Murder on Washington Square

by Victoria Thompson

  Giddings had the grace to flush and look ashamed. Frank enjoyed his humiliation for a moment before returning to the business at hand.

  “Did she ask you to divorce your wife and marry her?” he asked.

  “My wife would never consent to a divorce. The scandal . . .”

  “Your wife wouldn’t have to consent, and we both know it, Giddings,” Frank said brutally. “You didn’t want a divorce because the scandal would hurt your business.”

  “I have a son to think of,” Giddings tried. “I couldn’t ruin his life.”

  “So you paid her off,” Frank guessed.

  “Her demands were small at first. She had simple needs, she said. But then . . .”

  “Then she found out she was with child,” Frank supplied.

  Giddings looked up in genuine terror. “I couldn’t allow my family to find out! Or my partners! Our clients wouldn’t tolerate immoral behavior from a member of the firm.”

  “So you paid her to keep silent.”

  “But it was never enough! She kept wanting more and more. She thought I was rich, but I’m not. I earn a comfortable living, but I have a family to support and a home and servants and—”

  “Where did you get the extra money, then?” Frank asked.

  He rubbed his forehead again. Thinking about all of this was obviously painful for him. “I did nothing illegal,” he said after a moment.

  “Would other people agree with that?” Frank asked mildly.

  Giddings pressed his lips together until they turned white, refusing to reply.

  “Well, then, suppose you tell me what law firm employs you so I can find out if they agree that you didn’t do anything illegal.”

  “They’ll tell you nothing,” he insisted. “Attorneys know they don’t have to tell the police anything.”

  This was true, much to the frustration of the police, but Frank figured he’d try anyway. If they were angry enough at Giddings, they might just enjoy betraying him. Or maybe someone at the firm enjoyed good old-fashioned gossip.

  “Where were you night before last?” Frank asked.

  Giddings refused to meet Frank’s eye. “At home in bed, I’m sure.”

  “You can prove that?”

  “I don’t have to prove it!”

  “You do if I decide to charge you with Anna Blake’s murder,” Frank said. “Now do you have any witnesses that you were home all night?”

  “My . . . my wife,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “Then I’m sure she’ll be glad to vouch for you.”

  From the expression on Giddings’s face, Frank could see that he wasn’t sure his wife would do any such thing. If she were angry enough, she might even lie to implicate him. Of course, if she was as afraid of scandal as Frank figured she was, she’d probably lie to protect him, no matter how much she hated him for betraying her. And there was always the issue of financial security to consider. If Giddings went to prison or was executed, who would support his wife? Many women would resign themselves to living with an unfaithful murderer if the alternative was starvation.

  “Is it really necessary for you to talk to my wife?” Giddings asked.

  “I could wait a few days to see if we find the killer . . . assuming, of course, that it isn’t you.”

  “I would appreciate such a consideration,” Giddings said with surprising meekness for an attorney.

  “Do you have a card? So I can get in touch with you,” Frank asked. A printed card would have Giddings’s true address on it, so he wouldn’t have to take the man’s word. He didn’t want to lose him now that he’d had the good fortune to find him.

  Giddings fished around absently in his coat pocket and produced an engraved business card for Smythe, Masterson and Judd, Attorneys at Law. Impressive-sounding name, but Frank didn’t recognize it, which meant they probably didn’t involve themselves in criminal prosecutions.

  “May I go now?” Giddings asked.

  “Are you going to tell your wife that your mistress is dead?” Frank asked. “I’m sure she’ll be very relieved.”

  Giddings refused to reply. He had a little pride left.

  But Frank had no more patience. “Get out of here,” he said, and Giddings fled.

  Sarah waited until Malloy had safely led Mr. Giddings into the bedroom and closed the door before emerging from the parlor. She thought perhaps Mr. Walcott had forgotten about her in all the excitement. Indeed, he looked surprised when she said, “Do you mind if I use your convenience?”

  He needed a moment to place her and another to register her request. At least he didn’t seem overly embarrassed by it. “I . . . of course not. It’s . . .” He gestured vaguely toward the back of the house.

  Sarah thanked him and breathed a silent sigh of relief that the house apparently didn’t have an indoor convenience, since she only needed an excuse to go wandering around the rear of the house alone. She made her way quickly down the hallway to the kitchen, where she had expected to find the maid. Instead she found Catherine Porter. She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea. At the sight of Sarah, she frowned.

  “Are you looking for something?” she asked.

  Before Sarah could answer, the maid came slamming in the back door. “I’m telling you, I ain’t going back into that cellar until Mr. Walcott does something about that smell! It’s a dead rat, I’m that sure,” she was saying, and then she saw Sarah and caught herself up short. “Something I can do for you, miss?”

  Sarah smiled at her good fortune at finding both of them together. “I was going to ask if you could help me find Miss Porter,” she said. “Do you mind if I sit down with you for a few minutes?” she asked Catherine.

  “Oh, no, miss,” the maid answered for her, to Catherine’s obvious annoyance. “Could I get you some tea?” She was young and apparently inexperienced. Sarah could probably get her to talk easily. Catherine Porter, on the other hand, already looked suspicious.

  “I would love some tea,” Sarah said, undaunted, taking a seat at the table.

  Catherine Porter looked at her through weary, red-rimmed eyes. Her face was drawn and dark circles had formed beneath her eyes. She’d pulled her thick, dark hair carelessly back with a tattered ribbon. Her dress was old and faded, one she would have saved for wearing around the house. She fingered the worn collar self-consciously when she saw Sarah looking at it.

  “You’re that woman who came with Mr. Ellsworth the other day,” Catherine said as the maid poured Sarah’s tea. “Are you his wife?”

  Sarah realized that, like Anna Blake, Catherine Porter was also older than her usual manner of dress would indicate. Certainly old enough to be feeling the urgency to marry before her looks faded along with her chances of catching a suitable husband. If that was actually her goal.

  “Oh, no, I’m not his wife,” Sarah said. “He’s a neighbor of mine, and he’d asked me to meet Miss Blake.”

  “I guess his wife’s too upset to even think about coming around here,” Catherine said.

  “She would be, if she existed, but Mr. Ellsworth isn’t married,” Sarah said, a little confused.

  “He’s not?” Catherine seemed genuinely surprised, and then grew even more suspicious. “Did he send you here? What do you want from me? I don’t know anything about Anna.”

  “Mr. Ellsworth didn’t send me,” Sarah reassured her. “I just came to express my condolences,” she lied. “What a terrible tragedy.”

  Catherine’s lips tightened, but she didn’t reply.

  “Oh, it was that,” the maid offered, setting the teacup down in front of Sarah. She remained standing, probably thinking it too familiar to sit down with Sarah there. “We was just a minute ago saying how awful it was. Miss Blake was so pretty. The gentlemen all liked her, that’s certain.”

  “Gentlemen?” Sarah asked, surprised that Anna’s suitors had apparently been numerous. “Did Miss Blake have other gentlemen callers besides Mr. Ellsworth and that fellow who came in just now?”

  �
��She—”

  “Hush, Mary,” Catherine snapped, cutting the girl off. Then to Sarah, “She’s just a foolish girl. Don’t know what she’s saying.”

  “I do, too,” Mary protested, but fell silent when Catherine glared at her in warning.

  “The thing that puzzles me the most,” Sarah continued, wishing now that she’d caught the talkative maid alone. She’d have to come back another time, “is why she was in the Square so late at night. Was she accustomed to going out alone like that?”

  “Of course not,” Catherine said defensively. They all knew only a prostitute would have been in the Square alone after dark.

  “Then do you know what made her go out that night?”

  “No, we don’t know anything,” Catherine insisted. “Mary only works days, so she wasn’t here, and I was asleep. First thing I knew about it is when the police came in the morning to tell us she was dead.”

  “The patrolman recognized her,” Mary supplied. “He come to tell the Walcotts.”

  “How did the patrolman happen to know her?” Sarah asked.

  “He knows all the girls,” Catherine said quickly, before the maid could answer. “Fancies himself a ladies’ man. He’s forever bothering us.”

  Sarah made a mental note to have Malloy check this out. Maybe Anna Blake had come to the notice of the police in a less ordinary way. “It’s fortunate he knew her. Her body might have gone unclaimed otherwise.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Walcott would’ve been looking for her if she didn’t come home,” Mary said. “She wasn’t one to let her boarders go disappearing without a trace. All her clothes was here, too, so we’d know she didn’t just run away, wouldn’t we?”

  Catherine gave the maid an impatient glance. Plainly, she was afraid the girl was going to say something she didn’t want Sarah to hear. For her part, Sarah was determined to find out what that might be.

  “How long did you know Miss Blake?” Sarah asked Catherine.

  Catherine considered her answer before giving it. “A few months.”

  “You met her when she moved in here, then?” Sarah guessed.

  “No, when I did. She was already here.”

  “I thought she hadn’t lived here long herself.”

  “She was here when I came,” Catherine said, not really answering the implied question.

  “Didn’t you two know each other before?” Mary asked and was silenced by another dark look from Catherine.

  Yes, Sarah really would have to come back when the maid was alone. “I certainly hope this tragedy won’t frighten your friends away, Miss Porter,” Sarah tried.

  As she had hoped, this got a rise out of her. “What do you mean by that?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I simply meant that people who normally call here might be concerned about the notoriety. The newspapers haven’t been kind to poor Mr. Ellsworth. Few people would want to risk being associated with a scandal like this.”

  “Oh, Miss Porter’s gentlemen would never—” Mary began, but Catherine cut her off with a murderous glare. How interesting. Miss Porter had numerous callers, too.

  “They’ve put Mr. Ellsworth in jail now,” Catherine said. “We won’t be hearing anything more about it.”

  “Oh, Mr. Ellsworth wasn’t arrested,” Sarah corrected her. “He was allowed to go home last night. The police don’t believe he’s guilty.” This wasn’t exactly a lie. Malloy, at least, didn’t think he was guilty.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Catherine asked in dismay. “Who else could’ve done it?”

  “Anyone,” Sarah pointed out. “At that time of night, she might have been murdered just for the few coins in her purse.”

  “But she didn’t even have her purse with her,” Mary supplied helpfully. “It’s still up in her room.”

  “Mary,” Catherine snapped. “Don’t you have work to do upstairs?”

  “I ain’t going up there until that policeman leaves,” Mary said. “I don’t want him putting me in jail!”

  “Oh, Mary, at least act like you’ve got good sense!” Catherine said in exasperation.

  “I can’t be nothing else but what I am,” Mary replied huffily. “I ain’t no stage actress like you.”

  Furious, Catherine made as if to rise from her chair, and Sarah didn’t want to see where that might lead. “Are you an actress?” she asked quickly, drawing Catherine’s attention from the poor maid. “Would I have seen you in anything?”

  As Sarah had hoped, she sank back down into her chair. “I did a little musical theater,” she admitted reluctantly, still glaring at Mary, daring her to say another word. “But that was a long time ago.”

  When she was truly the young girl she pretended to be, Sarah thought, but she said, “How exciting. I always thought it would be fun to be in the theater.”

  “It isn’t,” Catherine said. Sarah thought she detected bitterness in the words.

  She wanted to pursue this topic, but footsteps in the hallway distracted them, and then Mr. Walcott appeared in the doorway.

  “Mrs. Brandt,” he said, taking in the scene with disapproval. “I was afraid you’d gotten lost.”

  “Not at all. I was just telling Miss Porter how sorry I am about her friend.”

  Mr. Walcott exchanged a glance with Catherine, but Sarah couldn’t decipher the silent message that passed between them. “That detective was asking after you, Mrs. Brandt,” he said. “I believe he wanted to escort you home.”

  Sarah knew perfectly well Malloy had no such intention, but they did need to compare notes. She would have liked to stay and question the women some more, but she’d have to come back when they weren’t together if she hoped to get any more information.

  “Thank you for the tea,” Sarah said to Mary, then turned to Catherine. “Please let me know if I can do anything for you.” She pulled out her card and laid it on the table. Catherine Porter didn’t even glance at it. She was too busy watching Mr. Walcott.

  “After you, Mrs. Brandt,” Walcott said, with a flourish that was an oddly effeminate gesture. The eyes that glared at her were hardly effeminate, though. She’d seen that expression before and knew better than to waste her time resisting. Mr. Walcott wanted her out of his house, and he wasn’t going to be distracted from his purpose. She preceded him down the hallway.

  At least she had a little new information for Malloy. She only hoped it would help them find Anna Blake’s real killer.

  5

  “THE MAID ONLY WORKS IN THE DAY, AND CATHERINE claims she was asleep when Anna left the house. She doesn’t have any idea what made her do it,” Sarah reported as she and Malloy walked back toward Washington Square. “Oh, and she must have left in a hurry because she didn’t take her purse with her. What did you learn from that fellow, what’s his name?”

  “Giddings.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Gilbert Giddings.”

  “He’s an attorney?” she asked, shamelessly peering at the card.

  Malloy stuffed it back into his pocket and pretended to be annoyed. “So he says,” Malloy said.

  “And he was also one of Anna Blake’s gentlemen friends,” she said when he offered nothing else.

  “One of many, apparently,” Malloy allowed.

  “Was he giving her money, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Sarah gave him an impatient look. “Malloy, you are the most insufferable . . . Do I have to give you the third degree to get information out of you?”

  This ridiculous threat brought a small grin to Malloy’s face, but he said, “There’s nothing much to tell. Anna Blake told him some cock-and-bull story about how an uncle cheated her out of her inheritance—”

  “But her mother was destitute when she died,” Sarah protested.

  “Not according to Giddings.”

  “That’s a different story than the one she told Nelson.”

  “She needed a different story because she needed a different reason to go to an attorney than to a banker,” he pointed out. “Giddings took p
ity on her, gave her some money, and the next thing you know, she’s in a family way and needing more money than he can afford to give her.”

  “Didn’t he offer to marry her?”

  Malloy gave her a pitying look. “He’s already married.”

  “Oh,” Sarah said, then remembered something. “Catherine Porter thought Nelson was married. She seemed very surprised to find out he wasn’t. Wouldn’t you think if a man was calling on a woman, you’d expect him to be single, not the other way around?”

  “Unless you were planning to blackmail him.”

  “Blackmail?” Sarah echoed in amazement.

  “Yes, blackmail. That’s what Anna Blake was doing to Giddings, and what she was probably trying to do to Nelson, but it wasn’t going to work. Nelson wanted to marry her, not pay her off for her silence, the way Giddings was.”

  “If that’s what she wanted to do, then why did she choose a bachelor like Nelson?”

  Malloy shrugged. “Maybe she thought he was married. Catherine Porter apparently did.”

  Sarah tried to make sense of it. “I guess we can ask Nelson.”

  “We certainly can’t ask Anna Blake,” Malloy pointed out blandly.

  Sarah ignored this provocation. “What did Mr. Walcott have to contribute?”

  “Not much. He was out of town when Anna Blake was killed. Says he spends very little time at the house. He’s too busy spending his wife’s inheritance to bother with the comings and goings of her boarders.”

  This didn’t make sense either. “If she has an inheritance, why do they take in boarders?”

  “It wasn’t much, I gathered. Not enough to support them and pay for Walcott’s travels, at least. And he claims his wife likes cooking and cleaning for other people.”

  Sarah made a rude noise at such a preposterous notion. “I’ll be interested to hear her side of that story. Where was she today?”

  “Shopping, he said. I’ll go back another time and talk to her. What’s she like?”

  Sarah considered. “Well groomed and nosy.”

  Malloy raised his eyebrows at this assessment. “Your powers of observation amaze me, Mrs. Brandt. How would you describe Mr. Walcott?”