Marcia Muller - The Body Snatchers Affair

Sabina felt a slight frisson. Mass murder was the most heinous of all crimes, and the impetus for the slaughter John had described struck her as a particularly grisly one.

“Famous case in its day,” he went on, “one known to most Scots worldwide. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a story about the Burkers, as they were called. And children made up a grisly skipping rhyme.” Which he proceeded to quote:

“Delightful,” Sabina said sardonically. “But to answer your question, no, no direct leads as yet. An idea, however, of where the truth lies and how to go about finding it.”

He grinned. “Woman’s intuition?”

“Hunch,” she said.

Her gaze dared him to argue the semantic distinction. To his credit, he didn’t.

“Do you want to discuss it?” he asked.

“No more than you’re willing to discuss yours.”

She was even happier than usual to return to her suite of rooms on Russian Hill. It had been a long, tiring day, and she looked forward to settling in for a quiet, contemplative evening and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow promised to be another busy day.

Adam, as always, rushed to meet her. The sharp-eared, long-tailed Abyssinian and Siamese mixture leaped into her arms and briefly cuddled before jumping down and running to his food bowl. Sabina spooned into it some of his favorite fodder, a glutinous, evil-smelling blend her butcher made up for her from God knew what scraps. Satisfied rumbles came from him and his golden fur rippled with pleasure as he tucked into his feast.

She really did need to find him a companion, she thought. He was alone too much. One of the “black, wiggly, and charming” kittens Carson had told her about, perhaps. In the press of business matters, she’d forgotten about interviewing his relative’s litter. She would have to remind him when she saw him again on Saturday night for their Baldwin Theatre date.

Watching Adam appease his hunger increased her own. The icebox yielded cheese, fruit, and milk; a tin of sardines completed her meal. Sated, she went into her sitting room. Cold air trickled in around the window frame, and she made a mental note to ask the building’s owner to have it recaulked. No, better make it a written note: There were too many other things on her mind to trust memory alone. She used a tablet and pencil on the side table, then turned up the gas fire and sat in her favorite Morris chair, curling up under an afghan that had been crocheted by one of Stephen’s three aunts in Missouri whose names she could never keep straight.

Her thoughts shuttled back and forth between the Blanchford case and the perplexing business with Carson and the crackbrain Sherlock. But there was nothing definite to be concluded about either matter until she had gathered more information. Now that Andrea Scarlett was in safe hands, she could devote all of tomorrow to that goal.

After a while the combination of full stomach and warm fire made her drowsy. She was on the edge of falling asleep when her front door buzzer sounded. The sudden ratchety noise jerked her upright in the chair. Blinking, she peered at the Ansonia clock on the mantelpiece. It read 8:20. Who would be calling at this hour?

It turned out to be a uniformed young man from one of the messenger services. She felt a nasty sense of foreboding as she accepted the sealed message, but when she opened the envelope what she found was merely perplexing and not a little irritating.

My dear Mrs. Carpenter:

We must speak in person tonight on a most ticklish matter. I am sure you are aware of the Crocker Spite Fence in Huntington Park, Nob Hill. I will await your arrival no later than 10 P.M. You will, I believe, find our colloquy most interesting.

Your obedient servant,

The aggravating Mr. Holmes. But if he wanted to speak to her, why hadn’t he simply called on her here? Why send a cryptic message? And what did “ticklish matter” mean? It smacked of one of his typically annoying melodramatic gambits, like the assuming of outlandish disguises for no sensible purpose. He never did anything in a normal, straightforward fashion — one of the reasons John considered him a lunatic best confined to an institution.

The Crocker Spite Fence in Huntington Park. That was at the very top of Nob Hill, not far from the mansion built by Carson’s father, Evander Montgomery, a prominent stockbroker, where Carson resided. Was that why Holmes had stationed himself in such a curious place after dark, to continue his shadowy watch on Carson? And was that why he wanted to see her, to impart information about his motives?

She would have to meet him, of course, even though it meant a pair of somewhat lengthy cab rides and a late hour before she finally went to bed. Whatever was on his skewed mind, she had nothing to fear from him; he may have been an addlepate, but judging by past experiences he was a benign one. Besides, Nob Hill was among the city’s safest neighborhoods at any hour of the night. And Huntington Park, with its fountain and many trees, paths, and benches, was located more or less in the shadow of Grace Cathedral. If the good Lord couldn’t protect her there, where could He?

Nevertheless, she made sure the pearl-handled Remington derringer she kept in her bag was fully loaded before she left her rooms.

The chilly hansom ride to Nob Hill increased her agitation toward the crafty Mr. Holmes. She was in no mood for any more of his silly games when the cab arrived at their destination. She asked the driver to wait for her, and when he asked for payment in advance before agreeing, her irritation rose another notch. Did she look dowdy enough not to belong in the rarefied atmosphere of Nob Hill?

Now where did that thought come from? I’m not dowdy! I dress well, even if Callie says my wardrobe could do with a little pick-me-up...

Sabina ventured along the graveled walk into Huntington Park, her high-button shoes whispering through a carpet of fallen autumn leaves. The charming little park, with its newly installed electroliers, appeared deserted at this hour. There was no sign of Holmes as she walked uphill toward the spite fence.

The unattractive fence, well-known among city residents, was a monument to greed and belligerence. After railroad magnate Charles Crocker had purchased the top of Nob Hill in the mid-eighteen-seventies, he discovered that he had neglected one small parcel — a patch of land belonging to prominent undertaker Nicholas Yung. When Yung refused to sell the parcel for what Crocker considered a fair price, the tycoon contrived to drive him out of his home by erecting a high wooden fence that blocked out most of the light and views. To Yung’s credit, he and his family continued thereafter to refuse all of Crocker’s subsequent offers of purchase. His wife, Rosina, had a considerable estate of her own, and had been quoted in one of the newspapers as stating that the Yungs “took great pleasure in keeping our lot from the grasping hands of that dreadful old greed merchant.”

The night was quiet here, the only sounds those of distant carriage wheels rumbling on cobblestones and water splashing musically in the fountain. Except for the pale glow of the scattered electroliers, the trees and shrubbery were shrouded in shadow. Lights outlined the towers of Grace Cathedral at the far end, and windows in the elegant homes that surrounded the park. One of the nearby homes, she knew, was the Montgomery mansion where Carson resided.

She reached the fence, still without seeing any sign of her annoying summoner, and moved along its perimeter. One of the little benches was set under a tree near where another path diverged from the one she was on. As she passed it, a dark shape suddenly materialized from behind the tree, stepping out in front of her. Startled, her hand darted inside her bag to touch the derringer’s handle.