Death on Telegraph Hill (Sarah Woolson Mysteries)

SHIRLEY TALLMAN is an award-winning writer with a flair for historical mysteries. She has written a number of successful romance novels and has coauthored several screenplays produced by NBC, ABC, and CBS. She has recently finished a screenplay for Paramount Studios. She lives in Eugene, Oregon.

CHAPTER ONE
 
 
A sudden gust of wind hit me full in the face, nearly causing me to lose my footing on the wooden steps leading up the east slope of San Francisco’s Telegraph Hill. Burrowing my head farther inside my hood, I hastened to catch up with my brother Samuel, who was several stairs ahead of me. He was obviously as eager as was I to be done with this precipitous climb.
It was a cold, clear evening late in March 1882. In addition to the gusting wind, the approaching dusk was making our hike up the Filbert Street Steps more arduous than if undertaken during daylight hours. Had I known what lay in store for us that night, the efforts of this ascent would have seemed very trivial indeed. But I am getting ahead of my story.
Our destination was the home of Mortimer Remy, a friend of my brother’s and publisher of the San Francisco Weekly, a popular newspaper that often bought Samuel’s crime articles. Mr. Remy had invited a group of local authors to meet the young Irish poet Oscar Wilde, who was touring the United States to publicize a book of poetry he had published the previous year.
At least that was the ostensive reason given for his visit. It was hardly a secret that the actual purpose of the trip was to tout the so-called Aesthetic Movement, which comprised artists, poets, and writers who argued that art need not be practical or useful, but should exist solely for its own sake. Mr. Wilde, the self-proclaimed champion of this philosophy, announced that it was his mission “to make this artistic movement the basis for a new civilization.” Curious to meet the colorful personality, I had readily accepted Samuel’s invitation to accompany him to the reading.
Tonight’s clear view demonstrated how Telegraph Hill had received its name some thirty-two years earlier: it possessed an excellent vantage point for sighting ships entering the bay. In order to alert the town to these much-anticipated arrivals—bearing mail and necessary goods—a windmill-like structure called a semaphore had been erected atop the Hill. The contraption had long since disappeared, but its brief existence had permanently established the hill’s identity.
Mortimer Remy’s home was located on a narrow dirt-and-gravel street, perhaps more correctly labeled a “byway.” It was a modest, gabled-roof cottage, probably dating from the late 1850s or early 1860s. Houses along this lane were all but impossible to reach by one-horse, sometimes even two-horse, carriages. A real estate man by the name of Frederick O. Layman had recently applied for a city franchise to run a cable car line up Telegraph Hill. Reportedly, Mr. Layman’s ultimate plan was to construct an observatory atop the hill and required the cable car line to transport visitors to and from what was already being described, and ridiculed, as a “German Castle.” If the cable car line was eventually built, Telegraph Hill’s inhabitants would benefit from its convenience. On the other hand, it would almost certainly increase housing prices, which for now remained affordable because of the hill’s unfriendly grade.
Mr. Remy himself opened the door and greeted us with hearty cheer, then led us into a front parlor where seats had been arranged to face the front of the room. Built into one wall was a large hearth, the crackling fire giving out rather more heat than I found comfortable. Opposite the fireplace was an ever-popular bay window, outside which I glimpsed a small copse of trees.
The parlor was simply arranged with functional, rather than decorative, furniture. About half a dozen people were already seated there, and our host directed us to a settee located toward the back of the room. Stephen Parke, a friend of my brother’s and an aspiring writer, stood and smiled as we approached. He was a taller than average man in his late twenties, blessed with a head of curly brown hair, a fair complexion, and cheerful hazel eyes that twinkled as he assisted me into a seat beside him on the sofa.
“I’m charmed to meet you again, Miss Woolson,” he said. He shook Samuel’s hand, then sank back into his own seat.
“It is very good to see you, Mr. Parke,” I replied, pleased we had been placed next to such an agreeable companion. “It promises to be an interesting evening.”
“That’s what I’m hoping, since I was unable to attend Wilde’s lecture at Platt’s Hall yesterday,” he said. “Opinions about Wilde differ considerably.”
Samuel lowered his voice. “Judging by the man’s photograph in today’s papers, he certainly is a distinctive-looking fellow.”
“Not many men have the nerve to appear in public wearing turbans and knee breeches,” said Parke with amusement.
My brother chuckled. “It makes good fodder for the newspapers. By the way, have you read his book of poems?”
“Not yet,” Parke answered. “But I hope to purchase one tonight. I assume he’ll bring copies.”
This time Samuel laughed aloud. “Have you ever known an author who didn’t drag around a trunk crammed full of his scribblings?” He had the good grace to look sheepish. “Not to say that I wouldn’t behave the same if my own book were to be published.”
“Not if, Samuel, but when it is published,” Parke corrected.
“And your book as well, Stephen,” said Samuel. “You’re correct, we must remain optimistic.”
“Yes, but your manuscript is nearly finished,” Parke pointed out with a wry smile, “whereas mine is still in a very rough state.”
Stephen Parke referred to the political treatise he was writing that dealt with San Francisco’s frequently corrupt city administrations. The necessity to eat regular meals and keep a roof over his head, however, obliged him to sell articles to Remy’s San Francisco Weekly, as well as to any other publications willing to accept his work. Parke lived farther down Telegraph Hill, as did a small colony of writers struggling to make their names in the literary world.
Even as I was pondering this, another member of that community was making his way over to speak to us. I had met Emmett Gardiner on several previous occasions, when I had accompanied Samuel to various literary functions. He was a tall, blond-haired man of thirty, with a strong, handsome face, steady brown eyes, and a genial personality. Emmett contributed regular stories and poems to The Californian, a literary periodical that had evolved out of the old Overland Monthly. I seemed to remember my brother telling me that Emmett, too, was writing a novel, although I could not for the life of me recall the subject matter.
“Samuel, Stephen,” said Gardiner, shaking their hands with his usual good cheer. “And Miss Woolson, it is always a pleasure to see you. Did any of you attend Wilde’s lecture at Platt’s Hall last night?”
When we indicated that we had not, he went on, “Neither did I. Which was why I was delighted when Uncle Mortimer arranged tonight’s reading.”
“I keep forgetting that Remy is your uncle,” Samuel said. “You don’t sound anything like him.”
“That’s because he hails from Louisiana, while my mother, his eldest sister, moved with her family to San Francisco when I was just five. She still lives here in the city.”
“That explains it, then,” Stephen commented. “By the way, how is your book progressing?”
As the three would-be authors discussed their various projects, Tull O’Hara, who also lived on Telegraph Hill, entered the parlor. A short man in his fifties, he had a long crooked nose, critical gray eyes, and a perpetually dour expression on his weathered face. O’Hara worked for Mortimer Remy’s newspaper, and although he was touted as one of the best typesetters in the city, he was even better known for his disagreeable personality. He certainly lived up to his reputation tonight, giving his employer the barest nod and studiously ignoring the rest of us as he took a seat behind our own.
“Who is that sitting next to Tull O’Hara?” I asked Samuel, nodding toward the large, ruddy-cheeked man frowning at the typesetter.
“Claude Dunn,” my brother whispered, “yet another hopeful author. He spends his days writing while his wife, Lucy, the pregnant girl sitting next to him, cooks and cleans for anyone on the Hill who will pay her.”
Discreetly, I examined the young woman seated beside her husband. She could not have been more than nineteen or twenty, but her sallow skin and straggly blond hair gave her the appearance of a much older, world-weary woman. I was shocked to note that despite the huge swell of her belly, the bony line of her shoulders was clearly visible from beneath her worn cotton dress. She should be at home tucked into bed, I thought indignantly, not forced to sit here in an overheated room, clearly fighting a losing battle to keep her eyes open!
Mrs. Dunn suddenly looked up, and loath to be caught staring, I hastily turned my gaze on a couple who were sitting in front of us. The man looked to be in his fifties and had a long, gray-streaked beard, dark eyes, and a yarmulke atop his balding head.
“That’s Solomon Freiberg and his daughter, Isabel,” Stephen informed me, following my gaze. “They live down the hill. Miss Freiberg teaches piano, and her father works as a diamond cutter.”
Isabel Freiberg was remarkably pretty. She had a small oval face, creamy skin, intelligent brown eyes, and silky brown hair fashioned into a neat bun at the nape of her slender neck. Although she made a show of listening attentively as her father spoke to her, I noticed her steal several unobtrusive glances over her shoulder at Stephen. Just as interesting were the ...