No Pity For the Dead (25 page)

“I didn't do anything wrong!” he protested. “He's lying if he says I did!”

Well, that's an interesting comment,
thought Nick, eyeing the fellow. “I just want to ask you some questions. First off, do you own this carriage?”

“I rent it.”

“What about a wagon?”

The other man cursed. “I told you he's lying! I had every
right to borrow that wagon, and I even returned it earlier than I said I was goin' to, so he ain't got no complaints.”

“This was last Thursday night, correct? The night you made use of the wagon?”

The driver narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You're not here because the runt at the livery complained about me?”

“Not today,” answered Nick. “I want to know about a man you picked up last week at an alleyway off Pine. With that wagon you borrowed. Who was he?”

A tremor started on one eyelid. “I don't know what you're talking about, Officer.”

“I think you do. I know somebody who saw you.” Nick reached out to scratch the horse between its ears, straightening the gray's forelock over the harness browband. “Listen, if you tell me the truth, I won't think up what I might have to charge you with, okay? So . . . Thursday night. The time would have been between nine and ten in the evening.”

The driver licked his lips. “Let's see . . .” As if tempted to grab them and drive off, he glanced toward the reins, which were tied around the rail. Nick seized the harness cheekpiece to ward off the idea. “Okay. Okay. I'll tell you. The stable boy got a note from a customer looking for a wagon and driver for the evening. Urgentlike. And there would be five dollars in it for the man who got to the corner of Montgomery and Pine the soonest. I knew where to find a wagon, and I put the licks on and got there first. Didn't know who I was looking for, but I figured he'd find me. And he did.”

“Then what?”

“I was to wait for him along Pine. He said until nine thirty. If I didn't see him by then, I was to leave. I argued with him about
the five dollars he'd promised, and he gave me two to keep me quiet until later,” the driver said. “I wasn't waiting there long, though, when he come down the alleyway, makin' tracks.”

“Did you get his name?” Nick asked.

“I don't usually have such polite conversation with my fares as to get around to learnin' their names.”

“Where did you take him?”

“Sutter and Powell,” the driver said. “He told me to leave him there. He gave me the rest of the money, so what did I care where he wanted to be left off? For five dollars, I woulda taken him to the Mission and back if he'd asked.”

Sutter and Powell was near enough to Martin's house. “And yesterday you dropped off a woman near that same location?” Celia Davies had told him she'd seen the dapple gray and this hack pulling away after bringing Martin's housekeeper.

The driver considered the sky. “Think so.”

“Can you describe the man for me?”

He shook his head. “Didn't get much of a look. It was awful foggy that night, and he kept covered up. Like he didn't want to be recognized.”

“Anything. General impression.”

“Bony. Educated voice. Used to giving orders.”

Which sounded precisely like Jasper Martin.

*   *   *

C
elia leaned against the balustrade surrounding the porch, the chill of the morning's crisp breeze seeping through her shawl. The half-remembered perfume her mother used to wear lifted from its threads, and Celia longed for a woman she could barely recall. A shadow. A scent.

She had no family left, save for Barbara and Addie.
Plus
Owen,
she mentally added with a weary smile. And now Barbara, who had remained barricaded behind her bedchamber door since last night, wanted to have Celia removed as her guardian. Celia doubted her cousin would succeed, but their relationship had been rocky from the start.
She would forgive me if I would not insist upon inserting myself in Mr. Greaves' investigations.
But Celia could not stop now; she would see this inquiry through to its end.

Celia noticed Joaquin's mother out on her porch darning, a scowl on her face. And at the house a few doors down, the owner shot Celia a black look as he patched the bullet hole in his stair railing. If she had not screamed last night and drawn his attention—as well as the attention of nearly the entire street—he might not have known she'd been the cause of the damage.

Soon it would be more than merely Barbara who wished she would remove herself from this house.

The bells of Saint Francis rang out the top of the hour, and Celia had started to turn to go back into the house, when she spotted a boy trotting up the road.

“There you are, ma'am!” Owen called out. He scrambled up the front steps with a grin.

“Owen, my goodness. How have you been?” she asked.

She'd never had a chance to warn him about Captain Eagan's threat to have Owen accused of killing Mr. Nash. However, it seemed he'd kept out of trouble.

“Bored. Ain't got much to do,” he said, plopping onto one of the cane-seated porch chairs.

“I do wish I had better news about your employment with Mr. Hutchinson's crew. He will not consider reinstating you until this fuss has subsided.”

“That's what I heard, ma'am,” he said. “Just got back from there. All kinds of excitement over Mr. Martin's angy. . . . anga . . .”

“Angina,” she supplied. “Many folks refer to it as ‘disease of the heart.'”

“Yep. That,” said Owen. “You sure do know a bunch, don't you, ma'am?”

“I have been fortunate to enjoy an excellent education, Owen.” She slid him a glance. “Speaking of an education, how are you coming with that book I lent you?”

“That Mr. Dickens is sorta hard to understand.”

“Good effort is eventually rewarded, Owen.”

“I s'pose.”

Celia smiled and let her gaze wander along the street again. Joaquin's mother finished darning the socks, frowned at Celia, and stomped back into her house.

“What's that about, ma'am?” Owen asked. “Don't she like you now?”

“I caused a bit of a fuss last evening, Owen. Someone shot at me.”

He let out a long whistle. “One of your neighbors? That woman over there looks mad enough!”

“I do not believe so.” She had spent the early morning hours considering each of her neighbors in turn, selecting and then discarding every one as the person who had shot at her last evening. The gunman
had
to be someone involved in Mr. Nash's murder. It was all that made sense.

“Ma'am?” Owen asked, squinting at her.

“I am merely contemplating how excessively exciting my life can be, Owen. I would not mind being bored myself for a change
of pace,” she said. “Since you are here, would you like a quick bite to eat?”

“I've always got time for Addie's cooking,” he said, grinning. “But I gotta tell you why I came by. It's about something that happened this morning. At work.”

“And what is that?”

He glanced around, searching for eavesdroppers. For once, Angelo was not playing on the Cascarinos' porch. The fact that Celia could hear Mrs. Cascarino shouting inside the house suggested her youngest son's location. “Something that happened with Eddie.”

“Eddie?”

“He's the kid who works at the stationer's next door,” he explained. “He came 'round the office this morning, slinking near the back door. Asking where the bosses were 'cuz he needed to talk to one of them about ‘the note he delivered.'”

“‘The note he delivered'?”

Owen eyed her as though wondering how she could have forgotten such an important item. “That one that Nash got,” he said. “The one telling him to meet his killer. Remember?”

“I do remember quite well, Owen, but how do you know about that note?” She thought Mr. Greaves had attempted to suppress that piece of information.

“Heard about it from one of the fellas,” Owen explained. “After Dan and I found the body, somebody claiming to be from a newspaper came asking questions about the note the killer sent to his victim, of course.”

Of course.
“And this Eddie specifically told you that he had delivered that particular note to Mr. Nash.”

“Not exactly.” Owen crinkled his nose and scuffed the toe of one dirty boot across the planks of the porch, his surety deflating like a soufflé too long out of the oven. “I did ask him this morning what he meant. I said, ‘What note?' but he wouldn't tell me. All he said was ‘Wouldn't you like to know,' like a smart aleck. He does that all the time.”

For a moment, Owen seemed prepared to spit to show his disgust, but he glanced at Celia and stopped himself. “But it's got to be the note Mr. Nash was sent the day he was killed. Don't you think, ma'am?”

“I am not certain what I think, Owen.” Except that if someone at Martin and Company had asked Eddie to deliver that particular note, Celia's request that Katie observe the men working there seemed all the more justified. “Although I do think you would make a good detective.”

Owen perked up, looking pleased. “You do?” he asked. “Mr. Greaves says it's a rotten job, though.”

“Mr. Greaves likely only thinks that when events are going badly,” said Celia. “But you do not know who gave Eddie that note to deliver?”

“Sorry, ma'am. He wouldn't tell me that, either.”

“Then what happened?” she asked.

“I told Eddie that Mr. Martin was poorly and hadn't come to the office and that Mr. Russell wasn't in yet and Mr. Hutchinson was away, too,” he said. “Eddie got hopping mad about that, and he stomped off. But he didn't get far before Rob spotted him and came running out into the yard, wanting to pick a fight over something. Them two are always fighting, so it wasn't the first time. Mr. Kelly had to break it up.”

“Does Eddie or Rob get extremely red faced when they're angry, Owen?”

“Can't say I've ever noticed.”

Neither of them was likely to be the fellow at Burke's, then. “Anything else?”

Owen cast around another glance and leaned over his knees to whisper conspiratorially. “Anyways, it was when Mr. Kelly dragged Eddie away that I overheard Eddie mentioning Mr. Nash to him. Clear as could be. And Mr. Kelly told Eddie to keep his nose out of other fellas' business. Not that Eddie'll ever stop doing that,” said Owen. “So I'll bet you anything Eddie took that note to Mr. Nash! Don't you think, Mrs. Davies?”

“I do think so, Owen,” she said. “You have done very well, and I shall inform Mr. Greaves. I presume he or Mr. Taylor can find Eddie at his place of employment today?”

“He sure can,” said Owen. His gaze slid toward the front door, and he licked his lips.

“Tell Addie to make you some breakfast.”

He hopped up from the chair. “Thanks again, ma'am,” he said, and ran inside without any further prodding.

Celia followed him inside and went into her office to hastily compose a message for Mr. Greaves.

I have learned who delivered the note to Virgil Nash that summoned him to meet his killer.

Her pen hovered over the sheet of paper. Even if they learned that Eddie had delivered a message to Mr. Nash, there remained no certainty it was
the
note. She inserted “may have” between “who” and “delivered.” However, it appeared that Eddie had become convinced of the message's importance. Perhaps he had opened
it and read it, although he had waited a long time to act upon his knowledge. It was not always easy to understand people's behavior.

She gave the location of the shop where Eddie could be found and sealed the note. Mr. Greaves might learn everything they needed to know from the boy or nothing at all. But she felt they were drawing much closer to finally learning the identity of Virgil Nash's killer.

Celia wiped the pen nib and returned it to its holder, then closed the lid on the glass inkwell. Or
were
they any closer? After all, what had she learned from Owen? Only that someone at Martin and Company had given Eddie a note to deliver to Virgil Nash the day he died. And that Owen had never seen Eddie or Rob get red faced.

Celia considered her appointment book, open to the day's list of patients. She had so much work to do once she returned from meeting Katie. She should simply attend to her patients rather than continue to pry.

But I cannot give up.
After all, someone had tried to shoot her last night. But who?

“Gad!”

“Ma'am?” Addie asked from the doorway where she stood. “There's been a message from Mrs. Hutchinson. She'd like you to visit her today.”

“Oh, Addie, I am knotted up in a murder investigation when I should be taking care of my patients and comforting my friends.
They
are my priority, not racking my brains over who might have killed Virgil Nash and getting nowhere.”

“But, ma'am, some loony tried to kill you last night. 'Tis sadly understandable you wish to find him and stop him.”

“Yet every piece of information I receive confuses me all the more as to who that loony might be,” Celia said, considering the note to Mr. Greaves that sat folded upon her desk.

“You ken it must be the man who killed that Mr. Nash. And now he's after you!”

“What was it Officer Taylor once told us? That sometimes killers like to spy on their victim's funeral? Maybe this man will be at Mr. Nash's funeral.” And if she attended, she might spot him, because he would be guilty-looking upon seeing her. Or red faced, perhaps. “Addie, I believe I need the black ribbons for my bonnet.”

“What's that?”

“The black ribbons,” she repeated.

If Katie failed to identify any of the men at Martin and Company, Celia should still be able to arrive at Virgil Nash's church service long before it got under way. As she recalled from the mention in yesterday's newspaper, it was scheduled for noon at the Church of the Advent. Surprisingly, the article had also mentioned that his remains had been lying there all of this morning for friends and acquaintances from far and near to pay their respects. There would be no visage to gaze upon, given the condition of the corpse, however. As it was, if the coffin was not well sealed, the stench would be unbearable.