The Cliff House Strangler (24 page)

“I know,” Samuel said when I introduced the subject. “I met George at the gymnasium this afternoon, and he told me the Russian had been found stabbed to death in his cell. He also said his sister had been arrested for the murder.”

“It turns out she wasn’t his sister,” I said, and went on to describe the story of Madame Karpova’s life in Russia and how she had become a spiritualist.

“Madame Blavasky,” he repeated when I mentioned Olga Karpova’s mentor. “I’ve heard that name before. Oh, yes, she’s a flamboyant spiritualist who claims to have been trained by the famous Scottish sorcerer Daniel Dunglas Home.” He chuckled. “I understand she has a legion of followers, despite the fact that she’s been exposed several times as a fraud.”

“That’s not much of an endorsement.”

“I doubt that many of these so-called clairvoyants could pass careful scrutiny.” He looked sharply at me, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Hold on a minute, Sarah. Don’t tell me you intend to represent that woman?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I told him, unhappy to detect a defensive tone in my voice. Frankly, I was growing weary of men passing judgment on whom I should and should not defend. I could not imagine Robert, or Samuel, or Papa, for that matter, expressing the same objections to their male colleagues. And it was easy enough to see by the dumbfounded expression on my brother’s face what he thought of my decision. It came as an agreeable surprise, therefore, when he didn’t deliver the lecture I was expecting.

Instead, he commented calmly enough, “All right, if Madame Karpova didn’t murder Serkov, who did? Who else had access to his cell?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted unhappily. “But we only have Sergeant Jackson’s word that no other visitors were admitted after Madame Karpova left.”

“Why would Jackson lie about it? Do you think he’s involved?”

“No, I don’t have any reason to believe he is.” I racked my brain, searching for some other explanation for how the Russian managed to get himself murdered inside a locked cell. “Serkov was disliked by everyone at the jail, prisoners and guards alike. What if a jailer let one of the inmates into Serkov’s cell long enough to kill him?”

Even to me, this theory seemed far-fetched, and I could see Samuel suppressing a smile. “That’s an interesting supposition. Do you have any particular guard in mind?”

“No,” I said with a sigh. “I’m just grasping at straws, so you can wipe that silly grin off your face. It’s frustrating to believe so strongly in someone’s innocence and yet be powerless to prove that you’re right.”

I sipped my coffee, more than ready to talk of something else. “Did you have any luck tracing people’s whereabouts the afternoon Mrs. Reade was killed?”

“Actually, all things considered, I think I did rather well,” he said, going along with the abrupt change of subject. He pulled some notes from his pocket. “Let’s start with Lieutenant Ahern. Supposedly, he was leading a group of men to the site of yet another one of Kearney’s sandlot speeches.” My brother was referring, of course, to the volatile labor leader Dennis Kearney, who several years ago had organized the Workingman’s Party of California. “As usual, it seems Kearney was trying to incite a riot against the Chinese,” Samuel went on.

I thought of the discussions I’d had with the powerful tong lord Li Ying on this very subject. He had made me realize all too vividly the prejudice the Chinese were forced to endure in San Francisco, especially from laborers competing against them for the same jobs. I hated the thought of Kearney once again stirring up
long-brewing hatreds and resentments. People were bound to be injured, and very possibly killed.

I came out of these thoughts with a jolt. “Wait a minute, Samuel, did you say
supposedly
?”

“It took you long enough to catch that,” he said, giving me that ‘Pay attention, little sister; what I’m saying is important’ look. “It means that in the process of trying to disperse over a thousand angry rioters, Ahern seems to have gone missing. At least no one recalls seeing him at the height of the fray.”

“Who told you this?”

“I got it from George, secondhand, of course, since he was with you and the late Mrs. Reade in Washington Square at the time. He heard it from some of Ahern’s men, who were disgruntled their lieutenant made himself scarce once the punches began flying.”

He now had my complete attention. “Did anyone actually see him leave the area, or go off in the direction of Washington Square?”

“No, and before you get excited, I take it this kind of spineless behavior isn’t that unusual for Ahern. According to George, he revels in any commendations that come his way, but he prefers that his men fight the actual battles while he’s safely off the firing line.”

“So, it proves nothing,” I said, feeling a sense of deflation.

“I don’t know that it proves, or disproves, anything. For now, it simply means Ahern is still on your list of suspects.”

“All right,” I said. “What about Senator Gaylord?”

“Gaylord was supposed to meet a couple of state congressmen for lunch that day, but he turned up an hour late. He told his colleagues his hansom got stalled by an overturned drummer’s wagon on Clay Street.”

“I don’t suppose you were able to confirm that with his hackman, were you?” I asked hopefully.

“As a matter of fact, I was. The hansom driver claims the senator became impatient, paid his fare, and got out to walk, claiming he could make better time on foot.”

“How far was he from Washington Square at that point?”

“That’s what I wanted to know, so I checked it out.” He consulted his notes. “Gaylord left the cab on Clay and Grant streets, which is approximately two-thirds of a mile from Washington Square, and a straight shot down Stockton Street. Even with lunch-hour traffic, I managed to walk it in less than ten minutes. I’ll be generous and give Gaylord fifteen minutes at the outside.”

I did some mental calculations. “So, fifteen minutes to walk to Washington Square, a few minutes to change into his Serkov outfit, another ten minutes to kill Mrs. Reade, then change back into his regular clothes and walk to the restaurant. Where was he meeting the congressmen, by the way?”

“Giuseppe’s on Pacific Avenue. I walked there from Washington Square in fifteen minutes. Add up the times and—”

“He could easily have murdered Theodora Reade and made it to the restaurant in an hour. So Senator Gaylord remains on the list. Dash it all, Samuel, I was hoping we’d be able to eliminate some of these people. What about Nicholas Bramwell? Can we at least rule him out?”

“Possibly. I used the excuse that we belonged to the same club to visit his house—he still lives with his parents, by the way. He wasn’t home, but I did see his mother. I made up some story about his failing to show up for lunch with me the afternoon of Mrs. Reade’s death, and his mother informed me he’d been ill with fever and ague that day and was confined to his bed.”

“Would she be willing to swear to that?”

“Ah, therein lies the rub. Mrs. Bramwell admits she was at a charity affair most of the afternoon.”

I threw up my hands in frustration. “So he could have evaded the servants, slipped from the house, murdered Mrs. Reade, and been back in his sickbed when his mother returned.” I felt a sudden ache developing between my eyes. “And Dmitry Serkov?” I asked with resignation.

“According to the desk clerk at their hotel, the Russian went out in the morning and didn’t return until late that afternoon. For
what it’s worth, he believes Madame Karpova and Yelena spent most of the day in their rooms.”

He folded his notes and placed them back in his pocket. “That’s about it. I didn’t have time to check on the women. But I can’t seriously imagine any of them garroting either of the victims.”

“No, I can’t, either. Well, so much for culling down our list of suspects.”

He refilled our coffee cups, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “All right, little sister, enough about clairvoyants and murders. Tell me why you’re worried about dear old Frederick.”

Briefly, I told him what Ahern had said about Frederick watching his political dealings. When I’d finished, Samuel was staring at me in amused disbelief. “He said that about Frederick?
Our
Frederick?”

“I know, I had the same reaction. I spoke to Freddie about it that very night—actually
last
night. Good Lord! So much has happened since then that it seems ages ago. Anyway, he didn’t appear particularly upset. In fact, he accused me of making the whole thing up just to annoy him.”

Samuel smiled. “Quite honestly, Sarah, if I didn’t know you better, I might think you’d made it up, too. The very idea of prim and proper Frederick getting himself involved in anything the slightest bit shady is ludicrous.”

“I’m afraid there’s more.” I told him about finding Frederick’s name on the visitors’ list at city jail that afternoon. “I can’t believe he had anything to do with Serkov’s murder, but what could have prompted him to visit the jail in the first place? Taken with Ahern’s remark about his dubious political dealings, I have to wonder what Freddie’s gotten himself into. To be honest, I’m really worried. You know the old saying, Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“Actually, the correct quote is from John Lyly’s
Euphues
: ‘There can be no great smoke arise, but there must be some fire.’ But I take your meaning.”

“I can’t believe he’d knowingly become involved in anything
illegal. But what if he thought what he was doing was perfectly honest and aboveboard?”

“Who knows,” Samuel said. “Sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s allowed ambition to stand in the way of common sense. I gather you plan to confront him about it.”

“Yes, tomorrow. I’m going to try to catch him at his office downtown; then I’ll go straight to the jail to see Madame Karpova.”

“Busy day.” His look was quizzical. “By the way, George tells me you went to his station today and looked over Moss’s diary. What did you find?”

“Good Lord! I can’t believe that totally slipped my mind.” I brought out my little notebook, opening it to where I’d copied Moss’s diary. The first page read:

Samuel studied the page, then looked at me, baffled. “I’m not even sure what language this is written in. You don’t suppose he made it up, do you? As a kind of code?”

“I don’t think so. Some of the characters remind me of the Greek alphabet, and vaguely of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Yet it’s different, too. I thought I’d show it to Mr. Ferrier at the public library tomorrow. Maybe he can make sense of it.”

Samuel studied the page, then looked at me, baffled. “I’m not even sure what language this is written in. You don’t suppose he made it up, do you? As a kind of code?”

“I don’t think so. Some of the characters remind me of the Greek alphabet, and vaguely of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Yet it’s different, too. I thought I’d show it to Mr. Ferrier at the public library tomorrow. Maybe he can make sense of it.”

Samuel yawned. “You do have a full day. You’d better make an early night of it.”

Naturally, that caused me to yawn, as well. Then, as I drew breath to ask him one last favor, he held up a hand and smiled.

“Yes, little sister, you don’t even have to ask. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll start looking into the background of every person who was present at that séance, including Darien Moss.” He chuckled. “
Especially
Darien Moss. I can’t wait to find out how he came to write his notes in those glorified hen scratches. It ought to make a great story.”

S
an Francisco’s first public library had opened just the year before, and was located on Bush Street, between Kearny and Dupont. The rented quarters were less commodious than one might have desired, but it was a decided improvement over having no library at all.

It was my opinion that the best thing about the new facility was its librarian, Mr. Alvis Ferrier, a small, fussy man with horn-rimmed spectacles perched upon his sharp beak of a nose. A Harvard graduate, Mr. Ferrier was extremely knowledgeable and persevering, almost to a fault. The more obtuse and difficult the inquiry, the more he poured through his books, his “friends,” as he called them, until he came upon the desired information. I entered the library that morning, counting on the little man’s seemingly inexhaustible curiosity to decipher Darien Moss’s “hen scratches.”

I was not disappointed. Almost immediately, Mr. Ferrier confirmed my guess that the notes had been written in a Semitic language. After thumbing through several of his ‘friends,’ he informed me with satisfaction that the text had been written in the Coptic language.

“Coptic is the common colloquial language of Egypt,” he explained. “The Coptic alphabet is based on the Greek alphabet, but it contains extra letters for sounds that are not used in the former language. These are derived from the demotic script, which was used to write the Egyptian language.”

Warming to the subject, he went on to narrate the history of the Coptic language, which dated back to the Hellenistic period, when Alexander the Great invaded Egypt in 322
B.C
. After some ten minutes of this, I took advantage of a momentary break in this narrative to ask if the Coptic language was still used today.