No Pity For the Dead Page 6

  “Mr. Greaves, really—”

  “I’m not joking, Mrs. Davies.”

  Celia Davies glared but pressed her lips together.

  “All right. I admit that Frank didn’t like Virgil Nash,” said Mrs. Hutchinson. “But the dislike arose purely because of the man’s resistance to the Second Street cut. Nothing that would lead to violence, if you’re telling me that it’s Mr. Nash buried in the cellar of my husband’s business.”

  Another cut. That was what he’d read in the newspaper. The men who owned property near the wharves at the foot of Second Street wanted to level the road between the city and the piers, which right now climbed steeply over Rincon Hill, in order to ease movement between the two points. Cuts had happened in numerous locations in town, attempts to tame the hills, and the people who lived alongside them often found their houses stranded twenty, thirty feet in the air above the new road. Rincon Hill, home to the fashionable, would lose its treasured isolation if the cut occurred. When the cut occurred, since not much stood in the way of development in San Francisco. Not even Virgil Nash.

  Nick eyed Jane Hutchinson, whose composure impressed him. Not so delicate, after all. “I gather the partners wanted the contract for the cut?”

  “Mr. Martin owns several lots near the Pacific Mail Company wharves,” she said, revealing how much she actually knew about Frank’s business and no longer pretending she didn’t. “There is also an expectation that a terminal for the transcontinental railroad will one day be located nearby.”

  All of which made Martin’s property along the southern end of Second Street potentially very valuable. “So, yes about that contract?”

  “Yes. Not only was the contract lucrative, but the value of their property was sure to increase.”

  Nick glanced between the two women, Mrs. Davies’ expression turning grim. “Has your husband come home late any evenings in recent weeks, Mrs. Hutchinson, looking disheveled?”

  She paled, a crack in that composure. “No later than usual.”

  “What about last night?”

  “I didn’t see him come in last evening.” She cast a hasty look at the woman seated at her side. Sharing secrets? “I was asleep.”

  “I have learned that Frank arrived home around ten,” said Mrs. Davies. “I spoke with Jane’s maid, and that is when she recalled hearing him return.”

  “I only suggested that you ask Hetty what time she brought me my soporific, Celia,” said Mrs. Hutchinson. “Not that you interrogate her.”

  “I apologize, Jane, but I wished to know.”

  Her answer didn’t seem to appease her friend. “Frank was with Abram Russell last evening, Detective,” she said, a twitch at the edge of her eye revealing a whole lot about what she thought of Frank’s outings with the man. She volunteered the names of their usual haunts, which included some of the finer restaurants and saloons in town. “You should talk to him.”

  “You can bet I will.”

  “You might also wish to ask Abram Russell about Mr. Nash.”

  “I might?” he asked.

  He waited for her to go on. He wouldn’t need to do any prompting; Jane Hutchinson looked perfectly content to spill all when it came to the man who kept her husband out late.

  “I hate to say this,” she actually said, “but Abram Russell gambles.”

  “Isn’t anything unusual about that around here, ma’am.”

  “I know, but he also loses badly.”

  And that wasn’t unusual, either. “Who told you?” Nick hardly thought Russell was sharing his gambling travails with her.

  “Frank did. Abram has asked my husband for money to cover debts, in fact. More than once. I suppose he’s asked others as well. But he’d never ask Jasper. He wouldn’t approve of Abram’s behavior. Jasper leads an abstemious life, and he doesn’t think well of men who give in to their baser instincts.”

  “Doesn’t Martin encourage his partners to socialize with their clients?” Nick asked. Supper, booze, women—the sorts of things that tied men together. Even wealthy men with families back at their fine homes.

  “Not to gamble,” said Mrs. Hutchinson. “He was opposed to that. He thought it a weakness, and if Jasper ever discovered that Abram had gambling debts and had been tapping people to cover them, he’d lose his position at the company.”

  “What’s his gambling got to do with Nash?” asked Nick.

  “Mr. Nash is wealthy. Abram might have asked him for money to cover his debts and been rebuffed,” Mrs. Hutchinson suggested a little too readily.

  “Which makes sense,” said Mrs. Davies, looking over at Nick. “When Mr. Nash refused to give Mr. Russell money, he killed the man.”

  Nick felt his patience stretching thin. “Mrs. Davies, we haven’t positively identified the dead man, and I’d prefer that you don’t jump to—”

  “Or Mr. Russell owed Mr. Nash . . . All right, he owed this dead person money and was tired of being pressed to pay off his debt. Is Mr. Russell the sort of man who might be violent, Jane?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hutchinson. “Maybe.”

  “Since you’ve put so much thought into this, Mrs. Davies, maybe you can tell me why Mr. Russell then proceeded to bury a corpse in the basement of the place where he worked?” asked Nick.

  That was the question that bothered him most. Why would any of the men, including Frank, have done that?

  A tiny crease formed between Mrs. Davies’ eyebrows. And then it eased. “It is most obvious, Mr. Greaves.”

  “It is?”

  “Absolutely. Because he could hardly be seen dragging a body through some of the busiest streets in town.”

  * * *

  “And now you’re going to explain why Abram Russell returned to the cellar last night and tried to dig up the body and remove it,” said Mr. Greaves, once Hetty had shut the front door behind them.

  “I—,” Celia started to reply, and he held up a hand to cut her short.

  “And don’t forget how Russell might’ve even learned that Owen and Matthews had found the body, when Russell was out drinking, gambling, eating—who knows what—with Frank Hutchinson last night,” he said. “If I’m supposed to believe Mrs. Hutchinson’s story.”

  “I presume that the killer might have wished to remove the corpse so that he could not be charged with murder,” she answered. “Given that it was foggy last evening, he may have believed he could move the body this time without being detected. But how he learned about the discoveryof the corpse . . . I have no idea.”

  Mr. Greaves settled his hat atop his head, leveling the brim with one sweep of his hand. “Well, thank goodness you don’t have all the answers. I was starting to worry about my job.”

  “Sarcasm is unnecessary, Mr. Greaves.”

  “Not with you it’s not.” He scanned the street, looking up Stockton in the direction of Telegraph Hill. The hills of the city were casting off the morning fog, but the buildings crowding the road kept Celia from seeing much more than the traffic and the stir of dust from a crew replacing cobbles. It was a pleasant spot, and Celia wondered at Frank’s desire to move to a finer house on California Street. This location would satisfy her, but she didn’t have a father to impress like Jane did.

  “Mrs. Hutchinson was awfully ready to accuse Russell and clear her husband of any suspicion, wasn’t she?” Mr. Greaves asked, cupping Celia’s elbow to help her down the front steps.

  “Jane is only doing what any loyal wife would.” They reached the planked walkway, and she removed her elbow from his grasp. “‘Words are easy, like the wind; faithful friends are hard to find.’ Or faithful wives, if you will.”

  “An interesting choice of quotes, ma’am.” He looked down at her, his eyes shaded by his hat. “A really interesting choice.”

  “It comes from Shakespeare.”

  “You know an awful lot of Shak
espeare.”

  “Courtesy of my uncle’s large library back in England.”

  His library had been a refuge from her aunt’s disfavor, which had seemed limitless to a young girl used to her parents’ unconditional love. When they had died, and she and her brother had gone to live with their aunt and uncle, books became a solace. She missed her uncle’s library, the aroma of the leather and paper, the whisper of her feet padding across the thick rugs, the tick of the clock on the mantel, the excitement of discovering a new world to escape into. The library was about all she missed of that house, however, what with her brother’s grave in the nearby church cemetery, the echo of his voice haunting the hallways.

  She banished her morbid thoughts. “Fortunately for me, my uncle did not believe that learning how to embroider was a better use of a young lady’s time.” In fact, he’d paid her very little attention at all.

  “What would he think of your interfering with police business?”

  “His opinion would be the same as yours—he would not approve. But Jane is my friend, as is Frank, and my uncle would comprehend my desire to defend my friends,” she said.

  “Just as loyal as Mrs. Hutchinson.”

  “I suppose I am,” said Celia. “I must ask you something, Mr. Greaves. You believe the man Owen saw fighting with Frank was Virgil Nash, don’t you? If the dead body turns out to be Mr. Nash, that is.”

  “I do.”

  “A fight does not mean Frank killed him.”

  “It’s a good place to start.”

  “You will speak to Mr. Russell, though, won’t you?” asked Celia. “And—although I hate to suggest this—Dan Matthews as well. His comment to Owen suggested he knew the dead man. He might have good information.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Mrs. Davies,” he said curtly.

  “My apologies for making you think I believed otherwise.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t know why I put up with you, ma’am.”

  “Neither do I, Mr. Greaves,” she said, and was quite certain he chuckled.

  “You might be glad to know that Martin isn’t going to press charges against either Matthews or Owen. But Matthews has been sacked, and I expect Owen will be next.”

  “Oh dear.” Now where would she find Owen employment? Frank had been reluctant to hire a boy most people considered a street urchin, and had only done so as a favor to her. Owen had let them both down. “He feared that would happen.”

  “Maybe next time he gets a job, he won’t go digging for gold in his boss’ cellar.”

  * * *

  “I already told that other officer that I don’t have anything to say about that dead fellow,” insisted Dan Matthews, glowering from where he sat in Nick’s office.

  He had a broad face, small eyes, and was heavily muscled from carrying hods and working with his hands. There was a scar along his chin, and he favored his right arm as though his shoulder hurt him. If Nick had run into him in an alleyway, he’d have been nervous; Dan Matthews didn’t look like the sort of fellow who’d shy away from a fight if given the slightest reason to brawl.

  “Cassidy and I was workin’ in the cellar like Mr. Martin wanted, and we found that body. That’s all we was doin’.”

  “Let me correct that statement,” said Nick, not amused by the man’s insistence on repeating himself. “You convinced Cassidy to help you dig for gold, which you thought was buried there. Sounds to me like you were committing burglary.”

  “He’s lyin’.”

  “Owen Cassidy happens to be somebody I trust.”

  “That kid? Heck, it was his idea all along. Yep, it was. His idea to dig down there,” said Matthews, looking pleased that he’d come up with the notion to finger Owen. “Nope. Weren’t my idea at all. You should be questioning him, not me.”

  “Let’s try this. Let’s say I believe it was all innocent, what you two were doing in that basement,” said Nick. “And your story is simply that you were down in the cellar digging around to level it before laying bricks and then happened to uncover a decaying body. Here’s something I find interesting, Mr. Matthews. When that happened, you cried out, ‘Why won’t he leave me be?’ according to Cassidy. What did you mean?”

  “Cassidy’s lyin’ about that, too.” Matthews rolled his right shoulder, the movement familiar to Nick. Was there a wound from an old battle on that shoulder? Did it throb when the fog rolled in like it had last night?

  “Rotten kid,” Matthews added, and reached up to squeeze his shoulder.

  “The war?” Nick asked, though the question wasn’t relevant to his investigation.

  The man looked at him with eyes gone suddenly blank, focused on another time and place.

  “Vicksburg,” Matthews finally said.

  “Bad, that one,” said Nick. “The Wilderness.”

  Matthews returned to the here and now. “You there?”

  “I was.” And he could feel the air, hear the sounds of the battlefield, smell it still. The damp. The stink of gunpowder and spilled guts. The acrid stench of fear.

  “Lost a cousin at that one,” Matthews said quietly.

  “I lost my closest friend.” A rush of anger swept over him. He’d never known a better man than Jack Hutchinson. A much better man than his cousin Frank. It should be Jack who was alive, and his cousin who’d bled out his life on the trampled dirt beneath a canopy of shattered trees. But that wasn’t how life worked. And Nick had spent the intervening years learning and relearning the unfairness of it all.

  And you, Meg. To have lost you, too, Meg . . .

  But his sister couldn’t be recovered, either, and Nick had become a cop so that he could wrench some justice out of this unforgiving and heartless world.

  “Too many men died. Too many good men,” said Matthews.

  He shook his head somberly and dropped his hand, forming a fist to thump against his leg. At the army hospital, Nick had once seen a soldier, his leg sawed off and his head swathed in so many bandages that only one staring eye was uncovered, do something similar. They all had their tics, the pain and terror seeking a way out of their wounded bodies.

  “So how about you tell me the truth, Mr. Matthews, for the sake of all those good men?” Nick asked. “Did you return last night to check if you knew the man you’d unearthed? Take your key, unlock the door, and go down to the cellar for another peek?”

  “Heck no!” Matthews reached into the pocket of his coat and removed a large key. He tossed it to Nick. “It’s a key to the offices. You can bet I won’t ever be going back there to return it.”

  “You won’t be going back there to return it because you’re not working there anymore.”

  Matthews cursed. “I don’t know nothing. And tell John Kelly that.”

  “Why should I tell him that?” asked Nick. “He’s your brotherin-law.”

  “Don’t think I’ll be talking to him ever again.”

  Nick thought that was likely true.

  He examined the steel skeleton key in his hand. “Who gave you this?”

  “John, of course.”

  So John Kelly had a key. That was one. And apparently Dan Matthews was permitted to borrow it. That made two. “Who else has keys to the offices?” he asked, setting it on his desk.

  “The partners, of course. I don’t know who else.”

  Three, four, and five. “Does Kelly lend this key”—Nick tapped it—“to you, because you’re his brother-in-law and supposedly trustworthy?”

  “He’ll give it to whoever’s working late that night.”

  Did Martin know? He seemed too prudent to allow any of the workers to have use of a key to his offices. “Seems awfully trusting of him.”

  The other man shrugged.

  “Matthews, I’m going to ask you again.” Nick leaned forward. “Did you know the fellow you found?”

  He hesi
tated. “I can’t be sure.”

  “What if I told you it was Virgil Nash?”

  A bead of sweat broke on Matthews’ upper lip, and his eyes widened. Not with astonishment, though, but with alarm. “Shit.”

  “That name bother you?”

  “Honest to God, I only heard of the fella. Heard rumors around town that he caused all sorts of trouble for some of the miners back in Nevada, but I never did know him myself.”

  “What sort of trouble?” asked Nick.

  “Claim jumping.”

  How about that.

  Matthews’ small eyes glimmered in the light of the overhead gaslight. “But you know what else, Detective? Jasper Martin wanted him dead. I heard old Martin cussin’ him out one day. I did. Yes, I did. Told Mr. Russell he hoped Nash would up and die. Whaddya think of that?”

  “I think that’s very interesting, Mr. Matthews,” said Nick, mildly disappointed that Matthews hadn’t overheard Frank making that wish. “Very interesting.”

  * * *

  Celia’s hand hung suspended in the air, prepared to knock on the Kellys’ door. She dreaded this encounter, absolutely dreaded it. A neighbor, out on her front porch thumping a floor cloth with a heart-shaped rug beater, looked over. Celia smiled at the woman and rapped upon the peeling paint of the wood.

  A few moments later, a red-faced Maryanne answered.

  “Mrs. Davies, you’re back already to check on me?” she asked, a hand pressed to the swell of her belly. From somewhere inside the house came the yowl of her young daughter.

  “Might I come in, Mrs. Kelly?” she asked. “I need to speak to you about your brother.”

  Maryanne’s gaze narrowed. “Which one?”

  “Daniel. He is in trouble with the law.”

  Maryanne’s indrawn breath came in a jagged rush, and she pressed her hand harder to her belly. “Come inside. And don’t mind the mess.”

  The interior of the narrow house—two rooms plus kitchen downstairs, three tiny rooms up—was dark, the proximity of the neighboring homes blocking the sunshine from reaching the few windows. The front room, which served as a parlor, seemed to have accumulated every piece of cast-off furniture and utilitarian item that would not fit in the remainder of the home.