The San Francisco Trilogy: A Helena Brandywine Adventure

By Greg Alldredge

Some Monsters are Human.

The only heir to the Brandywine fortune, Helena grew up with nothing to want for: Except parents.

For the past ten years, everyone contended, they were dead. Helena had no reason to doubt the General, her stepfather.

On the eve of her eighteenth birthday, seemingly unrelated events pull the young woman from the safety of her gilded cage and haul her into the filthy streets of a magical 1899 San Francisco.

Everything she believes about her world proves false.

While battling unseen forces, Helena must uncover the deceptions and find a way to save her parents if they still live. Anything to learn the truth.

Will Helena even make it out of her hometown alive?

Read The San Francisco Trilogy; the first three books in the Helena Brandywine series to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Jan 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781949392289

Book preview

Draco:

Pretty Waiter Girls

On the Coast:

Doyle glided his steam-powered two-wheeled Hero-cycle through the foggy congested streets of San Francisco. He could’ve walked to the most recent crime scene, but he promised his inventor friend to test his latest invention as often as he could. He had a list of significant concerns as he barely missed a beer wagon, blazing around it at fifteen miles an hour.

He had to keep constant attention on the road, especially today with the visibility being measured in tens of feet. The streets overflowed with life. Life went on in his precinct—fog, robbery, diseases or even murder were not enough to keep people away from scratching out a living.

His mind wandered to how he missed the warmer June weather merely a few miles away near Mount Diablo and even in Santa Clara where he had spent most of his early adult years. However, now he had taken this position in San Francisco, specifically the precinct which included Chinatown and the Barbary Coast.

That’s where he was headed now. A body had been found in an alley off Pacific Street on the border between Chinatown and the Barbary. He suspected this was the third in a string of murders, the bodies all found in the same general location.

He hit a giant pile of fresh road apples, covering the right leg of his riding breeches in their foul smell and causing him to fishtail on the damp cobbles. Chaps, he thought, he needed some chaps or maybe half-chaps. The last thing he wanted was to arrive at a new crime scene smelling of a barn.

He navigated the steam-powered bicycle and parked behind a horse-drawn police wagon. He removed his leather helmet and brass goggles, black hair tumbling out from under them, then stuffed the pair into his satchel. The alley blocked with a line and a police guard, keeping the gawkers at bay while the men did their work, he smiled, happy to witness some of his suggested procedures had been followed.

Ducking under the line, and making his way down the alley, he searched for any evidence that might be recognizable from the crime. He became instantly disappointed. There were many footprints in the lane, and he suspected most had belonged to the people that found the body and the officers that later arrived. He scanned the area down to where the officers gathered, all standing around a rough wool blanket. Another crime scene ruined by the clods I work with, he thought. Judge not, lest ye be judged, he corrected himself swiftly.

A red notebook appeared in one hand, a fountain pen in the other, both a gift from his inventor friend. A marvelous item, a pen that wrote in invisible ink, he was able to read with a unique color of light. He took secret notes this way, like about the four men who now stood directly over the victim, one eating a flaky muffin and dropping crumbs all over the area. At the top of the page, he wrote Friday, June sixteenth, eighteen hundred and ninety-nine, in an elegant, well-trained script.

Good day, gentlemen. He used the term loosely. The police department was notorious for hiring officers with morals little better than the criminals they chased.

One waved a hand in front of his face, shooing a fly while continuing to eat. The others grunted all manner of pleasantries. Doyle scanned the area, pretending to find things interesting while noting the officers’ badge numbers in his book. All would require more crime scene training. He planned to change the culture of the department if it killed him—or them.

Any clever deductions on the demise of our body? the short chubby officer asked around his muffin, still more crumbs contaminating the scene.

Doyle fought the sudden urge to lash out at the fat patrolman and his mocking of his technique and ability. He used the inspection of the overhead windows and the audience of faces watching the scene from above until lost in the mist, as a moment to calm himself before answering. I have a few ideas, but I would be more interested to hear your outstanding theories on the subject and would be willing to ascertain the validity of any hypotheses you mental giants would be prepared to propose.

What? the crumb-covered man asked.

He wants to hear your ideas. The voice came from behind a stack of boxes a dozen steps down the alley.

Yes, any astute observations you wish to share? Doyle asked again.

The man scratched his beard with the bread a few times, more crumbs falling, before answering, Well, she was positively robbed first. This drew a round of sniggers from the other three.

Maybe it was one of those vampires! a second added.

Only if it wanted hair too, another chimed in.

Then maybe one of those wolf creatures! The third man needed to join in the game.

Yeah, with razors for claws. With this, muffin man stuffed the remainder into his mouth all at once to leave his hands free to make a gesture of claws.

Doyle feigned a laugh, making scribbles in his notebook.

Just another whore been murdered for doing the devils work if you ask me, the youngest officer said, crossing himself after he had finished.

Come now. I think they like to be called Pretty Waiter Girls, another corrected with a snarky tone.

Well, this one wasn’t pretty, the fat one added.

O’Bannon, you would still do her. I’ve seen your wife... and your mistress, the tall, lanky one cut in.

You know I will do anything with perfect legs, sex on one end, feet on the other! the fat one added on.

And the feet are optional! the thin one blurted out.

Promptly growing disgusted, Detective Doyle Longstreet needed a change of company. Here and now, he favored the companionship of the dead to the living. Thank you, gentlemen. You may continue your rehearsals for the Midsummer Festival out on the street. I would like to be alone while I examine the body.

The four comedians wandered toward Pacific Street, joking with one another the whole way, making impromptu phalli with their forearms and attacking each other.

Do you really have any theories you would like to share? The voice came from behind the stack of boxes again.

Kneeling, and taking a deep breath in preparation, Detective Longstreet uncovered the corpse and instantly, exhaled to control his nausea. Speaking sympathetically, No, none I care to share. He took a few deeper breaths as he held back the urge to further contaminate the crime scene with his vomit before continuing. Why don’t you come out from behind the crates? At least you can understand English well enough.

I would rather not. The sight of blood makes me squeamish, the voice said.

I am afraid to disappoint you, but there is no blood here or viscera. He inspected the naked cadaver, or the parts left of her, taking invisible notes and sketches while he worked.

The body had been quartered. Split in half at the waist, then the lower half divided again between the legs. That would entail a sizeable, powerful saw, the sacrum sliced and not shattered. The abdominal wall had been carved as well, by what appeared an incision of surgical quality, right down the centerline from the xiphoid process down to the genitalia. Closer inspection revealed the diaphragm intact, indicating the upper organs, including the heart and lungs, should be in place.

Doyle looked up to see a slender built man standing and watching him work from the crates, still more than far enough away to not glimpse the body.

You’re not a copper? Doyle asked.

No, I never claimed I was. I am a reporter. Any additional information you would like to share? the man asked.

No comment, the detective’s only reply.

Any comment of the similarities of the killings in Whitechapel area of London a decade ago? he pressed again.

If you are implying the Ripper killings, no comment. Now, please leave before I have you arrested for disrupting a crime scene, Doyle said in a calm non-threating way.

The reporter had all he was going to find, and with a deadline approaching, what he didn’t find here, he would make up. He turned to leave, then stopped. The other coppers don’t like you very much, do they?

Men tend to fear what they don’t understand, he said without looking up from the detailed notations he took.

The reporter shuffled down the street, not wanting to antagonize a future source by wearing out his welcome.

Detective Longstreet watched the man hurry off then went back to taking notes and making sketches of the area. At once, he realized the body had been discarded here, but why here when they were so close to the bay? Once dumped in the water, the body would be swept out to sea.

It must have been a message for someone. Then he noted the hair had been all removed, even down to the minuscule hair on the woman’s face. And lastly, in keeping with this not being the murder scene, they left zero body fluids on the alley cobbles, all very peculiar.

Lost in thought, Doyle didn’t notice the feet approaching until they were almost upon him. Prepared to chastise the intrusion, he jerked up, ready to speak harshly when he saw the face of Doctor Carlyle the city coroner and two black orderlies standing three paces away.

Ah, Doctor, I have been assigned the case. Doyle rose and offered his hand to each man in turn.

Once finished with the pleasantries, Doctor Carlyle waved the two stretcher bearers off. Give us a moment, will you, fellows?

Once the two men stepped back out of earshot, I’d hoped you were. I went to visit Alderman Black last night, interrupted his dinner, and told him I would quit if you weren’t given this case. The case needs you, the city needs you, said the doctor.

I wish you hadn’t done that. I am not worth the risk to your family, the detective answered.

The city needs more men like you. You haven’t learned how to play the politics yet, but you will. In the meantime, you’ve me to teach you, or at least cover for you when you don’t know.

I’m a copper like all these other officers.

I never thought I would hear you compare yourself with the likes of O’Bannon and the hundreds of others like him. You have a gifted mind toward investigation. You will solve many crimes if we can keep the politicians out of your way. Besides I like working with you.

You knew what I meant. I am no more special than anyone else.

Did you pay to become a detective?

No, the department recruited me.

That is the first thing that makes you different. Everyone on the force bought their position from the lowest to the highest. Someone pulled strings to get you on the force. They must’ve paid your fee. Like it or not you have a patron in the city.

Why tell me this now?

Now I have a reason. Since you are now lead on a case, I thought you should know someone is watching you and your progress.

Doyle thought about this new information, and the hotter part of him wanted to walk off the scene, quitting police work forever. However, the more relaxed side prevailed.

I’m not going to worry about things I can’t control. Can we focus on this poor soul?

Sure. What are you thinking?

Are you familiar with the Whitechapel case from a decade ago?

I think the world of law enforcement is familiar with that case, why?

This look familiar to the case?

Only superficially, the missing organs. There are many differences, like the missing hair, the total lack of blood, among other things.

Are the other victims dance hall girls?

I’ve not been able to identify them. Do you think this woman was a Pretty Waiter Girl?

I am not sure, but I think we may have a copycat of Jack. Without knowing who the victims are will make it harder. What if we run sketches of the women in the paper. Maybe we can find someone to come forward.

I can get on that. We will need to bury the bodies of the first two victims soon.

You ever thought about a few photographs of the bodies to keep as evidence?

That’s not a bad idea. It might even work for crime scenes.

But who would pay for it?

I have an idea. We can approach the city to pay for it. I’ll pay for these first victims.

Here is something I’ve never seen. Doyle motioned for the coroner to inspect the lower half of the body. How could a person split a sacrum like that?

I’m not sure. It wasn’t chopped or rough sawn. I’ve never seen bone cut like that, outside of an operating room.

Obliviously, not the Highbinders. I have seen their dismemberments, and they’re nothing like this. They are more like hacking or a butcher. Now, I am going to ask this, but please don’t laugh. What do you think of magic or supernatural creatures causing the dismemberment?

I have someone I consult with from time to time. I will ask her.

Once I have a picture, I have an inventor I can ask if he knows anything mechanical that might do this.

Just think, we only have a week to the full moon. It is only going to get crazier. The doctor stood and waved to the orderlies to collect the body parts and cover them with a wool blanket.

Doyle stood, as well, and started slowly walking through the haze to the street. You understand there is no scientific evidence the moon has any effect on a person’s mental state or actions?

Doctor Carlyle raised his right eyebrow. Really? Tell that to a lycanthrope.

Light Music:

A few hundred feet higher in elevation on the slopes of Pacific Heights stood a rather substantial estate that looked over their grounds, then a cemetery, the Presidio and finally, the Golden Gate and the bay. The fog cleared at this elevation, allowing a clear indication of where the sound of someone dreadfully trying to learn a violin version of ragtime clearly distinguished. It came from the manor house.

Helena, half dressed in fencing gear, worked hard at perfecting her fingering technique and failed, along with failing at bowing and hitting the correct notes. Lane, the driver, whom some might describe as a long tall drink of water, set out some late morning snacks, ignoring the painful notes as they crashed into his ears.

Helena began talking to herself as if reading or writing a script. The morning room in Helena’s estate on the north slope of Pacific Heights overlooking the Presidio. The room is luxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a violin is heard in the adjoining room, at which she stops playing—before the dead down the hill began leaving their graves.

Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music ceases, the petite Lady Helena gracefully enters.

Did you hear what I was playing, Lane? Helena began with a fake British accent.

Lane answered, I didn’t think it polite to listen, miss, his Texas drawl evident.

Helena continues, I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t play accurately—anyone can play accurately—but I play with wonderful expression. As far as the violin is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I keep science for life. Helena waits for some recognition of her wit. She is disappointed when none comes. Lane, do you even know what that is from?

Lane thinks for a moment before answering, I am sure I don’t, miss. Should I learn the song?

Not the song, the words! You don’t know, do you? Only the best writer of all time!

I believe that ragtime should be played on a piano, young miss, with a perfect upper-class British accent, Sigmund commented as he entered the room. Attired in a fencing jacket, which barely covered his barrel chest and his street clothing below, he carried the morning post.

Sigmund, you’re British. Do you know the words? Helena asked.

I am sorry, I do not. Should I? Sigmund answered.

Of course, you should! It is from Oscar Wilde. He is your countryman, after all.

Oh no, miss. I am sorry, but you are mistaken. He is Irish, not British.

Lane couldn’t help but snicker a bit as he continued setting the snacks.

Why my stepfather left me with you two is beyond the pale! Helena, in a fake fury, stormed toward the exit.

Of course, if you don’t want to read the post. Sigmund stopped her with the magic words that represented news from the outside world.

What did I get? Her seventeen-year-old face beamed like that of a school girl.

You have the usual papers from New York, London, and Paris. A package from Professor Merryall and a telegram from the General.

Before Sigmund finished, Helena had grabbed the package and started tearing at the knotted string while speaking, What did my stepfather say? Is he coming home soon?

I had not read it yet. If you like, you can read it after you investigate your new toy from The Professor, Sigmund said, stalling the inevitable.

She shook her shaggy, bob cut, strawberry blonde hair as the paper was thrown asunder to reveal the metal case contained inside. You read it. I almost have this opened.

Certainly. Sigmund slowly opened the telegram, reading it in its entirety before looking at the smiling Helena. Her eyes expanded by the adjustable magnifying goggles she found inside.

These are amazing. They are micro and macro! Read the telegram. When is the General coming home? She alternated between looking at her hand and looking out the window, adjusting the lenses at differing strengths.

Sigmund began to read, My dearest Helena. I will not be coming right home from Cuba. My men and I are being sent to the Philippines. I promise I will be home as soon as I can. Lo—

Just stop. Helena, her new toy held motionlessly, sat wordlessly on the sofa, gazing into oblivion.

Sigmund began cleaning up the paper thrown about while opening the post. Lane did his best to busy himself about the room, not really doing anything but being available.

Did you two know he wasn’t coming back? Helena asked, her voice quivering.

No, not for sure. The war in Cuba ended well enough, but the people of the Philippines decided they wanted their freedom once the Spanish had been defeated. The Americans did not agree with their decision. I am sorry, dear. I am sure the General had no choice.

Everyone has a choice. She went back to her silent thoughts.

Lane poured some coffee and handed her a cup, then placed a slice of cake next to her on an end table.

Helena shocked both men. Why doesn’t my stepfather love me? Fighting fiercely to hold back the tears, a single drop fell into her coffee.

Sigmund, in his standard stiff British ways, was lost on how to answer that question. Lane jumped in to pick up the lead Aw, honey, when I was the General’s driver up until I got wounded in Wyoming, all he did was talk about you. I think that’s one of the reasons he brought me here after I was shot protecting him. He felt obligated to me. I know he has always felt the deepest affection for you.

Why have I never heard of this? You got wounded protecting my stepfather and in Wyoming?

Lane nodded, and Sigmund took over. After your mother, the General and I spoke at great length, about how and what we might do to protect you. One of the things decided concerned the dangers in the world. The General is in the Army, the Army fights wars, and people die in wars.

I am not a baby. I appreciate what happens in wars. Helena frowned slightly, not actually understanding the horrors of war, but not wanting the older men to guess that.

Yes, young miss, I am sure you do, but you should not be required to witness them first hand. Sigmund tried to let the conversation drop for now.

Her melancholy passing, but since she now had the two men talking, and they never opened up to her, she didn’t plan on letting the opportunity pass while she had a chance.

What was my mother like? Helena asked the surprised men.

Lane, the more relaxed of the pair, poured Sigmund a cup of coffee, handing it to him before pouring himself one. I never had the pleasure of knowing her, said Lane.

Oh, young miss, you were very young when she left us. I know you have pictures of her, but the room came alive when she entered. You share her face and hair, though she kept her hair a good bit longer like yours used to be. She wasn’t much older than you when I first met her. It was before she met your father.

You knew my father. How old are you?

That is not a polite question to ask your elders. Sigmund prepared to tell her more about her father when Helena’s maid walked in.

I am sorry to interrupt, but Miss Helena has company. A Miss Minerva Smith is calling on her.

Helena gazed down at the mess she was in before saying, My goodness, Gertie, get upstairs and lay out some clothes. Sigmund, can you keep her busy next door while I dress? Lane, stay away from her. She has a horrid crush on you. I don’t want you to steal all the attention. The room became a whirl of activity as everyone jumped into action.

Helena said, This conversation isn’t over, you two, before bounding upstairs.

A life-sized portrait of her parents stopped her progress at the first landing. Pausing and studying the painted faces—her mother’s framed in golden hair, her father’s with a tremendous red beard hiding most of his face. She pledged, I am going to learn about you two if it kills me. She gazed into the only portion of her father’s picture clearly visible, his eyes, and for the first time, she perceived her eyes staring back.

She then continued up to her second-floor suite of rooms where Gertie had laid out the most practical, around the house clothes, and the quickest to change into. Dressing in record time, Gertie constantly there to help finish the outfit with a wig styled for a proper young woman of the day, matching her hair color perfectly.

Ten minutes later, she burst through the door to the lounge, making a grand entrance, only to find Sigmund pouring coffee for Miss Smith. Minerva stood upon Helena’s arrival, taking three steps to meet her. They took each other’s hands and did fake cheek kisses, both standing slightly over five foot tall. Minerva opened her mouth to speak, but Helena cut her off.

Wait before you say a word. I want to use my powers of deduction to determine what I can discover about you, leaning back and inspecting Minerva from a short distance. This morning, you rose early. Before going to visit a grave, you had tea and biscuits. You traveled here up Lombard Street by carriage.

Minerva stood with her mouth wide open as she stared at Helena before she finally spoke. My word. That is so exacting. You got almost everything right. I mean, I did sleep in late. I had a rough night and didn’t sleep well. I woke a short time ago and had toast and coffee for breakfast then came straight here right up Lombard Street in a carriage. You got it almost perfect. How do you do it?

I have been studying the skills of a great consulting detective in London. His name is Sherlock Holmes. He solves cases by using his mind and deductive reasoning. One day, I will master his skills. Oh, Sigmund, please do leave us alone for a moment so we may catch up. Helena turned to Sigmund, waving him out of the room.

I would love to read his work. Though I don’t think I have your keen mind, Helena.

I will give you some of the newspapers his stories are in. They are purely amazing. Come sit down and tell me what kept you up all night. Helena guided Minerva to the closest fainting couch.

After they had sat, Helena made sure they both had a proper coffee. Minerva took a sip before beginning her story. I’m not sure if I should even worry about this, but I think Missy Whitaker has gone missing.

Maybe you should take a moment to collect your thoughts and start in the beginning. It might help if I had a little more of the story.

Minerva thought for a moment as she took a sip of her coffee before adding more sugar and sipped again. When satisfied it was the perfect sweetness, she began.

Have you met Missy Whitaker?

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t think I’ve met her but maybe once.

She is a few years older than we are, but her family lives right down the street from mine on Nob Hill. She has always been very kind to me even when I was young, and not a lady, like today. I have known for some time that Missy grew wild, uncontrollable. Her father seems to be an angry man all the time. And I would hear the two of them sharing words loud enough to be heard from the street. I saw Missy in front of her house a few days ago, and she had cut off all her hair. She looked like a man. She even dressed like a man. Missy told me she couldn’t speak then, she had an appointment downtown but asked if I would come to her home yesterday, and we might share lunch. I went to visit her at the appointed time, and her father took me into his study and asked me if I knew what she was up to. He seemed quite angry and overwrought. When I told him that I didn’t understand what he spoke of, he became suddenly sullen and silent. He then told me not to worry about it, that Missy had gone to Hawaii for a holiday, and she would not be back for some time. He became very brusque with me and had his manservant show me to the door without further comment. It was the strangest thing. While in the house, I felt the blackest of moods had settled in that building, no longer a home but more like a mausoleum.

Helena had sat leaning back, fingers bridged in a spire pressed against her lips, listening to the story as she envisioned Sherlock Holmes would.

After thinking for a moment, Helena began to softly speak. Minerva, that is quite a story, but— Before she finished the sentence, Sigmund bust into the room like he had been listening at the keyhole.

Young miss, may I speak with you for a brief moment out in the hall? It is of the utmost importance.

Helena sat in shock at Sigmund’s impertinence. However, more than a manservant, she considered him a good friend. Helena stood with a slight huff. Excuse me one moment, Minerva, while I find out what Sigmund requires.

Once Helena had left the room, Sigmund closed the door behind her, and she let into him. How rude, she said.

I realize this, miss, and I apologize, but I wanted to stop you before you said something you might not be able to take back.

I know what I was supposed to say. I was about to tell her that I was sorry for Missy’s disappearance, but there was no way I could possibly get involved. The General would never approve.

I appreciate that, and I think this time if you want to, of course, it would be good for you to help your friend and discover if maybe we couldn’t find out what happened to her.

But what will the General say? Surely, he would never approve of something so adventurous.

Your stepfather is on his way to the Philippines. This matter should be taken care of swiftly, much quicker than it will take for your hair to grow back out. Besides, didn’t you remind me this morning that you are no longer a child? Lane and I will be with you.

This is completely my decision?

All yours. I don’t mind spending the summer teaching you self-defense, but there comes a time when every bird must leave the nest, if even only for a couple of days.

Helena had the distance from the hallway where she stood with Sigmund to the fainting couch where Minerva waited to make up her mind to think. Did she want to take the responsibility of finding another human being? What if I fail? Then she thought about her father’s eyes staring down at her from the portrait and pondered what wonders and adventures he had seen in his life. His eyes looked exactly like her eyes, she decided

She opened the door with a flourish, not even walking the few steps into the room and announced, Minerva, I was about to tell you, I was much too busy to take on such a frivolous case. However, Sigmund just informed me that my calendar has opened. I would be happy to help find your missing Missy.

Snob Hill:

Once Minerva had been reassured and shown out the front door, Helena took charge.

Lane, get Bessie ready. We’re going to town looking for adventure, right after I change, Helena became happier than she had been in a very long time. Still sad that her stepfather wasn’t coming home, but she looked forward to a distraction that would occupy her for at least an hour or two. Gertie picked one of her stylish pink dresses with a matching lace parasol and an excessively floppy hat she would tie to her head and not lose her wig and bonnet during the ride into town.

Bessie was ready long before Helena. The metallic clink and the whoosh of the beast could be heard clearly from Helena’s room on the drive as she added her final changes. Looking in the mirror one last time, she pondered how much older she looked and how she saw her mother always looking back from the mirror.

She rushed down the stairs as best she could in her flowing dress in moderately high heels. She instantly saw Lane and Sigmund waiting for her next to Bessie, both dressed in duster jackets, sporting ivy hats with goggles for the adventure. Bessie was eager to go—the brass shined, the mahogany polished, a rare beautiful steam-powered carriage. Another gift from her friend and inventor whom she liked to call The Professor. Lane sat in the driver’s seat while Sigmund held the small door open for Helena. She grew positively excited beyond words.

They left the estate’s gate, which pierced the low wall that surrounded the property, and headed down Lombard Street toward the city proper. Lane had already lit the oil burning lamps so when they hit the wall of damp fog, they could at least partially tell where they traveled. Even with the lights, Lane slowed Bessie for safety’s sake. Visibility was still less than a quarter of a mile.

I never seem to remember the fog being this unusually thick, Helena raised her voice over the hissing and the clacking of the steam piston driving the automobile.

Sigmund said, Oh, I have seen it much worse. You are accustomed to being on the hill. The fog is always less the higher you go. There was a smile on his face like the fog brought back fond memories.

Well, it’s not as much fun driving in the fog as it is when we have a nice warm day, Lane shouted over his shoulder as he swerved around the slower wagons.

As they passed through the dense fog, Helena understood why there were simpler people who believed that monsters inhabited the night. She watched the workers and the ordinary people going about their everyday lives bundled against the damp mist, and she saw a wraith over there, a vampire here, and on the other side of the way, a specter. All ordinary people going about their mundane business in their everyday lives, or at least she thought so. Heading down the peninsula, the buildings began to turn from two- and three-story townhouses into five- and six-story skyscrapers. The upper floors of the taller buildings still obscured by the fog, Helena noted that the thicker the fog, the more level the field of vision.

They made a right on Van Ness Avenue to bypass some of the steeper hills, and then made a left on Sacramento Street. As they climbed Nob Hill, the sun found them again. Just over the crest, and ironically, overlooking both Chinatown and the Barbary Coast, set the Whitaker mansion.

They timed their arrival soon after lunch, so it wasn’t too great of a social faux pas to show up uninvited and unannounced. Helena figured this should be the last place anyone had seen Missy. This must be the place to start the investigation. Helena didn’t have a clue to go on. She didn’t know what Missy looked like, but she grew determined to find her.

I will go announce your arrival, miss. You don’t need to stand waiting on the stoop like a commoner.

No, Sigmund, I think I will go to the door, follow if you must, but it would be too easy for them to leave your requests unanswered. I feel they would find it much more difficult to say no to me. No respectable house would leave a young lady standing on the front steps. Am I correct?

I must admit, young miss, in this instance, your logic is impeccable. Lane and I will wait here. If you are in any need, merely callout, and we will be there in an instant.

Sigmund exited the automobile, lending a hand for Miss Helena to step down. Once down, she opened her lace parasol to protect herself from the June sun, as any lady of refinement would. She never noticed Lane do a quick check of his enhanced naval revolver, and Sigmund checked to see if his gas-operated automatic pistol rested in its hog-leg. Strangely, both gifts were from The Professor.

Helena inspected the facade of the house, searching for any indication of dread or malaise that Minerva said she felt bearing down upon the house. She felt nothing. The house sat like an ordinary four-story townhouse, very similar to the adjacent townhomes surrounding it. No dark cloud appeared overhead. Lifting the knocker and handling the weight, it seemed more substantial than usual, but she was unsure if it was her imagination. Using the knocker, she rapped three solid knocks on the heavy door that sounded bizarrely muffled as they landed.

The door opened with a deliberate creaking movement. Had it been night or foggy, the sound of the door opening would be more foreboding. However, the bright sun seemed to make everything outside the house gay.

Her mind changed when she caught a glimpse of the person opening the door. The man was not much older than Sigmund, but it seemed life weighed heavy on his shoulders. His skin was the color of the gray fog blanketing the city below with charcoal circles enhancing the bags under his eyes. Helena took a step back into the brighter sun to soak up some of its cheerfulness.

May I help you? the cadaverous butler asked.

Yes, sir. Please tell Master Whitaker that the lady of the Brandywine estate calls upon him, Helena said while offering her calling card adroitly removed from her handbag while she spoke.

The butler took the calling card, inspecting it with dead eyes for its authenticity. Convinced the card was real, he opened the door wider, motioning for Helena to come in. If you would be so kind to wait in the study, I will check if Mister Whitaker is accepting visitors.

She said, Thank you. Bracing herself, she crept into the frigid confines of a building that felt of death and decay. She was led to a room down the hall from the front door, the walls adorned with bookshelves. While she waited alone, she inspected several of the titles on display, some of which she had finished, some she wished to study, and some she had never heard of before.

Her senses on edge, she heard the footfalls coming down the hall before the door moved. When the older man came through the door, whom she assumed to be Missy Whitaker’s father, she was surprised her tactic worked. The man her eyes laid upon stood in no better shape than the butler. Something horrible tormented this house.

Mistress Brandywine, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I must apologize for the lack of a warm welcome, but your visit has struck us at a painful time.

I’m sorry to intrude. Has there been a death in the family? Helena offered her right hand, wrist slightly bent, which Mister Whitaker took and shook instead of kissed.

Yes, we just found out last week, and I haven’t had the heart to tell anyone. My daughter Missy has died, and we are still in mourning.

Oh, my word. I’m so sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize Missy had been sick. I read nothing in the paper. When will the services be? Helena, flabbergasted, and was genuinely shocked that her friend Minerva had walked her into such an uncomfortable situation. I am going to strangle Minerva, she thought.

We are still working on the details. The family will make an announcement as soon as the information becomes available. So, I hope you understand, we are not currently in the position to accept company from a visitor as auspicious as yourself.

No, I completely understand. Please accept my deepest condolences. You won’t see me again until the funeral services.

Thank you. You are as understanding as your mother was. You know, in many ways you resemble her so much.

Thank you for your kind words and compliments on what I’m sure is such a trying time. Again, please accept my apologies and my condolences. I can see my own way out,

Helena survived mortification. A team of Bessie’s couldn’t have kept her in that house another second. When she got her hands on Minerva’s neck, she wouldn’t be held responsible for the outcome. The parasol gripped in both of her hand’s, white knuckles hidden by her pink lace gloves, as she marched back to the two men waiting alongside Bessie. The fact that Lane had somehow found a pear and stood slicing great chunks off it with a stiletto and plopped them into his mouth didn’t make her feel any better. She never witnessed the gap in the drapes watching her leave.

Sigmund opened the door for her when she arrived, offering her hand into the back of the cab. Helena refused the hand, preferring to get herself and her skirt into the backseat.

Didn’t go as planned? Sigmund asked.

Did the both of you know that Missy died last week? Helena hissed through clenched teeth.

Sigmund said, That’s impossible. I’ve read nothing of it in the papers. I’m sure it would’ve been news of the highest order.

Lane shook his head, a slice of pear hanging out of his mouth.

Her father just told me she died last week.

When did your friend say she saw her last? Sigmund asked.

A few days ago, why?

And when did Mister Whitaker say that Missy passed on?

Someone’s coming, Lane interrupted the pair, speaking around a mouthful of pear before swallowing. A few moments after that fella stopped watching us from the window, that woman came out the side gate.

The three of them watched as a young Chinese woman made her way through neighboring yards up the hill and peered around a huge oak tree. Her hand motioned for them to join her.

Helena looked at Sigmund before he said, It is your investigation, so you go speak with her.

Helena glanced back at the house, which now she truly understood why Minerva said it felt like a mausoleum. There was something off, something going on in that building. She felt it in her stomach. Sigmund’s line of questioning made her realize the error in the timeline. Someone had to be mistaken—either Mister Whitaker concerning the death of his daughter, if that even was Mister Whitaker since she’d not met him before or the scatterbrained Minerva and when she spoke to Missy last. She finished her line of thinking as she slowly approached the ancient oak tree.

She leaned around the massive trunk and timidly spoke, Hello? addressing the shadow of a Chinese woman standing there.

Mistress, please, don’t be angry, but I overheard that man tell you. He’s a liar. I don’t think my lady is dead.

That man I spoke to wasn’t Missy’s father? Helena moved closer to hear the woman’s soft voice.

The woman shook her head no before glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one watched them, then continued, No, ma’am. I don’t know who that is, but it is not my mistresses father. I not see him in three days. Please take me with you. I do not feel safe in that house.

Helena did a few calculations in her head. She knew something was wrong, felt something bad going on in that house. If this young woman, who looked only slightly younger than Helena, remained in that house, she would not be long in this world. She made the decision in an instant. The best thing was to bring her only lead home with her. Stepping out from behind the tree, Helena waved at the ever-watchful Lane and Sigmund to come pick them up with Bessie, before nodding in agreement with the young woman.

Bessie, once fired up, was always ready to move. Lane used the stored steam energy in the receiver and added a little kerosene drip to the boiler fire to replace the used steam. It took longer for Sigmund to climb into the back seat than it did for Lane to get Bessie moving. With a sharp U-turn and a few blasts of the steam whistle, Lane had the automobile reversed and alongside Helena and her new friend.

Helena said, She is coming with us. Please don’t wait to take us out of here. She hustled the young maid into the backseat and quickly followed behind her.

If we go too fast, we all die? the young teen asked, a worried expression on her face.

Only if Lane doesn’t keep us on the road, Sigmund said. Once they made it a few blocks down the road, Sigmund asked, Young miss, would you mind introducing us to your new friend?

This is Missy’s maid. She can confirm Minerva’s story. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, Helena finally asked the girl.

My name is Lo Wai Han. Mistress saved me from most dishonorable life.

Miss Han alleged the man I spoke to wasn’t Missy’s father, said Helena.

Young miss, Han is Miss Lo’s middle name. Am I correct? Sigmund regarded Miss Lo for confirmation. She nodded the affirmative.

Miss Lo told me that the man I spoke to was not Missy’s father. She hadn’t seen Mister Whitaker for three days. Miss Lo, why don’t you tell your story? I’m sure you know it much better than I do.

My mistress spent a lot of time in Chinatown and Barbary Coast. She saved me when I escaped house I forced to work. She brought me home to be her maid. Her family furious, I’m sure they all hate me. Her father, Mister Robert Whitaker, sure she spending her time gambling, using drugs, and selling her body to pay for both. Tears dripped from her eyes as she spoke.

Last week, he threaten to have my mistress committed to Agnew’s Insane Asylum. The argument quite loud, I sure everyone in house, in neighborhood heard it. Next day, Missy cut off all hair. Not sure why, but I watched her. She cried whole time. People in big houses talk, rich think they secrets safe, but everyone knows. I know she alive four days ago, I believe in my heart she alive now. I have been praying for her every night. Tears ran down Lo Wai Han’s cheeks as she told the story. Now that I left the Whitaker house if I go back to Chinatown, the Hop Sings kill me. Show my head as a warning to others that try escape. I am dead woman. Lo Wai Han began to cry in earnest, the severity of her situation sinking in.

Hop Sings? Helena asked.

Lane said, One of the many Chinese gangs operating in Chinatown, from over his shoulder.

Both Helena and Sigmund peered at the back of Lane’s head, and each questioned how he might know that. Lo Wai Han nodded her head, through her tears, indicating Lane was correct.

Sigmund, aren’t we in need of another pair of hands on the estate? Helena motioned with her head toward Lo Wai Han’s bent over body and wiggled her eyebrows.

Sigmund wasn’t quite that dense. He understood her suggestion without the body language, Yes young miss, I do believe we could use another house person. You don’t need a personal attendant, but I bet we might find somewhere for Miss Lo to work if she wanted to stay with us.

Oh yes, please. I will do any housework. Please don’t make me go back to Chinatown. I don’t want to sell my body.

Sell your body? Helena asked. The gravity of the situation finally sinking in, she realized what kind house the girl younger than herself had been forced to work in and the services she would have had to provide. The grip tightened on her parasol. It suffered for the injustice Helena felt for this young woman.

I almost forgot. Wai Han reached into her pocket and pulled out a small embroidered handkerchief containing two items. These are two things that help you find my mistress. First is picture before she cut hair. Wai Han handed her a locket the size of a silver dollar. Inside contained a picture of Missy. And this. She handed Helena a wine cork. Mistress told me to keep this safe. It very important.

Helena took the two articles, precious as the crown jewels. I will guard them with my life. Wai Han, I promise I will do everything I can to find Missy and bring her home to you.

Agnew’s:

Once they arrived safely back at the estate, and Wai Han was taken care of, Helena and the two men sat down in the study.

I don’t understand what could’ve happened to Missy. Her life was not that much different than mine. Who were those men in her house? Helena asked.

At the moment, that is a question that will need to wait. If we are going to investigate Agnew’s, we must leave soon. It is a long drive. Sigmund offered, If we leave right now, we will arrive there before dark.

We’ve never taken Bessie that far. I will need an extra can of kerosene to get back. It might be midnight depending on how much time we spend. Wait a moment. Where are we going? Lane asked.

Santa Clara, Sigmund said.

That’s got to be fifty miles away. Not sure what the roads are like.

In some places, we will be able to travel very fast and others not so.

I would like to know how you knew about Agnew’s, Helena asked.

There came a time I had to do some research for your father. If I take the time to explain now, we may not make it to the asylum before dark.

Well, let me get Bessie ready. I’ll pass by the kitchen and tell them to pack us a basket. I think we’re going to need it. Sounds like a long haul. Sigmund, could you pick it up on your way out? Lane said as he left the room, escaping the coming storm.

Perhaps you should change into your riding clothes. It is going to be a long drive.

Yes, and on the trip down to Santa Clara, I expect more than a few answers, Helena said as she gathered her things and headed toward her room. The house heard her call out, Gertie, I need my riding gear, at the top of her lungs as she headed up