No Pity For the Dead (8 page)

“The partners, of course. I don't know who else.”

Three, four, and five.
“Does Kelly lend this key”—Nick tapped it—“to you, because you're his brother-in-law and supposedly trustworthy?”

“He'll give it to whoever's working late that night.”

Did Martin know? He seemed too prudent to allow any of the workers to have use of a key to his offices. “Seems awfully trusting of him.”

The other man shrugged.

“Matthews, I'm going to ask you again.” Nick leaned forward. “Did you know the fellow you found?”

He hesitated. “I can't be sure.”

“What if I told you it was Virgil Nash?”

A bead of sweat broke on Matthews' upper lip, and his eyes widened. Not with astonishment, though, but with alarm. “Shit.”

“That name bother you?”

“Honest to God, I only heard of the fella. Heard rumors around town that he caused all sorts of trouble for some of the miners back in Nevada, but I never did know him myself.”

“What sort of trouble?” asked Nick.

“Claim jumping.”

How about that.

Matthews' small eyes glimmered in the light of the overhead gaslight. “But you know what else, Detective? Jasper Martin wanted him dead. I heard old Martin cussin' him out one day. I did. Yes, I did. Told Mr. Russell he hoped Nash would up and die. Whaddya think of that?”

“I think that's very interesting, Mr. Matthews,” said Nick, mildly disappointed that Matthews hadn't overheard Frank making that wish. “Very interesting.”

*   *   *

C
elia's hand hung suspended in the air, prepared to knock on the Kellys' door. She dreaded this encounter, absolutely dreaded it. A neighbor, out on her front porch thumping a floor cloth with a heart-shaped rug beater, looked over. Celia smiled at the woman and rapped upon the peeling paint of the wood.

A few moments later, a red-faced Maryanne answered.

“Mrs. Davies, you're back already to check on me?” she asked, a hand pressed to the swell of her belly. From somewhere inside the house came the yowl of her young daughter.

“Might I come in, Mrs. Kelly?” she asked. “I need to speak to you about your brother.”

Maryanne's gaze narrowed. “Which one?”

“Daniel. He is in trouble with the law.”

Maryanne's indrawn breath came in a jagged rush, and she pressed her hand harder to her belly. “Come inside. And don't mind the mess.”

The interior of the narrow house—two rooms plus kitchen downstairs, three tiny rooms up—was dark, the proximity of the neighboring homes blocking the sunshine from reaching the few windows. The front room, which served as a parlor, seemed to have accumulated every piece of cast-off furniture and utilitarian item that would not fit in the remainder of the home.

Maryanne stepped around a basket holding a pile of sewing as she led Celia toward the kitchen at the back. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea? I might have some around.”

“There is no need, Mrs. Kelly. Thank you.”

A pot bubbled on the small iron stove, and Maryanne's young daughter—she was named Clarissa, if Celia recalled correctly—clung to the side of the wood cradle tucked into one corner and bawled.

“There, there, Clary. Stop that,” said Maryanne, making to lift the girl from the cradle.

“Here. Let me take her,” said Celia, interceding.

“If you're sure.”

“I have handled children before,” Celia replied, hoisting Clarissa onto her hip. The child, dark hair curling around her tiny face, stared in astonishment at the stranger holding her but didn't protest.

“Thank you. I never have enough help around here.” Maryanne searched for a towel and used it to remove the pot of stew from the grate. She turned to look at Celia. “So what's Dan done?”

Celia bounced Clarissa—not all that readily accomplished
in corset and crinoline—and provided a short version of events. “Although Mr. Martin has chosen not to see him charged with attempted theft, he has apparently directed that Dan be released from his position.”

Maryanne, who'd been listening in unhappy silence, gasped. “He's lost his job?”

“A better situation than being thrown in jail.”

“I'm not so sure about that, what with so many men unemployed.” Maryanne gazed at her daughter, who'd taken to fiddling with the tassels suspended from the collar of Celia's mantle. “John will be mad. He never did take to Dan, nagging him always, criticizing him, making Dan miserable. After this . . .” She sighed. “He won't be welcome in this house any longer.”

“Even though Mr. Martin is not pressing charges, the police will still interview your brother, because it seems he might have known the dead man.”

“Dan doesn't have anything to do with some dead man!”

Maryanne's outburst caused Clarissa to let out a howl, and Maryanne rushed to grab a wood-handled baby rattle from the crib. “Here, now, Clary.” She jingled the bell on the end, then handed the rattle to her daughter, who quieted.

“Did he ever mention to you a man who was missing part of an arm? Dan may have seen him at Martin and Company, perhaps having an argument.” For if Frank had fought with this person, the other partners may have as well.

Maryanne rested her hand on her belly. “We don't see Dan much,” she said. “And the last time I saw my brother, I can't recollect him mentioning anybody like that.”

Clary dropped the rattle and began to fuss. “Do you have any idea why your brother thought to dig for gold in Mr. Martin's
cellar?” asked Celia, tickling the child with one of the tassels and getting her to squirm.

“Because he wants to get rich quick like everybody else and that man's got oodles of money?” asked Maryanne. “It's that Rob Bartlett. He put Dan up to this sure as I'm standing here.”

Another name to mention to Nicholas Greaves. “Who is Rob Bartlett?”

“One of the other fellows who works for John. He and Dan spend a lot of time together. Best of friends,” she said. “He's trouble, that one. I warned Dan after I met him once. I can tell by the way he looks at you, I said. Just trouble. John doesn't much like him, either, though he's a good-enough worker. Always trying to get Mr. Hutchinson to promote him.” Maryanne shook her head. “But Dan doesn't care for my opinion. Never has. Dan just doesn't listen to anybody.”

*   *   *

C
aptain Eagan reclined in his high-backed chair, the polished top of his massive desk reflecting the light from the tall windows behind him. He ran his fingertips through his thick black whiskers—what had Celia Davies once called them? Magnificent?—and considered Nick. “If this man turns out to be Virgil Nash, you know he's got important friends, Greaves. A stockholder of the Merchants' Exchange and all. Eats dinner with Mr. Levi Strauss, even. Strauss, for God's sake.”

And how do you know all that already?
Nick wondered. But maybe Eagan's ability to rapidly gather information was why the captain was on that side of the desk and Nick was on this side, acting subservient.

Nick shifted his stance on the plush carpet that stretched from one paneled wall to the other. It was an office leaps and
bounds nicer than the smelly one Nick shared with his fellow detective, Briggs. “You know I've never let the status of a victim determine how I handle a case, sir.”

“Don't I, now,” he said, lowering his hand from his whiskers. “Why not arrest that Irish kid who found the body? Cassidy's his name, right?”

Nick's wound took to aching. “He found the body, sir. He didn't kill the man. If he had, he wouldn't have come to the station to inform me.”

“Really, Greaves?” Eagan scoffed. “You're a better detective than that. Besides, he's an orphan, that Irish kid, isn't he? Who'd care?”

The captain was Irish himself. Greaves would have expected him to feel kinship with Cassidy. But maybe when a person had achieved a measure of success, made his way in the world, and landed on his feet, he stopped caring about the ones still scrambling for a foothold and constantly sliding backward, the wall they climbed slick beneath their boots.

“I would.”
Celia Davies would, too.
“I won't arrest a kid just because it's convenient, sir. Not when one of the partners at Martin and Company was seen arguing with Nash and another was overheard wishing him dead.”

Eagan scowled at Nick long enough for one of the nearby clock bells to go through an entire series of chimes. “I'm counting on you to do good work on this one, Greaves, and don't cause any trouble this time.”

“If trouble's necessary—”

“Hell you will, Greaves,” Eagan barked. “There are only so many spots for detectives on this force.”

“I'm aware of that, sir.”

“Some days I wonder.”

“They've found Virgil Nash buried in a cellar?” Briggs laughed, dribbling doughnut crumbs onto his beard. “Well, I'll be. So that's where he's been since his wife reported him missing two weeks ago. But I had a witness claim he'd seen the fella heading out of town with his lady friend that night. Huh.”

Nick leaned back in his chair and considered his fellow detective. He suspected that once Briggs had found that witness, he hadn't bothered to do any more checking and had quickly closed the case. “We can't be certain it's him until his widow identifies the body, but it's looking likely.”

Briggs whistled and shook his head.

“What day was it that Nash disappeared?” Nick asked him.

“Let's see . . .” Briggs stuffed the rest of the doughnut into his mouth and pondered. “Wait, let me get my file.”

He rooted around in his desk and pulled out a tattered folder. He flipped through the papers inside and extracted one. “May twenty-eight.”

A Tuesday, realized Nick, checking the calendar tacked to the wall opposite his desk. One of the days when the office closed early, as per Martin's instructions.

“According to his missus, he got a message from Jasper Martin to meet him that night at eight,” said Briggs, reading from his case notes. “But Jasper Martin denied sending Nash a message. Martin also provided an alibi for the evening Nash disappeared, which proved he didn't meet with the guy. Seems he was with the mayor having supper until later than most regular folks take their meals.”

The mayor. It would be hard to refute his testimony. “And the mayor confirmed that?”

“I didn't go asking him!”

Of course not. “So if Martin didn't send the message, who
did
?”

“At the time, I figured Nash made up the story about a meeting so his wife wouldn't object to him going out. He had a mistress—a popular actress at the Metropolitan—who a witness claimed to have seen Nash with that evening. This witness saw the two of them together at the back door of the theater. The woman had a bag with her, and she climbed up behind Nash on his horse and off they went. Said it looked like they were planning a trip out of town.”

A reasonable assumption, but clearly wrong.

“When I mentioned the actress to Mrs. Nash, she got all hot and bothered. Wouldn't even consider that her husband might've gone off with the woman.” Briggs scowled. “Well, shoot, finding
Nash's body explains why that actress has been in town this week. They didn't go anyplace together. Danged lousy witnesses.”

Nick rubbed the ache in his arm and wondered how Briggs managed to stay on the force.

“Something else,” Briggs added. “I spoke to the local who recalled finding the front door at Martin and Company ajar the evening Nash disappeared. Around ten, he thinks, since he always passes the place on the hour, and it was well after sundown. Took a quick look around, didn't find anything out of place, got it locked up again, and went back to his business.”

Which gave Nick a rough timeline of the crime—somewhere between eight and ten in the evening of May 28.

“I've seen the condition of that office, Briggs,” he said. “It's a mess of construction debris. How could the local cop claim to know nothing was out of place?”

“You think you're so smart, don't you, Greaves?”

The knock on the door interrupted Nick's response. Taylor poked his head through the opening. “It's Nash all right, sir. His widow's been to see the coroner. Hear she held up pretty well, considering what condition the body's in.”

“What else did Harris have to say?”

“Confirmed that Nash died from a deep cut, and he didn't find anything of value on the dead body, sir. Looks like he'd been stripped of his money and the silver watch his widow claims he carried everywhere,” said Taylor. “Do you think the fella who was trying to dig up the body took those things?”

“It would've required an awfully strong stomach to steal money and a watch off a rotting corpse.”

“Suppose so.” Taylor blanched over the thought. “And it
looks like that Jean-Pierre fella's willing to claim Martin was at his restaurant last night 'til all hours.” He shook his head. “Just wish we coulda found a clue in that cellar, though, to tell us who did this. I'm having a couple of the men search some more.”

“It's been two weeks, Taylor. Any clues are probably gone, but continue the search,” said Nick. “And good work.”

“Thanks, sir. And there's somebody here to see you—”

The somebody burst through the doorway, shoving Taylor aside.

“Hey!” Taylor shouted at him.

“It's okay, Taylor,” said Nick. “Why, hello, Frank.”

“What are you doing questioning my wife?” Frank Hutchinson slapped his hands on the edge of Nick's desk. Briggs, happily anticipating trouble, got comfortable in his chair and folded his hands over his thick belly. For once he wasn't the one having it out with Nick.

“She was at your house and you weren't.” Nick stood because he didn't want Frank towering over him. Frank was a good head taller than most men, including Nick. “But thanks for coming in. By the way, you've put on some weight.”

He had, and it filled out his striped silk vest. His boss might dress like a pauper, but Frank Hutchinson didn't. He'd also decided to grow thick muttonchop whiskers, which made him look even more pompous than he used to when they were both much younger men.

“Very funny, Nick. And you've upset Jane with your questions, so I want an apology.”

“I'll apologize if you prove I'm wrong to want to talk to you.”

“But you didn't talk to me,” said Frank. “You spoke to Jane, and now she's in tears.”

Nick didn't like upsetting women; that wasn't what he'd meant to do. “Since you're here now . . .”

Frank's nostrils flared. “I don't know the man who was found in the cellar, certainly didn't put him there, and have nothing more to say.”

“Oh, you sure do know him. His name is Virgil Nash.”

“Dear God.”

“Furthermore, you were seen arguing with him not long before he disappeared. And was killed,” said Nick. Frank didn't deny that, which meant the argument Cassidy had witnessed was with Virgil Nash.

“I didn't kill him.”

“How about you start by explaining where you were last night, Frank,” said Nick.

“I was out with one of the partners. Abram Russell. Dinner.”

“Until ten? That's when you returned home, right?”

A muscle ticked in Frank's jaw. “We went drinking afterward. A new place. I don't recall its name.”

At least his story was consistent with his wife's. “What about the evening of May twenty-eight?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Seems like a simple-enough question,” said Nick.

“I just said I didn't . . .” Frank leaned over Nick's desk, his hands balling into fists. Briggs was eyeing him. If the man decided to throttle Nick, Briggs would never come to his rescue. “Don't think for a moment I don't understand why you want to cast blame on me. It's your fault Jack is dead. Not mine.”

“No, you coward, it's your fault.”

Frank's hand shot out, and he grabbed Nick's coat lapel, slamming him forward against the desk edge. Briggs chortled.

“It's a crime to assault a police officer,” Nick said coolly.

Frank dropped his grip. He had intense eyes, and they stared at Nick with undisguised hatred. “I have nothing to do with Nash's death, and you know it.”

“How about this, Mr. Hutchinson.” Nick straightened his coat. “I won't charge you with assault if you admit that you killed a man, namely Virgil Nash, and buried him in the cellar of your office. You're known to have argued with the man. Did a fight get out of hand, maybe? It was all an accident?”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “I'll see you rot before I admit to anything as idiotic as that.”

He turned and stomped out of the office, bumping into Taylor, who'd been hovering near the door.

Briggs snickered and reached for another doughnut from the supply he kept on his desk. “That was—”

“Not another word, Briggs, if you know what's good for you.”

*   *   *

“T
he lass from Burke's Saloon is here, ma'am,” said Addie, taking Celia's things. Her housekeeper schooled her expression to conceal her disappointment in her mistress's choice of patients, having been forced to accept that saloon girls, actresses, and prostitutes would ever make up the bulk of the women who came to the clinic.

“I would have returned sooner, but after leaving Jane's, I decided to visit Maryanne Kelly,” explained Celia, stepping out of her half boots and into her leather slippers. “Has Katie been waiting long?”

“Nae, ma'am. And Miss Barbara's next door, tending to that Angelo.”

“What has he done now?” Their neighbor's son was forever
falling ill or injuring himself. His mother, however, had several young children to keep watch over, and they were all boisterous.

“The catarrh. Poor wee lad.” Addie, who had a soft spot for the boy, tutted before returning to her chores.

Celia entered her examination room, a former parlor she'd converted with Uncle Walford's help. Together they had lined the wallpapered walls with bookcases and supply cabinets, and found an old desk for her use, its surface now covered with files and stacked copies of
The Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal
, her most precious possessions. They had filled other spaces with chairs and the padded bench she used as an examining table.

Upon which sat a downcast Katie Lehane.

Celia closed the door, and the girl looked over. “It's my ankle again, ma'am.”

“Let me see.”

Katie extended her right leg. She hoisted her olive plaid skirt, untied her garter, and rolled down her cotton stocking. “See? My ankle's still as big as a rutabaga! And such a nasty color, too. All greeny purple.”

Katie turned her foot from side to side, studying her ankle with a frown. It
was
a nasty color but nothing out of the ordinary.

“Did you tell Mr. Burke that you needed a few evenings off in order to recover?” Gently, Celia felt the girl's ankle. The swelling had actually subsided, and the bruising was less pronounced than when Celia had examined it last, but Katie winced at her touch anyway.

“I can't be takin' a bunch of evenings off, ma'am! Burke would give my job to one of those girls who hang around the back door lookin' for work,” she said. “How many of 'em have to keep comin' here, the next one hungrier lookin' than the last?”

“You came here from New York City, Katie,” Celia reminded her. “Those girls simply want the same opportunities you've enjoyed.”

“I guess.” Katie peered at Celia. “So can you set my ankle to rights, though? Wrap it or something?”

“I can wrap your ankle, Katie, but if you keep dancing on it, you will continue to aggravate the sprain.”

A blush flared on her cheeks. She was a pretty young woman, with resplendent auburn hair and gray eyes, and the blush made her even prettier. “I wasn't dancin'!”

Celia lifted an eyebrow over Katie's assertion. It was against the law for saloon girls to dance if liquor was being served, and Celia had yet to encounter a saloon that did not serve liquor.

“Honest!” Katie added.

“Let me get my strips of flannel bandaging.” Flannel was preferred over cotton when she wished to apply a bandage that would allow movement and yet maintain support of the injured joint.

Celia retrieved a box from the shelving on the far wall of the clinic room. “I have a question for you, Katie.” She fetched out flannel, snipped it into a proper length, and returned the rest to the box. “It is about some men who visit Burke's.”