The Body Snatchers Affair

9

Sabina’s first stop after leaving the Blanchford estate was the Hyde Street home of Elizabeth Petrie. As was usually the case, the former police matron was in residence, working on one of her finely crafted quilts. Quilting had been her profession for several years, ever since her police inspector husband, Oliver, was implicated in a corruption scandal that resulted in a one-year prison sentence. Although Elizabeth had had no knowledge of his grafting activities, the scandal’s taint had cost her her matron’s job. And brought an end to what had been a stormy marriage marred by Oliver’s fondness for strong drink. He had drowned himself in whiskey after his release from Folsom, and eventually died of acute alcoholism. Ironically, the house Elizabeth had shared with him and where she still resided was only a short distance from the Home for Inebriates at Chestnut and Stockton Streets, where many of the city’s once respectable citizens drew their final breaths.

Police work was in Elizabeth’s blood, and she had made it known to the private investigative agencies in the city that whenever a woman operative was needed, she would be available. In her middle forties, with graying hair perpetually worn in a bun, she had a grandmotherly air that concealed a sharp-witted, no-nonsense interior. Sabina had availed of her services on three previous occasions, and found her to be competent, fearless, and completely trustworthy.

Once the situation with Andrea Scarlett was explained to her, Elizabeth eagerly agreed to act as the woman’s protector for as long as necessary. She would leave immediately for Delilah Brown’s Pine Street rooming house, taking a loaded pistol with her, and bring Mrs. Scarlett back here to her home for safekeeping. The fact that she was a quilter and the client a former seamstress provided a common ground that should also help to ease Mrs. Scarlett’s fright.

From Hyde, Sabina proceeded downtown to the newsstand presided over by a “blind” vendor known as Slewfoot, who, in addition to dispensing newspapers and magazines, gathered information on various illegal and extralegal activities throughout the city and served as one of her and John’s most reliable informants. Armed with two recent back issues of the Morning Call, she then returned to the agency offices.

John was not there, nor had he been, evidently, since this morning. Still trekking about in Chinatown, no doubt — without his customary recklessness, she hoped. As much as she chided him for his interest in her personal life, she couldn’t help feeling a concern for his well-being that went beyond their business arrangement. Sometimes, she admitted to herself, it approached fondness. If only he weren’t such a determined lecher. Well, perhaps “lecher” was too strong a word. Seduction was not all that was on his mind in his constant efforts to woo her affection; she knew his feelings for her went deeper than that. Which was the primary reason she took such pains to hold him at bay. Business and pleasure simply did not mix, particularly with two strong-willed and differently oriented individuals.

She concentrated on the back issues of the Call. The first, four days old, carried the announcement of Ruben Blanchford’s death by heart failure after a lengthy illness, at the age of sixty-four. The obituary was accompanied by a photograph that matched Sabina’s memory of the man at their single meeting: slight of build with iron-gray hair thinning on top, gray muttonchop whiskers, and large ears set at an angle to his head. He had been quite short, too, she recalled, less than five and a half feet tall. The only information the obit supplied that she didn’t already know was the family’s estimated net worth — ten million, a figure that would put an avaricious gleam in John’s eye when he learned of it — and Bertram Blanchford’s profession, obliquely stated as “promoter.” He was also described as being “well-known among the sporting set.”

The issue dated two days later carried a story about the Blanchford funeral, which seemed to have been less elaborately staged than the reporter expected. The account provided the identity of the mortuary where it had taken place — Joshua Trilby’s Evergreen Chapel, with an address on Mission Street — and the names of the prominent citizens who had attended and those who had acted as pallbearers. Three of the pallbearers were familiar, all wealthy businessmen in Ruben Blanchford’s class. One of the unfamiliar names, Thomas Moody, was listed as managing director of the Blanchford Investment Foundation.

The foundation’s address was given as 512 Pine Street, which would put it in the heart of the financial district — only a few blocks’ walk from the agency offices. Sabina examined herself in her compact mirror, repinned a few stray wisps of hair that had come loose, added a touch of rouge to her cheeks, and decided she looked presentable enough. A brief message for John, in the event he returned before she did, and she was on her way to the center of San Francisco’s commerce.

The offices of the Blanchford Investment Foundation were on the ground floor of a two-story brick building ornamented with curvilinear pediments over its windows and cornices supported on decorative brackets. Little enough money had been spent on BIF’s décor or furnishings; the anteroom was small and functional, as was the middle-aged woman who presided over it. One of Sabina’s business cards and a message that she was in the employ of Mrs. Harriet Blanchford brought her an immediate audience with Thomas Moody in the managing director’s equally Spartan private office.

“I can’t imagine why Mrs. Blanchford would need the service of a private investigator,” Moody said. His eyes and the prim set of his mouth added the phrase “And a woman, at that.” He was a spare, clean-shaven man in his fifties with thin, pinched features and a priggish air.

“A private matter,” Sabina told him. “If you’d care to telephone Mrs. Blanchford to confirm her engagement of my services…”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. How may I help you?”

“I understand you were one of the pallbearers at Mr. Blanchford’s funeral.”

If Moody found the question odd, he didn’t show it. His thin face assumed a dolorous expression. “I had that sad honor, yes. He was a friend of long standing as well as my employer.”

“I understand it was quite well attended.”

“The funeral? Oh, yes. Mr. Blanchford had many friends and associates in the city.”

“I’m not familiar with Joshua Trilby’s Evergreen Chapel. I assume it’s a first-class establishment?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t say that, no.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Well…” Moody lowered his voice, after the fashion of a man about to reveal a confidence. “Rather small and … well, somewhat less suitable than one might have hoped for a man of Mr. Blanchford’s stature.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, Mr. Blanchford didn’t look as … natural as he might have. Rather a slipshod job, in my opinion. The viewing room was small and the floral offerings haphazardly arranged.”

Thus confirming the Call reporter’s comment. “A shame. Was the procession properly handled?”

“More or less, except for the delay.”

“Delay?”

“After the service. Some sort of difficulty with the hearse that kept us all waiting for ten minutes before the casket could be carried out. Poor Mrs. Blanchford … she wept the entire time.”

“Unconscionable,” Sabina said. “Was it she who chose the Trilby mortuary?”

“I suppose it must have been.” Moody seemed to feel that perhaps he’d been too candid in his remarks. He made haste to change the subject. “Such a great loss to us all, especially those who have benefited and will continue to benefit from Mr. Blanchford’s philanthropic endeavors. He was a fine man, generous and caring to a fault.”

“His widow seems to be cut from the same cloth.”

“Oh, yes. A wonderful woman.”

“And his son?”

Moody hesitated before he said, a trifle stiffly, “Yes, of course.”

“Is Bertram Blanchford involved in the foundation’s work?”

“No. No, he isn’t.”

“By his choice? Or his father’s?”

Another hesitation, longer this time. Moody’s nose and upper lip quivered in a way that made Sabina think of a disapproving rabbit. “I believe his interests lie elsewhere.”

“Bertram is a promoter and horse racing enthusiast, I understand. What does he promote?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

Sabina thought that this was an evasion, judging from the way Moody’s gaze shifted. But she didn’t press him. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” she said. “I expect his father left him well provided for, even though they didn’t get on well together.”

“I really couldn’t say, Mrs. Carpenter. I hardly know the man.”

A modest sign on the rectangle of lawn in front of Joshua Trilby’s Evergreen Chapel gave its name and the slogan HONORING YOUR FAMILY’S MEMORIES. The mortuary itself, a whitewashed wooden structure with a pair of large yew trees flanking the front entrance, was as unprepossessing as Thomas Moody’s description.

On impulse, Sabina followed a cobbled path to the door and stepped into a spacious foyer. A strong floral scent greeted her, but it was more than that that set her nostrils twitching. She had always had a sensitive sense of smell and mingled with the flowery sweetness she detected the odors of dust and, faintly and unpleasantly, formaldehyde. An open doorway to her left led into a viewing room where a rather plain coffin, its lid raised, rested on a bier surrounded by several bouquets of flowers. None of a grouping of chairs facing the coffin was occupied.

Two other doors, both closed, opened off the foyer. Almost immediately one of them opened and a small, pink-faced man appeared. He wore a black cutaway coat and striped trousers and a smile that struck Sabina as both grave and unctuous. As he approached her, he held his hands close together in front of him as if he might start wringing them at any second.

“Ah, good afternoon, madam,” he said in a low voice that matched his smile. “How may I be of service?”

“Are you Mr. Trilby? Joshua Trilby?”

“I am. Yes, indeed.” He bowed slightly. “Pray tell, is it a recent bereavement that brings you to the Evergreen Chapel?”

The thinly concealed eagerness in Trilby’s voice was off-putting. So was his manner. Morticians by trade were a fawning lot, but this one oozed greed as well as obsequiousness.

“Not exactly,” she said. “At least … not yet.”

“Ah. I understand. And you would like to make arrangements in advance of the, ah, unfortunate passage.”

“Yes, but I haven’t made up my mind as to where the services will be held. Your fees are competitive, I trust?”

“Oh, indeed. Yes, indeed. Quite competitive. We offer a wide array of services designed to accommodate every pocketbook. May I ask what type of ceremony you had in mind, large or small?”

“Large enough. I understand you held the service for the recently deceased financier Ruben Blanchford.”

Trilby beamed at her. “Yes, we did. A beautiful service, if I do say so myself. Really quite beautiful.”

“And expensive, no doubt.”

“Well … Mr. Blanchford was an important man in this life. Naturally his passage into the next demanded nothing less than the very best.”

“Naturally. Was it his widow who made the arrangements with you?”

“Why, yes, certainly. The casket she chose was our finest model, bronze with silver fittings and duchesse satin interior.” Trilby’s greed oozed through again. “Is that the sort you had in mind for your loved one, Mrs., ah, Mrs.—”

“Dalrymple,” Sabina said. “Lucrezia Dalrymple. How much would such a casket cost?”

“One thousand dollars. Yes, and a bargain at the price, I assure you. We have one in our showroom, if you’d like to see it.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Of course we also have other, less elegant models,” Trilby said quickly. “Several, in fact, priced to fit any pocketbook.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Our entire selection is available for viewing. I also have a complete list of all-inclusive fees for our services which I will gladly—”

“Perhaps another time. I really must be going now.”

Trilby’s smile flickered. “But Mrs. Dalrymple—”

“Good-bye for now, Mr. Trilby.”

She left him actually wringing his hands, a commingled look of bewilderment and dejection on his too-pink face. Nothing upset a man who clearly worshipped the almighty dollar more than having the prospect of a lucrative transaction snatched away from him for no apparent reason.