Shirley Tallman - Scandal on Rincon Hill

ALSO BY SHIRLEY TALLMAN

The Cliff House Strangler

The Rus sian Hill Murders

Murder on Nob Hill

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

SCANDAL ON RINCON HILL. Copyright 2010 by Shirley Tallman. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Tallman, Shirley.

Scandal on Rincon Hill : a Sarah Woolson mystery / Shirley Tallman.1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-312-38697-9

1. Women lawyersFiction. 2. MurderInvestigationFiction. 3. San Francisco (Calif.)History19th centuryFiction. 4. Rincon Hill (San Francisco, Calif.)Fiction. I. Title.

PS3620.A54S33 2010

813.6dc22

2009039823

First Edition: April 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

In loving memory of our wonderful son, Chris.
We will always believe.

And, as always, to H. P.

Many thanks to my niece, Melody Bennett, for being one of Sarah Woolson's most steadfast fans, and for inspiring the Melody Tremaine character featured in this book. What would I do without your loyal support, Mel, even if it's all too frequently accompanied by your outspoken opinion concerning which man should win Sarah's heart? Love you, sweetie!

T he nightmare began early on the morning of Sunday, December 4.

Upon reflection, perhaps I ought to rephrase this statement. By nightmare, I do not refer to the frightening dreams each of us suffers upon occasion. Rather I am describing the horrific events which sent ripples of fear through the inhabitants of Rincon Hillnay, through the entire city of San Franciscoshortly before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 1881. Unarguably, the murder which set the horror in motion that morning was a tragedy, yet none of us could have possibly foreseen the carnage which was yet to follow.

I had retired late the previous evening, and was in a deep sleep when I was abruptly awakened by an odd noise. I sat bolt upright in my bed, but it was several moments before my groggy mind comprehended the source of that sound; some fool was throwing rocks at my window!

Pushing back my bedcovers, I arose and, without bothering to pull on slippers or robe, hurried across the room to the window facing the west side of the house. I was reaching for the edge of the drapes when another handful of pebbles bounced against the pane. By now thoroughly awake, and not a little irritated, I angrily pulled up the sash.

Below me, a pool of light emanated from a kerosene lantern, held aloft by the dark figure of a man. Regarding him in some surprise, I realized he appeared to be wearing the dark blue frock coat (appearing nearly black in the dim light) of the San Francisco police department. I should have known, I thought, expelling a sigh of relief. The man peering up at my window was George Lewis, my brother Samuel's good friend and a sergeant on the above-mentioned force.

George, I called down to him, would you kindly explain why you are throwing rocks at my window? And in the middle of the night?

I apologize, Miss Sarah, he said in a loud whisper. Your back fence prevented me from reaching Samuel's window. A body's been found in the Second Street Cut, and I knew he'd want to be the first reporter on the scene. Would youcould you please wake him?

I thought for a moment I had misheard. Did you say you found a body just two blocks from our house?

Yes, and I'm in something of a hurry. I have to return there as quickly as possible. His voice grew more urgent. I hate to bother you, Miss Sarah, but would you please tell your brother?

I made up my mind on the instant. Yes, I'll fetch him right away!

In my bare feet, and still not bothering with a robe, I left my room and padded quickly down the hall. The way was but dimly lit by several small sconce candles hung on the walls, requiring me to watch carefully where I stepped in order to avoid the squeakier floorboards. Samuel's bedroom was located at the rear of our house, overlooking the back garden. The gnarled old oak tree that grew just outside his window had for years provided my brother with a convenient method for coming and going without our parents being any the wiser. Even now I knew he occasionally utilized the tree for this purpose, especially if he were pursuing a newsworthy story.

Unknown to my mother and father, or any other member of the family, for that matter, Samuelwho had completed his legal education some five years previoushad invented endless excuses to postpone taking his California Bar examinations. In those intervening years, he had become far more interested in the life of a crime journalist, for which he had unarguably been blessed with considerable talent.

The reason for this subterfuge was because our father, the Honorable Horace T. Woolson, superior court judge for the County of San Francisco, nurtured a deep prejudice, not to mention mistrust, toward anyone in the newspaper business. It was Samuel's profound hope that Papa would never discover the real reason why he continued to avoid taking that last step en route to becoming an attorney. He had, you see, been busy forging a career in journalism under the name Ian Fearless, the noted San Francisco crime reporter much in demand by a variety of publications, ranging from the Police Gazette to the city's well-established daily newspapers. George Lewis was right. Samuel would undoubtedly do anything to scoop the town's other reporters when it came to a good murder.

Not stopping to knock, I boldly entered my brother's room and crossed to his bed. Samuel was an especially sound sleeperit was a family joke that he'd even managed to sleep through several significant earthquakesand I was forced to shake him by the shoulders before he could be roused from his slumber.

What the hell? he grumbled, pulling the bedcovers over his tousled head. Go away and let me sleep.

Samuel, wake up, I said, continuing to shake him. George is waiting for you outside. They've found a body in the Cut. He thought you'd want to cover the story.

At this, he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. What time is it?

By the faint glow of candlelight spilling through the open door to the hall, I could just make out the hands of his clock.

It's a few minutes after two o'clock, I told him. Hurry up and get dressed if you want an exclusive story.

Without waiting for him to agree, I scurried back to my own room. Hastily, I tore off my nightgown and pulled on the first dress that came to hand. Not bothering with petticoats or stockings, I threw on a pair of old boots and tossed a long, hooded wrap over my shoulders. I gathered my thick mop of tangled hair into a bun as I raced down the stairs and, grabbing hold of one of the lanterns kept at the ready in a downstairs cupboard, flung open the front door. Leaving it slightly ajar behind me, I joined a startled-looking George Lewis who stood waiting on the street.

Miss Sarah, he protested, you can't mean to come with us. The victim is... that is, it's not a pleasant sight.

Never mind about that, George, I said, straightening my cape so that it covered me more securely. You should know by now that I am not faint of heart.

Before George could find more reasons to object to my presence, my brother came flying out of the house, pulling on his topcoat with one hand, while attempting to balance a note pad and his own lantern in the other.