to the Langes’ residence above the shop. And the woman had been Tessie Lange. She recognized Tessie’s checked brown dress and unusual height. Where was she headed so secretively?
Celia hastened after the woman. Up the road, she spotted Tessie rushing north along Kearney Street, zigzagging through traffic and pedestrians. Was she headed for the police station for some reason? But she hurried past that building without slowing. Celia dashed across an intersection in pursuit, drawing a shout from a produce-wagon driver who reined in his horse to keep it from trampling her.
Tessie glanced over her shoulder and turned right down Jackson. If she continued on this path, she would be heading out of the Barbary Coast and toward the warehouses, the lumberyards, and the docks beyond, where the masts of ships bristled like a forest of denuded trees tethered to the piers.
Celia’s heart pounded in her chest. Her hair was coming unwound from beneath her hat, and she was certain she’d kicked mud onto her skirt. Addie would have a fit when Celia got home.
They were approaching Montgomery Street on the Barbary’s far edge. A heavy-shouldered stevedore whistled at Celia as she rushed along. Mariners milled about in the streets, headed for the deadfalls and brothels that now lay behind Celia: Kanaka sailors put in on a Sandwich Islands whaler; Canadians off steamers loaded with timber; olive-skinned South Americans from ships loaded with coffee, tobacco, and cocoa. Not the sort of neighborhood Hubert Lange would like his daughter to frequent.
Suddenly, Tessie halted and darted another glance around her. Celia squeezed behind a pile of lumber propped against a wall and pressed a hand to her side where she had gotten a cramp. Two doors down, a tavern girl leaned in a doorway leading into a dim basement liquor den, her arms folded over a turquoise silk dress, its best days long past. She slid Celia a curious look. Beyond the woman, the proprietor shouted at a drunk sprawled on the sawdust-covered floor. With a smile for the girl, whose dark eyes widened, Celia stepped out from her hiding spot and rushed into the alleyway she was certain Tessie had gone down. There, in a shadowy doorway, she was talking with a man—
Suddenly, Celia was grabbed from behind and yanked backward, pain shooting through her shoulders.
Bloody hell.
CHAPTER 6
“What in . . . Don’t make me curse, Mrs. Davies,” the man’s voice hissed in her ear. “But what in God’s green earth are you doing here?”
“That hurt, Mr. Greaves.” Celia squirmed in his grasp. A pair of men entering a nearby oyster shop looked over.
“Hey!” one shouted, and started toward them. He must have decided Celia wasn’t a prostitute or a tavern girl, based on her clothing, and needed rescuing.
Mr. Greaves released his hold. “Just a little misunderstanding,” he said, raising his hands.
“Yes. A misunderstanding,” Celia grumbled. She forced a smile and thanked her rescuer. The stranger doffed his cap and joined his mate in the oyster shop.
“There was no need to manhandle me, Detective,” she protested, straightening her cloak.
“Did you spot the pickpocket following you?” he asked sternly.
Celia looked around. “What pickpocket?”
“That’s what I figured,” he said. “And what are you doing in the Barbary without a guard? I thought you had a whole passel of constables to show you around.”
He shifted his stance so his back was to the rough wooden clapboard of the adjacent building. Policemen must always seek to protect their backs, afraid that someone might sneak up behind them and catch them unawares.
“I didn’t have time to seek one out,” Celia answered in a tone as sarcastic as his, tucking loose hair into the pins holding her chignon in place. “And your attempt at protection made me lose sight of who Tessie Lange was talking with.”
His brow furrowed. He did look quite fierce when he did that. “You might want to explain
Celia hastened after the woman. Up the road, she spotted Tessie rushing north along Kearney Street, zigzagging through traffic and pedestrians. Was she headed for the police station for some reason? But she hurried past that building without slowing. Celia dashed across an intersection in pursuit, drawing a shout from a produce-wagon driver who reined in his horse to keep it from trampling her.
Tessie glanced over her shoulder and turned right down Jackson. If she continued on this path, she would be heading out of the Barbary Coast and toward the warehouses, the lumberyards, and the docks beyond, where the masts of ships bristled like a forest of denuded trees tethered to the piers.
Celia’s heart pounded in her chest. Her hair was coming unwound from beneath her hat, and she was certain she’d kicked mud onto her skirt. Addie would have a fit when Celia got home.
They were approaching Montgomery Street on the Barbary’s far edge. A heavy-shouldered stevedore whistled at Celia as she rushed along. Mariners milled about in the streets, headed for the deadfalls and brothels that now lay behind Celia: Kanaka sailors put in on a Sandwich Islands whaler; Canadians off steamers loaded with timber; olive-skinned South Americans from ships loaded with coffee, tobacco, and cocoa. Not the sort of neighborhood Hubert Lange would like his daughter to frequent.
Suddenly, Tessie halted and darted another glance around her. Celia squeezed behind a pile of lumber propped against a wall and pressed a hand to her side where she had gotten a cramp. Two doors down, a tavern girl leaned in a doorway leading into a dim basement liquor den, her arms folded over a turquoise silk dress, its best days long past. She slid Celia a curious look. Beyond the woman, the proprietor shouted at a drunk sprawled on the sawdust-covered floor. With a smile for the girl, whose dark eyes widened, Celia stepped out from her hiding spot and rushed into the alleyway she was certain Tessie had gone down. There, in a shadowy doorway, she was talking with a man—
Suddenly, Celia was grabbed from behind and yanked backward, pain shooting through her shoulders.
Bloody hell.
CHAPTER 6
“What in . . . Don’t make me curse, Mrs. Davies,” the man’s voice hissed in her ear. “But what in God’s green earth are you doing here?”
“That hurt, Mr. Greaves.” Celia squirmed in his grasp. A pair of men entering a nearby oyster shop looked over.
“Hey!” one shouted, and started toward them. He must have decided Celia wasn’t a prostitute or a tavern girl, based on her clothing, and needed rescuing.
Mr. Greaves released his hold. “Just a little misunderstanding,” he said, raising his hands.
“Yes. A misunderstanding,” Celia grumbled. She forced a smile and thanked her rescuer. The stranger doffed his cap and joined his mate in the oyster shop.
“There was no need to manhandle me, Detective,” she protested, straightening her cloak.
“Did you spot the pickpocket following you?” he asked sternly.
Celia looked around. “What pickpocket?”
“That’s what I figured,” he said. “And what are you doing in the Barbary without a guard? I thought you had a whole passel of constables to show you around.”
He shifted his stance so his back was to the rough wooden clapboard of the adjacent building. Policemen must always seek to protect their backs, afraid that someone might sneak up behind them and catch them unawares.
“I didn’t have time to seek one out,” Celia answered in a tone as sarcastic as his, tucking loose hair into the pins holding her chignon in place. “And your attempt at protection made me lose sight of who Tessie Lange was talking with.”
His brow furrowed. He did look quite fierce when he did that. “You might want to explain
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