“Is Mr. Shaw still here?” Nick asked the teller, occupied with locking the gate in an ornate metal screen spanning the length of the bank’s chest-high walnut counter. The counter was at least two feet deep, which must not have been judged an adequate safeguard against felonious customers.
“I’d have to check, sir,” the teller said, speaking through the gate rather than unlocking it again, which might encourage Nick to loiter.
“I’d appreciate that. Police matters.” He went through the motions of showing his badge to the fellow, who jerked his head back in surprise. “Detective Greaves.”
There’d been a message waiting at the station from Taylor, who’d gotten an alibi from Platt. Sound asleep in room at boardinghouse. Landlord confirms. Disappointing, because Nick really would have enjoyed arresting Platt for murder. Instead, he got to spend more time with Leonard Shaw, interrogating him.
One of the other employees, an older fellow sporting a black mourning armband, his puffed-out chest signifying a level of importance—assumed or actual—wandered over. “What’s going on here?”
“This police detective wants to speak with Mr. Leonard.”
The older man narrowed his eyes. “I will see if Mr. Shaw is in his office, Detective. You may wait there.”
He gestured at a row of angle-top desks against the wall—there weren’t any chairs to sit on—and hustled off.
Nick waited until the man disappeared into the bank’s rear offices before turning back to the teller. “Nice place.”
He scanned the room as though he was a connoisseur of banking establishment interiors. In addition to the fancy teller screens and deep walnut counter, the floor was paved with clouded marble. There was a quarry in Tehama; maybe the stone had come from there. The ceiling was pressed tin, like at Bauman’s, and the walls were papered in an elegant blue-gray geometric pattern. At the room’s far end, a door stood ajar, the bank’s massive cast-iron safe visible through the opening. The name of its manufacturer was painted in curling gold letters across the front. From Cincinnati, O. Reassuringly solid, for those customers needing reassurance. Wall clocks ticked. Portraits hung in prominent locations. One was draped in black. The last time Nick had seen that face, it had been resting slack-jawed against the plush mattress of a bed at the Hygienic Institute.
“Mr. Ambrose Shaw, correct?” he asked the man peering at him between the screen’s bars.
“Yes.” The teller glanced up at the painting. “A tragic death. So sudden.”
“A good man to work for, I imagine.”
“He was a fair man who demanded the best from his employees,” the teller replied. “Although he’d recently begun to focus his attention on politics, his guiding hand at the bank will be missed.”
“No doubt. No doubt,” said Nick. “But I’m sure his son is prepared to step right in.”
“Mr. Leonard worked alongside his father every day.”
A statement that might or might not confirm Nick’s comment. “His fiancée must be eager to see the whole business settled so they can plan for their wedding.”
“Mr. Leonard? Getting married?” The man tipped his head to one side. “I didn’t know he was walking out with anyone. Are you sure?”
“Maybe I misunderstood what I was told.” The Shaws’ servant wouldn’t have lied about overhearing arguments concerning Leonard Shaw’s choice in women, though. “I’m hoping Mr. Shaw can see me. I’ve been trying to speak with him all day, but when I stopped in this morning, he wasn’t around.”
“You were here this morning?”
Nope. “I spoke with somebody else.”
“Mr. Leonard arrived at his usual hour, around nine,” he said. “I don’t understand how you missed him.”
“I don’t understand it either.” A few hours to account for, then. Breakfast and a stop at the police station shouldn’t have taken so long. “Anyway, we received a report that a man who resembled Mr. Shaw was observed tussling with a fellow in an alley not far from here. A possible attempted mugging. Mistaken identity, undoubtedly, but we have to be sure it wasn’t him.”
“Mr. Leonard made no mention of such an incident, and he didn’t at all look like he’d been involved in a tussle,” he said. “His clothes were immaculate, and he’d been to the barber for his morning shave.”
The teller had provided the information Nick had been after with his made-up story. However, clean clothes didn’t exonerate Shaw of bashing in Mrs. Wynn’s head; he may have changed before arriving at the bank. But where? Not at home.
“A man of few words.”
“He doesn’t usually talk to us at all, Detective.”
“Well, I suppose the witness to the scuffle was mistaken, but I’ll wait over there to confirm with Mr. Shaw,” said Nick. “Wouldn’t want a crime to go unreported. Could be dangerous for other folks around here, to have a mugger on the loose.”
He wandered back to where he was supposed to have been standing the entire time. The teller sidled over to another man, partially hidden by rectangles of opaque glass set in the metal screen, and took to whispering. Nick leaned against one of the desks, nicely outfitted with brass inkwells, pens, and writing paper, and wished the men would talk louder so he could hear their conversation.
The door leading to the bank vault opened wider, and Leonard Shaw stepped through. Looking immaculate, as reported. Fresh as a daisy, as Nick’s mother used to say when describing folks but not always in a kindly way.
“Mr. Greaves, what brings you to the bank?” he asked, striding toward Nick with an outstretched hand. The tellers behind their metal screen watched with undisguised curiosity.
“Let’s go outside and talk for a couple of minutes, Mr. Shaw.”
Nick exited the bank to stand on the sidewalk beneath the overhang of an awning. Any conversation they had would be drowned out by city noise, buzzing with commotion as workers spilled out onto the streets at day’s end, shutters and blinds snapping shut, saloons and restaurants cranking to life.
“Is there news?” asked Shaw. “Have you identified who murdered my father? It’s Blanchard. You’ve arrested him, haven’t you?”
He and his mother were consistent in their accusation. “When did you leave your house this morning, Mr. Shaw?”
“What does that have to do with my father’s death, Detective Greaves?”
“Humor me.”
Shaw rolled his tongue around in his mouth before answering. “I departed the house around sunrise.”
Smart to be honest, figuring Nick might already know the answer to his question. “Seems early, Mr. Shaw.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He paused to tip his hat at a pair of young women strolling on the sidewalk, their belled skirts brushing against Nick’s calves as they passed. “Pointless to stay in bed when there are numerous matters to attend to before my father’s funeral tomorrow.”
“Where did you go between sunrise and arriving at the bank?” he asked. “Aside from stopping in at the police station.”
“I did stop at the station immediately before breakfast,” said Shaw. “You weren’t there.”
“You spoke to my colleague Mr. Briggs instead.” Nick eyed him. “What about?”
“Personal matters unrelated to my father’s case.”
“Ah,” Nick replied. “And after you departed the police station?”
Shaw groaned, already tired of Nick’s questions. He couldn’t be anywhere near as tired of them as Nick was.
“I went to breakfast and then on to my barber. My usual routine,” he answered. “I arrived at the bank around nine. I like to get to my office before opening. As my father always did, although sometimes he’d start at eight or even seven. A man dedicated to his business.”
“Three hours of briefly meeting with a police detective, breakfasting, and sitting in a barber’s chair.” None of which, in Nick’s opinion, had much to do with getting ready for his dedicated-businessman father’s funeral tomorrow. “Interesting.”
“I ran across several acquaintances while I was out, offering their condolences,” he said. “I insist that you tell me why you care where I was this morning, Detective Greaves.”
Just then, a newspaper boy, peddling the remainder of his copies of the Evening Bulletin, shouted, “Widow woman murdered.”
A providential response to Shaw’s request, thought Nick.
One of the tellers, departing the bank for the evening, overheard the boy’s cries and dashed across the road to snap up a paper.
“That’s why you’re questioning me. Because a woman was murdered today.” Shaw cursed under his breath. “I didn’t kill her, whoever she was, or my father.”
“Then you’ll be happy to provide more details on your movements this morning, Mr. Shaw,” said Nick. “Because I doubt you spent an entire three hours engaged in what you’d like me to believe.”
Shaw stared out at the street. On the other side stood a tobacconist’s; maybe when Nick was finished with Shaw he’d stop in and buy some cigars for Taylor. The booking officer was prone to stealing from Taylor’s supplies and he was always running out.
“I went for a long walk,” he finally said. “To think, Detective.”
“A long walk. Thinking.” The most unlikely alibi Nick had ever been offered in his years as a cop.
“It’s true,” insisted Shaw. “Thinking if it’s possible Rebecca had a hand in our father’s death.”
Well, well. “You and Mrs. Shaw have been expending a lot of breath blaming Blanchard for murdering your father,” said Nick. “Are you now telling me you imagine Miss Shaw could’ve plotted with him? Is that what you concluded after your lengthy walk?”
“They were in love. Once. She and that rabble-rouser.” There was venom in his tone. “A man ‘giving voice to the oppressed.’ Ha. Blanchard only ever gave voice to his own ambition.”
Like a typical politician, if Nick were to offer his opinion. “Why imagine that Miss Shaw had schemed with him? They’re not still in love, right?”
“I’ve heard rumors . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence; he didn’t need to. “Rebecca’s obstinate. Mother calls her wayward, but that makes her sound like a child, which she definitely isn’t. If Blanchard asked for my stepsister’s help, I’ve no doubt she’d give it.”
Nick couldn’t tell, for the life of him he couldn’t tell at all, if Shaw was upset about the possibility his stepsister had been involved. Or if he was leading Nick on. No love lost between Shaw and Rebecca, perhaps, since families didn’t always love one another. God only knew the hatred Nick had sometimes felt for his father. Misguided hatred, maybe, borne from his own guilt over Meg’s suicide. But for all that depth of dark feelings, he’d never have accused the man of murdering someone. Unless he was actually guilty.
“You might be interested to learn, Mr. Shaw, that we found your father’s watch and fob chain on the woman who died this morning,” he said. “Her name was Mrs. Wynn. Your mother says she was acquainted with your father.”
“I . . .” Shaw rubbed his forehead. “What? Mrs. Wynn? How did she get Father’s watch?”
“I see the information is shocking, Mr. Shaw,” said Nick. “Especially when you’ve been so keen on accusing Blanchard—and now Rebecca—of a plot to murder Ambrose Shaw.”
“Maybe they were all working together,” said Shaw. “A conspiracy to kill off my father.”
“A conspiracy, Mr. Shaw?” asked Nick. “Or is this convoluted tale an attempt to hide your own guilt?”
“Why would I want to kill Father?”
“For the inheritance?” Nick suggested. “Or maybe because he also stood between you and a romantic attachment he didn’t approve of. Just like he hadn’t approved of Rebecca’s relationship with Elliot Blanchard. Did you and this young woman work together to do away with your father, only to discover you’d been spotted? By a widow whose cold, dead body is now with the undertaker?”
Shaw’s neck went red first, spreading across his skin until the flush reached his face—as slowly as a dry cloth dipped in a crimson liquid, the color diffusing through the material. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You spent three hours this morning wandering about, deep in thought, then went to the station and then breakfast, where you’d like me to believe you kept encountering acquaintances who wanted to extend their condolences, then on to your barber’s. Three hours, Mr. Shaw?”
“That’s how long it took. I don’t know why that’s so damned hard to believe,” he spat. The door to the bank opened, and the rest of the tellers exited the building, casting sideways glances at their boss and the police detective. Shaw turned his back to them and lowered his voice. “I don’t know why what I’ve said is so hard to believe, Detective Greaves.”
“Well, because we’ve also discovered that you left your meeting at the Parker House right after dinner on Wednesday. Around seven,” said Nick. “You didn’t arrive at home until nine. Two hours. Another mysterious lapse of time I’d be happy to have you explain.”
Shaw’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath. “I went to visit a lady friend whose name I’m not going to provide, so don’t even bother to ask.”
“Ah, your paramour, who your parents disapproved of.”
“I’d prefer to leave her out of this.”
“She’s your alibi, Mr. Shaw. You sure about that?”
“I am very sure about that.” Shaw stepped closer, the smell of bay rum cologne drifting off his clothes. “If you’ve got proof I’m responsible for my father’s death or Mrs. Wynn’s, charge me, Detective Greaves. Otherwise, leave me alone. My father is being buried tomorrow. I’d like to be able to mourn him, alongside my mother, in peace.”
Nick fixed an innocent expression on his face. “Is that why you smell so good, Mr. Shaw? You’re planning on spending the evening with your mother, recalling all the better days with your father?” he asked. “Or did you have other plans? Maybe with your lady friend.”
“Leave me alone, Detective Greaves.”
He stalked off, the tails of his frock coat flapping against his legs.
Nick counted to twenty before he followed. A gift of cigars for Taylor would have to wait.
• • •
“Miss Barbara’s hidden away in her room and willna speak to me, ma’am,” said Addie, setting a small glass of dark purple wine at Celia’s elbow. Bramble wine, made using a recipe Addie had brought from Scotland. “She may talk to you, though.”
“If she’d not speak to you, Addie, she will not speak to me.” She sipped from the glass. “Your wine has turned out well.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I should have a nip myself to calm my nerves,” she replied, eyeing the cut-glass decanter she held. She lowered it onto Celia’s examination room desk before she gave in to her impulse. “But what are we to do about Miss Campbell now?”
The young woman’s confession had stunned them all. None more so than Barbara, who’d shouted at Miss Campbell before dashing up to her bedchamber, where she slammed her door so firmly that the sound reverberated through the downstairs rooms. Libby Campbell, in tears, had sworn that nothing untoward had happened between her and Mr. Blanchard before springing from the settee and running from the house. Celia had not attempted to stop her.
“She may be lying to protect him, Addie,” said Celia. “I would question Mr. Blanchard myself about Miss Campbell’s assertion, except that after my visit to his house this morning, he’ll likely never agree to speak with me again.”
Addie tutted. “And I’d come to like the lass.”
“What a predicament we are in, Addie.”
“Aye, but you’ll find a way to fix matters, ma’am,” her housekeeper replied, filled with confidence. “You always do.”
She slipped out of the room, softly closing the door behind her.
Celia drained the bramble wine, the sweet liquid burning down her throat, and set the empty glass aside. Time to think. Time to work through the puzzle surrounding Mr. Shaw’s murder. The death of Mrs. Wynn, as well.
She opened the drawer in her desk and pulled out a table book, opening it to an empty page. She inked a pen and began to inscribe her thoughts. Suspect. Motive. Clues for or against their guilt. Starting with Mr. Shaw before turning to Mrs. Wynn, whose murder Celia had significantly less information about. A man whose demise had been brought about by a very unlikely weapon—chloroform. The killer had been aided by the fact that Mr. Shaw had been drunk, according to the coroner. Less time and effort needed, perhaps, to bring about his death. Mr. Shaw had briefly struggled, if she properly recalled what Mr. Greaves had told her. The struggle itself may have been the cause of his fatal heart attack.
Where to start . . .
Proceed one by one, write down your thoughts. Starting with the suspect Miss Campbell desired to protect.
Elliot Blanchard, she wrote. Motive—acrimonious political opponent of Ambrose Shaw, who’d broken off Mr. Blanchard’s engagement to Miss Shaw. Might also have despised Mr. Shaw for insulting Mrs. Blanchard. In possession of chloroform, a bottle missing from his supply. Possibly aware of Mr. Shaw’s poor health and susceptibility to heart failure. Still uncertain how he might have acquired the key to Mr. Shaw’s room. His whereabouts Wednesday evening accounted for by Miss Campbell, whose truthfulness as a witness was, however, questionable. I fear she is somewhat in love with the man. Out of his house around the time Mrs. Wynn was struck down.
Leonard Shaw. Motive—inheritance money and difficult relationship with his father, according to Jane. Dubious alibi for the evening of Mr. Shaw’s death. Had visited his father at the Institute, providing an opportunity to take the key. Encountered Mina outside, struck her down, stowed incriminating key in pocket? Open question as to where he may have obtained chloroform. Would know of his father’s heart condition. At the police station this morning, but what was his alibi for the exact time of Mrs. Wynn’s death?
“I do wish I’d had an opportunity to meet him and Mrs. Shaw,” Celia whispered, tapping the end of her pen against her lower lip. “Form my own impression of them. Another reason to attend Mr. Shaw’s burial service.”
It would be enlightening to observe not only the Shaws but the other mourners. Who might count themselves as a friend of Ambrose Shaw?
Celia resumed list-making.
Delphia Shaw. Motive—terminate a possibly unhappy marriage, gain inheritance monies as well. She’d also visited Mr. Shaw at the Institute. May have been able to depart and return to her home Wednesday evening without any servants, if they had live-in domestics, marking her absence. Would definitely be aware that her husband’s heart was weak.
She’d have to enquire what the staff situation was at the Shaw household. She might be able to ask someone about it at the cemetery tomorrow. Who would speak to you about such a matter at a funeral, though, Celia? Honestly.
Back to Mrs. Shaw—and Leonard Shaw. Did they possess chloroform? Celia surveyed her cabinet of medicines, bandaging, mixing vessels. Among her own supplies was a bottle of the substance, which she’d purchased to assist in delivering babies but had not yet used. Recommended for women in extreme discomfort, its action reportedly slowed labor, rendering the substance counterproductive. The Shaws, however, might keep a bottle in their home for another purpose. Was Delphia Shaw tall enough to smash Mrs. Wynn’s skull?
“Gruesome, Celia.”
Rebecca Shaw. Motive—inheritance money, useful to support her photographic studio, and revenge against the man who’d denied her the chance at happiness with Elliot Blanchard. But why remove the obstacle to their marriage at this point, years after the engagement had been broken? Her alibi for Wednesday evening was an interaction with her neighbor around seven thirty.
“The time the intruder was spotted.”
Rebecca may have obtained chloroform from Mr. Blanchard, either with his knowledge or without, or purchased it. She was tall and likely sufficiently strong to overwhelm her unhealthy and drunken father—taking him by surprise, no doubt—and kill Mrs. Wynn. And that key . . . she’d proposed to Mr. Greaves that Miss Shaw could have snuck upstairs while at the Institute. It was a scenario she planned to assess while she and Jane were visiting the place.
Mr. Platt. Celia knew almost nothing about the fellow. Motive—attempting to steal from a wealthy patient. Accidentally killed Mr. Shaw with chloroform meant to sedate the man, perhaps. Mr. Ross had denied keeping a supply on hand as part of his treatment regimen, however. As an employee of the establishment, Mr. Platt could gain ready access to Mr. Shaw’s room. Owen had overheard him arguing with Mrs. Wynn about Mr. Shaw’s watch.
“And now Mrs. Wynn was dead.” Celia considered her paper. “Ah, Mr. Platt, that does not bode well for you.” Yet he was not the person found in possession of Mr. Shaw’s watch. Perhaps he’d dashed out of Mr. Shaw’s room in a state of shock when the fellow died, leaving it behind. Ran downstairs and threw open the private entrance door, feigning an interloper’s means of entering the building. Spied Mina outside and . . .
“Gone back to fetch the all-important key and hide it in her skirt pocket?”
Sighing, Celia re-inked her pen and moved on.
Mr. Ross. Motive—Unknown. Also had access to Mr. Shaw’s room, obviously, but why kill his patient? An old animosity Mr. Greaves had not uncovered? An argument got out of hand concerning the efficacy of Mr. Ross’s treatments? Obviously knew of Mr. Shaw’s medical condition. Or had he sought to steal from his wealthy client in order to pay outstanding debts? Yet it was Mrs. Wynn who’d been found with Mr. Shaw’s watch and fob chain. Had they conspired together, but then he murdered her in order to silence her?
“I am catching at straws.”
She retrieved a second piece of paper to continue her list, grown cumbersome in its length.
Mrs. Wynn. Motive—theft. Had occupied a room down the hall from Mr. Shaw. Could have easily monitored his comings and goings. She’d provided the information about an intruder, a possible fabrication. Body found with his watch and chain. Obtain chloroform from apothecary or Mr. Ross’s disputed supply? Aware of Mr. Shaw’s poor health? Obviously, she’d not killed herself that morning, which meant there were either two murderers or she had to be removed from suspicion as Mr. Shaw’s killer. Same issue as Mr. Platt’s concerning the key in Mina’s pocket.
Mr. Griffin? What was his role in this affair? He had paid Owen to contact Mr. Platt, who owed him money. No known motive to harm Ambrose Shaw. He was, of course, certainly clever enough to gain entrance to the Institute and Mr. Shaw’s room, but a chloroform-soaked rag was an unlikely instrument for a criminal like him. A knife was more direct.
“Perhaps he’d intended to render Mr. Shaw unconscious in order to kidnap him and hold him for ransom.” His plans thwarted by the fellow’s unfortunate and sudden heart failure. Yet he’d need to haul away the man’s insensate body without being observed. A difficult task, even with the availability of a private entrance.
“Now you truly are catching at straws, Celia. How fantastical an idea.” She scratched out his name.
And what about Mina Cascarino? She had no motive that Celia could discern. She could not, however, deny that Mina had been at the Institute, having gone there in a state of anxiety around six thirty. What was her relationship with any of the other suspects, aside from an acquaintance with Ambrose Shaw? They’d likely never resolve how that dashed key had ended up in her pocket until she regained her memory, though. Mina was not, however, culpable for Mrs. Wynn’s death. The only one on Celia’s list who could be cleared of suspicion in the woman’s murder.
Celia’s pen hovered above the page as she pondered one final possibility.
Olivia Campbell. Motive—to prove her loyal affection for a man she could not have, Elliot Blanchard, by removing his political opponent. A young woman whom Mr. Shaw had sent chocolates to, his motivations contemptible and hurtful. Had she come to hate him as a result of that unwanted gift? She’d known that Mr. Blanchard possessed chloroform. Had witnessed its effect upon living creatures. But how might she have become aware that Mr. Shaw’s heart was failing him? Information required to even begin to believe dosing the man with chloroform might kill him. Question about how she could have come into possession of the key. Her alibi for Wednesday evening that she’d spent it with Elliot Blanchard, who’d surely deny she had been with him, whether or not that was the truth. With a weak arm, could she have struck down Mrs. Wynn? Only one strong arm was required to wield a heavy cobblestone, though. Had arrived to tutor Barbara at a strangely early hour this morning . . .
It cannot be possible, thought Celia, her pen inscribing a heavy, blotchy circle of ink around Miss Campbell’s name. Can it?
• • •
Leonard Shaw proved ridiculously easy to trail. Nick didn’t even need Taylor’s skills to track the man through the downtown streets and alleyways. He never once looked back to see if anybody was following him. He might just be walking home. Innocent as a lamb.
But Shaw didn’t turn south toward the home on Stockton he shared with his mother. Instead, he headed north. Toward the Barbary. Turning onto a street Nick had often walked.
It was only when he neared the tavern that Shaw glanced around to see who might be monitoring his movements, unfolding the velvet collar of his coat to hide behind. Why then? It wasn’t a crime to stop in a saloon, and nobody would care that some politician’s son, the heir to a bank, wanted to imbibe a lager beer or two. Although Nick would guess the fellow’s taste leaned toward scotch whiskey.
Shaw didn’t notice Nick watching and trotted down the shadowed steps into the basement, his body temporarily blocking the light from the freshly lit gas lamps as he crossed the threshold. Nick pushed away from the wall where he’d been leaning. He didn’t have to follow the man inside. He’d ask Bauman later who Shaw had come to visit at his saloon.