A strip of black crepe had been draped over the Closed sign in the window of Rebecca Shaw’s photographic gallery. The blinds were drawn and the interior, from what Celia could see through the gaps, was dark and empty. She’d intended to return home, but her walk to the Institute with Mr. Greaves had brought her too near the studio to resist the temptation to speak with Miss Shaw again. Perhaps she knew why her stepbrother had been at the station that morning, or why a bottle of chloroform was missing from among Elliot Blanchard’s supplies. Was prepared to admit she had, possibly, taken her father's key to the private entrance and passed it on to her former fiancé. Or that she had critical information about who had murdered Mrs. Wynn.
“Are you lookin’ for Miss Shaw?”
The voice belonged to a clerk from the adjacent general merchandise shop, a fellow so lean his apron strings had been wrapped twice around his pinched waist.
Celia never ceased to marvel that, first of all, people took notice of her peering through windows and, secondly, were all too happy to assist. The average San Franciscan was either extraordinarily helpful, unabashedly inquisitive, or excessively suspicious of strangers.
“I am, but I see that she has closed her gallery,” she said. “Because of the death in her family, I presume.”
“That would be right, ma’am. Her father’s gone and died,” he said. “Murdered by somebody who didn’t like his politics, I’d bet. I woulda voted for him.”
She forced a smile; she wasn’t here to discuss the rights of former slaves with this man.
“Do you know where I might find Miss Shaw?” she asked. “This is a difficult time, and as an acquaintance, I wish to extend my condolences, leave a small note. Perhaps she resides nearby.”
“She lives in the apartment right above her studio.” He jabbed his thumb toward the pertinent windows. Their blinds were also closed. “The street door might be unlocked. The woman who lives on the top floor leaves it open for her daughter, who comes and goes an awful lot and don’t have a key.”
Sometimes unabashed nosiness paid off. “Thank you.”
He politely tapped fingers to the brim of his cap. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
Celia waited for him to return to the general merchandise shop before trying the street door, located between Miss Shaw’s gallery and a tailor’s on the other side. As the clerk had predicted, it was unlocked.
A steep staircase, lit only by a gloomy skylight, wound up the building’s four stories. At the first landing was a door to what had to be Miss Shaw’s flat, located immediately over her gallery.
Celia rapped on the doorframe. Please answer. Please.
A door opened on the floor above, and feet pounded down the steps.
“Is that you, Miss Shaw? I got that coffee for you,” said the woman, her tawny skirts lifted as she descended, revealing her scuffed half boots. A yellow tin of J. A. Folger Pioneer Coffee in her hand, she abruptly halted when she spotted Celia outside Miss Shaw’s door. “Oh. I’m sorry, I thought I heard Rebecca down here.”
She spoke through thinly parted lips, as though ashamed of her teeth.
“I was hoping to extend my condolences on the loss of her father, but she does not appear to be at home,” said Celia.
“No, she went out early this morning. Probably to look in on her stepmother. The funeral’s tomorrow.” The woman lifted the tin of coffee. “I offered to buy her some coffee. She never seems to have the time to take care of herself.”
“When was it that she left, would you say?” Around sunrise, when a widow was attacked? “I ask because I wonder when I might expect her to return. I do truly wish to speak with her.”
“Before six, I think it was. I rise early to do my shopping before I head to the primary school on Pine, where I’m an assistant. I was just getting ready,” she explained. “I was surprised to see her. She’s not usually up and around at that hour.”
Before six. Only if Mrs. Wynn’s boardinghouse was nearby, however, would Miss Shaw have had enough time to get there and commit the crime prior to the sun rising. Celia peeked at her watch. Almost nine. Where have you been for the last three hours, Miss Shaw?
“Do you know if she ever returned home?” asked Celia. Or has she been gone the entire time?
The woman’s gaze narrowed. “That’s a strange question. What’s it matter?”
“Perhaps it does not. I believe I shall wait until tomorrow’s funeral service to extend my condolences to her,” said Celia. “A more proper opportunity, rather than intruding upon her today.”
“Might be better tomorrow,” she agreed. “Although you’re not the only one who’s been looking for her this morning. I heard them knocking on her door, but they left before I could see who it was.”
“Ah.” And who could that have been? “This may come as another odd question, but have you ever heard her mention a Mrs. Wynn?”
“Don’t think so, but then she is fairly private.”
“What about a young woman named Mina Cascarino?” she asked, pressing her luck that Miss Shaw’s neighbor would tolerate all the queries. “She is an acquaintance of Miss Shaw’s whom I’ve been attempting to locate in the city. An old friend I lost touch with.”
“Was she one of those young women who came to her gallery for their portraits?” she asked. “For an exhibit she’d hoped to hold someplace.”
“How fascinating. I’d not heard of this exhibit.”
“Working-class girls, they were. They come by to visit her every so often.” The woman glanced toward her room, somewhere up in the shadows of the stairwell. “I do have to hurry, ma’am, or I’ll be late to school.”
“I am sorry for delaying you.”
Celia retreated down the steps and back outside. The windows of Miss Shaw’s studio had been emptied of all but a handful of photographs set in front of the closed blinds. She leaned down to examine them, the faces of strangers. One was of two women, attired in simple dresses, their arms around each other’s waist. Those working-class girls Miss Shaw’s neighbor had spoken of? None of them were Mina, though, providing a connection between her and Miss Shaw. Celia did not recognize a single one, save for the image of a man captured in emulsion upon tin. A man who was Elliot Blanchard.
“What a curious portrait to display in your window, Miss Shaw.” An image of your former fiancé.
Nearby, a church bell rang the hour. She was going to be late for her appointment. She hurried past the general merchandise shop, where the clerk spotted her through the window and nodded. On the pavement ahead, two women huddled together, oblivious to the pedestrians having to sidestep them.
One of the women was familiar. In fact, she looked to be Miss Shaw, dressed in black mourning attire. And the other person with her . . . Celia squinted to see better. Her deep bonnet shielded her face from view, though. She was gesturing frantically, however, Miss Shaw gripping her arm to calm her.
How very, very curious.
Celia increased her pace, drawing nearer to the two of them. “Miss Shaw!”
At the sound of her name, she looked over and scowled. She exchanged a few hasty words with the other woman and sped off, down the road that crossed Montgomery, her companion heading the other direction. Celia chased after Rebecca.
“Please wait, Miss Shaw!” she shouted, weaving through the pedestrians obstructing her progress, who glared at her unladylike headlong sprint down the street.
“Pardon me,” she said to a woman holding the hand of a small child Celia had collided with. When she looked up, she realized she’d lost track of Miss Shaw.
Just then, a horsecar pulled away from its stop, and a tall woman in a black dress bolted from a side alley and jumped aboard before it picked up speed.
Blast.
• • •
“Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Ross,” said Nick, watching the man from the doorway of the ladies’ bathing room. “I see that you’re busy.”
“I’m having to do the work of our cleaning staff myself, because I was forced to let them all go. Hopefully temporarily,” said Ross, scrubbing out one of the room’s two cast-iron tubs, his cuffs covered by sleeve stockings and his face red from the exertion. The space was tight and warm, the air smelling faintly metallic, and water condensed on the outside of the cold water pipe that fed one of the taps. Ross was sweating, too. Occasionally, a drip fell from the showerhead that arched over the tub he was scouring. “Have you resolved Mr. Shaw’s murder, Mr. Greaves?”
“Not yet,” he replied. “Although it is fascinating that the coroner detected alcohol in the man’s stomach.”
Ross went even redder. “I . . . I . . .”
“It’s okay, Mr. Ross. Your secret’s safe with me,” said Nick. “I’m here because of Mrs. Wynn. You told me she had lots of friends and acquaintances. Did any of them visit her while she was taking the cure?”
Somebody who’d learned when the woman intended to flee San Francisco and stopped her before she could make good on her escape.
“I don’t recollect anyone visiting. The day she arrived—Monday—was a very busy day for me, however. There was a leak in one of the pipes, so there were workers down here I had to supervise.” He flourished the scrub brush he’d been using, which splattered soapy water onto the black-and-white tiled floor. A few sudsy drips slid down the nearby tiled wall. “And of course Mr. Shaw was also set to arrive that day. I had to oversee that his room was prepared to the highest of standards.”
“No doubt,” Nick replied, starting to sweat himself, the cloying damp and heat of the room seeping through his clothing. “I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news for you, Mr. Ross. Mrs. Wynn has been murdered.”
“Oh my heavens!” He dropped the scrub brush, and it clanged against the bottom of the tub. “Do the newspapers know yet?”
Probably. Although how they managed to be so well-informed was a mystery to Nick. “Where were you this morning around sunrise?”
“I’m a suspect?”
“We’re going to ask everybody, Mr. Ross. It’s normal.”
He retrieved the brush. “At home. I was just getting out of bed, I’d say. My wife can confirm that.”
He’d be making sure she could. “We’ve recovered Mr. Shaw’s watch and fob chain,” he said. “In Mrs. Wynn’s possession.”
“Oh . . . oh . . .” Mr. Ross swayed, his empty hand flailing for the lip of the tub, using it to steady himself. “A regular patient. A faithful client. I trusted her . . . how could she?”
Nick dragged over a nearby stool for the man to sit on. “Wish I could answer that question.”
Ross’s shoulders drooped. “She abused my welcome. I trust my patients. I thought she was a respectable woman.”
Who liked to nick expensive watches. “I have some questions about Mr. Platt, Mr. Ross. Such as a rumor I heard that he’s the person who’s been stealing from your patients. What do you think about that?”
“But Mrs. Wynn took Mr. Shaw’s watch,” said Ross, the scrub brush, forgotten in his hand, dripping water onto the tiles. “You just told me that.”
“She and Platt were observed deep in conversation yesterday,” said Nick. “Maybe they were in cahoots.”
“I cannot fathom that being the situation, Mr. Greaves. Mr. Platt has been nothing but the most reliable of employees,” said Ross. “He’s been with me four years and I’ve never had any trouble with him.”
Except Platt was in debt to Griffin, so his willingness to cause trouble might’ve changed for the worse. “I should also inform you that my assistant discovered part of a chloroform bottle out in the alley here.”
“A chloroform bottle?” Ross used his forefinger to adjust his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “I have no idea how it got there, Mr. Greaves. I repeat that we do not use the substance.”
“Then you won’t mind if I have a look at your supplies and prove that to myself, will you?”
“If you insist, but you won’t find any.” Ross stood and balanced the brush he’d been holding on the edge of the tub. “The storage room is down the hall.”
Nick followed him into the whitewashed hallway, gas jets flaring overhead, a series of closed doors on either side. More bathing rooms. Out here, the air was just as cloyingly damp, and he was glad when they reached the far end of the hall and a door labeled Supplies—Private.
Ross unlocked it, crossed to the room’s narrow window, and retracted the blinds. Pulling them open didn’t offer much light, though, and Nick surveyed the shadows.
“As you see, Mr. Greaves, we have no need for harmful substances. Pure water is our cure.”
The walls were lined with wood shelves holding clean rags, fresh linens, stacks of towels, soft brushes. For scrubbing skin, Nick supposed. Another set of shelves held washing powder and bar soaps. Hill’s Chemical Olive Soap. Soda and a small container of lime.
Ross sidled in close behind Nick. “If the killer used chloroform on Mr. Shaw, Mr. Greaves, they did not obtain it from my supplies. I assure you.”
Just then, Mary Ann Newcomb barged into the room. “Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. Ross. I didn’t realize you were in here with Mr. Greaves,” she said. “I need to fetch some washing powder for the table linens.”
“We’re finished, Miss Newcomb,” said Nick, tidying the stack of towels he’d started to search through. He swept past the both of them, out of the room.
“An excellent idea, Mary Ann,” Ross replied. “We may as well clean the entire facility while we have no patients.”
She scurried inside the supply room.
“If you have any information about Mrs. Wynn’s next of kin, Mr. Ross, I’d like to know,” said Nick. “We need to contact them.”
The cook’s gasp was so loud it echoed off the room’s walls. “Next of kin? Has Mrs. Wynn passed away?”
“She died this morning,” said Nick. “Attacked outside her lodging house while attempting to flee town.”
“Oh, no!” Her eyes went wide, showing the whites around the irises like a panicked horse. “That’s what she’d been trying to tell me. That she was scared and needed my help. But now it’s too late!”
• • •
“What bad has happened now?” asked Jane, ascending the street’s incline alongside Celia. When she’d arrived at the Hutchinsons’, her friend had been discussing dinner plans with her servant, but hadn’t objected to rushing off. “You’re practically sprinting, so it must be awful.”
“Something awful has happened, Jane,” she said. “And I have a question for you that may or may not shed light on the event. Is it possible that Rebecca Shaw and Elliot Blanchard are still involved with one another? Despite the fact that he has married. She has his portrait on display at her studio.”
“What a scandal that would be if they’ve resumed their affaire de coeur.” She sobered. “It actually would be really shocking, and detrimental to his political ambitions.”
“As though romantic affairs have ruined other politicians’ careers, Jane.”
Jane waited to respond, having caught the eye of a neighbor across the road, who tipped his stovepipe hat at them. “Not the person to encounter right now. He’s a terrible snoop,” she murmured. She smiled a greeting and slipped her hand into the crook of Celia’s arm, tugging her forward.
“Mr. Blanchard means to not be like other politicians, Celia. More noble. More righteous,” she said. “Frank is a serious supporter of his. He’ll be upset if it’s true that Elliot Blanchard and Miss Shaw remain in close communication. I haven’t heard any rumors, however.”
A lack of rumors did not lessen Celia’s conviction that the two remained friendly. A friendliness that may have gone too far . . .
“Mr. Blanchard keeps an amazing insect collection,” she said, as blandly as when she’d announced the same to Mr. Greaves.
“I’ve heard about it from Frank. However, he thinks hobbies like that are pursued by men with way too much time on their hands,” said Jane. “I didn’t realize you’d ever been invited to Mr. Blanchard’s house to see his insects.”
“I was not invited.”
Jane laughed. She had the happiest, most honest laugh of anyone Celia knew. “How did you manage to get inside? Outside of his political work and his wine business, he’s a very private person, from what I understand.”
“I pretended to be collecting monies for the Orphans’ Asylum early this morning.”
“And he agreed to see you?”
“His maid let me into the house,” said Celia. “Against her better judgment.”
They turned into the breeze sweeping down off the western hills. Carrying the salty smell of the ocean, thought Celia, although her perception of the aroma might be due more to her wishful thinking than reality. As soon as this case is resolved, Barbara and Addie and I must visit Cliff House again. Laugh at the sea lions at Seal Rock. Strip off their stockings and wade in the cold ocean water . . .
Jane nudged Celia with her elbow. “Celia, are you listening?”
“Evidently not. Did you ask me a question?”
“Why did you want to see Elliot Blanchard’s insect collection?” she asked. “A sudden interest in entomology?”
“No. Curiously enough, when Miss Campbell arrived for Barbara’s lesson this morning, she made a comment about the collection,” she said. “You hadn’t mentioned that she used to tutor Mrs. Blanchard.”
“That was how I’d heard about her. Or rather how Frank heard about her,” said Jane. “From Mr. Blanchard, who heaped praise on Olivia. She speaks Spanish, it seems, and Mrs. Blanchard hails from South America. He felt she needed assistance with her English.”
“Anyway, Miss Campbell mentioned Mr. Blanchard’s collection and all of the chemicals he keeps to both stun and preserve the creatures,” said Celia. “Do you recall that Mr. Shaw passed away after being overcome with chloroform? Well, Mr. Blanchard keeps a supply of the substance. Furthermore, it appeared to me that one of the bottles was missing. So . . . voilà!”
Jane slowed her steps. “You don’t think . . . wait, Celia. A missing chloroform bottle from among Mr. Blanchard’s supply doesn’t mean he was the one who took it down from its shelf. His domestic could’ve taken the bottle, for instance. Maybe she suffers from chronic pain or has severe asthma and uses the substance to ease her symptoms. Or . . .” She came to a complete stop and unwound her hand from Celia’s arm. “There was a burglary at his house not that long ago. A week or so, maybe? I read about the incident in the Morning Call. What if somebody stole from his chloroform supply? Somebody who’d also previously seen his insect collection and knew about the chemicals he keeps.”
“Why might someone steal chloroform, Jane, when it can be readily purchased at the nearest apothecary?”
“I guess I prefer imagining some burglar is responsible for that missing bottle than Mr. Blanchard making use of it,” said Jane, retaking Celia’s arm and continuing up the road.
“He is my primary suspect, but we still have a wealth of others.” She felt as much as observed Jane’s small, tight smile at Celia’s offhand use of “we.” “Not only in Mr. Shaw’s death but in the murder of the only witness. Around sunrise today.”
“Silenced because of what this witness knew?”
“The woman was attempting to flee the city, so she must have feared for her life,” said Celia. “She was bludgeoned in the alleyway behind her lodging house. Just as she was making her escape.”
“‘Bludgeoned’ does seem like the sort of attack a man would engage in.”
“To be fair, women can be just as capable of brutal assaults, Jane,” she said. “I spotted Miss Shaw this morning speaking with another woman I could not identify. A woman who was very agitated.”
“Are you suggesting their conversation is connected to this morning’s murder?”
“Perhaps I am reading guilt where there is none.”
They reached a high point along the road, where they could see and hear the commotion of the city yet feel distant and removed, and Jane came to a stop. Smoke belched from manufactory stacks. Ships, spied through the fog that veiled the hills, crowded the harbor. Bricklayers were hard at work on the street below. The endless industry of San Francisco, which never seemed to rest. As restless as the thoughts churning in Celia’s brain.
“I should also tell you about a note I received last evening, Jane. An unsigned note that read leave us alone.” She looked over at her friend. “Frankly, I do not know what to make of it.”
“A warning message sounds dangerous, Celia.”
“Addie would agree.”
“But who could be the author?” asked Jane. “I mean, are any of the suspects aware of your involvement in the investigation?”
“I would say that Miss Shaw is suspicious. I presume Mr. Blanchard is as well, after my visit to his insect collection,” Celia replied. “Mina is aware, of course, but she’d never leave me a warning note.”
“She did have that key, though, Celia,” said Jane skeptically.
“I’m of the opinion that it was stashed in Mina’s pocket by the actual perpetrator,” she said. “After the person unexpectedly encountered her out in the alley.”
“I can see that.” Jane grabbed her bonnet as a gust of wind whirled along the street. “If we’re focusing on Rebecca Shaw and Elliot Blanchard, how did either of them get ahold of that key?”
“I proposed to Mr. Greaves that Miss Shaw had managed to pilfer it from her father’s room,” she said. “But it could also be possible that someone who works at the Institute gave it to one of them.” An idea that had just sprung to mind.
“If I had to make a guess, Celia, I’d suggest that redheaded fellow,” said Jane. “A shifty character, if you ask me.”
A man embroiled in Mr. Griffin’s world, according to Mr. Greaves. Very shifty.
“I wish I was acquainted with Mr. Ross, the proprietor of the Hygienic Institute,” said Celia. “Or understood if the layout of the building would permit Miss Shaw to have snuck upstairs to grab her father’s key without being observed.”
Jane sighed. “Celia, I know what you’re going to say . . .”
“You do not have to go with me, Jane.”
“And miss out on the excitement?” she asked. “If that redheaded fellow spots us, though, he’ll get us tossed out.”
“Then let us hope Mr. Platt is not at the Institute tomorrow,” she replied. And winked.