No Darkness as like Death

By Nancy Herriman

Few in San Francisco were troubled by the news that Ambrose Shaw had been found dead at a local health institute—the prominent banker had recently turned to politics and was reviled by many for his incendiary views. But when Celia Davies learns that his death is considered suspicious by the police and that a damning piece of evidence points to a patient of hers as the culprit, she feels compelled to prove the woman’s innocence.

Teaming up with Detective Nick Greaves, Celia soon discovers there’s no shortage of suspects, including the victim’s many political enemies, his disaffected son, who may have been too eager to receive his inheritance, and even the dead man’s fellow patients at the institute, whose founder promises miracle water cures but has been covering up numerous burglaries of his well-to-do clients.

As Celia and Nick struggle with their feelings for each other as well as the many murky aspects of the case, they’ll have to navigate an endless trail of false clues and dead ends to reach the cruel truth behind a perplexing murder . . .

Praise for the Mysteries of Old San Francisco:

“Skillfully brings 1867 San Francisco to life . . . intriguing!”
—Anna Lee Huber, bestselling author of the Lady Darby Mysteries

“Entertaining . . . readers who like independent heroines should welcome this historical series.”
—Publishers Weekly on No Comfort for the Lost

“Herriman crafts a finely detailed series debut with a sympathetic protagonist and impeccable, colorful depictions of 1860s San Francisco . . . This atmospheric mystery is just the ticket for anyone who misses Dianne Day’s Fremont Jones series as well as readers of Rhys Bowen’s Molly Murphy historicals.”
—Library Journal Starred Review of No Comfort for the Lost

“With historical precision and wickedly clever plotting, Nancy Herriman once again weaves a mystery that will have you changing your guess right up until the final reveal . . . I loved it!”
—Alyssa Maxwell, author of the Gilded Newport Mysteries

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: Apr 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954717022

Book preview

No Darkness as like Death

Few in San Francisco were troubled by the news that Ambrose Shaw had been found dead at a local health institute—the prominent banker had recently turned to politics and was reviled by many for his incendiary views. But when Celia Davies learns that his death is considered suspicious by the police and that a damning piece of evidence points to a patient of hers as the culprit, she feels compelled to prove the woman’s innocence.

Teaming up with Detective Nick Greaves, Celia soon discovers there’s no shortage of suspects, including the victim’s many political enemies, his disaffected son, who may have been too eager to receive his inheritance, and even the dead man’s fellow patients at the institute, whose founder promises miracle water cures but has been covering up numerous burglaries of his well-to-do clients.

As Celia and Nick struggle with their feelings for each other as well as the many murky aspects of the case, they’ll have to navigate an endless trail of false clues and dead ends to reach the cruel truth behind a perplexing murder . . .

Title Page

Copyright

No Darkness as like Death

Nancy Herriman

Copyright © 2021 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: 978-1-954717-02-2

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 my fellow Sleuths in Time authors,

because no writer is an island.

You ladies are the best.

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

Author’s Note

Books by Nancy Herriman

About the Author

Chapter 1

San Francisco

Mid-September 1867

Is he dead or alive, Mr. Griffin? Celia Davies asked the man standing across from her, anxious for the answer that might allow her to breathe freely again.

After two months of not.

My husband—is he dead or alive? she repeated.

Mr. Griffin grinned, the breeze along the street wafting the rose water scent he wore. He had, she’d come to discover, an interesting smile, his mouth full of white teeth, unlike other men like him. Men who were scoundrels. Gamblers. Thieves.

Ah, Mrs. Davies. What a question. He winked and held out his hand, wiggled his fingers.

She understood what he wanted, and she reached into her reticule, but not before taking a look around to see who might be watching. On a sidewalk near the wharves and the warehouses, however, folks knew to pay no one any mind. Unless they were shouting fire, and even then she doubted anyone would heed the warning.

Here. She handed him the seventy-five dollars she owed him . . . the money Patrick owed him. A small loan from her dearest friend, Jane, because Celia’s husband was not here to pay his debt, and Caleb Griffin had been patient enough in waiting for remuneration. He’d made plain to her that he had no intention of continuing to be patient.

Thank you kindly, ma’am.

He hefted the bag of coins, hesitated—likely wondering if he should count the money out right then and there—before deciding to trust her and hastily tuck it inside his coat, snug against the cardinal red waistcoat he wore. His trademark. His bit of vanity.

My husband, she repeated once again, a trifle more irritably. Mr. Griffin would know what had happened to Patrick in the months since he’d been reported alive. Mr. Griffin made it his business to know all he could about those he had dealings with. Please tell me if he is dead or truly alive.

Oh, he’s alive, Mrs. Davies, he answered. Your husband has gone to the Colorado Territory in search of placer gold.

Colorado . . . She thought she’d feel relief to know Patrick was now many miles away. But the tension in her shoulders, in her chest, did not ease. She believed Mr. Griffin. Patrick had brought her to America in search of gold. He was not someone who’d permit his initial lack of success to prevent him from continuing his pursuit. More gold.

He’s got the itch.

As I am well aware, she replied and thanked him.

He grinned again, because he should have been the one thanking her for finally handing over the sum of money he was due. Not the other way round.

I pray we never meet again, Mr. Griffin, she said, perking her chin, as she did when she wished to be more in control of a situation than she often was.

You never know, ma’am, do you? What’s gonna happen. You never know.

I suppose not.

He tipped his hat and rushed off. She stood on the pavement, getting jostled by passing pedestrians who grumbled at her to get out of the way, and stared, long after Mr. Griffin was lost to view.

You never know.

• • •

Nicholas Greaves squinted into the sunlight, which sliced through gaps in the buildings packed tight the length of Pacific Street. Another ordinary late afternoon in this part of San Francisco, sidewalks crowded with longshoremen and warehouse laborers and sailors. Ducking into oyster bars and restaurants. Or turning south, down the lanes that would take them into the Barbary, where more than a meal could be purchased, even at this hour of the day.

He scrubbed fingers through his hair and reseated his hat. A coal wagon rumbled past, and he strode across the street once the path was clear. Bauman’s wood sign squeaked in the wind. Three men in dark cotton duck trousers and sack coats ignored his approach and dashed down the steps to the basement saloon, more interested in the sausages Bauman’s wife was frying up than in a detective wandering along the plank walkway.

The brothel that used to be located next door had closed, the sign removed, the window shuttered. Nick wondered, idly, when that had happened. Its closure wasn’t due to any excessive vigilance on the part of the police, that was certain. So long as folks didn’t cause trouble—and that included the ladies who’d once plied their trade in the depths of the brothel’s dusky parlors—the cops didn’t go looking for it. There was more than enough crime to occupy their time. Once the sun set, crooks and sharpers would ooze through half-open doors, like blobs of tar escaping their bucket, to settle onto the road. They’d stick themselves to every unlit, secluded spot and lie in wait for a greenhorn to wander along. Greenhorns who’d be lucky if the worst result was losing some money.

With a sweep of his hand, Nick wiped dust from his coat and descended the steps. The gas lamps suspended from the ceiling had already been lit, the glow of their flames reflecting yellow off the pressed tin overhead. A fire had been set in the cast-iron stove to heat the room, and the tables were crowded with workers having a meal and a beer. A haze of cigar smoke hung over the room, and the smell of frying meat made Nick’s mouth water.

Bauman looked over from where he stood behind the saloon’s long walnut bar, drawing a beer. Mr. Greaves! His German accent was as round and thick as his chest.

His customers gave Nick cursory glances before returning to their food. He wore nothing that indicated he was a policeman, no uniform, no badge. And if any of them were aware of his occupation, they were convincingly pretending not to care.

Bauman, said Nick in reply.

The saloonkeeper slid the glass of lager beer across the bar toward a waiting customer. You return at last, Mr. Greaves.

It had been weeks . . . no, months. It had been months since he’d been inside this saloon. Miss me?

The other man laughed. "Do I miss you? Or does she? What is it you want to know?"

Is she in? Nick asked, squinting at the hallway that led to the quarters at the rear of the building. It would be early for her to be at the saloon, but sometimes she came in to help serve the customers and prepare for the evening’s entertainment.

Bauman shook his head before replying. Ah, Mr. Greaves.

The saloonkeeper had been witness to Nick’s drawn-out history with Mina Cascarino. A history that had only in the briefest of moments been what any sane person would call happy.

She is here, he replied. Be kind.

When aren’t I?

Bauman didn’t laugh that time.

Nick tapped fingertips to the brim of his hat and wove his way through the tangle of tables and chairs. Mrs. Bauman was bent over her cooking stove and didn’t notice him passing in the hallway outside the kitchen. Mina, on the other hand . . .

Go away, she announced from the doorway to the room she and the musicians used when they weren’t out in the saloon performing. A bandana tied over her head secured her glossy black hair, and around her shoulders she clasped a fringed shawl, its color an iridescent blue that altered its shade with her every movement. The checked tan gown she wore was the plainest dress he’d ever seen on her. She looked tired.

Maybe she was simply tired of him. She had every right to be.

Can we talk, Mina?

I don’t have anything to say to you, Nick. She spun on her heel and stomped back into the room. And I don’t have time to talk. I need to get to work. Adolph is already unhappy that I asked to leave early tonight. I don’t want to anger him more. So, goodbye.

His hand stopped the door before she could slam it shut. My father’s dead.

Of all the places to first go after landing at the dock, he’d chosen to come to Bauman’s. To a cramped, musty room with a wobbly dressing table and some chairs shoved into the only corner not occupied by crates and casks of beer. Standing near enough to Mina to see the flush on her smooth cheeks and inhale the aroma of her tuberose perfume. Near enough to take her in his arms if he reached out. But he didn’t take her in his arms.

Why are you here? she asked, her voice weary.

My father—

Is dead. Her gaze studied his face; he loathed the pity he detected in her eyes. Condolences on your loss, but what else do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? Tell you that nothing was your fault? Well, I can’t say that, Nick, because I don’t know that it’s true.

You’re probably right.

She dropped onto a chair set before the dressing table, her back to him. If you’re looking for comforting, you should be talking to Celia Davies, not me.

Celia . . . How do you know about her?

Mina examined his reflection in the cracked mirror, propped up on the table, the gold paint on its frame worn away in spots from handling. She lives next door to my family, Nick. And as much time as she spends tending to my siblings’ sicknesses and injuries, why wouldn’t I know about her? she asked. "About her and you."

There is not a ‘her’ and ‘me.’ Two months ago, it had become clear there wasn’t ever going to be. Celia’s husband had returned from the grave. Her husband’s not dead. He’s back from Mexico.

Oh, so that’s why you’re here. Because her husband’s alive. Just get out. Please. In her haste to stand, she bumped against the table, knocking a ribbon-tied box that had been on its surface to the floor.

Nick picked it up. Candies from Roesler’s. With a note attached . . . He narrowed his gaze to read the handwriting in the dull lantern light. ‘From A.S. with affection.’ Who’s A.S.?

She snatched the candies from his grasp. Her hands were shaking. Just leave before I say something stupid or you say something stupid.

I hope you don’t think this is stupid to say, Mina, but I’m sorry. The weight he’d been carrying since his sister had summoned him to their father’s funeral became a boulder. A boulder heavy enough to force him to his knees. Sorry for how I’ve always treated you.

Her gaze softened, but she kept her distance. That’s nice, Nick, but it’s too late. Way too late to fix.

• • •

Are you positive you can spare the time to get a portrait taken, Cousin? You were gone most of the afternoon, said Barbara. Maybe we can do this later.

Celia looked over at her cousin and ward. I can afford the time away from the clinic, Barbara.

Oh, she replied, frowning.

Barbara resumed staring at the shopfront window they’d stopped in front of, at its sign painted in large block letters on the shopfront window glass. REBECCA SHAW: PHOTOGRAPHIC GALLERY. Examples of her craft were on display—tintypes and cartes de visite and sepia-toned salted paper prints. Impressive work. The display was intended, perhaps, to prove her abilities as a photographer. She was, after all, the lone female in San Francisco pursuing such a career.

Your patient with the milk sickness won’t be back today? her cousin asked.

I suspect she did not actually have the milk sickness. All the cases Celia had read about in the newspapers had occurred in farm country back East, and were usually fatal. I sent her home with an ipecacuanha emetic, which, if she takes it, will do a thorough job of purging her of any toxin. She is not likely to return, meaning my calendar is clear.

Oh.

You will like Miss Shaw, I promise, said Celia, reaching over to squeeze her cousin’s arm. And I have already given her a deposit, so we cannot back out now.

The window’s blinds were pulled up, admitting as much of the light coming in from Montgomery as possible. Inside the shop, Miss Shaw moved about. She was a tall woman in a dark gown, her hair a thick wave of upswept auburn, occupied with rearranging a painted screen that would create their portrait’s backdrop. Miss Shaw had yet to note their presence.

You could probably get the deposit back, said Barbara.

Celia had to applaud her cousin’s persistence. The idea to commission a photographic portrait had seemed so sensible when she’d thought of it. Barbara was missing her only friend, who’d gone to Benicia at the end of July to attend the Young Ladies’ Seminary there, and Celia had hoped to provide a pleasant distraction.

Clearly, her idea was not working.

Barbara, what is bothering you?

Her cousin was eyeing the contents of the window. I don’t want my portrait on display like a . . . like I’m some traveling circus oddity. Or a weird disfigured limb like what they show at the Anatomical Museum.

I will specifically ask Miss Shaw to not display a copy, said Celia. We can trust her to be sensitive and discreet. I promise you.

Barbara shifted her attention from the window to the people on the street. The photographic gallery was located in the business district of the city, where well-dressed men marched past and wealthy women strolled in and out of shops, their skirts swishing. Wagons clattered across the macadam road, and the Omnibus Railroad bell clanged as the driver reined in the horses and brought the car to a halt. Newspaper boys sang out the headlines—mostly comments on the shocking victory for the Copperheads in the recent election—and street vendors peddled their wares.

Her cousin wasn’t distracted by the commotion, though. She was watching for the pedestrians’ reactions to a half-Chinese girl wearing a stylish purple gown, a soberly attired Englishwoman at her side. Waiting for the insults, the sneers that often occurred when she visited an area of the city most Chinese never dared venture into. For once, none came. At least, not as yet.

If we go inside, Barbara, we can escape the scrutiny, whispered Celia.

Barbara looked up at her. The brim of her bonnet shadowed her face, darkened her eyes. They’re not staring at you. They’re staring at me.

"If we go inside, then you can escape the scrutiny."

Okay, said Barbara, her resistance dissipating on an exhalation. If we’re going through with the sitting, I want a carte de visite made so I can send it to Grace in Benicia. I don’t want her to forget me while she’s away at college.

You are her dearest friend, Barbara, said Celia gently. Grace is not going to forget you.

Barbara nodded and reached for the door, pushing it open with a tinkling of the shop bell. It was a happy sound. Insufficiently merry, however, to lift the disquiet that had descended. Celia glanced around, uncertain of what or who she searched for.

Cousin, what is it? called Barbara from just inside the doorway. What’s the matter?

Celia collected herself. Nothing, Barbara. Nothing at all, she replied and swept inside, letting the door close behind her.

Chapter 2

Sit very quietly, if you will, Miss Walford. Rebecca Shaw cradled Barbara’s jaws in her hands, adjusting the tilt of her head.

I am trying as best I can, Miss Shaw, she answered, her voice taut with misery. But the support is jabbing into my neck.

Forgive my cousin, Miss Shaw, said Celia, standing at Barbara’s side. She altered her stance to relieve the twinge that had developed in her lower back while waiting for Barbara to settle down. This is our first experience of sitting for a portrait and we are both a trifle impatient. I offer my apologies.

There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Davies. And you’re definitely not the most impatient subjects I’ve attempted to photograph. She reached behind Barbara and raised the half circle of iron meant to hold the subject’s head still while the photograph was being taken. Is that better, Miss Walford?

Yes, thank you. She gazed up at the woman standing over her. Who’s been more impatient, Miss Shaw? Anybody famous?

Barbara, we cannot ask Miss Shaw to gossip about her clients.

Miss Shaw smiled. Celia judged the woman to be near to her own age—twenty-eight or twenty-nine, perhaps younger. She had an earnest appearance that might disquiet some people, but not Celia, and eyes that were the most riveting shade of blue-green. They were presently fixed on Barbara with even-tempered good humor.

Your cousin is right, Miss Walford. It really isn’t wise of me to talk about my clients’ foibles. She stepped back and examined the tableau she’d created. Celia would prefer to pose with her medical bag and stethoscope rather than an artificial Roman column and massive potted palm. Too formal an image when Celia’s life was anything but formal. I have my business to consider.

Maybe it was Mr. Hearst, Barbara persisted. Isn’t that a portrait of him and his family on that easel over there?

Yes, that is Mr. Hearst and his family. He and my father are acquaintances. Miss Shaw glanced over at the photograph, a large albumen print nearly two feet high. I’d hoped to do a portrait of Mr. Twain before he departed the city last December, but I never had the opportunity.

A portrait of Mr. Twain would have been quite a coup, observed Celia. As it is, you must be proud to have had Mr. Hearst as a customer.

Miss Shaw’s face hardened for a moment before resuming its formerly calm expression.

What an intriguing reaction.

The portrait was a favor to my father. They know each other because of their mutual involvement in politics. Miss Shaw’s words revealed less about her opinion of that acquaintance than the momentary change in her expression had done.

I believe I have read about your father in the newspaper, Miss Shaw, said Celia. A man whose opposition to universal suffrage Celia did not agree with.

I’m sure you have, Mrs. Davies. Tersely stated. Miss Shaw leaned forward to straighten a fold in the shawl she’d draped over Celia’s shoulders. It had come from the woman’s stash of props—bottles of black hair dye and various hats, chairs and tables and drapery, painted scenery to hang if a blank wall proved too boring—the shawl’s violet color apparently lending energy to the portrait even if the hue would simply become another shade of gray. The material itched against Celia’s neck and smelled of photographic chemicals. I am grateful to him for recommending my photographic services to his colleagues, even though he . . . She did not complete her sentence.

Barbara finished it for her. Even though he thinks his daughter shouldn’t be operating a photographic gallery and doesn’t approve?

Barbara, please be polite, chided Celia. Her cousin was being particularly bold that afternoon.

You don’t need to scold your cousin, Mrs. Davies. She’s correct about my father’s attitude toward my business venture. Miss Shaw turned her attention to the silk ribbon tied around Celia’s hair. However, as I said, he occasionally recommends my studio to his acquaintances, and I’m grateful. My family tolerates me, which is better than what other women with my sort of occupation experience. So long as my progressive ways do not interfere with my father’s political ambitions or the smooth running of his bank, our relationship is sufficiently amicable.

If Celia’s family were here, rather than in distant England, would they approve of the women’s clinic she operated? Doubtful.

I’m glad he accepts your work, Miss Shaw, said Barbara. Because your photographs are so fascinating and so . . . genuine.

Rebecca Shaw scanned the interior of her gallery. I feel as though I am capturing my subjects for all eternity, Miss Walford. Preserving the essence of who they are. A life beyond death. She smiled an apology. I’m sorry. That’s rather morbid.

But truthful, Miss Shaw, said Celia. Is your father’s portrait among those hanging here?

Finished with fussing over Celia’s attire, Miss Shaw stood back. He’d been meaning to sit for me, but he’s been unwell lately and was forced to postpone.

Is there anything I might do to help? asked Celia. I am a nurse, and I would be happy to lend my assistance.

Miss Shaw flashed a wry smile, as though the idea of Celia providing medical aid to Mr. Shaw was a comical idea. My father has been experiencing some troubles with his heart lately, which gives him chest pains. He hasn’t been able to sleep well as a result, so he’s partaking of the water cure at the Hygienic Institute.

Ah. Of course, Celia replied.

Miss Shaw retreated to her camera, built of mahogany and mounted on a sturdy tripod, a few paces away. What is your husband’s line of work, Mrs. Davies? she asked, glancing at the wedding band Celia had taken to wearing again. Ever since she’d learned Patrick was alive.

He pursues gold, Miss Shaw. Elsewhere, she replied. Due to his absence, I am free to engage in my occupation without interference. I operate a free clinic for females who cannot afford a doctor’s care.

Barbara shifted slightly, the shoulder beneath Celia’s resting hand tensing. My cousin does more than simply operate a women’s clinic, Miss Shaw.

Oh, no.

Really? Miss Shaw asked, her voice muffled by the length of black velvet, firmly attached to the rear of the camera, that she’d draped over her head.

My cousin means the charity work I do, said Celia.

No, I don’t. I’m talking about your involvement in murder investigations with that police detective, Mr. Greaves.

Miss Shaw lifted the rectangle of velvet cloth and peered around its edge. Murder investigations?

My cousin exaggerates my involvement, Miss Shaw. There is no need to be alarmed. For she did appear unsettled by Barbara’s comment. To be frank, who’d not?

I’m not exaggerating, insisted Barbara.

Celia tightened her fingers around her cousin’s shoulder, silencing her comments. Contrary to my cousin’s claims, I am not in the business of investigating murders, Miss Shaw. Not intentionally, at least.

It would be rather daring if you were, Mrs. Davies, said Miss Shaw. Far more daring than my job as a female photographer.

Far more dangerous. I am simply a nurse, Miss Shaw, and I regret that my cousin brought up this topic at all, said Celia, relaxing her grip on Barbara’s shoulder.

It’s only natural she would, she said, smiling. It’s very intriguing.

Miss Shaw ducked back behind her camera and set about focusing the image, moving the body of the instrument backward and forward. Ah, I believe that should work. She tightened a screw set in the body of the camera and came out from behind the cloth. "Let me fetch the photographic glass plate and then we can proceed. I’ll only be

Reviews for No Darkness as like Death

[thequietreader · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A local politician has been found dead, Celia Davies learns a patient of hers is a suspect. As the young woman suffered a blow and cannot remember what happened, Celia feels compelled to clear the girl's name. Detective Greaves is none to pleased as he also searches for clues to the murderer's identity. Will they learn the truth before another death occurs?In the previous book, I thought these two were attracted to each other and were resigned to never being able to do anything about that attraction. If I had to go only by this book,. I would say they don't even like each other. When their paths do cross, they argue. They don't even trust each other. When Celia finds evidence, she holds it back, not trusting the detective to use it to solve the murder. Because she thinks he will jump to a conclusion she doesn't like. Her method of learning information also raised an eyebrow from me, and I did not approve.The narrative is told mostly through dialogue, which i don't remember from the previous book. There wasn't much in the way of description, so I struggled to envision the scenes in my mind. It was also nice that there was less of a minor character than before, though there were a few distracting scenes told from his perspective. The plot itself is good. It kept me guessing as to the culprit.This book ends on a cliff-hanger, but I'm not sure I'm interested enough to see how the plot point plays out in the next book.I received a free copy from NetGalley and all opinions expressed are my own.