No Comfort for the Lost Page 5

  “A nurse who runs a medical clinic for poor women. She sometimes treats the Chinese.”

  “Ah.” Harris dragged his fingertips through his beard, which was bristling with gray, and chuckled. “Mrs. Davies, is it?”

  “I was hoping you’d know her.”

  “Know of her is more like it.”

  “And what do you know?”

  “Well, she’s been in San Francisco for only a few years—”

  “Three, she told me,” Nick interrupted.

  “Sounds right,” said Harris. “Her clinic’s just outside the Barbary, and I gather she served in the Crimea and in an army hospital back east during the war, not sure which one. And I believe she trained at the Female Medical College in Philadelphia, very solid credentials. Lives with a half-Chinese girl—the daughter of a deceased gold miner, I hear, and some sort of relative.” He scratched at his beard. “I’ve also heard that her passion for her female patients has led to plenty of disputes with some of the physicians in town. Personally, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Davies. Doctors’ wives can be”—he paused, his smile apologetic—“particular in who they invite to social events.”

  “Because she’s had disputes with the local physicians, or because she has a half-Chinese relative?”

  “Both, I suppose,” he admitted. “And her tendency toward bluntness does her no favors.”

  Blunt and stubborn. A perfect description. “Mind if we take a look at the girl now?”

  “She’s in the basement. There’s no one else down there at the moment, so you don’t have to worry about Mrs. Davies seeing too much.”

  Before Nick could leave, Harris stopped him. “What’s Eagan got to say about this? I’m surprised he’s letting any of his detectives spend time on this case.”

  “What my boss doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” answered Nick.

  Harris chuckled again, and Nick returned to the main room. Massey had made use of Nick’s absence to show Mrs. Davies his array of funerary trappings—black plumes to decorate the hearse and the horses that drew it, swaths of ebony cloth for draping over caskets or wagons or just about anything, velvet if a person wanted extra luxury. Extravagances meant to awe the living, because they certainly wouldn’t impress the dead.

  “Mrs. Davies, please come with me,” said Nick.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Massey.” She accompanied Nick to the basement stairs, gripping the railing as she descended. It was cold down here, perfect for slowing decay, and gloomy. Spare caskets were propped against one of the walls, and a floor-to-ceiling curtain blocked off the area where bodies awaiting identification were kept. The smell of death filled every corner, seeped out of every stone. This was no place for a lady, even one with as much grit as Celia Davies.

  She paused at the bottom step. “Where to now, Mr. Greaves?”

  “Back here.”

  He parted the curtain. Daylight coming through a set of windows illuminated the three marble slabs that occupied the space. The girl had been laid upon the center one, a length of dark fabric draped over her body.

  Mrs. Davies stepped slowly forward. Nick peeled back the cloth, just enough to reveal the girl’s face with all its bruises, along with the abrasion that traced a pink line across her neck.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “That is Li Sha.”

  “Thank you.” Nick flicked the fabric back into place too hastily, accidentally revealing the girl’s right arm and the lacerations that had torn the skin.

  “Sliced by a bayonet?” Mrs. Davies clapped a hand to her mouth.

  He grabbed the cloth and re-covered the body. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Nick led her up the stairs and past Massey, who was clutching a bottle of smelling salts. “Mrs. Davies?” He unstoppered the bottle and waved it beneath her nose.

  “I am perfectly fine.”

  “She’ll select a coffin some other time, Mr. Massey,” said Nick, refusing to release this woman, fragrant with lavender and strong soap, who felt too right pressed against his side. “And tell Dr. Harris the girl’s name is Li Sha.”

  • • •

  “I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Greaves,” Celia said, disregarding the gawkers passing by as she braced a hand against the nearest telegraph pole, her reticule swinging from her wrist. Until the last moment, she had hoped the police were wrong, hoped she would walk into that cold room and see a different unfortunate girl lying dead. But the body on that slab was Li Sha, the even planes of her lovely face unmistakable though puffy and bruised, the swell of her abdomen holding an unfulfilled promise of new life. How Li Sha had looked forward to becoming a mother.

  “You must think I am forever dashing out of buildings for one reason or another, Detective,” said Celia.

  His mouth twitched with a smile, bringing warmth to his eyes. Though his curt disposition rubbed her raw, she could not deny he was handsome.

  “Twice isn’t enough for me to draw a conclusion, Mrs. Davies.” The hat brim took a turn through Mr. Greaves’ fingers, and he squinted against the sunlight. “Would you care to sit down? There’s a decent coffeehouse nearby.”

  She was grateful for the suggestion; answering questions in a coffeehouse would be preferable to doing so in the fetid air of the police station.

  “I’d enjoy some coffee, yes, Mr. Greaves. And a sandwich, if they offer food. I should try to eat.” Though her hunger had vanished in the coroner’s makeshift morgue. “However, I shall not permit you to pay my bill.”

  He tapped his hat upon his head. “Didn’t think you would.”

  As promised, the coffeehouse was not far. Given the reception he received from the owner, the detective must be a regular customer. Though she preferred tea, the coffee brewing smelled heavenly as they wended their way between tables. There were only a handful of other customers—all male—and plenty of empty seats, but Mr. Greaves chose a table beside the large front window where they could be readily seen. Protecting her reputation, she presumed.

  He held her chair as she took a seat. He made a quick scan of the room before settling across from her, facing the door. He was ever watchful, indeed.

  They placed their orders, and his expression became sympathetic. “I’m sorry about the girl, Mrs. Davies. Not the way anybody’s life should come to an end.”

  His sentiment did not seem contrived, though Celia expected he’d had to extend similar words to sorrowing families and friends many times before.

  “‘Tired he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’er,’” she said sadly. “Although in this case, it’s a she.”

  “Is that some sort of quote?” he asked.

  “Alexander Pope, Mr. Greaves,” she said. “Poor Li Sha. A difficult life come to a terrible conclusion. I did not, however, anticipate slashing wounds from a bayonet.”

  “What makes you think they were bayonet wounds? Harris often reminds me how tough it is to tell what sort of blade has caused a cut on a body.”

  She considered his observation. “Perhaps I see them where there are none, Detective. A consequence of months spent in army hospitals.”

  “I am familiar with bayonet wounds, too. I volunteered in an Ohio regiment.” Detective Greaves rubbed a spot above his left elbow, then flexed his hand as if testing its ability to function. He noticed the direction of her gaze. “Old war wound.” He dropped his hand to the table. “Saw more killing than anybody should have to witness. We all did.”

  “War is never as grand as it reads in the papers, Mr. Greaves.”

  “In that we agree, ma’am.”

  His steady brown eyes watched her without further comment, and she looked away, out the window at the pedestrians and the traffic. A curly-tailed mongrel snuffled at the gutter, and a sunburned boy called out, “Po-ta-toes,” at the top of his lungs, competing with the shouts of a particularly dirty fellow in a shabby jacket trying to sell o
ld rags and patched boots. Across the way, a black-haired woman in an indigo dress hurried along the pavement, and Celia momentarily thought she looked familiar. But it was a trick of the mind, and she was forced to recall that Li Sha was gone.

  “Officer Mullahey called Li Sha a prostitute,” she said, returning her gaze to the detective’s face. The coffeehouse was considerably more quiet than the din outside, the volume of conversation having fallen when they entered. She suspected they were being stared at. “She had been, at one time, although not a common one. Because she was unusually lovely, and could sing and play the Chinese two-stringed fiddle, she worked in a parlor house as a concubine.”

  “A parlor house.” Mr. Greaves lifted an eyebrow. “Nicer than the usual cribs.”

  “It is a discreet establishment and enjoys, I’ve been told, a higher class of clientele than the stews of China Alley. Rich white men, even.” Men who could indulge their taste for the exotic without dirtying their shoes in the worst parts of the Barbary and the Chinese streets.

  “But she still wore face paint,” Mr. Greaves observed.

  “Her one vanity.”

  “How exactly did you meet her?”

  “She was my first Chinese patient. It was last autumn—September, if I am not mistaken—shortly before she stopped working at the parlor house. An abusive customer had injured her, broken a rib, and some of her wounds had festered, though she had attempted to heal them with traditional Chinese medicines. I treated her as best I could and she recovered. But after that assault, she resolved to escape the life she was leading.”

  Coffee and a ham sandwich arrived, delivered by the proprietor himself, a robust man with an Eastern European accent who lingered too long at the table, until Mr. Greaves frowned at him. Celia gripped her cup, letting it warm her fingers, and resumed speaking.

  “Eventually, Li Sha earned enough from selling the gifts customers had given her to pay her way out of her contract. She was one of the fortunate ones, to be able to do so.” Celia sipped some of the bitter coffee. “After she left the parlor house, she came to me, seeking help. I was more than happy to do all I could. I considered taking her into our house, but I had to make allowances for my cousin Barbara. She can be anxious around people who are not family, and I also have her reputation to protect.”

  “The half-Chinese girl you live with is your cousin?” Detective Greaves asked, interrupting. At least she did not see in his eyes the bigotry she so typically encountered in others’.

  “You have very quickly gathered information about me, Mr. Greaves.”

  He gave a slight nod. “And your uncle was a gold miner.”

  “That he was.” Celia smiled. Gregarious, adventurous Uncle Walford. So different from her cautious father. “Sadly, he passed away two summers ago, leaving my cousin an orphan. Her mother, a Chinese woman my uncle had met in a mining camp, had died when Barbara was a child. Barbara was left alone in that big house she’d inherited. She was too young to be on her own, and as her nearest relative, I was appointed her guardian.

  “Acquaintances suggested that I send her to a boarding school, but she wouldn’t have been happy there. Attending school had never been a good experience for her.” Uncle Walford had once attempted to send Barbara to a public school in the city; when she was jeered at and tormented by the other students, she’d been hastily removed. “With her father’s encouragement, I had already established my clinic in her house. Taking up residence there, I confess, made my life a great deal easier.”

  Celia paused to take a bite of the sandwich. It was good, and she was surprised by the return of her appetite. The detective used the break in conversation to scan the room.

  He reached inside his coat and extracted a notebook. “When did you last see Li Sha?”

  “Wednesday of last week, when she came for dinner, as she often did. She seemed her usual self that day.”

  “Did you give her the dress she was wearing? You don’t usually see Chinese women in Western clothes.”

  “I did. She wanted to blend in better, and she thought people might stare less if she dressed like everyone else.” Li Sha had been so pleased with Celia’s present, even though the gown was far too big. She had wanted to conceal the pregnancy for a while and had rebuffed Celia’s offers to have the dress properly altered. “I believe people stared more.”

  He took additional notes, then paused to consider her. “After she left the parlor house, what did she do? A Chinese woman alone would live mighty precariously.”

  “I tried to find her work, but it was difficult. People in this city might hire Chinese men, but they do not hire Chinese women,” said Celia. “I finally did find her a position with my apothecary, Hubert Lange. A good man doing a great favor for me.”

  “Must have been a pretty big favor, to hire a former prostitute.”

  “Some time ago, I saved him from a serious scandal. One of his customers fell ill, terribly ill, from a concoction he was selling. It nearly killed the woman, but I nursed her back to health. Mr. Lange has been grateful ever since.” And she had taken advantage of that gratitude. He had been good to Li Sha, though, and she had given him no reason to complain about her work or her conduct.

  “Li Sha cleaned his shop a few evenings a week,” continued Celia. “After the shop had closed, when there were no customers to see her. Nonetheless, the situation was not easy for her. I believe people were harrying her in the streets, provoked by the audacity of a Chinese woman venturing outside the boundaries of Chinatown.”

  “Any particular threats you know of?”

  “None at all.”

  Someone in the coffeehouse dropped a piece of cutlery, the clank jarring the hushed quiet. The proprietor was attempting to move within earshot again, wiping down tables located progressively nearer to the one where she and Mr. Greaves sat.

  “Any idea who might be responsible for her death, Mrs. Davies?” the detective asked.

  “A member of the Anti-Coolie Association?” she offered.

  He didn’t blink at the suggestion; it was not such a foolish idea, then.

  “I’d considered them myself,” he said. “Even though I can’t really see the men who rioted a few weeks back bothering with a prostitute.”

  “Perhaps they were the ones who’d been harrying her, though.” Celia recalled the man on the street who’d glared at Barbara after the meeting Monday night. Would her cousin have been attacked if she’d been alone? “It has to be someone from the Anti-Coolie Association, doesn’t it? They’re whipping up so much hatred against the Chinese that even my cousin has felt it.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” he said, “but I’ll find out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d like to start by talking to anybody who knew Li Sha,” he said. “Anyone who might know what happened in her final days. Where was she living?”

  “Sometimes she stayed at the Chinese Mission, although she did not like it there. But usually she stayed with Tom.”

  “Tom?”

  “The father of the child she was carrying,” Celia answered. “But Tom would never have done this.”

  “I’ll determine that,” Mr. Greaves said. “What is Tom’s full name, and where can I find him?”

  The pencil hovered over Nicholas Greaves’ notebook. Celia felt a chill, one that no amount of gripping her coffee cup would warm. “His full name is Tom Davies.” She paused. “He is my brother-in-law.”

  • • •

  Nick set down his pencil. “You could’ve told me earlier that Li Sha had been living with a member of your family, Mrs. Davies.”

  Her eyes had taken on a definite coolness. “He is a member of my husband’s family.”

  Not her family, but her husband’s. A distinction that suggested just how well she and Tom Davies got along.

  “You’ve got to admit it looks suspicious that you’ve be
en keeping his name from me.” He peered at her. Off to their left, the man who owned the coffeehouse was inching close again. “Care to come up with a different answer to who you think might have killed Li Sha?”

  Mrs. Davies’ cup clinked against the saucer as she set it down. “Just because we are not fast friends does not make Tom a killer. He cared for Li Sha. That much I know about him. He wouldn’t hurt her or their child.”

  “So he wasn’t the abusive customer who injured her last summer? Or the man who caused those recent bruises on her face?”

  “In the few months they have been together, I have never known him to hit Li Sha.”

  “Somebody did,” Nick said, “and not all that long ago.”

  Her gaze flickered; apparently she hadn’t pondered who’d given the girl the bruises before now. Willful ignorance, maybe.

  “I’ll have to question him,” Nick added.

  “Please don’t interview Tom without me there,” she said. “I owe it to my husband to support his brother as best I can. And I expect Tom will be devastated to hear Li Sha has died. He intended to marry her.”

  “Men may use these women, Mrs. Davies. They may even believe that they’re in love with them. But they never marry them.”

  “That is not always true.”

  She had to be thinking of her uncle and the Chinese woman who’d given him a daughter. So they’d married, then. Would’ve had to, in order for the girl to have inherited the house. But a personal example hardly meant that vague promises by her brother-in-law could be trusted.

  “Nonetheless,” Nick said, “love can easily turn to jealousy, and jealousy is a powerful—and sometimes violent—emotion.”

  “What or whom would Tom possibly be jealous of?”

  “Perhaps she’d found another man or had threatened to take the baby away. Whatever the reason, I’ll find that out, too.” Standing, he retrieved coins from a vest pocket and dropped them onto the table. “That ought to cover my part of the bill.” He hadn’t even touched his coffee.

  “Are you going to Tom’s right now?”