The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5) Read online

  Riot chuckled, a thing felt rather than heard. "Since you like the truth of things, I'll confide something to you."

  She waited, holding her breath.

  "I don't think Bel would know what to do with well-behaved children."

  The hack rolled to a stop.

  Before she could ask why anyone would want the two of them, Riot pushed open the door and stepped down. "Shall we?" He held out a gloved hand to her, and Sarah took it. He always made her feel like a proper lady—the kind she had seen at the Palace Hotel.

  Riot flipped the driver a coin, and the hack left them standing on a long, straight street that didn't know if it was going up or down. From the length of it, she suspected it cut across the entire city. Homes lined the boardwalk, some pushed so tightly together that they shared a wall. Riot placed his hands on his silver-knobbed walking stick. With his hat at a jaunty angle and his tailored suit, he made everywhere seem fashionable.

  "The druggist didn't know his address," Sarah pointed out, dismayed by the long stretch of residences.

  "We're close to the University Club," he pointed to a two-story building with potted palm trees in front. "Any ideas?"

  "I suppose we could knock on doors."

  "That's a detective's lot." He paused, and cracked a smile down at her. "For the amateur. But there's something called 'process of elimination' that will save our feet a great deal of pain."

  Sarah tilted her head.

  "What do we know about Mr. Nicholas? What did he tell us?"

  Sarah blushed. There was no use denying that she had been listening at the door with the other children. She stared down the street, feeling frustrated. Riot was waiting for an answer. He was patient about it, but she could feel a sort of expectation.

  "I don't think he's wealthy." Sarah glanced towards Nob Hill.

  "That's a start." Riot offered his arm. She took it, and they strolled slowly down the boardwalk, in the opposite direction of Nob Hill, gazing at houses.

  Another thought popped into her head, and she snatched it. "There was a garden window." She glanced at two homes squashed together. "So it's unlikely to be these homes."

  Riot inclined his head. It felt like a shout of praise to her. Riot wasn't an expressive man, not in the way of most. It was his small gestures that spoke volumes. The warmth of his voice and the depth of his eyes. Newspapers called him enigmatic and distant, even dangerous, but Sarah thought they were all daft.

  "And?" he asked.

  "I got the impression that Mr. Nicholas lives alone. With his habits and such, I can't imagine anyone putting up with him." That realization brought another. "He's exceptionally tidy, so that rules out boardinghouses, shops, and run-down buildings. At least, I think. My Gramma said boardinghouses are festering with disease and sin."

  "Ravenwood Manor is currently a boardinghouse."

  "Miss Lily runs a tight ship."

  "That she does." Riot turned his attention to the street. "There are always exceptions, but your Gramma was correct. It was also dark."

  "Because the fellow looked through the window at night."

  "Precisely." Riot raised his walking stick towards a lamppost. But not every house had a lamppost out front.

  "So we need to find a house with a garden in the back that doesn't have a lamppost nearby. And one with straight lines."

  "Well done, Sarah."

  She wrinkled her nose. "That still leaves an awful lot of homes."

  "I've been told I have the luck of the devil," Riot said.

  "Don't brag about it too much. He'll come and take it back."

  It took twenty minutes, five houses that nearly matched, and finally an old woman stuck her nose out of a window. "Whatcha doing? I'll ring the police," she warned.

  Riot tipped his hat to the woman. "If you like. It would certainly amuse my daughter."

  Sarah smiled politely.

  The old woman looked both ways down her street, shut her window, and stepped out her front door. She was bundled from head to toe. Although it was summer, the rest of the country had not informed San Francisco.

  "That's a lovely girl you have—a proper lady," the old woman said, leaning on her porch railing. "Are you two lost?"

  Riot spread his hands. "I'm afraid so, ma'am. A Mr. Nicholas Stratigareas found my daughter's coat. I wrote down the address, but promptly lost it. I only remember his residence was on Leavenworth Street."

  The old woman put a finger to her lips. Her rheumy eyes went cross as she searched her brain. "One Ten," she finally said. "Keeps a nice rose, but he's an odd gentleman."

  Riot tipped his hat, and they continued down the street arm in arm.

  "Mr… Atticus, aren't you worried all your fibbing will get you sent straight to Hell?"

  "I figure God is forgiving enough to consider the motivation of a thing."

  "So lying isn't bad?"

  "I'm a detective, not a preacher. You're asking the wrong man about morality."

  "Gramma would have washed your mouth out with soap."

  He glanced down at her with a sad look in his eyes. "You're lucky you had someone who cared enough to do that."

  "I don't know about that," she said. "Didn't you have anyone?"

  Riot didn't answer straightaway. "I suppose I did, but I didn't realize it until he died."

  "It wasn't Mr. Tim, then?"

  "Tim helped me, but he wasn't much of a guide. Not of the good sort, at any rate. My partner, Ravenwood, cared enough in his own way to steer me right."

  "Did he wash your mouth out with soap?"

  Riot's eyes danced with amusement. "I'd have shot him if he tried."

  Sarah blinked up at him.

  "I have a reckless streak in me that would shock you."

  "That must be why you love Isobel so much."

  "We're definitely of the same mind."

  One Ten was a small, neat house with a perfectly straight picket fence. The house sat in the shadows of two larger neighbors. The fence was whitewashed, and had rows of herb boxes along its front pathway. Riot walked up the stairs without pause. Not knowing what else she was supposed to do, Sarah followed.

  "Just because there's no one on the street, doesn't mean no one is watching," Riot murmured.

  Sarah turned to eye the houses across the way. Had he seen something she hadn't?

  "Try not to be obvious." Riot applied his stick to the door. When no one answered, he tried again. She attempted to look into a window, but the curtains were drawn tight. Finally, Riot tapped her shoulder, and walked around back.

  "Won't we get into trouble?" she whispered.

  "For admiring the roses? I think not."

  The garden was small, but perfect. Too perfect, in her opinion. The rose bushes were the closest things to wild in this garden. The flowers broke free, unwilling to be controlled or groomed, their petals twisting in the fog.

  Sarah crouched beside a patch of grass, and gently laid her hands on it. It was perfectly square and evenly cut. "I don't see much grass in San Francisco," she said. Sarah missed the green of Tennessee, the fields of hay grass bent by the wind, and the lazy summers spent swimming in rivers.

  "Sarah, get behind that tree."

  It wasn't a request; it was an order. And she was halfway there before she glanced over her shoulder. Riot had a revolver in his hand. That's when she noticed the broken window. Shards of glass crunched under his shoes as he moved towards the back door.

  Sarah ducked behind the tree, and hugged it, squeezing her eyes shut. She prayed there wouldn't be a gunfight. Jin had told her all about the day Mr. Lotario was shot in the courthouse. About the bullet that had whispered past Riot as he lunged for the judge's revolver.

  Riot cracked the back door, and stepped inside. The wait nearly killed her. She thought her heart would fly away.

  What if someone other than Riot came out? What if he was hurt?

  Frantic, Sarah searched the ground around her feet. That's when she noticed two things out of place: a chunk of bro
ken brick and a cigarette stub. She froze. Keeping her feet firmly in place, she looked closer at the ground.

  Footsteps tapped on the porch, and she peeked from behind the tree trunk. Riot holstered his revolver. "You can come out, Sarah. It's safe."

  "I think you best come over here," she called.

  Riot was there in a blink, his gaze taking in her, the fence, and the bushes in one sweep, searching for threat. His revolver was back in his hand. Sarah cringed. "Didn't mean to alarm you." She pointed at the stub and the broken brick. Riot holstered his revolver again, and sat on his haunches.

  "I tried not to move," she explained. Riot had been teaching the children in the house how to track. She wasn't near as good as Jin, but she was better than Tobias. Most of the time.

  "That's my girl," he murmured absently. "Our burglar wasn't very concerned about stealth. Hold this, please." He handed her his walking stick.

  Riot carefully picked up the stub, and sniffed at it. He brushed the end with a finger, studied it, then tucked it into an envelope. Sarah didn't know anyone else who carried envelopes in pockets.

  Riot moved to the fence, took out his magnifying glass, and ran it up a section of wood. He tucked it back into his pocket, and followed the trail up and over the fence. Sarah stared at the empty spot. Were all adoptive fathers so odd? She'd never known her real father—and hadn't known her uncle much at all before he was murdered.

  Suddenly aware of how alone she was in the backyard of a house that had just been burgled, she fidgeted with the walking stick, and finally called, "Atticus?"

  "One moment," came a distant reply.

  "Should I find a call box and ring the police?" It was half whisper and half shout.

  "Not yet."

  This time his voice was closer. A moment later, he hoisted himself back over the fence. Riot landed in a crouch, and dropped to one knee. He quickly recovered, dusting off his trousers and smoothing his waistcoat.

  "Are you all right?" Sarah asked.

  "I'm not as small or agile as I once was. Thank you." He plucked his walking stick from her hands, and strode towards the house. With a gesture of his head, he indicated she should follow.

  "What happened?" she asked. The kitchen was in shambles.

  "An Italian bricklayer smoked a cigar while he worked up the nerve to burgle it."

  Sarah gasped. "How do you know who he was?"

  Riot removed the stub, so she could examine it. "This isn't a cigarette—it's a long, thin cigar, a kind favored by Italians. Do you see this hole?" Sara nodded. "That's the end that's placed in the mouth, and the hole is formed by a straw that's about an inch and a half long. To make the cigar, a broom splint about seven inches long, nearly long enough to reach the lighting end, is run through the straw, and the cigar is formed around that. When the cigar is ready to be smoked, the broom splint is removed, which allows the cigar to draw freely. The straw is a kind of mouthpiece that keeps that end of the cigar from being compressed by the smoker's lips."

  Sarah narrowed her eyes. "Maybe it was an Englishman who just likes that kind of cigar. And he might have found the brick lying around."

  Riot glanced down at her. "I was trying to impress you."

  Sarah bit back a laugh.

  "He was wearing railway shoes, however. Steel-tipped. They're popular with laborers." Riot gestured vaguely at the fence. "And the brick. I'd wager it's from the Buckley Brick Yard, near the Italian quarter. All that's a bit too much coincidence for my taste."

  She gaped at him. "You know where a brick is made just by looking at it?"

  "Each brick is unique to a brickyard, due to the clay it's made from, and the mold. There are only so many brickyards in San Francisco."

  "But that means you've looked at every brick."

  Riot absently stroked his beard. "Brick connoisseur—the exciting life of a bachelor. I should have had children long before this."

  "I think it's the perfect time," Sarah said, nudging a splintered chair with her toe. "I don't understand. Mr. Nicholas thought someone had already been in his home, and moved his shoes. Why would the burglar return to ruin his home? It looks like a stampede came through here."

  Sarah picked up a broken little cat face. She shifted through the wreckage and found the rest of it—a scrimshaw carving broken in two. One innocent eye stared sadly up at her. "Who would do this to him? He's odd, but I think he's harmless."

  Riot surveyed the wreckage. His gaze took in every detail, storing it away in a mind that could recall everything—from the glass on the floor, to the angle of the tables, and displaced photographs. It was his curse, and gift. "You bring up excellent points."

  "I do?"

  "This is more than a burglary. To a man of order, this is an insult."

  Sarah imagined poor nervous Mr. Nicholas discovering his home in such a state. Her heart lurched. "We can't let him come home to this."

  "He won't be alone," Riot assured.

  "Will you call the police?"

  Riot shook his head. "Not yet."

  "What are we going to do?"

  "You are going home."

  "But…"

  He held up a finger. "No amount of persuading will work in this case."

  "You didn't give me a chance."

  "There's a reason for that."

  19

  Lies and Mutiny

  ISOBEL

  Leave police work to men. Those words rang in Isobel's ears as she stood alone in Titus Sheel's bedroom. They had escorted the Sheels to their home. And presently, Julius was in the sitting room with Mrs. Sheel, reviving her with tea and cakes.

  Isobel was angry with herself. For trusting. For believing. For jumping to conclusions. Julius had said that Samuel was incapable of violence, but clearly the alienist had been wrong. And so was she. Had she wanted to believe that Samuel was innocent?

  Isobel stopped herself. No, she was not the sympathetic sort. Facts. She needed more information. She reined in her thoughts, and focused on Titus Sheel's bedroom. The first thing that struck Isobel were the books. A perfect line of them, sitting within easy reach of the boy's bed.

  The bed was made, and the room orderly, but not alarmingly so. Isobel smiled at the Strand magazine sitting by his bed, its pages tattered and smoothed, and assigned a place of honor. Titus struck her as an intelligent boy. A thoughtful one. And if Samuel could be believed, a kind one.

  Isobel turned to the desk. The drawers held a treasure trove of trinkets that would rival Tobias White's collection. Feathers, rocks, red cinnabar, a vial of gold flakes, and sketchings of animals found in the valley.

  Isobel paused at the chair. It wasn't by the desk, it was by the door. She bent to examine the wood floor. Two feet from the door, precisely aligned, two deep, squared gouges marred the planks.

  "What are you doing in here?" a voice asked.

  Isobel looked up. John Sheel stood in the doorway.

  "Searching for your brother," she said, standing.

  John narrowed his eyes. "He's not in here."

  "Yes and no," she said. "How are you?"

  John shrugged. "I want to look for Titus, but mother won't let me."

  "I'd want to look for my brother, too. Where's your room?"

  John led the way. It was down the hall, on the far end of the house. John's room was nothing like his older brother's: boxing gloves hung from the bedpost, a baseball bat and ball, and a rifle and boxes of cartridges.

  "Are you a really a detective?" John asked.

  "I found you, didn't I?"

  John wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  "Is this the rifle you got for your birthday?"

  John wrinkled his nose. "It's only a ninety Winchester short."

  "A twenty-two caliber."

  He glanced at her in surprise.

  "You didn't like your gift?" Isobel asked.

  John picked up a cartridge from his desk. "I'm used to my father's rifle. He has a ninety five Winchester. I can shoot fine with it. He let me use it when we
hunted. And I was real careful. I cleaned it and everything."

  "And it was more powerful," Isobel noted.

  The boy nodded. "The one I got isn't good for anything except rabbits and vermin."

  "Did you ever take his rifle without asking?" Isobel asked.

  John frowned at her. "I'd never do that."

  "Why?"

  "Because it's my father's."

  "Would he get mad at you?"

  John looked away.

  "John," she said softly. "Does your father strike you or your brother?"

  "That's why I don't take his rifle."

  "And your mother? Has he ever harmed her?"

  John scuffed his boot on the floor. He gave one sharp nod of his head, but didn't meet her eyes. "What's that have to do with Titus?"

  "I'm a detective. It's my job to ask questions."

  "I don't see much point to it. The sheriff has the man who chased us. That freak knows where my brother is. I know it."

  Isobel changed tack. "Did your brother get a rifle, too?"

  John snorted. "No, he got a magnifying glass."

  "You didn't think much of that?"

  "It was a dumb gift."

  "Why's that?"

  "A magnifying glass doesn't feed you. Not like my rifle. It's useless. It doesn't protect you either. If Titus had a rifle too…" The boy's voice cracked. "That man wouldn't have gotten him."

  Isobel touched his shoulder. "John, how did you get that black eye and the bruises on your ribs?”

  The boy pressed his lips together.

  "Was it your father?"

  "I best check on my mother."

  "Wait." She squeezed his shoulder. "I need to know what happened. On your birthday."

  "What does it matter? Titus is gone."

  "Do you want to help your brother?"

  "Of course I do," he said firmly.

  "Then start at the beginning. What happened on your birthday?"

  "It was Titus's birthday," he reminded her. "Mine isn't till next week, but Father was going away on business."

  "So your parents combined the celebrations?"

  John nodded.

  "What happened on Monday?"

  "Why does Titus's birthday matter?"