Scandal on Rincon Hill (3 page)

It was a relief when we finally reached our house and were once again inside the quiet foyer. I headed immediately for the stairs, suddenly very weary and looking forward to the comfort of my bed. My brother followed closely upon my heels, eager, I was certain, to escape Papa's probing gaze. We had gone only a few steps, however, when we were halted by our father's voice.

“Wait a minute, the two of you,” he said, his tone pitched low enough not to awaken the rest of the family, but with a sharp bite of authority. He regarded us levelly from the hallway below. “You must think me remarkably naïve to accept without question how my two youngest children came to be standing beneath the Harrison Street Bridge in the middle of the night, examining a brutally murdered young man. I heard no police bells or other sounds of alarm, and even if I had, I would hardly expect the two of you to rise from your beds at that ungodly hour and chase after them.”

I glanced nervously at Samuel who stood a little below me on the stairs. His handsome face betrayed his agitation as he struggled to come up with some rational explanation for this admittedly
irrational
act.

Before he could manufacture an excuse, however, Papa sighed and gestured dismissively with his hand. “Oh, never mind. I'm too tired to listen to what are sure to be a litany of woeful excuses.”

He used his thumb and forefinger to rub the bridge above his nose, a gesture he often performed when he was suffering a headache.
“Your mother and I plan to spend the day with friends in the country. I'm going to try to get what rest I can before it's time to leave.”

He lowered his hand and stared deliberately at each of us in turn. “But don't either of you think for one moment that this marks the end of our discussion. I know you two are up to something, and I have every intention of finding out what it is.”

S
amuel and I spent Sunday afternoon creating—and just as quickly discarding—a number of mostly ridiculous reasons to explain our presence at a murder scene that morning. The simple truth, of course, was that we had no good excuse for being there. Short of telling Papa an outright lie, which neither of us cared to do, we were forced to admit that we had done a pretty thorough job of painting ourselves into a corner. To make matters worse, our father had always possessed an uncanny ability to see through our fabrications, a decided disadvantage for any child, much less an adult.

In a cowardly attempt to avoid Papa, Samuel spent Sunday evening at his club, while I judiciously retired to my room before my parents returned from their visit to the country. Although this was, strictly speaking, my brother's problem, we had long been (in Papa's words) partners in dev ilment, and I felt a certain sisterly loyalty. Despite the provocation, I vowed not to betray my brother's secret identity as the infamous Ian Fearless, intrepid crime reporter.

In a continued effort to avoid the inevitable confrontation, I set off for my Sutter Street office earlier than usual the following morning. I arrived to find my downstairs neighbor, Fanny Goodman,
speaking to a strikingly lovely girl outside her millinery shop. The young woman was holding a baby in her arms.

“Ah, Sarah, I'm glad to see you,” Fanny said with a welcoming smile. “This young lady has come to consult you on a legal matter.” She made a soft, clucking sound with her tongue, and gave the girl a look of mild reproof. “I offered to take her inside where it's warmer for the baby, but she insisted on waiting for you out here.”

I gave the young woman my full attention, and was surprised to realize that she was younger than I'd first assumed; certainly she could be no more than eighteen or nineteen. This observation alone was startling, since I could think of little reason why someone hardly out of childhood should seek my professional services.

“My dear,” Fanny went on, “may I introduce Miss Sarah Woolson. Sarah, this is Miss Brielle Bouchard. And this little darling”—she tickled the baby under its chin until it gurgled happily—“is Emma.”

I was well aware of my neighbor's fondness for children, an affection undoubtedly sharpened by the unhappy fact that she and her late husband had remained childless throughout their marriage. In this instance, however, I had to agree that little Emma was very pretty indeed, with pink cheeks, a button nose, wispy blond curls that surrounded her chubby face like a halo, and wide, amazingly attentive blue eyes. I judged the child to be no more than three or four months old, and was struck by her remarkable alertness.

Miss Bouchard smiled and bounced the baby proudly in her arms, as both Fanny and I made much of the tyke. Indeed, she appeared to be the most loving and solicitous of mothers, somewhat unexpected, I thought, for one of such tender years. At length, however, Fanny reluctantly excused herself and I led my prospective client up the stairs to my office.

Perhaps I should pause briefly in my narrative and explain how I came to acquire the above-mentioned workplace. I have already stated that I am a lawyer, having passed my California Bar exami-nations
some eighteen months earlier. Since woman are still unfairly excluded from most of the country's law schools—California being no exception—I must thank my father for his evenhandedness in exposing his only daughter to the same quality of education he aff orded my three older brothers, Frederick, Charles, and of course Samuel, whom you have already met.

For the first nine months of my legal career, I worked as an associate attorney for Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton, and Hall, one of San Francisco's most prestigious law firms. It was during this time that I made the acquaintance of Chinatown's most dangerous and mysterious tong lord, Li Ying. You may well wonder why I choose to call such a villain my friend, nay, my benefactor; I have certainly asked myself the same question innumerable times. Suf-fice it to say that Mr. Li is, in his own way, one of the most honorable and brilliant men I have had occasion to meet.

In fact, it was the generous fee I was paid for representing one of Li's countrymen that enabled me to leave Joseph Shepard's narrow-minded law firm, and take up quarters here on Sutter Street. While it's true that I cannot state with certainty how long I'll be able to maintain my two-room office over Fanny Goodman's millinery store, I have adopted as my motto, “sufficient unto the day,” and try not to worry about the future.

It was into the main room of this small, second-floor suite that I led the young woman. Seating her on one of the room's three chairs, I removed my wrap and took a seat behind my fine old cherrywood desk. I frankly admit that I was curious to hear what had brought Miss Bouchard to my place of business. (Since I could see no wedding band on the third finger of her left hand, I was forced to assume she was unwed).

“Now, then, my dear,” I said, assuming a reassuring smile. “How may I help you?”

Settling the baby comfortably in her lap, she looked me straight in the eye. Her gaze was uncomfortably direct for such a slip of a girl.

“I would like your help enforcing a contract which was signed by a gentleman and myself nearly two years ago,” she stated without preamble.

Again, I was taken aback by the girl's poise and self-confidence. Her voice was well modulated and pleasant, and her speech pattern indicated that she had enjoyed a better than average education. Now that I had the opportunity to examine her muted violet gown, I could see that it was not only the latest Paris fashion, but that it perfectly fitted her slender but shapely figure. Her neat little black boots, lace reticule, and matching parasol complemented her dress. An abundance of soft blond hair was styled in shiny ringlets to frame a beautiful face, and was topped by a small black hat which she had tipped becomingly to one side. Her wide violet eyes, I was surprised to note, closely matched my own in color, if not in shape, hers being of a more oblong curvature than mine. Taken as a whole, I decided, Brielle Bouchard was an exceedingly attractive young woman.

My curiosity could no longer be contained.

“Miss Bouchard,” I ventured, “please forgive me for asking such a personal question, but may I inquire your age?”

“Certainly, Miss Woolson,” she replied without the least discom-fiture, “I will be twenty next summer.”

I gestured toward the baby contentedly resting in her arms. “And little Emma is—”

“Yes, Miss Woolson, Emma is my child. And no, I am not married to her father. He is, in fact, already married and the father of three children.” She shifted her right elbow to rest more comfortably against the arm of the chair, the better to support the baby's weight. “I was his mistress for just over eighteen months. He arranged for me to live in a fashionable house on Pacific Avenue, where he employed a most adequate household staff, and provided me with a generous weekly allowance.”

It shames me to admit that I was by now staring at the girl in astonishment. “Good heavens, Miss Bouchard. That means you were barely seventeen when—when you—”

“When I became a kept woman, Miss Woolson?” She regarded me with those lovely, far too experienced violet eyes. A brief smile curved her lips, revealing delightful dimples to either side of her graceful mouth.

“Please do not appear so mortified,” she continued. “And do not attempt to prettify my profession. I know full well what I became then, and what I remain to this day. However, I must assure you that I was entirely an innocent when I agreed to become the gentleman's mistress. That was, in fact, one of my benefactor's conditions. He feared contracting a disease from any woman who had been with another man. He went so far as to have me examined by his personal physician, to ensure that I was telling him no less than the truth.”

To my chagrin, I felt my face flush. This child was nine years my junior, yet she was able to discuss with perfect aplomb a subject abhorred, and as far as possible ignored, by polite society. Naturally, I was fully aware of the many houses of ill repute which flourished in San Francisco. Yet to hear it discussed with such casual abandon, by this angelic-looking creature, was astonishing to say the least.

“Miss Bouchard,” I said, endeavoring to mask my discomfiture. “Perhaps if you were to relate the circumstances which led you to your present, er, occupation I might—”

“I think not, Miss Woolson,” replied the young woman, quietly but with firm resolve. “My past can have nothing to do with the matter which has brought me to your office this morning. I read about you in the newspapers and, given the rather sensitive nature of my business, decided that I would prefer to be represented by a woman rather than a male attorney.”

Her lips formed an attractive, if slightly crooked, smile. “I regret having shocked you, but any sort of prevarication would be counterproductive. As I say, this gentleman and I signed a contract, and I have faithfully adhered to the document in every detail. As long as I agreed to see no other men, and made myself available to him any time of the day or night, he promised to keep me in the
manner we had agreed upon for a period of no less than three years.”

“Miss Bouchard, if as you say you did nothing to break the contract, may I inquire what has persuaded you to initiate this lawsuit?”

She gave an ironic smile. “It was he who defaulted, Miss Woolson. We were well into the second year of our arrangement, when he discovered that I was five months with child. He immediately insisted that I rid myself of this
inconvenience
, as he put it. I refused, upon which he swore he had taken all the necessary precautions to avoid an unwanted pregnancy, and that the child could not possibly be his. He said that my own unfaithful behavior had rendered the contract null and void, and ordered me out of his house. That is the crux of the matter.” The smile vanished to be replaced by a grim line of determination. “Now, what can you do to help me address this injustice?”

Really, I thought, this was without a doubt the most self-assured and blunt young woman I had ever met. I smiled inwardly, not a little amazed to realize that, despite her scandalous occupation, I could not help but admire my lovely visitor. Most of my friends and family considered me too outspoken for a woman. What, I wondered with some amusement, would they make of Brielle Bouchard?

I cleared my throat. “Before I can discuss the merits of filing a lawsuit, Miss Bouchard, I will need to see the contract you signed with this man.” I started to go on, then realized I had no idea whom she wished to sue. “May I inquire the gentleman's name?”

“It's Gerald Knight.” At my look of surprise, she went on, “Are you acquainted with him?”

“Not personally,” I admitted, “although I believe I have heard of him. Is he the same Gerald Knight who owns and manages the
Daily Journal
newspaper?”

“Yes, that is correct.” She smiled sardonically. “The very proper Gerald Knight, champion of the American family and all that is
good and moral. I was his third mistress, Miss Woolson. If that were made public, I daresay the righ teous Mr. Knight would have a good deal of explaining to do.”

I knew Brielle was referring to Mr. Knight's frequent, and often zealous, campaigns condemning vice and depravity in our city. He had published one or two of Samuel's crime pieces over the past several years, and my brother had confided to me that he sensed something slightly off center about the man. I could not, of course, break client confidentiality, but I would have given a pretty penny to hear Samuel's reaction to Brielle's story.

“Am I to understand that the document was duly witnessed and signed?” I inquired, silently wondering if this case could become any more bizarre. I had never before heard of a man signing a legal contract with a woman of Miss Bouchard's profession; to the best of my knowledge it was without precedent.

“Two of Mr. Knight's employees were present when he and I discussed the agreement,” she calmly replied, as if this sort of thing were an everyday occurrence. “Without actually reading the document, they each signed where Mr. Knight indicated.”

“Did you bring a copy of the contract with you?” I asked, doing my best to match the girl's unruffled manner.

Moving carefully in an effort not to disturb the sleeping baby, my visitor reached into her oversized reticule and pulled out several sheets of paper which had been folded into a cylindrical roll and fastened with a black ribbon.