M
y bruised and bandaged face caused a sensation when I entered the office half an hour later. For once, Hubert Perkins was too dumbstruck to comment on some imagined fault, while several clients waiting to see a partner stared at me as if I’d just stepped out of a boxing ring. Nodding a polite greeting to the group, I made my way with as much dignity as I could muster toward my office. Behind me, a dozen pairs of eyes bored into my back until I reached the door and went inside. I had just removed my coat and hat when Robert burst in without bothering to knock.
“You look like hell, Sarah. Why didn’t you stay home today?”
“You always know just the right thing to say, Robert,” I told him, sinking gratefully into the chair behind my desk. “And you know well and good why I couldn’t stay home. Mr. Godfrey and I had an important meeting this morning.”
“Oh, was that this morning? I’d forgotten.” Naturally, he’d done no such thing. In fact, I suspected that was his real reason for
barging into my office. “So, how did it go?” He made a poor attempt to appear casual as he turned a chair around and straddled it.
“The meeting went very well, thank you. Some points in the contract required clarification, but in the end I think Finney’s will do nicely for my client.”
I thought Robert looked a bit disappointed, although I wasn’t sure why. I wondered if he were annoyed that my alliance with Pierce Godfrey was turning out to be a success.
“Oh, yes?” he said, feigning indifference. “I’m glad to hear it.” He started to get up, but I stopped him.
“Actually, Robert, I just received some disturbing news.” I explained what I’d heard at the hospital. “According to the nurse I spoke to, there seems to be a question of foul play.”
Robert stared at me blankly, and I realized he’d never met the accountant. Even after I explained who Arlen was, he still looked vacant.
“Don’t you see?” I said in exasperation. “Arlen is the third person connected with the Women and Children’s Hospital to die in less than two weeks. And I’m sure something was bothering him about its finances.” I went on to describe our tour the previous Monday, including the accountant’s apparent concern over the books.
“You think that has something to do with his death?”
“I don’t know it for a fact. It just seems strange he should die so soon afterward. He really was upset that day.”
“Which means absolutely nothing. Good lord, Sarah, not a day goes by that there aren’t any number of things that disturb me. Only you could turn something so ordinary into a case for murder. Actually, three murders!”
The wretched man was impossible. “All right, then—how do you explain the high levels of hyoscyamine found in Josiah Halsey’s
system? And don’t try to tell me he took it by accident, because there was far too much of the stuff in his system to have found its way there by mistake.”
He stared at me in bewilderment. “What the devil is hyoscyamine?”
I described the alkaloid as best I could. “It’s commonly called jimsonweed. Evidently it grows wild in the countryside, so anyone would have access to it.”
“As long as they knew what to look for.”
“Well, Halsey’s killer did.”
Finally, it seemed, I’d said something to make my colleague pause. It was easy to follow Robert’s thoughts as they raced across his broad face.
“All right, I’ll concede that miserable excuse for a minister was probably killed—God knows he must have had enough enemies. But,” he said, raising his hand as I started to interrupt, “I see no reason to believe it has anything to do with this Arlen fellow. Anyway, you have nothing but rumor to back up your notion of foul play. I assume there’ll be an autopsy. Until then, I suggest we keep our imaginations in check.” He regarded me from beneath furrowed brows. “An exercise you would do well to practice more often, Sarah.”
He was out of the room before I could come up with a suitable response. I sat for several minutes gazing despondently at the mountain of files piled on my desk. It was growing increasingly difficult to muster even a modicum of enthusiasm for the repetitive drudgery that had become my job. Still, the stack would only grow higher the longer I ignored it.
Resigned, I uncovered the Caligraph machine and got to work. Not surprisingly, my fingers seemed unusually clumsy today, and my thoughts kept wandering back to Octavius Sloan’s thinly veiled
comments about Pierce and Caroline Godfrey. He’d described their relationship as “strained.” Well, I had the evidence of my own eyes to support the fact that they’d been anything but friendly. But why?
By midafternoon I could stand it no longer. Waiting until Perkins was absent from his desk by the door, I gathered up my coat and hat and slipped out of the office. Fortunately, I was able to catch a horsecar, and after only one transfer, I walked the few remaining blocks to the end of Bay Street. I hadn’t given much thought to what excuse I’d give for returning to Finney’s only hours after leaving, but something told me my story wouldn’t have to be particularly convincing. From what Pierce had told me, Octavius Sloan was always amenable to a good gossip.
As it turned out, my feeble excuse about having lost a glove was hardly out of my mouth before the office manager, beaming from ear to ear, led me to a chair beside his desk. I was offered tea, which I accepted, and some rather stale-looking cookies, which I politely declined.
Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Now then, Miss Woolson, you must tell me everything. Whatever you said in that meeting this morning has Finney in a tailspin.”
While it was unethical to divulge specifics of the meeting, I had, after all, come here in search of my own information.
Quid pro quo,
I thought, and wondered how best to satisfy his curiosity without overstepping professional boundaries.
“I fail to see why Mr. Finney should be upset,” I said carefully. “Portions of the contract required clarification and, in one or two instances, financial recalculation.”
Sloan slapped his knee in approval. “I knew it! You questioned his prices, didn’t you? I’ve been after him for ages to be more competitive. His only reply is, ‘Finney’s builds the best and charges accordingly.’” Sloan perfectly mimicked his employer’s Irish brogue.
“Stubborn as a mule, that man. Now a woman has proven me right. Who would have thought?”
He eyed me speculatively as he nibbled on a cookie. “Now, why did you really come back here, Miss Woolson? And, please, don’t tell me again about a missing glove. You weren’t wearing gloves this morning.”
I smiled. No, I hadn’t been wearing gloves. I rarely did, as a matter of fact, for the very real reason that I was always losing them.
“You’ve seen through my little ruse, Mr. Sloan. Actually, I was curious about something you said this morning—about Mr. Godfrey’s relationship with his sister-in-law You seemed to imply that it was less than friendly.”
Sloan raised thin eyebrows and studied me speculatively. It was not difficult to deduce his thoughts; he was torn between engaging in a good gossip and speaking ill of a prized client.
I had anticipated this reluctance and had prepared a response. “Mr. Sloan, I give you my word that anything you say about this matter will remain between us. My interest is purely personal.” At least for now, I silently added.
This seemed to be the reassurance Sloan was looking for. “That is good of you, Miss Woolson. It would hardly do if it became known that I had told tales out of school, now would it?” He settled back in his chair. “So, you are interested in the infamous Godfrey affair.”
“Excuse me?”
His eyes twinkled. “The affair was conducted most discreetly, Miss Woolson. Few people knew about it.”
“Are you saying Mr. Godfrey and his sister-in-law were—that is, that they …”
“Oh, yes, Miss Woolson, that is exactly what I’m saying. Whether or not Mr. Leonard Godfrey was aware of the, er, close friendship
between his brother and his wife, I cannot say. Since the two brothers appear to be on good terms, I suspect he did not.”
“But you still haven’t explained the reason for Mr. Godfrey and his sister-in-law’s falling out.”
He shrugged thin shoulders. “As to that, I cannot say. The maitre d’ of the Palace Hotel, who is an acquaintance of mine, happened to see the two engaged in a heated, er, discussion, in one of the hotel’s private dining alcoves. From what he overheard, he assumed the two were terminating their relationship on less than affable terms. In fact, Mrs. Godfrey actually slapped her brother-in-law before storming from the room. My friend said he would not soon forget the look on her face as she demanded that he summon her a cab.”
“I see. When did your friend witness this exchange?”
He stopped to consider. “It must be close to a year now. Since then, well, I’ve heard rumors describing the polite, but icy, rapport between the two.”
As I had seen at the charity dinner, I thought. Aloud, I said, “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Sloan.”
Again, his eyes twinkled as he drained the last of his tea. “And I appreciate the clever way you got the best of Henry Finney, Miss Woolson. I shall have uncommon fun with him about it for weeks, I assure you.”
Octavius Sloan was still chuckling as I left the shipyard office and started for Rincon Hill. It was after five o’clock, too late to return to the law firm, and frankly I had much to think about. An hour later, I was still mulling over Sloan’s surprising revelations as I approached my home to find Eddie Cooper, the young cabbie who had done such a splendid job following Bert Corrigan to Killy Doyle’s residence, parked out front.
“I’ve been waitin’ for you, miss,” he announced, jumping down from atop the brougham’s driver’s seat.
In the daylight, I could see the lad was no more than fourteen or fifteen, an inch or two shorter than myself and very slender. His long, thin face would have been quite pleasant-looking had it not been for a scattering of pock marks and a ragged two-inch scar along his left cheek. These defects hardly mattered, though, once you noticed the boy’s eyes. A rich, chocolate brown, they were alert and curious, glinting with quick intelligence. His hair, unevenly cut and reaching to his shoulders, appeared surprisingly clean. As did his patched and oversized clothes. Although undoubtedly as poor as Job’s turkey, the boy seemed to be no stranger to soap and water.
“I got news,” he said, sounding very pleased with himself. “I watched the house we followed that plug-ugly to last night, and he and the gent what owns the place pulled foot out of there before dawn this morning.”
I stared at the boy. “Are you saying that Killy Doyle and Bert Corrigan went somewhere together?”
“Yes, ma‘am. Took off with suitcases and one of them fancy cases lawyers and such carry. They ain’t comin’ back, neither. The gent, Mr. Doyle, was rippin’ mad. He told that big ruffian it was all his fault they had to do a bunk.”
“Eddie, this is important,” I said urgently. “Did you hear them say where they were going?”
“I knew you’d want to know, miss, so I got close as I could without bein’ seen. But they didn’t say nothin’ about where they was off to. Just took off in a hack like the devil himself was after ’em.”
This was very bad news. I kicked myself for marching up to Doyle’s door the night before. I’d foolishly tipped off our prey. Now they’d disappeared, and with them perhaps my last hope of putting together a case for Lily Mankin.
Hiding my disappointment, I praised Eddie for his initiative and, pressing a coin into his hand, asked if he could return the following
morning. I explained we would be moving a woman and her family to the new hospital on Battery Street and that it might require several trips.
His eyes lit with pleasure, and I guessed it was not solely because of the extra fares he would earn.
“You name the time, miss, and I’ll be here,” he promised, then eagerly asked if I wanted him to keep watch on Doyle’s house again that night.
Explaining that would be like watching the barn after the horse had been stolen, I declined his offer. With a tip of his cap, Eddie assured me I could count on him to perform any and all jobs, especially any that might result in capturing those “bad eggs.”
As I watched the lad urge his horse into an easy trot, I somehow knew that I could.
I
saw my friend George at the police station this afternoon, and he told me about the accountant’s death,” Samuel said as we drank coffee in the library after dinner. The house was blissfully quiet. The children were in bed, and everyone else had gone out for the evening.
“Yes, Lucius Arlen. Did George happen to mention why they’re treating his death as a possible homicide?”
“Evidently, that’s what Arlen himself told his landlady. The police have taken some of his vomit—apparently there was a good deal of that—to be analyzed. And of course an autopsy’s been ordered.”
“And still the police refuse to connect this latest murder to the others,” I said in disbelief. “Well, George’s superiors may be blind as bats, but that needn’t stop him from finding the truth.”