Murder in Morningside Heights (A Gaslight Mystery) (23 page)

“Lots of people saw me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pay much attention.”

“Well, you better try to remember because we think you
weren’t here. We think you left and went up to the Normal School to see your sister, and you got into an argument with her and you killed her.”

“What?” he cried in horror. “I never! I’d never raise a finger to Abby!”

“Then tell me who can vouch for you being here all that day.”

“I don’t know!” he fairly screamed, but then he remembered something. “Rudy. And Pete. And the other fellows who work here. They keep records. They know which members are here every day. They can tell you.”

But they wouldn’t tell Frank, not even for a bribe. “Get dressed. You’re going downstairs with us to ask them to give us the names.”

Northrup pushed himself to his feet, his expression sulky and rebellious, but before he could even take a step, someone pounded on the door.

“
G
randmother is here!” Catherine cried, bursting into Sarah’s private parlor.

Elizabeth Decker followed her in. Sarah greeted her mother and settled her on the sofa. “Where’s Maeve?”

“I told her I’d look after Catherine for a while so she could have some time for herself,” her mother said, gathering the child into her lap.

“I thought perhaps you had some news for me,” Sarah said, sitting down beside her.

“I do. I’ve found someone I think can help us.”

“Someone who speaks French?”

“Someone who
is
French,” her mother said, “although she’s rather elderly. She may turn us down because of that, but if so, I’m hoping she’ll at least know of someone else in the city who could do the translation for us.”

“You haven’t spoken to her yet?”

“I haven’t even met her yet, although I got my friend to write to her, telling her I’d be calling on her.”

“Who is it? How does your friend know her?”

“She’s Millicent Avery’s mother-in-law. Of course her name isn’t Avery anymore. It’s de Béthune, or something like that. Her parents married her off to a French count, I think. He was penniless, of course, and he married Millicent for her enormous dowry that he used to return his family’s estate to its former glory. The usual story, except he died when they’d only been married a few years, so Millicent came home. She didn’t like France very much, I gather, and without her husband, well, I guess she had no incentive to stay. She has a son, however, and her mother-in-law wanted to see him grow up, so she came to America with them.”

“I wonder how Millicent felt about that,” Sarah said.

“Apparently, they get along very well. At any rate, Madame de Béthune will be able to read your letters and, hopefully, translate them for you.”

“And an elderly French lady isn’t likely to care about a scandal at some female college.”

“Exactly,” her mother said. “Now, I’ve promised Catherine that we’d spend some time together, but after luncheon, you and I can call on Madame de Béthune and find out if she’ll help us.”

*   *   *

F
rank answered the pounding on Luther Northrup’s door to find Cornelius Raymond. He was unshaven and still tucking in his shirttail, and his hair stuck up at odd angles.

“Good morning,” Frank said with just a touch of irony. “Won’t you come in?”

Gino frowned, but Luther looked very relieved to see his friend.

“What’s going on here?” Raymond demanded when he was inside.

“We were just asking Luther some questions,” Frank said. “I assume the young fellow down at the front desk told you we were here.”

Raymond gave Frank what he probably thought was a murderous glare. “Of course he did. He was concerned about Mr. Northrup’s well-being.”

“Did he think we were going to beat him or something?” Frank asked, thinking he might demand his five-dollar tip back.

Raymond straightened a little and adjusted his suit coat, probably realizing what a comic figure he cut. He’d forgotten his vest completely and his shirt had no collar. “I don’t know what he thought, but he suggested I might want to join you.”

“That was very thoughtful of him,” Frank said, enjoying Raymond’s discomfort. “You saved us a trip. We were going to call on you next.”

“They want to know where I was when Abby died,” Luther said rather plaintively. “They think I killed her.”

“How dare you?” Raymond snarled.

“We dare because both of you had good reasons to be angry with Abigail,” Frank explained patiently, “and both of you seem to have nasty tempers that could get out of hand.”

“What reason did I have?” Luther demanded.

Frank considered Luther for a long moment until he fairly squirmed. “I think you’ve been angry at Abigail your entire life for all the times she proved she was smarter and better than you are.”

Luther flinched as if Frank had slapped him, and Frank turned to Raymond.

“And you were angry at Abigail because she wouldn’t give
you an answer to your proposal. You’d expected her to accept immediately and be grateful for the offer, didn’t you?”

Raymond shook his head. “I . . . I . . .”

“And when you demanded to know why she wouldn’t accept, she told you she was in love with someone else. Maybe she even told you that person was a woman. Maybe your pride couldn’t take such an insult, so you grabbed the first thing you saw and attacked her with it.”

Raymond was still wagging his head, but he’d gone pale and his eyes were wide with terror. “I never touched her! I didn’t even know about”—he swallowed loudly—“about that
woman
until
he
told me.” He gestured toward Gino, who’d been watching the whole thing with avid interest.

“We only have your word for that,” Gino said.

“Oh, you can believe me,” Raymond said. “If I’d had any idea she was involved with a female, well, I would never have made her an offer in the first place!”

Frank could easily believe that. “Then you won’t mind telling us where you were the day Abigail was killed.”

That stopped him.

“Tell him,” Luther said softly. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Raymond gave him a murderous look, but he said, “I was visiting a . . . a young lady.”

Luther made a choking sound and Raymond flushed.

“Does this ‘young lady’ live in a brothel?” Frank asked.

Raymond looked as if he might explode, but Luther said, “Yes, she does.”

“Don’t most people visit brothels at night?” Gino asked, earning a glare from Luther.

Frank had been thinking the same thing.

“The young lady is very popular,” Luther reported, his eyes shining with suppressed mirth. “If you want her complete attention, you have to go in the daytime.”

Frank didn’t think Luther deserved to take such pleasure in his friend’s embarrassment. “So you knew the man who wanted to marry your sister was in love with a prostitute?”

Luther looked up in alarm. “I didn’t . . . I mean, they weren’t married yet, were they? Where’s the harm?”

For a moment, Frank remembered fondly how the police were practically expected to give suspects the third degree. That privilege would’ve come in handy just then and maybe taught Luther Northrup a valuable lesson. Instead, he turned his disgust on Raymond, who quickly jumped to his own defense.

“I’m not in love with her! One doesn’t fall in love with a prostitute!”

“One just spends his afternoons with her,” Frank said. “Were you with her Saturday afternoon, too?”

“Saturday?” Raymond echoed in confusion.

“He surely was,” Luther reported with that gleam again.

“Were you?” Gino asked with interest.

Raymond grunted a yes.

“What time did you get there?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Sometime in the afternoon.”

“And what time did you leave?”

“Probably around seven.”

“That seems early for a Saturday night,” Gino said. “The evening’s just getting started.”

“He doesn’t like to see other men take her upstairs,” Luther reported gleefully.

Raymond looked as if he’d like to rip Luther’s head off.

“And are you one of the men who took her upstairs after he left?” Frank asked Luther.

Luther’s amusement evaporated when he saw Raymond’s expression. “Of course not! I don’t even go to that place.”

Frank didn’t bother to ask how he happened to know so much about it if he didn’t. “Then you weren’t with Raymond on Saturday afternoon. Where were you?”

“I . . . What does it matter?”

“Because that’s when Miss Wilson was killed.”

“Miss Wilson?” Luther echoed in confusion.

“The woman who gave Abigail the ring.”

Both Luther and Raymond stared back in shock.

“She’s dead?” Luther asked.

“Murdered people usually are,” Frank said.

“Murdered?” Raymond said. “And you think one of us did it?”

“Even if you didn’t kill Abigail, you both had a reason to kill Miss Wilson,” Frank said. “You might’ve even thought Miss Wilson killed Abigail and you were just getting revenge.”

“That’s crazy!” Luther insisted.

“That’s ridiculous,” Raymond said at the same time.

“Luther, you haven’t told me where you were on Saturday afternoon,” Frank said.

“I . . . I was at home, or at least on my way,” he said with obvious relief. “My father sent me a telegram and told me to come home because my mother wanted to see me. She . . . she wanted to talk about when Abby and I were little. It was . . . terrible.” He rubbed his eyes at the memory.

“And when did you come back to the city?”

“Last night. I stayed over Saturday night and went to church with them. They wanted me to stay longer, but I told them I have a job now. That’s not a lie. I accepted a position here at the club.”

“You’ll need to go downstairs with Gino and tell them to give you a list of everyone who was in the club the day Abigail died.”

“They won’t like that,” Luther said. “If you talk to all those people about me, I’ll lose my job.”

“I don’t have to talk to all of them. I just need a few of them to say they saw you here that day. You can look at the list and tell me who you remember saw you.” He turned to Raymond. “And I’ll need the name of the brothel and the young lady you see there.”

“They won’t tell you anything,” Raymond grumbled.

He was probably right, but Frank said, “I’m not the police. Luther, get some clothes on. Gino, take him downstairs and get those names. Raymond, write down the information about the brothel and then I’m done with you.”

*   *   *

“
Y
ou should get a carriage,” her mother said as they rode through the city streets in hers.

“Malloy is talking about getting a motorcar,” Sarah said.

“Good heavens, do you think he really will?”

“Actually, he keeps saying other people want him to get one but he’s not going to.”

“Which makes you think he wants to get one.”

“Of course. He seemed a little surprised when I said I wanted to learn to drive it, too.”

“Would you really?”

“I think so. I might change my mind when I’ve tried it, but I do want to try, at least.”

“I’d be terrified,” her mother said. “They go so fast.”

“But they’re much easier to keep than a carriage. You don’t have horses to feed and care for, and you don’t need a driver.”

“So you’d drive Malloy around the city?” her mother asked with a smile.

“I think that’s what he’s afraid of, but I’m sure Gino would
drive him if it comes to that. Now we need to decide what we’re going to tell Madame de Béthune.”

“I was going to leave that up to you, dear. That’s why I brought you along.”

“Why, thank you, Mother,” Sarah said, genuinely pleased. “I’m a little worried that an elderly lady might be distressed when we tell her someone was murdered.”

“She might, but on the other hand, that’s also a compelling reason to figure out what the letters say.”

“What do we do if she doesn’t want to help us?”

“We ask her if she knows anyone else in the city who can,” her mother said.

“You make it sound so easy.”

Her mother smiled. “If it were easy, you wouldn’t have needed my help.”

The de Béthunes lived in a lovely town house a few blocks from Sarah’s parents on the Upper West Side of the city. A maid admitted them and escorted them to a parlor decorated in a decidedly French style, where two ladies awaited them. Sarah vaguely remembered Millicent Avery de Béthune as someone she had known in her youth, a time that often seemed like another world. Millicent greeted her warmly and introduced her mother-in-law, who turned out to be not as elderly as they’d been led to believe.

Madame de Béthune spoke with only a slight accent and her voice was musical. She wore a gray cashmere gown trimmed with silver lace that matched her shining silver hair. A small woman, she seemed almost fragile next to her robust American daughter-in-law.

Millicent wore a stylish Prussian blue taffeta gown that only accentuated her plumpness, but her sweet, smiling face and deep dimples were captivating.

“Your letter was so mysterious, Mrs. Decker. We hardly knew what to make of it,” Millicent said when they had dispensed with the formalities and she had served them tea.

“But perhaps that was your intent,” Madame de Béthune said with a smile. “You create a mystery so we must see you in order to solve it.”

“You have found us out,” Sarah’s mother said, delighted.

“And now that you have gotten your wish to meet with us,” Millicent said, “you must grant our wish to know exactly why you needed to see us. Or rather to see my
belle-mère
.”

Sarah’s mother nodded to her, giving her permission to begin her explanation.

“I’m sorry to say that the reason we need your help is because a young woman was murdered almost two weeks ago.”

Millicent gasped and Madame de Béthune murmured something in French and crossed herself.

“I didn’t want to distress you,” Sarah hurried on, “but you needed to know why this is so important. She was an instructor at the Normal School of Manhattan. She had just graduated from the school herself and had been hired to teach there, which was quite an honor. She was, from all reports, an outstanding young lady beloved by many.”

“Perhaps you know that Sarah’s husband is a private investigator who serves a few select clients,” her mother said.

“Oh yes,” Millicent said. “We’ve heard all about Mr. Malloy from my father. What an interesting life you must lead, Sarah.”

Sarah didn’t bother to bite back her grin. “I do, especially when I’m helping him with one of his cases. The parents of the young lady who died have hired Mr. Malloy to find out who killed her.”

Both of the Madame de Béthunes leaned forward expectantly.

Sarah took a deep breath, hoping she would not disappoint them. “The young lady—her name is Abigail—she taught French at the Normal School.”

“She is from France herself, yes?” Madame de Béthune asked.

“No, she is thoroughly American, but apparently, she was a very good student, good enough that the college hired her to teach it. Her parents were very proud of her, of course, and as a gift, they sent her to visit France for a month last summer.”