No Pity For the Dead (30 page)

*   *   *

“O
kay, okay, Bartlett,” said Nick. “So you're sticking with your story that you set Dan Matthews to digging in Martin's cellar as a joke.”

“It ain't a story. It's the truth.”

Rob Bartlett was pacing his cell. It took about two seconds to shuffle through the filthy sawdust covering the stone floor before having to turn and go back in the other direction. At the end of the aisle, the warden rolled his eyes at Nick and lit a cigarette, which prompted one of the inmates to decry the injustice of being denied his own smokes.

“And that you didn't give him Nash's watch and money as encouragement to leave town because
you
were the man he'd seen the night Nash was killed,” Nick continued, trying to get Bartlett as angry as possible.

“I didn't!” Bartlett shouted. He marched up to the iron grating separating him from Nick. “How many times have I got to tell you?”

“And that Martin didn't pay you to kill Nash,” persisted Nick. “Or that maybe your real name is Cuddy Pike.”

“What? No!” he shouted, a spray of spittle hitting Nick's chest. His face, however, didn't turn any redder than any other fellow's, even though he was riled. Not Cuddy Pike, then. He
still could be a murderer, though. “My name's Rob Bartlett, and if I'm gonna hang for Nash's death, I sure wish Martin had paid me to do it. I woulda used the money to get out of town.”

“But you did know Virgil Nash. From the Golden Hare,” said Nick, wishing he had something to wipe off Bartlett's saliva other than his lone clean handkerchief. “What did you fellows do there?”

“What do you think we do there? Play tiddlywinks?” asked Bartlett. “We gambled. And Nash won. So often he had to have been cheating. I told Dan to steer clear of Nash, but he wouldn't listen.”

“Did you lose a lot of money to Nash?”

“I didn't kill him! I didn't!”

Nick pulled in a deep breath and instantly regretted it, given how putrid the air was. Didn't they ever clean the cells? As if the cockroaches scuttling through the sawdust didn't answer that question.

“I presume you're also going to tell me that you're not responsible for Katie Lehane's disappearance,” said Nick.

“Who?” Bartlett asked.

“A redheaded girl who works at Burke's.”

“I don't ever go to Burke's. And I don't know a Katie Lehane,” insisted Bartlett. “So if you're also tryin' to accuse me of making her disappear, then you're barking up the wrong tree.”

He
was
barking up the wrong tree.

And it made him furious.

*   *   *

A
ddie met Celia at the front door. “It's that Mr. Smith. He is in the parlor.” She cast a glance in the direction of the room. “I told him to nae sit on the furniture, though. Grubby creature.”

“He has come today?” How was it possible the man always managed to show up at the worst possible time?

“Aye, ma'am,” said Addie. “Miss Grace left not long ago, by the by, and Miss Barbara is in her room.”

“I am glad they are not around to hear, because I have dreadful news.” Celia removed her bonnet, and Addie took it from her. “Not only does it seem that the man who killed Virgil Nash's brother is in San Francisco, but Katie Lehane has gone missing.”

“Merciful heavens!”

“Mr. Greaves has alerted the police force to search for her. I expect that is all that can be done for now.”

“Poor lass. Poor, poor lass.”

“We must hope that she has merely chosen to go into hiding.” Celia pressed her hands to her waist. “Wish me luck with Mr. Smith, Addie.”

“He says he's brought the proof about Mr. Davies.”

“Which is why I would rather run back out the front door than speak with him.”

“But you willna do such a thing.”

“No.”

Celia strode into the parlor, where Mr. Smith was examining the porcelain figurines and silver candlesticks on the mantel. He had failed to remove his bowler hat, which looked more battered than the last time she'd seen him wearing it, and the cuffs of his ill-fitting trousers were dusty. But despite his appearance, his services had come highly recommended, and if he had truly found proof of Patrick's death, then he had earned all the money she had ever paid him.

“Mr. Smith,” she said, causing him to guiltily spin to face her.

“Ma'am.” He grabbed his hat and swept it off, making a bow that revealed the bald patch on the crown of his head.

“You have returned rapidly from Mexico,” she said. “I received your telegram only yesterday.”

“Sent that right before I hopped the steamer, ma'am.” His eyes darted a glance around at the parlor. They lingered on the portrait of Uncle Walford; Celia fancied her uncle's painted grin slipped a trifle in response to Mr. Smith's perusal. “Mighty fine place you got here.”

“Yes, but you have not come to admire the furnishings.” She held out her hand. “My housekeeper tells me that you have brought with you the item that proves my husband is deceased.”

He dug in his coat pocket and located a piece of paper that was nearly as grimy as the fingers holding it. “It's a copy of a doctor's certificate stating he attended to one Patrick Davies in his final hours, someplace in the city of Mazatlán. It's in Spanish, but I went and got it translated. It says right here . . .” He unfolded the paper and pointed to a line at the top. “
Nombre.
That means ‘name' and shows your husband's name and that he was a seaman off a merchant ship and from California. And here . . .” His finger moved down. “Right next to
Causas de la Muerte
, it says he died from knife wounds. And this here's the signature of the doc that attended to him. So it looks like he didn't die when that boat went down but got killed in a saloon like I'd heard. Sorry, ma'am.”

Hand shaking, Celia took the paper. It was dated
10 de agosto de 1866
. The day Patrick's soul had left this earth.

“How could the attending physician be certain the man was my husband?” she asked, unready to believe what her eyes showed her.

“I'd guess one of his friends told the doctor who he was. Oh, and I got this, too.” Back into his pocket went his hand, and he pulled out a square of linen. He unfolded it slightly, trying to hide the rusty brown stains, but it was enough that she could see the “P D” embroidered in emerald green thread on one corner. “I was wonderin' if you might recognize it.”

The death certificate was forgotten. For in Mr. Smith's fist was all the proof she would ever require that the man who had perished in a knife fight in Mexico had been Patrick. “I do. I gave it to my husband as a wedding present.”

She took the handkerchief from him and ran a thumb over the initials she had embroidered. The linen was still soft, except for where the blood had dried upon it and turned the material stiff.

A token to remember me by
, she had told Patrick when she'd given it to him after their wedding luncheon, all of the guests departed and the two of them alone in the small room they had rented at the inn. She'd had a lump in her throat, already uncertain that they had made the right decision to wed. But he had been kind, then, and happy for the gift. Claimed it was a treasure, the green thread a reminder of the green of home, and had kissed her so gently. And he had kept it with him all these years, though he had long ago come to doubt that she had ever loved him.

He was good to me, as good as he was capable of being, and now he is gone and I cannot apologize.

Celia looked up at Mr. Smith. “I believe I owe you some money for your efforts. Let me fetch it.”

She turned aside before he could see the tears welling in her eyes, and ran from the room.

*   *   *

“T
he handkerchief,” said Addie, standing in Celia's bedchamber that evening. “There's nae mistaking now, is there, ma'am?”

“No, Addie. No mistaking.” Celia, seated at her dressing table, took out the sandalwood box containing Patrick's letters and unlocked it. For no reason she could comprehend, she kissed the handkerchief and tucked it beneath the letters, then closed the lid. “Do you think we should hold a service, or buy a plot at Laurel Hill Cemetery for him?”

“And then what, ma'am? Put an empty coffin inside?”

Celia looked up at Addie's reflection in the dressing table looking glass. “We must do something to mark his passing, Addie. It is only right.”

Addie made a noise in her throat that signaled she did not agree but would no longer argue.

“I suppose I should wear mourning, now that we know,” Celia said. “Half mourning. Full seems hypocritical.”

“I'll fetch your gray dress down from the attic,” said Addie. “And I've told Miss Barbara about Mr. Davies. She sends her condolences.”

She could come to my room and tell me that herself.
But Barbara was still punishing Celia with silence, and Celia had been hiding in her room, uncertain of what to say to her cousin about Patrick's passing when they both knew Celia's grief was born as much—if not more—of guilt than of wifely affection.

I have a cold, cold heart.

“Tell her I do not expect much in the way of mourning attire from her. That should please her.”

“Aye,” said Addie, turning her head as the sound of pounding echoed up from the ground floor. “Who's at the door at this hour?”

The pounding repeated, followed by someone calling Celia's name. A woman's voice.

“She needs help.” Celia stood and rushed to the staircase, noticing as she passed through the hallway that Barbara had come to the door of her bedchamber and was peeking out to see about the latest commotion.

“I may need your assistance, Barbara,” said Celia, rapidly descending the stairs, Addie on her heels.

Celia threw open the front door to the woman, silhouetted against the purpling sky. With a cry, she collapsed across the threshold, the wound on her shoulder a stain of rusty red against her orange checked dress.

Redder than the color of her
hair.

“Thankfully, the bullet passed cleanly through your shoulder, Katie,” said Celia, securing the cotton bandage over the girl's wound. Katie was ashen and exhausted but alive. And unless the wound festered despite Celia's best efforts to clean it, she should continue to remain alive and recover without any long-term damage.

“I can't thank you enough, ma'am.” Katie looked down at her shoulder, her gaze flicking rapidly over the rust-colored stain on her chemise, before turning to her discarded dress, crumpled on the floor. “I was so scared. I just knew I had to get here and you would help me.”

“I am glad that you thought to do so,” replied Celia.

“Where else would I go?” Katie asked, as if the very idea of seeking assistance elsewhere were absurd.

Celia turned to Barbara, who'd been placing the bloody
linens Celia had discarded into a waiting wicker basket. “Has Addie returned from sending Joaquin to the police with my message?” She'd wanted Mr. Greaves to know immediately that Katie had been found safe.

“A few minutes ago,” said Barbara.

“Good.” Celia nodded at the basket. “Take those linens to her, if you would.”

Barbara pressed her lips together, shot a narrow-eyed glance at Katie, and collected the basket, marching out of the room with it.

“I'm sorry to cause you such trouble, ma'am,” said Katie, who'd seen Barbara's sullen glance. She attempted to sit up on the examining table, wobbling unsteadily from blood loss. Celia caught her before she tumbled to the floor.

“Lie back down for a little while. You have had quite a shock.” Celia lowered Katie onto the bench. “And you are not causing me trouble. I run a clinic to help people, not to drive them away.”

Katie pulled in a shaky breath. “I just wish I'd spotted him. If I had, I would've run before he had a chance to get a shot off.”

“Do not blame yourself. He might have chased after you and shot you anyway,” said Celia, unsettled by her own calm assessment of the situation. Histrionics would not be of any use, however, so she continued with the tasks that would help her maintain her composure, carefully rolling the clean bandaging into a tight coil and returning it to her supply cabinet.

“Do you think it's the same man who shot at you last night, Cousin Celia?” asked Barbara, who had returned to stand in the doorway with a scowl.

“Somebody shot at you, too, Mrs. Davies?” Katie asked, her eyes gone wide. “It's got to be that man from the saloon. The
one I was going to identify. He must have known you'd come to talk to me.”

He must have,
thought Celia, firmly closing the door to the cabinet and causing the inset glass to rattle.

“Do you think he's the fellow who killed Mr. Nash? He was dreadful scared of him.” Katie shuddered. “I knew that man was trouble. Got me so scared thinking about him, I simply had to find someplace to hide. Sorry I didn't meet you this morning at that coffeehouse, ma'am. I didn't mean to worry you.”

“All that matters is that you are safe.”

“But it was that man who shot me, wasn't it?” she asked, glancing at Barbara for confirmation of her theory. Barbara returned only the faintest of shrugs, which was sufficient to confirm what Katie had asked. “By gosh!”

Addie bustled into the room, a simple white nightgown in her hand.

“Here you are, Miss Lehane. One of my old nightgowns, since you'll be staying the night with us.” She glanced at Celia. “Is it all right, ma'am, to help her up?”

“Yes. Let me know if you get dizzy, Katie.”

“'Tisn't much to look at, but you'll nae have to lay about with only a ruined chemise to cover you.” Addie helped her change into the gown, larger and likely plainer than Katie ever would choose to wear, covering the sight of the bandages. “There, now, you look right proper.” She patted Katie's knee and turned to Celia. “And you, ma'am, look dreadful tired. I'll make tea.”

Out she went again, and Katie rested her hands atop the nightgown, pinching the soft cotton between her forefingers and thumbs.

“If I hadn't gone back to the boardinghouse, none of this
would've happened,” Katie said. “I should've just borrowed some clothes from my friend and stayed put at her house. Instead, I got the stupid idea to fetch my shawl and some underthings. And now look . . .” Katie tapped her shoulder, the bandaging making a lump beneath Addie's nightgown. “I've got a bullet hole that'll leave a scar, and all the blood has ruined my favorite dress!”

Suddenly, she burst into tears.

Barbara hurried to her side and took her hand—a mature response that surprised Celia. “There's no need to get upset, Miss Lehane. These things happen.”

“Have
you
been shot before?” Katie asked pettishly.

Barbara looked on the verge of tears herself. “No, but I've been attacked—”

“Barbara,” Celia interrupted before her cousin became overwrought, “please go upstairs and prepare your father's bedchamber for Miss Lehane.”

“I didn't come here expecting you to put me up, ma'am,” Katie protested.

“I understand,” said Celia, “but if you stay with us, I shall be able to assess your recovery in the morning. So, Barbara, if you will.”

As soon as Barbara left, the door between Celia's examination room and the kitchen swung open.

“Ma'am,” said Addie, peering around the door, “a lad from over by the Kellys' came to the back door. It seems her time's come, her husband's nae with her, and she's asking for you.”

Did all bad things have to happen on the same day?

“I was afraid the baby would come early.” Celia glanced at Katie and then back at Addie. “Please fetch some tea for Miss Lehane and a bite for her to eat. When she feels strong enough,
take her up to Mr. Walford's old bedchamber.” Celia stripped off the apron she'd tied over her dress. “Also, tell Miss Barbara that I need her to keep Miss Lehane company while I go to the Kellys'.”

“Alone, ma'am?” asked Addie unhappily. “Who's to help get clean linens and towels and fetch the hot water for you at their house? You ken the Kellys have nae female relations to give you aid.”

“If it appears I cannot manage matters on my own, I shall send for you.” Celia checked her portmanteau for the supplies she would require—her umbilical cord scissors and straight scissors, a scarifying lancet, bandaging, and her midwifery forceps, which would likely go unused if the child had not turned head down. She stared balefully at the crotchet, the hook used to extract the baby if it died in utero, and hoped it would remain in her medical bag.

“I don't like thinking about you out there by yourself, without anybody to protect you,” Katie was saying. “What if that person tries to shoot you again?”

“I shall be fine, Katie; truly I shall.” Celia closed her medical bag and looked over at Addie. “I do not know how long I shall be. Do not wait up.”

“I'll nae sleep with you wandering the streets.”

She was grateful that she had someone to fuss over her as her housekeeper did, but they were both well aware that Celia had no choice but to go; her patients came first. “Then have tea ready for me when I return.”

“But it's not safe for you, Mrs. Davies!” exclaimed Katie.

“Och, dinna try to talk sense into her head, Miss Lehane,” said Addie. “She'll nae mind either of us.”

*   *   *

N
ick pushed around the papers crowding his desk. No news yet on Katie Lehane. Nothing useful out of Bartlett. A red-faced man who killed Silas Nash somewhere in the city. Eagan pressing him to close the case and declare Dan Matthews the murderer. And here he was, scribbling on forms and scratching his itchy skin where he'd pulled off Mrs. Davies' plasters.

Nick waited for the ink to dry before stuffing all the paperwork into the proper folders. The damp breeze coming through the open street window fluttered the papers and carried noises from outside. He could hear somebody shouting for a hack and a woman's tinkling laughter echoing nearby. A horse whinnying and a drunk shouting in a language Nick didn't recognize. A typical night. Including all the forms.

Ah, the glamorous life of a cop.

“Sir?” asked Taylor, leaning around the door Nick had left ajar.

Nick opened the drawer to his desk and slid the folders in among all the others filed there. “What is it, Taylor?”

“You're gonna like this!”

Nick rubbed his temples—his head still ached from his encounter with Frank—and looked up at his assistant. The overhead gas lamp flickered, making the shadows in the room jump and showing the grin on Taylor's face. He looked like the neighborhood kid who'd learned the location of the best fishing hole around and was hoping you'd ask just so he could prove how clever he was.

“You've found Katie Lehane?” asked Nick.

“Not yet, but I did finally track down that Eddie kid and
talked to him,” he said, consulting his ever-present notebook. “He took that note to Nash, all right.”

“Did he tell you who gave it to him?”

“Yep,” said Taylor, pausing to spin out the suspense.
I could always hand him his walking papers. But who else would work as hard? Nobody.
“John Kelly.”

“Kelly? The fellow who supervises Frank Hutchinson's work crew?” Just thinking about Frank made the stitched cut on Nick's cheek throb. He only hoped Frank was in as much pain.

“The same,” said Taylor.

“What's his link to Nash, though?” asked Nick.

“Not sure, sir,” said Taylor. “I checked on Kelly like I did on everybody working there. I searched our records, and he's never caused any trouble during the time he's been in San Francisco. Came from Los Angeles in 'sixty-four with his wife and has kept his nose clean ever since.”

“How long had he lived in Los Angeles? And what was he up to during the years before? Could he have been in Virginia City when Silas Nash was killed?” Could he be the red-faced man?

“But I thought Silas Nash's killer was named Cuddy Pike. Doesn't sound like an Irishman to me.”

“I'd change my name and pretend I was somebody else, too, if I were wanted for murder.” Nick stood and kicked his chair out of his way, sending it squeaking across the floor to bang into the wall behind him.

“Even if Kelly had Eddie deliver the note, how do we prove he wrote it?” Taylor said. “Maybe Kelly got it from Bartlett. Or Martin.”

“One way to find out is to ask Kelly ourselves.” Nick checked the number of bullets in his revolver. “Where does he live?”

“The Kellys aren't at the address listed in the city directory, sir. Mullahey's been trying to find their house for me, but it seems he and his family move around a lot.”

“Mrs. Davies should know. Kelly's wife is one of her patients.” Nick took his coat from the hook by the door. “Let's stop by her place and ask her.”

Just as they strode into the main office, a boy with hair flapping over his eyes came running in, yelling in Spanish.

“Hey, whoa, there!” Taylor grabbed the kid by the arms before he could hurtle into him. “Wait, don't I know you?” Taylor crouched down. “You live across the street from Mrs. Davies, don't you?”

“
Sí!
She give me this.” From deep within a trouser pocket he dug out a crumpled scrap of paper. “For police.”

He shoved the wad into Taylor's fist, took one look at the hulking booking sergeant standing at his desk, followed by a look at the barred door that led to the jail cells, and took off in the direction he'd come from. The alleyway door slammed behind him.

“What's it say?” asked Nick.

“Katie Lehane is at Mrs. Davies'. Seems she was shot, but she should be okay.”

“Thank God.” For once, a missing woman hadn't turned up dead. “Does it say if she saw her assailant?”