competing bank is—”
“Investigate! When will you get it through your head that Mrs. Hanaford's case is none of your confounded business? Furthermore—”
It was as well that I’d tuned him out, for as he blathered on, I heard footsteps in the hall, then the sound of Joseph Shepard's voice. I grabbed the file from Campbell's hand and threw it, along with the others, into the nearest file cabinet. I had just slammed the drawer shut and gone to stand by the startled attorney when the senior partner appeared, Perkins, the annoying clerk from the front office, at his heels. Shepard scowled.
“So you are here, Miss Woolson.” His voice and his gaze were frosty. “May I ask what you’re doing in this room?”
I sensed Campbell's quick intake of breath, but before he could speak, I gave the dour senior attorney my brightest smile.
“Mr. Campbell graciously offered to give me a tour of the office. This is an impressive collection of records.”
“It is a confidential collection, Miss Woolson. No one is allowed in this room without permission from one of the partners.” His glare went to the Scot. “You should know better, Campbell.”
The younger man colored but I rushed in before he could reply.
“Please, it's entirely my fault. In my enthusiasm to see everything, I’m afraid I opened this door by mistake.”
Shepard glared at my fuming accomplice but had little choice but to accept my apology. To do otherwise would make him seem churlish if the story reached my father. He forced a smile which, unfortunately, made him resemble a man with a toothache.
“See that it doesn’t happen again,” he told me sharply, then turned to the junior attorney. “I want to see you in my office, Campbell. Now!”
Before he could leave, I reminded the senior partner that the money from Annjenett's separate account was due that day. When he protested that Mrs. Hanaford's incarceration prevented him from carrying out this promise, I presented the note Annjenett had signed in her cell, assigning me power of attorney. His cheeks flamed and for a moment I feared we were in for one of his tiresome outbursts. Then he seemed to realize the futility of further argument and ungraciously gave in to my request.
When I left the office some half hour later, Mr. Shepard's bank draft for ten thousand dollars was safely tucked inside my reticule. I was understandably anxious to deposit it as quickly as possible and made directly for Hanaford's bank. There was, however, a second reason for my visit: I hoped for a word with Eban Potter. Perhaps he would know why his late employer had kept money at a rival bank. In this matter, however, I was disappointed.
“Are you certain of your information?” he asked, obviously taken aback. “I can’t imagine why Mr. Hanaford would do such a thing.”
“Nor can I,” I admitted. “As you were old friends, I hoped he might have spoken of it to you.”
“ ‘Friends’ is perhaps too broad a term, Miss Woolson. While it'strue we’d known one another for some time, we belonged to vastly different social circles and rarely met outside the bank. My employer was not in the habit of taking me into his confidence.”
“I see,” I said, finding it hard to hide my frustration.
After I thanked Eban Potter and took my leave of the bank, I decided to board a horsecar for Annjenett's Nob Hill home. I realized, of course, that the police had already searched the house— more than once, according to my client—but I wasn’t necessarily looking for the same thing.
Fortunately, the widow's butler remembered me and readily admitted me to the mansion. Poor Beecher was distraught. Not only had his master been brutally murdered, but his mistress stood accused of the crime. He informed me that two of the maids had already given notice, and he wasn’t sure how long he could persuade the other servants to remain. Although frantic with worry, his loyalty hadn’t wavered.
“Mrs. Hanaford is the gentlest of
“Investigate! When will you get it through your head that Mrs. Hanaford's case is none of your confounded business? Furthermore—”
It was as well that I’d tuned him out, for as he blathered on, I heard footsteps in the hall, then the sound of Joseph Shepard's voice. I grabbed the file from Campbell's hand and threw it, along with the others, into the nearest file cabinet. I had just slammed the drawer shut and gone to stand by the startled attorney when the senior partner appeared, Perkins, the annoying clerk from the front office, at his heels. Shepard scowled.
“So you are here, Miss Woolson.” His voice and his gaze were frosty. “May I ask what you’re doing in this room?”
I sensed Campbell's quick intake of breath, but before he could speak, I gave the dour senior attorney my brightest smile.
“Mr. Campbell graciously offered to give me a tour of the office. This is an impressive collection of records.”
“It is a confidential collection, Miss Woolson. No one is allowed in this room without permission from one of the partners.” His glare went to the Scot. “You should know better, Campbell.”
The younger man colored but I rushed in before he could reply.
“Please, it's entirely my fault. In my enthusiasm to see everything, I’m afraid I opened this door by mistake.”
Shepard glared at my fuming accomplice but had little choice but to accept my apology. To do otherwise would make him seem churlish if the story reached my father. He forced a smile which, unfortunately, made him resemble a man with a toothache.
“See that it doesn’t happen again,” he told me sharply, then turned to the junior attorney. “I want to see you in my office, Campbell. Now!”
Before he could leave, I reminded the senior partner that the money from Annjenett's separate account was due that day. When he protested that Mrs. Hanaford's incarceration prevented him from carrying out this promise, I presented the note Annjenett had signed in her cell, assigning me power of attorney. His cheeks flamed and for a moment I feared we were in for one of his tiresome outbursts. Then he seemed to realize the futility of further argument and ungraciously gave in to my request.
When I left the office some half hour later, Mr. Shepard's bank draft for ten thousand dollars was safely tucked inside my reticule. I was understandably anxious to deposit it as quickly as possible and made directly for Hanaford's bank. There was, however, a second reason for my visit: I hoped for a word with Eban Potter. Perhaps he would know why his late employer had kept money at a rival bank. In this matter, however, I was disappointed.
“Are you certain of your information?” he asked, obviously taken aback. “I can’t imagine why Mr. Hanaford would do such a thing.”
“Nor can I,” I admitted. “As you were old friends, I hoped he might have spoken of it to you.”
“ ‘Friends’ is perhaps too broad a term, Miss Woolson. While it'strue we’d known one another for some time, we belonged to vastly different social circles and rarely met outside the bank. My employer was not in the habit of taking me into his confidence.”
“I see,” I said, finding it hard to hide my frustration.
After I thanked Eban Potter and took my leave of the bank, I decided to board a horsecar for Annjenett's Nob Hill home. I realized, of course, that the police had already searched the house— more than once, according to my client—but I wasn’t necessarily looking for the same thing.
Fortunately, the widow's butler remembered me and readily admitted me to the mansion. Poor Beecher was distraught. Not only had his master been brutally murdered, but his mistress stood accused of the crime. He informed me that two of the maids had already given notice, and he wasn’t sure how long he could persuade the other servants to remain. Although frantic with worry, his loyalty hadn’t wavered.
“Mrs. Hanaford is the gentlest of
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