Murder on Nob Hill (26 page)

“What if I told you that over the past year he's experienced financial reversals?”

He regarded me sharply, as if wondering how I might have obtained such confidential information. “I would be very shocked indeed, Miss Woolson. Where did you hear such a thing?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. But my source was reliable. You must agree it lends credence to my theory.”

His skeptical gaze traveled once more to Wylde and his daughter as they stood speaking to Frederick and Henrietta. To my disgust, I saw that my brother was taking advantage of the meeting to pursue his senatorial cause. This was hardly the place for levity, but I couldn’t help smiling at the dazed look on Wylde's face. For once the unpleasant attorney and I agreed; I often had the same

reaction when forced to listen to one of Frederick's rambling dissertations.

“Regardless of your source, Miss Woolson,” the banker said, recalling me to the business at hand, “I can’t believe such a thing. There must be another explanation.”

“There may be,” I admitted truthfully. “But for Mrs. Hanaford's sake I have no choice but to examine every possibility.”

Instantly, his face grew pained. “Surely the police can’t still think her guilty.”

“Unfortunately, they do. At the very least they consider her an accessory to murder.”

“But that's monstrous!” When I nodded agreement, his face softened and he took hold of my hand. “I know you’re doing all you can for the poor woman, but you must exercise the utmost care.” His intense eyes bore into mine. “Trust me, Miss Woolson, there are forces of evil at work here. Promise me you’ll be very cautious.”

The passion of his words took me by surprise. His pale face had drained of color as he squeezed my hand almost painfully.

“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Potter. What do you mean by ‘forces of evil’?”

“You’re very young, my dear. I pray you’ll never experience the evils of which I speak.” He gave me a weak smile and released my hand. “Come, it's time. We must go inside.”

Looking around, I realized we were among the last few mourners remaining outside the church.

“I have faith that right will triumph and that Mrs. Hanaford will soon be proven innocent,” he added with conviction.

He turned away before I could reply and entered the church. I followed, to find that my family had reserved a seat for me in a pew several rows behind Senator Broughton and an elderly woman

whom Celia whispered was his late wife's mother. The senator sat ramrod straight, head facing the altar. I couldn’t see his face, but I sensed that he was holding himself tightly in check. Was he afraid his emotions might prove an embarrassment, I wondered? Surely at such a time it was forgivable to show one's bereavement. No one would fault him for publicly betraying his grief.

But were his emotions those of grief? I remembered the man's behavior toward his wife the night of the opera, and realized again how little I knew about their personal life. I forced myself to consider the possibility that, for reasons I couldn’t begin to guess, Broughton had hired someone to injure his wife. The idea was so appalling that I was instantly ashamed. Besides, it made no sense. Even if the senator had wanted to see his wife dead, surely paying a man to hit her with a carriage was too risky, not only to himself but to innocent bystanders.

My gaze moved to Benjamin Wylde, who sat with his daughter across the aisle. The girl was crying softly into a handkerchief, her lovely face a mask of grief. Her father, dressed in a dark suit and a starched, high-winged collar, stared unblinkingly at the pulpit as the minister eulogized Mrs. Broughton. Studying that sharply chiseled face, I again found myself wondering if it was because of this man that three people were dead. What was going on in his mind, I asked myself? Was he consumed by guilt for having taken an innocent life? Or was Mrs. Broughton's death merely a temporary setback to his plans, which he would soon rectify? At this thought, my earlier doubts about Broughton vanished and I felt a rush of fear for the senator. Even if I was wrong about Wylde being the killer, Broughton's life was almost certainly in danger.

When the service was over, we took our place behind other mourners waiting to offer sympathy to the widower. Broughton was very pale and his grief seemed genuine, but I was sure I also

detected a strong note of fear. As he received each mourner, his eyes darted about the church as if he were looking for someone. The person responsible for his wife's death, I wondered? The killer he knew would return to finish the job he’d started?

When it was our turn, the senator politely accepted our condolences, then introduced his wife's mother, Mrs. Matthia Reynold, who, he informed us, resided with him and his late wife.

“Were you close to my daughter?” Mrs. Reynold asked Mama in a loud voice, as the hard of hearing are prone to do. Despite the elderly woman's proud carriage, it was possible to see her red-rimmed eyes beneath the thin black veil. She appeared frail and unutterably sad, and my heart went out to the old lady as I imagined the extent of her sorrow.

“We worked together on several charities,” Mama said with a kind smile. The old woman obviously felt Mama's sincerity, for she held onto her hands with thin, arthritic fingers. “Martha was a tireless worker,” Mama went on. “She’ll be sorely missed.”

Tears filled the old woman's eyes. “Indeed she will. Many's the time I told her she worked too hard. More than was appreciated by some people.” To my surprise, the old woman glared at Broughton. Mama looked at me, as taken aback as I by the woman's malevolence.

Broughton's face flushed red and I sensed the effort it took to keep his voice civil. “It's been a long day, Mother-in-law. I think it's time we returned home.” He took her arm, but she pulled away with a strength surprising for such a tiny woman.

“I’m not in the least tired,” she snapped, and turned back to Mama. “I’d be pleased if you’d call on me, Mrs. Woolson. It would be a comfort to speak to one of Martha's friends.” Again she shot a meaningful look at her son-in-law.

Mama smiled warmly. “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Reynold.”

I started to follow Mama out of the church, then noticed Yvette Wylde approaching Mrs. Reynold. Looking around, I saw her father speaking to a man I didn’t recognize. Telling Mama I’d join the family shortly, I waited until Yvette had paid her respects, then contrived to cross her path as she moved back toward her father.

“I’m sorry,” I said, feigning embarrassment. “I fear I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

Up close, I realized that Yvette was one of the most beautiful young woman I’d ever seen. Fleetingly, I wondered how a grim man like Wylde had managed to produce such a delightful creature.

“Please,
madame
, do not distress yourself,” she said with the charming trace of a French accent. “Mrs. Broughton's death has been a shock to us all.”

“Yes, it's a terrible tragedy.” I proffered my hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sarah Woolson. And you are—?”

“Je m’excuse
, Miss Woolson. I am Yvette Wylde. I have come from Paris to visit my father,
Monsieur
Wylde. You know him perhaps?”

“As a matter of fact I do, Miss Wylde. I’m also a lawyer. Your father and I have had occasion to meet professionally.”

The girl's eyes opened wide. “You are an
avocat
—a woman attorney? But is such a thing possible?” She flushed becomingly. “Je
vous demande pardon, madame
. I did not mean to offend.”

“Nor did you. I assure you that your reaction is mild compared to some I’ve received.” To my surprise, I found I liked Wylde's daughter very much. Despite her extraordinary beauty, she appeared remarkably sweet and unspoiled. I was, however, confused by her relationship with Martha Broughton. “You live in Paris,

Miss Wylde, yet you speak of Mrs. Broughton as if you knew her well.”

Fresh tears appeared in the girl's eyes, “Madam Broughton was my godmother. I have seen little of
Tante
Martha since Mama and I moved to France, but we often corresponded. I shall miss her very much. Poor
Oncle
Willard. It is going to be difficult for him.”

“Yes, I fear you’re right,” I murmured, especially if
“Oncle
Willard” suspected that he, and not his unfortunate wife, had been the target of the speeding carriage.

“Pardon
, Miss Woolson,” Yvette Wylde was saying, “but I must find Papa. It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

My gaze followed the girl as she moved gracefully toward her father who, I realized with a start, had been watching us. His hostile gaze remained on me until Yvette tucked her hand through his arm. Only then did he turn and lead his daughter out of the church, leaving me with an unwelcome feeling of disquiet.

T
he next few days brought more frustration as Samuel, Celia and I tried to piece together a case against Benjamin Wylde. Adding to my annoyance, Frederick and Hortense were making more of a nuisance of themselves than usual as election day grew nearer. Somehow Frederick had overtaken both the Democratic and Workingmen's party candidates to take the lead in the senate race. Even more mind-boggling were those who predicted his eventual victory. To avoid the folderol, I sought refuge at the office, but even there I was too preoccupied by my client's dilemma to do any real work.

The only thing I had accomplished since Mrs. Broughton's funeral was the brief I’d promised my employer regarding the carriage driver who refused to pay damages to Rebecca Carpenter.

Although Shepard's only response to my long hours of work was an absentminded grunt, Eugene Ackroyd, the associate attorney in charge of the case, seemed delighted and felt certain Mrs. Carpenter had an excellent chance of obtaining payment.

I should have been pleased, but oddly, I was not. No matter what task I set myself, Annjenett's tortured face was never far from my thoughts. The days flew by with appalling speed as her trial date grew closer. I had Samuel, Celia and even Robert running about like amateur sleuths, yet despite our efforts, we weren’t one step closer to proving the unfortunate woman's innocence.

But there was another distraction: I began to fear I was being followed. Since I had no desire to wake snakes until I was certain, I told no one of my suspicions. Instead, I took steps to learn if my fears were justified, or merely the result of an overactive imagination. I varied the time I left for the office, as well as the direction and method I took to get there. When walking, I’d cross the street, then suddenly double back, all the while checking to see if anyone was behind me.

The results of these experiments were maddeningly inconclusive. Once or twice I caught sight of a suspicious individual, only to have him seemingly disappear. I’m not nervous by nature, but I soon found myself jumping at every unexpected noise and imagining sinister scenarios for every stranger who passed me on the street. I tried to tell myself I was just overwrought by fatigue and worry over Annjenett's case, but the certainty that someone was dogging my every move grew stronger with each passing day.

S
amuel, Celia and I arranged to compare notes when the rest of the family was out of the house. My brother's report was short and disappointing. Despite speaking to almost every member of

the Bohemian Club, and as many Pacific Union Club members as he could reach, no one had seen Benjamin Wylde on the nights in question.

“That doesn’t mean he's a murderer,” Samuel insisted. “He could have been any number of places, all of them perfectly innocent.”

“Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully. “It's unfortunate we don’t have the resources available to the police. Speaking of which, have you heard from George?” Several days earlier, I had asked Samuel to speak to George about the possibility of placing a police guard outside Wylde's house. If I were wrong in my suspicions, no harm would be done. But if I were proven right, a life might be saved.

“I saw him,” my brother said without enthusiasm. “The police refuse to believe that the attacks on the Broughtons had anything to do with the murders. Which means, of course, that Fowler and Mrs. Hanaford remain their chief suspects. Sorry, little sister, but there's no way they’re going to place a watch on Wylde's house.”

I was frustrated, but not surprised. As usual, our newly formed police department's first concern was political expediency. It was a wonder their unfortunate new uniforms didn’t come equipped with blinders.

“They can see no farther than their noses,” I pronounced wryly, then turned to Celia. “Has Ina spoken to her sister yet?”

“They met in the park yesterday,” she answered. “But I think it best if Ina relates the conversation herself.”

Our little maid was sent for, and she entered the room looking ill at ease. After a quick curtsy, she kept her eyes downcast, her reddened hands twisting nervously in front of her spotless apron.

“Go on, dear,” Celia urged. “Repeat what you told me.”

Ina's gray-green eyes darted to Samuel, then back down to the floor, and I realized he was the reason for her reticence.

“It's all right, Ina,” I told her reassuringly. “Whatever you have to tell us may be said in front of Mr. Woolson.”

She gave me a pained look. “It's not a proper sort of thing to talk about, ma’am,” she said plaintively. “Lotty was that upset to tell me. And I’m her sister!”

A small shiver of anticipation tingled down my spine. “What is it, Ina? Anything you say will be held in strict confidence.”

Ina looked near tears. “I would never tell anyone, ma’am, if it wasn’t for that poor woman who fancies Mr. Wylde. She deserves to know.” The poor girl's wide eyes sought validation.

“If you can help our friend, Ina, it's the right thing to do,” I agreed quietly, refusing to meet my brother's eyes.

“That's what I told Lotty, ma’am,” Ina said, sounding a bit more confident. “And she was that happy to help. It wasn’t hard to find out that Mr. Wylde hasn’t left the city since Easter, but he's gone a lot all the same. I mean, he spends nights and some weekends away from home an’ all.” Ina's cheeks colored bright pink. “It was when Lotty tried to find out where he might have met that lady friend of yours that she found—” Her voice trailed off, and once again her eyes traveled nervously to Samuel.