Murder on Sisters' Row

by Victoria Thompson

  “No, Miss Yingling was with her.”

  Something about the way he said Miss Yingling’s name told Frank he didn’t like her much, but he let it pass for now. “Where did you take them?”

  “To Mrs. Van Orner’s office at the United Charities Building first. She told me to wait because they’d need me later. They stayed there an hour or so, then they come down, and I took them to that house where they keep the whores. That’s what Mrs. Van Orner does, you know. She rescues whores.”

  Frank nodded, sharing the boy’s wonder at such a calling. “Where is this house?”

  “Over on . . . I’m not supposed to say,” he remembered.

  “I’m going to need to go there to question the women who live there.”

  Herman smiled slightly. “Won’t do you no good. They won’t let you in. They won’t let any men inside. They don’t want the neighbors getting the idea it’s a whorehouse, don’t you know.” Plainly, he thought this ridiculous.

  “Let me worry about that. Where’s the house?”

  Herman gave him the address of a neighborhood on the Lower East Side of the city.

  “Miss Yingling said Mrs. Van Orner came home without her.”

  “Yeah, that was funny. They’s always together, like two peas in a pod. Miss Yingling, she’s always got her nose . . . Well, you know.”

  Frank did know. “Did Mrs. Van Orner say why she was leaving Miss Yingling behind?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. Wasn’t my place to look out for Miss Yingling. For all I know, she had some reason to stay behind at the house.”

  “Did Mrs. Van Orner seem upset when she came out of the house?”

  “What do you mean, upset?”

  “I mean was she angry or unhappy or—”

  “Mrs. Van Orner was a lady,” Herman said wisely. “Ladies don’t show what they really feel.”

  “But you’ve worked for her for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Three years now. I drive her someplace almost every day.”

  “Then you know what she’s usually like. Did she seem different?”

  Herman considered the question. “I . . . She seemed like she was thinking about something.”

  “Like she had something on her mind?” Frank suggested.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Something on her mind.”

  “Did she seem happy or sad or—”

  “I told you, she didn’t show how she was feeling, but she wasn’t smiling when she told me to take her home. I remember that now. She’s always pleasant to the help, real polite and never mean like some I could name. But she didn’t smile that time. She just said, ‘Take me home, Herman,’ real quiet like.”

  “So you took her home. How long did it take?”

  “I don’t know. It takes as long as it takes. Some days longer and some shorter. Depends on how crowded the streets are.”

  “Today, did it take longer or shorter?”

  “Maybe a little longer than usual.”

  “Did you have any idea something was wrong?”

  Frank watched the color drain from Herman’s young face. “No. She . . . she didn’t need to tell me anything because I was just taking her home. I didn’t hear nothing from her, but I don’t usually.”

  “What happened when you got home?”

  “I stopped the carriage at the front door, just like always. I got down and opened the door and . . .” He stopped. The tears Miss Yingling hadn’t shed welled up in Herman’s eyes and he struggled to keep his composure.

  Frank reached over and snagged the glass of whiskey and put it into the boy’s hands. He took a gulp. “Take your time. Tell me what you saw.”

  He coughed a little after the whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand again. Then he swallowed the lump in his throat and said, “She was laying on the floor in the carriage. I couldn’t see her face at first. I thought maybe she’d fallen and hurt herself. I reached in to help her, but she didn’t move when I called her name. I tried to lift her up and . . .” He had to take another sip of the whiskey. “I kind of turned her over and that’s when I saw her face. She was white as a ghost and her eyes was open, just staring. She looked kind of surprised, I guess.”

  “You knew she was dead?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Not at first, I guess. I started yelling for help. I wanted somebody from the house, but that copper come running and got there first. He’s always sticking his nose in where it don’t belong.”

  Frank let that pass. “The cop said Mrs. Van Orner had drunk something from a flask in her purse.”

  Herman stiffened in silent resistance. He wasn’t going to reveal any family secrets. “I don’t know nothing about Mrs. Van Orner or her purse. All I know is I found her dead. Me and some of the other servants carried her inside and took her to her room, but she was dead all right. Never blinked, not once, and she wasn’t breathing. One of the maids started screaming and somebody slapped her.”

  “Was Mr. Van Orner at home?”

  “No, they sent for him.”

  “What about Miss Yingling?”

  “No, she come later.”

  “What happened to Mrs. Van Orner’s purse?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody picked it up, I guess. I never saw it. It wasn’t in the carriage when I put it up. I always check to make sure Mrs. Van Orner didn’t leave nothing behind. She appreciates that . . .” His voice died as he realized she couldn’t appreciate anything anymore. He took another slug of whiskey, draining the glass.

  “Do you like working for the Van Orners?”

  Apparently, Herman had never given much thought to such a thing. “I guess so. They treat us fair. Mrs. Van Orner was always polite. I told you that already.”

  “What about Mr. Van Orner?”

  “He’s like most rich men. If you do your job and keep your mouth shut, he don’t bother you.”

  “I’d like to see the carriage.”

  Herman couldn’t understand why, but he took Frank down and let him look. Frank saw at once that Herman took even better care of the carriage than he did of his rooms. It gleamed. All the tack was in excellent repair. The animals were well tended. He saw nothing inside the carriage at all that didn’t belong there.

  Frank thanked the boy and made his way back to the house, rapping on the kitchen door before entering, not waiting for someone to answer it. A stocky woman in a stained apron was busy preparing a meal. She looked up from her work to glare at Frank in disapproval. Her eyes were red from recent weeping. She was sorry to see her mistress dead.

  Frank introduced himself. “I’m waiting for Miss Yingling.”

  “Seems like somebody’s always waiting for Miss Yingling,” she sniffed.

  Another person who didn’t like the secretary. They probably resented her superior status in the household when she was really no more than a servant like them. And maybe she lorded it over them, too. That would be natural.

  “Miss Yingling was going to ask Mr. Van Orner if he would see me,” Frank offered, wanting to see her reaction.

  The woman paused in her work and studied Frank a moment, judging his sincerity. “She’d be the one to ask, I reckon,” she said carefully.

  Now what did that mean? “Miss Yingling seems very efficient.”

  The cook smiled slyly. “Is that what they call it now?”

  Intrigued, Frank opened his mouth to ask another question, but a maid came rushing into the room. “Miss Yingling said I was to take you back to the receiving room to wait.” She looked a little desperate. Maybe Miss Yingling didn’t want him chatting with the rest of the servants. He took his leave of the cook, determined to find out what else she might know. If he got to see Mr. Van Orner, he’d ask permission to question the rest of the staff.

  He tried to chat with the maid, but she kept insisting she didn’t know anything and left him to kick his heels in the ugly little room where he’d met with Miss Yingling earlier.

  What, he couldn’t help wondering, was taking so long? All she
had to do was ask him a simple question.

  Finally, the door opened, and a lovely young woman stepped in. This, he decided, must be the Van Orners’ daughter. She wore an expensive dress in some light purple color with lace trim. It fit her well, showing off a shapely figure. Her dark hair was in a fashionable Gibson girl knot, with occasional loose curls brushing her cheeks and the back of her neck. She held herself erect, her hands clasped demurely at her waist.

  “Mr. Van Orner will see you now, Mr. Malloy,” she said.

  He had to stare at her for another moment before he realized the truth. This vision was Miss Yingling.

  7

  FRANK RECOVERED QUICKLY AND FOLLOWED MISS YINGLING upstairs to wherever Mr. Van Orner was waiting for him. As they climbed the stairs, Frank’s mind was racing as he tried to make sense of what he knew about Miss Yingling.

  While she had worked as Mrs. Van Orner’s secretary, she’d tried her best to be unattractive. Or at least she’d made no attempt to make herself attractive. Today, however, with Mrs. Van Orner dead, she had made herself as beautiful as possible before speaking with Mr. Van Orner. Frank could think of several reasons for this, none of which reflected well on Miss Yingling. Or on Mr. Van Orner, for that matter.

  They reached a closed door, and Miss Yingling knocked before opening it.

  “Mr. Malloy is here to see you,” she said, then stepped aside for Frank to enter and closed the door behind her as she left. The spacious room was furnished in the current style, which meant it was stuffed with enormous furniture and cluttered with knickknacks of every description sitting on every flat surface. Dull paintings in heavy frames covered portions of the busy pattern of the wallpaper. A thick and richly patterned carpet stretched across the floor. Heavy velvet drapes shielded the occupants of the room from any hint of sunlight.

  Frank needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness before he found Mr. Van Orner. He sat in a wing chair near the fireplace, a glass in his hand resting on the arm of the chair. A thick-chested man whose good looks had softened with age and whose dark hair was thinning, he wore a silk smoking jacket, and he’d changed his shoes for slippers.

  He studied Frank through narrowed eyes and made no move to rise or otherwise acknowledge him. He seemed remarkably relaxed for a man who’d just lost his wife.

  Frank introduced himself. “I’m very sorry about your wife.”

  “Did you know her?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I thought perhaps . . . because of the charity work she does. Did.” He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip of the amber liquid. “What do you want?” he asked when he’d lowered the glass again.

  Frank wasn’t sure exactly how to start. He took a stab at it. “The circumstances of your wife’s death are . . . unusual.”

  “I guess they are. Healthy women don’t usually drop over dead while riding home in their carriages.”

  Frank hated asking right out, but Van Orner wasn’t giving him any indication of his wishes. “Would you like for me to find out exactly how she died?”

  “That’s what Tamar said you were going to do.”

  “Tamar?”

  “Miss Yingling,” he said impatiently. “She said you thought my wife had been murdered and you were going to find out who did it, so by all means, find out. That’s what the police do, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Irritation flashed in his eyes, but he said, “I don’t know anything about my wife’s little project, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “I was wondering if you knew if she had any enemies? Anyone who might wish her harm?”

  “Vivian? Of course not. She was a saint. Everyone loved her.” The words were right, but the tone of them was all wrong. Van Orner sounded almost angry and certainly disgusted.

  And obviously, if she’d been murdered, at least one person didn’t love her at all.

  “Do you know what became of Mrs. Van Orner’s purse? The one she had with her when . . . in the carriage?”

  “I have no idea. Ask the servants. Ask Tamar. She knows everything that goes on.” He looked up at Frank, his eyes suddenly shrewd. “And ask her for your fee. She’ll take care of it.” He looked away and took another sip of his drink.

  Frank felt his face burning. Everyone on the police force accepted “rewards” or even outright bribes. Since no one could live comfortably on the salary the City of New York paid, the arrangement was a necessity. Most people treated the matter in a businesslike way, but Van Orner was purposely making Frank feel cheap, like a tradesman who was demanding more than his product was worth.

  “Mr. Van Orner—”

  “That’s all.”

  Frank had been dismissed. Having no other choice, he turned and left the room. Miss Yingling was waiting for him in the hallway.

  “I told you he’d want you to investigate,” she said.

  Frank hadn’t gotten that impression at all. Van Orner seemed more resigned to the fact than anything. “He said you’d show me Mrs. Van Orner’s purse.”

  “Her purse? Why do you need to see her purse?”

  “The report said she had a flask with her, that she carried it in her purse. If she was drinking from it, maybe there was something in it . . .”

  “Oh, I see. Mary!” she called. A young maid appeared, breathless, to answer the summons. “Take Mr. Malloy back to the receiving room.” She turned back to Frank. “I’ll join you there.”

  A few minutes later, Miss Yingling found him waiting once again in the grim little room. She carried a ladies drawstring purse and a silver flask.

  “I think this is what you were looking for.”

  “Do these belong to Mrs. Van Orner?”

  “Yes. She carried the flask in her purse. She . . . Mr. Malloy, I hope we can count on your discretion. I wouldn’t want Mrs. Van Orner’s memory to be tarnished by idle gossip.”

  Frank was starting to see the problem. “I’m not interested in gossip, Miss Yingling.” He held out his hand for the flask. With apparent reluctance, she gave it to him. “Why did she carry this?”

  “Mrs. Van Orner hated displays of emotion.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “She . . . she found that when she was upset, a few sips of . . .”

  Frank had unscrewed the top of the flask and sniffed. “Whew! What is that stuff?”

  “A liqueur.”

  “I know it’s liquor. What kind is it?”

  “I told you, it’s a liqueur. A special kind of drink. It’s served after dinner, I believe. It’s very sweet and mint flavored, so . . .” She gestured vaguely.

  “So it goes down easier than whiskey,” he guessed. “And she drank it whenever she needed to calm down?”

  “She found it calming, yes,” Miss Yingling admitted with apparent reluctance. “No one knew, of course. She was very careful to never let anyone see her.”

  “And today she had that argument with this Amy woman at the rescue house, so she probably felt the need for something calming.” He shook the flask. Only a tiny amount of liquid remained in the bottom. “I don’t suppose it spilled in the carriage.”

  “I wasn’t here when Mrs. Van Orner got home. I can ask Herman, but . . . Well, it wouldn’t have been unusual for her to empty an entire flask at one time.”

  This was all beginning to make sense now. Herman must have known about Mrs. Van Orner’s tippling. That was why he claimed no knowledge of the flask when Frank asked him about it. “Will he tell you the truth?”

  “Of course he will. But I can’t see that it matters. Drinking from her flask wouldn’t have harmed her. She did it all the time.”

  “Maybe she got a bad batch or something. Can you show me where she kept her supply?”

  “Of course not. She kept it in her bedroom.”

  Frank had searched a lot of ladies’ bedrooms, but he figured he wasn’t going to get to search this one. “Can you bring me the bottles that are left
? Especially any that are open?”

  Miss Yingling stepped into the hall and gave the maid some instructions. When she returned, Frank was trying to think of anything else he might need before he left the house. He knew his chances of getting back in were very small. “Can you think of anybody in the house who might wish Mrs. Van Orner harm?”

  “Which house?”

  Frank remembered the rescue house where she’d been just before she died. “Either one.”

  Miss Yingling pressed her lips together and lowered her gaze, just the way any well-bred young lady would if she was asked to blacken the character of another person. “I really hate to gossip.”

  “If somebody killed your mistress, you want them to be punished, don’t you?”

  She looked up, startled at his bluntness. “Well, of course!”

  “Then tell me what you know. Is there anybody in this house who might’ve wanted Mrs. Van Orner dead?”

  She flinched but she said, “I don’t believe so. Mrs. Van Orner always treated her staff kindly.”

  “What about her family?”

  “Mrs. Van Orner has no living family.”

  “Not even any children?”

  “She was never able to have children.”

  “What about her husband?”

  Miss Yingling took offense at that. “Mr. Van Orner was devoted to her.”

  Frank hadn’t gotten that impression at all, but Van Orner wasn’t likely to give Frank permission to investigate if he’d killed his wife himself. “All right, what about the rescue house? Anybody there have it in for her?”

  “Everyone there admired Mrs. Van Orner. The work she did—”

  “Not everybody admired her,” he reminded her.

  Plainly, she really didn’t like speaking ill of other people. “I guess you mean this Amy person, the one who met with Mrs. Van Orner today.”

  “You said you didn’t know what they talked about, but you must have some idea.”

  After a brief internal struggle, Miss Yingling decided to help him. “I told you, Amy refuses to do anything to help herself. She’s convinced the father of her baby is going to help her. She even named her baby after the man. She named him Gregory.”

  Frank needed a minute to remember. “That’s Mr. Van Orner’s name. Did she claim he was the baby’s father?”