Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery) (21 page)

“So you don’t think he killed Pendergast anymore?”

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t. When I accused him of it, he said Grace was there and she’d know he didn’t do it.”

“And he doesn’t know she can’t remember, so I guess he didn’t do it.”

“That seems likely.”

“Then you don’t think he’s the one who was arguing with Pendergast either?”

Frank had to think about that one for a minute. “I guess it’s possible that was someone else, but it’s also possible that Neth confronted him and then left, and somebody else killed Pendergast.”

“The same person who killed Andy?”

“That would make things simpler.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So you think a woman killed both of them?”

“Women had the best reason to kill both of them.”

“Then I guess you won’t need those names Neth gave you.”

“Oh, I’ll pay them all a little visit. We could be wrong. Maybe one of these men killed Pendergast, and someone else killed Andy.”

“How many names did Neth give you?”

“Four. I’m thinking Pendergast wouldn’t have trusted his secret to many others, and Neth would make five.”

“I guess I’m relieved he only had five friends he thought would enjoy his ‘entertainments.’ But even though Joanna is sure one of them killed Andy, you still think a woman did it.”

“Which is why I’m going to send you to see Grace Livingston and Rose Wolfe again.”

“You can’t expect me to ask them if they killed Andy!”

“No, but they should be warned that Broghan might decide they did. If he can’t find Grace, he might go after Rose.”

“Would he even know where to find her?”

“He could look through the letters the same as I did.”

“I guess he could. You’re right, we need to warn them.”

He glanced up at the sky. The sun had sunk behind the buildings, and although the sky was still light, darkness wasn’t far away. “So you can do that first thing tomorrow morning, but for now, I’m taking you home.”

• • •

S
arah slept poorly that night. She kept thinking about the three women she knew who had been Pendergast’s victims and wondering how she could protect them from the scandal that would surround a murder trial. When she managed to stop worrying about them, she thought about the woman who had summoned her yesterday and wondered if she would really go into labor before Sarah could get to see Grace and Rose tomorrow and, if so, if Broghan would try to arrest one of them before she was finished with the birth.

She’d finally fallen into a sound sleep around dawn, only to be awakened less than an hour later by Catherine, who was overjoyed to find her at home. The three of them made a breakfast of pancakes and bacon, and Sarah started feeling more alive after a third cup of coffee. She dressed carefully, wishing for the first time in years that she had a more extensive wardrobe. She would like to have something fashionable for her visit to Rose Wolfe, although Franchesca Wolfe was the one who would notice Sarah’s utilitarian suit.

She told herself she was only concerned because she didn’t want Franchesca to discount her warning because of Sarah’s inferior social status. Still, she had to admit that the lovely Franchesca had made her feel a bit dowdy, most likely without intending to and certainly without realizing it. Sarah would have to tell her mother she was ready to start selecting her trousseau. She couldn’t think of anything that was likely to please her mother more.

She decided to go to the hotel where Grace Livingston was staying first. She wasn’t sure about the rules for visiting people who lived in hotels, but they couldn’t possibly be as strict as the usual rules, where “morning” visits were actually held in the afternoon. What she hadn’t figured on was the hotel’s rule about unescorted females.

“I’m here to see Miss Grace Livingston,” Sarah informed the desk clerk.

The middle-aged man with carefully pomaded hair and a sleek little mustache eyed her suspiciously. “Is Miss Livingston expecting you?”

“Uh, no, but if you’ll let her know I’m here, I’m sure she’ll see me.”

He looked her over again, which Sarah found annoying. “We do not typically admit unescorted females who arrive without luggage.”

Sarah managed not to sigh. “I’m not trying to check into the hotel. I just want to visit with one of your guests.”

“Yes, well, that’s typically what unescorted females with no luggage want to do.”

Sarah glared at the man. How anyone might consider someone wearing her admittedly dowdy ensemble a female of easy virtue was beyond her. Of course, he probably just enjoyed abusing his authority to terrorize defenseless women. In his way, he was no better than Milo Pendergast and his cronies. She considered her various options and decided directness was probably the best. “Are you accusing me of being a prostitute?” she asked in a loud voice.

As she’d expected, he widened his eyes and literally jumped back a step at her boldness, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. A well-dressed, elderly couple walking through the lobby stopped to stare in astonishment.

“Of course not!” the clerk said, not nearly as loudly as Sarah. “I didn’t mean . . . I mean . . . We have to be careful. The reputation of the hotel . . .”

“. . . will be ruined if it becomes known that respectable females are denied admittance,” she said.

A bald-headed gentleman with a carnation in his lapel came hurrying across the lobby. “Are you having a problem, madame?”

Sarah recognized his worried frown as that of a businessman concerned over a dissatisfied customer. Probably a manager of some sort. She gave him a disgruntled frown in return. “I want to visit my friend, who is staying here, but the desk clerk has refused to—”

“Not refused,” the clerk interrupted with a nervous smile. “I was merely, uh . . .” He consulted some papers. “Miss Livingston is in room three twenty-four. May I escort you up?”

“And solve the problem of my being
unescorted
?” Sarah asked with just the slightest hint of sarcasm. “No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you for your assistance,” she added to the gentleman who had come to her rescue, leaving him to demand an explanation from the desk clerk and making her way to the elevator.

As she walked down the third-floor hallway to Grace Livingston’s room, she couldn’t help thinking that the supercilious desk clerk was probably just the type of man who would take great delight in reading about Milo Pendergast’s debauchery and who would blame the women for being victimized. She needed a few moments to tamp down her anger before knocking on the Livingstons’ door.

Mr. Livingston answered her knock. “Mrs. Brandt, what a pleasant surprise. Please, come in.” He glanced down the hallway when she’d stepped inside. “Is Mr. Malloy not with you?”

“No. He still doesn’t know where you are, although I had to tell him you hadn’t left the city, I’m afraid.”

“Then you aren’t here to tell us it’s safe to return home?”

“No, on the contrary, I’m here to tell you that Grace needs to remain hidden for the time being.”

Their room was a suite. The parlor was comfortably furnished and beginning to look a bit lived-in. A newspaper lay scattered across the sofa, and a cart with dirty dishes left from breakfast stood in the corner. Mr. Livingston, she noticed, wore a dressing gown over his shirtsleeves and house slippers.

“Please excuse the mess,” he said, hastily gathering up the newspaper to make room for her to sit down. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. May I order some tea or coffee for you?”

“No, don’t go to any bother. Is Grace up to a visit?”

“I . . . She spends most of her time in her room. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

He knocked on one of the connecting doors of the suite and called out the information of Sarah’s arrival. She heard a response, although she couldn’t understand the words.

“She’ll be right out,” he said with an uncertain smile.

When Sarah had taken a seat on the sofa, he perched on one of the stuffed chairs.

After a moment of awkward silence, Sarah said, “I was surprised that you decided not to leave the city.”

He frowned. “I was, too. I thought Grace would want to be as far away as possible, but she decided she wanted to be close in case she was needed.”

“Needed?”

“I know. I didn’t understand it either, but she was so upset over the prospect of leaving that I thought it best to humor her. So long as the police don’t know where we are, I don’t suppose it matters.”

“I don’t suppose it does.”

The door to Grace’s room opened, and she stepped out. She wore a wrapper and slippers. Her hair hung in a long braid and, except for the haunted look in her eyes, she might have been fourteen.

“Grace, I’m so glad to see you,” Sarah said.

“I don’t suppose you’ve come to tell us we can go home, have you?” she said.

“No, I haven’t, and not only that, I have some more unpleasant news to tell you.”

Grace closed her eyes, and for a moment Sarah thought she might faint, but she opened them again and said, “Then we’d better get to it, shouldn’t we?” When she sat down beside Sarah on the sofa, her eyes were bright with determination.

Allowing herself a small sigh of relief, Sarah said, “The fellow who worked for Pendergast, Andy, well . . . he’s dead.”

Father and daughter gaped at her in shock. “How . . . ?” Mr. Livingston said.

“Someone murdered him. The police believe it was a woman.”

“How can they possibly know that?” Mr. Livingston scoffed.

“The circumstances of his death were a bit odd,” she said, trying to be tactful. “The police believe only a female could have been responsible.”

“And now they think I killed Andy as well as Pendergast,” Grace guessed.

“I’m not sure what they think at this point,” Sarah said, “but I felt you should be warned. I must tell you, Malloy was relieved when he thought you’d left the city, because they couldn’t possibly accuse you of Andy’s murder, so I had to tell him you were still here.”

“And they think I traveled through the city alone and returned to the house where I’d been assaulted and tortured and held prisoner, and killed a man . . . How did he die?” Grace asked.

“He was . . . stabbed.”

“And I stabbed a man to death,” she concluded bitterly.

“I know. It doesn’t make any sense, but you see, apparently, Andy had sent messages to some friends of Pendergast’s who had been his guests and who knew about the women.”

“Dear heaven,” Mr. Livingston said. “You mean to tell me other people knew and no one did anything about it?”

Sarah tried to guess if Grace knew that the men had abused the victims as well, but her expression revealed nothing. She’d been there only a short time, so perhaps Pendergast hadn’t had any “entertainments” while she was there. “What did Andy want from these men?” she asked.

“Money, of course. He wanted to leave the city, and he needed some assistance.”

“Then surely it was one of these men who killed him,” Mr. Livingston said. “That makes much more sense than trying to accuse some poor woman of the crime.”

“Yes, it does,” Sarah said, not wanting to tell Mr. Livingston exactly why the police thought it was a woman. “But until Mr. Malloy can figure out what really happened, you should stay here.”

“You’ll keep us informed?” Mr. Livingston said.

“Of course.” She turned to Grace. “We didn’t talk about it before, but are you aware that Pendergast had another woman at his house while you were there?”

“Yes.” She looked down at her hands clutched tightly in her lap. “I . . . I’d seen her.”

“I’m not sure you know this, but as soon as we released her, she left the house. She didn’t wait to see if we would help her, and I guess I can’t blame her for not trusting us. In any case, we located her, and I thought you would like to know that she is safe.”

“Is she? I’m so glad to hear it. How did you find her?”

“Malloy went through Pendergast’s papers, and he found the letters Pendergast had received from his advertisements. We found her address, and we went there. She was very distressed when I told her the police might arrest you for Pendergast’s murder.”

Grace looked up at that. “Did you tell her I don’t remember what happened?”

Sarah tried to remember. “Yes, I did, and she says she was locked in the cellar and didn’t see anything.”

“So neither of us can help you.”

Sarah frowned. “I’m not the one who needs help. We’re trying to find the real killer so the police won’t arrest the wrong person.”

But Grace didn’t seem to understand that she was one of the “wrong” people Sarah was trying to protect, or if she did, she didn’t seem very concerned. “Will you see the other girl again?”

“Her name is Rose, and yes, I was going to try to see her today.”

“Please tell her again that I don’t remember what happened.”

Suddenly, Sarah realized what Grace was doing, what the real meaning behind her message was. “I’ll tell her. And I’ll be sure you know of any developments.”

“And when it’s safe for us to go home,” Mr. Livingston said.

She had almost forgotten he was there. “Of course.”

Sarah was so preoccupied with reviewing her conversation with Grace Livingston that she completely forgot to cast the rude desk clerk a haughty glance on her way out. The doorman, obviously unaware that she might be a potential source of embarrassment to the hotel, secured a cab for her. She rewarded him with a tip and a smile, then sank into the hansom cab to think some more.

What did they know for sure about Pendergast’s death?

They knew there had been at least three other people in the house that day: Andy, Grace, and Rose. They knew a fourth person, probably Vernon Neth, had come in, angry and shouting. Grace had been with Pendergast when he died but claimed to remember little. Sarah had believed her the first time she’d said it. Perhaps she had even been telling the truth then. She’d had a terrible shock after a week of accumulating horrors from being kidnapped by a monster, so who could doubt her when she claimed amnesia?

Now, however, she’d had some time to calm down and think about what had happened. And now when she said she didn’t remember, Sarah sensed some calculation in her tone. But what did that mean? Did that mean she’d remembered killing Pendergast and was claiming not to remember to protect herself? Or had she remembered seeing the real killer and was trying to protect him? Or her?