In the Shadow of Gotham

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  “But I can’t imagine how any administrative work for the dean would connect her to Fromley,” Alistair said. “At our research center, we have absolutely no dealings with the dean’s office, other than the usual requests for grants and funding throughout the year. While you might find Fromley’s name in the text of a funding request, to my knowledge, he has never been to the dean’s office or become acquainted with anyone there.”

  It made no sense, but then so little did.

  After catching my train home to Dobson, I reviewed the paperwork in the case file until the wee hours of the morning, working through my exhaustion. I hoped Alistair was doing the same; he had promised me he would thoroughly review the Fromley files that night in search of any mundane references to Fromley’s habits. I needed to know more about his lifestyle—for though he had vanished into the depths of the city, even someone like him couldn’t disappear forever.

  The missing women were our best hope, I decided. Tomorrow I would focus my efforts toward locating Stella Gibson and Clara Murphy—both of whom apparently had seen Fromley in the hours before their disappearance. Then I collapsed into a heavy, dreamless sleep that lasted until a pounding on the door and Joe’s voice calling my name ushered in the next morning.

  CHAPTER 11

  The sharp rapping at my door grew louder, almost matching the intensity of the pounding in my head.

  “Late night?” Joe observed with raised eyebrows, after I managed to stagger to the door and let him in.

  “Guess you could say that,” I acknowledged uncomfortably. My voice, I knew, sounded raspy and tired. Odd how my body reacted to the combination of stress and sleep deprivation much in the same way it would a thoroughgoing hangover. I observed Joe sniffing my clothes, trying to be discreet but failing entirely, as he tried to ascertain any signs of a night spent drinking. Had he found them, I had little doubt but that he would have attempted to convince the mayor I was guilty of some dereliction of duty. I wondered if he would ever give up seeking excuses to get rid of me.

  “Coffee?” I offered, heading toward my small kitchen to perform what was invariably my first task of the morning. The strong aroma of the fresh beans invigorated me as I turned my hand-crank grinder. Joe accepted, and I spooned the ground coffee into the filter of my metal press pot. After adding boiling water, I retreated to my bedroom to get ready for the day while the coffee and water steeped. Meanwhile, Joe sat on the small gray sofa in my sitting area, listening carefully as I shared the details of the previous day with Alistair.

  Though he listened completely—and remarkably for Joe, without judgment—I anticipated his skeptical response. “That’s quite a theory your new friend has expounded. I admit there’s a logical reason to further investigate the Fromley boy, but I don’t like all this twaddle about daydreams and fantasies. I’d feel more comfortable if there were even a shred of hard evidence to connect Fromley with the Wingate girl.” And with that simple desire he succinctly voiced my own doubts.

  “I know,” I said. “But from the people we spoke with yesterday, it’s clear Michael Fromley is both violent and deeply troubled. When you put that together with the remarkable coincidences that Alistair claims, then the implications are unsettling. Besides,” I reminded him, “we have no evidence pointing to a different suspect.”

  “Well, there was some progress here yesterday,” Joe said. “We got the results from those fingerprints you took at the Wingate home. They were viable prints that did not match those of anyone within the Wingate household.”

  I looked at him sharply; since Joe was so adamantly opposed to fingerprinting, I had expected to have to call the laboratory myself to learn the results.

  “If I can locate a personal item we know to be Fromley’s,” I said, “then it will show whether the prints are a match.” It would be a relief to have a solid evidentiary link between Fromley and this murder.

  “Also, I spoke again with Miss Abigail. She believes the money you found under Sarah’s mattress belongs to Mrs. Wingate.”

  “But she’s not sure?”

  Joe sighed. “Apparently Mrs. Wingate is in the habit of hiding money all over the house, then forgetting all about it. Miss Abigail finds money everywhere—in clothes pockets, in between the pages of books, even underneath cups in the china cabinet. There’s no reason to believe the money under the mattress is any different.”

  No reason, except that a young woman had been brutally murdered within four feet of it. As such, it was evidence I did not want to discount—at least not yet.

  Joe was primarily worried, however, on a different count: When he had left the Wingate residence late yesterday, their housemaid Stella remained missing. “The girl probably learned of the murder, got spooked, and ran away to be with friends or family,” he said. “But Miss Abigail insists something is seriously wrong.”

  “It’s possible Stella witnessed the murder itself,” I said.

  “Sure,” Joe said. “But then why didn’t she say anything to the Wingates about it? She just disappeared.”

  I shrugged. “People who have witnessed terrible things sometimes behave completely out of character.”

  I did not mention that I, too, urgently wished to find Stella. But with that goal in mind, we would speak with Mrs. Virginia Wingate first thing this morning.

  Virginia Wingate sat ramrod straight on a wooden chair, her niece hovering protectively in the rocker next to her.

  Abigail Wingate had opposed this interview; worried as she was about Stella’s disappearance, she was even more concerned about her aunt’s fragile mental state.

  “You don’t understand,” she had whispered into the telephone when I rang to let her know we would be coming. “She is coping with Sarah’s death by simply refusing to acknowledge it. She pretends Sarah is still alive, certain to return again to visit in just a few weeks. Yet she won’t go upstairs, even for bed, which tells me she knows perfectly well what happened up there—though she won’t admit it. She sleeps nights in the parlor room, and spends all day on the front porch, despite the cold.” She sighed, plainly vexed.

  “But it can’t last,” I said. “Plans will be made for a funeral—”

  She cut me off. “In Boston—and my aunt will not go.”

  She had eventually submitted to the necessity of our talking with her aunt, and in return I had promised—to the extent it was possible—that I would not overtly reference Sarah’s murder.

  “And how will you explain our being there to question her?” I had asked, dubious as to how Abigail’s odd request could be accommodated.

  “I won’t need to,” she assured me. “If it occurs to Aunt Virginia to wonder why, then she will make up the reason herself. You’ll see. Her mind is an absolute marvel of invention these days.”

  Thus forewarned, we all gathered on the front porch where we exchanged a few awkward pleasantries and confirmed that there had been no word from Stella. It was Mrs. Wingate who captivated my attention as we talked. I had remembered her hair to be gray, but in the morning sunlight, it glistened pure silver. The effect was heightened by her skin, which was so pale as to be almost translucent. She was not unlike a piece of fine china: beautiful, fragile, and treated carefully in the hope she would not break.

  “Mrs. Wingate, I understand you are quite close with your niece Sarah. She visits you often?” I was careful to phrase the question in the present tense, in deference to Abigail’s request.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Wingate nodded primly. “Sarah is a devoted niece. She never misses a birthday or holiday. And she often visits to take advantage of the peace and quiet available here, as she did this past weekend.”

  I watched her intently, observing her eyes. They were clear blue and watery, but unflinching as they met my own. I observed no sign of self-conscious pretense, and I began to realize Abigail Wingate was right: Some trick of the mind was working in a strange way to protect the elder Mrs. Wingate from the disturbing truth about her niece that she could not—or would not—face.<
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  “During her visit this past weekend, did she seem upset or worried by anything?”

  Mrs. Wingate pursed her thin lips, and then turned to Abigail. “Abby, would you say Sarah was out of sorts?”

  “No,” Abigail said. “She seemed a little tired, that was all.”

  “Mrs. Wingate, when did you last see Sarah?”

  “Lunchtime Tuesday,” she said. Her tone was crisp, even tart. “Then she went to do her own work, and I did, too.”

  “And Stella was helping you all afternoon?”

  She nodded. Joe had remained uncharacteristically quiet, but now he broke into the conversation and asked Abigail to accompany him during a search of Stella’s room. I was happy to see Abigail leave, however briefly, for I believed her anxious presence was making my interview with Mrs. Wingate more difficult. Once Abigail no longer fiercely hovered over her, Mrs. Wingate visibly relaxed.

  “Would you care for some tea, Detective?” After I accepted, she rang the bell beside her chair and a heavyset, ruddy-faced woman appeared. I recognized her as Maud Muncie, their house keeper. Mrs. Wingate asked, “Maud, would you be so kind as to bring two cups of tea? And some scones, if we’ve any left.”

  I pulled out my notebook and pencil. “I understand Stella has been working for you since August?”

  “That’s right,” she replied.

  “Does she have friends or family in the area that you are aware of?”

  Her answer took me by surprise with its bluntness. “Why is that any of your business?”

  “Because I need information if you want me to investigate her disappearance.” My response was equally sharp, for I was not accustomed to being openly challenged.

  “You’re right.” She sighed wearily. “I apologize. I am tremendously concerned.” Her voice grew high-pitched. “Stella just went away,” she said, leaning in toward me. “We were working together in the garden when she got up suddenly and ran toward the house. I didn’t know why, and she never came back. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “When was this?” I asked, as I tried to integrate this information into the timeline.

  “It was around half past three,” she replied.

  “Is that a guess, or are you certain?”

  “I am certain.” Her response was firm. “I had checked my watch at a quarter past three, and this was some minutes later. I was keeping my eye on the time because I wanted to finish my gardening well before four o’clock so I would have ample time to dress for dinner.”

  My thoughts raced through the many different interview reports I had read, as well as Abigail Wingate’s own statement to me. Many people in the area had reported hearing a loud sound around half past three. A loon, Abigail had said—though there were no loons in these parts. An owl, Mr. Dreyer across the street had said. A strange screech, the Braithwaites had described it. Could it have been Sarah screaming? Put into context with our timeline, it made perfect sense, for Sarah was last seen by Abigail Wingate around three o’clock. It was important because it placed Sarah’s killer firmly in the house at three-thirty. So if Stella had left Mrs. Wingate at that time, then it was probable she had seen—and possibly even confronted—Sarah’s murderer.

  I asked her to clarify. “And you haven’t seen Stella since?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Yet, at the time, you were not concerned enough to check on her?”

  “Of course I was,” she said. “I went in after her, when she did not return after several minutes. But the moment I entered the kitchen, Abby began insisting I call Dr. Fields. Dr. Fields, mind you! I am usually attended by Dr. Whittier. But Abby insisted it had to be Dr. Fields—and then she fainted dead away. Between trying to revive her and reach Dr. Fields by telephone, I had my hands full.”

  That explained, at least, why we were told nothing before Dr. Fields’s message reached us near five o’clock.

  Maud returned with two cups of hot tea and a plate of warm apple scones. After Mrs. Wingate murmured her thanks, I said, “Mrs. Muncie, before you leave, I have something to ask you.”

  She turned and stared, hands on hips, as I helped myself to a scone. “I’ve already told the policeman who interviewed me everything. Tuesday was my shopping day. I wasn’t here.”

  “I understand,” I said, my tone placating, “but my question is about Stella. Were you friendly with her?”

  Maud grunted in reply. “I work here. I don’t talk much with the others, if that’s what you’re asking. Stella was a bit of a girl, but she did her part. I had no complaints about her.” She rearranged her apron, implying she was ready to return to work.

  “What I’m asking is whether there is any place you can think of where Stella may have gone? Any friends she may have sought out?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, Detective. Like I told the other policeman who came, I don’t go in for small talk. Stella was a nice enough girl. But I can’t say more than that.”

  “And you, Mrs. Wingate?” I asked, cradling my cup of warm tea in my hands. There was enough chill in the air that its warmth felt comforting.

  After Maud returned to the house, Mrs. Wingate was quiet for some time. Then she said, “You might check Stella’s whereabouts with a woman named Mamie Durant on West Thirty-eighth Street.”

  “Mamie Durant.” I repeated the name, almost to myself, as I tried to place where I had heard the name before. “Isn’t she—” I articulated the question a split second before the thought fully crystallized in my mind.

  “Yes,” Virginia Wingate interrupted, seeming to intuit what I was thinking. Her watery blue eyes did not falter as they met my own. “She owns and manages a high-class gentleman’s club, catering to wealthy clients.”

  I could only stare at her, dumbfounded. The club run by Mamie Durant was not the sort of place a well-bred lady like Mrs. Wingate would ordinarily know about, much less mention in polite conversation. Gentleman’s club was a fine euphemism, but what went on there was prostitution—plain and simple. And Mrs. Wingate had broached the subject as matter-of-factly as though she were talking about a popular ladies’ tearoom.

  “How do you know Mamie Durant? Or rather, how does Stella—?” In my attempts to be discreet with Mrs. Wingate, I could not pose the question. The right words simply did not exist.

  She cut me off calmly, amused by my embarrassment. “Mamie Durant was Stella’s previous employer. She provided an excellent reference to the organization that found Stella for me. You see, she fully supported Stella in making a fresh start.”

  I was shocked to find her so unemotional about the subject—one which ladies of her social class did not discuss and usually pretended did not exist. I stammered lamely, “Does Miss Abigail know about Stella’s background?”

  “Of course she does not,” Mrs. Wingate said, sitting up straighter. “No one here does.” She took a sip of her tea before continuing. “Stella became quite ill during her last months at Mamie Durant’s, and when she recovered, she began to do the laundry and light house keeping there. Mamie herself apparently told her if she was happy enough with that sort of work, she should find respectable quarters to do it in. Housemaids in private homes often find husbands and marry; those in gentlemen’s clubs do not.”

  “You said an organization placed her with you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she confirmed with a nod, “it was one of those ladies’ home committees in the city. A friend involved with their work sent Stella to me for an interview, knowing my views were liberal enough to take her.” She smiled slightly. “Plus, I have no husband or sons in my household to worry about.” After another moment, she shrugged. “It was really quite simple. She wanted a fresh start; I decided to give it to her.”

  I knew many people who would have given her a dozen reasons why it was a bad idea, but clearly Mrs. Wingate had considered such concerns unimportant.

  “Thank you,” I said, “you have been very helpful. If you think of anything else that may be important, will you let me know?” />
  “Of course,” she said, rising to say good-bye. “I know where to find you. And do”—her voice caught—“do try your best to find her. I should like so much to have things back, just as they were.”

  As she stood before me in her wrap on the porch, I looked at her with pity and thought that she suddenly looked very old and frail. “Of course,” I said gently, and bid her good-bye, thinking that no matter what tricks of mind Virginia Wingate might employ, not even the best of imaginations could ever make things just as they once were.

  “Joe?” I called out from the foot of the stairs. “Are you ready to go?”

  There was no answer.

  “Joe?” I called again, more loudly this time.

  Miss Abigail’s pale face appeared suddenly at the top of the stair railing. “Come up now,” she said, her voice filled with worry. “He’s behaving strangely. Something is wrong, but I don’t know what.”

  I bounded up the staircase, taking three steps at a time, and Miss Wingate quickly ushered me into a small bedroom where Joe awkwardly hugged the back of a rocking chair.

  “Ziele.” He uttered my name and took a step toward me, but his left leg buckled the moment he put weight on it. His large frame collapsed onto the floor and he looked up at me with un-seeing eyes. “So dizzy,” he murmured.

  “Help me get him onto the bed,” I said to Miss Wingate.

  Once he lay flat, he continued to complain that he could not see, nor could he feel anything in his left leg. I cradled his head against the pillow and felt his pulse. “Don’t worry. Just be still for now.”