Time of Fog and Fire Read online

  I nodded.

  She put an arm around me. “I need to get dressed for this evening’s festivities. And you should have a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’ll try and sort out all those annoying details and then get you safely back home to New York.”

  She left me then. I sank down onto the bed, too weak to do anything else. I lay staring at the ornate ceiling, trying not to think. Outside the window I heard birds chirping and the clang of the cable car bell as it rattled past. I don’t know how long I lay there but I came to when I heard voices, then a front door slam, then a carriage going off. I roused myself to unpack Liam’s things and took them up to the nursery. He seemed quite content as Li Na fed him some kind of soup.

  “He good boy,” she said, nodding with approval. “He like to eat. Chinese soup make him strong.”

  Ellen brought up a tray for me. I was rather worried that it might be Chinese food and I didn’t think that I could face it, but it was an omelet, light and fluffy, some thin brown bread, a glass of milk, and some cookies. Exactly what I felt I could face. I could see what Daniel had meant when he said he was well looked after at Bella’s house. Even so, I found it hard to swallow and had no appetite. Ellen clucked disapproval when she came to retrieve the tray.

  “Missus need to eat,” she said. “Need to stay strong for boy.”

  This was true, of course. As she bent to pick up the tray she added in a low voice, “Sullivan’s death not accident.”

  I looked up at her, shocked. “How do you know?”

  She nodded slightly. “Ellen has good eyes. She see things. She see man always stand waiting in shadows. When Sullivan go out, man follow.”

  “What kind of man?”

  She shrugged. “Not always same man.”

  She looked up as we heard feet on the stairs. “Better go now, back to kitchen,” she said and fled with the tray. I sat like a statue, digesting what she had just said. So Daniel hadn’t meant he was in danger from someone in Bella’s house, but from an unknown outsider, keeping tabs on him. An unknown threat, I repeated. Someone who didn’t want him here. Someone who was powerful enough to have more than one man watching him. But I had no idea how I could find out more, unless I offered myself as bait. If I started asking too many questions, if I let it be known that I didn’t believe my husband’s death was an accident, then I might find out more. But then I might also find myself pushed over a convenient cliff. And even if I found out who killed Daniel, what chance did I have of proving it, so far from home and in a place known for its Wild West ways?

  I undressed, curled up in that big cold bed, tucked the comforter around me, and lay there shivering—praying that this was a dream and that I would wake up and everything would be all right again.

  Fifteen

  I must have drifted off to sleep eventually because I didn’t hear Bella return in her carriage. When I awoke sun was streaming in through my window. As if on cue there was a tap on my door and Ellen came in with another tray.

  “Missy Bella say you take breakfast in bed,” she said. She put the tray down on the bedside table and left. I sat up and looked at the pretty china decorated with flowers, the linen cloth, the boiled egg in a silver cup, and thin bread and butter. It was all so civilized. I forced myself to eat and drink, then got up and had a good wash. I was going to put on the same costume I had traveled in, but decided I should look my best if I wanted to achieve anything—especially to have my husband’s body returned to me. So I put on the good dress I had brought with me. Outside the world was bathed in sunshine. Below me the city spread down to blue water. Sails dotted the Bay and steamships too. On the other side was the mirror city of Oakland with green hills rising beyond, and out toward the ocean the fog lingered in a band of whiteness. It was a truly spectacular scene, exactly as Daniel had written about it. Thinking of Daniel made me turn away and black despair came back to swallow me. Today I would see my husband’s grave, something I never hoped to do in all my life.

  I should write to Sid and Gus, I thought. I had promised Bridie I would write to her every day, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them the news and I also couldn’t pretend that everything was going swimmingly. Later, I told myself. I’d try and write something later.

  When I went up to Liam he was already dressed, fed, and playing on the rug with Li Na, who was building mah-jongg tiles into a tower for Liam to knock down with squeals of delight. She looked up at me, nodding with satisfaction.

  “Not to worry, Missee Sullivan. Liam have good time,” she said. “I take good care.”

  As I walked down the stairs again those words buzzed around inside my head. Was she hinting there might be danger to my son? Would those same unknown forces try to kidnap or hurt him? And again the thought hovered: Was I running a risk by staying here? What could I possibly hope to achieve?

  I went downstairs to find Tiny reading the daily newspapers. He looked up as I came in. “Caruso, Caruso, and more Caruso,” he said. “That’s all the city can talk about. I think if the Japanese fleet was sighted off the coast, ready to invade, it would only get the back page.”

  “Has Mr. Caruso arrived yet?” I asked politely.

  “Apparently he’s arriving today. Crowds predicted to welcome him when he steps ashore at the ferry building. And his first performance is tomorrow, the seventeenth. The whole New York Metropolitan Opera is coming to join him. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But then I’m not one for opera. Too much singing.”

  I had to smile at this.

  “You must miss being out on a ranch, Tiny,” I said.

  “Sure do. But I’ll have my own ranch one day. Bella pays me well and I’m saving up.”

  “Why did Mrs. Rodriguez sell her ranch and come here?” I asked.

  “Bella never was one for the wide open spaces,” he said. “Never happy miles from anywhere. That was her husband’s idea of fun, not hers. When he died she couldn’t move away fast enough. And you should see her here. Loves every minute.”

  “Has she gone out?” I asked.

  This made him laugh. “Lordy no. She will sleep until midday. Stays up half the night.”

  “Then maybe you can help me,” I said. “When I visited the San Francisco police yesterday they said it might be possible to have me taken to my husband’s grave. Should I go down to see them?”

  “No need,” he said. “I’ll telephone them and let them know you’re safely with Bella. They’ll have an auto up here in no time at all.”

  And so it proved to be. Within half an hour a black automobile had arrived with a constable driving it. I tied my hat securely under my chin and we set off. We turned onto a broad boulevard called Van Ness and from there onto Mission Street. This was no longer the city center with tall and elegant buildings, but rows of small wooden houses, clinging to hillsides. These gradually thinned out and we were driving between green hills dotted with spring wildflowers. Birds of prey circled overhead. For a long while we drove in silence. In truth I was too wound up for small talk and the constable did not seem too enthusiastic about his current assignment. When we finally turned in through wrought iron gates and saw the sign Holy Cross Cemetery I almost cried out loud and fought to remain calm. It was a lovely place, on a hillside dotted with stately trees. Many of the graves had fine monuments over them—angels and crosses and mausoleums. The constable helped me from the auto, then he led me to a section of new graves. And there it was, the earth newly packed down and beside it a temporary wooden cross with the word Sullivan printed on it unevenly.

  It was only now that I fully accepted that he was dead. I turned to the officer who was standing respectfully a few yards away under a eucalyptus tree.

  “You can take me back now,” I said. I started to walk back toward the waiting auto.

  “If you say so, ma’am.” He took my arm and aided me over the uneven grass back to the waiting automobile.

  “Do you know anything about his death?” I asked as we drove away.

  “Not much to know, ma’am,”
he said. “From what we heard your husband was standing at the edge of the cliff. The ground gave way and he fell. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “I’d like to see your police chief,” I said.

  “See the chief?” he asked. “I’m sure he can’t tell you anything more than I have.”

  “I’d like to know if Daniel told him why he was in San Francisco.”

  “Why would your husband have told our chief why he was in town?” he asked.

  “Because my husband was also a policeman and was working on a secret assignment. Courtesy would demand that he visited the local chief.”

  “I see,” he said. “I didn’t know that. I heard nothing along those lines. But I can take you to the chief and see if he has time to speak to you, if you like.”

  “Thank you. That’s what I would like,” I said.

  We rode back to the city in silence. Suddenly I said, “No, wait. First I’d like you to show me where my husband died.”

  “Are you sure, ma’am?”

  “Yes. I’d like to see it for myself. I need to see it.”

  “It was all the way out at Point Lobos, wasn’t it? Out at Lands End.” He looked at me as if he was reluctant to drive that far.

  “I don’t really know. They just said a cliff top. But I have to see for myself.”

  “Of course. I understand. Okay, I’ll take you out there.” We turned to the left and drove away from the city center again. We passed big new houses. A couple of fine churches. Then the buildings became few and far between and the fog came to meet us as we were swallowed into an unreal world. At last we came to the ocean. There was salt in the damp air that clung to my curls and eyelashes. Through the mist I glimpsed a building that seemed to be perched on top of the cliffs, ready to topple over any moment.

  “Holy Mother of God, who would build a house there?” I asked. “Especially when I’m told how unstable the cliffs are.”

  “It’s not a house, ma’am. It’s a restaurant and a hotel. The Cliff House is what it’s called. And down below are the famous baths. People come from miles around to swim in the saltwater.”

  “Do we know what time my husband was killed?” I asked suddenly.

  “I believe it was around ten o’clock,” he said.

  “If there is a big restaurant here, not to mention swimming baths, then shouldn’t someone have witnessed what happened to Daniel?”

  “Ah, but it wasn’t close to this area. Further out at Lands End. We’ve a way to go yet.” And he drove off the paved surface and onto a sandy track. We passed between tall Scotch pine trees, bumping over tree roots until the track ended.

  “We have to walk from here,” he said.

  He helped me out again and took my arm as we set off. An overpoweringly strong and pungent scent from the trees around us hung in the air. I looked up at their delicate, feathery branches.

  “What are these trees?” I asked.

  “Eucalyptus, ma’am. From Australia. They grow well in our climate. You’ll find them everywhere.”

  Eucalyptus. Australia. Everything added to the sense of unreality as we picked our way over soft soil and crunchy dead leaves. At last the constable stopped me. “Careful, ma’am. We go forward slowly from here.”

  Before me the trees ended and there were a few feet of springy turf. Mist swirled in my face and from far below came the rhythmic clanging of a bell, echoed far away by another. “Those are the buoys that keep the ships off the rocks,” the constable said. He took my elbow as I attempted to move forward.

  “No further, ma’am. The cliff edge is unstable at the best of times.”

  I stood. Seagulls cried plaintively somewhere above the fog and from below came an extraordinary barking noise.

  “What is that?” I asked because I’d never heard anything like it.

  “Sea lions. A whole colony of them on the rocks down below.”

  “Is this where he fell?” I asked.

  “Somewhere right around here. Look. See where the ground gave way?”

  I took a tentative step forward. I could see that the edge had crumbled, but there was no evidence that a large chunk of land had given way. I inched forward and looked over the edge.

  “Careful, Mrs. Sullivan.” He grabbed the back of my skirt. “It’s a long drop.”

  It certainly was. Through swirling fog I could make out the rocks. Waves splashed at them. A seagull wheeled below me, giving a plaintive cry. But I didn’t see what I was looking for. The rocks were black from their regular exposure to water. And there were a few chunks of new sandstone and grass lying on them, but not the sort of big pieces you’d expect to find if the whole cliff top had given way.

  A picture flashed into my mind of my husband lying sprawled there. I turned away hastily. Ellen had been right, I decided. Daniel’s death was no accident.

  Sixteen

  As we picked our way past bushes and tree roots to the automobile I tried to make sense of what I had seen. What was Daniel doing out here at ten o’clock at night? If he had to meet someone in secret, surely there were plenty of secluded spots in the city? Why come so far, to the ends of the earth, at night? I could come up with two possible answers to this: the meeting was so dangerous, so vital that they couldn’t take the risk of being seen, or he had been lured here to kill him. I think I favored the latter at this moment.

  I tried to push my grief aside and to think clearly. Daniel had been sent out here by the head of the U.S. Secret Service. That meant it wasn’t an ordinary crime. If it was a Secret Service matter, it might have something to do with spies, anarchists, national security. Had some kind of dramatic deed been planned? The assassination of a prominent figure? But no president or world leader was coming to town, as far as I knew. And the world would not reel from the killing of one of San Francisco’s railroad or silver barons. Then it hit me: Caruso was in town. Was there a plan to kill him? To blow up the opera house? I toyed with this idea. Was Caruso a big enough fish to believe that killing him would create an international incident? And if such a plot was uncovered, why not just share the information with the local police chief and have him add extra security measures? Why was Daniel, an outsider, specifically needed here? It didn’t quite make sense but I decided there was no harm in confiding these fears to the police chief when I met him.

  As we drove up Market Street we found traffic ahead of us stopped and crowds milling around. My constable muttered what sounded like a swear word under his breath. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said out loud. “I forgot. We shouldn’t have come this way.”

  “Is it some kind of riot?” I asked.

  “It may well turn into that later. It’s that Italian fellow Caruso. He was due to arrive on today’s train. I bet they’re all waiting outside the Palace hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Let’s see if we can cut up at the next cross street.”

  We did and made our way up the hill to Bush and then across to Portsmouth Square. We left the auto outside the Hall of Justice and the constable led me inside. I waited on a bench in the foyer while he went upstairs. I sat there for what seemed like a long while until I heard the tap of feet on the marble floor and the lieutenant I had spoken with the day before came toward me. I thought that maybe he had been sent to get rid of me, but instead he said, “Please come with me, Mrs. Sullivan. The chief is extremely busy with all that’s going on in San Francisco right now, but he’ll squeeze you in for a few minutes.”

  I almost had to smile at this choice of words. Squeeze me in, indeed. They had a strange vocabulary out West!

  Chief Dinan was an imposing-looking man with a well-trimmed mustache and a uniform with a lot of braid on it. He rose from his desk and held out his hand to me. “Mrs. Sullivan. How very sorry I am for your loss. Please take a seat and let me know how I can help you?”

  “Two things, Chief Dinan. Firstly, I understand that my husband paid a courtesy call on you when he arrived in the city.”

  “He did.”

  “Did he tell you why he had been
sent here and what his mission might have been?”

  “I understood it was a case of fraud. Fake oil leases in Texas. There was some indication that the perpetrator was in this area. I told him to feel free to go ahead but he needed to come to me if he wanted to make an arrest in my city.”

  “I see.” A simple case of fraud. This had completely confounded my theories. “Did he give you any names? Were you able to help him?”

  He smiled. “Mrs. Sullivan. We are up to our eyes in our own crimes here. San Francisco isn’t the easiest place to keep the peace. Murders every night in the Tenderloin and the Barbary Coast. Shanghaiing. Human trafficking … as well as the more everyday stabbings and quarrels and robberies. And now we’ve the added responsibility of protecting a world-famous opera star, not to mention the whole damned opera company. I don’t have enough men to start with and right now they are all working twelve-hour shifts with no days off.”

  I nodded, showing sympathy. “I understand. And I appreciate your taking time to see me. As you can imagine, I’m somehow trying to make sense of my husband’s death. I’m wondering whom he might have gone to meet at such a remote place. Whether he was lured there to kill him. I suppose no details have come to light?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Unfortunately if it were a murder, there would be no way of proving it, unless there was a credible witness. A push over a cliff does not leave a convenient handprint on the back.” He gave me a little smile.

  “So you don’t know any details of this supposed oil-lease fraud?”

  “I’m afraid not. I told Sullivan at the time that my men were stretched too thin as it was and he was on his own.” He started arranging papers on his desk, indicating that he had better things to do than talk to me.

  I went to stand up, then decided to stay put a little longer. “It just crossed my mind that his presence here might have had something to do with the arrival of Caruso,” I said. “A possible assassination attempt?”