No Quiet among the Shadows

By Nancy Herriman

With the city’s Fourth of July celebrations in full swing, Celia Davies has stolen a moment away from her nursing duties to take in the festive spectacle, but is stunned when she spots the one person she thought she’d never see again—her supposedly dead husband, Patrick. Moments later, the investigator who had confirmed Patrick’s death is killed when he suspiciously falls from a high window, and Celia begins to fear that the roguish man she married has returned to haunt her life once again.

Joining forces with Detective Nick Greaves to get to the bottom of the mystery, Celia is soon drawn into a murky séance group, where the voices of the dead suggest that everyone involved in the case is engaged in some sort of fraud or deception. Determined to discover which of them might be a murderer, Celia and Nick will find themselves following a trail of clues that leads them down dark alleys into a shadowy tangle of spiritualism, altered identities, traumatic pasts, and secrets worth killing for . . .

About the Author:

Nancy Herriman left an engineering career to take up the pen and has never looked back. She is the author of the Mysteries of Old San Francisco, the Bess Ellyott Mysteries, and several stand-alone novels. A winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award, when she’s not writing, she enjoys singing, gabbing about writing, and eating dark chocolate. After two decades in Arizona, she now lives in her home state of Ohio with her family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Mar 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781950461301

Book preview

No Quiet among the Shadows

With the city’s Fourth of July celebrations in full swing, Celia Davies has stolen a moment away from her nursing duties to take in the festive spectacle, but is stunned when she spots the one person she thought she’d never see again—her supposedly dead husband, Patrick. Moments later, the investigator who had confirmed Patrick’s death is killed when he suspiciously falls from a high window, and Celia begins to fear that the roguish man she married has returned to haunt her life once again.

Joining forces with Detective Nick Greaves to get to the bottom of the mystery, Celia is soon drawn into a murky séance group, where the voices of the dead suggest that everyone involved in the case is engaged in some sort of fraud or deception. Determined to discover which of them might be a murderer, Celia and Nick will find themselves following a trail of clues that leads them down dark alleys into a shadowy tangle of spiritualism, altered identities, traumatic pasts, and secrets worth killing for . . .

Title Page

Copyright

No Quiet among the Shadows

Nancy Herriman

Copyright © 2020 by Nancy Herriman

Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

Beyond the Page Books

are published by

Beyond the Page Publishing

www.beyondthepagepub.com

ISBN: 978-1-950461-30-1

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down- loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedication

To all those who love Celia and Nick and demanded more of their story . . .

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Author’s Note

Books by Nancy Herriman

About the Author

Chapter 1

San Francisco

early July, 1867

I’m hoping you can help me, Mrs. Davies, said the woman, gripping her reticule as though she intended to strangle it to death. My husband doesn’t know I’ve come to your clinic.

Her unexpected visit had interrupted Celia Davies’s cousin, Barbara, from the inventory of medical supplies she’d been conducting in Celia’s examination room. Barbara’s dark, slightly almond-shaped eyes—a legacy from her deceased Chinese mother—studied their visitor, a hint of apprehension in the tilt of her head. Celia could not assure her cousin she was mistaken to be wary of strangers. Even inside this house, an approving reaction to a Chinese girl was never a foregone conclusion.

You can finish later, Barbara, said Celia.

I was almost done anyway. Barbara set her notes upon Celia’s desk and limped out of the room.

Celia’s visitor watched her go.

Barbara is my deceased uncle’s daughter and my ward, as well as my assistant, explained Celia.

Her foot bothers her?

In this often unforgiving world, which was worse—the disfigurement Barbara had been born with or her mixed-race heritage? There were days none of them could be certain of the answer.

Yes. Celia shut the door to her examination room. The woman flinched at the click of the latch. How strange. "Now, please tell me why you have not told your husband about this visit, Mrs. . . ."

Mrs. Wheaton. She rolled her lips between her teeth. I’ve heard you are discreet, Mrs. Davies. I’ve heard I can trust you.

Most certainly you can trust me.

Thank you. She swallowed, the movement of her throat muscles shifting the high lace collar she wore—a stifling band of material on an unusually hot summer day like today. You see, my husband doesn’t like me to trouble medical folks with my particular problem. I’m not supposed to ever consult our family physician, she said. "I can pay for your services, if you’re concerned about that."

She reached into her reticule as though meaning to prove her claim.

Celia lifted a hand to stop her. I do not require payment. My clinic is free for all ladies.

Even those dressed as finely as her anxious visitor. Atop her head, Mrs. Wheaton had perched a hat trimmed with a navy ribbon that matched the silk soutache embroidery forming curlicues along the edge of her gown. More soutache swirled down the front of her buttoned bodice and banded the cuffs of her full sleeves. Clearly, Mrs. Wheaton did not lack for money, nor had she rushed out of her home before attending to her toilette; her gown’s cream muslin was pristine. Quite a feat, when arriving at Celia’s clinic required a journey along the dusty roads climbing Telegraph Hill.

Mrs. Wheaton lowered her reticule. The breeze stirring the lace window curtains wafted the scent of the woman’s jasmine perfume, making Celia nostalgic for England, for home. Her mother had worn jasmine perfume. You’re very generous.

It is not a matter of generosity. This clinic is my calling. My family back in England . . . what is left of them . . . believes it is a foolish endeavor. But helping and healing are all I have ever desired to do, Mrs. Wheaton.

The woman looked around as if seeing the space with fresh eyes. She seemed small and lost among the contents of the room—the examination bench that was positioned against one wall; the tall glass-fronted case holding linen bandaging, strict rows of labeled medicine bottles on one shelf, and medical implements that occupied another; Celia’s large desk, which held patient files and a walnut box containing her prized stethoscope.

Small and lost and distressed.

Nonetheless, I think you’re generous to do this, she said.

Celia gestured at the oak Windsor chair tucked in the corner. Please take a seat, Mrs. Wheaton. You will be more comfortable.

She gave the chair a hasty, uneasy glance. I’d rather not. I’m fine standing.

What is it, then, that you need my help with?

This. She set her reticule atop the examination bench and peeled down the edge of her lace collar with one gloved fingertip. The wound upon her neck was raw and angry.

Merciful God, what has happened to you?

It hasn’t healed like it should, said Mrs. Wheaton. I tried basilicon ointment on it, but the infection wasn’t drawn out.

Would you mind moving nearer the window so I can better examine you? Celia reached for the woman’s elbow to guide her.

Mrs. Wheaton evaded her touch and took up a spot by the window. Is here all right?

I shall be gentle. Celia eased the collar of Mrs. Wheaton’s dress away from her injury. What caused this?

I believe the physician at the hospital called it a seton, ma’am.

A seton in the neck. Celia had only once before seen the treatment used. A thick horsehair or the like would be inserted beneath the skin to induce an infection that would continuously ooze and supposedly act as a counter-irritation to the patient’s affliction. One of the doctors at the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania, where Celia had studied during the war, had employed the use of a seton in hopes of curing an epileptic.

It hadn’t worked.

Do you have epilepsy? she asked and walked over to her cabinet of medical supplies.

No, ma’am, the woman answered. It’s my melancholia. The blisters have healed, but not this.

The blue vitriol Celia had lifted down from the cabinet slipped in her hand, and she had to make a grab for it before it crashed to the ground. You were blistered? she asked, slowly setting the bottle of crystalline copper sulfate on her desk.

And bled, Mrs. Davies, she replied. I wasn’t the only one, you know.

Celia collected her pitcher of clean water and a porcelain bowl. Were you at the asylum?

Mrs. Wheaton paused before answering. My daughter died, she said. Of congestion of the lungs. She was just a tiny thing. So fragile.

Outrage, sympathy, misery stuck hard in Celia’s chest, emotions as weighty as lead. Had it been Mrs. Wheaton’s husband who had sent her to the state hospital in Stockton? Had this trembling creature been committed because he was uncomfortable with the intense grief she’d expressed over the loss of a child? She likely shied from sitting in the room’s chair because she had spent long hours tied to one. She likely recoiled from Celia’s touch because she’d come to associate an extended hand with pain.

I am deeply sorry, said Celia gently. I can attempt to heal the wound upon your neck, Mrs. Wheaton. I only wish I could heal the pain in your heart.

Thank you. You’re very kind, she said. I do miss her. Perhaps I’ll attend one of those séances the spiritualists hold. Maybe I’d be able to talk to my sweet little daughter. Make sure she’s happy. In heaven. With God.

Celia mixed the blue vitriol in the water and dabbed the solution on Mrs. Wheaton’s wound. My brother died in the Crimea, she said. I miss him desperately. Every day. Harry. Her rock.

You understand. The other woman’s eyes sparkled with tears, and she wiped them away.

I do. So very well. Celia finished dressing the wound. I will send you home with a supply of blue vitriol and instructions on how to tend to your injury, Mrs. Wheaton. Please return in three or four days, so that I may examine you again to make certain it is healed.

I’ll try. Thank you, she replied. But I can’t promise. I have responsibilities at home.

Tending to your own health is also your responsibility, said Celia. Your grief is natural, Mrs. Wheaton, and nothing to be ashamed of. You should not have been made to suffer as you have.

I fared better than others at the hospital, Mrs. Davies, she said, summoning a half-hearted smile. During my time at the hospital, I learned calmness and to accept my loss. And I’m well enough in body and in soul, despite this sore on my neck. Not everyone was so fortunate, Mrs. Davies. Not all of the inmates left the asylum alive.

• • •

You’ve gotta still be lookin’ for my parents, Mr. Smith. Owen Cassidy skittered to the investigator’s other side, catching a whiff of the moldy smell that was always attached to the fellow’s clothing. Can’t figure why Mrs. Davies ever hired someone who stinks so durned bad. You’ve gotta.

Smith shook a foot at Owen, like he was trying to unhitch a clinging mutt. Don’t you got somethin’ better to do, Cassidy, than bother a busy man like me?

But you’re supposed to be searching for them, aren’t you? Owen persisted, picking up his pace to match Mr. Smith’s, which was pretty fast for a scrawny fellow who looked like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in months. In fact, if it was at all possible, he looked even scrawnier than usual.

The investigator legged it across Montgomery, the street a jumble of preparation for the parade that would march down it come Independence Day. Owen had spied Mr. Smith charging down the road headed toward his office on Sansome in a blasted hurry. He wished the fellow would slow down. He’d woken up that morning not feeling so well, his neck stiff and hard to move. Trying to keep up with Mr. Smith was making him feel even more poorly.

A shopkeeper, out hanging bunting beneath his store windows, scowled at the two. He muttered something about bums but Owen was used to such talk; he’d heard it all the time when he was living on the streets.

"I mean, Mrs. Davies is still payin’ you to find my parents, right?" Owen was starting to worry. Maybe, now that Mr. Smith had found out about Mrs. Davies’s husband being dead and all, she’d stopped paying the investigator altogether. She wouldn’t do that though, would she? She’d promised to help Owen find his parents, and he trusted her. Mrs. Davies was just about the only person he did trust. Can you slow down, Mr. Smith? I gotta talk to you.

Wagons and horses evaded, they stepped onto the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street.

Get lost, kid. They pushed through a crowd shoving to get inside a saloon, where the celebrations looked to be under way early. Answerin’ all your questions is gonna make me late for a meeting I got.

"But you ain’t . . . haven’t answered any of my questions!"

Abruptly, Mr. Smith pulled up. He stared at Owen. They’re dead.

His statement was as shocking as a plunge in icy water. Enough like it that Owen’s teeth took to chattering and his head to aching. You’re just sayin’ that to get rid of me.

Is it workin’?

You’re just sayin’ that!

Mr. Smith swatted a hand through the air. I ain’t never findin’ ’em, Cassidy. He took off walking again. You may as well be expectin’ to reach for your shadow and grab it as thinkin’ I’ll be bringin’ yer ma and pa home to hug and kiss you.

But you gotta find ’em. I need to know what happened. Why they left me behind like I wasn’t worth nothin’ . . . anything.

A few doors down from his office, Mr. Smith halted, dragged his battered bowler hat from his head, and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. Hat returned to its place, he scowled at Owen. You gonna pay me?

Ain’t . . . isn’t Mrs. Davies payin’ you?

The investigator mumbled. To Owen it sounded like he’d said not enough.

Owen got panicky. I haven’t got any money to pay you, Mr. Smith, because I don’t have a job right now. But I can do work for you. What do you say to that?

Sure, kid. I can use some help. In exchange for searchin’ for your parents, he said. Come by tomorrow.

Thanks! Owen stuck out his hand, though he didn’t relish shaking Mr. Smith’s grimy paw. It’s a deal.

No need to shake. My word’s good.

Immense relief washed over Owen. And you promise me they ain’t . . . aren’t dead.

Mr. Smith frowned. Now, don’t be askin’ me to make promises like that, Cassidy. Don’t ever be askin’ me to make promises like that.

He strode on, reaching his office door just as a man with a thick goatee beard and a fancy walking stick in one hand arrived.

Doc! Smith called to him.

The man was red-faced and shouted at Mr. Smith in return. Owen couldn’t hear what he’d said over a horsecar clopping past and the bang of a hammer from some fellows working on a store at the corner. He sure looked angry, though. Durned angry. Maybe he should go help Mr. Smith, as his new assistant. But Mr. Smith didn’t look over at Owen like he expected him to come join them.

While Owen stood there trying to figure out what to do, Mr. Smith grabbed hold of the man’s elbow and yanked him into his street-level office, slamming the door behind them and snapping closed the window blinds. Now, that’s not right.

He supposed it wasn’t his business to mind Mr. Smith’s clients yet. Besides, he needed to go visit Mrs. Davies. He was feeling something awful.

• • •

Captain’s looking for you, sir, said J. E. Taylor, Nicholas Greaves’s assistant. He’d come from the police station and trotted across Kearney to join Nick, who leaned against the iron fence enclosing Portsmouth Square. Something about finding a missing woman.

I’ll be in to talk to the captain about this missing woman as soon as I’m done out here, Taylor.

But the captain—

The captain can wait.

I won’t tell him you said that, sir. Taylor looked around. What’s going on out here?

Some kids were shooting off firecrackers. Nick nodded toward the retreating pack of boys, who’d noticed Taylor in his police uniform and had scattered.

Just firecrackers? That ain’t so bad, now, is it, sir?

Not at the moment, it’s not so bad, said Nick, returning his attention to the square. The rangy shrubs and trees the city had planted to beautify the space wilted in the hot midday sun. The boys were lucky they hadn’t set any of them on fire. "And stop calling me sir, Taylor."

Yes, s . . . Yes, Mr. Greaves.

Nick scanned the streets that surrounded the square. Though the Fourth of July was still a couple of days off, red-white-and-blue bunting already hung from storefronts and offices. Some of the houses clinging to the hillside north of the square sported patriotic decorations, flags and banners snapping in the wind. There’d be the usual carousing that accompanied Independence Day celebrations.

The men who visited this part of the city, wedged between the rowdy Barbary Coast to the north and the dark alleyways of the Chinese quarter to the south, didn’t need much of an excuse for drunken revelry, though.

Don’t see much going on. Taylor patted down the pockets of his gray policeman’s coat in search of a cigar. Once he located one along with a friction match, he set it alight and puffed deeply. Just the usual.

A horsecar stopped at the far corner, and several men in rough coats and caps climbed down. Headed for the saloons along Dupont or Jackson, no doubt. The doorkeeper at the Bella Union Melodeon spotted the men and waved them over. He shouted out a guarantee there’d be the finest show that evening with the best musicians and female performers the city had to offer. The men didn’t hesitate to step inside.

I wanted to be sure the noise was only firecrackers and not gunshots, said Nick. The Fourth would bring all sorts of fools firing their weapons. Resulting in any number of innocent victims.

Taylor crushed the spent match between the sole of his boot and the sidewalk bricks. Aside from those boys there, it’s as quiet as it ever gets around here.

They’d found a new source of fun and taunted a Chinese man toting cleaned laundry to a nearby hotel, the queue of his long black hair swinging rapidly as he scuttled to keep away from them.

Doesn’t hurt to be sure.

There’s been talk in the station, sir . . . Mr. Greaves, that the folks opposed to the latest Reconstruction talk are getting agitated and might cause trouble over the Fourth.

Isn’t that grand.

Taylor slid Nick a sideways look. Gotta make you mad, right, sir? That folks keep rehashing the war like it never ended.

Mad? Yes, he was mad. The rebellion had taken away too much. His closest friend. His sanity. But he needed to find a better use for his anger, since it was wasted on thinking about the war and men’s stupidity and all that he’d never get back.

Nick reached up to rub the old wound on his left arm that had chosen that moment to ache. The war never does end. He was reminded of it every single day, even in a city thousands of miles away from the battles that had been fought. The death he’d witnessed. The surprise on the kid’s face—damn, he’d only been a kid—when he’d managed to pierce Nick’s arm to the bone with a bayoneted Enfield rifle.

I’ll be fine, he said.

Taylor chewed on the end of his cigar and glanced around.

Like I said, it was only firecrackers, Taylor.

Smoke from Taylor’s cigar swirled off on a breeze. Maybe that’s all it’ll be this Fourth, sir. A nice, quiet celebration.

Let’s hope so, Taylor.

Let’s hope so.

Chapter 2

Celia lowered her book to her lap and closed her eyes. As it was, she hadn’t really been reading the novel. She had been sitting outside in the shade cast by her neighbor’s house, hoping for a cooling breeze while her thoughts endlessly drifted back to Mrs. Wheaton.

She ran her thumb over the wedding band she wore. For all their quarrels and hardships, her own husband had never sent her off to an insane asylum to be cured. Instead, their quarrels had encouraged Patrick to hop a merchant vessel and leave San Francisco. With each passing day, Celia struggled to recall the splendid blue of his eyes, the warmth of his voice when he was in a gentle mood. Moods that had been all too rare, for she had been tinder to his flint. The spark that had burned their marriage to cinders.

The rear door of the house banged open, and Celia’s housekeeper strode through. A strand of her curling brown hair had sprung free from its hairpins. She busily attempted to tidy it as she descended the steps to the garden.

Ma’am, our neighbor is spreading tales again about that house on Kearney being visited by a bogle. Just the sort of thing that Mr. Twain used to like to write about in the newspapers. Addie Ferguson shook her head. The woman will be scaring all the bairns hereabouts. Which is just what I told her.

A bogle? asked Celia.

Ghosts, ma’am. Specters.

Ah.

Addie bent to collect the glass, now empty of its lemonade, which Celia had taken outside with her book. You should come inside, ma’am, she said. ’Tis hot as black pudding this afternoon.

I believe I shall. She rose from her wicker chair and rolled her stiff shoulders.

By the bye . . . Addie retrieved a folded piece of paper from her skirt pocket. A messenger brought a note from that Mr. Smith.

The man she’d hired to uncover Patrick’s whereabouts when years had passed without a letter or a telegram. The man who had learned that her husband had been killed in Mexico last summer. Leaving her a widow. One more loss to bear—her parents, her brother . . . her husband. She had lost all opportunity to apologize to him, to reconcile. To be the wife he’d wanted rather than the wife she’d been.

Ma’am? asked Addie, the lids of her hazel eyes closing about them in a squint.

Do not mind me, Addie, she said. My mind is wandering.

Celia took the note from her housekeeper’s outstretched hand. Mr. Smith’s message was brief and vague.

What does it say, ma’am?

‘Got important news. Come by my office.’ That is all. Celia turned the piece of paper over. The blank reverse was no more revelatory than the few words Mr. Smith had scrawled on the front. I wonder what it means.

Sounds like trouble, if you ask me, said Addie.

I suppose we shall discover what his important news is when I go to see him. Celia tucked the note inside her book and followed Addie into the house. I should have time tomorrow.

I’ll bring more lemonade for you and Miss Barbara, said her housekeeper.

Celia found Barbara in the dining room, seated at the table where she idly sketched flowers upon a sheet of paper.

She looked up. Your patient this morning didn’t like me, Cousin.

Celia set down her book and took a seat across from her. How can you conclude that?

I just know.

Oh, Barbara. However, she might be correct, and Celia had not been sufficiently observant. As much as her cousin would prefer otherwise, she could not conceal the ethnicity she had inherited and the scorn and abuse it regularly brought her. She carried signs of her English father, though, in the jut of her chin and the set of her shoulders. If only she laughed like he used to do.

I am sorry if she upset you, said Celia. She was very distressed, and I doubt she meant any harm.

"I don’t doubt it."

Celia sighed. One day she might learn how to be a proper mother to the teenaged girl she’d become responsible for.

I have an idea, Barbara. Perhaps Grace can come with us to watch the fireworks tomorrow evening at the Wells Fargo building. Grace Hutchinson was Barbara’s dearest . . . only friend. What do you say?

Her cousin’s expression brightened. Even though I’m spending all of the next day with Grace and her family?

The Independence Day parade, the regatta, the main pyrotechnics display. Indeed. "I think

Reviews for No Quiet among the Shadows

[vesper1931 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

1867 San Francisco. Nurse Celia Davies is out watching the 4th of July celebrations when she believes she sees her supposedly dead husband. A few minutes later P.I. Smith who had confirmed his death is found dead in suspicious circumstances.
Detective Nick Greaves' investigation leads him and Celia to a suspect séance group and the attendees, but what is the connection.
A enjoyed the story, the mystery, and the character of Greaves. I really didn't take to the character of Celia and her seemingly demanding ways when it came to the police and their investigation.
A NetGalley Book

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

historical-novel, historical-research, historical-setting, amateur-sleuth, law-enforcement, San Francisco*****The nurse, the police detective, the medium, the swindlers, and the dead body that is tangled up with all of them and more. I really don't know how to briefly summarize this one without getting tangled up in subplots and spoilers. I can tell you that the information about attitudes and treatment of women who became inconvenient and were put into asylums is historically correct for the English speaking world. I read it over two days and think that it's a 5 star read.I requested and received a free ebook copy from Beyond the Page Publishing via NetGalley. Thank you!