And then, good as his word, the clerk left, shutting the door, his key turning in the lock.
Nick bolted across the room to the unlocked cabinet. He located Brown’s ledger and took it over to the clerk’s desk. Moving aside papers, he set it down and flipped through pages until he reached 1863. He searched for any patient called Lucy. There were so many women, most of whom had been luckier than her and had been released.
He turned the page, and a name stuck out. A name that explained everything. A young woman dead of trauma from a fall in May of 1863. Dr. Brown’s entries ended a couple of months after her death. She’d only been twenty-two. In the prime of her years.
A sad little thing with the name of Lucetta Kimball.
Sometimes called Lucy.
Sometimes called Etta, Nick suspected, by those who’d loved her best.
Chapter 21
“It’ll be quieter in here, miss,” said Mr. Taylor to the Adlers’ maid. “More private.”
The maid took the chair in Mr. Greaves’s office that Mr. Taylor offered and glanced over at Celia.
“I am friends with Miss Adler,” said Celia in response to her quizzical look. “Do not worry, though. Anything you say will be kept in the highest confidence.”
“You can speak in front of Mrs. Davies, miss. She . . . um, helps me and Detective Greaves sometimes,” said Mr. Taylor.
“Oh?” the young woman asked.
“Yes, oh,” he replied. “You told Officer Mullahey you saw an item belonging to Miss Adler in a pawn office window?”
“I did.” She glanced at Celia again before continuing. “As I said to him, I was out this morning, running an errand for Mr. Adler. The newspaper boy on the corner who usually sells us our paper had run out of copies of the Morning Call, so I went to purchase one from the next nearest boy,” she said. “On my way back to the house, I passed the pawn office that’s close by. I took a quick look at the items the owner was setting in his window for the day’s display. Whenever I go by, I always check what he’s got, just in case he has something pretty I might like and can afford.”
“I also enjoy perusing what the pawnbrokers have available,” said Celia. Although, in her experience of San Francisco, the most common items on display were men’s pocket watches, nautical instruments, and pistols. None of which she needed. At the moment.
“And there it was,” the young woman continued. “My mistress’s bracelet in his shop window. Her gold one set with opals and tiny sapphires. I recognized it straightaway. I haven’t ever seen another one like that bracelet, and Miss Adler was so proud of it.”
“Did you ask the owner how he’d gotten it from Miss Adler?” asked Mr. Taylor.
“You bet I did,” she said. “I marched straight inside, Mr. Adler’s newspaper tucked under my arm, and demanded to know how he’d gotten ahold of it. He had the nerve to claim that Miss Adler pawned it, but he’s obviously lying. A rich young lady like her? She wouldn’t need to pawn a piece of jewelry. Somebody had to have stolen it from her. That’s the only explanation.”
“Has there been a burglary at the Adlers’ recently, Miss?” asked Mr. Taylor
“No. Not that anybody’s told me about, and a crime like that would cause everybody to talk. Especially Cook,” she replied. “I want the pawnbroker questioned, Officer. I want him to confess he’s stolen the bracelet from her, or that someone else did and that person pawned it.”
“Officer Mullahey has gone to speak with him,” he said.
“Miss Adler has never claimed she’d lost her bracelet at a social event or when she was out visiting?” asked Celia.
“No.” The maid frowned. “You mean . . . you mean she could’ve pawned it? But why? Why would she want to do that? It’s her favorite bracelet.”
Celia looked over at Mr. Taylor, who had retrieved his ever-handy notebook to write in, before asking her next question. He perked his brows in response to her glance.
“Have there ever been any indications that the Adlers are in need of funds?” Celia asked her.
The maid wrapped her fingers tightly around the ties of her bag. Her nails were chipped, her knuckles, raw. Russian Salve would help. If her employers ever permitted their servants the nicety of tending to their skin.
“I’m not supposed to gossip about the master, but all sorts of men in dark suits and serious faces visit him. Mr. Adler doesn’t like it one bit when they come to the house. They talk about money, I think,” she said. “And there was the time I’d accompanied the Adlers on a picnic at the Willows. This past June, it was, and such a lovely afternoon. Unusually sunny and warm. No fog and the sky so blue. And the smell of the ocean . . .” She smiled at the memory. “We’d just settled in with our lunch when a fellow came striding across the lawn, calling out to Mr. Adler. ‘I need to talk to you about your loan,’ he said. Mr. Adler wasn’t happy at all to see him. He charged over to the fellow, announced loudly that mentioning money on a Sunday afternoon was unchristian, and dragged him away. Miss Adler was flustered by the event. Spilled her lemonade all over her brand-new yellow gown. We didn’t stay long, after that.”
“Did this fellow happen to wear a red-check waistcoat?” Celia asked.
The maid furrowed her brow as she thought back. “Don’t think so. A red-check vest. I’d remember that.”
“What did Miss Adler say when you told her you’d seen her bracelet at a pawn office?” asked Mr. Taylor.
“I couldn’t tell her, Officer. She’s not at home,” she answered. “She’s gone with her father to Geyser Springs to treat Mr. Adler’s rheumatism, and to do some fishing. They left early this morning. Which is why I came to the police station on my own.”
“How long had the Adlers been planning this holiday?” asked Celia, leaning forward.
Mr. Taylor tucked away his notebook and stood.
“She never mentioned it to me, but then she doesn’t have to tell me her plans, of course,” she answered, alarmed by the sudden urgency in Mr. Taylor’s movements. “She was upset last night, when she returned from an outing. Mr. Adler said their trip to the geysers would be just the thing to sort out matters.”
“They’ve fled the city, ma’am,” he said to Celia.
“It seems Mr. and Miss Adler must be apprehended as quickly as possible, Mr. Taylor.”
“I’ll get somebody right on that, sir . . . I mean, ma’am.” Blushing, he rushed from the room.
The maid glanced between Celia and the door Mr. Taylor had left hanging open. “I don’t understand. Apprehended? Have the Adlers done something wrong?”
“Your employers may not be as rich as they claim,” she replied. “More importantly, they may have gone to extreme lengths to prevent others from learning of their hoax.”
• • •
“You want to know about some woman who died at the Asylum in sixty-three?” The officer Nick had found at the police station folded his arms across his dusty uniform and reclined in his chair. “Listen, Officer—”
“Detective.”
“Listen, Detective, women die every year at that place, and plenty of men, too,” he said. “They’re drunks and lowlifes, and the women aren’t any better. Not wholesome types, if you know what I mean. If they get sick and die from the way they choose to live . . .” He shrugged. “Nobody here goes running out to the asylum to check on the lunatics who’ve been put away every time there’s a claim it’s not such a pleasant place, Detective. Make sure they’re being treated all nice and kind. The doctors and the superintendent have the place under control. We’ve got enough roustabouts to deal with in this town. Don’t need to be interfering in the running of the hospital.”
“She may have been murdered.”
The officer snorted, leaned back, and propped his feet on his desk. “We’ve been dragged into an accusation of murder out there before. Had to get the Board involved to dig up the fellah’s body and have the coroner examine it. Not killed. Stabbed after he was already dead. Made to look like he’d been murdered to ruin
the reputation of the place,” he said. “Well, that’s not going to happen again. I’m not getting involved in another fool’s errand. Waste of my time and resources.”
“So you won’t tell me anything about what might have happened to Lucetta Kimball in May of 1863,” said Nick. “How the trauma that resulted in her death was caused.”
“She jumped,” said a policeman who’d come into the main room from an adjacent one.
“See, Detective?” said the officer behind the desk, a smirk shifting his thick mustache. “A suicide, it was. What a dreadful shame.”
“She jumped. From where?” asked Nick.
“From the top of the central tower on the hospital,” the other policeman answered. He had an old scar from a split lip, which distorted his mouth when he spoke. “Somehow she got up there. It’s not that high, but she must’ve landed badly. Died of her injuries a couple days later.”
“You’ve got an awfully good memory,” Nick said to him. “About the death of an unimportant woman that occurred more than four years ago.”
The fellow’s mouth twisted more. His expression was rather unpleasant, frankly. “Don’t get too many suicides at the hospital. Sure, folks run off all the time. They’re looking to get more money so as to build a wall around the whole place.”
“About time, if you ask me,” the officer behind the desk chimed in.
“But not many suicides. Only been a couple since I’ve been in Stockton,” the scarred policeman continued. “So I recollect them, Detective. Even one that happened four years ago.”
“Did anybody ever suggest Miss Lucetta Kimball was pushed?” Possibly like an investigator in San Francisco. A peculiar coincidence . . . unless it wasn’t.
The officer laughed. “Pushed?”
“How about, was Dr. Arthur Brown’s name ever mentioned in connection with Miss Kimball’s unfortunate demise?” asked Nick.
“Nope,” he insisted.
“You sure about that?”
“It doesn’t matter any more what folks said about him and her, does it now, Detective?” he asked. “It’s all in the past.”
“I know what my brother used to say about those doctors when he worked at the asylum,” said the officer with the scarred lip. “They sure do dress fine and have proper manners, and all, but underneath—”
“Hey!” The other policeman scowled at his partner. “That’s enough, Emery.”
“Emery?” asked Nick.
Damn.
• • •
Owen stood at the window of the bedroom he’d been using in Mrs. Davies’s house. His head hurt. Just plain hurt. Worse than when he’d been sick. He should tell her about having run into Caleb. That he’d been watching her because she knew somebody who owed him money and he was trying to find that person. Shoot. He should warn Mrs. Davies. Caleb was dangerous. He mightn’t have killed Mr. Smith, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of serious trouble.
But if he warned her about him, and Mr. Greaves got wind that the man was hanging about nearby, and that Caleb had been stalking Mrs. Davies, and the cops found him and arrested him . . . well, Caleb would know who’d been the snitch.
Me!
And how much longer would I be alive after that?
And how thankless of a person would he be to turn on the man who’d saved his life?
“Why can’t I figure out what to do?” he muttered.
The kids on the street below were playing jacks and chasing each other with sticks, pretending they were swords, like the world was easy and simple and fun. It wasn’t fun. Not as far as Owen was concerned. It was right awful some days. Like today. When his head spun and hurt and he didn’t know what was right and what was wrong. Mr. Greaves would be able to tell him. But he couldn’t talk to him about his problems, just like he couldn’t talk to Mrs. Davies.
Right then, he heard her calling out a greeting to Angelo, who was always hanging around on the porch with nothing better to do than pester the neighbors. She came into view, striding along the plank sidewalk like she could take on the world without raising a sweat. She reached the stairs and looked up at the house, waving at Owen when she spotted him at the window. He waved back and grinned, because he was always happy to see her.
But now what?
The front door closed, the vibration echoing up through the floor, and she was calling to Addie to take her things. Then her footsteps were on the stairs, and Owen’s heart took to pounding.
What should I do? What the heck should I do?
“Owen,” she said, striding through the bedroom doorway, patting her head for loose strands and tucking them into the knot of hair she wore coiled at the back of her neck. “We have had great success today!”
She pecked him on the cheek, and he breathed in the smell of lavender that clung to every item of clothing she wore. Which calmed him down. But he still had trouble looking her straight in the eye.
“What happened, ma’am?”
“Miss Adler and her father may have been perpetrating a fraud, hoping to snag a rich husband.” She went over to the bed and straightened the bedclothes, which he always left a mess. “They may, in fact, owe Mr. Griffin a sum of money.”
So Miss Adler was the person Mrs. Davies knew who owed Caleb money?
But why would he be hanging around here if he was after Miss Adler? Why wouldn’t he just go to their house, because it wouldn’t be hard to find the woman over there.
“So she killed Mr. Smith because he found out?” Not Caleb. He hadn’t been lying.
And now he didn’t have to tell Mrs. Davies about him, because he wasn’t a killer.
She ran a hand across the coverlet, smoothing it. “I cannot state that for certain, but Officer Mullahey learned that Miss Adler pawned a bracelet yesterday, and this morning she and her father fled the city.” She looked over at him. “Mr. Taylor is right now at their bank asking about their accounts. It is very possible they have removed all their funds, as well.”
“They’ve gotten away.”
“The Adlers took the morning steamer to Oakland, and the police have telegraphed the station near where the ferry will dock to be on the watch for the two of them. I believe they shall be caught,” she explained. “I am quite relieved. We may be very soon arriving at the truth.”
“That’s good.”
She peered at him. “Owen, are you all right? Is something bothering you?”
“I’m fine, ma’am,” he replied, working on his cheek muscles so he didn’t show that he was upset and worried and scared, even though he was. “But learning that Miss Adler might’ve had a reason to kill Mr. Smith doesn’t explain who Etta is. Or why Miss Kimball has run off. Or if she hurt that other fellow. Does it?”
Mrs. Davies scrubbed her fingers through his hair, trying to calm that awful cowlick he had. “No, Owen. You are correct. It does not.”
“So maybe we don’t got . . . have all the truth yet.”
She frowned. “Owen, something is bothering you. Please tell me what is the matter. I’ll not leave this room until you do.”
Should he tell her? Should he?
Don’t be lily-livered, Cassidy. “Um . . . I saw the fellow with the red vest,” he said, feeling a tickle of nervous sweat along his hairline. “He’s the fellow from the séance, ain’t he? The crook.”
She tilted her head to one side. Her eyes fixed on his face, sorta like one of those mesmerists trying to hypnotize you and get you to say things you really shouldn’t. He’d snuck into the opera house once to watch a performance. It had been downright astonishing.
“Owen, did you speak with this man?”
“I . . . um . . . wanted to know what he wants. Hanging around like he is.”
“So, what does he want?”
“Um . . .”
“Owen, you can be honest with me. You know that.”
He swallowed. “Sure I do.” I can’t tell her the whole story. I can’t. But he had to say something. “He’s after somebody you know, ma’am. But don
’t tell Mr. Greaves I told you about him. You gotta promise you won’t tell anybody, because Caleb will be after me next.”
Her eyes hadn’t let go of his face; the strength of her attention was making his head hurt worse. “‘Caleb’? You know Mr. Griffin.”
The trickle of sweat turned into a river. “Don’t tell nobody, ma’am. Not a soul!”
Because I sure in heck don’t wanna die yet.
• • •
“You’re back, sir! Mr. Greaves . . . sir!” Taylor scurried alongside Nick as he strode through the station, headed for his office. “Wait ’til you hear what we’ve learned about the Adlers!”
“We need to arrest Emery, Taylor.” He strode inside, unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out his Colt and his holster.
“Emery?” Taylor stared at the gun. “What do you mean? It’s the Adlers, sir. They’re on the run. Miss Adler’s been pawning jewelry, and Mrs. Davies suspects she owes Mr. Griffin money, and she and her father have emptied their bank accounts—not that they had much money left in the bank—and must’ve killed Mr. Smith because he’d discovered they’re frauds.”
Nick strapped the holster around his waist. “Emery, Taylor,” he said. On the overnight steamer back to San Francisco, he’d had a long time to think. A long time to wish he could propel the boat faster down the river toward home. “He used to work at the state hospital in Stockton before he left for the war in late sixty-three. The same time that somebody either pushed Etta Kimball off the central tower of the hospital or she jumped.”
“Etta! You found Etta, sir!” said Taylor. “And she’s Miss Kimball’s relative.”
Nick slammed shut the desk drawer. “Brown had been Etta’s doctor while she was at the asylum. He left under a cloud of suspicion that he might have mistreated her.”
“So, Mr. Emery knew Dr. Brown?”
“Brown thought he’d recognized Emery at the séance,” said Nick. “According to Emery’s brother, who’s a cop in Stockton, he’d been employed as a carpenter at the hospital. I expect he and Brown had never actually met before that night at Mrs. Loveland’s, though.”
No Quiet among the Shadows Page 24