Entangled Threads: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery: Victorian San Francisco Mystery, #8

By M. Louisa Locke

"Oh what a tangled web we weave. When first we practice to deceive." --Sir Walter Scott

 

It is San Francisco in the summer of 1882, and Annie and Nate Dawson have finally found a good balance between the demands of family and work. Nate has an interesting legal case defending a young woman who has been left out of her mother's will. Annie is looking into whether the financial difficulties facing the Potrero Woolen Mills are caused by bad management or bad luck. For her own reasons, Biddy O'Malley is eager to help Annie with her investigation. What none of the three of them could anticipate was how secrets and unexpected entanglements would complicate their search for the truth.

 

Entangled Threads is the eighth full-length novel in the USA Today best-selling author's Victorian San Francisco Mystery series. However, it can be read as a stand-alone by anyone who enjoys cozy historical mysteries with an amateur female sleuth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Louisa Locke
• Release date: Jan 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201109745

M. Louisa Locke

M. Louisa Locke, a retired professor of U.S. and Women’s history, has embarked on a new career with her best-selling Victorian San Francisco Mystery series, which is based on Dr. Locke's doctoral research on late 19th century working women. Maids of Misfortune, the first in this series, features domestic service, and Uneasy Spirits, the sequel, explores women and 19th Spiritualism. Her third book, Bloody Lessons, focuses on teachers working in the San Francisco public schools in 1880. She has also written four short stories that are based on characters from the novels, and they can be found in this collection, Victorian San Francisco Stories. Her next book in the series, Deadly Proof, about women in the San Francisco printing industry, will be available early in 2015.Go to http://mlouisalocke.com/ for more about M. Louisa Locke and her work, including information about the historical research behind these books. Word of mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. Therefore, if you enjoyed Maids of Misfortune, please consider writing a review. Dr. Locke is on the Board of Directors for the Historical Fiction Authors Cooperative and an active member of the Alliance of Independent Authors.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Saturday morning, June 3, 1882

Potrero Woolen Mills, San Francisco, California

Meghan Wilson shrugged her shoulders, trying to get the crick out of her neck. Except for when she’d stopped for her mid-shift meal at midnight, she had been on her feet for over seven hours, with another four to go. The constant clatter, clang, thump, and whir of the carding machines in the next room, and the clunk, clunk, clunk of the spinning machines in this room, added to her exhaustion, and she ached from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.

She sighed when she saw that one of the tall spools of carded wool on her machine had jammed, stopping the spinning frame from completing its slide towards her. She rapidly pulled the lever to ensure the machine wouldn’t start back up while she was fixing the problem. Straightening the tangled sliver of wool that looped between the spool and spindle, she twisted it back into a single strand. Stepping back, she pulled the lever, and off the frame went, completing its journey towards her, drawing out the fibers, twisting them, and then making the circuit again to wind the resulting finished yarn around the spindles.

Some time later, she nodded to the young girl, Christy, to indicate it was time to replace the two empty spools on her machine. Poor child, pale and weedy, looked like a plant that had been denied sun or water for too long. The girl said she was fourteen, but Meghan suspected she was no more than twelve. She wondered what family troubles sent a young child out to work at night.

For Meghan, the decision to take this shift was her own. People on the night shift tended to keep their heads down, didn’t expect her to be sociable. In addition, if she succeeded in completely filling all hundred of the spindles on her spinning frame by five-thirty, she would be able to spend the last hour downstairs in the weaving room, helping set up the looms for the next day.

Since the weavers didn’t work at night, the weaving room would be quieter, the pounding of the carding and spinning machines muffled. The loom fixer, an old Scot called Mackie, never tried to talk to her, beyond giving a few terse instructions…very restful. She also loved seeing all the color and patterns on the looms, waiting for the day shift to come and start turning out yards and yards of cloth. She had been spinning a lovely turquoise yarn on her machine all week, and even under the harsh gas lights suspended from the ceiling in the spinning room, this shade of blue shimmered. She looked forward to seeing the completed cloth when it was woven into the Campbell clan plaid that had been ordered by the Silver Strike Bazaar.

Her cousin worked for the Silver Strike, and Meghan wondered if Biddy could get a bit of the cloth made from this yarn for her at a discount price. She would love to own something made from this shade, bring a little beauty home with her to brighten her drab life.

She started her machine back up, soon lost in the monotonous routine of spinning. Around four-thirty in the morning, Lily, who worked at the machine next to her, shouted, I’m off to use the privy, Meghan. I’m fit to wet myself, if’n I don’t. Feel free to tell old Archie if he asks where I am.

Meghan first met Lily three years ago when they both worked at Larkson’s Woolen Mills. Six months ago, the girl showed up here, at the Potrero mills, which rather surprised Meghan. Didn’t know what Mr. Douglas, the McKenzie brother who did the hiring for Potrero, was thinking. Couldn’t believe the mill foreman over at Larkson’s would give Lily a good reference. Not that the girl wasn’t experienced at running the kind of self-activating spinning mules found in this factory, but Lily had always had the habit of slipping away when she was supposed to be working. Lily would just laugh when a foreman complained; her cheeky attitude appeared to give her a pass––that, and a pretty face.

If only Meghan could muster the same sort of courage to tell Archie Egerton, the night foreman, where he could go when he poked her shoulder and told her to step lively, those spindles won’t jump into the box on their own.

As she watched Lily disappear into the stairwell that led down to the large yard at the back of the mill, Meghan mused that the girl was probably going to cadge a smoke from Smitty, the coal pusher, rather than go to the privy. Glancing around the room, she couldn’t see Archie, which was probably why Lily took this opportunity to slip away. He must have gone down to the hosiery knitting department, which only employed Chinese workers. This department had their own manager, but Archie loved to make trouble. Called the workers terrible names, then laughed and said they didn’t understand English, so no harm done.

Her machine shuddered to a stop, caused this time by a broken thread on a spindle. After she fixed it and got the machine going again, she forgot both the foreman and Lily. Wasn’t until her machine stopped one more time that she noticed Lily hadn’t returned. Looking at the big clock on the wall, she frowned. The girl kept hinting that sometimes when she slipped out it was to meet a lover. But even Lily wouldn’t be so crazy as to step away from her machine for nearly three-quarters of an hour and not expect she wouldn’t get in trouble.

As if this thought summoned him, Archie, the tall gangly foreman, appeared beside her and said, Where’s Lily gone? Lois said she didn’t notice when she left.

Gone to the privy, sir.

She’d better be here and working by the time I finish my circuit of these rooms, or else.

Meghan, looking for an excuse to go look for Lily, said, Sir, the right wheel on my frame is sticking. Can I go down to the engine room to get the oil can? It’ll throw off the tension on the threads if it doesn’t move at the same pace as the left wheel.

Archie leaned over and peered at the frame as it made its next circuit, then grunted. I don’t see it. But go if you must; you’re the one’s going to have to make up the time at shift’s end if you don’t fill up all those spindles.

He walked away, towards the carding room.

Archie probably suspected she was covering for Lily, but Meghan knew he had a soft spot for the girl, didn’t really want to sack her.

Guess I don’t want her sacked either. Why else am I wasting my time looking for her?

Assuring that the heavy coil of hair at her neck was still securely pinned and grabbing her long skirts to keep them away from the moving pulleys and gears that could catch and injure a worker in a moment’s inattention, Meghan walked quickly down the row of spinning machines to push through the heavy stairwell door. The noise and heat began to lessen as she walked down the three flights of stairs and into the open air.

She took a deep breath, glad to have escaped, if only for a brief few moments, what she sometimes imagined the priests were describing when they talked about the hell of the damned.

At five-thirty in the morning, it was still pitch black, except for the shafts of light from the main building behind her and the glow from the high windows of the engine room on her left. She might try that room first; Lily could still be with Smitty, the coal pusher. Then she noticed shadows caused by flickering light in the first-floor windows of the building to her right.

The second floor housed the Chinese workers who ran the knitting machines. Too early for any of the day shift to be up yet, and there shouldn’t be anyone in the drying room on the first floor at this time of night, certainly not anyone carrying a lantern. Surely Lily wouldn’t be so stupid as to choose this building to meet someone. The night watchman wasn’t much use, but even he would notice light in a room that was supposed to be empty.

Irritated, she went over to the building, and finding the door unlocked, she pulled it open. Startled by how bright the light was, it took a second for her to register what she was seeing—ribbons of fire running along the racks of drying yarn and licking at the floor in front of her.

Meghan had started to retreat to safety when she felt someone shove her, hard, and she fell, screaming, right into the greedy flames.

CHAPTER 1

Monday morning, June 5, 1882

O’ Farrell Street Boardinghouse

Nate Dawson picked his daughter up and gave the wiggling girl a kiss on the top of her reddish-blond curls before setting her back down on her wobbly legs. At thirteen months, Abigail struggled hard to stay upright. Her little lower lip caught in her upper teeth, she staggered the two feet to her mother, giving a little crow of triumph when she made it without falling down.

His wife, Annie, laughed. She’s working so hard on walking. Kathleen says if we thought it difficult to keep her out of trouble when she was crawling, she’s going to be a terror once she’s steadier on her feet.

Nate loved the mornings when he and Annie had breakfast together upstairs in their bedroom before starting their busy days. The maid, Kathleen Hennessey, who slept next door in the nursery, would bring Abigail to them at five, so she could go down and start her duties in the kitchen. Most mornings the child would go right back to sleep, giving them another hour before they had to rise and get dressed. Then Kathleen and the other maid, young Tilly Gallagher, would bring up their breakfast trays. Abigail would sit in her highchair and eat her cereal and fruit with her fingers, while they had their eggs, toast, and tea.

Nate looked at the clock on the mantel as it chimed the quarter hour and slid on his summer-weight wool frock coat in preparation for the trip across town to the legal firm of Hobbes, Cranston, and Dawson. He had an eight o’clock meeting, and while the trip to the office on Sansome Street wouldn’t take him more than fifteen minutes, he wanted to arrive in time to get ready for his first appointment.

Being careful to avoid his daughter, who was clinging to Annie’s skirts, he gave his wife a kiss on her very own reddish-blond curls, which she hadn’t yet tamed into a braided twist at the back of her head.

Stepping back to let her tie his cravat, he said, When’s your appointment with Mr. Livingston this morning? He’s meeting you here, not in his offices at the Silver Strike Bazaar, isn’t he?

He’s coming at eight-thirty. His letter said he would prefer to meet here because he knows how quickly rumors would fly if I met him there.

He nodded. This was an understandable concern on Robert Livingston’s part. He probably didn’t want to start any rumors, given that the last time the owner of the Silver Strike Bazaar had employed Annie this grand emporium had been facing a multitude of problems.

Nate said, Do you have any idea what he does want to talk about?

Not an inkling. Annie gave a small shrug and straightened his collar. I confess I’m glad his letter asked to meet me here because this means I can keep Abbie with me until the last moment. I hate taking up Kathleen’s time on wash day.

Nate marveled at how his wife had been able to organize her schedule and her staff of three so that everything ran smoothly, despite the fact that currently there were nine boarders, three of them energetic children out of school for the summer. Yet she had found time to take care of their daughter and begin to build back her business as a financial advisor after the hiatus caused by her pregnancy and Abigail’s birth.

Looking at the way Annie’s eyes sparkled at the thought of her upcoming appointment, he knew he’d been a fool to ever question her determination to combine career and motherhood. And Abigail certainly hadn’t suffered, doted on by every person who lived under their roof.

Annie gave his cravat a last tug into place and said, Is Mrs. Pitts Stevens going to be at this meeting of yours?

No, thankfully. She’s so intimidating that she makes me nervous.

Mrs. Pitts Stevens was a short but imposing woman in her early forties who had made a name for herself in the city as a journalist, newspaper editor, and lecturer. Above all, she was a stalwart supporter of women’s rights, including the rights of women to adequate legal representation. Over the past few years, this had led her to refer several cases to Nate, often covering the initial legal costs if the woman wasn’t able to pay.

Sweetheart, don’t be so silly. She wouldn’t keep referring cases to you if she didn’t think you were an excellent lawyer. And even your uncle Frank must admit that your work on divorce and child custody cases for women have elevated the reputation of the firm.

I wish that were true, but you know my uncle; he still treats me like the boy I was when I first came to the city, a boy whose head might be turned if he deigned to give me a modicum of praise. Cranston, however, was quite complimentary when I won that substantial settlement for Mrs. Hargrove.

So there, you have nothing to worry about. Is this another divorce case?

No, which should make Uncle Frank happy. Mrs. Pitts Stevens said the woman I am meeting, a Miss Ada Bateson, believes her brother, the executor of their mother’s will, is treating her unfairly. I am hoping it won’t require much more than a consultation and some routine paperwork. That sort of case was my bread and butter the first six years I was with the firm. In my experience, the options are usually pretty cut and dried. However, clients often don’t want to hear what the law says if it doesn’t give them what they want. Their emotions are so tangled up in old family grievances, they won’t listen to reason.

Then you will just have to disentangle things for this Miss Bateson, Annie said as she handed him his top hat. Do try to make it home in time for dinner. You can tell me all about it, and I can tell you why Mr. Livingston wants to see me.

Annie heard the quiet knock on the door to the small downstairs parlor that acted as Nate’s and her office and said, Come in. She got up from where she had been kneeling to help her daughter stack blocks, straightening her skirt as she rose.

Bustling into the room, the maid Kathleen said, Ma’am, I thought I best take Abigail now. Mr. Livingston should be here any moment. Tilly will answer the door, although I won’t be surprised if Emmaline finds a reason to be in the hallway when he arrives.

Emmaline Fournier was the young orphan who had chosen to stay in the boardinghouse to be with her aunts, the elderly dressmakers, Miss Millicent and Miss Minerva Moffet, but Mr. Livingston was her official guardian. Usually Emmaline visited him at his store, but Annie knew she would want to see him today.

Annie lifted her daughter up, increasingly aware of the solid weight of the child. Abbie had blocks in both her chubby hands and turned and held them out to Kathleen. The maid gravely thanked Abigail for them, then slipped the blocks into one of her apron pockets so she could take the child into her own arms.

Annie didn’t know what she’d do if Kathleen ever decided to leave and start a family of her own with the young policeman, Patrick McGee. She had hired the dark-haired girl four years ago to help turn the O’Farrell Street house into a boardinghouse. Only sixteen at that time, Kathleen had been a dynamo of cheerful energy. She had also become indispensable.

Kathleen and the boardinghouse cook and housekeeper, Beatrice O’Rourke, were the heart and soul of the home, and she didn’t know how she would have managed her complicated life without them. More importantly, they had become the family that Annie lost years earlier.

"Kathleen, if you see Emmaline, please tell her I suggested she bring a book or her sewing to the formal parlor in a little while. That way, I can bring Mr. Livingston over to see her when our meeting is finished. And, if he has the time, he can sit comfortably and visit with her."

Yes, ma’am, Kathleen responded with a knowing smile. Now, Miss Abigail, how about we go down to the kitchen and get you a little morning snack?

Thanks. I know this isn’t a good time to take you away from your other duties, but I can’t imagine my interview with Mr. Livingston will last more than an hour.

After Kathleen left with Abigail, Annie stood for a moment, surveying the room, trying to decide whether or not to open the curtains to let in a little light. As usual for a June morning in San Francisco, the fog still clung to this part of the city, so perhaps it would be best to keep them closed. The glow cast by the oil lamps scattered around the room and the small fire in the fireplace was really more cheerful than the dull grey she could glimpse through moisture-covered windows.

Once upon a time, the thick green velvet curtains would remain closed, with only one lamp lit, to ensure that the client coming to consult Madam Sibyl, the clairvoyant, wouldn’t get a good look at her and discover that underneath the powder and wig was plain old Annie Fuller, a widow selling business and domestic advice by pretending it came from the stars or the lines on a palm.

But all that was in the past. Now, she was Mrs. Ann Elizabeth Dawson, a married woman who provided auditing services and financial advice to various individuals, businesses, and charitable organizations––and engaged in an occasional investigation into criminal activity.

She straightened her desk, trying to decide if Mr. Livingston would feel she was being too informal if she invited him to sit across from her in one of the two upholstered chairs grouped around the fireplace. After all, she didn’t know if this was a business meeting, since he very well might wish to talk about Emmaline.

No, she decided, whatever Mr. Livingston’s purpose for coming, better to start off on a professional footing and have him sit across from her at the desk. She no sooner had that thought than little Tilly knocked and entered, giving a short curtsey that sent the black curls that peeked from under her cap bouncing. She announced, Mr. Livingston, ma’am.

Robert Livingston was a tall, white-haired man who carried his seventy-some years with ease. His kindly, light blue eyes belied the fact that he’d made his initial fortune in the cut-throat world of silver mining in Nevada. Today, he was one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in San Francisco, his large dry-goods firm, the Silver Strike Bazaar, rivaling its competitors, the White House and the City of Paris, in size, reputation, and bottom line.

Turned out that Annie had been correct to choose the more formal approach, because the purpose of the man’s visit was very much business-related. As was his nature, he’d got right to the point, with only a minimum of time taken on polite trivialities.

Ten minutes later, Annie looked down at the notepad in front of her on the desk and said, Let me see if I’ve got this right. In May of 1880, you invested $20,000 in the Potrero Woolen Mills, which were being built by Douglas and Hugh McKenzie. The mill started operation in September of that year. Then, in January of 1881, you invested another $10,000, and a year later, you bought shares from several of the early investors, bringing your total investment to $40,000?

That’s correct. The first investment was part of the initial offering of stocks. The McKenzie brothers have nearly fifty years of experience in woolen manufacturing. Seemed like a good investment.

I expect that one of the reasons you have invested in a woolen factory is to ensure a steady supply of locally produced woolen goods for the Silver Strike Bazaar?

Exactly. If you remember, Mrs. Dawson, I had been using the Larkson’s Woolen Mills as our main supplier of wool fabric for our ready-made departments. I already had developed some doubts about Larkson’s ability to supply all our needs, but for reasons you know well, by January of last year, I no longer felt comfortable using them. That’s when I made my second investment.

Annie nodded. She imagined the subject of how Livingston had been swindled by a salesman working at the Larkson’s Mills was not one that he wanted to pursue, so she didn’t press him on this issue.

Instead, she said, So, this second investment made sense to you, even if the initial returns on your first investment in Potrero weren’t particularly good?

It’s not that they were bad, but it is always difficult for a new company to produce a profit right at the beginning. However, Douglas came to me and told me he wanted to expand the scouring department and set up a knitting department. He was willing to sell me some of his shares in order to raise the needed capital. By the second and third quarters of 1881, the company started to make a profit. In addition, I was pleased with the quality of fancy goods they were producing. They are also the only mill with modern knitting machines this side of the Bay. This means, year-round, they provide a good supply of the materials that go into our undergarments.

Oh, I didn’t know that. Interesting.

However, this winter I learned that some of the initial investors were feeling nervous because of the rumors that the Pioneer Mills, who recently purchased the old Mission Mills, was planning on building a knitting factory up on Black Point. They were afraid the market wasn’t large enough and this would hurt the Potrero Mills. I was able to buy up these investors’ shares at a discount. Truth is, San Francisco needs to have an expanded supply of knitted goods.

All right, all that seems quite clear. What I don’t understand is why you would like me to do an audit of the company?

Livingston frowned and ran a finger over his neatly trimmed mustache. Maybe I am being overly cautious, but I’ve been uneasy for the past few months. Suddenly, there were some production difficulties…equipment breakages and so forth. As a result, they weren’t able to deliver orders when promised. Not terribly inconvenient, we had some back inventory, and the goods were eventually delivered. More worrisome, I’ve also heard some rumors that Hugh and Douglas are at odds.

Do you know what the problem is?

I’m not certain. The rumors aren’t specific. You’ve got to understand, these two brothers have been in business together their entire lives. Never a hint of discord before…that alone is concerning.

Are you afraid this might mean there is some financial difficulty that they have hidden from you or the other investors?

He sighed. I hope not, given how much money I’ve invested in the company. But I have learned to trust my instincts. That’s why I convinced a majority of the other investors, including Hugh McKenzie, to vote for an audit at the last board meeting in May. Douglas McKenzie expressed complete confidence in the company’s bookkeeper and his books, but he couldn’t really object.

Annie had been in this position before, and she knew that whether or not she discovered any problems with the financial records for the Potrero Woolen Mills, the bookkeeper would take her audit as a personal insult. Nevertheless, that wasn’t her problem.

Livingston leaned forward and said, Mrs. Dawson, I trust your instincts as well as your competence. If there is something amiss with the Potrero Mills, I know you will find it out. Tell me, would you be able to start on this audit this week?

Of course. I would need to reschedule some meetings, but is there some specific reason for the urgency? You said the decision to have an audit was made in May.

I like the McKenzies, and I know that this sort of audit can be disruptive. I would hate to do anything that would slow production. But then there was the fire. Suddenly it seemed important to move forward.

Fire?

Yes, according to the note I got from Douglas McKenzie, there was a small fire early this Saturday morning. He said one worker had some injuries, but the fire was minor and wouldn’t delay production. However, you can see why I’m concerned.

Better safe than sorry, Annie said.

Yes, Mrs. Dawson, you are quite right.

Annie felt a good deal of satisfaction as she left Robert Livingston in the formal parlor with his ward, Emmaline, who was excitedly showing him the pocket handkerchief she had embroidered for him. She rather liked auditing jobs, although she hoped for Mr. Livingston’s sake that she wouldn’t find anything amiss. Since the majority of her work was giving financial advice, mostly to women of property or the charitable organizations they supported, an audit could give her a level of knowledge about a specific company or a whole industry that would come in handy later on when she advised her clients where to invest.

The job she’d done for Mr. Livingston two winters ago had provided her with a good deal of insight into the market side of textile manufacturing. This audit would educate her about the production arm of the process. She looked forward to doing research into state labor reports and back issues of the California Journal in preparation for her first meeting with Mr. Douglas McKenzie and Mr. Dunkley, his bookkeeper.

As she descended the back stairs to see if Abigail was ready to be put down for her morning nap, she was startled to hear loud voices and the frantic barking of Dandy, the little Boston Terrier, coming from the kitchen.

Heart pounding at the sudden vision of something awful happening to her daughter, who might have fallen against the hot stove, been cut by a mislaid knife, swallowed some of the lye used in the washing, she rushed down the last steps into the large room at the back of the house.

The first thing she saw was Abigail sitting safely in her highchair, her hands and face covered with applesauce, looking puzzled at the commotion being caused by the big people in the kitchen. Mrs. O’Rourke and Kathleen were talking over each other as they hovered over Biddy O’Malley, a young friend of Kathleen’s who was clearly in distress, her usually cheerful face mottled with tears.

Whatever’s the matter, Biddy? Annie moved swiftly over to the girl.

Biddy gulped and said, Ma’am, I was hoping you might help. Kathleen told me about those women…the ones who have that dispensary near Woodward’s Gardens. I was wondering if you could get someone there to come see her. It’s my cousin Meghan, there was a fire where she works Saturday morning, and somehow she got burned, real bad, on her hands and face. They took her to County Hospital, but the doctors sent her home the next day, yesterday. They told her mother there wasn’t anything more they could do for her. Meghan’s in such pain, and feverish. Surely something more could be done. I could pay…

Oh, Biddy, never you mind about that. You say she’s at home? Where does she live?

On Tenth, between Howard and Folsom.

Oh, good, that’s not far away from the Pacific Dispensary for Women. Tilly, get fifty cents from the marketing purse and go fetch a cab. Have them come to the back alley.

Annie looked over at Kathleen and said, You go with Biddy in the cab—straight to the dispensary. Take the rest of the marketing money so you can keep the cab waiting until you know if someone will be able to go on with you to see Biddy’s cousin. I’ll write a note, just in case you run into one of the dispensary volunteers, who may be inclined to make you wait.

She then took Biddy’s hands in hers. You were right to come here. At the very least, the good women of the dispensary will be able to give your cousin something to help with the fever and pain. And if they recommend having her come to stay at the dispensary, do get your aunt to agree. Tell her not to worry about the expense.

She paused and then said, She was burned at her place of work? Where is that?

Biddy wiped her eyes and said, The Potrero Woolen Mills…she’s a spinner there on the night shift.

CHAPTER 2

Monday evening, June 5, 1882

O’Farrell Street Boardinghouse

The Potrero Woolen Mills? The very same company that Mr. Livingston wants you to audit?

"The very one, Nate. Talk about coincidence. I must say, though, I don’t think much of the mill manager, this Douglas McKenzie, dismissing what happened to Biddy’s cousin by simply mentioning that one of the workers had minor injuries. From Biddy’s description of the burns, her injuries were anything but minor."

"So you are going to take the job?"

Nate then quickly answered his own question, saying with a smile, Of course you are. I know you. The very fact that you now know someone who is involved means you have to find out what is going on.

Annie looked down and smiled at Abigail, who was sitting on her lap. Her husband did, indeed, know her very well. And, miracles of miracles, he still loved her, despite her proclivity to get involved in jobs that often led to very unexpected places. As a mother, she supposed she should want this job to turn out to be routine and easily managed, but routine could be so…boring.

Giving her daughter a kiss on her head and taking her tiny hands in her own to play a quiet game of patty-cake, she said, Mr. Livingston was still in the parlor with Emmaline, so after Kathleen and Biddy took off, I went and told him what was happening. When Biddy learned he was in the house, she wanted him to know why she didn’t make it into work this morning and ask if he would inform her floor manager.

Bridget O’Malley, who her friends and family called Biddy, was a clerk for the sewing and notions counter of the Silver Strike Bazaar, having been promoted from her position in the readymade dressmaking department Christmas before last. Quite a step up for a young Irish girl who’d started out as a servant—the job she held when Annie first met her. By all reports, she’d been doing very well in this new job, and Annie was sure that the wages she made helped out her widowed mother considerably, given that Biddy’s six younger siblings were all still in school.

What did Kathleen have to say when she returned?

As hoped, Dr. Blair was at the dispensary. I think her internship is over at the end of this month, so that was fortunate. She immediately sent one of the nurses off with Biddy and Kathleen in the cab to assess the situation.

And was it as dire as Biddy made out?

From what Kathleen said, I’m afraid so. She reported that you could hear the girl’s moans from outside the house…it was that awful. The nurse didn’t feel that Biddy’s cousin should be moved at this time, but she tended to the wounds and prescribed some medicine for both the pain and the fever. She told Biddy that Dr. Blair would come by in the afternoon to see if there was anything else to be done. Biddy stayed with her aunt and cousin, and Kathleen dropped the nurse back at the dispensary before coming here.

Nate sighed and reached out his arms for Abigail. Annie understood how he felt…the need to get comfort from the sweet presence of their daughter, while trying to banish the fear that anything like this could ever happen to her. What must Meghan Wilson’s mother be feeling right now?

Annie stood up. Kathleen said she made Biddy promise to keep us informed about how her cousin is doing and let us know if there is any other way we can help. Now I’m going to go and put Abigail to bed. Kathleen’s insisting that she stay up late to make up for the time she lost on her errand with Biddy today, as if I cared if she finished all the washing today because it’s Monday.

Can I help put Abigail down? I believe she finds my attempts at singing a lullaby amusing, so that should distract her if she puts up a fuss.

That would be wonderful. Keep her entertained while I go down to get her evening bottle. If you are feeling particularly brave, you could even try changing her while I am gone.

She laughed out loud at the horrified and then chagrined look on her husband’s face. Don’t worry, I didn’t really expect you to do that duty. You already get the medal for model father, because I can assure you that neither your father nor mine ever volunteered to clean us up after we smeared food in our hair. But, once Abigail’s asleep, I want to hear all about your meeting with Miss Ada Bateson.

Annie finished buttoning up her dressing gown and sat down in the chair in front of the bedroom’s fireplace, the small fire welcome. The fog had burned off midday but came creeping back this evening, creating a damp chill, even inside. Their daughter was sound asleep next door, where they would hear her if she should awaken before Kathleen came up to sleep with her in the nursery.

Annie looked at Nate, who was sitting in the matching armchair looking over some papers, and said, Now, tell me about Miss Ada Bateson. Exactly why did she feel she needed a lawyer?

Nate put his papers down. She insists that her mother promised her she was going to be taken care of when she died. She has two younger brothers. The eldest, Lyman, is the executor. He says that since she isn’t listed in her mother’s will, she isn’t entitled to anything. Miss Bateson feels sure this isn’t correct or fair. Evidently, when she told Mrs. Pitts Stevens about it, the good lady recommended she get legal advice and gave her my card.

How does Miss Bateson know Mrs. Pitts Stevens?

They go to the same church or something…it wasn’t entirely clear. I must say, getting precise information out of Miss Bateson was like pulling hen’s teeth.

Oh, why? What was she like?

I think she’s in her early thirties, single, shy, timid even. Tended to look down and away when I addressed her, initially answering in monosyllables or looking to the family friend who accompanied her. I felt she didn’t feel comfortable saying anything without his approval.

Who was the family friend?

A man named Roger Truman who is well into his sixties. I gathered he was a good friend of Miss Bateson’s mother. I got the impression that he’d known Miss Bateson all of her life, and she referred to him as Uncle Roger.

Does he agree that she has been treated unfairly?

Hard to determine. He certainly seemed sympathetic, but he appeared uncomfortable with her decision to consult a lawyer. He kept saying that everything could be worked out, that there must be some misunderstanding.

Misunderstanding? Did they bring a copy of the will with them?

Oh yes, and it was very straightforward. A perfectly normal legal document, written by a local lawyer, signed by Miss Bateson’s mother in 1875. The will left the income from all of her estate to her husband at her death, which was in 1877, for as long as he lived. At his death, which was two months ago, the estate was to be divided equally between his two sons.

"But not his daughter! That does seem unfair. Had she been given some sort of inheritance earlier, for example, before her mother’s death? I remember you telling me about a case where a young man’s father had bought him a house and set him up in business. As a result, the father excluded him in his subsequent will."

According to Miss Bateson, she’s not been given anything…beyond being able to continue to live in her family home after her mother’s death. But she said this was so she could take care of her father, who was increasingly infirm. In any event, the will would need to have stated explicitly that she was not to receive anything because of a prior disbursement.

And it doesn’t do this?

No, there is simply no mention of her existence in the will, while her two brothers are named as the beneficiaries. As the executor, the brother Lyman had the power to administer the estate for his father’s benefit during his lifetime and then to divide and distribute the estate between himself and his brother after his father’s death. But that isn’t unusual. Most people name one of their sons as executor, not their daughters, even if that daughter, like Miss Bateson, is the oldest child.

What do you know about this brother, Lyman?

From what she said, he is just a couple of years younger than she is. As far as I know, he’s currently single, with a suite in the Palace Hotel.

"Good heavens, he must be