Murder on Washington Square

4

FRANK WALKED SLOWLY FROM WASHINGTON SQUARE TO Anna Blake’s boardinghouse on Thompson Street, ignoring the brisk morning chill that warned of winter’s coming. He was trying to get a feel for the neighborhood and judge how long it might have taken Anna to walk from her rooming house to the Square where she died. He looked carefully around, seeing what she would have passed on her way and who might have had an opportunity to see her. The people who might have seen her or her killer weren’t here now. They’d crawled back into their hidey-holes until the sun set again.

The first thing he usually did when investigating a crime was to ask the neighbors what they saw and heard and if they knew any gossip that might help identify the guilty party. In this case, the people who might have seen Anna Blake or her killer that night weren’t the kind who’d feel any civic duty to aid the police. In fact, they’d evade him or lie if they had to, just to keep from getting involved with the police. So coming back here to question the nighttime denizens of the Square was a waste of time.

The house where Anna Blake had lived looked no different from the others on the street. Formerly a family home, it had long since been converted into cheap lodging for those who couldn’t afford a flat of their own but who earned enough to keep a decent roof over their head. Less fortunate folks would find refuge in flop houses where they could get a bed for a nickel a night or space on the floor for a few pennies. No decent woman would go into a flop house, though, and only the lowest of prostitutes frequented them. So Frank knew a lot about Anna Blake just from seeing where she lived.

Although she’d been unable to find suitable employment, she’d managed to find the three to five dollars a week she would need for room and board here, or else they would have thrown her out of the house. Frank already knew Nelson Ellsworth had been paying her rent, but she’d lived in this house before he came along to rescue her. This meant she’d had some source of income before Nelson. Supposedly, she and her mother had been penniless and unable to find work. Then the mother needed an operation, for which Nelson loaned Anna money. Had she been living on that loan? And what had happened to the mother? Buried in a pauper’s grave? Or had she ever existed at all? Interesting questions. Perhaps Anna’s landlady could shed some light on them.

But the person who answered the door wasn’t the landlady or even a lady at all. The man was of medium height, thin but with a slight paunch underneath a stylish waist-coat. A short, neat beard covered the lower half of his face. He wore a well-fitted suit, as if he had just been going out.

“Another policeman,” he said with disgust. People always seemed to know Frank was a cop.

“Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy,” Frank said by way of introduction. “And who would you be?”

“Oliver Walcott,” he replied with a long-suffering sigh. “And I’ve already told the police everything I know about poor Anna.”

“Then it’ll all be fresh in your mind,” Frank said pleasantly, forcing his way past Walcott into the front hallway. The place was well furnished and cleaner than most such houses.

“I was just going out,” Walcott protested.

“I won’t keep you long.” Frank wandered into the parlor, glancing around and taking in every detail.

Left with no choice, Walcott followed but pointedly did not offer Frank a seat. He took one anyway, on the sofa.

“You’re the landlord, I take it,” Frank said.

“My wife and I, yes,” Walcott said.

“Is your wife in?”

“No, she’s shopping, I believe. I don’t know when she’ll be back. Mrs. Walcott can spend the entire day shopping if she sets her mind to it.”

“Then I’ll come back later and talk to her,” Frank said. “Now why don’t you tell me everything you know about Anna Blake?”

Walcott surrendered with bad grace, seating himself on a chair opposite Frank, but perching on the edge, as if only planning to stay there a few moments. “Anna only lived here a few months. Three or four, I believe, although I can’t be sure. My wife could tell you exactly.”

“How long did her mother live here with her before she died?” Frank asked casually.

Walcott’s forehead creased into a frown. “Her mother?” he echoed uncertainly. “I don’t… her mother never lived here at all. She’s dead, or so I was led to believe.”

“Do you know how long ago she died?”

Walcott considered a moment. “I’m sure I don’t know exactly, but I gathered she’d been gone for a long while. Anna was all alone in the world and had been for some time.”

No dying mother. No operation. This explained a lot about Anna Blake. “Was she employed?”

“I… not that I know of. Really, Detective, you should be talking to my wife. I didn’t know Anna very well.”

“She lived in your house,” Frank reminded him.

“Yes, but I hardly ever do,” Walcott replied.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I travel extensively.”

“For your business?” Frank guessed.

“No, I… that is, I simply like to travel, and do so at every opportunity.”

“What business are you in?” Frank prodded.

Again Walcott hesitated, but Frank thought he seemed slightly embarrassed. “I… I don’t have a business. You see, Mrs. Walcott’s family left her a small inheritance. Not a lot, but enough that with our income from our lodgers, I do not have to be employed. She likes staying home and taking care of our guests-I believe they substitute for the children we never had-and I am free to come and go as I please.”

“How many boarders do you have?”

“Sometimes we have three, but two usually… I mean, Anna was one of them. Catherine Porter is the other, at the moment. Now, I suppose, we only have one.”

“Then you had an empty room, but I didn’t see a sign advertising it,” Frank noted.

“Oh, we don’t put out a sign. We prefer to obtain our lodgers by recommendation. We set high standards, you see.”

“About their ability to pay, I guess.”

Walcott seemed surprised. “Yes, I suppose… Well, of course, we don’t take anyone who wouldn’t be able to support themselves, but we want respectable young ladies, too. If you put out a sign, you never know who might come along.”

“It’s my understanding that Anna Blake didn’t have a job. How did she convince you she could pay the rent?” Frank inquired.

“Well, uh, that is… You’d really have to ask Mrs. Walcott about that. She handles all the arrangements. I don’t involve myself in such matters.”

Frank was becoming annoyed with Walcott, but he didn’t let it show. “Tell me what happened the night Anna died.”

Now it was Walcott’s turn to be annoyed, and he didn’t bother to hide it. “I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t here that night.”

“Where were you? Traveling?” He managed to make his skepticism known.

“Yes, I was in Philadelphia.”

“Can you prove it?” Frank asked mildly.

Walcott’s face had grown red. “If necessary,” he replied tightly.

“So you would have no idea why Anna went out that night?”

“None at all.”

“Was she in the habit of going out alone at night?”

“We keep a decent house here, Detective. Any young ladies in the habit of going out at night would be asked to leave.”

“I guess that means you wouldn’t allow them gentleman callers, either.”

“In the parlor, where they could be chaperoned,” Walcott snapped.

“Then can you explain how Anna Black got herself with child?”

“What?” Walcott looked genuinely shocked.

“Anna Blake claimed she was with child, and from what I’ve been given to understand, she got that way right here in your house.”

“I can’t imagine who gave you an idea like that, but it’s completely false. Such a thing could never happen here.”

“How can you be sure? You said yourself that you don’t spend much time at home.”

Walcott was insulted now. “My wife would never let such a thing happen either. She’s very careful. She has her own reputation to protect, after all.”

“Maybe she didn’t know about it,” Frank suggested, but Walcott wasn’t going to be placated.

“Are you finished with me?” he asked, rising from his chair. “As I told you, I have an appointment and-” The sound of someone knocking on the front door interrupted him, and he signed in exasperation. “I hope that isn’t one of those reporters. There were about a dozen of them outside this morning when we woke up. I thought they were going to break down the door. Poor Catherine, our other lodger, was nearly hysterical with fright.”

“How did you get rid of them?” Frank asked curiously.

“I told them the name of the bank where Nelson Ellsworth is employed,” he said, and Frank nearly groaned aloud. So much for protecting Nelson’s employer from the onslaught of the press.

Frank saw a maid come from the rear of the house to answer the door, and then he did groan aloud because the person she admitted was Sarah Brandt.

“Malloy,” she said when she saw him through the open parlor door, smiling too smugly for Frank’s taste.

He rose to his feet, but he didn’t return her greeting as she brazenly came into the room without waiting for an invitation. She waited a moment for him to make introductions, and when he didn’t, she offered Walcott her hand.

“I’m Sarah Brandt, a friend of Anna Blake’s.”

Even Frank was impressed with her audacity. Walcott was simply confused.

“I’m sorry, Miss Brandt, but Anna… Something terrible has happened and-”

“It’s Mrs. Brandt, and I know what happened to poor, dear Anna,” she told him. “I’ve come to see if there is anything I can do to help. I’m sure Mrs. Walcott must be very upset, and I thought I might be of some assistance to her. Is she receiving visitors?”

“She’s out shopping,” Frank informed her.

Mrs. Brandt raised her fine eyebrows to express her surprise at such a thing

“I’ll be sure to tell her you called,” Mr. Walcott assured her hastily.

“The other lodger is pretty upset,” Frank offered. “Maybe she’d appreciate a visit.”

Mrs. Brandt’s eyebrows rose higher, probably to express her shock that Frank had asked for her assistance, but she was gracious enough not to betray any other reaction.

“Are you a friend of Miss Porter’s, too?” Walcott asked her suspiciously.

Frank never got to hear what bold-faced lie Sarah Brandt might have told because just then someone else started pounding insistently on the front door.

“Reporters,” Walcott muttered furiously, and this time he didn’t wait for the maid to answer.

Striding purposefully back out into the foyer, he opened the door, prepared to do battle with a member of the Fourth Estate. Instead, a very distraught middle-aged man pushed his way into the house. “Where is she?” he demanded.

Walcott seemed genuinely alarmed. “This isn’t an opportune time, Mr. Giddings,” he said, hurrying over and closing the door to the parlor in Frank’s face. But if he’d thought the act would give him privacy, he was mistaken.

“Don’t try to stop me,” Giddings shouted, his voice clearly audible through the door. “I have to see her. Where is she?”

“She isn’t here,” Walcott said anxiously. “You must leave. The police-”

“Don’t threaten me with the police! Do you think I give a damn about them? I’ve got to see her. Anna!” he cried. “Anna, come down here!”

Walcott said something Frank couldn’t understand, and then he heard the sounds of a scuffle. In another moment, footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Giddings was calling for Anna again.

Frank exchanged a questioning glance with Mrs. Brandt.

“I think you should be the one to deal with him,” she said generously. “I’ll see if I can find out anything from the maid.”

It galled Frank, but he said, “See if that other girl lodger is still here. Maybe she knows something, too.”

Frank opened the parlor door and found Walcott staring helplessly up the stairs, as if unable to decide upon a course of action. Giddings was throwing open doors on the second floor and calling Anna’s name.

Frank shouldered Walcott out of the way and started climbing the stairs. By the time he’d reached the top, Giddings was standing in the open doorway of one of the rooms, staring stupidly into it. Hearing Frank’s approach, he turned accusingly.

“Where is she?” he demanded. Then he realized Frank wasn’t Walcott. “Who are you?”

“Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy with the New York City Police,” he said. His tone wasn’t particularly menacing, but it didn’t have to be. Those words were enough to strike fear into a normally law-abiding citizen who had been causing a disturbance.

Giddings stiffened. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” he insisted.

“Besides forcing your way into someone’s home?” Frank inquired mildly.

“I was just-”

“Who are you looking for?” Frank asked sharply.

“I… Really, it isn’t important.” Giddings was starting to sweat in spite of the coolness of the day. He was probably remembering stories he’d heard about the police and how they treated people they arrested, innocent or not. Frank supposed he owed the press a debt of gratitude for their sensational stories if they put the fear of God into people like this Giddings.

“Were you looking for Anna Blake?” Frank asked.

“I… Yes, I was concerned about her. I haven’t seen her for several days and-”

“What is your relationship to her?”

Giddings needed a moment to think about that. “We’re… that is… She’s my fiancée,” he finally decided. He sounded oddly defensive.

Frank did not betray his surprise. “Then I suppose you haven’t seen the morning papers.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Giddings asked impatiently.

“Because if you had, then you’d know… Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Anna Blake was murdered the night before last.”

Frank watched his face carefully. He’d interrogated enough people that he knew a genuine reaction from a phony one, and the emotions played across Giddings’s face in exactly the right order. First shock, then disbelief.

“There must be some mistake,” he insisted, his mind unable to grasp such a horrible truth. “She was… She couldn’t be…”

“I assure you, there is no mistake. Anna Blake is dead.”

For a moment, Giddings couldn’t seem to get his breath. He reached out blindly for the doorframe and grabbed it for support. “How? When?” he asked faintly, the blood draining from his face as he slowly accepted what Frank had told him.

“Maybe you should sit down first,” Frank suggested. He glanced down the stairs and saw Walcott waiting, listening intently to every word. “Is this Anna’s room?” he asked Giddings, nodding toward the doorway where he stood.

The man nodded. Frank found it interesting he knew this fact if he’d never visited Anna’s room, as Walcott had insisted. He took Giddings’s arm and led him inside, closing the door behind him. Walcott would have to come upstairs and put his ear to the panel if he wanted to eavesdrop.

There was a chair in the corner of the sparsely furnished room, by the window, and Frank deposited Giddings into it. Then he perched on the edge of Anna’s carelessly made bed and waited. Human nature being what it was, he knew Giddings would break the silence very soon.

Frank took the time to study Giddings. His clothes were good quality. He was a man accustomed to dressing well, although his suit was a bit wrinkled, and his linen far from fresh. He’d been wearing it more than one day, which was probably unusual for a man of his obvious position in life. His hat was on crooked, and he hadn’t thought to remove it, a gesture that would have come naturally to him under other circumstances. He was well-fed but haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and a tightness around his mouth. A man of comfortable circumstances who found himself dealing with a crisis he couldn’t resolve.

Then, to Frank’s surprise, Giddings reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver flash. With practiced ease, he removed the top and took a healthy swallow. He didn’t offer to share before placing the flask safely back into his pocket.

“How did she die?” he asked when he’d given the whiskey a moment to work.

“Someone stabbed her. It happened in Washington Square.”

He started in surprise. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“But if someone stabbed her in a public place like that, someone must have seen who did it!”

“It happened at night. No one found her until morning.” He let that sink in, and then he said, “Do you know why she was out alone at that hour?”

“Of course not!”

“She wasn’t going to meet you, then?”

“I’d never expect a female to go out alone at night to meet me,” he insisted, affronted. “That wouldn’t be safe. I always called on Anna here at the house.”

“You said you were engaged,” Frank reminded him. “When were you planning to get married?”

Giddings blanched again, proving Frank’s theory that this had been a lie. “I… We… we hadn’t yet set a date,” he hedged.

“Is that because you’re already married, Mr. Giddings?” Frank inquired.

Now Giddings was frightened. “I can’t imagine why that’s any of your business,” he tried.

“When a woman is murdered, everything about her is my business. Now tell me how you met Anna Blake and what your relationship with her really was.”

Giddings rubbed a hand across his forehead. When his fingers bumped the brim of his hat, he quickly reached up and removed it, looking at it in amazement, as if he’d never seen it before.

“How did you meet her, Mr. Giddings?” he prodded.

“I’m an attorney,” he said, losing what little of Frank’s respect he still had. “Miss Blake came to me with a legal problem. She… something to do with a will. She was supposed to have received a legacy when her mother died, but an uncle had produced a more recent will which left everything to him. Anna insisted the second will had been forged, and she needed some legal advice.”

Anna Blake, Frank realized, had been a woman with a lively imagination. “Let me guess, she couldn’t pay your fee.”

“Of course not! She was penniless,” Giddings said defensively. “Her mother had died and her uncle had stolen her inheritance. She had sold all of her possessions to keep herself while she tried to find work, but you know how difficult it would be for a young woman of good family to find a suitable position. She couldn’t earn enough to keep a roof over her head. By the time she came to me, she was desperate. The only choice open to her was to… to sell herself. I couldn’t allow that to happen! What decent man could?”

“So as a decent man, you took her as your mistress instead,” Frank said.

Somehow, Giddings managed to work up some outrage. The color rose in his face and he started sputtering in protest, but his bluster soon evaporated under Frank’s unrelenting glare.

“You took her as your mistress,” Frank repeated.

“No, it didn’t happen like that!”

“How did it happen?”

Giddings had nearly ruined his well-made hat in his agitation, but Frank resisted the urge to take it from him. Instead, he sat still and waited. As he expected, Giddings came up with words to fill the silence.

“At first I just gave her some money. To keep her from the streets, you understand. I felt it was my Christian duty.”

Anna Blake had inspired Christian duty in many men, apparently. Frank nodded encouragingly.

“She was very grateful,” Giddings continued more confidently. “She promised she would repay me when she found work, but even when she found a place to take her on, they turned her out after only a few days. She didn’t know how to operate mechanical equipment, and the other girls treated her badly because she was so obviously better than they. The experience completely broke her spirit.”

“So you gave her some more money,” Frank said. “And eventually you became lovers.”

“No man had ever been kind to her before,” Giddings explained anxiously. “She fell in love with me! I was all she had in the world. How could a man resist such a temptation?”

“How indeed,” Frank agreed solemnly. “I expect any decent man would’ve done the same in your position.”

Giddings had the grace to flush and look ashamed. Frank enjoyed his humiliation for a moment before returning to the business at hand.

“Did she ask you to divorce your wife and marry her?” he asked.

“My wife would never consent to a divorce. The scandal…”

“Your wife wouldn’t have to consent, and we both know it, Giddings,” Frank said brutally. “You didn’t want a divorce because the scandal would hurt your business.”

“I have a son to think of,” Giddings tried. “I couldn’t ruin his life.”

“So you paid her off,” Frank guessed.

“Her demands were small at first. She had simple needs, she said. But then…”

“Then she found out she was with child,” Frank supplied.

Giddings looked up in genuine terror. “I couldn’t allow my family to find out! Or my partners! Our clients wouldn’t tolerate immoral behavior from a member of the firm.”

“So you paid her to keep silent.”

“But it was never enough! She kept wanting more and more. She thought I was rich, but I’m not. I earn a comfortable living, but I have a family to support and a home and servants and-”

“Where did you get the extra money, then?” Frank asked.

He rubbed his forehead again. Thinking about all of this was obviously painful for him. “I did nothing illegal,” he said after a moment.

“Would other people agree with that?” Frank asked mildly.

Giddings pressed his lips together until they turned white, refusing to reply.

“Well, then, suppose you tell me what law firm employs you so I can find out if they agree that you didn’t do anything illegal.”

“They’ll tell you nothing,” he insisted. “Attorneys know they don’t have to tell the police anything.”

This was true, much to the frustration of the police, but Frank figured he’d try anyway. If they were angry enough at Giddings, they might just enjoy betraying him. Or maybe someone at the firm enjoyed good old-fashioned gossip.

“Where were you night before last?” Frank asked.

Giddings refused to meet Frank’s eye. “At home in bed, I’m sure.”

“You can prove that?”

“I don’t have to prove it!”

“You do if I decide to charge you with Anna Blake’s murder,” Frank said. “Now do you have any witnesses that you were home all night?”

“My… my wife,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Then I’m sure she’ll be glad to vouch for you.”

From the expression on Giddings’s face, Frank could see that he wasn’t sure his wife would do any such thing. If she were angry enough, she might even lie to implicate him. Of course, if she was as afraid of scandal as Frank figured she was, she’d probably lie to protect him, no matter how much she hated him for betraying her. And there was always the issue of financial security to consider. If Giddings went to prison or was executed, who would support his wife? Many women would resign themselves to living with an unfaithful murderer if the alternative was starvation.

“Is it really necessary for you to talk to my wife?” Giddings asked.

“I could wait a few days to see if we find the killer… assuming, of course, that it isn’t you.”

“I would appreciate such a consideration,” Giddings said with surprising meekness for an attorney.

“Do you have a card? So I can get in touch with you,” Frank asked. A printed card would have Giddings’s true address on it, so he wouldn’t have to take the man’s word. He didn’t want to lose him now that he’d had the good fortune to find him.

Giddings fished around absently in his coat pocket and produced an engraved business card for Smythe, Masterson and Judd, Attorneys at Law. Impressive-sounding name, but Frank didn’t recognize it, which meant they probably didn’t involve themselves in criminal prosecutions.

“May I go now?” Giddings asked.

“Are you going to tell your wife that your mistress is dead?” Frank asked. “I’m sure she’ll be very relieved.”

Giddings refused to reply. He had a little pride left.

But Frank had no more patience. “Get out of here,” he said, and Giddings fled.

Sarah waited until Malloy had safely led Mr. Giddings into the bedroom and closed the door before emerging from the parlor. She thought perhaps Mr. Walcott had forgotten about her in all the excitement. Indeed, he looked surprised when she said, “Do you mind if I use your convenience?”

He needed a moment to place her and another to register her request. At least he didn’t seem overly embarrassed by it. “I… of course not. It’s…” He gestured vaguely toward the back of the house.

Sarah thanked him and breathed a silent sigh of relief that the house apparently didn’t have an indoor convenience, since she only needed an excuse to go wandering around the rear of the house alone. She made her way quickly down the hallway to the kitchen, where she had expected to find the maid. Instead she found Catherine Porter. She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea. At the sight of Sarah, she frowned.

“Are you looking for something?” she asked.

Before Sarah could answer, the maid came slamming in the back door. “I’m telling you, I ain’t going back into that cellar until Mr. Walcott does something about that smell! It’s a dead rat, I’m that sure,” she was saying, and then she saw Sarah and caught herself up short. “Something I can do for you, miss?”

Sarah smiled at her good fortune at finding both of them together. “I was going to ask if you could help me find Miss Porter,” she said. “Do you mind if I sit down with you for a few minutes?” she asked Catherine.

“Oh, no, miss,” the maid answered for her, to Catherine’s obvious annoyance. “Could I get you some tea?” She was young and apparently inexperienced. Sarah could probably get her to talk easily. Catherine Porter, on the other hand, already looked suspicious.

“I would love some tea,” Sarah said, undaunted, taking a seat at the table.

Catherine Porter looked at her through weary, red-rimmed eyes. Her face was drawn and dark circles had formed beneath her eyes. She’d pulled her thick, dark hair carelessly back with a tattered ribbon. Her dress was old and faded, one she would have saved for wearing around the house. She fingered the worn collar self-consciously when she saw Sarah looking at it.

“You’re that woman who came with Mr. Ellsworth the other day,” Catherine said as the maid poured Sarah’s tea. “Are you his wife?”

Sarah realized that, like Anna Blake, Catherine Porter was also older than her usual manner of dress would indicate. Certainly old enough to be feeling the urgency to marry before her looks faded along with her chances of catching a suitable husband. If that was actually her goal.

“Oh, no, I’m not his wife,” Sarah said. “He’s a neighbor of mine, and he’d asked me to meet Miss Blake.”

“I guess his wife’s too upset to even think about coming around here,” Catherine said.

“She would be, if she existed, but Mr. Ellsworth isn’t married,” Sarah said, a little confused.

“He’s not?” Catherine seemed genuinely surprised, and then grew even more suspicious. “Did he send you here? What do you want from me? I don’t know anything about Anna.”

“Mr. Ellsworth didn’t send me,” Sarah reassured her. “I just came to express my condolences,” she lied. “What a terrible tragedy.”

Catherine’s lips tightened, but she didn’t reply.

“Oh, it was that,” the maid offered, setting the teacup down in front of Sarah. She remained standing, probably thinking it too familiar to sit down with Sarah there. “We was just a minute ago saying how awful it was. Miss Blake was so pretty. The gentlemen all liked her, that’s certain.”

“Gentlemen?” Sarah asked, surprised that Anna’s suitors had apparently been numerous. “Did Miss Blake have other gentlemen callers besides Mr. Ellsworth and that fellow who came in just now?”

“She-”

“Hush, Mary,” Catherine snapped, cutting the girl off. Then to Sarah, “She’s just a foolish girl. Don’t know what she’s saying.”

“I do, too,” Mary protested, but fell silent when Catherine glared at her in warning.

“The thing that puzzles me the most,” Sarah continued, wishing now that she’d caught the talkative maid alone. She’d have to come back another time, “is why she was in the Square so late at night. Was she accustomed to going out alone like that?”

“Of course not,” Catherine said defensively. They all knew only a prostitute would have been in the Square alone after dark.

“Then do you know what made her go out that night?”

“No, we don’t know anything,” Catherine insisted. “Mary only works days, so she wasn’t here, and I was asleep. First thing I knew about it is when the police came in the morning to tell us she was dead.”

“The patrolman recognized her,” Mary supplied. “He come to tell the Walcotts.”

“How did the patrolman happen to know her?” Sarah asked.

“He knows all the girls,” Catherine said quickly, before the maid could answer. “Fancies himself a ladies’ man. He’s forever bothering us.”

Sarah made a mental note to have Malloy check this out. Maybe Anna Blake had come to the notice of the police in a less ordinary way. “It’s fortunate he knew her. Her body might have gone unclaimed otherwise.”

“Oh, Mrs. Walcott would’ve been looking for her if she didn’t come home,” Mary said. “She wasn’t one to let her boarders go disappearing without a trace. All her clothes was here, too, so we’d know she didn’t just run away, wouldn’t we?”

Catherine gave the maid an impatient glance. Plainly, she was afraid the girl was going to say something she didn’t want Sarah to hear. For her part, Sarah was determined to find out what that might be.

“How long did you know Miss Blake?” Sarah asked Catherine.

Catherine considered her answer before giving it. “A few months.”

“You met her when she moved in here, then?” Sarah guessed.

“No, when I did. She was already here.”

“I thought she hadn’t lived here long herself.”

“She was here when I came,” Catherine said, not really answering the implied question.

“Didn’t you two know each other before?” Mary asked and was silenced by another dark look from Catherine.

Yes, Sarah really would have to come back when the maid was alone. “I certainly hope this tragedy won’t frighten your friends away, Miss Porter,” Sarah tried.

As she had hoped, this got a rise out of her. “What do you mean by that?”

Sarah shrugged. “I simply meant that people who normally call here might be concerned about the notoriety. The newspapers haven’t been kind to poor Mr. Ellsworth. Few people would want to risk being associated with a scandal like this.”

“Oh, Miss Porter’s gentlemen would never-” Mary began, but Catherine cut her off with a murderous glare. How interesting. Miss Porter had numerous callers, too.

“They’ve put Mr. Ellsworth in jail now,” Catherine said. “We won’t be hearing anything more about it.”

“Oh, Mr. Ellsworth wasn’t arrested,” Sarah corrected her. “He was allowed to go home last night. The police don’t believe he’s guilty.” This wasn’t exactly a lie. Malloy, at least, didn’t think he was guilty.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Catherine asked in dismay. “Who else could’ve done it?”

“Anyone,” Sarah pointed out. “At that time of night, she might have been murdered just for the few coins in her purse.”

“But she didn’t even have her purse with her,” Mary supplied helpfully. “It’s still up in her room.”

“Mary,” Catherine snapped. “Don’t you have work to do upstairs?”

“I ain’t going up there until that policeman leaves,” Mary said. “I don’t want him putting me in jail!”

“Oh, Mary, at least act like you’ve got good sense!” Catherine said in exasperation.

“I can’t be nothing else but what I am,” Mary replied huffily. “I ain’t no stage actress like you.”

Furious, Catherine made as if to rise from her chair, and Sarah didn’t want to see where that might lead. “Are you an actress?” she asked quickly, drawing Catherine’s attention from the poor maid. “Would I have seen you in anything?”

As Sarah had hoped, she sank back down into her chair. “I did a little musical theater,” she admitted reluctantly, still glaring at Mary, daring her to say another word. “But that was a long time ago.”

When she was truly the young girl she pretended to be, Sarah thought, but she said, “How exciting. I always thought it would be fun to be in the theater.”

“It isn’t,” Catherine said. Sarah thought she detected bitterness in the words.

She wanted to pursue this topic, but footsteps in the hallway distracted them, and then Mr. Walcott appeared in the doorway.

“Mrs. Brandt,” he said, taking in the scene with disapproval. “I was afraid you’d gotten lost.”

“Not at all. I was just telling Miss Porter how sorry I am about her friend.”

Mr. Walcott exchanged a glance with Catherine, but Sarah couldn’t decipher the silent message that passed between them. “That detective was asking after you, Mrs. Brandt,” he said. “I believe he wanted to escort you home.”

Sarah knew perfectly well Malloy had no such intention, but they did need to compare notes. She would have liked to stay and question the women some more, but she’d have to come back when they weren’t together if she hoped to get any more information.

“Thank you for the tea,” Sarah said to Mary, then turned to Catherine. “Please let me know if I can do anything for you.” She pulled out her card and laid it on the table. Catherine Porter didn’t even glance at it. She was too busy watching Mr. Walcott.

“After you, Mrs. Brandt,” Walcott said, with a flourish that was an oddly effeminate gesture. The eyes that glared at her were hardly effeminate, though. She’d seen that expression before and knew better than to waste her time resisting. Mr. Walcott wanted her out of his house, and he wasn’t going to be distracted from his purpose. She preceded him down the hallway.

At least she had a little new information for Malloy. She only hoped it would help them find Anna Blake’s real killer.