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 heâd 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 murdererâs hand, caked with sandy dirt that had clung to it when it had still been fresh and wet. Theredidnât look to be much more blood on the cloth, though, which suggested to Nick that heâd stopped bleeding long before heâd 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 werenât 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. âWell, mister, guess thatâs what Iâm here to find out.â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âM rs. Davies, may I ask you a question?â 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 oneâs definition of propriety. Celia had an idea what Graceâs question would be.
Gad
.
âOf course you may,â said Celia, steeling herself against the inevitable. âWhat is it?â
âSomething bad has happened, hasnât it?â
âWhy do you say that?â Celia asked lightly, as if Graceâs question were quite the silliest thing to ask.
âBecause you wouldnât have rushed me through breakfast if you werenât anxious to get me out of the house,â she replied. âAnd we heard what Owen said last night. The parlor doors arenât really all that thick,â she added, rather mischievously.
âYes, Grace, something bad has happened,â said Celia as thehack slowed. They had arrived at the Hutchinsonsâ home on Stockton, a simple house compared to some of its neighborsâ 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. âBut I will let your stepmother explain, once I have spoken to her.â
Grace appeared triumphant. âI was right! I told Bee that Owenâs discovery meant the body was at my fatherâs office. She wouldnât say so, but of course thatâs what it means! Owenâs working there, isnât he? And youâd want my stepmother to explain to me because thatâs where the body was, and our name will be in every newspaper . . . Holy mackerel!â
Oh dear.
âJane will explain what has happened. That is all I shall say for now.â
âShe never tells me anything, though.â
âIt would be improper of me to do otherwise.â
The driver opened the carriage door. âThen Iâll ask Papa. Heâll tell me,â 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 heâd 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 Frankâs 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.
âMaâam, are you gettinâ out or what?â the
Dick;Felix Francis Francis