Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery)

by Victoria Thompson

  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 fin
d 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?

  Perhaps Grace had killed Pendergast, but Malloy had already discarded that theory. The angle of the cut was wrong, and besides, what had become of the knife?

  So that meant she was protecting someone else, assuming she did remember. Who would she protect, though? Not Andy. None of the women would have protected Andy. His being the killer would explain why he’d fled the house and what had become of the murder weapon—he could have taken it with him and disposed of it or brought it back with him when he returned, and his killer would have had it ready to hand. Andy would have been a logical choice, and Grace would have accused him in a heartbeat if his had been the face she’d seen over Pendergast’s shoulder. But Grace wasn’t the type of person to falsely accuse someone, even someone as despicable as Andy.

  Neth also could have been the killer, but would Grace have protected him? Not likely. She had most probably never set eyes on him before that day, and if she had, she would have had no kind feelings toward him. She might not have known his name, but if she’d seen his face and his hand wielding the knife, she would have said so. The same could also be said for some other stranger—one of Pendergast’s friends for instance—who might have stopped by to murder Pendergast.

  That left only one person whom they knew had been in the house: Rose Wolfe. She claimed to have been locked in the cellar, but Sarah knew she could’ve gotten free if she’d chosen to do so. She could have come up to the kitchen, gotten the knife, and proceeded upstairs to where Pendergast was preparing to have his way with Grace. Or perhaps he’d even brought her upstairs to watch. And Grace wanted Rose to know that Grace could not remember seeing the killer. Both Rose and Joanna had told her how Pendergast had turned the women against each other, but Grace hadn’t experienced that particular horror yet. No, she might still be sympathetic to her fellow prisoner, or perhaps she was simply grateful enough for being free to be willing to protect her.

  Then Sarah remembered how Rose had thought Malloy had come to arrest her. Why would she fear that unless she had done something wrong?

  Sarah shivered from a chill at the thought of what would happen if Rose Wolfe were accused of murdering Pendergast. And would she have killed Andy as well?

  And could Sarah help Grace protect her if she had?

  12

  Frank spent a few fruitless hours trying to run Pendergast’s cohorts to ground. The first three weren’t home, which ruined any advantage of surprise he might have had. He’d already known that once he spoke to one of the men, that one would warn the others, but now their servants would warn them, too, or at least warn them some strange man had been asking for them, which would put them on guard. If this last fellow wasn’t home, Frank would miss his opportunity to catch even one of them by surprise.

  Luckily, Issac Traynor was at home and, also luckily, he was curious enough about Frank to receive him. Frank had been hoping this fellow wasn’t the one who had discovered Andy’s body, and he wasn’t. Traynor stood in the middle of his well-appointed parlor, obviously ill at ease and trying to pretend he wasn’t.

  Just the way a man who was being blackmailed should look.

  He was younger than Frank had expected, not even forty yet, and he sported a luxurious mustache that was a shade darker than his honey-colored hair. He rubbed it as he stepped forward to greet Frank.

  “Mr. Malloy, a pleasure to meet you,” he said heartily, offering his hand.

  Frank shook it. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Traynor.”

  “Not at all. Whatever can I do for you, my good man? The girl said you were bringing me news from one of the members of my club.”

  “That’s right. Milo Pendergast.”

  Surprise and alarm flickered over Traynor’s rather florid face, but he recovered quickly. “Pendergast, is it? I . . . I must confess, I hardly know the man, so I can’t imagine why—”

  “You know him well enough, Traynor. You’ve attended his little ‘entertainments,’ so don’t pretend you’re innocent.”

  He flushed scarlet. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, I think I must ask you to leave.”

  Frank had no intention of leaving. “Don’t worry, I’m not here about that. I’m here investigating some blackmail. I understand Pendergast’s servant, Andy, contacted you asking for money.”

  “Blackmail? Heavens, no, I haven’t received any contact at all—”

  “I just wanted to know if you’d actually paid Andy any money, because if you have, I’ll make sure it is returned to you.”

  Traynor started blinking rapidly as he tried to make sense of what Frank was saying. “I . . . You’ll . . . return it?”

  “Then you did give him some money?”

  “Well, he seemed in a rather bad way. He told me Pendergast had died suddenly. It was a shock to me as well. And he wanted to go visit his elderly mother, so naturally, I . . . well, I thought I’d help him out. He’d always seemed like a nice fellow.”

  “Nice?” Frank asked with a frown. “That’s not what I’d heard about him.”

  “Well, a good servant to Pendergast, I mean.”

  “When did you see Andy?”

  “I . . . Well, let’s see, I think it was . . . yes, Monday afternoon, I believe. I received a note from him in the morning mail, and I . . . uh, I didn’t see any reason to delay. The sooner he had the means, the sooner he could see his poor old mother.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you wanted him to leave town as quickly as possible.” The sarcasm was lost on Traynor, though. “About what time was this?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I went from there straight to my club. It must have been around four when I got there. Why, what does it matter?”

  “It matters because somebody killed Andy that day.”

  “Killed him? Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “But I just saw him . . . Good heavens, you can’t think I had anything to do with that! He
was perfectly fine when I left him. And the money I paid him, he would’ve had that. It was over two hundred dollars. That will prove I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t have left the money if I’d killed him!”

  That made perfect sense to Frank, except: “We didn’t find any money on him.”

  “But you said you were going to return it!”

  “I lied about that.”

  Traynor started blinking again. “Really, what is this about?”

  “It’s about trying to figure out when Andy was murdered and who might’ve killed him. Oh, and who killed Pendergast, too, while I’m at it.”

  “I don’t know anything about that either!”

  “So you did know Pendergast was murdered.”

  “Andy’s letter said so. He even hinted that he knew who had killed Milo, but since it wasn’t me, I didn’t give it too much thought.”

  Now Frank was blinking. Joanna hadn’t mentioned that. Had Andy really known who had killed Pendergast? It seemed possible, but it also seemed foolish to say so if one of the men he was contacting was actually the killer, because what would stop him from coming to kill Andy, too? Of course, Frank already knew Andy hadn’t been very smart. On the other hand, if he really had known who the killer was, why would he have bothered to mention it to a man he knew was not the killer, like Traynor here? No, he wouldn’t have done that if he’d really known who the killer was. So he’d been guessing, hedging his bets. And tempting fate in baiting the killer.

  And wasting his time if the killer was a woman, since Andy probably hadn’t even tried to blackmail the women.

  “Mr. Traynor, did you happen to keep Andy’s letter?”

  “God, no! I burned it. Can’t have the servants finding something like that, can one? Next thing you know, they’ll be blackmailing me!”

  Taking note of the fact that Traynor had just admitted that he had been blackmailed, Frank managed not to sigh in frustration. “Can anyone verify the time you arrived at your club on Monday?”

  “I’m sure. The doorman would probably remember, and I saw several people there.” He named two of the men on Neth’s list and someone else Frank hadn’t heard of.