Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery)

by Victoria Thompson

  “What about Vernon Neth?” Frank remembered he had claimed to be at his club that night, too.

  “He was there, but he came after I did.”

  “What time?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Try to remember,” Frank suggested in his most menacing tone.

  “I, uh, it was about an hour after I arrived, I’d say.”

  “And did he stay long?”

  “I think he left when I did. Around ten, I believe.”

  So Andy had probably been alive when Traynor left him before four o’clock, because he had also probably been alive when Frank pounded on Pendergast’s door around five, because the doors were locked then. He would’ve been watching for his victims and deliberately hadn’t answered Frank’s knock. Frank remembered all too well the sensation of being watched that evening as he made his way around the house, trying the doors and windows. Andy had let someone else in the locked door at sometime after five, though—maybe more than one someone else—and one of those visitors had killed Andy and left the door unlocked when he fled.

  And Neth really had been at his club that evening, even though Joanna had claimed he’d been home with her.

  • • •

  Sarah couldn’t help thinking she would like to be anyplace except Rose Wolfe’s front steps as she rang the bell. She found that she no longer wanted to know who had killed Milo Pendergast and Andy, because she was pretty sure she did know, and she didn’t like it one bit. She didn’t have the luxury of walking away, however, because the police were probably going to arrest someone for the crime, and Sarah wanted to at least be able to protect the innocent.

  The maid ushered her right in this time, and put her in the front parlor to await Miss Wolfe.

  Rose Wolfe looked a bit better today. The color was returning to her face, and she had obviously slept a bit.

  “Mrs. Brandt, do you have news?” she asked as she hurried into the room.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I’m glad I told them to bring us some tea. Let’s sit down, and you can tell me while we wait.” She took her place beside Sarah on the sofa.

  “Andy is dead,” she said, seeing no reason to gloss over the facts. “Someone murdered him Monday night.”

  “How? Where?”

  Good. Rose didn’t know the details of his death. She felt a small sense of relief. “At Pendergast’s house on Monday. We think he’d returned there after the police had left.”

  “That makes sense. He wouldn’t have known where else to go.”

  “At any rate, he was trying to blackmail Pendergast’s friends.” She told Rose about the messages he’d sent and about Malloy finding his body after one of the men had gone into the house yesterday morning.

  “That sounds like something he would do.”

  “Tell me, Rose, did he send you one of those letters?”

  “Me? Why would he have tried to blackmail me? And how would he even know where I was?”

  “We thought, Mr. Malloy and I, that perhaps Andy had found all the letters Pendergast had received and that he might have found the addresses of the women he’d kidnapped and thought you’d be anxious to keep him from telling what had happened.”

  But Rose started shaking her head even before Sarah had finished. “I doubt he was smart enough to figure that out. Besides, how could he know who would be back at home?”

  “You’re probably right. I just needed to be sure because . . .” Sarah found herself reluctant to tell her the rest of the story.

  “Why, Mrs. Brandt? You can’t think you’ll shock me, not after what I’ve been through.”

  Sarah drew a deep breath. “The police think a woman killed Andy.”

  “Why? For the same reason they think we deserved to be kidnapped by Pendergast?” she snapped.

  “No, because Andy’s trousers were . . . were undone when he was stabbed in the abdomen.”

  Rose’s eyes widened.

  “So, you see,” Sarah continued doggedly, “they think a woman was there and Andy was planning to take advantage of her, so she stabbed him.”

  Rose’s frown was puzzled. “She just happened to bring a knife with her?”

  “It happened in the kitchen, and they think . . . well, they think it was the same knife that killed Pendergast, that his killer had brought it back or at least knew where to find it.”

  “Which means a woman must have killed Pendergast, too.”

  “I believe that is their reasoning, yes.”

  Rose continued to frown, and Sarah would have given a lot to know what she was thinking.

  “I’ve been to see Grace Livingston,” Sarah continued. “The woman who was there with you?”

  “Yes, I remember. You told me about her.”

  “She was quite traumatized by Pendergast’s death. She was standing in front of him when his throat was cut, so she was covered with his blood.”

  Rose flinched but she didn’t object, so Sarah continued.

  “She says she doesn’t remember what happened. She said . . . She especially asked me to tell you that she doesn’t remember what happened.”

  Sarah watched closely as Rose considered her words for a long moment. “And she wanted me to know? Me, particularly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Brandt, I should very much like to speak with Miss Livingston.”

  Before Sarah could answer, a knock signaled the arrival of the maid with their tea and also the arrival of Franchesca Wolfe, who came in behind the maid.

  “Mrs. Brandt, how nice to see you again. Don’t you think Rose looks much better today?”

  “Yes, she does.” Sarah knew better than to say more in front of a servant, so they waited until the girl had set the tray down and taken her leave.

  When the door was closed behind her, Franchesca took a nearby chair and began to pour tea for them. “Rose has told me a little,” she said as she handed Sarah a cup. She glanced at Rose, as if seeking silent permission for something, and when Rose did not object, she said, “She told me she was held as a prisoner and unable to leave. I know she was mistreated. Anyone can see she was mistreated.” She glanced at Rose again, this time with compassion. “But she won’t say more than that. I think you can imagine my anger and frustration, but she says the man responsible is dead.”

  “Yes, he is,” Sarah said.

  “And yet here you are again.” Franchesca handed Rose a cup. “You cannot be trying to enlist Rose’s help in bringing that horrible man to justice, so I must conclude that you are here for another reason.”

  “Mrs. Brandt is just concerned about my health,” Rose said.

  “Nonsense,” Franchesca said. “I know you think I’m some helpless female who needs to be coddled, but just because I was lucky enough to be born with a pretty face doesn’t mean I’m weak.”

  “I never thought you were,” Rose said.

  “Of course you did. You’re as bad as your brother. You’d both keep me wrapped in cotton wool and protected from every possible unpleasantness, but I’m not weak or helpless, Rose, and I won’t be crushed by your troubles. And I’m also not stupid, which means I might be able to help you sort out whatever it is that Mrs. Brandt came here to sort out.” She turned to Sarah, righteousness burning in her lovely eyes. “If Rose is in some sort of trouble, at least let me help with that.”

  Rose started to speak, but Sarah cut her off. “Let me tell it. As you know, the man who held Rose prisoner was murdered. The only people in the house at the time—at least that we know of—were Rose, another woman who was also being held prisoner, and the man’s servant, Andy.”

  Franchesca turned to Rose, but Rose refused to meet her gaze. “What about this other woman?” she asked Sarah after a moment.

  “She didn’t . . . Well, the police are fairly sure she didn’t kill
him.”

  “Then it must have been the servant,” Franchesca said.

  “Except that he has also been murdered.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “And it appears he was killed by a female.”

  “How can they possibly know that?”

  “Because,” Sarah continued doggedly, “his clothing was . . . It appeared he was in the process of taking advantage of her when she stabbed him.”

  “Then no one could blame her for that!”

  “And no one should blame whoever killed his employer either,” Sarah said. “Yet sometimes the world judges females by a different standard and seeks to punish them unjustly.”

  Franchesca really was smart. Sarah could see she instantly understood. “So we must protect Rose and . . . What about this other woman? Does she have family?”

  “Yes. Her father had hired Mr. Malloy to find her, which is how we became involved in the first place. She was present when Pendergast—that’s the man’s name—was killed. I was just telling Rose that she can’t remember what happened.”

  “Is that possible?” Franchesca asked. “I’d think something so horrible would be burned into your memory.”

  “If she says she can’t remember, I don’t think anyone can prove she can,” Sarah pointed out.

  Franchesca nodded, understanding immediately. “She’s going to protect”—she glanced at Rose—“whoever killed that horrible man.”

  “I can’t speak for her,” Sarah said. “I only know what she told me.”

  “But you don’t think that will be enough to keep the police from . . . from bothering Rose,” Franchesca said.

  “Mrs. Brandt,” Rose said, startling the other two women, “will you take me to see her?”

  “Really, Rose, do you think that’s wise?” Franchesca asked.

  “I don’t care if it’s wise or not. I need to speak with her. Will you take me?” she asked Sarah.

  “Of course. She might not want to see you, though,” Sarah said.

  “I think she will. Can we go now?”

  “Right now?” Francheca echoed.

  “I’ll need to change my dress, but yes, as soon as possible.” Rose was already on her feet. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  She left before either of her companions could even think to raise an objection. Franchesca turned to Sarah. “Please, let me help.”

  “I’m not sure what you can do, but if there’s anything . . .”

  “Will she need an attorney?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Then I’ll speak to one. I don’t think she wants me along on this visit, so I can do that this afternoon.”

  “What will your husband say about you consulting an attorney?” Sarah asked.

  “A lot, I’m sure, but none of it will be of any importance at all. Luckily, he’s in London on business, so he isn’t likely to find out until everything is settled. Oh, I cabled him the minute Rose turned up, and he’s on his way home, but I don’t expect him for days. In any case, he’ll want to protect Rose, too.”

  Rose was as good as her word and returned in a few minutes, dressed for the street. Sarah could see traces of the young woman she had been before Pendergast had gotten to her. Her skirt and bolero jacket were simple and plain over her slightly wrinkled shirtwaist, and she’d put on a hat several seasons out of style. Beneath it, her hair was a bit untidy, as if she had more important things to do than worry about her appearance. She looked like hundreds of other maiden aunts who lived off the generosity of their families and tended to other people’s children and lived and died alone because they lacked the beauty and charm to attract a husband. Not for the first time, Sarah felt the urge to cut Pendergast’s throat herself for the crime of betraying such a simple human need as wanting to be loved.

  “May we go?” Rose asked, pulling on her gloves. One finger, Sarah noticed, had been mended.

  “Of course.” Sarah preceded her out of the room, leaving Franchesca Wolfe to wish them good luck. Sarah resisted the urge to return the wish. Franchesca would be just fine.

  Out on the sidewalk, Sarah had to hurry to keep up with Rose’s long strides. She stood nearly a head taller than Sarah and probably taller than many men. Another strike against her. Rose shortened her steps when she noticed Sarah was having difficulty keeping up.

  “How are your feet?” Sarah asked, amazed that she seemed little the worse for her ordeal.

  “Better, but I probably shouldn’t walk very far.”

  “We’ll get a cab, then,” Sarah said as they reached the corner and, without a word, Rose raised her arm and hailed one. Obviously, her height could sometimes be an advantage.

  When they were in the cab, moving haltingly through the afternoon traffic, Rose said, “Tell me about Grace Livingston.”

  So Sarah told her everything she knew about Grace.

  “I hated her,” Rose said when she’d finished.

  “Hated her? Why?”

  “Because she didn’t stand up to that devil. I wanted her to refuse to . . . to obey him.” She stared out at the street as if trying to catch a glimpse of something not there.

  “She said he was punishing you.”

  “Yes. I . . . I was like her at first. I thought if I just did what he wanted, he would let me go, but . . . Well, he didn’t let me go, and it got worse and worse. I thought he might kill me if I rebelled, but by then, I didn’t care. I wanted him to kill me.”

  “Oh, Rose!”

  “I did, because I couldn’t stand the thought of being there for the rest of my life. If it was never going to end, I wanted to end it. Can you understand that?”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t think Franchesca would understand. I don’t want her to know I was a coward.”

  “You weren’t a coward! You were incredibly brave to defy him like that.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, I do! Don’t ever think you were a coward. Not many women could have endured what you did and come out stronger.”

  “I’m not stronger.”

  Sarah looked her straight in the eye. “Yes, you are.”

  As usual, they probably could have walked the distance to the hotel faster than the cab carried them, but at least they weren’t tired and Rose’s feet weren’t taxed.

  This time, Sarah didn’t stop at the front desk. She did glance over and saw the desk clerk who had challenged her earlier staring at her in surprise, but she spared him only a condescending glance before reaching the elevator.

  As they walked down the third floor hallway, Sarah noticed Rose fidgeting. It would be a wonder if she wasn’t nervous. She was about to confront a woman who may have seen her commit murder.

  Mr. Livingston answered their knock, obviously surprised to see Sarah back again. “News, Mrs. Brandt?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, no. May we come in?”

  Only then did he notice Rose Wolfe standing off to one side. “Oh, yes, of course.”

  Sarah introduced him to Rose, and when he realized who she was, he grew a bit flustered. Luckily, Grace emerged from her bedroom to distract him before he made everyone uncomfortable. She’d dressed in the meantime, although Mr. Livingston still wore his dressing gown and slippers. Her outfit was even plainer than Rose’s. She gazed at Rose for a long moment, then said, “You’re very tall.”

  “Grace,” her father scolded with a puzzled frown at such an odd remark. “Please come in and sit down.”

  Rose and Sarah sat on the sofa, while Grace and her father took the chairs. Grace and Rose never took their eyes off each other. They seemed to be communicating silently in some way, although Sarah couldn’t imagine what could be passing between them.

  Then Grace nodded, as if something had been decided between them, and turned to her father.
“Papa, would you mind leaving us? Perhaps you’d like to go for a walk or something.”

  He started to protest, but something in Grace’s expression stopped him. “Yes, of course. I . . . I’ll just be a few moments.”

  He went into the other bedroom and soon emerged wearing shoes and his suit coat. “I . . . I won’t be long,” he said with a worried frown.

  When he was gone, Sarah said, “I told Miss Wolfe that you said you couldn’t remember what happened when Pendergast was killed, and she asked me to bring her here so she could speak with you.”

  “What do you remember?” Rose asked.

  “I . . . Nothing,” Grace said firmly.

  “I’ll tell you what I remember, then,” Rose said. “I remember the house was quiet all morning. I heard Andy in the kitchen preparing dinner. He left the cellar door open so I would smell the food.”

  “Weren’t they feeding you?” Grace asked.

  “Of course not. You only got fed if you . . . cooperated.”

  Grace winced but said nothing.

  “Then it was quiet again. I don’t know how long. You can’t judge time down there in the dark, but a while. Then someone started pounding on the front door. Not knocking, pounding.”

  “I remember that, too,” Grace said, straightening in her chair.

  “He must have come inside or someone let him inside, because then I heard him shouting.”

  “Did you hear Pendergast shouting back?” Sarah asked.

  “No,” Grace said, surprising them. “He was . . . trying to calm him down, I think.”

  “Did you hear what they were saying?” Sarah asked.

  Grace looked at Rose, who said, “They must have gone upstairs. The man stopped shouting and I couldn’t hear them anymore.”

  Sarah turned to Grace. “What were they talking about?”

  “Me.”

  “You?” Rose said.

  Grace dropped her gaze to study her hands twisting in her lap.

  “The man was angry because Pendergast had tricked him,” Sarah guessed. “He said your father had followed him.”