The Cliff House Strangler (14 page)

Then I noticed the familiar byline that appeared at the end of the piece, and I understood. The article, it appeared, had been written by none other than my brother, the inveterate crime reporter Ian Fearless!

I
found Celia in the nursery when I arrived home, chatting with her two small children, Tom and Amanda, as they sat partaking of their evening meal.

“Where is everyone?” I asked, picking several books and toy soldiers off the nursery rocking chair and pulling it over to join the homey little group.

My sister-in-law fairly radiated good health and happiness. She’d had the same glow when carrying her older children and, as then, her inner joy had the power to light up every room she entered. I’ve never denied my critical opinions about the marital state, particularly as it affected women. However, my brother Charles and his lovely wife, Celia, were the exception that made up the rule. Remarkably, they gave every indication of being just as much in love now as they had been at their wedding nine years ago.

If I could have been assured of the same marital bliss they had achieved, I might have reconsidered my views on this perilous institution. Unfortunately, the great majority of women ran a far greater risk of being treated as chattel—a husband’s property, to be dealt with as he saw fit—than becoming his helpmate and equal. Still . . . My thoughts drifted to the dashing and extremely
handsome Pierce Godfrey, whom I’d met during the Russian Hill murders. Despite the grizzly killings, which had put even my own life in danger, we had enjoyed each other’s company immensely. And he’d been one of the few men to truly believe in my abilities as an attorney. He had so impressed me that I’d even wondered, if only briefly, what it would be like to become his wife.

Much as I might take pleasure in having a husband and children, as well as a home of my own, however, the risk was simply too great. I had made my choice years earlier to do everything within my power to balance the scales of justice for women as well as for the downtrodden, be they male or female. I could not willingly do anything now that might countermand that vow.

Celia’s lighthearted chuckle broke into my reverie. “You’re miles away again, Sarah. I was saying that Mama and Papa are dining at the Watsons’ house tonight. Charles is out on an emergency call, and I have no idea where Samuel is. Cook says dinner will be served in an hour. I hope you’ll be here to share it with me. I hate to dine alone.”

“Of course I will,” I replied with a smile. Truly, it was impossible to remain dejected in Celia’s presence. Ever since she and Charles had moved into our parents’ home (a temporary arrangement extended indefinitely, due to my physician brother’s refusal to turn anyone away from his door, whether or not they were able to pay), I’d looked upon her as the sister I’d never had. “I’m sorry to appear so distracted. It’s been a difficult day.”

Celia immediately sobered. Spying the newspaper tucked into the front pocket of my briefcase, she said, “I read about what happened to Mrs. Reade, Sarah. Wasn’t she one of the people you met at the Cliff House?”

“Yes. Poor soul, she was the elderly woman who swooned after we found Mr. Moss had, er . . .” In deference to my young niece and nephew, I hesitated, not wishing to frighten them.

“Had departed?” their mother put in tactfully. She gave a little
shiver. “It has all been rather horrible, hasn’t it? Thank goodness they’ve arrested the man responsible.”

I nodded without commenting, but Celia had always been able to sense when I was holding something back. “You don’t believe this Serkov fellow did it, do you, Sarah?” she asked, wiping bits of potato off Mandy’s face with a damp cloth.

“No, actually I don’t, although nearly all the evidence supports his guilt. Just some silly notion I can’t seem to shake.”

Whatever Celia was about to say was cut short by the arrival of Mary Douglas, the children’s nanny. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mrs. Woolson, Miss Woolson,” she said with a smile. “I can take the children’s dishes now, if they’ve finished. Cook has some fresh gingerbread just out of the oven, if Tom and Mandy would like to go downstairs.”

“Yes, yes!” both children cried, jumping up from their chairs and running to the nursery door. Celia smiled fondly as they raced after their nanny. Gingerbread was a great favorite with the little ones, and Cook unashamedly used it to lure the children into her kitchen. There, she regaled them with stories from her childhood in County Cork, Ireland.

As Tom and Mandy went whooping down the stairs, Celia rose stiffly to her feet, placing both hands on her waist and stretching out her back. Now, late in the seventh month of her pregnancy, it seemed as if her protruding stomach grew larger with each passing day. Although Celia rarely complained, it was apparent that her lower back was protesting the ever-increasing burden it was forced to bear.

“Let’s go to my boudoir,” she said, smoothing the folds of her skirt across her extended abdomen. “I’ll ask Ina to bring us a fresh pot of tea and perhaps one or two cookies. I know it’s almost dinnertime, but I find myself ready to eat every hour or two these days. By the time I deliver this baby,” she added ruefully, “I’ll have become as big as a house!”

Celia was still chuckling when we reached the sitting room that
led off the bedroom she shared with my brother. The room wasn’t large, but it comfortably held several chairs and a cushioned chaise lounge, as well as a small oak bureau and matching tripod table, which always featured a fresh bouquet of seasonal flowers. I didn’t know how she managed it, but my sister-in-law had taken a rather ordinary room and transformed it into a cheery, peaceful haven in which to read, embroider, or receive visitors.

In due course, our little Irish maid, Ina Corks, brought our refreshments, then left to help Cook with dinner preparations. Celia insisted on pouring the tea, then settled heavily into the padded armchair by the window. During the summer months, this window overlooked the colorful back garden my mother and Celia lovingly tended, and which supplied us with so many flowers and even a few homegrown fruits and vegetables during the summer months.

“Please, Sarah,” she said once she was comfortable, “tell me more about this clairvoyant—Madame Karnova, is it?”

“Karpova,” I replied, correcting her. I eyed her curiously. “I didn’t realize you were interested in that sort of thing, Celia.”

She flushed. “I’m not, really—well, actually I do think it might be interesting if someone really could tell the future, or communicate with those who have passed over. When I was ten or eleven, I saw a magician perform at a fair. He wore a bright blue turban on his head and told fortunes. He was really quite good.” She smiled. “At least I thought so at the time.”

“It sounds as if he impressed you.”

“Yes, I admit he did. Nothing more than childish nonsense, I expect. The man in the turban was probably just playing silly tricks on us, and easily deceiving a gullible little girl.”

“But if he had been a genuine psychic—assuming, of course, that there are such people—what would you have asked him?”

“When I was just a child, you mean? Oh, most likely I would have asked if I was going to get the new dress I wanted so badly for
my birthday, or perhaps a much too expensive dollhouse I fancied. Something very mundane, I’m sure.”

“And now?”

She shook her head, as if wishing she had never broached the subject. “This is absurd—really too fanciful of me.”

“We all have our little fantasies, Celia. We’d be extremely dull people if we didn’t.” Taking a sip of tea, I asked, “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s behind all this?”

She set her cup on its saucer and leaned forward in her seat. “All right, Sarah, but promise you won’t laugh. If I could consult with someone who truly possessed such a gift, I would ask him, or her, to . . . to communicate with my little Sophie.” She gave a nervous laugh. “There now, I told you it was foolish.”

I felt a catch in my throat. Sophie was Charles and Celia’s first child, a little girl who had died of a fever when she was just two years old. Sophie had been a bright, angelic child, the image of her mother, with golden curls and a happy, easygoing personality. We had all felt her loss keenly. Belatedly, I realized that after six years, Celia still mourned the toddler’s death.

“The desire to speak one last time with a loved one is never ridiculous,” I told her gently. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

She looked at me with guarded hope. “You said there was a mother there, at the séance the other night, who wanted to speak to her child. Can you—would you tell me what happened?”

I was torn between fostering the hope I read on her face and honestly sharing my opinion of Madame Karpova’s abilities. In the end, I simply described what I had seen without adding any embellishments or personal judgments.

“Mrs. Gaylord seemed certain her little girl was standing next to her,” I concluded. “She even claimed she felt the child kiss her on the cheek. I’m afraid the rest of us saw nothing.”

“But the mother sensed the child was there.” She considered
this. “Yes, I can believe a mother might feel her child’s presence, even if no one else did. There’s such a strong bond between them. . . .” Her voice trailed off and with a sigh, she poured fresh tea into our cups. “Enough of this. I’m sure there isn’t a mother in the world who wouldn’t give anything to hold her child one last time, to feel her close and to kiss away her tears. Unfortunately, that is not how this world works.”

She gave a little start and placed a hand on her stomach, and I knew she had just felt the baby kick. “This tiny one constantly reminds me that soon I’ll be bringing a new life into the world to join little Tom and Mandy. I’ve been very blessed, Sarah. I must never forget that.” She picked up her teacup and leaned back comfortably in her seat. “Now then, why don’t you tell me everything that happened at the Cliff House that night, starting from the beginning.”

Celia listened quietly as I described the séance. Although I tactfully omitted the more graphic details of Moss’s death, I faithfully recounted all the other particulars, including the attack upon Yelena when she retired to the room that had originally been intended for Theodora Reade. Reaching in a pocket for my notepad, I even drew a quick sketch of where everyone sat at the séance table, the position of the lone candle, and where Madame Karpova’s murky white specter appeared.

She sat quietly for several minutes after I had finished my narrative, seemingly digesting the facts of the case as I’d presented them. It was not until the downstairs bell rang for dinner that she stirred and finally spoke.

“Clearly, you were correct about Mrs. Reade being the intended victim and not Yelena Karpova. I’m sure you were also right that Mrs. Reade was killed because of what she saw when that bolt of lightning illuminated the room. Someone obviously possesses a very dark secret, one he is willing to go to any lengths to protect. I fear that discovering the truth will prove difficult, and dangerous.”

She regarded me with fearful eyes. “Please, Sarah, promise me that you will be very careful. I sense a great evil at work here.”

______

A
s chance would have it, Robert was in my office the following afternoon when Madame Karpova and her daughter Yelena once again paid me a visit. My ex-employer, Joseph Shepard, had assigned Robert a new case, which required him to conduct research at the courthouse, much as I had done for Mrs. Sechrest the day before. He had come by to invite me to a late lunch, when the Russian women arrived.

“What are the two of you doing here again?” he rudely demanded, behaving for all the world as if this were his office and not mine.

Yelena blanched and drew back behind her mother, whose face had darkened. “Not that it is any of your concern, Mr. Campbell,” the psychic informed him brusquely, “but I have come to ask Miss Woolson to represent my brother, who has been outrageously arrested for a murder he did not commit. It is because we are Russian that this has happened. We are treated by your authorities with suspicion and contempt.”

Robert drew breath to give what I was sure would be a scathing response, but I managed to speak first. “Please, ladies, pay no attention to Mr. Campbell. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite. Besides, he was just about to leave.”

“What about lunch?” Robert glared at the psychic as if she had deliberately set out to ruin his plans. “I don’t have all day. Shepard expects me back at the office.”

“Then by all means, you must return there at once,” I told him, keeping my tone calm but firm. “As you can see, I must confer with my clients. Madame Karpova, Yelena, please take a seat while I see Mr. Campbell out.”

“Your clients!” he exploded. “Good God, Sarah, don’t tell me you’re seriously considering taking that man’s case. Dmitry Serkov is as guilty as sin. You haven’t a prayer of convincing a jury that he isn’t.”

Yelena, who had seated herself in one of the straight-backed chairs, started nervously at this, while her mother’s face grew even darker. In an effort to defuse the situation, I took my colleague by the arm and resolutely escorted him to the door.

“Perhaps we can have lunch tomorrow,” I told him. “Why don’t we meet down the street at the Jackson Hotel, say at one o’clock?”

“But I want to eat now,” he protested as I all but pushed him out of my office.

“Good. I’m glad that meets with your approval. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” I closed the door and set the lock before he could offer any further objections, then turned to my visitors. “Now then, Madame Karpova,” I said, settling in the chair behind my desk. “I take it that Mr. Serkov concurs with your decision to engage me as his attorney?”

Olga Karpova hesitated. “I have not yet been allowed to speak with my brother. The police treat us shamefully. But I, Madame Karpova, know his mind. He wants you to represent him.”

It was my turn to hesitate. “Actually, I’m afraid I cannot accept the case without first speaking to Mr. Serkov. This must be his decision.”