No Pity For the Dead (22 page)

Dang it, Nick, not one minute ago you let Celia Davies convince you that Martin was involved.

“You saw your father do what, Miss Hutchinson?” he prodded.

She blinked to stop the gathering tears from falling. “He was not with Mr. Russell that evening like he and my stepmother said he was. I mean, I'm pretty sure he wasn't.”

“How can you recall so clearly, Grace?” asked Mrs. Davies.
“It has been some time since then. Perhaps you are confused about the day in particular.”

“That's what I told her!” said Miss Walford. “You're simply confused, Grace, and your father's not involved at all.”

“Of course he's involved, Bee,” Grace replied. “How many times was he seen fighting with Mr. Nash? Even I saw them arguing once, at a picnic. And the day before Mr. Nash died, my father came back from visiting him, angrier than I've ever seen him. I guess he'd gone to try to convince Mr. Nash one last time—yes, that's exactly what he said: ‘One last time'—to stop getting in the way of their plans for the Second Street cut. But Mr. Nash refused and tossed him out of the house.” Grace looked at Nick. “My father doesn't like to be bossed around.”

“I'm aware of that, Miss Hutchinson,” Nick answered, reaching up to rub the ache in his left arm. Getting ordered around made Frank pigheaded. Reckless. Stupid. So different from his cousin Jack, as easygoing a man as ever was born.

“You still have not explained how you can be so clear about the date, Grace,” said Mrs. Davies.

“Because the day Mr. Nash died was the twenty-eighth of May, correct?” Grace asked.

Nick nodded.

“That's what I'd heard,” said Grace. “We were supposed to go out and have a special dinner on the twenty-ninth. To celebrate my mother's birthday. We'd been planning on it for days and days. That's how I know, Bee. That's why I'm so sure.”

“But Jane's birthday is later in the summer, Grace,” said Mrs. Davies.

“Miss Hutchinson means Arabella's birthday,” said Nick.

“Oh.”

“But we didn't go to dinner on the twenty-ninth, even though my stepmother had promised we would. Because she awoke with a headache that Wednesday morning and didn't leave her room all day long.” Grace paused, and Mrs. Davies gave the girl's fingers a squeeze. “I assumed her head hurt because she was mad at Father for the night before.”

“Why might she be mad?” asked Nick.

“Because of what my father had done,” said Grace. “I thought she was asleep. She's been taking her sleeping medications, and I thought she didn't know that Father had come home and then left again. I thought only I'd seen. I was waiting for him—I always do, even though I'm supposed to be in bed, because I want to make sure he gets home safe—watching from my bedroom window. It overlooks the street. I saw a hack arrive and my father step down onto the street. But he wasn't with Mr. Russell, because Mr. Russell always leans through the window to wish him a good night. He's always so drunk. And loud.”

Nick caught Mrs. Davies' gaze. She looked worried for Frank.

“Do you remember what color the horse was that pulled the hack, Grace?” Mrs. Davies asked.

Grace's forehead puckered. “I don't.”

“So it was not a dapple gray?”

“Mrs. Davies,” Nick warned.

“Forgive me, Mr. Greaves.”

“Anyway,” said Grace, continuing, “my father didn't come in. The hack drove off, but he just stared up at the house. He saw me watching and nodded. I sensed something was wrong, though. I almost lifted the sash so I could call out to him, but he turned away before I could. He just walked off, down the street. He didn't come home again until really late, and all I can think is
my stepmother must have seen him walk away, too. Maybe she was watching from one of the other windows and wasn't asleep. Or maybe Hetty told her.”

“Do you remember what time it was you saw him, Miss Hutchinson?” Nick asked.

“I usually go to my room around nine, so after that. I'd guess close to nine thirty, since I'd been reading in my bed for a while.”

Another discrepancy in Frank's alibi. If he wasn't with Russell at that point, then where had Frank been earlier that evening? The message to Nash had requested a meeting at eight.

“What condition were his clothes in?” asked Mrs. Davies before he could. “Were they dirty? Torn?”

Bloody?
Nick added to himself.

“I don't think so,” Grace answered. “But I wasn't really trying to see if he was dirty or anything. I just thought it was strange that he didn't want to come inside right away. It was like he was trying to avoid us.”

“Grace, this doesn't mean he killed Mr. Nash,” said Barbara, who'd remained stuck in her pose on the settee, an observer made out of granite. “It just shows that he didn't want to come home.”

“But why did he pretend to be with Mr. Russell when he wasn't, Bee?” she asked, her voice catching. “The next day, he told me he had been with him, even though I'd seen that he wasn't. He's never lied to me. Never. It was part of our pact. We'd always be honest with each other. He's never explained, though. He won't.”

The tears she'd been holding back fell, and she pinched her eyes closed.

“Why did you not tell us this earlier, Grace?” asked Mrs. Davies, leaning closer to the girl. “Terrible events might have been avoided if you had.”

“My father didn't push you yesterday, Mrs. Davies,” she said, looking up suddenly. “I know he didn't. It was Mr. Martin. I saw him.”

Miss Walford hurried over to her friend, sinking to her knees at Grace's feet. “It'll be okay, Grace. You'll see. It'll be okay. Your father will have an explanation for everything.” She glanced at Nick, daring him to say otherwise.

“I'll have to bring Mr. Hutchinson into the station,” Nick said, which caused Mrs. Davies to frown.

“You can't!” Miss Walford shouted. “You just can't!”

“It'll have to wait, Mr. Greaves,” said Grace Hutchinson. “My father went to Oakland this morning to discuss a project there. He won't be home until tomorrow.” She bit her lower lip. “At least that's where he claims he is. This is awful.”

“Do you know where he's staying?” Nick asked her.

“You are going to fetch him back now?” Mrs. Davies asked. “Can this not wait until tomorrow? What about your implication that Dan Matthews was responsible? Or that Mr. Martin had a role?”

“I'm not overlooking them, Mrs. Davies, but Frank has to explain his actions and right now.”

He'd send Mullahey to track Frank down and haul him to the station. The arrest would probably make the morning papers. Nick tried to feel exultant at the idea of Frank's humiliation, but he couldn't muster the satisfaction. Revenge never was as sweet as advertised.

Don't let the desire for vengeance color your judgment, Nick, or justify your actions.
Good old Uncle Asa. Always a saying for every situation.

Well, Uncle Asa, I might be letting you down on this one.

Grace Hutchinson gave Nick the name of the Oakland hotel. “Much obliged, miss.”

“You must be happy at last, Detective, that you have sufficient proof to arrest Frank,” said Mrs. Davies, her pale eyes gone as frosty as a January's snow.

Nick knew better than to respond.

“How long have you known about what Grace witnessed?” Celia asked her cousin. They stood on the porch together, watching Grace climb into the hack Jane had sent to fetch her. Mr. Greaves had left immediately after he'd finished questioning Grace.

“She told me only today,” said Barbara, her arms wrapped about her waist. “I'm worried about what'll happen to Grace if her father's sent to jail.”

“I am concerned as well. Deeply concerned. But Grace's account only means that her father was not where he'd claimed to be the evening Mr. Nash was murdered,” said Celia. The driver shut the door behind Grace, and she peered through the window, her face wan. She offered a wave, which Barbara limply returned. “It does not mean he was at the offices of Martin and
Company, stabbing the man to death and then burying him in the cellar.”

“Mr. Greaves believes that it does.”

Celia had also seen the certainty of that belief in his eyes. How much, though, did his old hatred for Frank influence his decision to send a policeman haring off to Oakland to drag Frank back as soon as possible?

“Unfortunately, Mr. Greaves cannot turn a deaf ear to what Grace has told him,” said Celia.

However, the question remained—where
was
Frank between the time he parted from Mr. Russell, if they had even been together that evening, and half past nine when Grace saw him? Frank was in desperate need of explaining his whereabouts at the time that Mr. Nash was murdered as well as what he'd been doing Thursday evening.

The hack rolled off, scattering finches pecking among the stones of the road.

“What do we do now?” asked Barbara.

“I have no patients this afternoon, which leaves me time to speak with the shopgirl who may have seen the man who'd been digging up Mr. Nash's body. I want to confirm the fellow was not tall and therefore not likely to be Mr. Hutchinson. We do that first,” answered Celia, giving Barbara a squeeze and then reentering the house. She plucked her bonnet from its hook. “Afterward, I shall go and speak to Katie Lehane before the saloon opens. I'm curious if she ever noticed Mr. Nash arguing with any other men at Burke's. Men we have not already considered as suspects.”

They needed more names. Because apparently the man's watch and money in the possession of Dan Matthews, along with the horse she'd seen at Jasper Martin's, were now insufficient
for one Nicholas Greaves—and Celia very much feared Frank was running out of time to prove his innocence.

*   *   *

T
he shop bell jangled as Celia opened the door to the ladies' fancy goods shop.

Mrs. Lowers glanced over from where she stood behind the counter, folding a length of fawn-colored silk. “What can I do for you today, Mrs. Davies?”

“I need to speak with Ginny again.” The girl was in the corner with a customer, discussing dress trimmings. “I will not require much of her time.”

“Ginny,” Mrs. Lowers called.

The owner jerked her head toward Celia. Ginny scurried over, and her employer went to help the customer.

“Ma'am?” Ginny asked.

Celia took the girl's elbow and led her to the front corner of the shop, where the sun streamed through the tall windows, lighting the display of embroidered reticules and shawls, and a parasol dripping with mauve fringe. A woman outside on the pavement peered through the window glass at Celia and Ginny, then returned to examining the ribbons laid out for examination.

“The man on Thursday. Think very, very carefully, Ginny. This is most critical. Was he tall?” Celia asked the girl.

“I don't right recollect, ma'am. I'm sorry.”

“Come with me.” She was being brusque with Ginny, but she could not help it; time was slipping away if she wished to help Frank's cause.

Celia parted the curtains at the doorway, then strode through the rear of the shop and out the back door into the alleyway. Ginny rushed after her.

“Here, Ginny. You saw him run through the alleyway,” said Celia. “How tall was he in relation to your neighbor's fence there?”

She motioned toward the slat fence across the way, the top of which was higher than Celia's head by a half foot. If the quite tall Frank Hutchinson had passed through this alley, the crown of his hat would've been above the uppermost stretch of wood.

“I'm not sure . . . ,” said Ginny.

At that moment, an aproned male shop assistant stepped into the alley from the adjoining eyeglass business. He struck a safety match against a stone near his feet, lit a cigarette, and strolled in their direction. Noticing Ginny, he offered her a jaunty hello, which made her blush.

“Taller or shorter than that man?” Celia asked once he'd passed. The shop assistant was of average height, and his uncovered head did not clear the top of the fence.

“The same. About the same, I think,” said Ginny, staring after him.

So, not tall. And not Frank Hutchinson, if Ginny was correct in her observation. “You are quite certain? Because you may be asked to testify to that in court.”

“What? Mrs. Lowers won't like that at all!”

“Just answer me, please, Ginny.”

“I'm sure, ma'am.”

Thank goodness
. Celia could not explain where Frank was Thursday evening, but at least she
could
say he was not in this alleyway after having attempted to disinter Virgil Nash.

“What about the man's size?” Celia asked Ginny. “Was he very thin or portly?”

“He had on a long coat. It flapped around his legs when he
ran down the alley. I really couldn't say, ma'am, but I don't think he was portly.”

Perhaps he was gaunt, then. Gaunt and unusually spry.

“Thank you, Ginny.” Celia took the girl's hand. Her fingertips were calloused from plying a needle. “You have been of great help.”

It was now time to speak to Katie Lehane.

*   *   *

“C
are to now tell me the truth about what you and Mr. Hutchinson were doing the night Virgil Nash was murdered, Mr. Russell?”

Nick leaned against the windowsill in one of the upstairs offices of Martin and Company. The sound of hammering echoed through the floor. The workers were back at it, since one of the bosses had come in. Their work hadn't stopped them from learning about Matthews' death, though. Unfortunately, none of them had any clever ideas about why he'd been fleeing town like the devil was on his heels. Other than they all agreed that Matthews owed an awful lot of money to an awful lot of folks.

He wasn't up here to talk about Dan Matthews, though. He was here to pin the murder of Virgil Nash on Frank Hutchinson.

“You weren't with Frank that night, were you?” Nick asked Russell, who'd taken one of the chairs around the large table that occupied most of the room. A portrait of Frank's father, one of the company's founders, glowered from where it was displayed at Russell's back. On the wall opposite hung a detailed map of the city, tacks dotting its surface. A metallic trail of previous and planned acquisitions, Nick supposed. One of the tacks had been pushed into the area of Rincon Hill.

Rather than answer, Russell fidgeted in his chair and picked at a cuticle on his left forefinger.

“It's okay, Mr. Russell,” Nick assured the man. “You can tell me. I won't be angry.”

“We went to supper.”

“You sure?”

“We went to Jean-Pierre's like we always do,” said Russell. Nick had a stray thought that he should try Jean-Pierre's, since it seemed to be such a popular place. “And yes, I'm sure.”

“But then what? You didn't accompany Frank back to his house like usual,” said Nick. “I'm not even going to ask why you lied to me about that.”

“I guess I don't remember that night all that well. Too much time has passed.”

Nick really wished people would cooperate. It would make his life a helluva lot easier.

“A reliable witness saw Mr. Hutchinson returning home in a hired hack, alone. I've heard, though, that you're usually with him,” he said. Russell took to chewing the torn cuticle. “Why not that night? What was different?”

“I said I don't remember.”

Nick slapped his palm on the table. Russell jumped. “Blast it, Russell, I'm not keen to waste the day waiting for you to get around to the truth. I'm really not,” he said. “So make me happy and explain why you weren't with him. Did he have plans to meet with Nash after supper, and you two went your separate ways? Is that what happened?”

Russell's chin sagged to his chest.

“Listen,” said Nick. “Tell me what happened that night, and
I won't have you booked as an accessory to murder when my officer hauls Hutchinson into the station.”

Russell looked up. “Frank didn't kill Nash. He didn't go to meet him. I swear to God.”

“That's an awfully powerful thing to do, Mr. Russell.”

“He didn't,” he repeated. “I swear.”

“You're willing to admit that you and he parted after you'd eaten, though?” Nick asked.

“I may as well, since you know we did.”

Nick returned to leaning against the windowsill and rubbed a hand along the ache in his left arm. The sounds of the street sifted through the window, which was thrown open to catch the cool breeze and disperse the eye-watering odor of fresh paint. Down on the sidewalk, a boy shouted out the menu from a nearby restaurant, trying to entice diners. A church bell tolled the hour. The combination of the two made Nick's stomach grumble, reminding him he hadn't eaten since he'd had a quick cup of coffee for breakfast.

“Mr. Hutchinson was seen at home after nine,” Nick said to encourage Russell to start talking and stop staring at his cuticles. “And you usually take supper around six thirty or seven, right? Doesn't seem likely to me that you gentlemen lingered over your chicken and sauced vegetables for two hours.”

“We might have,” Russell said, trying one last time.

“Not amused, Mr. Russell.”

Russell's cuticle got another chew. “Frank went to Burke's. Must have been around seven thirty.”

Why lie about going to the saloon he regularly visited? It's not like Jane Hutchinson didn't know her husband's habits. “How do you know that's where he went?”

Russell stared at him long and hard. Whatever he had to say, he didn't relish sharing. “Because Frank told me he was going to see one of Burke's girls. Katie Lehane.”

“He went to see a saloon girl?” Poor Jane Hutchinson. Living not only in Arabella's shadow but in the shadow of another woman who was very much alive. “How long's this been going on?”

“Oh. Oh, oh! It's not like that! They weren't . . .” Russell's face turned as bright as a beet. “Just company. And cards. But he didn't think Jane would understand, so he didn't want her to know.”

Nick was positive Jane Hutchinson wouldn't “understand” one bit. “If Miss Lehane can give Frank an alibi, Mr. Russell, I'm sure Mrs. Hutchinson will want her to speak up.”

Russell slumped in his chair.

“Where'd
you
go that evening, Mr. Russell? After you two parted?”

“You can't tell Dottie.”

“Where?”

He peered at Nick. “It's just a little place in an alley off Dupont . . .”

The streets of the Chinese quarter. “Do they happen to sell opium at that little place by any chance?”

Russell slumped lower; he looked like he wanted to cry. “Dear God. Dottie will have my head.”

*   *   *

“H
ave you ever noticed Mr. Nash arguing with anyone other than Frank Hutchinson, Katie?” asked Celia.

Celia had interrupted Katie, who was washing her hair in the chipped tin basin in her boardinghouse room, and a trickle of water dribbled down the girl's cheek. The room smelled of rectified
spirits and rosemary. A more pleasing aroma than what had arisen from the clogged sewer Celia had passed on her way there.