Murder on Washington Square

15

SARAH STUCK A LOG INTO THE STOVE AND SLAMMED THE door shut more loudly than necessary. Malloy was glaring at her, but she didn’t care. She was right, and she knew it.

“All right,” he said, pretending to be reasonable, “if Mrs. Giddings didn’t do it, then who did?”

“The same person who tried to kill Mr. Prescott.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes, I do! The person who stabbed him promised him information about Anna Blake’s killer. And why would anyone else want to kill him?”

“A hundred reasons! He’s a newspaper reporter!” Malloy was shouting now.

“Keep your voice down,” she cautioned. “You don’t want Mrs. Ellsworth to hear you. She’d be over here in a second to find out what’s wrong.”

He looked like he might explode, but he drew a deep breath, let it out on a long sigh, and forced himself to sit down at the kitchen table.

Sarah started making coffee while Malloy got his temper under control.

As she set the pot on the warming stove, he said, “Just because the person-and I’m glad you’re willing to admit it might not have been a female-who stabbed Prescott lured him with a promise of information about Anna Blake, that doesn’t mean he-or she-had any or even knew anything about the murder at all. It just means that person knew this was a sure way to get Prescott to a private meeting.”

Sarah didn’t like this. He was starting to make sense. “Maybe you’re right, but maybe I’m right, too. What if the person who killed Anna was afraid Prescott was getting too close to the truth?”

“How would he-or she-know that?”

“Because of Prescott’s stories in the paper,” she reminded him impatiently. “He was the one who discovered that Anna was an actress and-”

“You were the one who discovered that. Prescott just happened to be the only reporter we told.”

“Fair enough, but still, he was the first one to write about it. If someone was afraid of what he was finding out, they could have decided the safest thing to do was kill him.”

“Wait a minute,” Malloy said, holding up his hand. “How would they know it was Prescott writing the stories?”

Sarah had been rummaging around in her cupboard, looking for something to eat, but this brought her head up sharply. She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came for a moment while she thought this through. “You’re right!” she said finally. “We knew Prescott was writing the stories, but no one else would.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Malloy said. “It’s not like they put the reporter’s name on his stories or anything. So it had to be someone who knew Prescott was the one writing them, or who at least had heard of him.”

“The Walcotts knew Prescott,” she remembered. “He’d been to the house that day we told him Anna was an actress. Then he went back later, right before he was attacked, after he’d talked to her friends at the theater. He was asking a lot of questions, and Mrs. Walcott got very upset.”

“Did Prescott tell you this?”

“No, Catherine Porter did.”

He frowned, surprised and not happy about it. “When did you talk to Catherine Porter?”

“Yesterday. She told me a lot of things, and that’s why I was looking for you. I thought you needed to know them, too.”

“You went to the boarding house?”

“Yes. I just couldn’t make sense of what had happened that night, and I thought Catherine might be able to answer a few of my questions.”

Malloy rubbed a hand over his face wearily, although what he had to be weary about, she had no idea. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me everything Catherine Porter told you?” he suggested tightly.

“I want to get something to eat first,” she said. “You promised Mrs. Ellsworth you’d take care of me, but I can see you have no intention of it.” Turning her full attention to the cupboard for a few seconds, she finally found a tin of peaches and started prying it open with the can opener.

Malloy sighed again, this time in martyrdom, and rose to his feet. “Sit down,” he commanded her.

“But-”

“Sit down! Or I’ll get Mrs. Ellsworth over here to make you.”

That was an effective threat. Sarah sat, mystified as to what might happen next. To her surprise, Malloy finished opening the can of peaches, poured them out into a bowl, and set it in front of her.

Sarah looked up at him, still not quite certain what to make of this. “I’ll need something… a fork,” she ventured.

To her amazement, he located one without fumbling and put it on the table beside her. “Eat,” was all he said.

So she did. And while she did, he found some eggs in her icebox, which was still fairly cool even though she hadn’t replenished the ice in several days. Then he located a piece of cheese that was too hard to eat and a dried-up onion. In a few minutes, he’d chopped the onion and put it in a pan to sizzle in some bacon grease he’d spooned from the container by the stove. Then he broke up the cheese and threw it into the pan with the eggs, and before Sarah could quite comprehend what was happening, Malloy set the finished concoction down in front of her.

While he was pouring them each a cup of coffee, she looked up at him in awe and asked, “When did you learn to cook?”

“This isn’t cooking,” he said. “This is basic survival. How do you think men keep from starving when they don’t have a woman to do for them? Now eat.”

Sarah had forgotten to finish eating the peaches while she’d watched him, and the aroma of the frying onions had set her mouth to watering. She tucked into the omelet with shameless enthusiasm, not pausing until every bite of it was gone.

“That was delicious,” she said, a little chagrined at her gluttony.

“You were hungry,” he demurred.

She looked at the bowl of peaches. “Do you want some of these? I don’t think I can eat them all after that.”

“Try. Then tell me what you found out from Catherine Porter.”

Sarah had been so sure she’d be able to recall every detail, but now it seemed days had passed since she’d been at the Walcotts’ house. Fatigue made her memory even more sluggish. Maybe she should just try to put things in order. “The night Anna died, the Giddings boy came to see her.”

“We knew that.”

“They had an argument. He threatened to kill her if she didn’t give back the money Giddings had paid her.”

“I know, I know,” he said impatiently. “Then he left, and she got a message and went out and-”

“No, she didn’t!”

“What?”

“She didn’t get a message, not that Catherine knew of, and they were together all evening. Also, Anna didn’t go out, not right away, at least. The two of them played checkers or something until Catherine went to bed much later.”

“But the landlady said she went out right after Harold Giddings left,” Malloy protested.

“Then one of them is wrong. I think Catherine was telling the truth, though. Remember she said she was asleep when Anna left the house. She said that long before we knew anything different. She also thought Mrs. Walcott was angry about the boy coming to the house. She doesn’t like unpleasantness, Catherine said. Maybe Mrs. Walcott and Anna argued about it after Catherine went bed. Maybe Anna left the house in a huff and got herself killed and now Mrs. Walcott feels guilty, so she made up the story about her getting a message.”

“It would’ve had to be a pretty nasty fight for her to go out alone after dark,” Malloy observed. “Would Mrs. Walcott have been that upset about the Giddings boy’s visit?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should ask her,” Sarah suggested, earning a frown from Malloy. “Or maybe they argued about something else,” she tried. “Remember what that actress Irene said about Mr. Walcott courting the girls to get them to move into his house? Maybe his wife was jealous of Anna.”

“I guess you want me to ask Mrs. Walcott about that, too,” Malloy asked sarcastically.

“Oh, and I almost forgot. Anna was only wearing her housedress when she left that night. No woman would go out in her housedress under ordinary circumstances. She didn’t wear a jacket or a cape, either, and it was cold enough that she would’ve needed one.”

“She had a shawl,” Malloy said. “I told you the coroner said she’d tried holding it against her wound to keep it from bleeding too much.”

“Catherine said she had a shawl on when they were playing their game,” she remembered, “because it was chilly in the house. Mrs. Walcott wouldn’t light a fire. That means she didn’t change anything she was wearing before she went out. Probably, she didn’t even go up to her room. She just ran out without any preparation at all. A woman as vain about her appearance as Anna Blake wouldn’t do that unless she was very upset. Or desperate. Whatever she was feeling, she certainly wouldn’t go out like that if she were meeting someone.”

Malloy sipped his coffee, considering all she’d told him. “You’ve been wondering why she was out alone so late. All right, maybe she had an argument with Mrs. Walcott, but that still doesn’t explain why she’d leave the house so suddenly.”

“Maybe Mrs. Walcott threw her out,” Sarah suggested.

“Even so, wouldn’t she have at least packed her things and gotten properly dressed?”

He was right, of course.

“She might have just been going to stay with a friend for the night,” Sarah said, still thinking out loud, “until she and the landlady had time for their tempers to cool. Or maybe she was planning to return for her things later, when Mrs. Walcott wasn’t home.”

“Then that means a stranger killed her while she was walking the streets by herself. Actually, that’s more likely, considering what the coroner said.”

“Malloy, I’m getting very annoyed with you,” Sarah said, frowning because today was the first time he’d bothered to mention that the coroner had told him a lot more about Anna’s death than he’d bothered to share with her. “What else did the coroner say?”

Malloy obviously felt no guilt over his omissions. “He said she walked for a distance that night after she was stabbed.”

“A distance?” she echoed incredulously. “How far?”

“Maybe a few blocks,” he said with a shrug. “She must’ve been trying to get back home after she was attacked.”

“If only she’d made it,” Sarah sighed. “Maybe she could have at least told someone who stabbed her.”

“If she even knew,” he pointed out. “If a stranger killed her, then that still means Prescott’s attack didn’t have anything to do with Anna’s murder, and my chances of catching the real killer aren’t very good. And don’t forget, I still have Mrs. Giddings locked up. No matter what you think, she claims she killed Anna.”

“She couldn’t have,” Sarah pointed out. “Even if she’d followed her son to Anna’s house, she wouldn’t have stood around on the street waiting for hours in case Anna came out so she could follow and murder her. Why would she expect Anna to come out at all? And she especially wouldn’t have stayed there on the street until after dark, for the same reasons it’s so strange that Anna went out herself. That’s just impossible to believe.”

Malloy didn’t look happy, and Sarah couldn’t blame him. He’d thought he’d solved the case, and now she was proving he hadn’t. “Impossible or not, Mrs. Giddings still confessed. And you also haven’t convinced me that the same person who killed Anna also stabbed Prescott.”

“That’s probably because I’m not sure myself anymore. If Anna was killed by a stranger who was trying to rob her or attack her, then there’s no reason for there to have been a connection.”

“Even if Mrs. Giddings killed Anna, she didn’t have any reason to kill Prescott either. In fact, who among the people who knew Anna did? Were her friends at the theater angry about him snooping around?”

“Not at all,” Sarah said. “Theater people probably love publicity. Catherine said Mrs. Walcott was angry, though.”

“Rightly so. She didn’t want bad publicity for herself or her boarding house. But murder is a pretty drastic solution to that problem. You might as well say the Ellsworths stabbed him because he was writing all those stories about Nelson.”

Sarah rubbed her temple where a headache was forming. “I’m afraid I’m too tired to figure any of this out right now.”

“Then get some sleep. I’ve got to go back to work myself before somebody notices I’m spending all my time on someone else’s case.”

He got up and carried her dishes to the sink.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t wash them,” she cried in mock horror. “I don’t think my heart could take the shock!”

“Don’t worry,” he assured her with one of his rare grins. “I had no intention of it.” The grin transformed him, banishing the pain and the years that had hardened him and giving her a glimpse of the boy he once had been. For an instant, she even saw a trace of Brian in him.

Something inside of her warmed and began to melt, a part of her that had been frozen for a very long time. She rose, responding to an instinctive need to be closer to him. Closer to his warmth.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me,” she said and impulsively gave him her hand.

His fingers closed over hers, strong and sure, and his grin faded. For along moment, their gazes locked and held, and Sarah saw something in his dark eyes she’d never seen before. A longing. A need. An emptiness she instantly understood because it matched her own. An emptiness he could fill if only…

Suddenly, the place where his hand touched hers began to burn, as if his flesh were searing her, and she snatched her hand back in alarm. And when she looked into his eyes again, she saw only the Malloy she knew, the one who allowed nothing and no one past his barriers. Had she only imagined that moment?

She covered her embarrassment with a forced laugh. “I’ll be sure to tell Mrs. Ellsworth you were as good as your word about feeding me.”

“She probably won’t believe you,” he said gruffly, turning toward the back door. He was leaving, and Sarah didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“What are you going to do about Mrs. Giddings?” she asked for something to say.

He gave her one of his looks over his shoulder as he reached for his hat. “You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, glad they were back to their normal bantering again. Perhaps she really had only imagined that awkward moment. She was awfully tired. “And you won’t scare me off by shouting and clapping your hands, either.”

“In that case, I’ll just tell you the truth. I’m not going to do anything with Mrs. Giddings.”

“You can’t mean that!”

“She confessed to a murder,” he reminded her, “and now that she’s locked up, they aren’t going to let her go even if I tell them I don’t think she did it after all, which I’m not going to do, because I still think she probably did. Now get some rest. When you wake up, you’ll probably realize I’m right, and you’ll have to apologize for disagreeing with me.”

“Ha!” she replied, making him grin again, but this one was merely cocksure and not the least bit vulnerable or boyish.

“Good day, Mrs. Brandt,” he said and then he was gone, setting his hat on his head as he strode quickly out of her backyard.

She closed the door behind him and locked it, suddenly feeling the extent of her exhaustion. No wonder she was having romantic notions about Malloy. She was probably delirious with fatigue.

A few minutes later, she had stripped off most of her clothes, washed, and collapsed onto her bed. The next thing she knew, she was face to face with a vicious dog that was growling and barking, and no matter how loudly she shouted or how many times she clapped her hands, he wouldn’t run away. He just kept pawing at the cellar door, trying to get inside. Sarah knew he shouldn’t get in, but she didn’t know how to stop him. She needed a bone. If she just had a bone to throw to him, he’d go away. But she couldn’t find one, not anywhere. And then it didn’t matter because the cellar door was opening. Someone was pushing it up from the inside, and the dog was howling and barking and prancing all around, but Sarah was afraid. She didn’t want whoever was down there to come out. She wanted to push the door shut again, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t move one muscle. All she could do was watch helplessly as the door fell open and Anna Blake stepped out.

She was dead, of course. Sarah could see the blood-stains on her dress, and her face was white, her eyes blank and staring. She was dead and coming out of the cellar, and the dog was going to get her. Sarah opened her mouth to cry out a warning, and the sound of her own voice woke her with a start.

She looked around, surprised to find herself in her own bed, in her own bedroom, gasping for breath and drenched in cold sweat, but completely alone. No dog. No dead Anna Blake. From the angle of the sunlight creeping in around the window shades, she guessed it was afternoon. Except for the aftereffects of her nightmare, she did feel much better. So much better, in fact, that she was positive the murder of Anna Blake had not yet been solved, no matter what Malloy thought.

The only problem was that she had to convince Malloy of it, too, because if she didn’t, an innocent woman was going to be electrocuted and a killer would go free.

The City Jail had earned its nickname of “The Tombs” by being the purest example of Neo-Egyptian architecture in the country. Its massive granite structure took up an entire block on Leonard Street between Franklin and Centre, and it housed both male and female adult prisoners, as well as boys who had run afoul of the law. Sarah had certainly never expected to find herself in such a place, but then, since meeting Frank Malloy, she’d done many unusual things.

Inside, the building was immaculate, far different from the interrogation rooms she’d seen at Police Headquarters. In spite of its spotless appearance, however, the place was redolent of the stench of the sewer, having been built on the marshy ground of the old Collection Pond. Its dampness permeated the entire building.

Sarah had to endure a cursory search of her purse and her person before being admitted to the women’s section of the jail. Once in the cell block, she was surprised to find the prisoners sitting not in their cells but out in the open hallway that ran between them. The women were engaged in various pursuits, some sewing or knitting or doing other handwork, others just gossiping, and one was even reading what appeared to be a Bible. Except for the surroundings, they might have been women gathered in a public place in any city or town. They all looked up with interest when Sarah came in, perhaps hoping she was a friend or relation who had come to visit them.

Even when they’d satisfied their curiosity and realized she was a stranger to them, they still continued to stare. Probably any visitor at all was a novelty.

“Who’re you here to see, miss?” the matron asked her. She was a large, coarse-looking woman, but her eyes were kind. Or at least courteous.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Giddings,” Sarah said, hoping she wouldn’t have to confess she’d never even set eyes on the woman before, which was why she needed assistance.

“Oh, she’s still in her cell, miss. Won’t come out with the others. Just lays on her bunk. She hasn’t eat nothing, either. Most of ’em are like that at first, not eating and hiding in their cells, but she’s worse than usual. It’ll be good for her to see a familiar face. Maybe you can cheer her up some.”

Sarah certainly wasn’t a familiar face, and she didn’t know if she could cheer the woman up or not, but she was certainly willing to try. “Which cell is hers?”

The cells were little more than small caves carved out of the granite walls. Only five by nine feet, the room was illuminated by what little sunlight stole in through a small slit cut high in the wall. The barred door was forbidding, but it hung open, as did the doors to all the cells. Unsure of the etiquette of jail visits and seeing no place to knock, Sarah stepped just inside the doorway and said, “Mrs. Giddings?”

The figure huddled on the narrow bed stirred a bit, and a pale face appeared from beneath the folds of the blanket. “Who are you?” she asked dully. Fortunately, the matron had stepped away and didn’t hear this question.

“I’m Sarah Brandt. You don’t know me. I’m a friend of Nelson Ellsworth’s.”

“Who’s Nelson Ellsworth?” she asked without much interest.

“He’s the man who was originally suspected of killing Anna Blake. She was blackmailing him, too.”

“Oh. That banker. In the newspapers.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’ve been trying to help find the real killer so he could clear his name.”

Sarah couldn’t make out Mrs. Giddings’s expression in the dim light, but she didn’t seem very impressed. “Did you come here just to look at me then?” she asked bitterly.

“No,” Sarah said. “I came here to find out if you really killed Anna Blake.”

This finally got her full attention. She pushed herself up on one elbow. Her hair was disheveled and falling out of its pins, and her eyes were bloodshot and sunken. “Who sent you here?”

“No one sent me,” Sarah said. “I came to see you because I want to make sure you’re really guilty.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would I say so if I didn’t do it?” she asked.

Sarah didn’t want to answer that question herself. Instead, she said, “Did you know that Mr. Malloy did not believe your son killed her?”

“What?” She pushed herself up to a sitting position and brushed the strands of hair out of her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m also a friend of Mr. Malloy, the police detective who arrested you. He told me he realized after questioning the boy that he hadn’t killed her. And then you confessed.”

Mrs. Giddings rubbed her eyes as if trying to clear her vision. “He was going to arrest Harold. I could see that.”

“No, he wasn’t. He knew the boy was innocent.”

“Since when does that stop the police from arresting someone?” she asked angrily. “I know what they do to people. They beat them until they confess, guilty or not.”

“Mr. Malloy doesn’t arrest innocent people,” Sarah said. “And he wasn’t going to arrest your son, even if you hadn’t confessed.”

“But he was asking him all those questions!” she argued.

“To find out if he could have done it. Mr. Malloy also suspected that you confessed to protect your son.”

“Of course I did! I couldn’t let him put Harold in a place like this, could I? He’s just a boy!”

Plainly, Mrs. Giddings was on the verge of a nervous collapse, and Sarah didn’t want to push her too far, but she had to learn the truth. “I know you confessed, but did you really kill Anna Blake?”

“What kind of a question is that? Are you trying to trick me?”

“Not at all,” Sarah assured her. “I just want to make sure we have the right person in jail. Because if you didn’t kill her, the real killer is still walking free.”

“Where’s Harold?” she asked, suspicious again.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he in jail, too?”

“Of course not. I told you, Mr. Malloy doesn’t arrest innocent people.” She wasn’t going to find out what she needed to know this way. She decided to try a different tactic. “Mrs. Giddings, how long did you wait outside of Anna Blake’s house before she came out that night?”

Mrs. Giddings stared at her for a long moment, either formulating her answer or trying to decide whether to reply or not. At last she said, “Not very long. I was just waiting for Harold to get well away. I didn’t want him to see me and know I’d followed him there. Then I saw her come out.”

“How did you know it was she?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, had you met Miss Blake before?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then how did you know the woman who came out of the house was Anna Blake?” Sarah pressed.

“I… Who else could it have been?” she countered defensively.

Sarah decided not to answer that question. “Why had you carried a knife with you?”

“I… I thought I might need it.”

“Then you’d planned to stab Anna Blake?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” she said almost eagerly. “I was planning to kill her, so I took the knife with me.”

“What kind of a knife was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what kind of a knife was it? Where did you get it? How big was it? Where did you carry it? When did you pull it out? Did you stop Anna Blake and try to talk to her first? Did you tell her who you were? Did you ask her to leave your husband alone? Did you beg her to give back the money she’d taken from him?”

“Stop it! Stop!” she cried, covering her ears.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Giddings? Don’t you know the answers to those questions? The real killer would!”

“I do! I do! I just can’t think!”

“Then take some time to think. Where were you when you stabbed Anna Blake?”

She looked up, suddenly confident. “Under the hanging tree in Washington Square, just where they found her.”

“Why didn’t anyone notice you stabbing another woman to death in broad daylight?”

“I… No one was around. We were alone there, under the tree. She laughed and said she’d never give my husband up. I couldn’t help myself. I stabbed her.”

“And she fell down dead?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, that’s right. Right where they found her.”

“What did you do with the knife?”

“I don’t know, I… I dropped it, I think. Yes, that’s right. I dropped it somewhere. I don’t remember where.”

Sarah was aware that some of the women had begun to gather outside Mrs. Giddings’s cell to listen to this curious exchange. She only hoped the matron wouldn’t come over and order her out for upsetting a prisoner or something. She took a step closer to where the woman sat on the bunk.

“Mrs. Giddings,” she said, keeping her voice calm and sure, “I don’t believe you killed Anna Blake.”

“Yes, I did! I swear it! I told that policeman. He believed me!”

“No, he didn’t, not really,” she lied. “And now I know you didn’t. Anna didn’t die the way you described, but you didn’t know that because you weren’t there. All you knew was what you read in the newspapers, but they didn’t know what really happened either. Only the real killer knows.”

“I know! I do! Just give me a chance to remember!” she tried, desperate to make Sarah believe her.

“Mrs. Giddings, you don’t have to protect your son. We know he didn’t kill Anna Blake. And your husband was in jail that night, so he couldn’t have killed her either. There’s no reason for you to pretend you did it anymore, and if you insist on doing so, you’ll only be protecting the real murderer.”

“I wanted her to die,” the woman said hysterically. “I wanted her to suffer the way I suffered!”

A murmur of approval went through the crowd of women gathered outside the cell, but Sarah didn’t acknowledge them. “Of course you did. But your son needs you, Mrs. Giddings. You won’t help him by letting yourself be executed for a murder you didn’t commit.”

“I couldn’t let them take him to jail!” she said, her voice breaking. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

“Yes, it does!” Sarah said, going to her. She sat down on the edge of the bunk and took the sobbing woman in her arms. “Harold needs you. That’s why you must tell the truth and save yourself.”

The matron had finally taken notice of the gathering crowd and come to see what the disturbance was. Afraid the woman would order her out, Sarah looked her straight in the eye with all the authority her parents had trained her to use on unruly servants and said, “Mrs. Giddings is going to be just fine now. Do you think she could have a cup of tea and something light to eat?”

It worked. The matron broke up the gawking crowd and sent someone for the tea. Sarah kept comforting Mrs. Giddings until the woman was finally able to talk again. Then she poured out her story of anger and humiliation at having her life ruined by a cheap, lying strumpet. Then, just when she’d thought nothing could be worse, Malloy had come to her house and accused her son of killing that woman! She’d only done what any mother would have to protect her child.

“You were right. I didn’t kill her,” she said when she’d unburdened herself. “Does this mean I can go home now?”

“I’m afraid not,” Sarah said. “At least not right away. You did confess to a murder, and even a guilty person could be expected to have second thoughts and insist she was innocent after spending a day in The Tombs.”

“What you mean is that no one will believe me now if I tell the truth,” she said miserably. “What have I done?”

“I’m sure they’ll believe you when we find the real killer,” Sarah said. “I just had to be sure you really hadn’t done it before I went any further.”

“How can you find the real killer, though?”

That was a very good question, and Sarah was saved from having to answer it when a young woman came to the door of the cell carrying a tray.

“I have tea, for the lady,” the girl said in a musical accent. She was small and very neatly dressed, and her large hazel eyes were full of pity.

“I couldn’t,” Mrs. Giddings protested, but Sarah said, “Thank you,” and went to take the tray. They had put some crackers and a bowl of soup on the tray, too.

“The lady is very sad,” the girl said. “But she will get used to it here. We will take care of her. She does not have to be afraid.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Sarah said, and suddenly she realized to whom she was speaking. “Are you Maria Barberi?”

“My name is Barbella,” the girl corrected, and Sarah remembered Malloy telling her the newspapers had gotten it wrong. This was the woman who had cut her lover’s throat out of despair when he refused to marry her. She had been tried for murder and sentenced to death, but she’d recently been granted a new trial.

“I thought your trial was supposed to start last week,” Sarah remembered, realizing she hadn’t seen any mention of it in the newspapers.

“It was, but now they say next month. So I wait.” She looked at Mrs. Giddings. “Do not cry. You will get used to it.”

As Sarah watched Maria go, she was conscious of the irony. Maria Barbella’s first trial had sold millions of newspapers for months. If her new trial, which had been scheduled to begin two days before Anna Blake was killed, had begun then, it’s possible that Anna’s death wouldn’t have gotten any notice at all. Instead, it had served to replace this postponed scandal and sell newspapers in the meantime.

“I suppose you can get used to anything,” Mrs. Giddings murmured.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to,” Sarah said briskly, setting the tray down on the bunk. “Now you must eat something to keep up your strength. You need to stay strong for your son.”

By the time she left The Tombs, Sarah’s own stomach was growling. She’d been in such a hurry to get to the jail and see Mrs. Giddings, she had neglected to eat herself. She bought a sausage sandwich from a street vendor and wolfed it down in a very unladylike manner. Then she headed back uptown to keep the promise she’d made to Mrs. Giddings to make sure Harold Giddings was all right.

Keeping that promise gave her an excuse to ask the boy some questions of her own. She wanted to clarify in her mind exactly what had happened the night Anna Blake died and who had been at the boarding house with her. Then, she was sure, she would know who the killer was.