No Pity For the Dead (21 page)

“And I would prefer not to respond to your accusation,” he said. “I don't know why you imagined I might confess to such a ridiculous assertion.”

“I did not believe you
would
confess, Mr. Martin.” She had merely wished to observe his reaction. But his coolness disconcerted her, and she felt rather like an insect trapped within a spider's web.
And here I had imagined myself the spider, expecting to entrap him
 . . . “I have a different question now. What has Frank Hutchinson done that you disapprove of?”

The bell rang again downstairs, and Dr. Johnston went off to answer it.

“I'll tell you plainly,” said Mr. Martin. “His open feud with Virgil Nash has cast suspicion upon Martin and Company for the man's death. We deal in trust, Mrs. Davies, not merely real estate. Our customers trust our judgment when it comes to recommendations for purchasing property, or securing the best price for property they own or for buildings they would like to construct. And any action that diminishes our customers' trust is an action I can't accept.”

“I believe it was the discovery of Mr. Nash's body in your cellar that brought suspicion upon Martin and Company,” she answered.

His sudden frown wrinkled his face. “Take my advice, Mrs. Davies, and leave the detective work to the police.”

“Who pushed me if not you, Mr. Martin? You must have seen.”

“There were a lot of people scuffling for a view of the excitement. If you felt pushed, one of them did it. An accident,”
he said. He waved the same hand he'd waved at Dr. Johnston. “My doctor insists that I rest, and that's what I plan to do. Good day to you.”

He folded his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes.

With a sigh, Celia departed the bedchamber and headed downstairs. Dr. Johnston was in the entry hall with a robust woman whose wiry hair sprung out around her straw bonnet.

“I told him on Saturday that all the recent excitement would make him sick, Doctor,” she was saying, her chapped hands undoing the ribbons of her hat.

Undoubtedly she was the housekeeper who did not live in, thought Celia as she descended to the ground floor. The one who was not usually around and would not see whether her employer had ever returned late at night with dirt on his clothes.

“Not surprised he's had an attack,” the woman added.

Dr. Johnston murmured an agreement. Hearing Celia's tread, he looked over. “Leaving, Mrs. Davies?”

That he did not clap for joy was something of an astonishment.

“I suggest tincture of belladonna for Mr. Martin's condition, Dr. Johnston,” Celia replied. She didn't wait for him to open the front door for her. He did not look as though he intended to extend the politeness anyway.

Celia swept out onto the street as the hack that had brought the housekeeper wheeled away from the curb. She watched it depart, noting the unusual coloring of the horse . . . The horse! She rushed out to the road just as the dapple gray pulling the carriage turned the corner. The horse was very pale, except for its mane, which was dark as coal. Just like the horse Ginny had described.

The one that had been hitched to a wagon at the end of an alleyway the night Celia and Owen had interrupted a man attempting to exhume Virgil Nash's decaying corpse.

*   *   *

C
elia hopped down from the horsecar, leaping to avoid a puddle of kitchen wastewater, and hurried toward home. She had to inform Mr. Greaves. Because the more she considered, the more she was convinced that Mr. Martin had been at his offices Thursday night, trying to remove Mr. Nash's body. He had the opportunity and no one at home to notice when he came or went or what condition his clothing was in when he returned. Most important, he had both the motive to murder Mr. Nash, who'd been an obstruction to his plans to increase his wealth, and an understandable desire to dispose of the evidence of his crime, once he'd somehow learned the corpse had been found. Furthermore, that she and Owen had interrupted his scheme explained why he might have wished to shove her over the cliff wall yesterday. In such a public venue, however, he had taken quite a risk to remove a witness.

“There you are at last, Mrs. Davies,” a male voice called down to her from the porch.

Mr. Greaves leaned against one of the posts. He turned his flat-crowned hat in his hands, his expression dour. No matter. He would be pleased to learn what she'd uncovered.

“Ah, Mr. Greaves. No wonder you were not at the station.” She paused on the stairs to catch her breath, her blasted corset restraining her efforts. “I am glad you are here. I have news.”

“Sleuthing, Mrs. Davies?”

“I have just been to Mr. Martin's house. He is our killer!”

He glanced up and down the length of Vallejo. “You feel
the need to announce that to every one of your neighbors, ma'am?”

Right then, Angelo popped up from where he'd been playing on the Cascarinos' porch and peeped at them over the top of the railing. The rest of the street, including the balcony of the boardinghouse on the corner, was empty and quiet. The children who'd earlier been playing in the road were no longer outside. All was deserted save for a twist of windblown dust propelling a piece of straw wrapping paper along the street.

“It is only Angelo to overhear, Mr. Greaves, and his English is poor,” she answered, nodding at the boy. She climbed to where the detective stood. “However, if you are concerned, come inside where we can talk without all of my neighbors hearing.”

He scrubbed the soles of his boots over the iron scraper near the door and followed her inside. “What has you so convinced Martin's our murderer?”

“Grace Hutchinson saw him push me over the wall at Cliff House.”

Mr. Greaves offered a blank stare in response.
He is annoyed that I uncovered a key piece of information before he did.

“And you went to ask him kindly if he was trying to kill you, too?” he asked.

“I was not in danger,” Celia said, hanging her bonnet on its hook by the door. Barbara and Grace had abandoned the parlor and gone off elsewhere. Possibly to Barbara's bedchamber or the back garden. “Mr. Martin was incapacitated, as it turns out. He suffered an attack of angina pectoris last evening and is bedridden under his physician's care.”

“You didn't know that before you went to his house,” he said.

“Then I am fortunate he was ill, am I not? Please come through to the kitchen and allow me to tell you all my news,” Celia said, stepping into the parlor. “I shall endeavor to make us both coffee. It comes from Mr. Folger's company, so at least the beans have been roasted properly. I cannot vouch that I will brew it properly, however.”

“Don't worry about the coffee. It'll be better than the sludge I drank during the war.”

“Nonetheless, I apologize in advance. Addie is the one who is skilled at brewing coffee, but she is not here.”

As they passed the dining room windows that overlooked the rear yard, Celia spotted Barbara and Grace seated on the wicker chairs near the unhappy rosebushes that inhabited the garden. They were so unlike the bushes in Mrs. Nash's garden, their flowers lush and bountiful. Celia wondered if Mrs. Nash would sell the house, and the rose gardens, now that she was widowed and alone. But who would purchase the property, knowing that the Second Street cut was coming?

They entered the kitchen, so quiet without Addie bustling about.

Mr. Greaves pulled out a chair and sat at Addie's worktable while Celia pumped water into a pot and took it to the stove. “So what did Martin have to say about Miss Hutchinson's observation?”

She retrieved the white and blue tin labeled
PIONEER STEAM COFFEE AND
SPICE MILLS
from the pantry. “He denies it, of course, but then, he would,” Celia said, and removed a cover from the stove grate. Addie had refreshed the coals early that morning, but they had burned too low to boil the water.

“Were you hoping that he'd have a change of heart and
suddenly be willing to confess?” asked Mr. Greaves. “Because you heard his explanation on Sunday. You had an accident.”

“I was hoping to trick him into looking guilty, since Grace's observation proves his so-called explanation is false,” she said, collecting the coal scuttle. “Regrettably, he did not look guilty, either.”

She bent to open the stove door with the thick towel Addie used to turn the handle.

“Here, let me do that. You'll get dirty.” Mr. Greaves jumped up from his chair and took the scuttle from her. He opened the door and tossed in a shovelful of coal.

“Hate to tell you, ma'am, but I don't think Martin's our killer.” He closed the stove door and returned the scuttle to its spot.

“Obviously, I do not have definitive proof, but with what Grace observed, his culpability does seem much more likely now.” She set the pot of water on the grate and levered off the lid of the tin can, the brisk scent of coffee rising. “Doesn't it?”

“I can't explain what Miss Hutchinson saw, but the reason I came by was to tell you that Dan Matthews was found dead this morning. In a ditch outside town.”

“Gad! Does Maryanne Kelly know? I was with her only this morning . . .” And the baby. This news might be all the strain required to speed Maryanne's labor.

“I sent Taylor over to inform her.”

Celia hoped Mr. Taylor would be gentle. “What happened?”

“Matthews fell from his horse and broke his neck,” he explained. “And he had Virgil Nash's watch and money on him.”

Which seemed the sort of evidence a jury would believe proved Dan's guilt.

“But Dan Matthews was not the man who attempted to
disinter Mr. Nash's body.” She told him about the horse and wagon Ginny had seen. “And today, while I was at Mr. Martin's house, the same horse was hitched to the hack that delivered his housekeeper.”

“There are a lot of horses around, Mrs. Davies. You can't be sure.”

“But how many are very pale dapple grays with dark manes?” she asked. “I have seen no other like it in the city.”

“Could be a coincidence that the same horse was at that alley and at Martin's today.” The water began to boil, and Mr. Greaves moved the pot partway off the grate. He took the tin from her hand and scooped coffee grounds into the water. “Or the explanation is that all the partners hire the same driver, a man who makes use of that particular horse.”

And those partners included Frank Hutchinson. “But it is still quite possible that Mr. Martin is connected to Mr. Nash's death.”

“Not so quick, ma'am. The man who owns the restaurant where Martin was eating Thursday night is willing to state Martin was there most of the night.”

“He would say such a thing, would he not, rather than offend a wealthy customer,” she said, bringing over the coffee cups—delicate china ones with flowers painted around each rim. Too delicate for a man's hands. “This restaurateur's first inclination would be to preserve his business. Perhaps if I spoke to him—”

“Mrs. Davies, even though you like to think this is ‘our' investigation, you really—”

“I really must stay out of police matters?” she asked. “But I shan't, so long as friends of mine are implicated in a man's murder.”

“You might want to get acquainted with folks who don't get tangled up in crimes, ma'am. Just a suggestion.”

“Ah, but then, Mr. Greaves, I would not know you.”

A look she could not decipher crossed his face, and an awkward moment ticked past.
I only meant to tease. Didn't I?

Mr. Greaves cleared his throat. “I'll have Taylor talk to the owners of the stables located nearest to Martin's house. There might be a driver he prefers to use. We'll find the man and see what he has to say about Thursday night and who it was who hired him.”

“Thank you.”

The rear door opened, and Barbara and Grace came into the kitchen.

“Thank goodness you're still here, Mr. Greaves,” said Barbara, glancing between them. Grace paused just inside the threshold. “Grace would like to tell you something.”

“I've already heard your claim that you saw Mr. Martin push Mrs. Davies, Miss Hutchinson,” he said.

“It's not that,” said Barbara. “Go on, Grace.”

Grace Hutchinson squared her shoulders, an intense look on her young face. “It's time I confess, Detective. Time I confess what else I know. About my father.”

*   *   *

W
ell, well.

Nick looked over at Celia Davies, who was staring at Grace as though the power of her gaze might get the girl to take back her words. Miss Walford rolled her lips between her teeth. She knew what was coming, Nick could tell, and he wondered how long she had known.

“How about we go into the parlor and you tell me all about it, Miss Hutchinson,” he said.

“Grace, are you certain?” Mrs. Davies asked, taking hold of the girl's arm.

“Yes, ma'am,” she murmured.

Nick strolled into the parlor, and the womenfolk followed, taking places on the various seats available. Barbara Walford chose a spot on the settee beneath the painting that Nick guessed was a portrait of her father. Mrs. Davies took a chair opposite her cousin, and Grace sat on the other chair, her face as pale as a skimming of cream off milk.

Nick remained standing; anything else would seem too cozy. Besides, he always thought better on his feet. “Go ahead, Miss Hutchinson. I'm listening.”

“It has to do with the night that Mr. Nash died.” Her voice trembled, and she swallowed. Mrs. Davies reached across to take the girl's hand. “I saw my father.”

Barbara Walford sat perfectly still, her dark eyes wide, as if she were posing for a photograph and waiting for the exposure to complete. How many times would she find herself intertwined with the family of a killer, as had happened when Nick had first met both her and Celia Davies? She must feel cursed.