Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery)

by Victoria Thompson

“That bastard,” Frank said, not even bothering to apologize to Maeve. “Why didn’t you get her out, at least?”

  “She . . . I started to, but when I got close, she started screaming. I didn’t . . . Well, we’ve got some females here, and I thought maybe they should handle it.”

  One glance at Maeve’s face and Frank knew he couldn’t send her down into that cellar. “Take those clothes up and figure out which are Miss Livingston’s. Then send Mrs. Brandt down here with the rest of them.”

  Maeve nodded and hurried away.

  “What else did you find upstairs?” Frank asked Gino.

  Gino shook his head. “Nothing. The other rooms are empty.”

  “Did you check the attic?”

  “Not yet.”

  Frank sighed. “Go up, then, and look. If he’s got any more women here, I want to find them before anybody else gets here.”

  The two took off, leaving him to pace the hall until Sarah came down, carrying the other woman’s clothing.

  He met her at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m sorry you had to see all this.”

  “I am, too, but I’m glad I was here. I don’t know how you would have handled Grace if I weren’t. Now we need to see about that poor woman downstairs.” She headed for the next set of stairs.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “I’m not letting you go down there by yourself.”

  She gave him a tiny smile.

  When they reached the foyer, Mr. Livingston jumped from where he’d been sitting on the front stoop and came to the open doorway “Mrs. Brandt, you’ve seen her? Is she really all right?”

  “She isn’t hurt. She’s getting cleaned up before she sees you.”

  He blinked his red-rimmed eyes. “Can I take her home now?”

  Sarah exchanged a glance with Frank. Frank had no idea what the police would say. Maybe the best thing would be for her to be gone when Broghan and the others arrived. He nodded.

  “She’s still very upset and ashamed by what happened,” Sarah said. “She thinks it was her fault, that if she hadn’t gone to meet Pendergast—”

  “Of course it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t gone to meet him, but how could she have known the kind of man he was?” Livingston said.

  “That’s exactly what you need to tell Grace. Just be patient. I’m sure she’ll be ready very soon. Now, we’ve found another . . . another woman, and we must see to her.”

  His eyes widened. “Another one? Dear heaven!”

  “You’ll excuse us,” she said.

  Frank realized he’d neglected to ask where the entrance to the cellar was, but they found it easily enough. The door off the kitchen stood open.

  • • •

  Sarah took a deep breath to fortify herself, then started down the dark stairs. The rest of the house, she’d noticed, bore a sad, neglected air, with dust gathered in the corners and a cobweb here and there. She imagined it was difficult finding servants when you kept female prisoners. The cellar was much worse, of course. She didn’t let herself think of what might be hiding in the shadows.

  She saw the cage as soon as she reached the bottom of the steps. It stood just out of sight of the stairwell. She took a minute to let her eyes adjust. The light coming down the stairway only reached a few feet, and the two tiny windows up near the ceiling had been smeared with dirt, so they emitted only a feeble hint of the sunlight beyond.

  Gradually, the shadow in the far corner of the cage came into focus as a body huddled on the dirt floor, knees clutched to her chest, her hair loose and tangled, her eyes wide and staring.

  Sarah glanced back to see that Malloy had stopped at the bottom of the steps, and now he was looking around, everywhere except at the cage. When he’d made sure nothing else threatened, he turned his back to the poor woman. Sarah could feel his fury radiating across the small space between them.

  “Hello,” she said to the woman, speaking softly and slowly, as if to a frightened animal. “My name is Sarah Brandt. The police are here. We’ve come to rescue you.”

  “The police!” she echoed, her voice hoarse. “No! Don’t let them take me!”

  “They aren’t here to take you. We’re here to rescue you.”

  She shook her head frantically. “He won’t let you. He won’t let me go.”

  “If you mean Milo Pendergast, he’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “No, he’s not. He can’t be dead!”

  “But he is. He’s dead and you’re free.” Sarah found she could see fairly well now, and she glanced over the cage, trying to figure out how to open it. She missed it the first few times because she’d been looking for a lock of some kind. She’d thought they would need a key. Perhaps someone would have to search Pendergast’s dead body for it. But in the end, she realized it was just a bolt. It slid free with only a small tug, and the door swung open.

  “No!” the woman cried in terror. “Don’t let him in here! Don’t let him touch me!”

  Sarah realized she meant Malloy. “He’s not going to touch you. I told you, we’re here to help you.”

  “That’s what they always say, but they only hurt me. They always hurt me!”

  Sarah stepped into the cell, noting what she hadn’t let herself realize before. The only items inside it were a filthy straw mattress and a pail.

  The woman cried out and drew herself in even tighter. She was, Sarah could see, trying to cover her nakedness. Her legs and feet were filthy, her straggling hair lank and greasy. Only then did Sarah remember what she’d brought.

  “I have your clothes,” she said, holding them out.

  The staring eyes widened and she reached out a hand. Sarah took another step closer and then another, until the woman could reach them. She snatched them, using both hands now, pulling them close, clutching them to her.

  “Would you like to bathe? I can take you upstairs—”

  “No! I’m never going up there again!”

  She picked through the clothes frantically. Finding a shift, she threw it over her head and stuck her arms through it. Then she glanced at Malloy, who still stood with his back to her. Quickly, as if afraid he might turn at any moment, she started pulling on the other articles of clothing. Only when she’d covered herself with all the pieces did she stop to button her shirtwaist, her mistrustful gaze darting to Malloy every few seconds.

  At last she was left with only her stockings, and she pulled them over her filthy feet, leaving them to sag around her ankles.

  “My shoes? Where are my shoes?”

  Grace had asked the same question. “We haven’t found them yet. But we’re still looking. Come upstairs with me now. Are you hungry? Can we get you something to eat?”

  “I won’t go with him,” she said, jutting her chin in Malloy’s direction. “I told you. I won’t do it anymore. I don’t care what you do to me.”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Sarah said. “Malloy, would you go upstairs, please? Ask Officer Donatelli if he can find the missing shoes. We haven’t found Miss Livingston’s either.”

  Malloy nodded, and without so much as a glance back, he hurried back up the cellar stairs.

  “Come with me now. Can you stand?” Sarah asked.

  The woman struggled to her feet, ignoring Sarah’s outstretched hand in favor of using the bars of the cage for support. The whole time, she watched Sarah warily. Sarah was surprised to see how tall she was, and how large-boned, too. Not fat. In fact, she was rather thin, as if she’d been starved, but no matter how thin she got, she would never be a small woman.

  “No one is going to hurt you anymore,” Sarah said. She backed out of the cell and pushed the door as wide as it would go. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Sarah started for the stairs, glancing back to
see if the woman was following. The woman took a tentative step, but stopped when she realized Sarah was watching. Sarah forced herself to look away and keep going up the stairs. By the time she reached the top, the woman had started up herself. Like Grace Livingston, she was unsteady on her feet, or perhaps she was just weak.

  When she reached the untidy kitchen, Sarah began to rummage around in the larder. She found almost a whole loaf of bread and some cheese. She set them on the table just as the woman emerged from the stairwell.

  The woman literally fell on them, snatching up the bread and tearing a hunk off the loaf before Sarah could even locate a knife. Just as she had suspected, the woman had been starved. Sarah continued her searching. She found only a paring knife, and she used it to slice the cheese. The woman devoured the pieces as fast as they fell from the knife. Sarah found a glass that looked reasonably clean and filled it from the tap. The woman drank the water down in one breath.

  Only when she had set the glass down did she pull out a chair and sit, apparently drained from the effort of eating.

  Sarah sat down opposite her at the table. “What’s your name?”

  The woman’s expression transformed instantly from exhausted to suspicious again. “Rose.”

  “I’m Sarah, Rose. Milo Pendergast is dead. We know he contacted you through a lonely hearts advertisement in the newspaper and tricked you into coming here to meet his mother.”

  Her suspicion transformed again, this time into surprise. “How do you know that?”

  “Because he’s done the same thing to other women. We were looking for one of them, and that’s why we came here.”

  “You said the police are here, too.”

  “Yes. One of them found you. Do you remember?”

  She nodded slowly, her pale brown eyes still wary and guarded.

  “They came with us to arrest Pendergast, but he’s dead. Someone killed him, and I suppose they’ll try to figure out who did it, but that doesn’t concern you. They may want to ask you some questions, of course, but other than that, I’m sure you’ll be free to go.”

  “Free to go where?”

  Now Sarah was surprised. “Back to your home. In fact, I’ll be glad to take you myself, just to make sure you get there safely.”

  The kitchen door opened, and Rose stiffened in alarm. Gino Donatelli stuck his head in. He cast a curious glance at Rose, who looked about to bolt. Sarah laid a reassuring hand on her arm, making her flinch away. So much for comforting the woman.

  Sarah smiled at Gino, hoping her reaction to him would make him less threatening to Rose. “Did you find the shoes?”

  “Uh, well, Mr. Malloy asked if you could come take a look at something.”

  “What is it?”

  He glanced at Rose again, plainly unwilling to say in front of her. “I, uh . . . it won’t take long, he said.”

  She turned back to Rose. “Will you be all right here for a few minutes? Officer Donatelli will wait outside the door so no one bothers you.”

  Rose considered her offer for a long moment, then nodded. “As long as he stays outside the door.”

  Sarah got up, wishing she didn’t have to leave Rose alone. “I’ll be right back. If you need anything, just call for Officer Donatelli.”

  Rose just stared back at her with blank eyes. Sarah wondered if the woman would ever get over what she had endured in this house. Gino held the door for her.

  “Where is he?” she asked when he’d closed it behind her.

  “Upstairs in the bedroom where you took Miss Livingston.”

  “What has he found?”

  “You need to see it for yourself.”

  With that ominous warning, Sarah made her way to the stairs and up the two flights. There she found Malloy standing before one of three wardrobe cabinets in the large bedroom. He was frowning as he gazed around the room when she entered.

  “Did you look at this place?” he asked.

  “Not really. I was in a hurry to get Grace cleaned up.” She followed his gaze and really looked at the wallpaper she had barely noticed before. “Good heavens!”

  The figures adorning the walls were groups of satyrs and naked nymphs performing all sorts of acts, some of which Sarah was fairly certain were actually impossible.

  “Where do you buy something like this?” Malloy asked.

  “In this city, I guess you can find whatever you might want, no matter how depraved it is.” She shuddered, then remembered why she was here. “What did you want to show me?”

  “I didn’t want to show it to you, but I need you to tell me if it’s what I think it is.” He opened the cabinet.

  At first Sarah didn’t understand what she was seeing. The interior had been divided into shelves designed to hold a large quantity of shoes. The shelves were tipped slightly with a strip of molding running the length of each shelf to catch the heels so the shoes wouldn’t slip off. The lower shelves were empty, but the upper ones held about a dozen pairs of shoes.

  Women’s shoes.

  Why did Milo Pendergast have so many pairs of women’s shoes?

  Her blood turned to ice as the truth dawned on her. “These belong to the women he kidnapped!”

  “That’s what I thought, too, but can we be sure?” he asked.

  She stepped closer, loath to touch the shoes, as if doing so might violate the women who had owned them even more. “They’re different sizes.” And they showed different kinds of wear. Some had been stretched by wide feet. Others leaned a bit from heels worn down on one side. One showed the telltale bulges of bunions. But they were all polished brightly and had obviously been someone’s “best” shoes, the ones she would have worn to meet a potential suitor. “There are so many of them,” she said as the meaning of it turned in her stomach.

  “I know. We have two women here, but where are the others?”

  “I don’t know, but I want to get the two that are here away before the detectives arrive and want to question them.”

  “Do you think a pair of these shoes belongs to Miss Livingston and the woman downstairs?”

  “If they’re arranged chronologically, then these must belong to Grace.” Overcoming her reluctance, Sarah picked up the bottommost pair. “Is she still in there?” she asked, indicating the bathroom.

  “Yes, with Maeve.”

  Sarah went to the door and knocked. “Miss Livingston, it’s Mrs. Brandt. May I come in?”

  The door opened a crack, and Maeve peered out. “She’s not ready to face her father yet.”

  “Ask her if these are her shoes.”

  Maeve took them and, after a brief consultation, returned. “Yes, they are.”

  “Maeve, explain to her that they’re sending a police detective over, and he’ll want to question her about what happened with Pendergast and . . . well, everything that happened to her here. They’ll want to talk to her at some time or other, but if she’d rather it not be today, she needs to let her father take her home right away.”

  Maeve nodded and closed the door.

  Sarah sighed, fighting the urge to either scream or weep with frustration. How could something like this have happened to these women? What had they ever done to deserve being brutalized by a madman? And the others. Where on earth were the others?

  “Sarah? I think you and Maeve better leave, too.”

  “I will. Just let me take Rose’s shoes down to her.”

  “Rose?”

  “The woman from the cellar.” She picked up the pair that had been next to Grace’s.

  “Are you sure those are hers?”

  They were by far the largest pair in the cabinet. “Yes. I’ll send Mr. Livingston up to get Grace.”

  “Tell him to get a cab first, to have it waiting for them.”

  She nodded and made her way out of the room with its horrible wallpaper and its even
more horrible cabinet full of shoes. Where were those other women? Were they dead? Or had Pendergast let them go when he was finished with them? And if so, had they returned to loving families, or had they been too ashamed to go home again? Such questions would drive her mad if she let them, but she couldn’t stop asking them.

  Mr. Livingston still sat forlornly on the front steps, but he ran off with the energy of a man twenty years younger when she suggested he find a cab to take Grace home.

  Gino Donatelli still stood guard at the kitchen door. “Not a peep out of her,” he said.

  “Thank you, Gino.”

  “Did you see the shoes?”

  Sarah nodded. “I think these must be hers.”

  She opened the kitchen door. “I found your—” she began, but stopped when she realized the room was empty. “Rose?” She looked around, then felt silly. The room offered no hiding places for someone as large as Rose. Could she have gone back to the cellar? The thought made Sarah shiver, but perhaps Rose found some kind of comfort in her cell. “Gino?”

  “What is it?” He stepped in and looked around. “Where is she?”

  “I . . . Would you check the cellar?” Sarah couldn’t bring herself to go back down there.

  Gino hurried down the stairs, then hurried back up again. “There’s nobody down there, Mrs. Brandt.”

  “Where could she . . . ?” She saw it then. The back door was ajar. She ran over and threw it wide. “Rose!” The small, overgrown yard was empty, but the back gate stood open, too.

  Sarah ran out and raced to the gate, Gino at her heels, but when she reached the alley, she saw only a mangy yellow tabby cat curled up in a patch of sun between the ash cans.

  Sarah thought of the poor woman, filthy beneath her hastily donned clothes, barefoot and penniless, her hair hanging wild. Where had she gone? Would she find safety before night fell? Would some conscientious patrolman arrest her, thinking she was insane or worse? She breathed a prayer for Rose’s safety.

  “Do you want me to go after her?” Gino asked.

  Sarah shook her head. “If she was that anxious to get away, it would be cruel to bring her back. She probably wouldn’t come with you anyway.”