week since her visit to the clinic,” said Celia, taking the note and breaking the seal.

  “You’ve been a wee bit preoccupied, ma’am.” Addie peeked over Celia shoulder. “What does she have to say?”

  “She regrets not coming by as I’d requested,” said Celia. “But she tells me her wound has fully healed and she is now fine, so there was no need. Further, she thanks me for everything I have done for her.”

  “Weel, I’m glad she’s better. Poor thing.”

  “Her message does not strike me as genuine, Addie. ‘Everything you have done for me.’ The words sound so . . . final.”

  “Her husband likely isna happy she came to visit you.”

  “Indeed so.” Celia took another bite of toast, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and got to her feet.

  “What do you mean to do?” asked Addie.

  “I mean to visit Mrs. Wheaton,” she said. “To observe for myself if she is as healed as she wishes me to believe. Tell Owen I expect to return before lunch.”

  Celia collected her medical bag and bonnet and set out for the Wheatons’. Their house was located among the hills rising to the west of the city center. Not far from the ugly cuts carved into the hillsides to make way for flatter roads. Morning fog grazed the tops of the bay-windowed houses, a veneer of white as sheer as a veil, softening the edges.

  Celia pushed through the gate in the iron fence, climbed the steps to the door, and twisted the brass knob that rang the bell. A servant in a trim dark dress with an apron pinned at her waist responded to Celia’s summons.

  “Yes?” the girl asked, her gaze settling upon the black portmanteau in Celia’s left hand.

  “Your mistress is a patient of mine,” she said. “I treated her last week for a wound she’d suffered upon her neck. I asked her to return to my clinic so I might ensure that it was healing, but she has not. I would like to see her, if possible.”

  An impeccably dressed man strode into view behind the servant. The dimness of the hallway did not conceal his stiff manner or the imperious tilt of his head. “Who is it, Daisy?”

  “It’s a woman who says she tended to Mrs. Wheat
on, sir,” answered the girl.

  He marched over and gripped the edge of the door. His fierce stare was meant to intimidate, but Celia had faced down worse.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Celia Davies, a nurse who tended to your wife the other day,” she replied. “I wished to follow up on her condition and assess if she is recovering properly. I’d requested that she return to my clinic, but when she did not, I grew concerned.”

  “I believe she sent you a message this morning, Mrs. Davies,” he said.

  “Yes—”

  “Then you’re aware your services aren’t required any longer.”

  “Might I see her anyway?” asked Celia.

  “My wife is not available. Good day to you.” Mr. Wheaton released the door and disappeared the direction he’d come.

  The servant gave Celia an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you heard Mr. Wheaton.”

  Indeed she had.

  “Perhaps you can discreetly give your mistress a message for me,” said Celia. “Remind her that I would dearly like her to visit me again. Any time that would be convenient.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl bobbed a curtsy, and closed the door with a firm click.

  Celia stepped back and stared up at the house. A curtain twitched aside, and Mr. Wheaton appeared at one of the ground-level windows. He scowled, his otherwise handsome face hardening into resolute, stern lines. She pitied Mrs. Wheaton, to be saddled and bridled to a man like him. A man who had sent his wife to the asylum in Stockton to be tied to chairs and treated with a seton in the neck that had achieved little more than leave a permanent scar.

  With a sigh, she retraced her steps to the pavement and turned down the street. Behind her, she heard the sound of rapidly approaching feet.

  “Ma’am,” called out the female voice.

  It was a girl even younger than the servant who’d answered the door. Clothed in an ill-fitting dress blackened by coal dust and fireplace ashes, she cast a glance back at the house, out of view behind the neighboring building.

  “I don’t have much time to talk,” she said, running up to Celia. “But I’ve got to tell somebody about the missus. He’s put her away again. He pretends to everybody who comes to ask after her that she’s in her bedroom, but she’s not. She’s at the hospital.”

  Gad. “The one in Stockton?”

  “No, one of the hospitals in town. I heard Daisy tell Cook,” said the girl. “Daisy went with the missus to help her settle in. She wasn’t to tell nobody, but she’s worried for Mrs. Wheaton, too. She’s so frail and helpless. But the master . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Ain’t nothing we can do about him and her. But I wanted you to know, since you’re a medical person and all.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “The City and County Hospital on Francisco Street, ma’am. The horrible charity hospital!” she said. “The one where they put insane folks.”

  • • •

  Nick leaned against the post in the iron fence surrounding Portsmouth Square, idly taking in his surroundings. He liked to escape his office and come out here, even though the scraggly trees and bushes weren’t particularly inspiring. The morning fog clung to the sky, unwilling to let go. A seagull had taken a detour from the bay to hop across one of the square’s gravel paths and peck at the discarded remnants of somebody’s morning meal. A poster fastened to the gate letting onto the square drew Nick’s attention. It advertised an upcoming Union party mass meeting to hear their nominee for governor speak. The fellow was vocally supportive of nonwhite suffrage. An opponent to the concept had scrawled their unflattering opinion of the man’s intelligence on the poster. Right next to it, a notice had been tacked encouraging folks to attend the Democrats’ meeting tomorrow night, where a good deal of hot air would undoubtedly be spent deriding the Unionists as dangerous idiots.

  “Sir!” Taylor called out. He darted across the road between passing wagons, smoke trailing from the tip of his lit cigar. “Thought I’d find you out here.”

  “Smells better than the station does any day,” said Nick. “Since I didn’t hear anything from you, I presume the boy who found that photograph is okay.”

  “Yep, he’s fine. It’s his ma who’s rattled. She’s mad that he talked to me and Mrs. Davies about finding it.” Taylor took up a spot next to Nick at the railing. “But she’s more upset about the fellow she spotted poking around in the alley late Saturday night. Woke her up with his rustling around in the trash folks discard there. She shouted down to him and scared him off. Didn’t get a description, though. Too dark.”

  “Looking for that carte de visite?”

  “Gotta be, sir.” Taylor took a long puff on his cigar and released a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I heard that Miss Kimball came to Mrs. Davies’s clinic, but now she’s run off.”

  “I saw Mrs. Davies’s messages, too.” There’d been one waiting for him at Mrs. Jewett’s, as well.

  Nearby, a cab clattered off, and a boy selling newspapers was crying himself hoarse trying to peddle them to passing workers. The din forced Taylor to edge closer to Nick in order to be heard.

  “Should we put another notice in the papers, sir?”

  “Miss Kimball didn’t respond before. She’s even less likely to now,” said Nick. “I just hope that fellow looking for her who called himself Smith doesn’t find her first.”

  “Wish she’d contact us.”

  “So do I.” Another woman running from some man. There must be a whole lot more of them in this city than Nick had ever realized. “I finally cornered Emery at his boardinghouse yesterday. He claims he was at Maguire’s Opera House Saturday night. Alone.”

  “Not much of an alibi, sir,” said Taylor around the cigar clenched in his teeth.

  “No. However, an observation he made about the woman in that photograph has me convinced the Browns lied to me about her identity,” said Nick. “I’ve sent a telegram to my sister in Sacramento to see what she knows about them and the Stevensons.”

  Taylor looked over. “You’ve got a sister?”

  “I believe I’ve mentioned her to you.”

  Taylor squinted at him. “Don’t recollect that.”

  “Well, I do,” said Nick, keen to move on from discussing Ellie or anybody else in his family. As much as he loved his twin sister, talking about her only made him miserable.

  “My landlord’s wife had some gossip for me about the Browns and the Adlers,” said his assistant. “She’s interested in society folks and all. She could tell you who arrived on last week’s steamer from New York, where they stayed, and what balls they attended while in the city without pausing to take a breath.”

  “And?”

  “She hadn’t heard too much about the doctor or Miss Brown at all, actually, until the past few months,” he said. “Last fall, Dr. Brown started to advertise his talks about some cure he was touting. To make a person sound in mind and body, or something like that. And of course there was a big splash in the paper about his engagement to Miss Adler.”

  “What about the Adlers?”

  “She remembers reading about them, all right,” said Taylor. “They like to go to fancy parties. They were special guests at one the Spreckels held around Christmas, apparently meant to introduce the Adlers to all the important people in town.”

  The Spreckels of the California Sugar Refinery Company. Good people to hobnob with, if your intention was to rub elbows with San Francisco’s moneyed folks.

  “Any other gossip about the Adlers worth learning?” asked Nick.

  “The news is they came from somewhere near New York City and have been seeking fresh opportunities out west,” said Taylor, pausing to crush his spent cigar butt on the plank sidewalk underfoot. “Mr. Adler has been buying and selling land in the Western Addition. Guess that’s how he makes his money.”

  “He must be doing well, because they’re renting a pretty nice house near the Browns.”

  “Appar
ently Mr. Adler has been keen from the start to introduce his daughter to all the eligible bachelors in the city, and even a few outside the city,” said Taylor. “My landlord’s wife thinks he’s been undignified. Parading Miss Adler about like she’s a filly for sale, is how she described it.”

  “Maybe he’s looking for an influx of money from a future son-in-law to assist his real estate endeavors.”

  “Maybe so, sir,” his assistant replied. “A money-grubber, if you ask me.”

  The absolute making of them . . .

  The seagull had taken to the sky, wheeling overhead. The fog was lifting, thin shreds of blue sky beginning to show.

  “Tear down those political posters and throw them away, will you, Taylor? Folks aren’t allowed to post handbills wherever they please.”

  “Where are you off to, sir?” he asked, scrambling to rip the posters from the railing.

  “I’m overdue a visit to an inquisitive British woman.”

  • • •

  Celia took the Omnibus railroad line to Francisco, where she disembarked and walked the short remaining block to the hospital. It was located in the North Beach area on the other side of Telegraph Hill from Celia’s house. The hospital had once been a schoolhouse, the classrooms converted to wards and offices and surgical facilities. An ugly wood structure resembling a barn had been built on an adjacent empty lot to handle the excess number of patients. Years of overcrowding had left the fabric of the main building tired and worn out, as though weary of the effort to aid the poorest and sickest of the city and long ago overcome by the need. A new almshouse had been recently constructed west of town, too late to lift the air of desperation that held tight to the hospital’s brick and stone.

  She climbed the short flight of steps and entered the lobby. Hallways stretched to her left and right and a wide staircase rose ahead of her. Arriving patients and their companions crowded the entry area, their voices the anxious hum of the unwell, afraid to speak too loudly. The air smelled stale, slightly acidic and sour. A physician bustled through, ignoring the entreaty of a visitor to stop and talk.