Before Sabina tackled the Egans again, there was Kamiko and whatever she was hiding to be dealt with. It was improbable, now, that her secret pertained to Josiah Pitman’s threatening messages. But it was also improbable that it had anything to do with the abortive attempt on her guardian’s life. Some private matter, then. If Sabina could pry it out of her, it would put the bothersome issue to rest once and for all.
She rode trolley and cable cars to the Wellman home, where she found Kamiko in the side garden cutting spring flowers — camellias, irises, daffodils — and putting them into a large wicker basket. The girl was dressed today in Western clothing; her preference for the traditional kimono was confined to the interior of the house. Although the Wellmans employed a gardener, also a Japanese emigrant, Kamiko evidently spent a good deal of time there herself. Just one of the many duties she had assigned to herself was seeing to it that flowers grew year round and that as often as possible fresh-cut blooms brightened the house on a daily basis.
The girl didn’t seem concerned that Sabina might have come bearing more unpleasant news. Even before she was assured that all was well with her Amity-san, she seemed to take the fact for granted. Her welcoming smile was small and brief, and her large black eyes had a curtained quality, as if focused inwardly on her thoughts. Otherwise she was her usual quiet, deferential self. She continued to cut flowers, choosing each blossom with considerable care, while they conversed.
“Do you remember our talk on Sunday evening, Kamiko, before the pistol shot?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“You were about to tell me what it is you’ve been keeping to yourself.”
“No, Mrs. Carpenter, I was not. I know nothing that will help you in your investigation.”
“But you do have a secret. You admit to that, don’t you?”
Kamiko said nothing, her face impassive. The shears she was using made clicking sounds in the fog-chilled afternoon.
“If you tell me what it is, I promise not to share it with Amity or anyone else.”
The girl remained silent.
Sabina decided to try a different tack. “The man who wrote those threatening notes has been identified,” she said. “His name is Josiah Pitman, an assistant to Nathaniel Dobbs.”
Kamiko brightened. “I am glad, very glad, to hear that.”
“Is the man’s name familiar to you?”
“No. I have never heard it before. He will be punished?”
“Yes, though not as severely as he deserves. But he’s not the person who tried to kill your guardian. Her life is still in grave danger.”
Once again Kamiko was silent.
“You are afraid for her, aren’t you, Kamiko?”
“Hai.”
“And you would do anything possible to keep her from harm.”
“Oh, yes. Anything possible. But I do not believe any harm will come to my Amity-san.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She is being well protected by you and Mrs. Petrie.” The girl’s expression brightened then, the black eyes shining. “And Burton-san will soon be home again.”
“You’ve had word from Mr. Wellman?”
“Yes. Last night a wire came from him. He will return from his trip on Sunday evening.”
“This is only Wednesday. Much can happen in three days, you know — bad things as well as good.”
“Nothing bad will happen,” Kamiko said firmly. “Now, I must put these flowers in water so they will not wilt. You will excuse me, please?”
Her calm certainty was almost as exasperating as her reticence. Blind faith? Denial? Something to do with the secret she was harboring? There was simply no way of telling. The workings of the Oriental mind could sometimes be unfathomable. Not that the workings of the Caucasian mind were much better understood.
Frustrated, Sabina directed the hack driver to take her to Pacific Heights. The same uniformed maid opened the door at the Egan residence. When she recognized Sabina, her reaction was odd: eyes widening and then narrowing as if she was suddenly uneasy. She said, “Mrs. Egan is not... available,” and promptly shut the door in Sabina’s face.
Instructions from Prudence Egan to turn Sabina away if she paid another call, probably. But then why the pause before the word “available”?
Two wasted trips, more curious behavior, and a double dose of frustration.
By this time it was nearly five o’clock, too late to make an effort to see Fenton Egan again at China Basin. She could wait here for him, but there was no guarantee that he would come straight home; for all she knew, he was one of those who joined in the nightly bacchanal along the Cocktail Route.
Chill wisps of mist curled around her as she reentered the hansom. Fog was moving rapidly over the city now, already hiding the waterfront and the bay beyond beneath a thickening cloak of gray; foghorns moaned and bleated their warnings on the bay. The kind of night ahead called for a warm bath, a hot fire, a decent meal, and bed in the company of two companionable cats.
“Russian Hill, driver,” she said.
Thursday was also cold and fog laden. And mostly uneventful.
Sabina spent part of the morning at her desk, but there was nothing to keep her there beyond eleven o’clock. No messages, no leftover paperwork, no new clients or visitors of any sort. And yet again, no John. The only items of interest in the mail were two checks; she made up a deposit slip, closed up the office at eleven on the dot, and went to the Miners Bank. Her destination from there was Voting Rights for Women.
Amity was hard at work, as was Elizabeth, who had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the cause, preparing leaflets requesting donations and pledges for distribution at Saturday’s benefit rally. Last night at the Wellman home had again passed without incident, Elizabeth reported. Combined with the unmasking of Josiah Pitman, this had led Amity to wonder if there might not be any more attacks on her life.
“It has been four days now,” she said to Sabina. “Perhaps whoever tried to shoot me has given up or been frightened off by the miss and by your investigation.”
“Perhaps. But four days is a short time. The assassin may be biding his or her time, waiting for another opportunity to catch you off guard.”
“Lull before the storm,” Elizabeth agreed. “A time to be extra vigilant, in my experience.”
“But I can’t remain under guard indefinitely. Burton will be home soon. What will I tell him?”
Since Elizabeth hadn’t been told of the affair with Fenton Egan, Sabina sent her away on an errand and then took Amity aside before answering her question. “If I’m unable to identify the assailant,” she said, “you may have to tell Burton the truth. A version of it, anyhow, if not a full confession.”
“Oh, Lord, I pray not. It wouldn’t destroy our marriage — he’s a forgiving man — but it would make life difficult for a while.”
Sabina refrained from stating the obvious, that Amity had no one to blame but herself. She was well aware of that and wore her regret and her shame openly, like a badge of dishonor.
Volunteers brought in baskets of hot food for a shared luncheon. Afterward Sabina felt obliged to stay on and offer her assistance. One of the things she did was help Amity prepare a version of the speech she would give at the State Woman Suffrage Convention — a sort of trial run to be presented on Saturday evening.
The fact that Susan B. Anthony would be in San Francisco in November to spearhead the fight led Sabina to suggest that this version of Amity’s speech make prominent mention of Miss Anthony’s impassioned comments to the judge and jury at her trial for “illegally” voting in the 1872 presidential election. “You have trampled under foot every vital principle of our government,” the well-known Chicago suffragist had declaimed. “My natural rights, my civil rights, my political rights, my judicial rights, are all alike ignored.” Her statements had been ignored, of course. She had been found guilty and sentenced to pay a fine of one hundred dollars, to which she had responded, “I shall never pay a dollar of your unjust penalty,” and had remained steadfast on this vow. Amity also added to her speech a reminder of this shameful outcome.