Scandal on Rincon Hill (5 page)

“Of course not.” I finished drinking my tea, and pushed the cup aside. “May I remind you, Robert, that you were the one who begged me for all the gruesome details of this murder. Well, now you know as much about it as I do. Am I to understand that information gathering was the only purpose for your visit this morning?”

Robert looked at me blankly, then recollected himself. “No, not at all. Actually, I came here for some advice. It's less than three weeks before Christmas, and I must send presents to my niece and nephew in Edinburgh, not to mention my parents. I wondered if you'd be kind enough to—” He hesitated, then with a slightly pink face went on. “Dash it all, I came to ask you to go shopping with me. You have a nephew and niece roughly the same age as my sister's children, and I haven't the first spark of an idea of what to get them.”

I could not repress a smile. The idea of Robert choosing suitable gifts for two small children was comical in the extreme. However, a shopping excursion suited me well enough as I, too, had gifts to purchase.

“Unfortunately, you have put off your shopping until it is too late to ship it to Scotland in time for Christmas. However, it is better to have the gifts arrive late than never to arrive at all. I'm sure your family will appreciate them.”

His face took on even more color as he added, “I am also in need of a new suit to wear to your parents' Christmas dinner next week. I, ah, that is, I could use your help in selecting something appropriate for the occasion.”

“Yes, of course,” I agreed, stifling a smile. Robert was a private man, and I knew how difficult it must be for him to ask my help in
such a matter. I decided the less fuss I made about the request the better.

Picking up our cups and saucers, I started toward the back room.

“Allow me a moment to tidy up and we can be off.”

I
spent that eve ning in my father's library, ensconced in a comfortable armchair in front of the fire. On the floor by my feet were a dozen law tomes, most of them covering contracts and civil lawsuits initiated in the state of California. The books made for disheartening reading. My initial fears concerning Brielle Bouchard's agreement with Gerald Knight were, if anything, growing more dire with each subsequent text. She had tried so hard to protect herself before becoming Gerald Knight's mistress, it was bound to come as a bitter blow to learn that all her precautions had been in vain.

I was still mulling over possible tactics we might explore when, shortly after nine o'clock, my brother Samuel joined me, bearing a tray containing a pot of coffee and two cups.

“You look as if you could use this,” he said, placing the tray on an end table. He angled a second armchair closer to mine, so that we were both facing the hearth. “What are you doing secreted in here, anyway? Do you have a new client? Lord knows you could use the income.”

“I wish I could say that I did,” I said, closing the last book I'd been perusing. “But not because of the money. This is a case I could really sink my teeth into.”

“Hmm, it sounds interesting,” he said, filling both cups with coffee. He added sugar and cream to his own, then stirred it with a spoon. “Tell me more.”

I considered this for a moment. “You realize I can't give you all the details because of client privilege. To tell the truth, though, I would appreciate your opinion.”

I took a sip of coffee, then proceeded to relate the highlights of that morning's visit with Miss Bouchard.

“An uncommonly beautiful young woman came to my office this morning. And by young, I mean
very
young, only nineteen.” Without mentioning anything that might compromise Brielle's client-attorney confidentiality, I went on to describe her story in very general terms, ending with an account of the contract she had signed with her lover.

“Good Lord! You're saying this girl is a prostitute?” He laughed. “I must say, you attract some of the most remarkable people. So she was what—only seventeen at the time she became his mistress? She certainly demonstrated a lot of nerve demanding such an agreement. Was it a proper contract? Signed by witnesses?”

“Yes. Apparently it was witnessed by two of her lover's employees. It appears to be in order, but—”

“It would never hold up in court,” Samuel finished for me. “Even if a judge were to uphold such a document—which I heartily doubt—it would be impossible to prove if the girl's child was fathered by her lover, or by some other fellow.”

“Exactly,” I seconded with a sigh. “It just maddens me that a man of money and position can so carelessly toy with a young girl, then discard her like so much rubbish the moment he realizes he has gotten her with child.”

Despite my anger, I could not suppress a smile when I thought of little Emma. “You should see her baby, Samuel, she is perfect in every way. I cannot understand any man who would not be honored to claim that child as his daughter.”

Samuel regarded me with genuine sympathy. “I know it's not fair, Sarah. Yet it's been the way of the world for eons.”

Neither of us spoke for several minutes, but sat in companionable silence in front of the fire. Not for the first time, I felt deeply grateful that I had been blessed with a brother like Samuel. As the youngest two of four children, we had been extremely close all through childhood. In adulthood, that camaraderie had evolved into a bond which often required no words for us to perfectly communicate with one another.

“Is there no one who can help this girl?” he asked at length. “Does she have family in the city?”

“Evidently not.”

“Then where are she and her baby living?”

“She wouldn't tell me. In fact, she was purposely vague when it came to supplying me with any personal details.”

Samuel watched silently as I finished my coffee and placed my cup and saucer on the mahogany end table. “She really is quite a remarkable young woman,” I went on, remembering Brielle's serious violet eyes and the determined tilt of her chin. “Whatever she's experienced in her short life has served to make her resourceful beyond her years.”

“Beauty and brains,” he said, a smile playing across his handsome face. “A compelling combination. I'd very much like to meet this remarkable young woman of yours.”

“She's hardly
my
young woman. Moreover, given the circumstances, she's not likely to be my client, either. Sadly, even beauty and brains were not sufficient to save her from the very fate she sought to avoid.”

Samuel displayed the slightly off-center grin that melted so many young women's hearts. “Are you sure you can't tell me her name? Who knows, perhaps together we could do something to help the girl.”

I would have sworn that as Samuel's sister I was immune to that smile, but for a moment I was sorely tempted to give in to his cajoling. In the end, however, professionalism triumphed, and I held my ground. If, after our upcoming meeting, she was no longer my client, I would refund her deposit and that would be the end of it.
She would be forced to raise that lovely little girl as best she could, entirely on her own.

Unless, I thought with a surge of what was surely irrational hope, I could come up with a scheme to change Gerald Knight's mind.

“A penny for your thoughts, little sister. What devious plot are you hatching?” He started to say something else, but was forestalled when the library door opened and our father stepped into the room.

“I thought I might find the two of you in here,” Papa said. his eyes moved to the nearly empty coffeepot perched on the table between Samuel and myself. “What, no cup for me? I'll just ring Edis for a fresh pot. And perhaps a dollop or two of brandy,” he added with a wink.

He rang the bellpull to summon our aging butler, then crossed to the fireplace and added several fresh logs to the fire. As I watched him skillfully manipulate the tongs, I realized with a sinking heart that Papa was setting the stage for more than a casual chat. In spite of his convivial manner, there was obviously something serious on his mind.

This fear was substantiated when he turned his back to the fire and studied us both for several long minutes. He was standing just to the right of his prized bronze bust of Abraham Lincoln, and for an eerie moment their expressions seemed to mirror each other.

I caught Samuel's eye, and he returned my look of foreboding. No words were required to convey our suspicion that the discussion concerning our presence at Nigel Logan's murder scene was, as Papa promised, about to resume where it had left off.

Samuel and I obligingly shifted our chairs so that Papa could position a third seat between us. When we formed a comfortable half circle before the fire, he leaned back and amused us with anecdotes from a trial he was currently presiding over. My brother and I dutifully laughed on cue, but I could sense Samuel's anxiety level rising as he waited for Papa to finally come to the real reason he had joined us in the library.

We were afforded a brief respite when Edis carried in a tray of
fresh coffee, along with various cookies and pastries from Cook's kitchen. Sure enough, beside the coffeepot rested a bottle of aged brandy.

Thanking our devoted butler, Papa refilled our cups with the aromatic brew, then added a generous portion of the distilled liquor.

“There we are,” he said, stirring thick cream into the dark liquid. “Now we can enjoy a nice little chat.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Samuel stiffen, as Papa turned shrewd blue eyes on his youngest son. “Your friend Sergeant Lewis paid an unexpected visit to my chambers in the courthouse this afternoon, Samuel.”

Samuel's initial reaction to this comment was relief that perhaps he was not to be the primary focus of the conversation after all. Then as he absorbed what Papa had said, he looked puzzled. “What reason did George give for coming to your chambers?”

“That is exactly what I wanted to know,” our father replied. “Evidently he's changed his mind about robbery being the motive in young Nigel Logan's death. He now appears to believe that the murder might be connected to the Tremaines' party that night.”

“The Tremaines?” repeated Samuel, looking puzzled. Then he remembered. “Oh, yes, that's the family from your church who live in the next block. They hosted the dinner party last Saturday night in honor of your rector.”

Papa nodded. “It was the Reverend Mayfield's twenty-fifth ordination anniversary. If you recall, Reginald Tremaine owns the Men's Emporium downtown.”

“I remember now,” my brother said. “But whatever gave George the idea that someone from the Tremaines' party killed Logan?”

“Humph! Unfortunately, Sergeant Lewis did not see fit to take me into his confidence.” Papa reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I, too, was under the impression that—”

“Just a minute, Papa,” I broke in. “Didn't you say that Nigel Logan quarreled with the Reverend Mayfield at the party?”

My father did not immediately answer, as he carefully filled his pipe bowl. When it was packed to his satisfaction, he began searching his pockets for a match. Finally locating one, he lit the tip with his thumbnail and lowered the flame to the bowl. He drew several times on the pipe stem, then leaned forward to toss the match into the fireplace.

“That seemed to be what Sergeant Lewis was getting at,” he answered at length. “However, I cannot see how Nigel Logan and the Reverend Mayfield's disagreement can be connected to the unfortunate man's death. And that was precisely what I told Lewis.” He gestured with his hand, using his pipe for emphasis. “Naturally, he didn't give a dash for my opinion. He actually asked me to list everyone I knew who had been at the Tremaines' house that night.”

I have to admit that I was taken aback by George's uncharacteristic boldness. Whenever he was in my father's presence, he tended to become singularly self-conscious.

My brother evidently agreed with me concerning his friend's atypical behavior. “Well, well, it looks as if old George has found some starch for his backbone. So, did this list of yours turn up anyone of interest?”

“No, because I didn't supply him with one,” Papa replied shortly. “I have no idea how he came up with such a notion, but he's sure as fiddles barking up the wrong tree.”

“You said the Reverend Mayfield and Nigel Logan were quarreling over Charles Darwin's book
Origin of Species
, didn't you?” I asked.

Drawing on his pipe, Papa said, “I suppose you could say that
Origin
provided the kindling that started the fire. However, I'll allow that it was the more distasteful—at least in Mayfield's opinion—conclusions Darwin put forward in his later book,
The Descent of Man
, that gave the good reverend a conniption fit. Still, I hardly think he was suddenly so overwhelmed with outrage that he dashed after the Logan boy and beat him over the head with a two-by-four!”

“All right, I agree that the Reverend Mayfield seems an unlikely
suspect,” put in Samuel. “But what if the argument provoked one of Mayfield's supporters to chastise Logan for daring to defy the reverend's public declaration on the subject? I can't think why else George would ask you to list the guests at the Tremaines' party.”

Papa gestured impatiently with his pipe. “Whatever his motivation, it didn't get him from his kitchen to the back stoop. Don't forget that this so-called
interview
took place in my chambers, and I had no time to be writing out lists for him or anyone else. I told Lewis that if he was so all-fired determined to find out who was at that party, he could jolly well contact Reginald Tremaine and not waste any more of my time with his tomfool questions.”

“Hmm,” I said thoughtfully. “I wonder if George learned anything of interest from Mr. Tremaine?”

“I'd be curious to know that, too.” Samuel agreed. “Grudges can be surprisingly long-lived. If some guest at the party was already hostile toward Logan, his fight with the Reverend Mayfield might have provided the final straw.”

Papa did not look as if he bought this argument. “Nigel Logan was a botanist, Samuel. I find it hard to imagine that someone could carry on a long-standing feud with a man who spends the better part of his day studying grass and onion plants.”