Murder in Morningside Heights (A Gaslight Mystery) (13 page)

“That’s funny, since she was the one who didn’t like Abigail and didn’t want her living in the house.”

“Sometimes people react strangely when someone they don’t like dies. It’s like they feel guilty for disliking them in life and are trying to make amends.”

“Or maybe they killed the person they didn’t like and now they’re feeling guilty,” Frank said.

“Do you really think poor Miss Billingsly stuck a screwdriver in Abigail’s eye?”

“I think women are just as capable of committing murder as men.”

“How very modern of you, Malloy.”

“You aren’t the first person who remarked on that.”

“Don’t be too pleased with yourself,” she said with a smirk. “It’s not a compliment.”

The minister saved him from having to reply by asking everyone to move into the parlor because the service was about to start.

T
he funeral service for Abigail Northrup was as heart-wrenching as Sarah had expected. While the minister enumerated her many accomplishments during her brief life, hardly any of those present had dry eyes and many of the women were sobbing.

She and Malloy had taken seats in the back so they could watch everyone else. Now Sarah wished they hadn’t even come. Dabbing at her own tears, she saw even Malloy rubbing his eyes. Miss Billingsly wept quietly into her handkerchief, her shoulders shaking, while Miss Wilson only occasionally had to swipe at a tear with hers. Professor Pelletier had to blow his nose several times. The young Raymonds comforted each other. Cory put his arm around his sister and made no attempt to stem his own tears, allowing them to stream down his face. The only person apparently not overcome with grief was Luther Northrup. His parents clung to each other, seeming oblivious
to him, and he appeared to be transfixed by the painting hanging above the fireplace.

In deference to the injuries to Abigail’s face and the fact that so much time had passed since her death, the casket remained closed. No one needed to see her body to be reminded of her presence, however, because of the large portrait of her that hung in the place of prominence.

The artist hadn’t been particularly skilled, and Sarah couldn’t vouch for the likeness, having never seen the subject, but the picture of the blond girl in the powder blue gown definitely made her presence felt.

The minister offered the traditional words of comfort, promising the Northrups they would meet their daughter again in the next world, but that was little consolation for the many years they would spend in this world without her. They were quite obviously devastated, her mother hysterical and her father nearly so. Their son, however, just continued to stare at the painting of his dead sister, his expression unreadable.

Finally, the service was over, and the minister invited everyone to accompany them to the cemetery. Afterward, they would return here for a meal. The locals had their own transportation, of course, and the Northrups had hired carriages for those who did not. The process of getting coats and finding the proper conveyances took a while, and Frank and Sarah managed to be among the first outside so they could casually join the group they wanted to ride with.

When Miss Wilson and Miss Billingsly left the house, the Malloys fell in behind them.

“Do we have to go?” Miss Billingsly asked, sounding like a petulant child.

“Of course we do,” Miss Wilson said.

“But it’s cold.”

Miss Wilson did not reply to that. They reached the next
available hired carriage, and the driver helped them inside. Frank assisted Sarah and climbed in after her, and Frank slipped the driver a dollar and told him to follow the procession even though the carriage wasn’t full yet.

“Hello again,” Sarah said, pretending not to notice Miss Billingsly’s alarm and Miss Wilson’s disgruntled frown.

The carriage lurched into motion, startling them even more.

When neither woman spoke, Malloy said, “I didn’t see President Hatch here today.”

Miss Wilson waited a few moments to reply, making it clear she would prefer not to speak to Malloy at all. “He is organizing a memorial service at the school. He sent us in his place.”

Sarah found that a little less than satisfactory. A teacher had been murdered on school grounds and the president didn’t attend her funeral? The Northrups would be outraged.

“It was a lovely service,” Sarah tried.

“Oh yes,” Miss Billingsly quickly agreed. “Very lovely. Poor Abigail. Poor, poor Abigail.”

“You must have been very fond of her,” Sarah said, knowing this wasn’t true.

Miss Billingsly’s eyes widened with what might have been fear. “I . . . She was a lovely girl.”

“We were both fond of her,” Miss Wilson said, reminding Sarah that Miss Billingsly had said Miss Wilson had a smash on Abigail. “It was a delight having a young person in our home.”

“Yes,” Miss Billingsly said without much enthusiasm. “A delight. Like having a daughter.”

Miss Wilson shot her a disapproving glance, but to Sarah’s surprise, Miss Billingsly didn’t wilt under it.

“Well, she could have been. She was young enough.”

For some reason, this angered Miss Wilson, although she
was much too well-bred to lose her temper in front of strangers.

“Teaching must be a very rewarding occupation,” Sarah continued as if she didn’t notice the tension between the two women.

“It can be,” Miss Wilson said after a moment.

“But our efforts are wasted on many of the young ladies,” Miss Billingsly said, her grief apparently forgotten.

“Estelle,” Miss Wilson said in warning, but Miss Billingsly ignored her.

“We train them for a vitally important vocation, and then they throw their chances away by getting married.”

“You don’t consider marriage an important vocation for a woman?” Sarah asked with genuine interest.

“Of course—” Miss Wilson tried, but Miss Billingsly cut her off.

“For
some
women, those who can’t do anything else.”

“Estelle, you’re insulting Mrs. Malloy,” Miss Wilson snapped.

“No, she isn’t,” Malloy said. The twinkle in his eye told Sarah how much he was enjoying this conversation. “Mrs. Malloy is a midwife.”

“Catering to married women,” Miss Billingsly sniffed.

“Not all of my clients are married,” Sarah couldn’t resist saying.

Poor Malloy had to cough to cover a bark of laughter, while the two teachers just gaped.

“And if at least some women didn’t marry and have children, you wouldn’t have any young ladies to teach,” Sarah added, not bothering to hide her own smile.

“I’m sure Estelle didn’t mean to condemn marriage and motherhood as a legitimate calling for women,” Miss Wilson said, giving Miss Billingsly another warning glance.

“Of course not. For
some
women,” Miss Billingsly repeated, once again refusing to be cautioned.

“And President Hatch himself said he thinks a generation of young men raised by educated mothers would be very good for our country,” Malloy said. Sarah knew he was being deliberately provocative and somehow managed not to grin.

“Of course he would say something like that,” Miss Billingsly said. “He’d see nothing wrong with a woman wasting her education so long as she produced sons.”

Sarah didn’t know if that was a valid assessment of President Hatch’s views or not, so she didn’t bother to argue. “Your efforts weren’t wasted on Abigail, though. You must have been gratified when she was chosen to teach at the college.”

“I’m not sure ‘gratified’ correctly describes my feelings,” Miss Wilson said.

“Doesn’t it?” Sarah asked innocently. “I thought it was your personal efforts that convinced President Hatch to hire her.”

“Who told you that?”

“Professor Pelletier,” Malloy said helpfully. “I had thought maybe . . . But of course I was wrong.”

“What did you think?” Miss Wilson demanded.

He glanced at Sarah, pretending he was too discreet to speak of the matter.

She happily rescued him. “When a man hires an attractive young woman to work with him, people sometimes assume their relationship is . . . close.”

“What nonsense!” Miss Wilson said, flushing with anger. “Professor Pelletier’s reputation is spotless, and Miss Northrup was above reproach.”

“Was she?” Miss Billingsly asked with mock innocence. “How can we be sure after what happened to her?”

“What do you mean by that, Estelle?”

“I mean she was murdered. Violently murdered. One might even say in the heat of passion.”

“You know nothing about it,” Miss Wilson said.

“No, I don’t. Do you?” Miss Billingsly asked.

Miss Wilson flushed scarlet. “Of course not. How can you even suggest such a thing?”

Sarah half expected Miss Billingsly to apologize for her cruel accusation or to at least disclaim it. Instead she simply returned Miss Wilson’s outraged glare with a cool one of her own.

After a long moment, Miss Wilson remembered they were not alone. She turned back to Sarah. “This is hardly an appropriate topic for conversation, under the circumstances. I’m afraid we’re feeling entirely too emotional.”

“That’s understandable,” Sarah said. “A young woman you cared for has died tragically. It would be a wonder if you weren’t emotional.”

“Mr. Malloy,” Miss Billingsly said, “do you think you’ll discover who was responsible for poor Abigail’s death?”

“I hope so,” he said, knowing better than to make promises.

“And what will happen to that person if you do catch him?”

“That depends. If the person confesses, they’ll probably go to prison.”

“For a long time?”

“Considering the violence of the crime, probably.”

“And if they don’t confess?”

“Then they’ll go on trial, and it’ll be up to a jury to decide their guilt or innocence.”

Miss Billingsly frowned. “You mean the killer might get away without punishment?”

“It happens sometimes.”

She glanced at Miss Wilson again. “So there’s hope.”

“Hope for what?” Miss Wilson asked, apparently confused.

If Miss Billingsly heard, she gave no indication. She
looked back at Sarah and twisted her face into the semblance of a smile. “Are you really a midwife, Mrs. Malloy?”

“Of course I am.”

“And your husband allows this?”

“So far, but we haven’t been married very long.”

“But you will allow it?” she asked Malloy with apparent interest.

“I don’t think I could stop her,” he admitted with satisfaction, confusing Miss Billingsly and making Miss Wilson frown.

“You are an unusual man, Mr. Malloy,” Miss Wilson said.

He turned to Sarah. “Was that a compliment?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

The carriage slowed to turn, and Malloy glanced out the window. Sarah could see they were entering the cemetery.

“Did you find out what you wanted to?” Miss Billingsly asked suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“You obviously rode in the same carriage so you could question us. Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

“I don’t think we found out anything,” Sarah said.

The carriage stopped, then sagged a bit as the driver climbed down.

“That’s good,” Miss Billingsly said just as the door opened.

The two teachers climbed out without another word. Miss Wilson’s expression was stony. She was probably still angry at all of them for discussing Abigail and her murder. Miss Billingsly seemed thoughtful, or perhaps she was just worried. Sarah wished she knew why she’d be worried.

The driver helped Sarah down and Malloy followed. By then the two teachers had hurried off, following the other mourners to the ragged patch of earth where a hole had been prepared to receive Abigail’s body. The Malloys strolled more slowly, in no hurry to see the end of Abigail’s story.

“You lied to Miss Billingsly. We did learn that Miss Billingsly is worried about something,” Malloy said.

“Something that has to do with Miss Wilson. No question, she’s jealous of Abigail.”

“Even now that she’s dead?”

“Apparently,” Sarah said. “Something happened in that house that ruined their friendship.”

“Ruined?”

“Well, damaged it, at least, and it most certainly involved Abigail.”

“You already knew Miss Billingsly was jealous of her.”

“This is more than just jealousy,” Sarah said. “The problem is, neither one of them is likely to talk about it, especially to us.”

They had almost reached the crowd gathered at the gravesite. “Maybe we should send Gino to talk to Bathsheba again.”

Sarah smiled at that. “Or maybe you should go.”

*   *   *

T
he graveside service was brief and heart-wrenching, as Abigail’s casket was lowered into the ground. Stunned and weeping mourners filed back into their various conveyances in silence. Frank and Sarah were not surprised that the two teachers had chosen a different group of people for the return trip to the Northrups’ home, squeezing into a nearly full carriage so Frank and Sarah couldn’t possibly join them.

Back at the house, they decided to split up and wander around in search of anyone behaving strangely or inappropriately. Frank found Gino, who had remained at the house during the graveside service to keep an eye on things there.

“Lots of people walked by,” he reported, “but nobody seemed unnaturally interested and nobody tried to get inside.”

“That’s good. Go get yourself something to eat and keep your eyes open.”

Frank decided to wait awhile before heading to the dining room, where a buffet had been set out. He glanced into the front parlor. The rows of folding chairs had been removed and the furniture arranged back into its normal position by efficient servants. The room was empty now except for one person.

Frank was surprised to see Luther Northrup sitting in there alone on a sofa. He was staring up at Abigail’s portrait again, just as he had during the funeral. Frank walked in and sat down nearby.

“It must be hard to believe she’s gone.”

Luther looked up in surprise, as if he hadn’t realized Frank was there. “Yes, it is.”

Frank waited, but Luther had nothing else to add. He tried again. “Such a tragedy.”

“That’s what everybody says.”

“You don’t agree?”

“Oh, sure. She was . . . She was always the smart one. I guess you know. You’re one of the professors from the school, aren’t you?”

Frank didn’t correct him. “You must be smart, too.”

“Not book smart. I just . . . I prefer action.”

“Are you a sportsman, then?”

His surprise was the first real emotion Frank had seen him display. “How’d you guess?”

Frank decided not to mention that his father had told him. “You look like one.”

This pleased him. “I’m a passable gymnast.”

“That takes a lot of practice.”

“I’ve been doing it for years. I’ve won ribbons for it.”

“You should come to the city. We probably have better equipment there in the athletic clubs.”

“Oh, I already belong to the New York Athletic Club.
They . . .” He glanced around to make sure they were still alone. “They’ve offered me a job.”