SCANDAL ON RINCON HILL by Shirley Tallman

SCANDAL ON RINCON HILL by Shirley Tallman 

 

A Sarah Woolson Mystery

 

A body is found just blocks from attorney Sarah Woolson’s peaceful Rincon Hill home. Sarah is soon on the case, but 19th-century San Francisco is rapidly thrown into a state of panic as a gruesome crime spree begins to take hold of the city.

 

Engaged in a life or death struggle to find the murderer, Sarah becomes embroiled in the erotic escapades of the town’s infamous high-end brothels, a proper Anglican church, Darwin’s shocking theory of evolution, and a vicious killer who will stop at nothing to achieve a scandalous objective

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CHAPTER ONE

The nightmare began early on the morning of Sunday, December 4th.

Upon reflection, perhaps I ought to rephrase this statement. By nightmare, I do not refer to the frightening dreams each of us suffers upon occasion. Rather I am describing the horrific events which sent ripples of fear through the inhabitants of Rincon Hill – nay, through the entire city of San Francisco – shortly before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 1881. Unarguably, the murder which set the horror in motion that morning was a tragedy, yet none of us could have possibly foreseen the carnage which was yet to follow.

I had retired late the previous evening, and was in a deep sleep when I was abruptly awakened by an odd noise. Sitting bolt upright in my bed, it was several moments before my groggy mind comprehended the source of that sound; some fool was throwing rocks at my window!

Pushing back my bedcovers I arose and, without bothering to pull on slippers or robe, hurried across the room to the window facing the west side of the house. I was reaching for the edge of the drapes when another handful of pebbles bounced against the pane. By now thoroughly awake, and not a little irritated, I angrily pulled up the sash.

Below me, a pool of light emanated from a kerosene lantern held aloft by the dark figure of a man. Regarding him in some surprise, I realized he appeared to be wearing the dark blue frockcoat (appearing nearly black in the dim light) of the San Francisco police department. I should have known, I thought, expelling a sigh of relief. The man peering up at my window was George Lewis, my brother Samuel’s good friend and a sergeant on the above mentioned force.

“George,” I called down to him, “would you kindly explain why you are throwing rocks at my window? And in the middle of the night?”

“I apologize, Miss Sarah,” he said in a loud whisper. “Your back fence prevented me from reaching Samuel’s window. A body’s been found in the Second Street Cut, and I knew he’d want to be the first reporter on the scene. Would you – could you please wake him?”

I thought for a moment I had misheard. “Did you say you found a body just two blocks from our house?”

“Yes, and I’m in something of a hurry. I have to return there as quickly as possible.” His voice grew more urgent. “I hate to bother you, Miss Sarah, but would you please tell your brother?”

I made up my mind on the instant. “Yes, I’ll fetch him right away!”

In my bare feet, and still not bothering with a robe, I left my room and padded quickly down the hall. The way was but dimly lit by several small sconce candles hung on the walls, requiring me to watch carefully where I stepped in order to avoid the squeakier floorboards. Samuel’s bedroom was located at the rear of our house, which overlooked the back garden. The gnarled old oak tree that grew just outside his window had for years provided my brother with a convenient method for coming and going without our parents being any the wiser. Even now I knew he occasionally utilized the tree for this purpose, especially if he were pursuing a newsworthy story.

Unknown to my mother and father, or any other member of the family, for that matter, Samuel – who had completed his legal education some five years previous – had invented endless excuses to postpone taking his California Bar examinations. In those intervening years, he had become far more interested in the life of a crime journalist, for which he had unarguably been blessed with considerable talent.

The reason for this subterfuge was because our father, the Honorable Horace T. Woolson, Superior Court Judge for the County of San Francisco, nurtured a deep prejudice, not to mention mistrust, for anyone in the newspaper business. It was Samuel’s profound hope that Papa would never discover the real reason why he continued to avoid taking that last step toward becoming an attorney. He had, you see, been busy forging a career in journalism under the name Ian Fearless, the noted San Francisco crime reporter much in demand by a variety of publications, ranging from the Police Gazette to the city’s well-established daily newspapers. George Lewis was right. Samuel would undoubtedly do anything to scoop the town’s other reporters when it came to a good murder.

Not stopping to knock, I boldly entered my brother’s room and crossed to his bed. Samuel was an especially sound sleeper – it was a family joke that he’d even managed to sleep through several significant earthquakes – and I was forced to shake him by the shoulders before he could be roused from his slumber.

“What the hell?” he grumbled, pulling the bedcovers over his tousled head. “Go away and let me sleep.”

“Samuel, wake up,” I said, continuing to shake him. “George is waiting for you outside. They’ve found a body in the Cut. He thought you’d want to cover the story.”

At this, he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?”

By the faint glow of candlelight spilling through the open door to the hall, I could just make out the hands of his clock.

“It’s a few minutes after two o’clock,” I told him. “Hurry up and get dressed if you want an exclusive story.”

Without waiting for him to agree, I scurried back to my own room. Hastily, I tore off my nightgown and pulled on the first dress that came to hand. Not bothering with petticoats or stockings, I threw on a pair of old boots and tossed a long, hooded wrap over my shoulders. I gathered my thick mop of tangled hair into a bun as I raced down the stairs and, grabbing hold of one of the lanterns kept at the ready in a downstairs cupboard, flung open the front door. Leaving it slightly ajar behind me, I joined a startled-looking George Lewis who stood waiting on the street.

“Miss Sarah,” he protested, “You can’t mean to come with us. The victim is, that is it’s not a pleasant sight.”

“Never mind about that, George,” I said, straightening my cape so that it covered me more securely. “You should know by now that I am not faint at heart.”

Before George could find more reasons to object to my presence, my brother came flying out of the house, pulling on his topcoat with one hand, while attempting to balance a note pad and his own lantern in the other.

“I might have known you’d insist on coming along,” he said, spying me standing next to his friend.

“I tried to tell her she should stay here,” George said, regarding me unhappily. “Where I’m taking you is no fit place for a lady.”

Samuel gave a dry little laugh. “Save your breath, George. You have as much chance of stopping her as you’d have holding back a wild boar.” Striking a match, he lit both our lamps, then blew out the flame. “All right, my b’hoy, lead us to this body of yours.”

George flashed me one more uncertain look, then silently turned and set off at a brisk pace toward the Harrison Street Bridge. This structure, which the noted author Charles Warren Stoddard referred to as “a bridge celebrated as a triumph of architectural ungainliness,” had been erected to span Harrison Street across the gap caused by the infamous Second Street Cut. Many San Franciscans – my father and I included – considered the cut a greedy and ill-advised scheme which had signaled the beginning of the end to Rincon Hill, until then one of the city’s finest districts.

Tonight, the bridge loomed before us like a long, graceless serpent, barely distinguishable against the dark sky. A god-awful eyesore, Papa was fond of saying, and I must admit that I heartily agreed with this sentiment.

As we drew nearer, I spied a one-horse chaise parked to the right side of the road leading onto the bridge. A man I assumed to be the driver, moved out of the shadows and signaled to us with his lantern, then turned and directed us to yet another light burning on the dirt slope below the bridge. Stepping closer, I could make out the figures of three men standing some thirty feet beneath us. The man waving the lantern up and down was wearing a police uniform. Two more dark forms stood off to the side, silently watching our approach

“The men standing next to officer Kostler are the ones who discovered the body,” explained George. “They were crossing the bridge when they heard screams coming from below. They say they saw the figure of a man scrambling up the opposite embankment. When they investigated, they found the victim lying under the bridge with his head bashed in. They sent the driver to summon the police, then agreed to wait with the body while I fetched Samuel.” In the lantern light, I could make out a wry smile. “Kostler owes me a favor, so I trust him to keep his trap shut about my little side trip to your house.

Admonishing us to watch our step, George picked his way cautiously down the eastern embankment of the overpass, a precarious, hundred-foot side hill prone to mud slides during the rainy season, and sloping steeply to the bottom of the “cut” and the redirected Second Street below.

About a third of the way down, I spied a dark, unrecognizable shape sprawled in the dirt, partly hidden by one of the concrete bridge supports. As George held up his lantern, it was possible to make out the line of a leg, and just above it, a hand. Drawing closer and raising my own lantern, I could see that the victim was a man and that he lay face down, his arms stretched out as if attempting to ward off the blows to his head. His legs were flung out to either side of his trunk at awkward angles.

It shames me to admit to such squeamishness, but I confess that I recoiled at the sight of the man’s wounds. His dark hair was matted with blood, and the right side of his face had been battered in beyond recognition. As Samuel drew closer, the combined light of the three lamps revealed a three-foot section of two-by-four laying a half dozen feet above the body on the steep slope. From the blood-soaked look of it, I concluded that this must be the murder weapon. George obviously concurred, although he made no move to pick it up, or indeed to move it.

“He hasn’t been touched,” Officer Kostler told his superior. “And no one else has come along, or even crossed the bridge for that matter.”

One of the two men standing apart from the policeman regarded George in some distress. His round, full face appeared very pale in the spill of lantern light.

“It’s late and damn cold,” he said, his voice none too steady. “Can we be on our way now? We know nothing more about this horrible crime than we’ve already told you.”

“Just a minute,” said George. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pencil and notebook. After jotting down their names and addresses, he informed the two men that they could leave. “But we may want to speak to you again at a future date, so please inform us if you plan to leave town.”

The men nodded gratefully, then scampered up the hillside as quickly as they dared, given the dim light and unsure footing.

When they were gone, Samuel moved closer and felt the man’s face. “He’s still warm, and this is a chilly evening. Most likely he was murdered within the past half hour.”

“Yes,” George agreed. “That skews with the witnesses’s account. Too bad they weren’t here a few minutes earlier. Might have scared off whoever did this and saved the bloke’s life.”

My brother peered down at the sad figure who, a short time earlier, had been as alive as any of us standing here now. “Who is he?” he asked his friend. “Have you gone through his pockets?”

George nodded. “That was the first thing I did when I realized the poor sod was beyond mortal help. Whoever did him in took his wallet, but left his gold pocket watch and the two gold rings he’s wearing. There were a few bills stuffed into one of his pockets. Of course it’s hard to tell if anything else is missing until we speak to his family.”

“So you think it was robbery then?” asked Samuel.

“Looks like it,” George replied. “Probably a case of the poor bugger being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“But George, that makes no sense,” I said. “Why would a thief leave behind cash and valuable jewelry?”

“That’s easy enough to explain, Miss Sarah,” George said with a cheerless smile. “The knuck sees this fellow crossing the bridge and decides to take advantage of the opportunity. He takes the mark’s wallet, but before he can grab anything else he hears a carriage on the bridge and the sound of voices. He very sensibly skedaddles off before anyone has time to see his face.”

“I don’t know,” I said, still not convinced. “Why kill the poor man? Surely the thief ran little risk of being identified on such a dark night. Why not just render his victim unconscious, rob him, then leave before he came to? Surely there was no need to batter the man’s head in, er—“ Out of my side vision I caught a glimpse of the victim’s battered upper torso and swallowed hard. “—like that.”

“Who knows, Miss Sarah?” said George. “Sad to say, we see this sort of thing all to often. These rounders care little enough about their victims. Just as soon kill them as not.”

I knew what he said was true, but I continued to be troubled by the excessively violent nature of the crime.

Before George could respond to these concerns, Samuel nudged my arm and nodded up the slope. Following his gaze, I spied a stout figure making his careful way down the hill with the aid of a kerosene lantern. The light swung back and forth in front of his face, and I was dismayed to recognize the newcomer as our father.

As Papa half-slid his way toward us, I saw that he was wearing the old topcoat he kept on the back porch, along with the gardening boots which were also stored there. I suspected that beneath his coat he might well be wearing nothing more than his nightshirt. His hair was mussed, and he looked none too happy. I glanced quickly at Samuel, who shared my surprise at this unlikely addition to our group.

“Papa,” I called out. “What are you doing here?”

My father did not immediately respond, seemingly busy saving his breath for the arduous descent. Even when he finally reached us, he spent several moments taking in deep gulps of air before endeavoring to answer my question.

“I heard the two of you leave the house,” he said, once his breathing had steadied. “You made enough noise to wake the dead. Couldn’t imagine why in tarnation you were stomping hell bent down the stairs in the middle of the night. I managed to follow your lanterns, although there was no need for you to walk so blasted fast!”

His eyes fell on the crumpled body lying beneath one of the bridge supports, and he stopped short. “Who is this?” His voice was less strident as he regarded the unfortunate man.

George was the first to answer. “We don’t know his identity yet, sir. Whoever did this made off with his wallet.”

My father moved closer to the body. He appeared to be paying particular attention to the man’s clothing and shoes. For the first time, I realized the victim was wearing evening dress; he had evidently attended the theater, or a soiree of some kind that evening.

“May I turn his head?” Papa asked George. “I’ll try not to disturb anything else.”

George nodded, but seemed puzzled why my father should make such a request. We all watched silently as Papa pushed up his sleeves and gently moved the man’s head until he could more clearly see his face. Bringing his lantern closer, he studied the victim’s features for several long moments.

“I think I know this man,” he said at last, stepping almost reverently back from the body. “His condition makes it difficult to be certain, but I believe his name is Nigel Loran, no, wait, it was Logan, Nigel Logan. If I am not mistaken he is – was, rather – a botanist or biologist of some sort. My wife and I met him for the first time last night at a party we attended in honor of the Reverend Erasmus Mayfield’s twenty-fifth ordination anniversary. Mayfield is the rector at the Church of Our Savior.”

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Logan lives?” George asked Papa. “It can’t have been too far away for him to walk home so late at night, instead of taking a cab.”

My father thought for a moment before replying, “I believe I heard someone say that he had a room in a boarding house on Harrison Street, several blocks beyond the bridge. I seem to recall that he taught science at the University of San Francisco. You know, the college run by the Jesuits?”

Indeed I did know. This renowned institution had been established in 1855 by the Jesuit Fathers. Located on Market Street between Fourth and Fifth, it was now widely regarded as one of the city’s foremost academies of higher education. If Mr. Logan had taught classes there, he must have been an accomplished scholar.

“Tell me more about the party you attended last night if you would, Judge Woolson,” requested George. “I’ve sent for some of my men and a wagon to transport the body, but while we wait I’d like to hear about this Logan fellow.”

“I can’t say that I know much more than I’ve already told you,” Papa said thoughtfully. “In fact, the only reason I remember the young man at all is because of the argument he had with Reverend Mayfield.”

“And what argument was that, sir?” asked George, once again opening his notebook and moving closer to Samuel’s lantern. Pencil poised, he regarded Papa with keen interest.

“It was just the usual folderol between the church and the scientific world, this time over Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution.” Papa harrumphed, displaying grave misgivings that the human race could possibly have developed from a lower form of animal species. “Logan began quoting from Darwin’s latest epic, Descent of Man, and not surprisingly Reverend Mayfield took exception to this reference, as well he should. I’m sorry to say the two of them went at it hammer and tong for some little time before our host managed to break them up.” He chuckled. “I thought for awhile the two might actually come to blows over the idiotic book.”

“You said the Reverend Mayfield became upset?” inquired George, looking up from his pad.

“I’d say he was a damn sight more than upset,” answered Papa, still smiling at the memory. Then, for the first time he regarded the younger man as if just now realizing where his questions were leading.

“Wait a minute, George,” he went on. “It’s true that both men were agitated, but if you’re trying to imply that Reverend Mayfield was so angry he followed Logan and murdered him because he disagreed with his beliefs, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve known Erasmus Mayfield for fifteen years, and he’s one of the few ministers of my acquaintance that I consider to be a man of God.” He nodded toward the crumpled body. “I assure you, sir, that Reverend Mayfield is incapable of violence, much less the degree of brutality visited upon this unfortunate soul.”

George raised a hand, obviously in an attempt to calm my father. “Please, Judge Woolson, I didn’t mean to imply that I thought Mr., er, the Reverend Mayfield killed Mr. Logan. I’m just trying to collect information about the victim, particularly the time leading up to his murder. It occurred to me that maybe someone else, someone who overheard the argument say, might have been so het up about Nigel Logan’s support of Mr. Darwin’s book, that he thought to teach the young scientist a lesson. Maybe that lesson went too far and the man accidentally killed the fellow.”

I considered this highly unlikely and said so. “Come now, George, churches have been railing against Darwin’s hypothesis for over twenty years. I can’t imagine anyone at the Tremaine’s party becoming so distraught over Logan’s argument with Reverend Mayfield, that he would bludgeon the man to death.”

Samuel nodded in agreement. “Sarah’s right. Excuse the pun, George, but the severity of those blows to Logan’s head strike me as overkill. This attack has the feel of a more personal crime, as if the killer bore an intense grudge against the fellow.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” commented George, unconvinced by this argument. “I see cases like this every day, more than I care to recall. And I’ve come across many a rough who’ll beat a man to death for the sheer love of the kill. Doesn’t seem to matter if he knows the bloke or not.”

Samuel seemed about to offer another objection, but was distracted by the sound of a police wagon clattering across the bridge. Papa, Samuel and I remained standing by the body, while George and Officer Kostler went to meet the men. A few minutes later, they returned with three uniformed policemen, two of them carrying a stretcher.

Before George would allow them to move the body, however, he asked one of the new arrivals to sketch the scene, paying particular attention to the position of the corpse in relationship to the bridge support, as well as its rough distance from the top of the dirt embankment.

“This isn’t exactly police procedure,” he commented, directing a self-conscious look at my father. “But Fuller here has a good eye and does a bang up job with a sketch pad. I find it helps me remember the condition of the body and where we found it. I’ve heard that some police departments Back East have actually started to take photographic pictures of crime scenes, but so far we haven’t been able to convince the commissioner that it’s worth the expense.”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, George,” I said, regarding him with newfound respect. Ever since he had made sergeant earlier that year, he seemed to be developing into a fine detective. “Imagine how helpful it would be to have a true representation of a murder site, one that could be examined at a later date for missed or overlooked evidence?”

Papa looked skeptical. “Considering all the time it takes for one of these photographer fellows to get a halfway decent likeness of their subject, I can’t see the process being of much use to the police for years to come, if ever.”

With this somewhat cynical pronouncement, my father turned and commenced the laborious climb back to the top of the embankment. Samuel and I waited where we were until Fuller completed his sketch (which was remarkably good considering how quickly it had been rendered), then watched as the remaining policemen loaded the victim’s body onto the stretcher. Given the steep grade leading up to the waiting police wagon, George and Samuel were forced to lend a hand in order to prevent the stretcher bearers from losing their precarious foothold and sliding down the hill, taking their heavy burden with them.

I followed this procession, steadying my lantern in an effort to see where I was placing my boots. Even then it became necessary for Samuel to take hold of my hand and pull me up the final half dozen feet or so. As he did, I was dismayed to see a taxi pull to an abrupt stop by the side of the bridge. I recognized the man who exited the carriage as Ozzie Foldger, a crime reporter who frequently competed with Samuel for stories.

“Who do you suppose tipped him off?” murmured my brother, eyeing the short, tubby little man who had a well-earned reputation for the ruthless tactics he all too often employed in his quest to scoop other reporters. “Sometimes I think that man has a telegraph machine installed inside his head.”

Foldger gave Samuel a mocking smile, nodded in some surprise to me, then blinked in astonishment when he recognized our father standing by the police van. The reporter acknowledged Papa’s presence with a polite tip of his cap, then pulled out his own notebook and pencil and set off to corner Sergeant Lewis. George shot a helpless look at my brother, then with unhappy resignation began to answer Ozzie’s rapid-fire questions.

With a muttered oath, Samuel kept a wary eye on his rival as the stretcher-bearers loaded the body into the police wagon. Seemingly using this as an excuse, George broke away from Foldger, bid my father and me a hasty good morning and joined Kostler and their fellow officers for the ride to the city morgue. With another sardonic smile, Ozzie Foldger pocketed his notebook and got back into his waiting cab.

As Papa, Samuel and I started for home, I was unnerved to see our father silently considering his youngest son, a perplexed look on his face. I could tell that Samuel, too, felt the tension which hung over our heads like a heavy swirl of morning fog. Indeed, the unspoken strain between my brother and father seemed to build with each step we took, until the short, two block walk home, felt closer to a mile.

It was a relief when we finally reached our house and were once again inside the quiet foyer. I headed immediately for the stairs, suddenly very weary and looking forward to the comfort of my bed. My brother followed closely upon my heels, eager, I was certain, to escape Papa’s probing gaze. We had gone only a few steps, however, when we were halted by our father’s voice.

“Wait a minute, the two of you,” he said, his tone pitched low enough not to awaken the rest of the family, but with a sharp bite of authority. He regarded us levelly from the hallway below. “You must think me remarkably naïve to accept without question how my two youngest children came to be standing beneath the Harrison Street Bridge in the middle of the night, examining a brutally murdered young man. I heard no police bells or other sounds of alarm, and even if I had, I would hardly expect the two of you to rise from your beds at that ungodly hour and chase after them.”

I glanced nervously at Samuel who stood a little below me on the stairs. His handsome face betrayed his agitation as he struggled to come up with some rational explanation for this admittedly irrational act.

Before he could manufacture an excuse however, Papa sighed and gestured dismissively with his hand. “Oh, never mind. I’m too tired to listen to what are sure to be a litany of woeful excuses.”

He used his thumb and forefinger to rub the bridge above his nose, a gesture he often performed when he was suffering a headache. “Your mother and I plan to spend the day with friends in the country. I’m going to try to get what rest I can before it’s time to depart.”

He lowered his hand and stared deliberately at each of us in turn. “But don’t either of you think for one moment that this marks the end of our discussion. I know you two are up to something, and I have every intention of finding out what it is.”

 

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THE RUSSIAN HILL MURDERS by Shirley Tallman

THE RUSSIAN HILL MURDERS by Shirley Tallman
 

Though her own San Francisco law firm barely tolerates her, gutsy young attorney Sarah Woolson flouts proper feminine behavior in this nineteenth-century answer to Legally Blonde. While her mother begs her to settle down, her chauvinistic boss tries to come up with ever more spiteful ways to pressure his only female associate into quitting. Naturally, Sarah digs in her heels and vows to retain her position at any cost. Besides, she has no intention of straying too far from the action.

When the wife of wealthy society entrepreneur Leonard Godfrey drops dead of an apparent heart attack at a charity dinner for the new Women and Children's Hospital, Sarah's curiosity gets the better of her. But no one will believe in her theory that Caroline Godfrey's death was not natural - until several more people affiliated with the hospital die of inexplicable causes.
 

Meanwhile, when a pregnant widow whose husband has died in a sweatshop fire asks for Sarah's help in finding the owner so that she can sue for recompense, our feisty heroine insists on taking the case against her boss's orders. With the help of her colleague Robert Campbell and an eager young hansom cabdriver named Eddie, Sarah goes on a manhunt for Killy Doyle, the menacing head of the factory underworld. But she can't ignore the mysterious deaths at the Women and Children's Hospital - especially when the hospital's Chinese chef is arrested for the murders and the Chinese community's most powerful Tong Lord asks her to defend him.
 

Faced with her first criminal trial, Sarah stops at nothing to determine the killer's identity. But in trying to exonerate her client, she places her own life in danger. Will Sarah figure out who the murderer is, or will she be the final victim?

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~Excerpt~

It was not my idea to attend the charity dinner. True, it was a worthy cause, but the past weeks at the law firm I'd been so elated to join just months earlier, had been mind numbing. In truth, I was becoming more disillusioned with Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall with each passing day. Frankly I was in no mood to socialize.

My mother, Elizabeth Woolson, however, is nothing if not persistent. Eventually she wore down my resolve until I agreed to accompany my parents, my brother Charles and his wife Celia, to the dinner. Mama also prevailed on the matter of my costume, insisting I wear the violet gown she'd had made for my brother Frederick's entrée into the world of politics – a gown I still considered too décolleté for my taste. Moreover, I couldn't look at the frock without remembering the murder that had occurred the night I'd worn it, a crime which had catapulted me into the grisly Nob Hill killings. Believe me, if I'd had any inkling that the occasion of its second wearing would have an equally chilling impact on my life, I would have burned the wretched thing on the spot!

On the matter of an escort I drew a firm line. Nothing could persuade me to accept the company of the latest bachelor to catch Mama's desperate eyes. Her current prospect was a widowed dentist, the father of six children, five of whom still lived at home. I considered my life complicated enough without adding an elderly husband and a horde of motherless offspring to the mix.

In the end I found myself – blessedly unencumbered by the aforementioned dentist – in one of the most unique houses on Russian Hill. I had never met our hosts, Caroline and Leonard Godfrey, but I knew them to be prominent members of San Francisco Society. Mrs. Godfrey was noted for her work on behalf of the city's poor and disadvantaged. Her husband, Leonard, was one of the city's most shrewd entrepreneurs. It was an open secret that he was the guiding, if often hidden, force behind many of the city's major corporations.

The Godfrey's home was the subject of much gossip. Three years earlier, it had joined a small group of exclusive mansions gracing the top of the summit. Russian Hill – said to have been named after Russian sailors who had been buried there before the California gold rush – was slowly beginning to compete with Nob Hill, its pompous neighbor to the south. The Godfrey residence, with its sharp angles and numerous windows, was considered by many to be too avant-garde. Indeed, some people went so far as to brand it "Godfrey's Folly." Personally, I found the home a refreshing change from the pretentious bastions constructed by other wealthy San Franciscans. But then my own architectural tastes are also viewed as unorthodox.

I had not circulated long among the glittering guests, before I began to regret giving in to Mama's pressure to attend tonight's soiree. When I'd had all I could take of Paris fashions, society romances and social indiscretions, I sought refuge in an alcove featuring a large bay window. Peering through a strategically placed spyglass, I was able to make out much of the city below – including Portsmouth Square, the site of Joseph Shepard's law firm. As one of the first female attorneys in California, I'd been accepted as a junior associate in this establishment with the greatest reluctance. Since then, the entire cadre of senior partners had banded together in an effort to drive me out of their firm, as well as their lives!

Not only had I obtained my job through what they termed ‘female subterfuge', but I'd had the gall to ‘steal' (their word, not mine), one of the firm's prized clients. Adding insult to injury, I'd solved a series of gruesome murders, resulting in a glut of unwelcome publicity for my employers.

Ironically, it was this very newspaper exposure which made it impossible for the partners to come right out and fire me. On the other hand, if I could be ‘persuaded' to leave of my own accord, they'd be spared public reproach. This misplaced strategy, of course, merely caused me to dig in my heels and fight to hold onto my position. Still, I'd begun to wonder how long I'd be able to put up with their childish machinations.

"It's a beautiful city, isn't it?"

I was startled out of my thoughts to find a man in his mid-thirties standing behind me. He stood an inch or two over six feet, and despite my bleak mood, part of my brain registered that this was possibly the most handsome man I'd ever seen. He wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, which couldn't conceal impressively broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair was thick and nearly shoulder length, an ebony mane that waved back from a tanned face.

As if amused by my frank appraisal, he smiled and I was startled to feel my pulse leap. Good lord, I thought, amazed he'd been able to elicit such an absurd reaction from me, an avowed spinster. With effort, I composed my face into what I hoped was a disapproving frown, only to be rewarded with an even broader smile.

"I apologize for my poor manners, Miss Woolson," he said in a voice which was deep and – forgive me for the romantic if fitting analogy – smooth as aged brandy. "I'm Pierce Godfrey. Leonard Godfrey is my brother."

I accepted his proffered hand and was surprised to find the skin rougher than I'd expected. His careful appearance suggested he might be something of a dandy.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Godfrey," I said more sharply than was civil. "How is it that you know my name."

His eyes gleamed, but I couldn't decide if it was amusement or mockery. My temper flared; I had no patience for flirting or playing silly games, even with a man as attractive as Pierce Godfrey.

"You haven't answered my question," I said pointedly.

To my annoyance, he laughed out loud. "You are a woman who speaks her mind, Miss Woolson. I'll be equally candid. I quizzed my sister-in-law when you arrived." He regarded me speculatively. "She tells me you're an attorney."

"Yes, I am." I studied him closely, on the lookout for sarcasm or veiled disdain for my vocation, a not uncommon reaction from men. I was surprised and, yes, I admit it, disconcerted, when I could detect none. The man struck me as too smooth, too in control. I suppose I was searching for some imperfection to mar that faultless demeanor.

"I remember now," he said. "I saw your name in the newspapers a few months back. Something to do with a murder? Actually, several murders, as I recall."

"The press is prone to exaggeration, Mr. Godfrey. You mustn't believe everything you read."
"No." He drew out the word in a velvet voice, a tone at odds with the dark eyes searching my face with rude curiosity. "Now that I've met you, though, I rather think there was more truth than fiction to the newspaper articles."

I started to chastise him for this unwarranted assumption, when our hostess walked toward us. An attractive woman in her early forties, Caroline Godfrey had a full, sensuous mouth and smoky gray eyes which looked out upon the world with an unmistakable air of superiority. The low-cut bodice and tightly-cinched waist of her scarlet gown, set off her striking figure to excellent advantage.

Perhaps it was because of her stunning beauty that I was taken aback by the look of raw hostility she directed at my companion. Focused solely on him, she hadn't yet seen me, so I quickly stepped out from behind his tall figure.

"Miss Woolson," she said, looking surprised and not altogether pleased by my sudden appearance. "I'm delighted you could come." After a perfunctory smile, she turned to her brother-in-law. "Leonard requires your assistance in the parlor, Pierce. Everyone is gathering there now."

He gave her a measured look, then offered me his arm. "Will you permit me to escort you, Miss Woolson?"

Mrs. Godfrey's smile turned sour as she watched me accept her brother-in-law's arm. I felt her eyes following us as he silently led me from the alcove.

When we reached the parlor, Pierce excused himself and went to stand with his brother. A moment later, Caroline Godfrey joined them, her smile cordial and welcoming now, as she looked out over her distinguished guests. She spoke for several minutes, describing the new Women and Children's Hospital we were here to support. When she announced with perfect calm that tonight's goal was to raise one hundred thousand dollars for the project, I felt certain she was joking. To my surprise, the rest of the company took this startling pronouncement in stride. It was as if Mrs. Godfrey had laid down a challenge to their largesse, or perhaps, I thought a bit cynically, to their egos.

Pledging began. One after the other, huge amounts of money were called out, each pledge more munificent than the one which preceded it. Everyone seemed swept up in the excitement, including Mama and Papa. I even found myself calling out a sum larger than I could comfortably afford. Still, when it was finally over and Mrs. Godfrey announced we were very near our goal, I was proud to have played my own small part in the effort.

As guests broke off into small groups, and footmen circulated offering champagne, I went in search of my parents. I found them talking with Papa's closest friend and fellow jurist, Judge Tobias Barlow, a slightly overweight, pleasant man ten years my father's junior. With Judge Barlow was his wife Margaret – an attractive woman who worked with my mother on charitable projects – and Margaret's mother, Adelina French. I was startled by the remarkable resemblance between mother and daughter: both tall and slender with gold-brown hair and sparkling green eyes. Indeed, the two women might well have been sisters. I knew Adelina made her home with her daughter and son-in-law since the death of her husband, Nigel French, and was a keen worker for the new hospital.

Also with the group were two men I'd never met. Mrs. Barlow introduced the more striking of the two, as the Reverend Nicholas Prescott, a friend visiting from Back East. Prescott, who appeared to be in his early fifties, was tall and muscularly slender beneath his dark suit and starched clerical collar. His full head of dark brown hair was sprinkled with just the right amount of gray to appear distinguished. He possessed an easy, unassuming manner, and I noted a gleam of intelligence and good humor in his clear brown eyes. With a wide smile, Reverend Prescott shook my hand, his attention so riveted on me that I might have been the only person in the room.

Mrs. Barlow introduced the second stranger as Lucius Arlen, the accountant who had been hired by the board to handle the new hospital's finances. Arlen was a heavy-set, stolid man in his late fifties, with a fidgety manner and a disconcerting habit of not quite looking you in the eye when he spoke.

The accountant acknowledged me with a stiff bow. "How do you do, Miss Woolson?"

Before I could reply, Mrs. French said, "Mrs. Godfrey thinks tonight's pledges will be enough to make a final offer on the Battery Street warehouse."

"Do you really think that's possible, Mr. Arlen?" Margaret Barlow asked the accountant.

Lucius Arlen looked pleased to be consulted. He cleared his throat a bit self-importantly and said, "I agree it looks promising. We've already met our goal tonight, and additional pledges are coming in. That will provide us with enough money to complete our negotiations with the owners of the property, and—"

He was interrupted by a loud commotion in the foyer. Conversation abruptly ceased as everyone strained to hear the cause of the disturbance.

"But, sir, you cannot go in," the Godfrey's butler called out. "Sir, please!"

A thin man in his forties strode defiantly into the parlor. He was dressed entirely in black from his wrinkled flannel trousers and morning coat to his slightly dented stovepipe hat. His fierce eyes were also black, as was the hair and beard which flew riotously about his grim face. People instinctively pressed away from him as he marched to the center of the room. My father started forward as if to intercept the man, but Mama took Papa's arm and pulled him back.

"Brothers and sisters," the intruder boomed. "Ministering to the Jezebels of this city is an abomination!" He raised a worn leather Bible above his head. "Those who have sold their immortal souls to the devil do not deserve to be succored."

"Mr. Halsey!" An authoritative voice interrupted. "I will thank you to leave this house at once."

All eyes went to Caroline Godfrey who stood framed in the doorway. Her gray eyes flashed with icy fury as she glared at the interloper.

"Reverend Halsey, if you please, madam," the man corrected, tipping his hat and making an ironic bow.

"Nothing about your presence here pleases me," Mrs. Godfrey snapped. "We intend to offer medical care to the impoverished women and children of this city. Respectable women, Mr. Halsey. If you are insinuating that we plan to care for women who have no one but themselves to blame for their unfortunate circumstances, you are mistaken."

There was no need for Mrs. Godfrey to explain what she meant by a woman of "unfortunate circumstances". Everyone knew the term referred to an unwed mother, a prejudice I found galling. It was so unjust to think that the child's father would get off scot-free, while the poor mother was left to suffer the shame and consequences.

I looked across the room where my brother Charles and his wife Celia stood staring at the interloper. Charles, a physician of unquestionable talent and limited income, was slated to lead the roster of physicians who had agreed to volunteer at the new hospital. From his sheepish expression, I realized this was exactly what he planned to do. Charles was far too kind-hearted to turn even a penniless patient away, much less a woman who would otherwise be forced to deliver her child on the street. Apparently, he had failed to mention this to Mrs. Godfrey. I met my father's eyes, and we both suppressed a smile.

"Lies! All lies!" Halsey ranted, his malevolent black eyes fixed on our hostess. "I warn you, until the Jezebels acknowledge their sins and prostrate themselves before their lord and savior, food and shelter will but support their debauchery."

Mrs. Godfrey's patrician face had turned red, and her voice shook with rage. "How dare you! Leave this house at once or I will notify the police."

"You do so at your soul's peril." Again Halsey held up his Bible. "You may close your ears to the voice of truth, but be sure that in the end your sins will find you out!"

Mrs. Godfrey opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Clutching a hand to her breast, she gasped as if struggling for air. "Leonard," she choked. "Leonard—"

She swayed and would have fallen if my brother Charles and Reverend Prescott hadn't rushed forward and supported her to the nearest settee. Hurriedly, I reached for several cushions and placed them beneath the woman's head.

"Someone get her husband," I directed, and a frightened footman ran to do my bidding. At the same time, Mama handed me a damp cloth appropriated from one of the servants. I placed it across Mrs. Godfrey's forehead.

"Give her air," Charles ordered, as people pressed around the stricken woman. He pointed at the intruder. "And for god's sake, get that man out of here!"

There was a murmur of assent, and several men grabbed the black-clad Halsey. Despite his sputtered threats, they managed to physically eject him from the room.

My brother was taking Mrs. Godfrey's pulse when Leonard Godfrey, closely followed by his brother Pierce, entered the room.

"What happened?" Leonard demanded, kneeling down by Caroline, who lay with her eyes closed, her face ghastly white.

"She's had an attack," Charles told him quietly. "Tell me, does she have a heart condition?"

"She suffers from angina. Her physician has prescribed medicine—" Godfrey stopped as his head seemed to clear.

"Pierce," he told his brother. "Get Caroline's pills. They're on the night table in her room. And hurry, man!"

Without a word, Pierce Godfrey sped from the parlor, leaving behind him a room so quiet you could have heard a feather drop. Mrs. Godfrey stirred and a low murmur swept through the assembled guests. She looked around with glazed eyes, then, becoming aware of her husband's face, made an effort to sit up.

"Caroline, don't move," Godfrey said, easing her back onto the cushions. "Pierce has gone for your pills."

For the first time, Mrs. Godfrey seemed to notice the sea of worried faces surrounding the settee. "Don't be ridiculous, Leonard." Her voice was still weak, but she forced a smile. "Dinner will be—"

"Don't try to talk," her husband admonished.

"But I don't—" She could go no further. Squeezing her husband's hand, she closed her eyes and gulped for air. To my horror, I noticed her skin was turning blue.

"You're a doctor, Woolson," Godfrey begged Charles. "For god's sake, do something!"

"I'm doing all I can, Mr. Godfrey." My brother's kind eyes were reassuring. "The medicine should relieve the pain and ease her breathing."

After what seemed an eternity, but was probably no more than a few moments, Pierce returned with a small apothecary box. Leonard extracted a tiny white pill and placed it beneath his wife's tongue. We all watched in anxious silence as color gradually returned to her face and her breathing became less arduous. As the pain slowly receded, she again tried to sit up.

"Lie back, Caroline," Leonard told her. "You must give the medicine time to work."

"But dinner," she protested.

I was close enough to hear her husband's soft curse as he reluctantly turned to his guests. "Will you all please go into the dining room? I'll join you in a moment."

There was an awkward pause, as if, despite Godfrey's admonition, no one was quite sure what to do. Clearing his throat, Reverend Prescott said,

"We can best help Mrs. Godfrey by honoring her wishes." Taking Mrs. Adelina French's arm, he left the parlor. With anxious glances at their hostess, guests began following the minister into the dining room. Charles and the two Godfrey brothers remained hovering by the stricken woman's side.

"Who was that man waving his Bible at us?" I asked my father as our party joined the general exodus.

"He's some sort of religious fanatic," Papa said grimly. "Evidently this isn't the first time he's badgered Mrs. Godfrey about the new hospital. He belongs to a Los Angeles sect that believes poverty and destitution are the result of God's punishment, especially when it comes to unwed mothers."

I was speechless. I trust I'm a faithful Christian, but I have no patience for those who use the Bible to promote their own bigoted ideology. My indignation must have been obvious, because Reverend Prescott quickly said,

"Let us pray that Mrs. Godfrey soon recovers, Miss Woolson. At the moment, that is our primary concern."

"Amen," Mama and Celia heartily agreed.

Papa and I seconded the prayer, although privately I felt nothing but contempt toward the hypocrite who had triggered the poor woman's attack.

Most of the other guests had taken their seats by the time we entered the dining room, and I was shown to my place by one of the footmen. The long refectory table was easily large enough to accommodate the thirty or so diners, and was laid with ornate china, wine glasses, and heavily-carved silver. Floral arrangements and dozens of flickering candles completed the elaborate setting. The soup course had already been served, and I sensed the butler's growing distress as he watched it grow cold.

Those of us seated at the table were hardly less edgy than the servants. A sober-looking Lucius Arlen sat to my right. Next to him, my mother was talking to Judge Barlow. Catty-corner across the table, Margaret Barlow and her mother chatted with Reverend Prescott, who sat between them. There were two unoccupied seats at the table, presumably for my brother Charles and Pierce Godfrey, as well as our hosts' places at either end of the table.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one who felt like an unwilling witness to what surely should have been a family matter. I couldn't understand why we hadn't simply been sent home. Sitting here with our hostess lying ill only a few rooms away, seemed tasteless in the extreme.

The footmen had begun pouring wine when conversation abruptly ceased and I glanced up to see an unhappy Leonard Godfrey lead his wife into the dining room. Mrs. Godfrey looked drawn and pale, but overall she seemed much improved. She smiled gamely as her husband escorted her to the head of the table. But when he continued to hover behind her chair, she waved an impatient hand, indicating that he should take his own place.

"I want to apologize," she said in a surprisingly steady voice. "Not only for that appalling man who forced his way into our home, but for my brief indisposition. As you can see, I am quite recovered." As if to demonstrate this, she picked up her spoon and began eating her soup.
I watched my fellow diners react to her words with a mixture of relief and lingering concern. I doubt anyone was foolish enough to believe her attack hadn't been a good deal more serious than she claimed. Yet we could do little else but follow her example and try to behave as if nothing distressful had occurred.

I had just taken a sip of wine when Charles and Pierce Godfrey slipped into their seats, the latter opposite me.
"How is she?" I asked him as quietly as I could over the hum of dinner conversation.

"Probably not as well as she'd have us believe. My brother urged her to rest in bed until she could be seen by her own doctor." His expression grew grim. "But Caroline is a stubborn woman. She rarely allows anyone to tell her what to do."

His tone made me wonder if this statement had something to do with the tension I'd sensed between Pierce and his sister-in-law in the alcove.

"Mr. Godfrey's advice is sound," I said, "but I can sympathize with his wife. She's worked so hard for the new hospital, I'm sure she feels a responsibility to see the evening through."

"It's a poor reason to risk another, perhaps more serious attack." He glanced at Caroline, his handsome face set in lines I couldn't read. Was it anger, frustration, incredulity? Or again part of that strange drama I'd witnessed before dinner? When he turned back to me, his face had softened into a smile. "I'm certain everything will be fine. Caroline has a way of coming out on top. Or perhaps she's just blessed with incredibly good luck."

Having no idea how to respond to this curious statement, I bent my head to my dinner. I'm sure the food was superb, but I tasted little of it.

"—I would be pleased if you would accept."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I looked up to find Pierce regarding me with an odd expression. Perhaps it was the way the candlelight cast his face into sharp contrasts of light and shadow, but I had the bizarre impression of a buccaneer standing at the helm of his frigate.

"I asked if you would do me the honor of dining with me tomorrow evening," he repeated.

I didn't immediately reply to this unexpected invitation. Over the past few months I'd had to deal with far too many assertive men at the law firm, to add yet another example of the species to my social life.

"I fear I'm busy tomorrow night," I said, buttering a roll. "But thank you for asking."

"That's unfortunate." Godfrey's dark blue eyes studied my face, leaving me with the irrational feeling that he easily read my lie. "Perhaps some other night, then?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'll be busy all week."

"Ah, I'd forgotten. Your work must be demanding. Perhaps you're involved in another intriguing case?"

Inadvertently, he'd touched on a sensitive nerve and I stiffened. What I wouldn't have given to be involved in any case right now, much less an intriguing one. Unfortunately, Joseph Shepard, the senior partner, considered women attorneys incapable of performing any task more mentally stimulating than washing the dishes!

"I find all legal work interesting, Mr. Godfrey." That part, at least, was true. This was hardly the time, and Pierce Godfrey was certainly not the person, to confide the anger and frustration I felt toward my employer and his male cronies. "It takes up a great deal of my—"

I broke off as a chair suddenly crashed to the floor. All eyes flew to Mrs. Godfrey, who half-stood at the end of the table. Her face was flushed, and her fingers were pressed to her temples as if she were in terrible pain.

"My head!" she cried hoarsely.

Her husband and Charles rushed to her side, easing her back into the chair which someone had righted. Leonard pulled the apothecary box from his pocket and spilled out pills. The poor woman was trembling so violently, it was several moments before he could place one beneath her tongue. Obviously in mortal distress, she clutched helplessly at her bodice as she struggled for air.

"Do something!" Godfrey shouted at Charles.

My brother was already doing everything he could, aided by Reverend Prescott, who had rushed forward to help. In an effort to ease her breathing, they'd begun to loosen the tiny pearl buttons at the back of her gown. Before they'd managed more than one or two, she bent double and began to vomit. Someone grabbed a serviette to dab at her face, but the gesture only spread the mess down her gown.

"Caroline," Leonard cried helplessly. "For God's sake help her!"

Caroline's lips were moving, but no sound issued from her throat. The flush drained from her face as her body was struck by another spasm, and her skin once again turned a ghastly blue. Then, as she drew in a rattling breath, her irises rolled up into her head until they showed only white, and she sank limply onto the floor.

Charles knelt and cradled her head, at the same time attempting to place another pill beneath her tongue. It was no use; Caroline Godfrey was beyond mortal help. Nicholas Prescott dropped down beside Charles, bowing his head in silent prayer.

Someone cried out behind me and several women begin to weep hysterically. Leonard stared at his wife, his face white with shock and incredulity. Charles raised the woman's limp arm and felt her wrist for what seemed like an eternity. Then, with a sigh, he gently closed her eyes.

"Is she—" Leonard stammered. "That is, she can't be—"

Charles gave the distraught husband a regretful nod. "I'm truly sorry, Mr. Godfrey, but I'm afraid your wife is dead."

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MURDER ON NOB HILL by Shirley Tallman

MURDER ON NOB HILL by Shirley Tallman

The year is 1880, the place San Francisco. Intelligent, outspoken Sarah Woolson is a young woman with a goal and the fortitude to achieve it. The fourth child, and only daughter, of a Superior Court Judge for the County of San Francisco, she has always dreamed of becoming a lawyer. The trouble is, everyone believes women belong in the home, that it is not only unnatural, but against God's will for them to seek a career.

When Sarah finagles an interview with one of the city's most prestigious law firms, no one thinks she has a prayer of being hired. Except Sarah. Using her brains, and a little subterfuge, she not only manages to be taken on as the firm's newest (and only female) associate attorney, she also acquires her first client - a lovely young society matron suspected of brutally stabbing to death her wealthy but abusive husband. When Sarah agrees to represent the woman, she discovers that her beautiful client has a secret lover, and that they both had ample reason to want to see hubby dead. Everyone is convinced the two are cold-blooded killers, including the handsome, burly Scottish attorney who becomes Sarah's nemesis at the firm. But Sarah is undeterred. She's sure her client is innocent, and no matter what, she's determined to prove it!

When four more victims fall prey to the killer's knife - and her client is arrested for the crimes - Sarah fears she's bitten off more than she can chew. Without Sarah's help, the young woman will almost certainly be put to death, but proving her innocent will be an uphill battle. Bucking her boorish employer, the judicial system and the gruff Scot, Sarah finds herself embroiled in shady legal maneuvers, a daring Chinatown raid, a secret and very scandalous sex club, a mysterious tontine agreement, and the most powerful and dangerous Tong Lord in the city's Chinese District. Not to mention her arrogant brother Frederick's ambitious run for state senate.

Utilizing her keen mind and ready wits, Sarah takes on all adversaries. One hard-earned clue at a time, she bravely tracks a ruthless killer, constantly thwarted by the very people who should be on her side. When the murderer threatens to kill his sixth, and loveliest victim, Sarah is forced to run a desperate race against a ticking clock.

Single-handedly she fights not only to free her client, but to discover the killer's real identity. But when she finally corners the Nob Hill murderer, Sarah discovers that she is in grave danger of becoming victim number seven.

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Despite claims to the contrary - some, I fear, voiced by members of my own family - I pride myself on being an honest woman. As a matter of principle, I hold dissimulation of any kind in contempt. That said, I probably should add that I also subscribe to the old adage, "God helps those who help themselves", even if this self-help sometimes entails being economical with the truth.

      If this last statement seems contradictory, I apologize. What I'm trying to explain is how I found myself poised on the brink of the most extraordinary adventure of my, to date, twenty-seven years. Despite being essentially an ethical person, you see, I had told a lie. More to the point, I had deliberately misled a group of narrow-minded men into assuming something I knew to be untrue. Furthermore, I do not regret my actions. Faced with the same circumstances, I would not hesitate to resort to this ruse again.

      Those individuals who continue to hold - in this year of our Lord 1880 - that females belong in the home and should be denied educational opportunities beyond those required to secure a good marriage, will undoubtedly blame my dear father for such 'unwomanly moral turpitude' (their words, not mine). While I take full responsibility for my actions, I have to admit that this criticism is not without a grain of truth. Were it not for Papa - the Honorable Horace T. Woolson, Superior Court Judge for the County of San Francisco - I doubt I would have been standing on the corner of Clay and Kearny Streets, staring up at the law offices occupied by Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall.

      The morning fog which had billowed in that morning through San Francisco's Golden Gate had begun to dissipate, taking with it the heavy, moisture-laden air which, even in late summer, can seep through one's clothing. While I'm not particularly affected by the cold, I did consider the emergence of the sun to be a good omen. Or perhaps I was looking for any sign, no matter how fanciful, to bolster my resolve. I realize I am considered by many - including the before-mentioned members of my family - to be willful and outspoken, unfeminine and certainly foolhardy in my determination to follow my own path in this world. What would these self-same critics say, I thought in some irony, if they could see the unladylike beads of perspiration forming on my brow, or the cowardly pounding of my heart as I studied those unwelcoming windows?

      But I was prevaricating, putting off the mission I had worked so long and so hard to achieve. Straightening my dress - I had chosen a two-piece pewter-gray suit with as little bustle as I could get away with since the re-emergence of the over-stuffed derrière - I checked the lapel watch pinned to my shirt waist. Five minutes to the hour. Time to put my plan to the test!

      Purposefully, I crossed Kearny Street and entered the building. A directory in the lobby revealed that Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall held offices on the sixth floor, a level which I speedily, if somewhat jerkily, reached by means of one of Elisha Otis' new hydraulic elevators, or 'rising rooms' as they were popularly called. The office I sought was guarded by a solid oak door upon which the firm's name had been discreetly embossed.

      I entered a room furnished with half a dozen desks, behind which sat as many clerks. The one seated nearest the door rose and, adjusting his spectacles, inquired of my business.

      "My name is Sarah Woolson," I said with what I hoped was a confidant smile. "I have an appointment to see Mr. Shepard."

      I'm tall for a woman - a full five feet eight inches in my stocking feet - and I towered over the clerk, forcing him to look up at me at an angle which, I've noticed, makes some men uneasy.

      "Miss Woolson? I don't seem to recall-" He checked an appointment book. "Ah, yes, I see we were expecting Mr. Samuel Woolson." He looked at me hopefully. "Your husband, perhaps?"

      "Samuel is my brother," I said, forcing another smile. "I believe you were expecting S. L. Woolson. That is me."

      The clerk's bony brow creased with uncertainty. "Oh, dear. Well, ah, yes. Perhaps I had better fetch Mr. Shepard."

      "Thank you," I said, forbearing to remind him that was what I'd requested in the first place. The clerk scurried down a hallway and as I waited for his return I took stock of my surroundings.

      The room was larger than I had originally thought; the wood paneling, as well as the crowded way the clerks' desks were wedged in one upon another, made it appear dim and cramped. Against the back wall were four doors, the top half of each paned with glass. Inside these cubicles - for they were hardly bigger than large closets - sat what I presumed to be legal associates. At that moment one of them looked up and our eyes met. He seemed surprised, then annoyed, as if my chance glance had invaded his privacy. He glowered at me rudely, then with a scowl returned to his papers.

      I won't attempt to deceive you. For a moment I forgot my manners and stared openly at the man. He was a remarkable looking creature: long, clean-shaven, craggy face, topped by a thatch of unruly red hair, skin burned to a golden bronze, tie askew beneath a slightly rumpled white shirt. Even seated I could tell that he was very tall, and his shoulders were broad, as if he were no stranger to manual labor. Indeed, my overriding impression was one of amazement that such a man was inside an office at all, especially one of such limited dimensions.

      As if sensing my eyes upon him the man looked up at me again, this time with a glare so fierce I was taken aback. With a withering look of my own, I turned away in time to see the clerk returning, followed by a portly gentleman in his sixties. I recognized the man as Joseph Shepard Sr., founder and senior partner of the firm. He had occasionally visited our home during my childhood, and I had always been fascinated by his thick shock of white hair and by the trumpeting sound he made at the back of his nose whenever he was annoyed, or when someone took exception to his views. It was obvious from the senior partner's distracted stare that he could not as easily place me.

      "My clerk informs me there has been a misunderstanding, Miss Woolson." He placed his pince-nez atop a bulbous nose and subjected me to a squinting appraisal. "Mr. Samuel Woolson, whom my clerk informs me is your brother, has applied to our firm for the position of associate attorney. Naturally, I assumed I would be meeting with him this morning."

      "I regret the confusion, Mr. Shepard, but it was I who applied for the position. The qualifications listed are mine, as are the initials, S. L., which stand for Sarah Lorraine."

      "They are also your brother's initials," he stated in annoyance. "It's common knowledge that Judge Woolson's youngest son has been preparing for a career in law. What were we to think when we received your letter?"

      "I hoped you would think that S. L. Woolson was eminently qualified to be taken on as an associate attorney in your firm."

      "But you're a woman!"

      "As is Clara Shortridge Foltz," I replied, determined not to be intimidated. "And that good lady has been practicing California law for four years. In this very city."

      "I meant, Miss Woolson, that such a situation is impossible in this firm. Everyone knows that the sphere of women, vitally important as that is, belongs in the home."

      This feeble, but popularly held argument, never failed to raise my hackles. "I know that is where men have placed us and where they would prefer us to remain. However, I see no reason why misguided reasoning should interfere with rational behavior."

      There was a shocked stillness in the room. Mr. Shepard's face suffused with blood and for a moment I was afraid he might be suffering some sort of seizure. Then he started that dreadful sound at the back of his nose and I realized my rash, if honest, words had brought on a fit of pique. Since there was little I could do to retract them now -- even if I'd been so inclined -- I decided to press on with my qualifications.

      "As I stated in my letter, I passed my bar examinations last year and continue to read law with my father, Judge Horace Woolson, whom I believe you know and respect. At the risk of appearing immodest, I am confident I possess the intelligence and character necessary to practice law in your firm."

      During most of this recitation the senior partner had sputtered incoherently. "That is patently ridiculous!" he exclaimed when I had finished. "It is a well founded fact that women lack the nerve or strength of body for such a rigorous profession."

      Another statement so ludicrous I couldn't stop myself from blurting, "I find it strange that practicing law in a comfortable, well-heated office is considered too demanding an occupation for women, yet laboring from dawn's first light in crowded, drafty, ill-lit sweatshops is not."

      Joseph Shepard seemed incapable of speech. Belatedly, he realized that everyone in the room was watching us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the red-haired man standing outside his cubicle, his mouth pulled into an ironic smile. I felt my face flush and turned away, aware that I would require all my wits to penetrate the formidable barrier of Mr. Shepard's prejudice.

      "Miss Woolson," said the attorney, his several chins quivering with suppressed anger. "Out of deference to your father, I will ignore the underhanded means by which you gained entry into this office. However, the feminine hysterics you just displayed proves why women will never be able to practice law. I advise you to return home and--"

      Whatever I was supposed to return home and do was lost as the door opened and a woman, perhaps a year or two younger than myself and fashionably attired in widow's black, stepped in. She had fair hair and a porcelain complexion, which contrasted starkly with her dark gown and hat. Normally, her azure eyes must have been her best feature. Today, they were red-rimmed and accentuated by dark circles, causing me to wonder who she had lost to cause such pain.

      Mr. Shepard's face instantly brightened and he hurried over to take the woman's hand. "Mrs. Hanaford," he gushed. "If you had sent word I would have called upon you at your home."

      "My business couldn't wait, Mr. Shepard," she said, her voice soft but determined. "Mr. Wylde seems incapable of grasping the severity of my situation."

      "My dear," replied the solicitor in soothing tones, "Mr. Wylde is doing everything possible to expedite this unfortunate affair. As I've endeavored to explain, your late husband's will must be admitted to probate. These things take time."

      "But I have expenses to meet," she protested.

      "I understand," the lawyer told her, although it seemed clear from his patronizing tone that he understood very little. "I wish I could help you, my dear, but I'm afraid Mr. Wylde must approve any advances on the estate. In the meantime, I'm sure a few simple economies will see you through." He gave her hand a perfunctory pat, then pulled out his pocket watch. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I have a pressing appointment."

      The stricken look on the young widow's face was more than I could bear. The desire to do whatever I could to ensure that the scales of justice weighed evenly for women as well as for men had, after all, been one of the reasons I'd chosen to become an attorney. True, I knew little about the case, but I felt compelled to at least make an effort to ease her misery. In light of subsequent events, I assure you this was my sole motive for approaching Mrs. Hanaford and boldly introducing myself.

      "My name is Sarah Woolson and I am also an attorney. Perhaps if I understood your problem I might be of some assistance."

      The woman's expression went from surprise to guarded hope. "Oh, Miss Woolson, if you only could!"

      Joseph Shepard registered shock at my temerity, but before he could erupt in another fit of pique, I boldly took Mrs. Hanaford's arm and led her toward the nearest office. It wasn't until we were inside that I realized it was the cubicle belonging to the red-haired giant. Sure enough, its outraged owner came charging after us as I attempted to close the door.

      "What do you think you're doing?" the man demanded, his voice flavored with a strong Scottish burr. Intense, blue-green eyes bore into mine. "This is my office."

      "We require privacy," I said, as calmly as possible under the circumstances. Shepard had finally marshaled his indignation and was following like Old Ironsides in our wake. As I again tried to close the door, the man held it open with arms the size of small tree trunks. "Please, sir, let go! I must confer with my client."

      "Your client?"

      "Miss Woolson!" The senior partner had reached the door, but the oversized junior attorney blocked his way. "Come out of there at once!" he ordered from behind his subordinate.

      I thought I saw a muscle twitch in the younger man's face, and unexpectedly the door slammed shut in my face. I hastily gathered my wits and threw the lock before we could be ejected.

      Turning my back to the door - and studiously ignoring the senior partner's howls of rage - I gave Mrs. Hanaford what I hoped was a professional smile and motioned her into the room's only chair. She hesitated, then took the seat.

      "I take it you are recently widowed," I began. "And that there is a delay in settling your late husband's estate."

      The woman lowered her eyes, perhaps to collect her thoughts, perhaps to avoid looking at Joseph Shepard who was now railing at the owner of the pirated cubicle.

      "My name is Annjenett Hanaford," she said in a voice hardly above a whisper. "My husband, Cornelius, died three weeks ago. He-" She looked up at me, her blue eyes huge. "He was murdered."

      "Murdered!" In my surprise I forgot dignity and sank onto the corner of the desk, causing several books to tumble onto the floor. Neither of us took any notice. "How did it happen?"

      "He was stabbed. In his study. I was there when it happened. Not in the room, of course, but upstairs in my boudoir."

      "Have the police arrested anyone?"

      A shadow crossed her lovely face. "Several items were stolen. They - the police seem certain it must have been an intruder. As yet no one has been arrested."

      I studied the woman. Something was troubling her and I suspected it was more than the natural grief and shock one would expect after losing a spouse. She seemed frightened. But of what? Behind me, Shepard's pounding on the door became louder. Tempted as I was to probe further into her story, I decided to press on while there was still time.

      "How long were you married, Mrs. Hanaford?"

      "Seven years. I was nineteen when I - agreed to Mr. Hanaford's proposal."

      "Did you bring any property or moneys into the marriage?"

      She looked up, startled by my question. "Why, yes, I did. My father provided a generous dowry. Later, when my mother passed on, I received a substantial inheritance. Naturally, my husband managed these funds in my behalf."

      "Naturally," I agreed dryly. This was neither the time nor the place to express my opinions concerning women's coverture, or civil death, upon marriage, whereby the law merged the identity of wife and husband and severely limited her rights to inherit or to own property. "The reason I ask is that the married women's property act entitles a wife to the separate property she brought to the marriage. I don't suppose you obtained your husband's ante-nuptial consent to retain control of your separate property?"

      This notion was obviously foreign to her. Then she seemed to remember something. "Just before Cornelius commenced construction on our home he had me sign something. As I recall it listed my dowry, as well as my mother's bequest."

      I felt a rush of excitement. To the best of my knowledge, the plan I contemplated was unprecedented in legal annals, at least those established on the West Coast. But I needed documentation.

      "Do you have copies of these papers?" I asked intently.

      "I don't know. My husband has a safe at home, of course, but I believe he kept most of his documents at the bank."

      "Then that's an excellent place to begin." I rose from my perch on the desk in time to see Mr. Shepard insert a key in the lock. Our time alone was clearly at an end. "If it's agreeable, I will accompany you to your husband's bank to look for the papers."

      She nodded hopefully as the door flew open and a red-faced Joseph Shepard burst in, sputtering charges of unethical behavior. Deciding that a rapid departure would not be amiss, I took Mrs. Hanaford's arm and swept past the senior partner.

      The last face I saw before leaving the room was that of the muscular Scot. This time there was no mistaking the laughter in his eyes and I felt heat suffuse my face. The idea that this odious man found humor in the situation infuriated me far more than Joseph Shepard's tirade. Fixing him with the most disdainful look I could muster, I turned and pulled the heavy oak door shut behind us.

* * *



Since I had arrived that morning by horsecar, and Annjenett Hanaford's open-topped little Victoria was waiting on the Square, we agreed the most sensible plan would be to travel to the bank in her carriage. After assisting us inside, the liveried coachman took his place in the elevated front seat and clicked the handsome bay into a steady stream of traffic. 

      Hanaford's bank, San Francisco Savings and Trust, was a three-story brick building located on California Street. Inside, I followed the widow past half a dozen teller cages until she stopped in front of a glass partition and tapped on the window. She said a few words to the man seated there, and he instantly rose and hurried toward a door to the rear of the room.

      "He's fetching the manager, Eban Potter," she explained. "Actually, Mr. Potter is an old friend and one of the kindest men I know. He and my husband went to school together. Fortunately, he's familiar with Cornelius' business affairs. I don't know what I would have done without him these past few weeks."

      Just then a pencil-thin man in his late forties strode in our direction. He wore a conservative frock coat and dark trousers. His brown hair was receding and his face was pale with a deep groove etched between his eyes, as if he carried the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders. The moment he saw my companion, however, his expression lightened and he smiled.

      "Mrs. Hanaford, what an unexpected pleasure." His voice was high and reed-thin as the man himself. From the way he took her hand, it was easy to see he held the young widow in fond regard.
"Mr. Potter - Eban - this is my attorney, Miss Sarah Woolson."

      "Attorney?" Eban Potter was so taken aback by this announcement he stared openly at me. "But I thought Mr. Wylde-"

      "I'm assisting Mrs. Hanaford in a private matter," I broke in. "We're hoping to find some personal papers belonging to her late husband. We believe he may have kept them here at the bank."

      Belatedly, the manager recalled his manners. "I apologize, Miss Woolson. Naturally, I would like to help, but I believe Mr. Hanaford kept few personal possessions in his office."

      "Nevertheless, we would like to see for our-"

      "Mrs. Hanaford?"

      The widow and I turned to find a tall man approaching us. He was impeccably dressed in a navy blue, single-breasted frock coat and crisp gray trousers. His hair was very dark and worn longer than was the style. But it was his eyes that held me; wide-set and nearly black, they bore straight into mine, giving the disconcerting impression they could read my most secret thoughts. From Mrs. Hanaford's flushed cheeks, I realized she was similarly affected by the man's penetrating gaze.

      "Mr. Wylde, I didn't think - that is, I did not expect to find you here," she said, as he brushed the back of her hand with his lips.

      "Nor did I expect to find you here, my dear," he said with no discernable trace of a welcoming smile.

      His voice was well modulated and precise, as if he expected, no demanded, that attention be paid to his every word. I must admit that my first impression of the attorney was not favorable. His manner was too arrogant, too much in control, for my tastes. In a commanding, self-important way, he wasn't unattractive, although his features were too unique and angular to be termed conventionally handsome. Here was a man, I decided, who might inspire confidence, but never ease.

      "Miss Woolson," said Annjenett in a thin voice, "I would like to introduce Mr. Benjamin Wylde, executor of my husband's estate. Mr. Wylde, this is Miss Sarah Woolson - an attorney. Miss Woolson has kindly offered to represent my interests."

      Other than a slight narrowing of his eyes, Wylde showed no reaction to what must have been a startling piece of news.

      "My pleasure, Miss Woolson," he said, reaching out a hand.

      I proffered my own hand and was annoyed at the presumptuous way his eyes raked slowly over my suit, all the way down to my boots.

      "How do you do, Mr. Wylde," I said, making little effort to hide my disapproval of such rudeness.
For the first time, the hint of a smile played at the corners of that hard-etched mouth and I instantly regretted allowing my irritation to show. The sooner we attended to our business and took our leave of the bank, I decided, the better.

      "I'm sure we're keeping Mr. Potter from his work," I told Annjenett. "Perhaps we should see to our errand."

      "And what errand is that?" The attorney addressed this remark to me, and this time there was no mistaking the mocking tone.

      I started to reply that it was none of his business, then thought better of it. Tempting as it was to put this arrogant man in his place, making an enemy of the executor of my client's estate might not be in her best interests.

      "We're trying to locate some personal papers belonging to Mr. Hanaford," I told him, keeping my face, and my voice, civil.

      The lawyer's eyes narrowed. "Miss Woolson, I'm sure you must be aware of Mrs. Hanaford's recent bereavement. It is both callous and insensitive to enlist her on this fool's errand. Her affairs are being competently handled."

      "I don't doubt that for a moment, Mr. Wylde," I said, biting back another stinging retort. "However, as I said our business is of a personal nature. There is no need to take up more of your valuable time." I heard his slight intake of breath as I turned back to the manager. "Mr. Potter, shall we proceed?"

      I had placed Eban Potter in a difficult position. Clearly, he was in awe of the attorney, yet to object to our request would seem unreasonable and churlish. At his hesitation, I sensed Annjenett wavering in her resolve and thought it best to press on.

      "I assume that's the door leading to Mr. Hanaford's office?" Without waiting for a reply, I started toward the rear of the bank. Before the widow could follow, the attorney took hold of her hand.

      I have since questioned whether the look I caught on Benjamin Wylde's face at that moment was as malevolent as it seemed, especially since it was so quickly gone. Certainly his voice was calm enough as he told Annjenett,

      "I'm traveling to Sacramento this evening, but I will call on you upon my return." I don't think I imagined my client's relief when he released her hand and turned to me. "Miss Woolson, I trust you will find what you are seeking."

      It was a tribute to the power of the man that we all stood rooted in our places while Benjamin Wylde made his way with long strides though the anti-chamber and out of the bank.

      "Well, then," I said, breaking the spell. "Shall we proceed?"

      In the end, we were disappointed. Mr. Hanaford kept no personal papers in his work safe. Annjenett looked crestfallen.

      "The bank was a place to start," I told her optimistically. "Hopefully, we'll meet with better success at your house."

      Annjenett's home was located on Taylor and California Streets, atop Nob Hill. A block away on Mason stood the turreted monstrosity built by Mark Hopkins, one of the so-called Big Four associated with the Central Pacific Railroad. Next door was the equally ornate, barn-like mansion of Leland Stanford, former governor of California and one of Hopkins' railroad associates. Compared with these fortresses, Hanaford's house could almost be deemed tasteful.

      Declining the widow's offer of refreshments, I asked to see her late husband's safe, and without comment she led me to his study, located to the right of the foyer. It was a spacious, masculine room, done mostly in browns and deep greens. The heavy drapes were closed in mourning, but through the gloom I could detect a number of books and a large mahogany desk centered in front of a cloaked window. Annjenett paused at the doorway, looking uneasy.

      "Cornelius - that is, my husband -- was murdered in this room. Stabbed - as he sat at his desk." She indicated an imposing, brown leather chair which backed against the drapes. "I've left everything as it was. The police, of course, spent some time examining the room."

      "You heard nothing that night? No one at the door, perhaps? Or your husband crying out?"

      "No, nothing. I retired to my room directly after dinner. I wasn't - feeling well."

      It was only a slight hesitation, but it was enough to cause me to question this statement. The obvious anguish on her face, however, made me reluctant to pursue it further - at least for now.

      "What time did you go upstairs?" I asked instead.

      "About a quarter to nine." She faltered. "It was the last time I saw my husband alive."

      "What about the servants? I'm sure they've been questioned?"

      "Yes. So often I live in fear they'll give notice. It has been a most unsettling experience."

      "I can imagine." My sympathy was sincere, but I sensed her anxiety was caused by more than just a problem retaining domestic help. "You're sure your husband expected no visitors that night?"

      "If he did, he didn't tell me. Beecher, our butler, denies letting anyone in." Her voice took on an hysterical note. "But someone did come in. They had to, didn't they?"

      Unless Hanaford was killed by someone already inside the house, I thought. It was a disturbing idea, but one which couldn't be ignored. It also occurred to me that since the study was in such close proximity to the front door, Hanaford might have let a visitor in himself, without disturbing the rest of the household. Surely the police must have considered these possibilities. Without sharing my thoughts, I entered the study and pulled open the drapes so that I might better examine the murder scene.

      "You said your husband's safe is in this room?"

      She blinked against the sudden light, then crossed the room to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Reaching inside a panel, she tripped a hidden mechanism and a section of shelves slid open, revealing a concealed wall safe.

      "Cornelius insisted I learn the combination, although I rarely used it, and always under his direction." With deliberate care she manipulated the knob and opened the door. "The police searched the safe, but I have no idea what they found."

      I stepped forward and peered into the compartment, which was divided into five sections. The first cubicle contained deeds and other business papers, two more held letters, another a thin ledger, and the last a small stack of cash. Pushing up my sleeve, I reached inside and pulled out the currency which, I was happy to note, amounted to several hundred dollars.

      "If nothing else, this should see you through the next few months," I said, handing the money over to the widow.

      Annjenett took the bills with delight. "I had no idea Cornelius kept cash in the safe. He led me to believe there was only his will and a few personal letters."

      "Yes, well let's see what else he kept in here," I said, placing the contents of the first compartment on the desk.

      Annjenett watched while I read through deeds for various town properties, as well as one in Belmont where San Francisco society had recently begun to construct country homes. The last paper was a copy of Hanaford's will. Although pleased to see that he'd left the bulk of his considerable estate to his widow, I was disappointed not to find the document I sought. Placing the first set of papers back in their cubicle, I took out the second set and returned to the desk. It took only a moment to find what I was looking for. With a triumphant cry, I waved a paper at the widow.

      "Here it is! Just as I hoped."

      Annjenett flew to the desk. "What is it? What have you found?"

      "A separate property list. I suspected that was what your husband was up to when he had you sign papers before starting construction on your home."

      "But what does it mean?"

      "Several years ago a civil code was passed enabling a wife to hold property and assets separate from her husband. These were to remain under her management and could not be taken by her husband's creditors. By listing your dowry and inheritance as separate properties, your husband protected them from being attached in the event he fell into debt. Of course he secretly retained control, which I suspect a great many men do who avail themselves of this code. In this case, however, the ploy works to our advantage."

      I saw hope rise in Annjenett's blue eyes. "Miss Woolson," she asked intently. "How much money will be at my disposal?"

      "I can't be sure until I've studied the papers, but I think it would be safe to hazard a guess of some ten thousand dollars."

      "Oh, my!" She sank into a chair and looked alarmingly pale.

      "Mrs. Hanaford, are you all right?" I began fanning her with the papers, regretting that it wasn't my practice to carry smelling salts in my reticule.

      "Yes," she replied in a faint voice. "Actually, I'm very well now that you've happened into my life." She took a deep breath and smiled. "How do you suggest we proceed?"

      "Tomorrow you may inform Mr. Shepard of our discovery and request that the properties and assets listed in this document be turned over to you forthwith."

      Annjenett clapped her hands in delight. "Miss Woolson - Sarah - you've worked a miracle. How can I thank you?"

      I felt my face flush at this praise and endeavored to keep my expression professional. Inside, however, I could hardly contain my excitement. Despite being summarily rejected by Shepard's firm, I had not only obtained my first client, but had actually been able to secure her financial independence. It was a heady feeling.

      "It's a simple matter that could easily have been discovered had Mr. Wylde, or any of Mr. Shepard's attorneys, taken the time to investigate." I told her truthfully enough as I closed the safe door and ensured that the lock was set. Annjenett triggered the hidden mechanism and the bookshelf swung smoothly closed.

      "Yes, but they didn't." She looked at me, embarrassed. "I'm ashamed to admit that prior to meeting you, Sarah, I was prejudiced against women in the legal profession. Now I see that it presents decided advantages. Being a woman you were instantly able to appreciate my predicament, something I have been quite unable to convey to either Mr. Shepard or Mr. Wylde. Please," she went on earnestly. "Say that you'll go with me tomorrow."

      "Nothing would give me more pleasure," I told her, delighted I would be there to see Joseph Shepard's face when he was presented with the separate property agreement. "Shall we say ten o'clock?"

      "Yes. That will do nicely." She handed me the documents. "Here, take these with you. Study them until you are very certain of our position."

      I agreed, but before I could leave she took both my hands in hers. "You'll allow my man to drive you home, Sarah. No, I insist. It is the least I can do."

      "That's kind of you," I said, gratefully accepting her offer. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning."

      Annjenett Hanaford was still standing in the doorway as her coachman clicked the stately bay down Taylor Street toward Rincon Hill.


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