The Dangerous Ladies Affair

12 Sabina

The doorbell at her Russian Hill flat ground out an unexpected summons early Wednesday morning, just as she finished fixing her two cats a shared plate of raw cod, their favorite meal. The animals were her pride and joy, companions that helped to combat the loneliness she sometimes felt. Adam, an Abyssinian mix, had been a stray she’d adopted, or rather who had adopted her, a little over a year ago. Eve, an all-black shorthair, had been a gift from Charles Percival Fairchild III — the strange, mysterious crackbrain who fancied himself to be the famous British detective Sherlock Holmes. The cats had taken to each other immediately and were fond of playing all sorts of endlessly entertaining feline games.

Looking down at Eve, Sabina thought of Charles the Third, who had helped, hindered, and exasperated her and John on several of their recent investigations. Charles had disappeared some three months ago, the Lord only knew where to, after the revelation of his true identity involved him and Sabina in the Plague of Thieves Affair. Like John, she was relieved that the surprisingly adept faux Sherlock was no longer around to suddenly pop up out of nowhere, often enough in outlandish disguises and with amazing bits of information and deductions, and to insinuate himself into their professional and personal lives. Yet she had to admit that she’d grown almost fond of him, now and then missing his stimulating if perplexing presence. After all, he had given her Eve and his final act before vanishing had been to literally save her life...

The doorbell put an end to these thoughts. Sabina hurried downstairs. Callers at 8:00 A.M. were rare; not even John had had occasion to stop by at such an early hour. The last person who had was the nasty muckraking journalist Homer Keeps, during the Spook Lights Affair. There had been no recent case sufficiently sensational for Keeps or any of his ink-stained brethren to be bothering her, but then members of the Fourth Estate were notoriously unpredictable.

It was Amity Wellman and Elizabeth Petrie, not a reporter, who stood outside her door.

Surprised, Sabina admitted them. If their presence here hadn’t been enough to tell her something unpleasant had taken place, their expressions would have. Amity appeared nervous, tense. Elizabeth’s usual deceptively grandmother-like air had been replaced this morning by a stern, tight-lipped demeanor.

Elizabeth said, “I’m glad we caught you home, Sabina. I tried to call earlier, but as usual the Exchange is having problems with the telephone lines. And I wasn’t sure you’d be going to the agency this morning.”

“What’s happened?”

“There’s been another note,” Amity said. “Slipped through the mail slot last night, the same as the others. Kamiko found it.”

Elizabeth produced the message from the large plaid bag she carried. Although it was a knitting bag, it would also contain a small-caliber pistol that had belonged to her husband, Sabina knew.

Both the envelope and note were identical to the others in Sabina’s possession, written in blue ink in a ruler-neat hand on heavy vellum paper. The words on this one read:

Elizabeth said, “I don’t mind saying it gave me the shivers. Whoever is doing this to Mrs. Wellman is surely insane.”

Sabina said nothing. She was still studying the words.

“What I don’t understand,” Amity said, “is why he bothered writing another note after already trying once to kill me. There doesn’t seem to be any sense in that.”

“No,” Sabina said musingly, “there doesn’t.”

Elizabeth reported no other incidents, no sign of trespassers or anyone lurking in the neighborhood. She and Kamiko had made sure the house and grounds were secure before going to bed last night. Neither Amity nor her bodyguard had been able to convince the Japanese girl to reveal whatever it was she was keeping to herself, though Amity was still of the opinion that if Kamiko’s secret had anything to do with the devilment she would surely have revealed it after the shooting on Sunday evening; Kamiko’s loyalty and adoration were above reproach.

The girl’s reticence was bothersome just the same. There didn’t seem to be any good reason for her continued silence, whether her secret pertained to the threats or not. Sabina resolved to have another private talk with her.

The three left the flat together, Sabina for Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, and Amity and Elizabeth for the Parrot Street offices of Voting Rights for Women. As usual, John was not at the agency when Sabina arrived. Just as well this morning. The office stillness, marred only by the muted sounds of trolleys and equipage rattling by on Market Street below, allowed her to concentrate on the three threatening notes, which she spread out side by side on her desktop.

Now, with the arrival of the latest, she knew the answer to the question she’d asked herself on Tuesday morning. Why would a person deliver a series of warnings in advance of a murder attempt? He wouldn’t. No one, no matter how mentally unbalanced, would have reason to write another such note after having tried to kill his real or imagined enemy. As Amity had pointed out, it made no sense.

Clearly, therefore, the writer of the messages and the person who had fired the shot at Amity, or had hired it done, were not the same individual.

Two people with two different motives had begun deviling Amity simultaneously, the first with quotations perhaps meant only to harass and frighten, the second with the deadliest of intentions. One of those bizarre coincidences that now and then cropped up in investigative work, as they did in other walks of life. If Sabina was right in her deduction, and she was sure she was, it doubled the problem facing her.

She continued to examine the three sheets of vellum. The commonality among the messages was obvious: all three contained quotes from the New Testament. As had the first one Amity had received and destroyed, apparently.

Sabina took her copy of the King James Bible from the desk drawer. She had read and absorbed it as a child and again as an adult after Stephen’s death in an unsuccessful attempt to find solace in religion. Her recall being excellent, it didn’t take her long to locate each of the three passages. “Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves” was from the book of Matthew. As was “Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.” The book of Revelation was the source of “And the devil that conceived them was cast in the lake of fire and brimstone.”

So the note writer was not only familiar with the New Testament but a possible religious zealot as well. Nathaniel Dobbs? Yesterday he had accurately quoted a passage from Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians.

That didn’t necessarily make him the guilty party, of course. A great many people had the ability to quote passages from the Bible. Still, the references accusing Amity of being a false prophet doomed to death and damnation surely referred to her work on behalf of woman suffrage...

Sabina’s memory stirred. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. It wasn’t long before a small, grim smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Quickly she rose, donned her hat, coat, and muffler, and left the office, locking the door again behind her.

The main room at Solidarity Party headquarters was even more cluttered today. What appeared to be twice as many signs and placards were now propped against walls and laid out in uneven rows on the floor, and pamphlets of various sizes were stacked on tables and chairs. There was even a smattering of oversized and somewhat fuzzy daguerrotypes attached to sticks and staves, of groups of men holding aloft signs and placards similar in design and content to the ones here.

Tubby little Josiah Pitman was in conversation with an equally tubby man decked out in a checkered sack coat, striped trousers, and plug hat. The stranger had the good manners to doff his hat when Sabina entered. Pitman merely glowered at her from where he stood behind his worktable. Across the room behind them, she could see that the door to Nathaniel Dobbs’ private sanctum was closed.

“Back again, are you,” Pitman said in waspish tones. “Mr. Dobbs is busy. He doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Then I won’t disturb him.”

Sabina crossed to the nearest wall defaced by the Anti slogans. Behind her Pitman said, “Here now, don’t touch any of those.”

She ignored him. Several of the signs bore the same black-lettered statements as the two she’d glanced at yesterday: Woman Suffrage a Folly! and Keep the Fair Sex Out of Politics! Another read: Wise Men Oppose the Female Vote! Yet another seemed to have been inspired by her book of Timothy quote to Dobbs: Suffer Not a Woman to Vote — Female Silence Is Golden! She examined several in turn, all of which had been lettered in the same neat fashion.

The two men finished their low-toned conversation and the plug-hatted one departed. As soon as he was gone, Pitman said to Sabina, “I told you before, Mr. Dobbs does not wish to be disturbed. Kindly be on your way.”

Instead of answering, she picked up one of the Wise Men Oppose the Female Vote! signs and went ahead to his worktable with it upraised. “Is this your handiwork, Mr. Pitman?”

“And if it is?”

“The lettering is quite well done. Very distinctive. Especially the slight curve at the tail of the vertical stroke in the capital F.”

He preened a little at that. “I pride myself on my penmanship.”

“Perfectly straight lines, too. Ruler straight, in fact.”

“Indeed.”

“You compose correspondence in the same precise fashion, I imagine.”

“Correspondence?”

“Letters and such.”

The corners of his mouth turned down, tightened. Now he was guarded. “No,” he said. “No, I write my letters cursively. Printing them would take too much time.”

“But you do print short personal notes?”

“No. I’m not in the habit of writing notes, personal or otherwise.”

“What sort of stationery does the Solidarity Party use?”

“...Stationery?”

“Heavy white vellum, perhaps?”

“No. Cotton fiber. Besides, all of our stationery is embossed.”

“Why did you say ‘besides’?”

No answer came to him; he shook his head instead of replying.

“Is your personal stationery heavy white vellum?” Sabina asked.

“That, madam, is none of your business.”

“You’re religious, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“...What?”

“Religious. A devout, God-fearing man.”

“Well? What of it? A man who doesn’t fear God and His wrath is a fool.”

“Which means you’re familiar with the King James Bible. Much more familiar than Mr. Dobbs, I’ll warrant. The quote from Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians about wives submitting to their husbands that he is fond of reciting — you supplied him with it, I’ll warrant.”

“What if I did?” Nervousness had replaced wariness; tiny pustules of sweat dotted Pitman’s forehead now. “What are you getting at? What’s the idea of all these questions?”

“‘Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.’ You believe that, don’t you?”

“Of course I believe it. It’s the word of God—”

“‘And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever.’ That, also?”

Pitman didn’t respond. He produced a handkerchief and mopped his forehead with it.

“False prophets,” Sabina said. “That’s how you view women who seek and work for the right to vote. Women such as Amity Wellman.”

He shook his head again, a loose, wobbling denial.

“You wrote and delivered four threatening letters to her.”

“No! I did no such thing!”

“Threats of bodily harm are a felony, Mr. Pitman. Also a sin. God punishes persecutors the same as he punishes false prophets and other evildoers.”

“I am not an evildoer!”

The office door opened and the gangly black-clad figure of Nathaniel Dobbs stepped into the room. “Why are you shouting, Josiah?” he demanded. Then, seeing Sabina, “Oh, ah, Mrs. Carpenter. What is going on out here?”

“I’ve just accused your assistant of writing those threatening letters to Amity Wellman.”

Dobbs gawped at her for a few seconds, then came forward in a peculiar hopping gait with his arms flapping outward from his sides — movements that added to the fanciful illusion of a giant crow disguised as a man. “You, ah, you can’t be serious,” he said. His shocked disbelief wasn’t feigned; he’d known nothing of Pitman’s felonious activities.

“Oh, but I am. Quite serious.”

“You have proof of this?”

“Unassailable proof. His handwriting. The printing on the notes is identical to that on this sign” — she waggled it for emphasis — “and the others here that he lettered.”

Dobbs thrust his beak in Pitman’s direction. “Josiah? What have you to say?”

The tubby little man had nothing to say, other than an incoherent sputter. A trapped look had come into his eyes as if he might be about to do something foolish and cowardly — bolt and run or perhaps crawl under the worktable and curl into a fetal position. He did neither. Instead he sank bonelessly onto his chair, covered his face with his hands.

“Look at him, Mr. Dobbs,” Sabina said. “His guilt is written all over him.”

“Yes... oh, my Lord, yes. But why? What possessed him?”

Sabina was tempted to say that what possessed Pitman was the same sort of misanthropic beliefs that possessed Dobbs and others like him, carried to the degree of criminal persecution. But she said only, “He believes Mrs. Wellman is a false prophet leading women, all women, down the path to perdition. His misguided threats were biblical in origin and intent — warnings of God’s wrath as he perceives it from the New Testament.”

The Anti leader’s features showed anger now, not so much brought on by the nature of Pitman’s crime, Sabina thought, as by a trusted comrade’s betrayal and its potential damage to the Solidarity Party’s platform. “Unconscionable. Outrageous. Threatening letters, attempted murder—”

Pitman’s head jerked up. “No!” he said in horrified tones. “I wrote the notes, I admit it, but I made no effort to harm the woman, I never intended to harm her.”

“If you’re lying, Josiah—”

“I’m not! As God is my witness, I’m not! I adhere strenuously to His commandments, all His commandments, but the sixth above all. ‘Thou shalt not kill’!”

He wasn’t lying, of that Sabina was certain. Josiah Pitman hadn’t fired that pistol on Sunday evening. His motive in harassing Amity was bred of deluded religious and dogmatic fervor, nothing more. Whoever wanted her dead hated her for a different, personal reason.

Amity’s life was still in danger.