No Darkness as like Death by Nancy Herriman

Author:Nancy Herriman [Herriman, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: San Francisco, 19th century, nurse, police detective, political mystery, 1860s, detective couple, miracle sures
Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

• • •

“So who did steal Mr. Shaw’s watch, sir, and those other items from the Institute’s patients?” asked Taylor, smoke swirling off the cigar clenched in his teeth as they walked. “Mr. Platt?”

“Mary Ann Newcomb fancies him to be the thief, although the conversation Cassidy overheard contradicts her,” said Nick. “At least as far as Shaw’s watch is concerned.”

Taylor puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “Hope that Mrs. Wynn is at her lodgings this morning, so we can get a straight story.”

“If she’s not there, Taylor, she’s probably on a train by now.” Nick turned the corner, the bustle of a nearby fruit stand sending up a hum of noise. Apples, pears, figs, and plums were piled neatly in wood baskets, the smell of fruit warming in the sun drifting their direction. “Might be headed to Arizona, for all we know.”

Or Mexico, like Patrick Davies had done when he’d abandoned Celia and left San Francisco.

“We’ve got Tokay grapes,” called the stand owner, women in headscarves and thick shawls crowding around him. “And fresh apricots today.”

“I like grapes,” said Taylor. “Wonder if I should get some to take home.”

“Since when do you like grapes?”

“Well, Miss Fer— ahem.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve always liked grapes, sir.”

Right. “Later, Taylor.”

They arrived at the lodging house, no more impressive-looking in the foggy morning light, and climbed the short flight of stairs to the door.

Nick pointed at Taylor’s cigar. “Put that out.”

“But I’m not finished, sir . . .” He frowned. “Yes, sir.”

He bent and stubbed it out on the stone step while Nick rang the bell. A harried young woman—a girl, actually, around fifteen or sixteen years old—answered, a wet washrag dripping in her hand. Not the landlady, this time.

“What? Oh, my,” she said, taking in Taylor’s uniform.

“We’re here to speak with Mrs. Wynn,” said Nick.

“I can . . . um . . .” The chambermaid hunted around for somewhere to drop the rag, decided the empty boot rack in the entryway worked, and wiped her damp hands across her apron. “I can take you to her room, Officers.”

“She’s here?” asked Taylor.

“So much for Mrs. M. notifying us that the woman had returned to her lodgings, as we’d told her to do,” said Nick.

A female resident in a drab cotton dress wandered out of the dingy parlor at their right. “What’s going on?”

“The police are here to see Mrs. Wynn,” said the girl who’d answered the door.

“Again?”

“Oh, dear,” the girl exclaimed and scuttled up the fraying carpet covering the stairs, trailing the smell of beeswax and strong lye. Nick and Taylor climbed after her, all the way to the top floor and the rooms tucked beneath the eaves.

“She didn’t come down for breakfast, so I guess she’s still in her room. The one at the end.” The girl pointed. “There.”

Taylor rapped on the door. “Mrs. Wynn? Police.” He leaned his ear against the door and rapped again. “Mrs. Wynn? Nothing, sir.”

“Do you have a key?” Nick asked the chambermaid.

“Sure.” She rummaged through a pocket and produced a key ring.

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