No Pity For the Dead (3 page)

“No, Owen!”

Celia grabbed the lantern and chased after him, tripping over her skirts. She reached the vestibule just as he raced out the rear door. “Owen, stop!”

She stumbled through a small courtyard and into the narrow dirt alleyway behind the buildings. It was dark and cloaked in fog. And Owen had disappeared from sight.

“Bloody . . .” Clutching her shawl, Celia leaned against the doorframe. “Now what?”

She wasn't about to run out into the alleyway herself, with only a lantern as a weapon and no idea what sort of dangerous maniac she might encounter.

It wasn't long, however, before she heard the sound of running feet. She straightened and prepared to dash inside and bolt the door if the feet belonged to someone more menacing than Owen.

“I lost him,” a voice called out, and Owen materialized through the mist.

Celia released a breath. “Thank goodness you're safe.”

“Couldn't see who it was, though.” Owen folded his knife and returned it to the safekeeping of his boot. “We've got to tell the police now, don't we?”

“Most certainly we do. There is a dead body downstairs.”

“Just don't tell 'em what I was doing down there, ma'am.”

“I thought you and Dan Matthews were leveling the floor,” she said. He evaded her gaze, suddenly finding a spot on the ground very interesting. “That was not what you were doing, was it?”

He glanced up, a sheepish look on his face. “You won't yell if I say, will you, ma'am?”

“I won't yell.”

“We were digging for gold.”

“Owen!” she yelled. “Mr. Hutchinson shall be furious!”
Gad.

“I know, I know! It wasn't right! But Dan told me I had to help and if I told him no, he was gonna tell Mr. Martin it was all my idea and then I'd be in trouble!”

“You have gotten yourself into trouble one way or the other, Owen,” she said.

“Mr. Greaves is gonna throw me in the calaboose, ain't he?” he asked, squinting down the alleyway as if debating whether to make a run for it.

“I have no idea what he shall decide to do,” she said, wondering how she would extract both Owen and Maryanne's brother from this mess. Of the two, she certainly cared more about saving Owen.

“Ask him to take it easy on me, okay? He'll listen to you,” said Owen. “He's sweet on you, ma'am.”

“I very much doubt that those are his sentiments, Owen,” she said, suppressing the desire to ask him why he thought so.
Foolish, Celia. Don't be foolish.
“Might the person you chased have been Mr. Matthews? Perhaps he returned to remove the body.”

But that was not logical. After all, he had invited Owen to dig up the cellar.

“Don't think so, given how scared he was when we found it. Don't think he'll ever come back here.”

“Do you have any idea who the buried person might be? Has anyone you know of gone missing?”

“Nope,” he said, and then his eyes lit with an idea. “Hey! I wonder if it's that fella Mr. Hutchinson was having a shouting match with a few weeks ago. Ain't seen him around lately. Thought they'd come to blows that afternoon. But that wouldn't have been fair. The other man was missing part of an arm. Oh!” He locked eyes with Celia.

Just like the body downstairs.

Bloody
 . . . More than Owen and Dan Matthews were in trouble now. “We
are
going to have to inform the police.”

“Durn.”

“Indeed.”

*   *   *

B
lood. There was so much blood and pain. Hot. Burning. His left arm on fire.

He heard his name called. “Nick!”

The kid in the gray coat hadn't moved. Just stared. Like he couldn't believe what he'd done. And then all of a sudden there was an explosion, and half of the kid's head was gone, blown apart like a melon hit with a hammer. A giant red melon.

The ground rushed up, felt cold and hard beneath his knees.
He looked over at Jack, running toward him, his gun still smoking.
Ah. So that was what had happened to the kid.

And then came another explosion, from out of the woods, and Jack flew backward as easily as a doll tossed by a child. He fumbled for his gun with his right hand, his good hand, raised it just as the reb soldier broke through the cover of the underbrush and aimed.

He screamed. He knew he screamed as he pulled the trigger on his Colt. Pulled again. Again until there wasn't a reb soldier and the click of the hammer meant the chamber was empty.

“Jack. Hold on. I'll be right there.”

He crawled to where Jack lay on the ground, squirmed over rocks and tree roots and broken branches, the musky damp of churned-up earth mixing with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

“Jack. I said I'd be right there. See?”

Jack's gaze shifted to his face. There was blood seeping from his mouth. “Dang, Frank'll be mad.”

“The hell with your cousin, Jack.”

Jack chuckled. Tried to chuckle. A gush of blood choked off the sound, and he drowned in a gurgle.

“Jack!”

He shook his friend, his best friend. The only real friend he'd ever had. Shook him like he could stop him from dying, his startled eyes staring through shattered branches at the darkening sky overhead, the clouds turning pink from the setting sun.
Red sky at night, sailor's delight . . .
“
Damn it.”

But it was too late for Jack.

Too damned late . . .

“Mr. Greaves.” He heard pounding. It echoed in his head. “Mr. Greaves.”

Nick sat bolt upright in the chair he'd fallen asleep in, the
glass of whiskey that had been resting on his lap rolling off onto the floor.

“Mr. Greaves! Are you in there?” His landlady pounded on the door to his rooms, setting Riley to barking. “You're wanted at the station right now.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face, a spasm of pain shooting through his left arm, down from the wound that never let him forget that day.

“Mr. Greaves!”

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Jewett. I'm in here,” he said over his dog's barking. “That's enough out of you, Riley.”

The dog, half greyhound, half setter, retreated from the door and came to Nick's side.

“Should I tell them you'll be at the station right away?” Mrs. Jewett asked through the closed door. There was no mistaking the concern in her voice, and he could picture the look on her face at that moment, the lopsided furrow she'd get in her forehead. She'd lost her only son at Shiloh and had transferred all of her motherly worries to Nick, the replacement for the boy who'd never come home.

What a replacement.

“Yes. Tell them I'll be right there,” he answered. “Right
there.”

For the third or fourth time, Celia offered a smile to the booking sergeant leaning against his desk in the corner of the main police station, located in the bowels of city hall. Down here, the air was stagnant and reeked of cigar smoke and the stench that drifted from the jail cells accessed through a barred door. The smells were enough to upset a person's stomach, which might explain why the sergeant didn't return her smiles. Instead, he turned to watch Owen, who had found entertainment while they waited for Nicholas Greaves by rifling through the papers atop the desk belonging to the detective's assistant, Officer Taylor.

“Hey, kid!” yelled the sergeant. “Get outta that stuff. It's none of your business.”

“Mr. Taylor won't mind,” Owen had the temerity to claim. “He knows me.”

“Owen, perhaps you should—,” Celia began just as the door that led to the side alley banged open and Nicholas Greaves stomped down the short flight of stairs and into the room.

His eyes met hers. They were bloodshot, and he looked very tired. Or inebriated. Or both.

But he was still handsome. And she still wanted to sweep the errant strand of dark hair off his face and see welcome in his gaze. But there was no welcome; in fact, he looked rather angry. Had she honestly expected he would be happy to see her, or repentant for not having contacted her for weeks and weeks even though he had asserted that he would?

Yes, Celia, you had.

“Why am I not surprised it's you, Mrs. Davies?” he said.

Owen bounded up from Mr. Taylor's chair. “Hey there, Mr. Greaves!”

“And you, Cassidy,” said the detective. “The two of you have managed to get into trouble again, haven't you? Just wish you could do it at a more reasonable time of day.”

“It is only ten,” said Celia, taking a look at the clock ticking on the wall. “Is this an unreasonable time for a police detective?”

“It is today.”

“Then pardon the lateness of the hour, but it could not be helped.” She twisted her hands in her lap; she would ask what she'd been promising herself she would not. “Have you been well? It has been so long, I'd begun to fear you had come to mortal harm.”

He reached for his left arm and the old war wound that pained him when he was anxious.

Good. At least he is anxious and perhaps a trifle guilty.

“No harm, ma'am. I've just been busy.”

“Busy, then. I see.”

“Since I suspect this isn't a social call,” said Nicholas Greaves, his expression darkening, “can I ask why you sent an officer to my rooms to drag me here?”

“I found a dead body, Mr. Greaves!” exclaimed Owen.

“I wouldn't sound so proud of that if I were you, Cassidy,” said Mr. Greaves. “Does this have anything to do with your clinic, ma'am?”

“Nope,” Owen replied for her. “I found the body at the place where I work. But you're not gonna lock me in the calaboose, are you, Mr. Greaves?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because of what he was doing when he found the body,” responded Celia. “Owen, you need to explain everything to the detective. From the beginning. And do not worry. Mr. Greaves will not be so crass as to throw you in the calaboose.”

She slid Mr. Greaves a glance that indicated just how much she doubted that he would not be crass, then gestured for Owen to begin his story.

*   *   *

“I
'm guessing this Jasper Martin won't be so happy to learn that you and”—Nick consulted the notebook he'd borrowed from atop Taylor's desk—“Dan Matthews were digging around looking for gold.”

Cassidy's shoulders sagged, and he glanced over at Mrs. Davies, whose posture had maintained an uprightness that owed only part of its rigidity to a corset. “He
is
gonna arrest me, ain't he?”

“Mr. Greaves, it is clear that Dan Matthews coerced Owen into participating in this escapade,” she said. “I know Mr. Matthews' sister—Mrs. Kelly is a patient of mine—and she has often despaired of her brother's impetuousness. But it seems
unlikely he would wish to risk his employment at Martin and Company by murdering a man and then burying him—”

“Wait, wait, wait. You're claiming this was all some sort of escapade?” Nick interrupted. He understood why she wanted to protect the scruffy Irish kid she'd taken under her wing, but some fellow who was the brother of a patient, too? Was she hoping to act as a guardian angel for the entire blasted city?

The way she was staring at him with her icy pale eyes suggested precisely that. Things never changed with her.

“Dan Matthews was excited by the possibility of finding gold, nothing more,” she replied. “And as I said, he gained Owen's cooperation through coercion. I wish to be certain that Owen does not take any blame for another man's impetuousness.”

When she was on edge, her accent always did take to sounding like what Nick imagined Queen Victoria's might be. “I'd guess that's up to Mr. Martin, whether or not he wants to press charges on Mr. Matthews or Mr. Cassidy.”

“However, you could influence his decision in that regard?” she asked. “Unless that is something else that inconveniences you.”

And sarcastic. Celia Davies was really good at sounding sarcastic.

Okay, so she blamed him for not keeping in touch these past three months and one week. He'd thought about contacting her, though, lots of times. Had trailed her as she moved about the city, watched her house, trying to work up the nerve to climb the steps and knock on the door, listened for any news on her. Did all that even though Nick had decided that a woman who continued to search for her missing husband, despite the man's having abandoned her, wanted the fellow back.

She was waiting for his response. Meanwhile, the station room had settled into an uncomfortable quiet, which was broken by a drunk in the adjoining cell bellowing for a lawyer and the warden shouting at the man to be quiet.

“See her safely back home, Mr. Cassidy.” Nick tucked Taylor's notebook into a coat pocket. “I'll contact the coroner and see what there is to discover at Martin and Company.”

Mrs. Davies opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “And I'll relay your concerns about Owen Cassidy's role in this little ‘escapade' to Mr. Martin.”

“Promise, Mr. Greaves?” asked Owen.

“I promise,” he said, and shot Celia a glance. Her mouth quirked over the irony of his making—and keeping—promises to anybody. But in her eyes, he saw that she still trusted in his abilities. Believed in him.

She's made me realize how much I've missed her.

Celia Davies was really good at that, too.

*   *   *

“W
hat am I to do now, Uncle?” asked Celia, looking up at the portrait of Barbara's father that hung above the parlor settee. “I can hardly step aside in this affair when Owen and Frank Hutchinson and Maryanne's brother are involved.”

Uncle Walford's image grinned down at her. He'd been deceased two years now, and with each passing day, Celia believed she missed him more.

“And to have needed to encounter Nicholas Greaves again . . .”

There. That was what troubled her nearly as much as the thought that Maryanne's brother had encouraged Owen to dig for gold and that Frank Hutchinson had been seen fighting with
a man who might have ended up dead and buried in a cellar. She was troubled by the fact that she had encouraged Detective Greaves to investigate, and there would be no avoiding him while he did so.

“Heavens, Celia, be honest with yourself. You are looking forward to this.”

The painted image did not chuckle over her quandary, but if Uncle Walford had been there in the flesh, he would have done.

Celia hugged her mother's shawl around her shoulders, the consoling softness of the crimson cashmere brushing against her chin, and heaved a great sigh. She was talking to a painting. Surely, she had cracked. Thank goodness Addie had gone to bed soon after Celia had returned from the police station. If she observed her mistress conversing with the artwork, she'd likely take the next ship back to Scotland.

This is what Nicholas Greaves does to you, Celia. He makes you stark staring mad.

However, there were questions that required answers. Such as who
was
buried in that cellar? The man Owen had witnessed fighting with Frank Hutchinson?

Celia felt a pang of guilt for not pressing Owen to inform Mr. Greaves of the argument he'd witnessed. The detective would eventually find out about it, and she had gained little by withholding information simply because she wished to protect Jane and Frank from scandal for as long as possible.

She had once told Nicholas Greaves that she wanted to see justice served, proper justice. Perhaps when it came to the Hutchinsons, her dedication to that cause rested upon shaky ground.

With another sigh, Celia turned away from Uncle Walford's portrait and fetched the empty teacup and saucer she'd
left on one of the side tables. The figure in the parlor doorway startled her, the cup rattling against the saucer.

“Barbara! I did not hear you come down.”

Her cousin had thrown her cotton wrapper over her nightgown and was tightly clutching the ties trailing down its front. “What did Owen mean by ‘He's dead'?”

“Please do not worry yourself about that,” said Celia, heading for the kitchen. Barbara hobbled after her.

“I heard you go out with him, though,” said her cousin. “Did you go to see the body in the cellar?”

“Barbara, I really do not want you fretting over this.” Celia deposited the teacup in the wet sink in the corner of the room. “Please go back to bed before Grace notices that you're missing and gets alarmed.”

“She's snoring away. She'll never notice.” Barbara snagged Celia's sleeve. “You promised me you'd never get involved in another murder.”

I did?
“Who said anything about murder?”

Barbara released her grip on Celia's blouse. “Owen wouldn't have come to you about a dead body for any other reason. He thinks you work miracles. Since you cleared your brother-in-law of murder charges, Owen believes you're better than the police.”

“Mr. Greaves was responsible for clearing my brother-in-law,” said Celia, heading into the dining room.

Barbara followed her. “That's not how Owen sees it.”

Celia tugged the chain on the overhead chandelier, shutting off the gas and snuffing the mantle's flame. “But that is the way it is.”

“Does the dead man have anything to do with Mr. Hutchinson's business?”

Celia stopped and faced her cousin. “What did you hear? And did Grace hear as well?”

“We didn't hear much. But I figured, since Owen is working at Mr. Hutchinson's office, that has to be where the cellar with the dead body is.” Barbara peered at her. “I'm right, aren't I?”

“We do not know that this has anything to do with Mr. Hutchinson,” said Celia, though she herself already suspected him.

“But if Owen found a body at Martin and Company, it will involve Mr. Hutchinson,” said Barbara. “His name and the names of the other men he works with will probably be in every newspaper in town.”

“I am aware of that eventuality,” said Celia. “But please do not speak to Grace about this matter until I've had an opportunity to talk to Jane. She is the proper person to break the news to her stepdaughter. Not either of us.”

“I can't keep a secret from Grace!”

“I assure you, you shan't have to for long.”

Barbara rolled her lips between her teeth. “I don't like this. The last time you got involved in a murder investigation, Owen nearly got killed.”

“I have hardly forgotten, Barbara,” Celia responded. She would
never
forget Owen's blood splattered across the kitchen floor, seeping into her gown. Never. “And I do not intend to become involved, unless Jane requests my help.”