The Cliff House Strangler (25 page)

“It is almost exclusively employed now by the Coptic Church,” Mr. Ferrier said. “Although over the past decade, it has been experiencing something of a revival.”

“Then would it be possible for you to translate this text for me?” I asked, showing him the rest of my notes.

I thought for a moment he was actually going to rub his hands together in glee. Nodding his small birdlike head, he said, “When would you require them back?”

“As soon as possible, Mr. Ferrier. I assure you it is a matter of the greatest urgency.”

The eager gleam in his eyes reminded me of a child about to open his stocking on Christmas morning. “I shall give the matter my full attention,” he promised. “Would it be possible for you to come back for it, say Monday morning? That will give me the weekend to work on the translations.”

“Yes, that would suit me very well,” I agreed, feeling the thrill of victory within my grasp. “I would appreciate it if you would keep these notes to yourself, however. They are of a very sensitive nature.”

“Naturally, I will take no one into my confidence, Miss Woolson. You may set your mind at ease on that point.”

I exited the library with a sense of elation. I cautioned myself not to get my expectations up too high, but it was impossible not to hope that the notes held a vital key to Moss’s murder.

In the meantime, I had several more errands to run, starting with a trip to my brother Frederick’s office on Market and Geary streets. Since his official headquarters were in Sacramento—California’s state capital—the Market Street accommodation was mainly utilized as a home base, where he and his supporters—unbelievably, he
actually had a sizable group of followers, who should have known better but apparently didn’t—might plan election campaigns, entertain constituents, and meet with visiting dignitaries.

It did, however, have the advantage of being located in what many San Franciscans considered to be the heart of the city. My brother’s front window boasted a view of Lotta’s Fountain—a gift from the volatile actress, Lotta Crabtree, who had fallen in love with our fair city—the new Geary Street cable car line, and the fashionable and exceedingly plush Palace Hotel.

Unfortunately, it seemed that I had once again missed my brother. According to Mr. Whelan, who stood guard over Frederick’s domain with a glib tongue and a steel grip—for anyone foolish enough to try to push past him—my brother had left the previous day for Sacramento. (Why Woodbury hadn’t informed me of this the night before was anyone’s guess!) Senator Woolson was not expected back until the following Monday. I was free to call then if I wished. What I wished, I thought as I took my leave of Mr. Whelan, was to speak to my brother
now,
not next Monday!

Since my Sutter Street office was only a few blocks away, I decided to walk instead of catching a horsecar. The morning was sunny and brisk, with no sign of the unseasonable fog that had plagued the city for the past several days. I took in a deep breath of fresh air and, despite the present difficulties which occupied my thoughts, felt a thrill of pleasure. It seemed as if autumn had finally arrived, and with it the warm, sun-drenched weeks San Franciscans looked forward to all year. Why was it, I wondered, that even our most dire problems seem more bearable when the sun is shining?

While I walked, an idea began forming in my mind. It might achieve nothing, but there was always the possibility I might find something I had originally overlooked. The thought cheered me, as coming up with a plan of action always did. As far as I was concerned, a well-ordered offense was always preferable to sitting back and allowing fate to buffer one helplessly about.

After a refreshing cup of coffee and mouth-watering apple
pandowdy with my downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Goodman, I ascended the stairs to my office and settled down to work on the Sechrest case. With Papa’s permission, I had borrowed from his library several law books pertaining to divorce and child custody. Unfortunately, they were just as vague and ill-defined as those I had found at the courthouse. I decided that the state of California had much work to do if it were to reform and standardize these laws, particularly those affecting the children caught in the middle of their parents’ battles.

I was jotting down notes on how we might best counter Luther Sechrest’s accusations concerning my client’s so-called drunkenness and erratic behavior, when there was a knock on the door and Robert peered in.

“Truce?” he asked, waving a white handkerchief at me. “I come in peace.”

The last thing I intended to do was laugh at the irritating man, so naturally that was precisely what I proceeded to do. “You’ve got a nerve, Robert Campbell,” I said, realizing I had pretty much ruined any chance of sounding annoyed. “Come in and sit down. Actually, I was thinking of sending you a note by messenger.”

“Why?” He gave me a suspicious look. “I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

“Professionally, I’m not. But this is personal—well, in a manner of speaking at least. I was wondering if you’d care to ride out to the Cliff House with me tomorrow afternoon. I’d like to refresh my memory about one or two details from the other night. For obvious reasons, I’d prefer to have a gentleman accompany me.”

“What sort of details?”

“You needn’t look so worried. Everything was so chaotic the night Moss was strangled, I’m afraid I might have missed something. Since you were also there, I thought you could help me note any discrepancies.”

“Do you really expect to find anything, Sarah, or is this a desperate last attempt to prove Dmitry Serkov innocent of Moss’s
murder?” Before I could answer, he went on. “By the way, I was shocked to hear of his death yesterday, and that his sister had been arrested for his murder. I find the whole thing unbelievable.”

“Actually, there’s more to the story than appeared in the papers,” I said. “But I’ll tell you about it on the drive to Land’s End. Will you accompany me?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “All right, I’ll go. It’s probably nothing but a wild-goose chase, but I agree that you shouldn’t go there alone.”

“Excellent. I think you’ll find the experience far more pleasant on a clear evening than during a thunderstorm.” Consulting the gold timepiece pinned to my shirtwaist, I realized it was growing late. I still intended to visit the jail before returning home for the day.

“Eddie and I will pick you up at your boardinghouse tomorrow afternoon at five,” I told him, rising from my chair. “Perhaps we should plan on dining at the Cliff House, since it will be well after the dinner hour by the time we return to the city. I’ve heard that their food is actually quite decent.”

I was reaching for my wrap, when Robert cleared his throat. “Sarah, wait. There’s something I need to discuss with you. It’s about the Sechrest case.”

“Oh?” I sank back into my seat. I didn’t like the tone of his voice. Nevertheless, I endeavored to keep my manner composed. “Has your client finally decided to behave responsibly and return the boys to their mother?”

“I’m afraid not.” His naturally ruddy complexion had turned an even deeper shade of red, and his
r
’s had become more pronounced, which only increased my unease. Whenever Robert was angry or nervous, his Scottish brogue always became more noticeable. “You’re not going to like this, Sarah, but I thought you should know. In light of some unsavory news, Mr. Sechrest has reluctantly decided that he must alert the court to the fact that Mrs. Sechrest is an unfit mother.”

“What!” I exclaimed. “That’s preposterous.”

“Sarah, for God’s sake, calm down. Yelling at me isn’t going to change my client’s mind. Let’s try to discuss this rationally.”

“How can I possibly remain calm when Luther Sechrest is accusing my client of being an incompetent mother? Mrs. Sechrest was right. Her husband is a cad of the lowest order.”

“Believe me, he’s doing this in the best interests of his children.”

“Of course he is,” I replied scornfully. “On what possible grounds is he basing this outrageous allegation?”

Robert did not immediately answer. In fact, his expression clearly indicated that he sincerely wished he could avoid giving me any answer at all. For the first time, I truly understood what Alexandra Sechrest had meant when she told me at our first meeting that we must prepare ourselves for a bitter battle. Thanks to Luther Sechrest, it seemed that the battle had now been engaged.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robert, spit it out. Whatever Sechrest told you about his wife will certainly turn out to be false, so there’s no reason for you to beat about the bush.”

His face grew even redder, but finally, reluctantly, his blue-green eyes met mine. “He claims he can produce several witnesses who will testify that they saw Mrs. Sechrest—er, that is, they’ll swear that she was carrying on an affair with the boys’ tutor, Mr. Gideon Manning.”

I fought to hide my shock. At all cost, I could not allow him to see my growing alarm. “This goes beyond outrageous. First, he accuses her of drinking, when he is, in fact, the drunkard. And now he has the effrontery to claim she carried on an illicit affair with her sons’ tutor? Is there no end to the man’s lies and treachery?”

“Sarah, I—”

“No, Robert,” I said. “Don’t sit there and try to defend the brute.” I took in a deep breath, then went on in a more controlled tone, “Have you questioned Mr. Manning for yourself? Or the witnesses, for that matter?”

“Not yet. But I will.”

“Good. Be sure to watch their eyes when they give you their answers. Luther Sechrest has some very unsavory men in his employ. I’m sure they wouldn’t scruple to substantiate anything their employer asked of them.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit overdramatic?”

“Believe me, I wish I were. I understand the court date has been set for a week from today.”

“Yes, that’s what I was told.” His eyes searched my face. “What about our trip to the Cliff House? Do you still want me to go with you?”

“I won’t lie to you,” I told him, striving to keep my temper under control. “I find Mr. Sechrest’s behavior unpardonably cruel. However, Joseph Shepard has assigned you to his case, and there is little you can do about it. I’ll do my best to confine my anger to the courtroom. I just wish you could view the matter with a more open mind.”

Getting to his feet, he said, “It’s a tragic situation for everyone involved.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I’ll see you at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

He nodded, then turned and, without another word, walked out the door.

D
uring the horsecar ride to city jail, I made an effort to push my concern over Madame Karpova, and, of course, my brother Frederick, to the back of my mind. Instead, I contemplated Luther Sechrest and this nasty turn of events. Was it possible my client had deliberately deceived me? I’d specifically asked her if there was anything in her past that her husband might use against her in a custody battle. She had assured me there was nothing. Either her husband was truly the lying, despicable beast she had described or Alexandra had allowed her shame over some indiscretion
to override honesty. Either way, with the divorce hearing only a week away, we would have to discuss the situation frankly as soon as possible.

All the tension of the previous day settled back upon me as I entered the jail. I wondered if any progress had been made in locating Serkov’s killer, then realized with a sinking heart that the police probably hadn’t even tried. As far as they were concerned, his murderer was already in custody. Why bother to look any further?

I found an agitated Paul Alston on duty at the front desk. Without stating a reason, he once again denied me admittance. Really, I was in no mood to go through this nonsense again.

“See here, Sergeant Alston,” I began. “I have every right to see my client. I insist that you—”

The steel door leading to the cell blocks flew open and Sergeant Jackson came hurrying out. He was in such a rush that he seemed not to notice me standing at the desk.

“Sergeant Jackson?” I called out. “What’s wrong? Has there been more trouble?”

“Oh, it’s you, Miss Woolson,” he said, belatedly recognizing me. He regarded me in some distress. “Yes, miss. I’m afraid it’s Mrs. Karpova. She’s—”

I did not wait to hear the rest, but pushed past him through the still-open door, all but running toward Olga Karpova’s cell. When I arrived there, I found her cell door wide open. I hurried forward, only to stop short, horrified by the scene spread out before me like a grisly illustration from the pink pages of the
Police Gazette.

It was Madame Karpova. She lay sprawled on the floor of her cell, eyes closed, face blue. A torn piece of white material was knotted tightly around her neck.

A
uniformed officer knelt next to her body, his large square fingers fumbling to ease his penknife through the knots tied at her throat.

“She tried to kill herself,” he said, glancing up at me, his broad face covered with perspiration. “Must have been feelin’ guilty for killin’ her brother. Still, she shouldn’t oughta have done this.”

I stood frozen inside the doorway, my breath suspended as I stared down at the silent form. “Is she—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

“Dead? No, miss, least ways not yet.”

His words seemed to release me from my spell, and I hurried inside and crouched down on the opposite side of the medium. “Here, let me help, Officer . . .”

“Wolf, Miss, Jimmy Wolf.” Obviously grateful to be relieved of the responsibility, the guard handed me the knife. It was then I noticed how young he was, probably no more than nineteen or twenty. And his hands were shaking badly. No wonder he’d had so much difficulty trying to cut through the material; he was probably afraid he’d gouge her neck in the process.

“How long has she been like this?” I asked, working my fingers
between the twisted cloth and her throat in order to slice through the first knot.

“I don’t know.” His voice was unsteady. “Sergeant Jackson cut her down soon as he saw her hangin’ from the window.” He nodded toward the barred window above our heads. The remainder of the stained white material, obviously the sheet covering the thin cot mattress, was hanging from one of the bars. “He’s gone to fetch the surgeon.”