Murder in Morningside Heights (A Gaslight Mystery) (5 page)

The maid’s eyes widened. Plainly, she hadn’t expected a challenge from the wife of a lowly detective. “Of course not. Please come in.” If she sounded less than welcoming, they pretended not to notice. “Miss Wilson said for you to join her in the living room.”

How modern, Frank thought. Some people were starting to call their parlors “living rooms,” although he’d noticed none of the old New York families had made the change yet. He supposed lady professors liked to be up to date, though.

A handsome woman, who looked to be about forty, stood when they entered. She wore a dark green dress, but no jewelry except a watch pinned to her bodice, much like the teacher he’d encountered at the college yesterday. He wondered if the teachers were required to wear watches.

The maid handed her Frank’s card. “Mr. Malloy,” she read.

“Thank you for seeing us, Miss Wilson. This is my wife. She sometimes assists me in investigations, and I thought you might prefer talking to a female.”

“Why would you think that, Mr. Malloy?”

Frank needed a moment to think of an answer that didn’t sound condescending. He’d expected Miss Wilson to be upset, if not hysterical, over the violent murder of a young woman whom she had taken into her own home. True, she’d had a few
days to get used to the idea, but he hadn’t expected her to be defensive.

Once again, Sarah rescued him. “Mr. Malloy was a police detective, Miss Wilson. He is more accustomed to questioning criminals than college professors, and he thought you would appreciate a gentler touch.”

Now Miss Wilson was looking at Sarah the way the maid had a minute ago. “Then I suppose I should thank him for bringing you along, Mrs. Malloy. Won’t you sit down? Bathsheba, please bring us some coffee.”

Frank managed not to show his surprise at the maid’s name, although he thought it probably fit. She did look like a sly one, and even though servants weren’t supposed to have an opinion about whom their employers entertained, Bathsheba seemed to be muttering to herself as she set off for the kitchen.

The room was comfortably furnished with an overstuffed plush sofa and chairs. Delicate tables sat around, their tops cluttered with doilies and various figurines. Over the fireplace, which had been converted to a gas grate, hung a large painting of some Greek goddess in flowing robes that didn’t really conceal much. He managed not to stare.

“We’re so very sorry to hear about Miss Northrup’s death,” Sarah was saying. “It must have been a terrible shock.”

For just a second, Miss Wilson’s stoic façade cracked a bit, but only a bit. “Thank you. It was, of course. A shock, I mean. For everyone.”

“Had you known her long?” Sarah asked.

Miss Wilson visibly gathered herself again. “Almost five years now, I suppose. She was a student at the college, you know.”

“Was she one of your students?”

“Oh yes. I had her for several classes.”

“And she was a good student?”

“One of the best I’ve ever had. Teaching her was a joy. She simply loved learning and couldn’t get enough.”

The sound of someone clattering down the stairway in the hall startled the three of them, and they all looked up as another woman appeared in the doorway that Bathsheba had left open. This woman was like a faded version of Miss Wilson, light brown hair where Miss Wilson’s was dark, and pale, white skin while Miss Wilson’s had a healthy glow. She also looked as if she’d just climbed out of bed, even though she was fully dressed. Her hair was half-down, with some of the pins sticking out at odd angles, and her eyes held the unfocused look of the newly awakened.

“Are you talking about her?” the woman demanded.

“Estelle,” Miss Wilson said sharply, rising to her feet with conscious dignity. “We have guests.”

“I can see that! And they’re talking about her, aren’t they?”

“This is Miss Billingsly,” Miss Wilson said. “She also teaches at the college.”

“And you,” Miss Billingsly said to Frank. “You’re the detective, aren’t you?”

Frank was already on his feet, since a lady had entered the room, and he sketched her a little bow. “Frank Malloy. And my wife.”

Miss Billingsly spared not a glance for Sarah. She had trained her unfocused gaze on Frank. “Do you want to know who killed her?” She took a step toward him, and then another. “Is that why you’re here? Well, I’ll tell you who killed her.”

Frank watched in horrified fascination as Miss Billingsly took one last step toward him, tripped, and went crashing to the floor.

S
arah jumped up and hurried to where Miss Billingsly lay sprawled on the floor. Malloy was closer and had already knelt down beside her, but seemed reluctant to take any action.

“Miss Billingsly, are you hurt?” Sarah asked.

The woman’s eyes fluttered and she frowned up at Sarah. “What happened?”

That’s when Sarah smelled the alcohol and realized Miss Billingsly was drunk. “You fell. Are you hurt?”

“I . . . I don’t think so.” She pushed up on one elbow. “Who are you?”

“Bathsheba!” Miss Wilson called. She had made no move to help Miss Billingsly.

Sarah helped Miss Billingsly sit up, being careful not to look at Malloy, because she was afraid if she did, she’d see her own amazement of the absurdity of this situation reflected
back, and neither of them would be able to keep their composure.

The maid had come running at the urgency of Miss Wilson’s summons, but she stopped dead when she saw Miss Billingsly sitting on the floor with their guests hovering over her.

“Bathsheba, Miss Billingsly is ill. Would you help her back upstairs, please?”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Bathsheba said, shouldering Sarah out of the way so she could help Miss Billingsly to her feet.

“I fell down,” Miss Billingsly told her with a drunkard’s honesty.

“That’s all right. You come with me now.”

Bathsheba put her arm around Miss Billingsly’s waist and led her from the room, but Miss Billingsly stopped when they reached the doorway and turned back to Miss Wilson.

“I’m sorry, Georgia. I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s all right,” Miss Wilson said, cutting her off. “Go with Bathsheba now.”

Miss Billingsly nodded and allowed herself to be taken away.

When their footsteps had receded up the stairs, Miss Wilson said, “I apologize. Abigail’s death has upset her terribly.”

Sarah wondered if Miss Billingsly drank regularly or if this was something new. “That’s understandable,” Sarah said, taking her seat beside Malloy on the sofa again. “Will she be all right, do you think?”

“Bathsheba will look after her, although we’ll have to wait awhile for our coffee, I’m afraid. You were asking me about Abigail.”

“Yes.” Sarah tried to remember exactly where they were and realized she had learned precious little before being interrupted. “You said she was an excellent student. I suppose that’s why Mr. Hatch hired her as a teacher.”

“Of course it was.”

“Was that common?” Malloy asked. “Hiring your students as teachers?”

“Not at all. Every graduate of the Normal School is a teacher, Mr. Malloy. If we hired even a few from every class, we’d very soon have more teachers than students.”

“And you must have outstanding students in every class,” Sarah guessed. “What set Abigail apart enough to be hired?”

Miss Wilson hesitated, making Sarah wonder if she was trying to decide whether to tell the truth or not. But maybe she was just trying to phrase her answer diplomatically. “As I said, Abigail was an excellent student, but more than that, she was naturally an excellent teacher. Not everyone is, even with training. But that alone would not have given her a place at the Normal School, since we pride ourselves on producing excellent teachers. She also happened to have excelled in French, and Professor Pelletier needed an assistant.”

“Was it his idea to hire her?” Malloy asked.

Miss Wilson seemed annoyed by the question. “He agreed to accept her, if that’s what you mean, but President Hatch makes the final decisions.”

“And whose idea was it to make you the first female professor?” Malloy asked, surprising Sarah and annoying Miss Wilson even more.

“As I just said, President Hatch makes the final decisions.”

Malloy pretended to think this over for a minute. “It just seems funny to me that a college for women didn’t have any female professors for the first twenty-some years.”

“How very progressive of you, Mr. Malloy. I couldn’t agree more.”

“Was Professor Pelletier happy with Miss Northrup’s work?” Sarah asked, thinking they should get back on the subject they came to discuss. Malloy wasn’t as progressive as
all that, after all, and she didn’t think Miss Wilson needed to know it.

“You’ll have to ask him. He does not confide in me.”

Sarah wondered if that meant the good professor
wasn’t
pleased with Miss Northrup, and Miss Wilson didn’t want to say so. “How did you come to have Miss Northrup boarding with you?”

Another brief hesitation. “She needed a place to live, and as a young, single female, her options were limited. It’s customary for the female staff at the school to share living quarters in any case. For instance, Miss Billingsly and I have shared this house for over eighteen years. We had a spare room, so we offered it to Abigail.”

“And did you enjoy having her here?” Sarah asked.

“Very much,” Miss Wilson said, and for the first time Sarah felt she was telling the absolute truth. “As I said, she was an exceptional young lady with a genuine thirst for knowledge. We spent many an evening in thoughtful discussion. Having her here was . . . exhilarating.”

Sarah noted how Miss Wilson’s voice had softened as she recalled Abigail Northrup. She had truly cared for the girl.

“Did Miss Billingsly like having her here?” Malloy asked, ruining the mood.

Miss Wilson’s expression hardened again. “Of course she did. We both did.”

Which meant, of course, that Miss Billingsly hadn’t liked Abigail at all. How very interesting. Was that why she was drunk? “Unfortunately,” Sarah said with a wistful sigh, “we’re here to find out if you know anyone who
didn’t
like Abigail or who might have been angry at her for some reason.”

“Absolutely not. One or two of her students might have been disappointed in their grades, but students don’t murder
teachers over that. If they did, there would be no teachers left alive.”

“You’re right about that,” Sarah said with a small smile. “What about her classmates, the other women she was in school with before she graduated? Were any of them jealous that she was selected to teach?”

“Some of them might have been, but once again, one doesn’t kill over something like that.”

“What about suitors?” Malloy said. “A girl as accomplished as Miss Northrup must’ve had a lot of young men interested in her.”

Miss Wilson stiffened and sent Malloy a murderous glare. “Miss Northrup was not interested in young men. She was a serious scholar who wanted to make teaching her life’s work.”

“That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t’ve had suitors,” Malloy argued.

“It certainly would,” Miss Wilson informed him tartly. “Married women are not permitted to teach at the Normal School or anyplace else. Abigail was far too serious about her career to entertain any thoughts of marriage.”

But just because Miss Wilson thought so didn’t mean it was true. Sarah knew a handsome young man could change a girl’s mind in a moment, even a girl as
outstanding
as Abigail Northrup. What Sarah couldn’t figure out was why Miss Wilson seemed so insulted at the suggestion Abigail might have had an admirer or two.

“I wonder if we might take a look at Abigail’s room,” Sarah said.

“Whatever for?”

“I don’t know, but we might find something to indicate who might have killed her.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Sarah knew better than to argue. She simply waited for Miss Wilson to figure out that she should have no objection to Sarah looking at Abigail’s room.

After a few more moments, she said, “Well, I suppose that would be all right. Her parents haven’t instructed us about what to do with her things yet, so nothing has been touched since she . . .” For the first time, Miss Wilson appeared to be fighting tears, but she quickly recovered. “Since she left it.”

“Thank you. I know this must be very difficult for you, and we appreciate your help.”

“I’ll take you up.”

Sarah was glad to see Malloy had sense enough to know he shouldn’t try to accompany them upstairs. She was sure the maiden ladies who lived in this house would be scandalized to have a man go up to their bedrooms.

She followed Miss Wilson up the stairs. Only three doors opened off the hallway, and two were closed. The third led to a bathroom that was probably a recent addition to the house. Miss Wilson led her to the door at the back of the house and opened it to reveal a pleasant room. Flowered wallpaper covered the walls, and a brightly colored braided rug lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. The double bed was neatly made with a light green satin comforter spread over it. Abigail had kept her belongings in order or perhaps Bathsheba had straightened up behind her.

“What are you looking for?” Miss Wilson asked with some concern.

“I won’t know until I find it.” Sarah began with the dressing table, where she found the typical brushes and combs and hairpins along with a bottle of rosewater scent. The drawers contained nothing of interest. She moved to the dresser and quickly looked through the drawers there, finding nothing except neatly folded underclothes and shirtwaists, stockings
and gloves. As Malloy had instructed her, she also checked the undersides of the drawers in case something had been concealed there. The wardrobe was next, and Sarah carefully felt each article of clothing hanging there in case Abigail had hidden something in a pocket or even the lining of a jacket. Finally, she searched the nightstand, where she found a novel in French that Abigail had apparently been reading. She picked it up to flip through it, as Malloy had instructed. People sometimes stuck letters in books, and sure enough, Abigail had done so. The return address was a female in Tarrytown, which seemed innocent enough. “Do you know a Miss Irene Raymond?”

“Oh yes, she and Abigail were in the same class. I believe they were childhood friends as well. Miss Raymond frequently writes to Abigail.”

Sarah slipped the letter out of the book.

“You aren’t taking that,” Miss Wilson said in dismay.

“We’ll return it to her parents when we’ve finished with it. They hired us to find out who killed her, so they won’t object to our doing what we must.”

Miss Wilson didn’t like it, but she couldn’t argue. She did, however, object to Sarah pulling the bedclothes off the bed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m searching the room.” She tossed the pillows aside when she’d felt them to make sure they contained nothing but feathers. Then, wishing Malloy were here to do the heavy work, she lifted the mattress and looked under it. Sure enough, tucked into one of the springs near the center, where it wouldn’t be noticed by someone who was just changing the bedclothes, was a stack of letters tied with a ribbon. Sarah let the mattress slide off the bed so she could reach it.

“What is it?” Miss Wilson asked when Sarah had pulled the bundle free of its hiding place.

“Looks like more letters from Miss Raymond.” Indeed, when she flipped through them, they all bore the same name and address as the one she’d found in the book.

“Why did she keep them there?” Miss Wilson asked with a frown.

Sarah was wondering the very same thing. She would probably find out when she had the opportunity to read the letters. For now, she simply said, “You know how girls are about their privacy.”

Miss Wilson looked offended. “She can’t think Estelle or I would be interested in reading her private correspondence.”

Sarah thought that might be exactly what she’d been afraid of, or perhaps she thought Bathsheba would be a snoop. In any case, she had hidden the letters, and now Sarah had found them. “Thank you for letting me look through her room. If you’ll give me a hand, I’ll put the mattress back.”

“Don’t worry about it. Bathsheba will put it to rights.”

Just as they stepped out of the bedroom, the door at the other end of the hall opened, and Bathsheba emerged, giving Sarah a glimpse of Miss Billingsly lying motionless on a double bed. The maid closed the door behind her.

“How is she?” Miss Wilson asked.

“She sleeping now. Probably won’t remember a thing when she wakes up. You still want that coffee served?” She eyed Sarah with disapproval.

“Don’t go to any trouble for us,” Sarah said. “Mr. Malloy and I are finished here.”

*   *   *

“
I
see you found some letters,” Malloy said when they were safely away from Miss Wilson’s house.

“Yes. It looks like they’re from a girlfriend, although I
found one of them hidden in a book and the rest were under her mattress.”

Malloy shook his head. “I would’ve thought a college girl could find a better place to hide her letters.”

“In her defense, the room didn’t offer many alternatives, and I’m sure a maid like Bathsheba would consider it her duty to snoop.”

“I’m glad we agree on that. And what about that name?
Bathsheba?
”

“It does seem to suit her,” Sarah said with a grin.

“And pardon me for saying so, but was Miss Billingsly drunk?”

“I do believe she was.”

“I wonder if that’s a common condition for her.”

“I was wondering the same thing, although she could just be upset over Abigail’s murder.”

“Even if she didn’t like Abigail?” Malloy asked with a knowing grin.

“Oh, you caught that, too?”

“I did. It seems Miss Wilson adored her and Miss Billingsly did not. Why do you think that is?”

“Jealously, perhaps.”

“Because Abigail was such an outstanding young lady?”

“More likely because Miss Wilson thought she was an outstanding young lady.”

Malloy frowned as he considered this. “You mean Billingsly was jealous because Wilson liked Abigail better than her?”

“I think that may have been it.”

“You make it sound like some kind of romance.”

“It is, in a way, I suppose. Girls take their friendships very seriously.”

“None of them are
girls
, not even Abigail, really.”

“Well, women take their friendships very seriously, too. I’m assuming maiden ladies with no husband or children to distract them probably take them even more seriously.”

“That’s very interesting. Do women kill each other over these serious friendships the way people kill each other when they’re jealous of a lover, for instance?”