“What time did she leave?”
“I didn’t pay attention to the exact time,” she said apologetically. “I had no idea it would be important.”
“How long was it after the young man left?”
“Not long,” she said, wrinkling her forehead as she tried to recall. “Not more than half an hour, I’d guess, although I can’t be perfectly sure.”
“Was it dark out when she left?”
“Certainly not. I never would have permitted her to go out after dark.”
“How was she dressed?” Sarah asked, earning a frown from Malloy for interrupting.
Mrs. Walcott looked surprised at the question. “I don’t think I noticed.”
“If you saw the clothes in her room, could you tell which ones are missing?” Sarah asked.
Mrs. Walcott considered. “Probably.”
“What difference does it make what she was wearing?” Malloy asked irritably.
Sarah ignored him. “Could we go up to her room to look?”
Mrs. Walcott looked to Malloy for his approval, irritating Sarah in turn, but she supposed he was in charge. He nodded grudgingly, and they all rose. Mrs. Walcott led the way out into the hall and up the stairs.
Malloy grabbed Sarah’s arm, holding her back. “What difference does it make what she was wearing?” he asked in a whisper. “We could ask the coroner that.”
“Isn’t this a better way to get into her room than asking permission to search it?” she asked sweetly.
All she got in reply was a grunt, but he released her arm and allowed her to follow the landlady.
Upstairs, Mrs. Walcott was waiting for them outside the closed door, as if reluctant to enter without them. “I haven’t disturbed anything in here. It . . . it didn’t seem right. I’d be happy to send her things to her family, but I don’t believe she had any.”
She pushed open the door to the room and stepped aside for Sarah to enter. Malloy stood in the open doorway with Mrs. Walcott, watching her.
The room looked like thousands of others just like it all over the city. The furniture was cheap and worn. A metal bedstead dominated the small space. It had been carelessly made, the coverlet lying crooked. Some clothes hung on pegs along one wall. A dresser stood nearby, and a wash-stand occupied the opposite corner. A small, battered trunk sat at the foot of the bed.
Sarah began by examining the garments hanging on the pegs.
“Did you know that Nelson Ellsworth was paying Anna’s rent?” Malloy asked the landlady while they watched Sarah.
“Good heavens, no!” She sounded thoroughly shocked.
“How did you think she managed, since she didn’t have a job?” he asked curiously.
“She had an inheritance,” Mrs. Walcott said. “At least, that’s what she gave me to believe. Mr. Ellsworth was managing it for her. He worked at a bank, I believe. That’s why he’d taken an interest in her.”
“And what about Mr. Giddings?” Malloy asked.
“What about him?”
“He was giving her money, too. Who did you think he was, her rich uncle?”
Mrs. Walcott took offense at his tone. “He was her attorney,” she sniffed indignantly. “They had matters of business to discuss about her mother’s estate.”
Mrs. Walcott was either stupid or lying, Sarah thought as she took a mental inventory of Anna Blake’s wardrobe. Sarah saw the girlish gingham dress Anna had been wearing the one time they had met and another that was apparently her “good” dress, the one she would have saved for special occasions. She also had a black bombazine skirt and matching jacket, which would have done for almost any occasion. A fringed paisley shawl hung on one of the hooks, and Sarah fingered it, impressed by its quality. Probably a gift from a besotted admirer, she thought. Beside it hung a fancy hat, probably the one she saved for “good,” and another, less ornate one, for everyday wear. What hat would she have been wearing when she went out? It seemed unlikely she’d own more than two.
The dresser drawers held extra pairs of undergarments and stockings, two waists, and a nightdress. A comb and brush lay on the dresser, and a glass bowl held extra hairpins. Oddly enough, the bottom drawer of the dresser held a case of some kind. Sarah glanced at Mrs. Walcott to see how closely she was being watched and if the other woman would offer some objection to her examining it.
Mrs. Walcott frowned when Sarah drew the case out of the drawer, but she didn’t object when she opened it. To her surprise, Sarah discovered it contained a wide variety of face paint, far more than a respectable woman would ever need to own. Anna Blake had a more interesting background than she had led anyone to believe. She glanced at Malloy to make sure he’d seen the contents of the case before closing it and returning it to its proper place.
Lastly, she opened the trunk. As she had suspected, this contained Anna’s winter clothing. A heavy wool cape and a rabbit fur muff lay on top. Beneath them were several woolen skirts and some jackets, a flannel petticoat, and a knitted scarf, nothing very intriguing.
Sarah caught Malloy’s eye again. “Would you like to look around?”
He did, of course, and he was less discreet. Without asking for leave, he took the corner of the mattress and lifted it up to peer underneath. Then he picked up the pillows and pulled back the covers. He pulled out the drawers again and felt beneath them, in case something had been stuck to the bottoms. With calm efficiency, he searched all remaining crannies of the room and found nothing.
Except for the face paint, the room contained not one hint that Anna Blake was anything other than she had appeared to be. And of course, there were no letters or diaries giving more insight into her background or helpfully naming her killer.
Sarah turned to Mrs. Walcott. “Can you tell what she was wearing that night?”
The landlady looked at the clothing again. “She had a brown dress, I think. Yes, I believe that’s what she was wearing. At least, that’s all I can tell is missing.”
Something had been bothering Sarah about Anna’s wardrobe. Now she realized what it was, but she said nothing. Her theory could wait until she and Malloy were alone.
“What did this young man look like?” Malloy asked Mrs. Walcott. “The one who called on Anna the night she died.”
“Very ordinary. Tall and thin, the way boys are before they mature.”
“How was he dressed?”
“He looked like a laborer. His clothes were coarse and dirty, although his manners were good. He was very polite to me, although he was impatient to see Anna.”
“Was he polite to Anna?” Malloy inquired.
Mrs. Walcott looked away. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but . . .”
“Anna wasn’t polite to him?” Malloy guessed.
“She was angry with him for some reason, from the instant she saw him. As I said, they argued, and he left rather quickly after that, slamming the door behind him. And then, as I said, Anna left also.” She seemed to realize something suddenly. “Oh, dear, do you suppose . . . ?”
“Suppose what?” Malloy asked with interest.
“That young man, he could have waited for her or seen her leaving. He could have followed her and started quarreling with her again,” she said, shaking her head. “I never should have let her leave the house that night.” With a graceful gesture, she pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes, even though Sarah saw no visible tears.
Malloy ushered Sarah out of Anna’s room, and Mrs. Walcott closed the door behind them.
“Is there any other way I can assist you?” Mrs. Walcott asked as they made their way down the stairs.
Malloy waited until they had reached the front hallway before replying. “I can’t think of anything . . . Oh, wait, there was something. One of your neighbors said she heard your cellar door opening late that night. Could you explain that?”
Mrs. Walcott blinked in surprise and looked a bit nonplussed. “Yes, I can, although it’s a bit embarrassing. And it can’t have anything at
all to do with Anna’s death. You see, my maid has been complaining about an odor in the cellar. She thought some small animal had died down there, although we couldn’t find anything. I opened the cellar door in an attempt to air it out.”
“In the middle of the night?” Malloy asked skeptically.
“It wasn’t the middle of the night,” she said, waving such a thought away with her handkerchief. “I did wait until full dark, though. Leaving one’s cellar door open in the daylight is simply inviting someone to sneak in and steal something. I didn’t think anyone would see that it was open in the dark, though.”
Malloy nodded. “Did the odor go away?”
“No, but I asked my husband to spread some lime, and that helped. I’m afraid the poor dead creature is in one of the walls. We’re just going to have to wait for nature to take its course, I suppose.”
Sarah and Malloy took their leave, although Sarah was loath to go out. The sky looked even more threatening than before, and the wind was picking up. She hoped she could get home before the storm broke. And how would she get to her parents’ house tonight without getting soaked? She didn’t want to look like a drowned rat when she was trying to convince Mr. Dennis not to dismiss Nelson Ellsworth from the bank. But of course, she had no choice about going out. Mrs. Walcott certainly wasn’t going to invite her to stay.
As soon as they were safely away from the house, Sarah let Malloy know how displeased she was. “How long were you questioning her before I arrived?”
He gave her a measuring look, although she could see the amused glimmer in his dark eyes. “I’d only just gotten there myself. Do you think I’d presume to do my job without your assistance, Mrs. Brandt?”
She decided not to press the issue, since they both knew she had no right to assist him at all. “Did you see that case of face paint in Anna’s room?”
“Yes. What would she have done with something like that?”
“Painted her face, obviously,” Sarah said, “although she wasn’t painted when I saw her, at least not noticeably. I doubt someone who was would have appealed to Nelson, in any case. Anna’s allure was her apparent youthful innocence and helplessness. Only a prostitute would need that kind of paint for her face.”
“Do you think she was a prostitute before she met Nelson?”
Sarah considered. “If she was, she must have been a high-class one. She had a gentility about her that you don’t see in street walkers.”
“High-class whores don’t paint their faces like the street walkers do, either,” Malloy informed her, “for the same reason Anna Blake didn’t.”
“I bow to your more extensive experience in such matters,” Sarah couldn’t resist saying. “But then why would she need so much paint? It had obviously been used a lot, so she must have needed it at some time in her life.”
“What other kind of women paint their faces?” Malloy asked, thinking aloud.
The answer was so obvious, Sarah felt foolish. “Actresses!”
“Stage actresses,” Malloy agreed. “Could she have been an actress?”
“Of course, it makes perfect sense!” Sarah cried in triumph. “And I’d forgotten, Catherine Porter was an actress, too. The maid mentioned it, and she admitted it. Anna—and probably Catherine, too—was pretending to be an innocent girl, telling Nelson and Giddings outrageous lies but making them believe her stories. She was so convincing, they never doubted her for a moment, either!”
“To the point where Giddings was willing to jeopardize everything he had to take care of her.”
“Exactly! That’s how she could be so convincing. In fact, I remember thinking the first time I met her that Nelson had gotten himself into a melodrama.”
“Actresses aren’t generally known for their strict moral standards, either,” Malloy remarked.
“So they wouldn’t mind the necessary seduction,” Sarah said, deciding she’d better get hold of her hat before it blew right off her head.
“Or the lying,” Malloy said, holding on to his own hat. “And in Nelson’s case, at least, I don’t think the seduction even happened.”
“What?”
Malloy gave her a sideways glance. “There was only one . . . uh, incident. Nelson was overcome by drink at the time, and he doesn’t actually remember what happened.”
“If he was overcome with drink, nothing could have happened,” Sarah pointed out indignantly.
Malloy frowned in disapproval. She supposed he didn’t think she should know such an obviously masculine secret. “Our Mr. Ellsworth doesn’t seem to be aware of that.”
“If he doesn’t remember, then what makes him think he did anything?” Sarah demanded.
“Miss Blake told him all about it. Tearfully.”
Sarah groaned. “How could he be so stupid?”
“I’m afraid that’s a mystery I don’t have any hope of solving, so I’m going to content myself with just trying to figure out who killed her.”
“If she was an actress, at least we can find out some more about her. Someone will know her at the theaters. We could ask around.”
“Why?” Malloy asked with another frown.
“She might have had enemies before she ever met Nelson,” Sarah suggested hopefully. “There might be dozens of people she knew before who wanted her dead.”
Malloy gave her a pitying look.
“But it’s not very likely, is it?” Sarah admitted.
Malloy shrugged. “There’s always a chance. But I think Giddings is a better chance. He had very good reason to want Anna Blake dead.”
“Except he didn’t act like a killer that day he came to the house looking for her. He was genuinely distraught when he found out she was dead.”
“Or maybe he’s as good an actor as Anna Blake. He wasn’t home when I went to his house, so I didn’t get a chance to question him any more. I’ll try again tomorrow, and if he’s not home, I’ll find him this time.”
Sarah remembered something else. “Who do you think the young man was who visited Anna that night?”
“I think it was Giddings’s son, Harold. He knew about Anna, and he wasn’t happy about her. His family lost everything because of her. When Giddings got caught stealing from his law firm, he had to sell everything he owned to repay the debt, including their furniture.”
Sarah winced. “How humiliating. His wife must be devastated.”
“She’s hiding it pretty well, trying to keep up a good front for the boy, I guess. But she’s got to hate Anna Blake, too.”
“Oh, my, do you think Mrs. Giddings could be the killer?” Sarah asked with genuine interest.
“Women commit murder, too,” he reminded her.
She knew that only too well. “Did Mrs. Giddings strike you as a murderess?”
“Not really, but you can never tell about that kind of woman. They’re good at hiding their real feelings.”
Sarah could have given him a thousand examples of women of all kinds who were good at that, but she didn’t bother. “Mrs. Giddings probably wouldn’t have been out in the evening alone, though,” Sarah said, “and certainly not in Washington Square.”
“Anna wasn’t killed in the Square.”
“What do you mean? That’s where she was found,” Sarah reminded him.
“The coroner also told me that she walked a ways after she was stabbed. He could tell by the way she’d bled on her dress. She was stabbed somewhere else and was probably trying to get back home to get help when she collapsed in the Square.”
“So she could have been stabbed anywhere,” Sarah said, trying to figure out what this might mean. “Even someplace where she might have met Mrs. Giddings.”
“Or her son,” Malloy said.
Washington Square was just across the street, but they had to wait for a break in the steady stream of carriages and wagons to give them an opportunity to cross. The wind had started to stir up clouds of dust and dirt, and Sarah began to think this might not be an ordinary storm. While they stood there, squinting their
eyes against the gritty wind, they heard someone calling Malloy’s name.
Malloy muttered something under his breath that might have been a curse when he turned and saw who was running toward them. “Even God took a day of rest, Prescott,” he grumbled when the gangly reporter reached them.
“I went to the boarding house where Miss Blake lived, and they said you’d just been there,” Webster Prescott said. He was breathless from running, and his fair face had pinkened from the exertion. He looked like a very tall child who had been chasing his hoop in the street. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Brandt,” he added with a gesture that might have been a tip of his straw hat if he hadn’t been struggling to hold it on his head. “How nice to see you again.”
Sarah could see the speculation in his eyes, but she wasn’t about to confirm or deny anything about her relationship with Malloy, especially when she had no idea in what direction he might be speculating. “It’s nice to see you, too, Mr. Prescott. I’ve been wanting to have a word with you about that story you wrote about Mr. Ellsworth,” she added grimly.
He didn’t seem to sense her anger. “My editor was very pleased with it, too. We sold out of last night’s edition, and I ran a longer piece this morning. Now I need some more information, and I thought I might get it from Miss Blake’s landlady.”
“But she sent you packing,” Malloy guessed.
Prescott wouldn’t admit such a thing. “She said you had just questioned her and warned her against speaking to the press.” He managed to appear offended.
“And you thought you’d get some information out of me?” Malloy asked incredulously.
Prescott smiled guilelessly. “No, but I thought Mrs. Brandt might be willing to share some with me.”
“I certainly am not!” Sarah informed him. “I told you Nelson Ellsworth was innocent, and you twisted everything I said to make him sound guiltier than ever!”
“But after what I revealed about Anna Blake, he’ll never be convicted,” Prescott argued. “Most of the other papers have also started reporting that Anna Blake was a seductress who tried to ruin Ellsworth. By the time he goes to trial, there won’t be a man in the city who’d judge him guilty.”
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