Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery (9 page)

Oblivious to Kathleen’s disparaging opinions, the woman pulled a light wrap over her shoulders, hiked up the handle of the basket, which was most likely destined to hold the quail, and pushed Miss Evelyn towards the front door, muttering about dinner and Simon Frampton and feckless children the whole time.

Kathleen watched the door close behind the older woman and the girl and was just congratulating herself on having something of interest to report to Mrs. Fuller, even if once again no one had expressed any interest in prying information out of her about her mistress, when she heard the slight rustle of skirts and looked up to see a graceful woman descending the staircase. What Kathleen noticed first was the tasteful severity of the woman’s pale blue silk underskirt, with its single flounce and demi-train, and long tight overskirt in dark navy, with apricot trim. The severe cut, when carried through in the matching bodice, only served to accentuate the tiny waist and extraordinarily generous endowment nature had bestowed on her. Then, as the woman reached the bottom of the stairs, Kathleen nearly gasped when she saw the light of the hallway lamp strike sparks of fire in the woman’s hair. This woman hadn’t had to use artificial means to create the blazing red color of the curls that were gathered in an elaborate knot at the top of her head.

Lord have mercy
,
I hope Patrick never lays eyes on this woman. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

“
Hello, and who are you? Wait, of course, you must be Mrs. Fuller’s maid,” the woman addressed Kathleen in a deep, warm, but distinctly English-accented, voice. “I am Arabella Frampton, and I could feel a sympathetic presence in the house, so I came down to see who was causing it. I trust that Albert has offered you some refreshment? These interviews my husband conducts can take some time. No? Well let’s remedy that error, shall we?”

To Kathleen’s surprise, Mrs. Frampton walked over and pulled the tasseled end of a bell pull beside the front door and then came over and sat down on the chair beside her, indicating that Kathleen, who had stood up at her approach, should sit back down. She was even more striking close up, although Kathleen revised her first estimate of Mrs. Frampton’s age upward to the mid-thirties, once she saw the faint telltale lines of crow’s feet around her eyes, which were a fascinating shade of emerald.

Embarrassed to be found staring, Kathleen murmured, “Yes, ma’am,” not quite sure to what she was agreeing, and looked down at her lap in confusion. While living and working in Mrs. Fuller’s household had taught her that not every lady treated their servants with contempt, Mrs. Frampton’s behavior was certainly unusual. Most ladies would have simply ignored a waiting maid’s presence, much less offer them tea and come to sit down beside them.

“
Now, child, what is your name? Kathleen? Ah, the ‘pure of heart.’ You do know that women with your Celtic heritage are prone to the ‘second sight,’ don’t you? What do you foresee for your mistress? I hope that she is kind to you, such a sensitive soul that you are.”

“
Mrs. Fuller is the kindest mistress. She . . .” Kathleen stopped short, remembering that she had a role to play, and the woman across from her could also be playing a role as well. “I do hope that you all can help her. She has been so troubled as of late. She has been having bad dreams, you see.”

Kathleen felt a small surge of excitement. The bad dreams idea had just come to her, and she could see that Mrs. Frampton was interested, because her emerald eyes widened.

“
Bad dreams,” Mrs. Frampton repeated. “How distressing. But often dreams are one of the first ways the departed use to reach out to their loved ones. Has your mistress confided in you about those dreams?”

Kathleen hesitated. She didn’t want to appear too eager, so she said, “I don’t know as it would be proper for me to say. I mean Mrs. Fuller wouldn’t want me to be talking about such private things.”

“
My dear child, of course, I understand. I just thought that it might help me to help her. You see, from my experience, a woman’s maid often has clearer insight into what is bothering her than the woman herself. And a young woman with such a pure heart as yours would never do anything to hurt her mistress, I am quite sure. But you must do what is right.”

Kathleen pretended to consider this statement, biting her lower lip, then began hesitatingly, “If you think it would help, ma’am . . . I do want to do what is best. She has gotten to where she don’t sleep at all well, and this past week I’ve had to sleep in her room, so I can wake her when she starts having one of her dreams. This makes her short with me the next day. Tiredness will do that. But I’m half asleep on my feet, myself. I dunno.” Kathleen shook her head then rushed on, “It’s the child I think. I think she dreams about her child, Johnny.”

Arabella Frampton frowned and then she said, “A child? But I understood that she was childless. Her letter to my husband mentioned her parents were gone, and her husband. So sad. Are you sure she dreams about a child? I do believe her husband’s name was John.”

Why ever did I call him Johnny? Mrs. Fuller never told me to do that
, Kathleen thought, feeling slightly panicked.
As they say, in for a penny, in for a pound.
She continued, “But there was a son. Named for the father, I believe. She broke down and told me once when I found a picture hidden away under her pillow. Cutest little tyke. Mrs. Fuller said she was expecting when her husband died, and the boy was all that helped her keep her sanity. But then, two years later, the boy also died. Such a tragedy. She told me never to speak of it to anyone. She can’t bear even to think about him. But when she cries out at night, she says, ‘Johnny, Mother’s here.’ clear as day. And then she starts sobbing.”

“
KALLOCH RECOVERING: It was reported at the headquarters of the Workingmen’s party yesterday afternoon that the ball in Kalloch’s hip wound had been extracted without surgical aid.”
—
San Francisco Chronicle
, 1879

“
I told you, Uncle Frank, just Judge Babcock. Don’t know his Christian name, that’s all Mrs. Fuller gave me. I checked the city directory, didn’t find anything. So you’ve never heard of a judge in town named Babcock?”

Nate Dawson looked over at his uncle, who was putting on his coat and hat in preparation to leave the office. The neat brass sign outside the door said Hobbes, Haranahan, and Dawson, Attorneys-at-Law, but there wasn’t any Haranahan anymore; hadn’t been for two years since his uncle’s long-time partner had finally succumbed to the inevitable effects of a long life of cigars, whiskey, and energetic mistresses. Nate missed the old reprobate. He had livened up the place considerably, as well as bringing some interesting cases to the firm. His uncle, Frank Hobbes, had always concentrated on domestic law: wills, probate, property deeds and such. Respectable, steady earners, boring.

“
No, I am sorry; I can’t say I can place him,” his uncle said, pausing as if to review the veracity of his own statement. “Just why does Mrs. Fuller wish you to find out about this judge?”

Nate looked up from his desk at his uncle, biting back an irritated reply. He had just told his uncle that Mrs. Fuller was trying to help out one of her boarders, and to that end she needed to know any background he could dig up on a Judge Babcock. Which is exactly all Annie had written to him in the letter he had received from her this morning. As usual, his uncle hadn’t been attending.

Frank Hobbes then took his hat and placed it on a stack of tottering files on a table next to the door and walked back over to a shelf that held law journals and other periodicals, dragging out his reading glasses from his breast pocket. “Can’t think of a single California judge, lawyer for that matter, with that name. However, if I remember, there was a Judge Babcock who sat on the Pennsylvania state bench back in the forties and fifties, an old Whig. Made his name in a number of cases regarding property rights. If I’m right, I should be able to find his name in one of these old University of Pennsylvania law reviews.”

Nate’s irritation slipped away as he watched his uncle pull off one book after the other, looking swiftly through their indexes. Despite the thought of re-shelving all the books, since the one clerk they had was completely overworked, he couldn’t help but marvel that his uncle, stooped from years of pouring over books and briefs, still had a mind like a steel trap. Nate had always admired that keen ability to concentrate, even when it meant he seemed deaf to his nephew’s words.

Looking at his uncle, Nate noticed how white his hair had become, and thought about the white that was dimming the gold in his father’s hair and mustache. His brother Billy took after their father: short stature, tough sinewy body, fair hair and the sunny temper to go with it. Everyone said Nate took after his mother’s side of the family, which meant his Uncle Frank: tall, thin, and dark in complexion and temper. Nate hated that age was beginning to weigh so heavily on both of the older men. Yet, his father seemed to be willing to hand over the reins to the next generation with much more grace than Uncle Frank.

“
There he is,” his uncle crowed, “Zebulon Babcock, who wrote the deciding opinion on an important case extending the right of eminent domain. He’d be at least in his seventies by now and probably retired from the bench. With a first name like that, it should be easy to determine if he is the same Judge Babcock that Mrs. Fuller is trying to locate.”

“
Yes, sir,” Nate replied, getting up to look at the volume his uncle held. “You said he was a Whig, probably a Republican now? That reminds me, I stopped off at the
Chronicle
offices today. Appears the editor, Charles de Young, is planning on coming back to town, now the election is over and Kalloch is alive and well and about to become mayor. Damned stupid move on de Young’s part, shooting his candidate’s opponent. Practically assured the Republicans would lose in this last election. Do you have any idea who he has retained for his defense team? Wouldn’t I love to be working on a case like that?”

Nate’s uncle handed the law review over to Nate, not deigning to respond, and he went over to take up his hat again. As he was about to close the door behind him, he addressed Nate, saying, “Anyone who would consider getting involved in what is surely going to be the legal circus of the century is a darn fool, and people don’t entrust their business with our firm because we’re fools; you just keep that in mind, young man.”

Nate resisted the urge to hurl the book in his hand at the door as it closed behind his uncle. What was foolish was his uncle’s refusal to take any cases that would give Nate any trial experience. While Haranahan had been alive, Nate had assisted him in a number of divorce and property dispute trials, but he had no experience on his own. Just one successful stint as a defense lawyer and Nate could begin to attract his own clients, which would increase the revenue to the firm and improve his own financial position. And improve his chances of marrying Annie.

Nate had been frustrated when Annie cut his visit so short on Monday, but he later admitted to himself that he had been fortunate that she had agreed to meet him at all, and he found her request that he find out information about Simon Frampton and his wife Arabella particularly hopeful. He knew she wouldn’t have asked for this favor if she was planning on breaking off their relationship.
When I first met her, she wouldn’t have even asked for my help at all, she’s that independent
,
so this is a very good sign.

Then Annie had written to ask him to find out about Judge Babcock and talk to Anthony Pierce, a newspaper reporter who had written a story about the Framptons some time back. Nate had visited the
Chronicle
offices today for that reason, since Pierce had written the story for that paper. Unfortunately, the harried clerk at the front desk had said Pierce was away on family business, due back in the next few days. He hoped he would be back before Saturday afternoon, which was when Annie had asked to meet. At least he might not have to come to their meeting empty-handed, thanks to his uncle’s sharp memory. Surely a stop by the courthouse tomorrow would yield someone who would know if a prominent Pennsylvania judge, named Zebulon Babcock, was in town.

Annie might be disappointed if all he had was a name, and nothing from Pierce, but from his perspective this would give him an excuse to see her again as soon as Pierce got back into town. Meanwhile, he looked forward to meeting her at Woodward’s Gardens two days from now.
I wonder why she didn’t want me to come to the house so we could go together
?
Hang it all, doesn’t matter. I’ll take seeing her in a public place, surrounded by strangers, over those old ladies and their lace, any day.

*****

The girl opened her eyes and stretched. She stood up and tucked her shirt into her trousers, then straightened the canary yellow vest. She sauntered over to the tall oval mirror next to the northern window and began to tie a brown cravat, sticking the ends neatly into the top of the vest. She frowned at her image, and then she pulled a slouch hat on her head so the brim came down further, stood back, and nodded in satisfaction. She stroked the skin over her upper lip, looking puzzled, and then grimaced and shrugged. Walking over to the window, she pulled out a package of cigarettes and matches from her pocket. She tugged at the top window, and, after some struggle, was able to pull it down a few inches. She lit the cigarette, inhaled, and then sent the smoke spiraling through the crack in the window.