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  No Refuge from the Grave

  When yet another fire destroys a struggling business in the heart of San Francisco, Detective Nick Greaves is fairly certain they’ve got an arsonist on their hands and that lucrative insurance claims are the motive. But before he can act on his suspicions, Celia Davies alerts him that a notorious loan shark has been found murdered—and left on the doorstep of the very insurance agent Nick suspected of fraud.

  Reluctant to involve Celia in another of his investigations but certain she has information crucial to both cases, Nick agrees to team up with her once again. As they pursue their few murky leads, they discover a shadowy network that counts some of San Francisco’s most prominent businessmen as members—as well as a connection leading to Celia’s estranged and always menacing husband. And when a local policeman at the center of it all is found dead, Celia and Nick must sort through the ashes of a conspiracy to bring down a ruthless killer . . .

  Title Page

  Copyright

  No Refuge from the Grave

  Nancy Herriman

  Copyright © 2022 by Nancy Herriman

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  ISBN: 978-1-954717-87-9

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down- loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Dedication

  To Lisa M.— Thank you for your endless support

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Author’s Note

  Books by Nancy Herriman

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  November, 1867

  San Francisco

  “Ah, Celia, dear. I knew you’d come through for me.” Patrick Davies hefted the drawstring bag, the coins within it clinking. He smiled, adding a wink for good measure. Celia had once found her husband’s smiles charming; she no longer did. “Now to finally pay off that fellow who faked my death certificate for me. He’s been wanting the money.”

  The fellow would be wanting the money. His work had been sufficiently realistic to have convinced numerous officials that Celia’s husband had perished in Mexico. Clearly, though, Patrick Davies was very much alive—if more wiry and ragged than when he had slipped out of their rented house without a farewell three years ago. He’d been bound for a ship headed far away from San Francisco and from her. His absence, however, had only lasted until he’d discovered a reason to arise from the dead and renew their acquaintance.

  “I promised I would get you the money and I have, Patrick.” Celia watched as he tucked the bag beneath the bed’s pulu fiber mattress, likely purchased used from a better class of hotel than the one Patrick had taken up residence in. “I trust you’ll not be requiring more funds.”

  He rearranged the blanket to conceal the hiding place and dropped onto the bed, which sagged deeply beneath his weight, slight as it was. “Are you worried you’ll not be getting rid of me?”

  Yes. “I cannot afford to continually finance your debts, Patrick. I had to take money from my clinic funds to pay off what you owe that professional criminal, Mr. Griffin—”

  “Ah, your blessed clinic.” He pressed his palms into the mattress and leaned forward. “Keepin’ you occupied while I’ve been away?”

  Her face heated.

  “‘Been away’? As though you had merely partaken of a pleasant holiday. You abandoned me, Patrick.” She was getting loud, her voice filling the cramped space, echoing off the cracked plaster and water-stained wallpaper. “Fled San Francisco in search of what, exactly? In search of what?”

  He smirked. The expression mocked her rush of emotions, which she preferred to keep so carefully under control. “Did you miss me, after all?”

  Calm down, Celia. She’d mentally rehearsed this meeting on her way to his lodgings, over and over, and her outburst had not been part of her imaginings. “I cannot cover your debts any longer, Patrick. Stop sending notes and messenger boys asking me to do so. And cease borrowing from Mr. Griffin. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “Well, Celia, you may be a little late in offering me a warning about Caleb Griffin. But I wouldn’t mind hearing how—” Patrick patted the mattress above where he’d stashed the coins. “How you managed this sum. What did you hock to find the cash?”

  The anger that had warmed her skin retreated, replaced by cold mortification. She’d pawned a gold brooch set with pearls, given to her by a patient in gratitude for a successful treatment, and Celia resented that she’d had to sell any of her few, valuable possessions.

  “It does not matter where I obtained the money, Patrick, and suffice it to say there shall be no more. Goodbye to you.”

  She marched out into the hallway, interrupting a scraggly bearded fellow in the middle of lighting up a cigar.

  “Well, hullo, miss,” he said, eyeing her through the tendrils of rising smoke.

  Bloody . . .

  She squeezed past him and hurried down the steps, tightening her gloves around her fingers, even though the knit cotton wasn’t loose. Do not look back. Do not look back. Because she could feel Patrick’s gaze on her as she fled, daring her to glance up at him where he stood on the landing. Her footfalls were a hollow echo in the uncarpeted staircase. A rapid rat-a-tat against the warped and splintered wood, the sound competing with the shouts of an argument in one of the rented rooms she passed, the bawling of a young child in another, a woman’s cynical laughter from somewhere else entirely. The air around Celia smelled of mold and sewage and spilled liquor. Stank of wretchedness and misery. Patrick Davies, of the dazzling blue eyes and most winning of laughs, had ended up here. Far from Ireland. Far from the bright promise of life in America he’d once sworn he would provide for her.

  “Ah, Celia,” he called down, leaning, she was sure, over the balustrade in order to best catch sight of her. “You’re bound, you are, to hurt yourself, rushin’ like that.”

  She stumbled on the bottom step and thrust out a hand to catch herself. The
oak banister she grabbed was tacky, causing her glove to stick to it. “Why be concerned about me now, Patrick?”

  He laughed. “Thank you again.”

  Heart pounding, she dashed across the short entry hall, reached for the front door, and threw it open.

  “You be careful out there, Cecilia,” Patrick called out before she slammed shut the door. “There are more dangerous folk than Caleb Griffin in San Francisco.”

  • • •

  The clouds were gray and heavy with rain, all the indication required that the city was going to be treated to another round of downpours. If he were back home in Ohio, thought Nick Greaves as he turned off Montgomery, he’d be able to smell the rain before the first drops arrived. In the heart of San Francisco the aroma was too faint to compete with the various stinks that floated in the air and rose from clogged sewers. Nick hadn’t been in Ohio to breathe in the fragrances of rain and cut hay and corn growing in August fields, though, since he was a boy. He’d had no reason to ever return.

  A damp breeze chilled his neck and he flipped up the collar of his coat. Ahead, the policeman who worked this beat had managed to cordon off the front of a building, its bricks charred black from a fire. Wasn’t every day that Nick got called to look into a possible arson, but the detective who usually handled such cases had decided to quit the force and move to Portland, Oregon. Nick wondered if the fellow would be able to smell approaching rain in that town.

  Nick caught sight of his assistant, J.E. Taylor, at the scene.

  “There you are, sir!” Taylor signaled to Nick, his ever-present notebook flapping in his right hand.

  “Here I am, Taylor. And stop calling me—”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Greaves, I mean.”

  Nick pushed through the crowd that had collected to gawk. Even on a Monday afternoon, there were still folks with enough time on their hands to get in the way of police business. He’d inform them that he was a detective, but the announcement never impressed anybody enough to get them to willingly move aside.

  “What have you learned so far, Taylor?”

  “Looks like the fire started in the rear of the building.” He examined the notes he’d made, his even features screwed up in concentration. Good old Taylor. Always reliable. Nick hoped—and not for the first time—that his assistant wouldn’t ever get promoted to detective, even though he deserved the position. Nick would never find another assistant as competent. “The owner was just here saying there was work being done on the gas lines. He claims that’s what caused the fire.”

  Nick contemplated the store’s banner, blackened by smoke, that drooped over the front window. Z.A. Everett, Bookseller & Stationer. “If this was an accident, then what are we doing here?”

  “Weren’t no accident!” some fellow, eavesdropping, called out. He stuffed his thick hands into the pockets of his denim overalls and puffed out his muscular chest. “Everett done had that fire set! Right? Am I right?” he asked those gathered around him. Heads bobbed in agreement.

  “Do you have proof or is this just an opinion?” Nick shouted back.

  The fellow shrunk into himself, like a turtle retracting its head, his bluster deflating. “Well, heck, everybody knows it was done on purpose. That ain’t news.”

  “If you stumble across some hard evidence, kindly let me know. That goes for the rest of you, too.” Nick scanned the crowd, which quieted. A few took the opportunity to trot off. He turned back to Taylor. “So, what do you think?”

  “The cop who works this beat has told me it’s not the first suspicious fire in this area, Mr. Greaves,” he answered, tucking his notebook beneath his arm so he could hunt around in the pockets of his gray policeman’s coat for a cigar. He came up empty and sighed.

  “I’ll buy you some cigars on the way back to the station,” said Nick. “Tell me about this fire.”

  “Here, sir. Let me show you what I found. There’s a side hallway that leads to the rear of the building. The fire didn’t spread that far, so it should be safe to take without risk of the ceiling collapsing or anything.”

  Taylor stepped over the rope tied between two hitching posts and entered the door he’d indicated. Nick followed, entering the dark passageway where a staircase led to upper floors. The acrid aroma of burned wood hung in the air, the smell dragging up one of those memories of the war that still haunted Nick. The Wilderness on fire, and not just trees alight.

  “Sir?” Taylor always noticed when Nick had one of these moments.

  “Just getting my bearings, Taylor. Seeing what there is to see.” Taylor wouldn’t believe his excuse but Nick wasn’t trying to convince his assistant of any truth. It was a comment made in order to temporarily put the ghosts to rest. They’d return later. They always did.

  A door stood open that connected the hall to the interior of Mr. Everett’s stationery store. Water dripped to land in puddles, the remnants of the fire department’s ambitious efforts to knock down the flames. The glass of a case that once held items for sale had been shattered by the heat. The brass arms of the overhead gasoliers had survived but the shades had not, fracturing into pieces onto the remains of a large table once used, Nick supposed, to display books and maps. Shelves lining both walls had burned and collapsed. The store’s cast-iron heating stove sat alone in the corner, whatever chairs or crates had been situated nearby turned into ashy scraps of wood.

  “Not much left, is there,” said Nick. A fresh burst of wind blew through the broken display window, stirring up ashes.

  “If this was arson, his insurance won’t do him any good, will it, sir?”

  “No, Taylor.”

  His assistant strode down the hallway and nudged open a door at the end. “The fire might’ve been caused by a black powder ignition.”

  “Interesting.”

  Outside, Nick had been anticipating just a sliver of space between buildings. However, the lot behind Mr. Everett’s store was vacant, fresh gouges in the dirt indicating where a building had been jacked up and rolled off the lot. Nick had seen the three-story structure being towed down Sansome last week, interfering with the traffic.

  “Convenient access,” Nick mused. Especially if you were looking to start a fire and burn down a building without too much trouble.

  “Here’s why everybody’s thinking the fire was suspicious.” Taylor pointed out what appeared to be the residue of a black powder spill. “Some of the powder must’ve been damp, sir, and didn’t ignite.”

  “Hmm.” It looked to be the source of the fire, though, which had raced into the tinderbox of a store stacked with books and paper. “Any witnesses spot somebody suspicious hanging around before the fire?”

  “Nobody’s come forward to claim they did, Mr. Greaves. Not yet, at least.”

  “Why did Everett come up with some story about a gas leak causing the fire, Taylor? Looks pretty obvious what happened, and that it was likely intentionally set. Plus, I don’t expect a stationer to keep a supply of black powder on hand that might’ve spilled outside his store.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t been out back here yet to see the damage, sir. Mr. Greaves, sir,” said Taylor. “I didn’t have a chance to talk to him, because a fellow in a nice suit of black clothes showed up the moment I arrived and they went off together. His insurance agent, according to the woman who runs the bakery next door. A Mr. Pierson.”

  Nick leaned through the opening where a door used to access a rear storage room. The powerful ignition of the powder and the subsequent flames had done more damage to it than to the main room. “Wonder what Everett’s insurance agent has to say, and if he thinks it was an accident.”

  “Mr. Everett might make a tidy sum of money if he can convince the fellow it was, sir. Mr. Greaves,” he said.

  Nick swept ashes off his coat where it had brushed against the wall. “Time to look for Mr. Pierson and find out just how much.”

  • • •

  A fat cold raindrop rolled off Celia’s bonnet to land at the nape of her neck, raising goosefl
esh, and spatters dotted the broad plank pavement lining both sides of the road. Many of her fellow pedestrians, those who’d been more attentive to the day’s worsening weather and carried umbrellas, unfurled them, circles of black to defend against the wet. When Celia had left the house, she had been so preoccupied by her planned meeting with Patrick that she’d rushed off without an umbrella or a proper cloak. As a result, she’d be soaked through by the time she reached home, her half boots and the hem of her skirt thoroughly muddied.

  Blast.

  “Mrs. Davies!” shouted a woman. “Mrs. Davies, here!”

  A buggy wheeled over to the curb. The woman guiding the horse smiled at her from beneath its foldable leather roof. Celia struggled to recall where she knew her from.

  Celia tented her face with her hand to protect it from the pelting water. “Yes?” she asked, peering out beneath her gloved fingers.

  “Georgie Pierson. Remember me?” the other woman asked, her brows arching above her light eyes. The ribbons of her bonnet matched their hazel. An intentionally striking effect. “We spoke at the Alaska lecture we both attended at the Academy of Natural Sciences. You were there with your cousin, Miss Walford.”

  “Yes, I do remember you, Mrs. Pierson.” It was curious to encounter her in this neighborhood, though. Not far from the wharves and all those who frequented such places. It could be risky for a well-dressed woman such as Georgiana Pierson to travel the streets between the Barbary and the docks. Celia herself had encountered enough rude looks and comments from men in the past few blocks to hurry her along.

  Mrs. Pierson scooted over on the buggy’s seat. “Would you care for a lift to wherever you are headed?”