No Pity For the Dead (6 page)

“Would either of them have reason to kill Virgil Nash?” Nick asked.

“You'll need to speak with them.”

“Which I plan to do.” Nick shifted his weight and stared at the man. “Last night, somebody tried to remove the body after Mr. Matthews and Mr. Cassidy found it. Can you tell me where you were last evening?”

“I'm going to cooperate, Detective, despite that insulting question,” said Martin, spots of red appearing on his neck. “I was eating at Jean-Pierre's, as I usually do on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The proprietor can tell you I was there.”

Nick located a scrap of paper in a pocket along with a pencil and made note of the information. “Can anybody speak for what time you got home from Jean-Pierre's?”

“I live alone. The woman who cleans my house and cooks for me doesn't live at my residence, either. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays she leaves early, since I always go out to dine.”

“I see.” Nick returned the paper to the inside pocket of his coat. “I'll probably have more questions for you, Mr. Martin, so don't go leaving town.”

Martin hoisted himself to his feet. “I have no intention of leaving town, Detective. Because I want to make sure you do your job.”

“So you are positive, Hetty, that you gave Mrs. Hutchinson her glass of water shortly after eight,” Celia asked the maid, keeping her voice low. After sweeping up the shattered remains of the figurine, Jane had gone to Grace's bedchamber, but Celia did not want either of them to overhear.

“I'm sure, ma'am.” Hetty nodded briskly. “I am.”

“Did you hear Mr. Hutchinson come in last night?”

She nodded again. Celia worried for the muslin cap pinned to her hair, which looked in danger of becoming dislodged. “I did, ma'am. I'd finished in the kitchen and gone up to my attic room when I heard him at the front door.”

“He does not expect you to wait up for him?”

“No, ma'am.”

Late nights must be a common occurrence, then. Poor Jane
.
They had not been married two years yet, and already he was spending evenings away from her. Not unlike Patrick, who'd invented numerous reasons to delay returning home at night in the years after they'd wed. His decision to take to the sea—and then to disappear after his ship's boiler exploded—had turned into a rather permanent absence. Although, if Celia truly believed her husband was dead, why did she continue to pay her investigator, Mr. Smith, to search for him? Did she think his reported death in a Mazatlán saloon was a terrible mistake, or a lie?
I never did trust Patrick, did I?
How easily charmed she'd been. But then, her husband had been extremely charming.

“Ma'am?” asked Hetty, breaking into Celia's thoughts. “If you're finished, I've got work to do.”

“Pardon my woolgathering. I have one more question,” said Celia. “Do you know what time it was that you heard Mr.Hutchinson?”

Hetty screwed up her face in thought. “Ten? Yes, ten, I think.”

Which left a gap of at least four hours between when he'd left work at six—if Jane was correct about his habits—and when he finally returned home. Sufficient time to dine and return to Martin and Company and attempt to dig up a body. But how would he have learned about Owen's discovery so quickly? And why would he have wanted to remove the man buried in the cellar rather than alert the police? The only reason would be that he did not want the police to recover the body. If there was no body, there would be no arrest for murder.

I cannot suspect Frank like this; it is simply not possible he is a murderer.

“Thank you, Hetty. You have been very helpful.” The girl held out Celia's wrap, and Celia draped it over her shoulders.

The front knocker sounded and Hetty went to answer it, leaving Celia standing in the entry hall, fastening the clasp of her mantle. When the maid opened the door, Celia wasn't surprised to see who stood on the threshold.

“Is Mrs. Hutchinson at home?” the man asked, looking past Hetty's shoulder into the dim recesses of the house. He caught sight of Celia and frowned.

“Why, good morning, Mr. Greaves.”

“What're
you
doing here?” he asked Celia, and stepped forward to get past Hetty.

The maid stood her ground. “You can't come in without me knowing who you are, sir.”

Nicholas Greaves reached into an inner coat pocket and pulled out a badge. “Police.”

Hetty blanched. “We're in trouble with the police now?”

“Hetty, you should fetch your mistress,” said Celia.

The maid looked happy to do so and sprinted off without remembering to shut the door. Mr. Greaves closed it for her. Overhead, Hetty's feet pounded along the carpeted first-floor hallway.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“Jane and Frank Hutchinson are my dearest friends.”

His frown deepened. “You could've told me that before. Is there anything else you've decided not to mention?”

Celia held his gaze as guilt twinged. “There is something I should tell you about Frank . . .”

“Oh!” Jane rushed down the stairs, her skirts hiked in one fist. She glanced between Celia and Mr. Greaves. “The police have come already, Celia?”

“Well, that answers what you're doing here, Mrs. Davies,” he said. “Interfering with an investigation.”

Celia made introductions and removed her mantle again, handing it back to Hetty, who had descended the steps behind her mistress. At the top of the stairs, Grace looked down upon them, unhappiness etched upon her face.

Mr. Greaves was staring at the girl. “My God,” he murmured. “It's been that long.”

Celia followed his gaze. He knew Grace? The girl turned and fled to her room, and he released a breath.

“Do you know my stepdaughter, Detective Greaves?” Jane asked.

Mr. Greaves didn't answer, instead looking over at Celia. “There's no need for you to stay, Mrs. Davies.”

“I expect that Jane would like me with her.”

“Please permit her to stay, Detective,” said Jane.

“Sure. Why not.” He tossed his hat at Hetty, who deftly caught it. “Where can we sit, Mrs. Hutchinson?”

Jane extended a hand in the direction of her parlor. “In here,” she said, leading the way.

Celia gave a final look toward where Grace had vanished. Clearly, there were more mysteries than who had buried an unknown man in the cellar of Martin and Company.

*   *   *

C
elia Davies is a damnable pest.

Nick folded his arms and studied both of the women seated on the parlor sofa facing the fireplace. Mrs. Davies looked back at him without a hint of contrition.

His uncle Asa, who'd been a detective before Nick and had secured his nephew a place on the police force, would never have allowed her to stay during an interview with a witness. Worse, she'd alerted the witness about the crime, taking away
Nick's opportunity to spring the news on the woman and observe her reaction.

A damnable pest.

“Are you sure you need to speak with us, Detective Greaves?” asked Mrs. Hutchinson.

She was clutching Mrs. Davies' hand like a lifeline, but her gaze was steady. She was pretty, in a small-boned, delicate sort of way. Not at all like Frank's first wife. Arabella had been spit and fire—rather like Celia Davies, if he wanted to make a comparison—as well as lithe and beautiful. There hadn't been a man in San Francisco who hadn't thought Frank Hutchinson was the luckiest man alive. But all that spirit and life hadn't seen Arabella through the bout of pneumonia that had killed her. After her death, maybe Frank had been looking for somebody peaceful and quiet. Somebody who didn't remind him of what he'd lost.

Well then, Frank, we might both be running away from memories.

“Frank has nothing to do with the body that's been discovered at his office,” Mrs. Hutchinson added.

“I think I'll decide that for myself, ma'am.”

Nick shifted his weight, and something crunched beneath his boot. There was a shard of porcelain on the ground, and he wondered what that was about. The room, in muted shades of blue and gold and scarlet, was otherwise in perfect order. So far as he could see, not a speck of dust marred the surface of the mahogany furniture or sullied the gilt frames of the paintings hanging from the picture rail. The floral wallpaper and the pattern in the carpet were too fussy for Nick's taste, but he knew they were fashionable. Apparently, Frank had done very well since he'd returned to San Francisco after the war.
Very, very well.

Jane Hutchinson was watching him, a look of concern on
her face. She wasn't as good at concealing her feelings as the woman seated next to her.

“Nice house, ma'am.”

The comment caught her off guard. “Why, thank you, Mr. Greaves.”

She glanced around her, perhaps trying to see it through his eyes. He'd been at the house before, though. Not long after Frank had bought it and he and Arabella and a young Grace had moved in. Back when they were still friends. Back before he and Frank and Jack had gotten the brilliant idea to join the Fourth Ohio Volunteer Infantry and soldier together.

“Frank, however, insists on our buying a new house. Something larger, finer,” she said. “They are building up on the California Street hill, you know. Beautiful homes. He wants us there and not here on Stockton.” She turned to Celia Davies. “To impress Papa, of course.”

So, Frank had grander ambitions,
thought Nick.

Celia Davies smiled tightly at Mrs. Hutchinson, but her gaze shifted warily to look at Nick. They'd known each other only a brief while, and it was unsettling how well she'd learned to read his suspicions.

He stored Jane Hutchinson's comment away. “Since you apparently already know about the body,” he said as he glanced at Mrs. Davies, who lifted her chin in response, “I think it's pretty clear why I've come to talk to you, Mrs. Hutchinson. I should let you know that we'll be interviewing all of the partners at Martin and Company. Checking on their whereabouts and their relationship to a man named Virgil Nash.”

Jane Hutchinson's gaze flickered, and she released her grip on Celia Davies' hand. “Is he the dead man?”

“Do you know him, ma'am?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Well, I know
of
him more than I actually know him. He's a very successful importation merchant, from what I understand. He and his wife have a large home on Rincon Hill. You can easily see it from Second Street.”

Nick had read something recently in the newspaper about Second Street, but he couldn't remember what.

“The handsome white one with all the columns and the gorgeous gardens?” Mrs. Davies asked. “I do so admire their roses. They are growing some of the new pink-and-cream General Washington roses that are so very lovely.”

She sounded wistful, but then Nick knew what her roses looked like.

“That very house, Celia,” said Mrs. Hutchinson.

“What was his business with Martin and Company?” asked Nick.

“Mr. Nash engaged their services in certain real estate deals. Seeking locations for new warehouses, was what I'd been told. Frank doesn't talk about the business much, though. Not at home,” she explained. “And I can't say exactly what happened, but I think there'd been some sort of a problem with Mr. Nash a while ago. A bit of a row. Didn't Jasper tell you about it?”

No, he hadn't.
So what was it that Jasper Martin didn't want me to know?
“What did your husband think of Virgil Nash?”

“My husband rarely shares his opinions of the men he does business with, Detective,” said Mrs. Hutchinson, her hands twisting together in her lap.

“Ma'am, I wouldn't advise keeping the truth from me.” At her side, Celia Davies blushed. What did
she
know? “Mrs. Davies? Have something to say?”

She hesitated, stealing glances at her friend before answering. “Owen witnessed an argument between Frank and a man missing part of one arm. Owen did not say which arm, but . . .”

The corpse was missing part of his right arm. Virgil Nash was missing part of his right arm. And now this. It wasn't much of a leap to assume the men were all one and the same. And she'd known, and not told him.

“Do you want me to arrest you for interfering with an investigation?” he asked.

“Mr. Greaves, really—”

“I'm not joking, Mrs. Davies.”

Celia Davies glared but pressed her lips together.

“All right. I admit that Frank didn't like Virgil Nash,” said Mrs. Hutchinson. “But the dislike arose purely because of the man's resistance to the Second Street cut. Nothing that would lead to violence, if you're telling me that it's Mr. Nash buried in the cellar of my husband's business.”

Another cut. That was what he'd read in the newspaper. The men who owned property near the wharves at the foot of Second Street wanted to level the road between the city and the piers, which right now climbed steeply over Rincon Hill, in order to ease movement between the two points. Cuts had happened in numerous locations in town, attempts to tame the hills, and the people who lived alongside them often found their houses stranded twenty, thirty feet in the air above the new road. Rincon Hill, home to the fashionable, would lose its treasured isolation if the cut occurred.
When
the cut occurred, since not much stood in the way of development in San Francisco. Not even Virgil Nash.