No Pity For the Dead Page 20

  They entered the kitchen, so quiet without Addie bustling about.

  Mr. Greaves pulled out a chair and sat at Addie’s worktable while Celia pumped water into a pot and took it to the stove. “So what did Martin have to say about Miss Hutchinson’s observation?”

  She retrieved the white and blue tin labeled PIONEER STEAM COFFEE AND SPICE MILLS from the pantry. “He denies it, of course, but then, he would,” Celia said, and removed a cover from the stove grate. Addie had refreshed the coals early that morning, but they had burned too low to boil the water.

  “Were you hoping that he’d have a change of heart and suddenly be willing to confess?” asked Mr. Greaves. “Because you heard his explanation on Sunday. You had an accident.”

  “I was hoping to trick him into looking guilty, since Grace’s observation proves his so-called explanation is false,” she said, collecting the coal scuttle. “Regrettably, he did not look guilty, either.”

  She bent to open the stove door with the thick towel Addie used to turn the handle.

  “Here, let me do that. You’ll get dirty.” Mr. Greaves jumped up from his chair and took the scuttle from her. He opened the door and tossed in a shovelful of coal.

  “Hate to tell you, ma’am, but I don’t think Martin’s our killer.” He closed the stove door and returned the scuttle to its spot.

  “Obviously, I do not have definitive proof, but with what Grace observed, his culpability does seem much more likely now.” She set the pot of water on the grate and levered off the lid of the tin can, the brisk scent of coffee rising. “Doesn’t it?”

  “I can’t explain what Miss Hutchinson saw, but the reason I came by was to tell you that Dan Matthews was found dead this morning. In a ditch outside town.”

  “Gad! Does Maryanne Kelly know? I was with her only this morning . . .” And the baby. This news might be all the strain required to speed Maryanne’s labor.

  “I sent Taylor over to inform her.”

  Celia hoped Mr. Taylor would be gentle. “What happened?”

  “Matthews fell from his horse and broke his neck,” he explained. “And he had Virgil Nash’s watch and money on him.”

  Which seemed the sort of evidence a jury would believe proved Dan’s guilt.

  “But Dan Matthews was not the man who attempted to disinter Mr. Nash’s body.” She told him about the horse and wagon Ginny had seen. “And today, while I was at Mr. Martin’s house, the same horse was hitched to the hack that delivered his housekeeper.”

  “There are a lot of horses around, Mrs. Davies. You can’t be sure.”

  “But how many are very pale dapple grays with dark manes?” she asked. “I have seen no other like it in the city.”

  “Could be a coincidence that the same horse was at that alley and at Martin’s today.” The water began to boil, and Mr. Greaves moved the pot partway off the grate. He took the tin from her hand and scooped coffee grounds into the water. “Or the explanation is that all the partners hire the same driver, a man who makes use of that particular horse.”

  And those partners included Frank Hutchinson. “But it is still quite possible that Mr. Martin is connected to Mr. Nash’s death.”

  “Not so quick, ma’am. The man who owns the restaurant where Martin was eating Thursday night is willing to state Martin was there most of the night.”

  “He would say such a thing, would he not, rather than offend a wealthy customer,” she said, bringing over the coffee cups—delicate china ones with flowers painted around each rim. Too delicate for a man’s hands. “This restaurateur’s first inclination would be to preserve his business. Perhaps if I spoke to him—”

  “Mrs. Davies, even though you like to think this is ‘our’ investigation, you really—”

  “I really must stay out of police matters?” she asked. “But I shan’t, so long as friends of mine are implicated in a man’s murder.”

  “You might want to get acquainted with folks who don’t get tangled up in crimes, ma’am. Just a suggestion.”

  “Ah, but then, Mr. Greaves, I would not know you.”

  A look she could not decipher crossed his face, and an awkward moment ticked past. I only meant to tease. Didn’t I?

  Mr. Greaves cleared his throat. “I’ll have Taylor talk to the owners of the stables located nearest to Martin’s house. There might be a driver he prefers to use. We’ll find the man and see what he has to say about Thursday night and who it was who hired him.”

  “Thank you.”

  The rear door opened, and Barbara and Grace came into the kitchen.

  “Thank goodness you’re still here, Mr. Greaves,” said Barbara, glancing between them. Grace paused just inside the threshold. “Grace would like to tell you something.”

  “I’ve already heard your claim that you saw Mr. Martin push Mrs. Davies, Miss Hutchinson,” he said.

  “It’s not that,” said Barbara. “Go on, Grace.”

  Grace Hutchinson squared her shoulders, an intense look on her young face. “It’s time I confess, Detective. Time I confess what else I know. About my father.”

  * * *

  Well, well.

  Nick looked over at Celia Davies, who was staring at Grace as though the power of her gaze might get the girl to take back her words. Miss Walford rolled her lips between her teeth. She knew what was coming, Nick could tell, and he wondered how long she had known.

  “How about we go into the parlor and you tell me all about it, Miss Hutchinson,” he said.

  “Grace, are you certain?” Mrs. Davies asked, taking hold of the girl’s arm.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she murmured.

  Nick strolled into the parlor, and the womenfolk followed, taking places on the various seats available. Barbara Walford chose a spot on the settee beneath the painting that Nick guessed was a portrait of her father. Mrs. Davies took a chair opposite her cousin, and Grace sat on the other chair, her face as pale as a skimming of cream off milk.

  Nick remained standing; anything else would seem too cozy. Besides, he always thought better on his feet. “Go ahead, Miss Hutchinson. I’m listening.”

  “It has to do with the night that Mr. Nash died.” Her voice trembled, and she swallowed. Mrs. Davies reached across to take the girl’s hand. “I saw my father.”

  Barbara Walford sat perfectly still, her dark eyes wide, as if she were posing for a photograph and waiting for the exposure to complete. How many times would she find herself intertwined with the family of a killer, as had happened when Nick had first met both her and Celia Davies? She must feel cursed.

  Dang it, Nick, not one minute ago you let Celia Davies convince you that Martin was involved.

  “You saw your father do what, Miss Hutchinson?” he prodded.

  She blinked to stop the gathering tears from falling. “He was not with Mr. Russell that evening like he and my stepmother said he was. I mean, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t.”

  “How can you recall so clearly, Grace?” asked Mrs. Davies. “It has been some time since then. Perhaps you are confused about the day in particular.”

  “That’s what I told her!” said Miss Walford. “You’re simply confused, Grace, and your father’s not involved at all.”

  “Of course he’s involved, Bee,” Grace replied. “How many times was he seen fighting with Mr. Nash? Even I saw them arguing once, at a picnic. And the day before Mr. Nash died, my father came back from visiting him, angrier than I’ve ever seen him. I guess he’d gone to try to convince Mr. Nash one last time—yes, that’s exactly what he said: ‘One last time’—to stop getting in the way of their plans for the Second Street cut. But Mr. Nash refused and tossed him out of the house.” Grace looked at Nick. “My father doesn’t like to be bossed around.”

  “I’m aware of that, Miss Hutchinson,” Nick answered, reaching up to rub the ache in his left arm. Getting ordered around
made Frank pigheaded. Reckless. Stupid. So different from his cousin Jack, as easygoing a man as ever was born.

  “You still have not explained how you can be so clear about the date, Grace,” said Mrs. Davies.

  “Because the day Mr. Nash died was the twenty-eighth of May, correct?” Grace asked.

  Nick nodded.

  “That’s what I’d heard,” said Grace. “We were supposed to go out and have a special dinner on the twenty-ninth. To celebrate my mother’s birthday. We’d been planning on it for days and days. That’s how I know, Bee. That’s why I’m so sure.”

  “But Jane’s birthday is later in the summer, Grace,” said Mrs. Davies.

  “Miss Hutchinson means Arabella’s birthday,” said Nick.

  “Oh.”

  “But we didn’t go to dinner on the twenty-ninth, even though my stepmother had promised we would. Because she awoke with a headache that Wednesday morning and didn’t leave her room all day long.” Grace paused, and Mrs. Davies gave the girl’s fingers a squeeze. “I assumed her head hurt because she was mad at Father for the night before.”

  “Why might she be mad?” asked Nick.

  “Because of what my father had done,” said Grace. “I thought she was asleep. She’s been taking her sleeping medications, and I thought she didn’t know that Father had come home and then left again. I thought only I’d seen. I was waiting for him—I always do, even though I’m supposed to be in bed, because I want to make sure he gets home safe—watching from my bedroom window. It overlooks the street. I saw a hack arrive and my father step down onto the street. But he wasn’t with Mr. Russell, because Mr. Russell always leans through the window to wish him a good night. He’s always so drunk. And loud.”

  Nick caught Mrs. Davies’ gaze. She looked worried for Frank.

  “Do you remember what color the horse was that pulled the hack, Grace?” Mrs. Davies asked.

  Grace’s forehead puckered. “I don’t.”

  “So it was not a dapple gray?”

  “Mrs. Davies,” Nick warned.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Greaves.”

  “Anyway,” said Grace, continuing, “my father didn’t come in. The hack drove off, but he just stared up at the house. He saw me watching and nodded. I sensed something was wrong, though. I almost lifted the sash so I could call out to him, but he turned away before I could. He just walked off, down the street. He didn’t come home again until really late, and all I can think is my stepmother must have seen him walk away, too. Maybe she was watching from one of the other windows and wasn’t asleep. Or maybe Hetty told her.”

  “Do you remember what time it was you saw him, Miss Hutchinson?” Nick asked.

  “I usually go to my room around nine, so after that. I’d guess close to nine thirty, since I’d been reading in my bed for a while.”

  Another discrepancy in Frank’s alibi. If he wasn’t with Russell at that point, then where had Frank been earlier that evening? The message to Nash had requested a meeting at eight.

  “What condition were his clothes in?” asked Mrs. Davies before he could. “Were they dirty? Torn?”

  Bloody? Nick added to himself.

  “I don’t think so,” Grace answered. “But I wasn’t really trying to see if he was dirty or anything. I just thought it was strange that he didn’t want to come inside right away. It was like he was trying to avoid us.”

  “Grace, this doesn’t mean he killed Mr. Nash,” said Barbara, who’d remained stuck in her pose on the settee, an observer made out of granite. “It just shows that he didn’t want to come home.”

  “But why did he pretend to be with Mr. Russell when he wasn’t, Bee?” she asked, her voice catching. “The next day, he told me he had been with him, even though I’d seen that he wasn’t. He’s never lied to me. Never. It was part of our pact. We’d always be honest with each other. He’s never explained, though. He won’t.”

  The tears she’d been holding back fell, and she pinched her eyes closed.

  “Why did you not tell us this earlier, Grace?” asked Mrs. Davies, leaning closer to the girl. “Terrible events might have been avoided if you had.”

  “My father didn’t push you yesterday, Mrs. Davies,” she said, looking up suddenly. “I know he didn’t. It was Mr. Martin. I saw him.”

  Miss Walford hurried over to her friend, sinking to her knees at Grace’s feet. “It’ll be okay, Grace. You’ll see. It’ll be okay. Your father will have an explanation for everything.” She glanced at Nick, daring him to say otherwise.

  “I’ll have to bring Mr. Hutchinson into the station,” Nick said, which caused Mrs. Davies to frown.

  “You can’t!” Miss Walford shouted. “You just can’t!”

  “It’ll have to wait, Mr. Greaves,” said Grace Hutchinson. “My father went to Oakland this morning to discuss a project there. He won’t be home until tomorrow.” She bit her lower lip. “At least that’s where he claims he is. This is awful.”

  “Do you know where he’s staying?” Nick asked her.

  “You are going to fetch him back now?” Mrs. Davies asked. “Can this not wait until tomorrow? What about your implication that Dan Matthews was responsible? Or that Mr. Martin had a role?”

  “I’m not overlooking them, Mrs. Davies, but Frank has to explain his actions and right now.”

  He’d send Mullahey to track Frank down and haul him to the station. The arrest would probably make the morning papers. Nick tried to feel exultant at the idea of Frank’s humiliation, but he couldn’t muster the satisfaction. Revenge never was as sweet as advertised.

  Don’t let the desire for vengeance color your judgment, Nick, or justify your actions. Good old Uncle Asa. Always a saying for every situation.

  Well, Uncle Asa, I might be letting you down on this one.

  Grace Hutchinson gave Nick the name of the Oakland hotel. “Much obliged, miss.”

  “You must be happy at last, Detective, that you have sufficient proof to arrest Frank,” said Mrs. Davies, her pale eyes gone as frosty as a January’s snow.

  Nick knew better than to respond.

  CHAPTER 11

  “How long have you known about what Grace witnessed?” Celia asked her cousin. They stood on the porch together, watching Grace climb into the hack Jane had sent to fetch her. Mr. Greaves had left immediately after he’d finished questioning Grace.

  “She told me only today,” said Barbara, her arms wrapped about her waist. “I’m worried about what’ll happen to Grace if her father’s sent to jail.”

  “I am concerned as well. Deeply concerned. But Grace’s account only means that her father was not where he’d claimed to be the evening Mr. Nash was murdered,” said Celia. The driver shut the door behind Grace, and she peered through the window, her face wan. She offered a wave, which Barbara limply returned. “It does not mean he was at the offices of Martin and Company, stabbing the man to death and then burying him in the cellar.”

  “Mr. Greaves believes that it does.”

  Celia had also seen the certainty of that belief in his eyes. How much, though, did his old hatred for Frank influence his decision to send a policeman haring off to Oakland to drag Frank back as soon as possible?

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Greaves cannot turn a deaf ear to what Grace has told him,” said Celia.

  However, the question remained—where was Frank between the time he parted from Mr. Russell, if they had even been together that evening, and half past nine when Grace saw him? Frank was in desperate need of explaining his whereabouts at the time that Mr. Nash was murdered as well as what he’d been doing Thursday evening.

  The hack rolled off, scattering finches pecking among the stones of the road.

  “What do we do now?” asked Barbara.

  “I have no patients this afternoon, which leaves me time to speak with the shopgirl who may have seen the man who’d bee
n digging up Mr. Nash’s body. I want to confirm the fellow was not tall and therefore not likely to be Mr. Hutchinson. We do that first,” answered Celia, giving Barbara a squeeze and then reentering the house. She plucked her bonnet from its hook. “Afterward, I shall go and speak to Katie Lehane before the saloon opens. I’m curious if she ever noticed Mr. Nash arguing with any other men at Burke’s. Men we have not already considered as suspects.”

  They needed more names. Because apparently the man’s watch and money in the possession of Dan Matthews, along with the horse she’d seen at Jasper Martin’s, were now insufficient for one Nicholas Greaves—and Celia very much feared Frank was running out of time to prove his innocence.

  * * *

  The shop bell jangled as Celia opened the door to the ladies’ fancy goods shop.

  Mrs. Lowers glanced over from where she stood behind the counter, folding a length of fawn-colored silk. “What can I do for you today, Mrs. Davies?”

  “I need to speak with Ginny again.” The girl was in the corner with a customer, discussing dress trimmings. “I will not require much of her time.”

  “Ginny,” Mrs. Lowers called.

  The owner jerked her head toward Celia. Ginny scurried over, and her employer went to help the customer.

  “Ma’am?” Ginny asked.

  Celia took the girl’s elbow and led her to the front corner of the shop, where the sun streamed through the tall windows, lighting the display of embroidered reticules and shawls, and a parasol dripping with mauve fringe. A woman outside on the pavement peered through the window glass at Celia and Ginny, then returned to examining the ribbons laid out for examination.

  “The man on Thursday. Think very, very carefully, Ginny. This is most critical. Was he tall?” Celia asked the girl.