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lifted a sleeve to his nose. Taking shallow breaths, he raised the lamp. Its light flickered across the uneven surface of the walls, the piles of coal and stacked bricks, mounds of dirt, and a pair of shovels.
    Harris had re-covered the corpse with a length of oilcloth. The killer must have used it, rather like a shroud. Nick wondered why he’d even bothered. To help mask the stink of a decaying body, maybe? On the edge of the material was a smear of dried blood, perhaps from the murderer’s hand, caked with sandy dirt that had clung to it when it had still been fresh and wet. Theredidn’t look to be much more blood on the cloth, though, which suggested to Nick that he’d stopped bleeding long before he’d been wrapped up like one of those Egyptian mummies traveling professors liked to talk about.
    Nick swung the lamp, illuminating the corners of the room. The workers had finished bricking only a small section of the cellar, and as Harris had said, there weren’t any dark stains from spilled blood on the ground. Killed elsewhere, then, and brought down here to be buried.
    But killed where and why and by whom?
    He stared at the bundle dragged partway out of the hole in the ground. “Well, mister, guess that’s what I’m here to find out.”
    *   *   *
    â€œM rs. Davies, may I ask you a question?” asked Grace the next morning, seated across from Celia in the hired hack.
    Grace had never before requested permission to ask a question, her boldness either refreshing or shocking, depending upon one’s definition of propriety. Celia had an idea what Grace’s question would be.
Gad
.
    â€œOf course you may,” said Celia, steeling herself against the inevitable. “What is it?”
    â€œSomething bad has happened, hasn’t it?”
    â€œWhy do you say that?” Celia asked lightly, as if Grace’s question were quite the silliest thing to ask.
    â€œBecause you wouldn’t have rushed me through breakfast if you weren’t anxious to get me out of the house,” she replied. “And we heard what Owen said last night. The parlor doors aren’t really all that thick,” she added, rather mischievously.
    â€œYes, Grace, something bad has happened,” said Celia as thehack slowed. They had arrived at the Hutchinsons’ home on Stockton, a simple house compared to some of its neighbors’ but possessing lovely filigree work trimming the center gable, a pair of fine bay windows, and a large garden. The property emanated refinement and tranquility; the latter would soon be horribly disrupted. “But I will let your stepmother explain, once I have spoken to her.”
    Grace appeared triumphant. “I was right! I told Bee that Owen’s discovery meant the body was at my father’s office. She wouldn’t say so, but of course that’s what it means! Owen’s working there, isn’t he? And you’d want my stepmother to explain to me because that’s where the body was, and our name will be in every newspaper . . . Holy mackerel!”
    Oh dear.
“Jane will explain what has happened. That is all I shall say for now.”
    â€œShe never tells me anything, though.”
    â€œIt would be improper of me to do otherwise.”
    The driver opened the carriage door. “Then I’ll ask Papa. He’ll tell me,” Grace announced, and clambered down to hurry through the gate in the white fence fronting the street.
    Celia stared after her. Would Frank be any more forthcoming than Jane, when he’d possibly fought with the dead man? He would be a suspect and would need to be circumspect.
    Now, Celia, you are leaping to conclusions about Frank’s culpability.
If arguments naturally led a man to murder, San Francisco would be a town devoid of males. The two incidents were likely not connected in any fashion.
    â€œMa’am, are you gettin’ out or what?” the