“Until Miss Northrup came?” Sarah said when she hesitated.
“I should have seen it,” Miss Billingsly said softly.
“What should you have seen?” Sarah asked just as softly.
Miss Billingsly’s expression hardened. “She would come to our Sunday Salons. That’s what we call them. We’d invite a few of the young ladies, the more promising ones, to come for some literary discussions and a light supper. Georgia teaches English literature, and all the young ladies love that.”
“Did you ever discuss geography?”
She shook her head impatiently. “We’d discuss other cultures and a woman’s role in them. We’d discuss all sorts of things. Abigail was delightful in the beginning. She was so hungry for knowledge, and she admired Georgia so. All the girls did, of course. She was the one they came to see. I was just the one who filled their cups and passed around the cookies.” Oddly, she didn’t seem bitter about that at all.
“I’m sure you have your own admirers.”
But Miss Billingsly didn’t even seem to hear her. She was lost in her memories. “I was so blind. I should have guessed it was something more when Abigail continued to come. The girls usually lost interest after a year or two. The juniors and seniors formed their own friendships and cliques, and they didn’t need us anymore, but not Abigail.”
“Why do you think she kept coming?”
Miss Billingsly turned in her chair to meet Sarah’s gaze squarely. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe I would. Help me.”
“The girls fall in love with their teachers. Learning can be intoxicating to those who are being challenged for the first time in their lives, and in the beginning they look at us as the source of that knowledge. They think we’re somehow special. After a year or two, they realize it’s the knowledge they love, not the one who transmits it to them, but with Abigail . . . She loved Georgia at first, but I didn’t think anything of it. Dozens of girls have loved her through the years, perhaps hundreds. But this was different.”
“Different how?”
Her lips thinned down again, and this time her eyes flooded with tears. “Georgia loved her back.”
Before Sarah could even register this remarkable statement, someone pounded on the front door.
“What on earth?” Miss Billingsly murmured.
They heard Bathsheba hurrying to answer it, and whoever was out there hammered on the door again before she could get there. As soon as she opened the door, a man’s voice said, “I’m here to get my sister’s things.”
By then Miss Billingsly was on her feet and moving toward the doorway into the hall. Sarah was close behind her. When they reached it, they saw that a young man had pushed his way into the house in spite of Bathsheba’s efforts to prevent him. He was a strapping youth with corn yellow hair and large ears that protruded just a bit from his head. At the moment, his handsome face was red with fury.
When he noticed the two women, he demanded, “Which one of you is Miss Wilson?”
“Neither of us. I’m Miss Billingsly. How may we help you, young man?”
Something in her tone, probably the natural authority of a longtime teacher used to managing her students, seemed to startle him a bit, and he lost some of his belligerence. “I’m Abigail’s brother. Luther Northrup. I . . . I’m here to collect her things.”
Sarah didn’t know why she was surprised to learn Abigail had a brother. Malloy hadn’t mentioned it, but surely her parents had told him.
“If you truly are her brother, then there’s no need for you to be rude, young man,” Miss Billingsly said. “You have every right to Abigail’s belongings.”
“I . . . I’m sorry, miss. I just . . . I went to the school first and no one wanted to tell me where you lived. They acted like I’d done something wrong to go there. It took me hours to find you.”
“Then you must be cold and tired. Come in and have a seat. Bathsheba, will you get Mr. Northrup some coffee? Or would you prefer tea?”
“Coffee, if you please.”
Bathsheba didn’t say any actual words, though her grunts and huffs made it perfectly clear how reluctant she was to serve this rude young man, but she headed for the kitchen.
“Shut the door and come in,” Miss Billingsly said when he made no move to do so.
Miraculously, he obeyed her and followed them back into the living room. At Miss Billingsly’s instruction, he perched on the sofa across from the two women. He still wore his overcoat. He couldn’t quite meet their eyes and was probably feeling ashamed of his earlier behavior.
“I’m sorry you had so much trouble finding us,” Miss Billingsly said with more kindness than Sarah could believe she felt. “I’m surprised you didn’t have the address.”
He looked up at that, and this time the color in his face was from embarrassment, not anger. “I . . . I copied it down wrong. My parents sent me to fetch her things since I was in the city already.”
“Are you a student, too?”
He shook his head. “Oh no. Not a scholar. Not like Abby. Just here to . . . to see some friends.”
That seemed an odd explanation, especially for a young man whose sister had just been murdered, but Sarah was more interested in his relationship with his dead sister than his current reason for being in the city. “Are you older or younger than Abigail?” she asked, earning a sharp look from Miss Billingsly.
“Older. By two years.”
How very interesting. People usually spent their money educating their sons and giving them every possible advantage in life, but by his own admission, Luther Northrup was “no scholar.” Instead, after being disappointed in their son, the parents had apparently chosen to educate their daughter, who was, by all accounts, “outstanding” in every way.
“I’m very sorry about your sister, Mr. Northrup,” Sarah said quite sincerely. “Her death is a great loss to everyone who knew her.”
Luther Northrup met her gaze for a long moment, the expression in his blue eyes unreadable. Then he turned back to Miss Billingsly. “Can I get Abby’s things now?”
5
“They call it a smash,” Gino explained.
“Why do they call it that?” Frank asked, glancing at Sarah to see if she knew, but she just shook her head.
The three of them had gathered in the empty classroom where Gino had interviewed the students. Sarah had walked over to the school to find them after she’d finished with Miss Billingsly.
“I don’t know why they call it that, but it’s so common, they also call it the Freshman Disease. All the girls fall in love with a teacher, or most of them do, anyway. But how can women fall in love with other women?”
Frank didn’t think he wanted to discuss this in front of Sarah, but Gino had actually asked her the question. She gave him a gentle smile. “The same way a man can fall in love with another man.”
Frank watched as Gino made the connection. His eyes widened. “Oh.”
“But let’s not jump to conclusions,” Sarah said. “I don’t think this is necessarily a romantic kind of love. Women are very emotional creatures, and we tend to love many different people in many different ways. Young girls often have close female friends whom they love dearly and with whom they remain close throughout their lives, even after they marry and have a family.”
“Oh, like my aunt Stella,” Gino said. “She and my mama were friends back in the old country, from the time they were little. I think they married brothers just so they could be sisters.”
“And they’re still close?” Sarah asked.
“We all live in the same tenement.” He made a helpless gesture.
“So imagine your mother and your aunt as eighteen-year-old girls.”
“Eighteen-year-old girls in love with a forty-year-old woman,” Frank said.
“But it’s usually only a temporary conditio
n,” Sarah reminded them. “Miss Billingsly told me the girls get over it by the time they’re juniors, if not before. And didn’t this Miss Oxley tell you it was really caused by a love of learning?”
“She called it ‘intoxication,’” Gino said.
“Miss Billingsly used the same word. Going to college must be an incredible experience,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Well, we’re not sending Catherine,” Frank said. “I think I’ll marry her off when she’s thirteen or something, just to be sure.”
“I thought you weren’t going to let any young men within a city block of her until she’s thirty,” Sarah reminded him.
“Maybe she’ll join a convent,” Gino said helpfully.
“All right,” Frank said, trying to get them back on the subject of Abigail Northrup’s murder. “We know that Miss Wilson was Abigail’s smash.”
“And Miss Wilson had a smash on her, too,” Sarah said.
“What?” Gino said.
“Who told you that?” Frank asked.
“Miss Billingsly. She had just let it slip when Luther Northrup started pounding on the front door.”
“Is that Abigail’s father?” Gino asked.
“No, her brother.”
“I didn’t know she had a brother,” Frank said. “Her parents didn’t even mention him.”
“Surely, they mentioned they had another child,” Sarah said.
“I’m trying to remember. I don’t know what they said exactly, but I got the impression she was their only one. They certainly never mentioned the name Luther. And what was he doing at that house?”
“He’d come to collect Abigail’s belongings, I gathered. His parents had sent him.”
“All the way from Tarrytown?”
“He said he was in the city visiting friends.”
“While he’s in mourning for his sister?” Frank asked, thoroughly confused.
“It didn’t make sense to me either, but that’s what he said. I didn’t have much opportunity to question him, though, because Miss Billingsly sent me on my way shortly after he arrived. I think she was glad for the excuse to get rid of me, because she’d just admitted that Miss Wilson loved Abigail in return. So I never had an opportunity to find out more about that either.”
“That would explain why Miss Wilson invited Abigail to live with them,” Gino said. “And by the way, Bathsheba also told me Miss Wilson and Abigail were . . . Well, she didn’t say they had a smash, but they were pretty fond of each other. Bathsheba said Abigail had been coming to the house ever since she started school there and making up to Miss Wilson all those years.”
“And that would explain why Miss Billingsly didn’t like her,” Sarah said. “She was jealous and, I gather, heartbroken because Abigail had come between them.”
“You mean Miss Billingsly and Miss Wilson had a smash on each other, too?” Gino asked.
“I know they were very close friends until Abigail came along, and Miss Billingsly blamed her for causing a rift.”
“Are you sure about all this?” Frank asked. “Because Pelletier gave me another reason why Billingsly and the other teachers might’ve been jealous of Abigail.”
“What’s that?”
“Because there’s a lot of jealousy among all the teachers over Abigail getting hired at the school. Maybe not as much as there was when Miss Wilson was made a professor, but still a lot. It seems the men resent it when any woman gets hired because it’s a job that could’ve gone to a man with a family to support.”
“Women have to support themselves, too,” Sarah said, just as he’d expected. After her first husband’s death, she’d supported herself as a midwife.
“I’m just telling you what Pelletier told me. And apparently even the females were jealous of Abigail for getting the job at all. The school never hires their own students who just graduated.”
“Why did they hire her, then?” Gino asked. “Besides the fact that she was so outstanding, I mean.”
“I thought maybe Pelletier had taken a fancy to her,” Frank said, “but he claims Miss Wilson was the one who decided he needed help and convinced the president to hire her.”
“Which seems to support Miss Billingsly’s and Bathsheba’s theories that Miss Wilson loved Abigail. She’d want to keep her around after she graduated, and what better way than to get her a job at the college?” Sarah said. “Did Pelletier tell you anything else interesting?”
“He’s French.”
Sarah smiled at that. She knew his opinion of the French. “That’s not too surprising, I guess. It must be wonderful learning a foreign language from someone who actually speaks it.”
“Pelletier claims he was happy to let Abigail teach the beginners. He acted like he was too good to do that.”
“Maybe he really was glad,” Gino said. “Wouldn’t it be boring for him, since he’s an expert in it?”
“Or maybe he was insulted that they hired a girl with no teaching experience to teach his students,” Sarah said. “Which one do you think it was, Malloy?”
“I honestly don’t know. Pelletier is hard to read. But he did lie to me about one thing.”
“What’s that?” Gino asked, perking up.
“I asked him if he knew where the keys to Abigail’s desk were, and he said she kept it unlocked.”
“And you think that’s a lie?” Sarah asked.
“He also said he kept his unlocked, too, but I saw a key with a fob on it sticking out of the lock on his desk. So unless he just keeps it hanging there all the time—and wouldn’t it get in the way?—he wasn’t telling me the truth.”
“And was her desk unlocked?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, but there was nothing personal in it. If somebody wanted to take something out of it, they’ve had plenty of time to do it, since it wasn’t locked. There’s more to it than that, though. Pelletier said they didn’t lock their desks because they kept the office locked. But we haven’t found any keys belonging to Abigail. She must’ve had a key to her office, and probably one to Miss Wilson’s house, too. Where are they?”
“Maybe somebody from the coroner’s office stole them,” Gino said.
“Doc Haynes said she still had her jewelry when he got to her, so why would somebody steal keys but not jewelry? And they weren’t in the gazebo when she was found either.”
“Maybe she lost them,” Sarah said, “or left them somewhere.”
“Or maybe the killer took them,” Gino said.
“Why would the killer take them?” Frank asked.
Gino considered for a moment. “Because he wanted to get something out of her desk.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. But what?”
Of course, no one had an answer.
* * *
Frank and Gino went back to the office so Frank could telephone the Northrups and give them a report. He really had nothing to report, but he wanted to find out about Luther and why they’d sent him to the city, which meant he needed an excuse to speak with Mr. Northrup. Frank also wanted to know where to find Luther, so he could ask him a few questions.
The telephone wasn’t the best method of communication, though. They both had to shout to be heard, and they knew operators at both ends were probably listening to every word. Finally, Northrup said he’d meet Frank at his office in a few hours, since he had to come to the city anyway.
When Northrup arrived late in the afternoon, his face was ashen. Frank ushered him into his office, sat him down, and pulled a bottle of whiskey and a glass out of his desk. He didn’t know if Northrup was a teetotaler or not, but at the moment, he needed some medicinal alcohol.
Northrup gratefully swallowed the two fingers Frank poured for him.
“More?”
Northrup shook his head. “I . . . I went to that place to claim Abigail’s . . . remains.”
“I’m sorry. If you’d told me you were going there, I would’ve gone with you.”
“I had no idea . . . What a horrible place. They’d just sent me word that we could bring her home, so I thought . . . Well, at least it’s done now.”
“I suppose you’ll be having the funeral soon.”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to attend.”
“Whatever for?”
“Don’t worry, we won’t disrupt anything. I’ll bring my wife, and we’ll look like ordinary mourners. I’d just like to see who attends the funeral and if anyone behaves strangely.”
“Do you think the person who killed her will be there?” he asked in alarm.
Frank was almost sure of it, since he now felt certain she’d known her killer well, but he said, “There’s a small possibility, but even so, that person won’t be doing anything to draw attention to himself. I’ll also need to know if you see anyone you don’t know.”
“I’m sure people from the school will come. I don’t know many of them.”
“Then we’ll look for anyone who seems out of place. At any rate, I’ll be there in the unlikely event that there’s a disturbance.”
“I don’t know if my wife could bear it if anything happened. She’s already so distressed.”
“Then we’ll make sure nothing happens. I’ll bring my associate with me, too. By the way, did you know your son, Luther, went to Miss Wilson’s house to pick up Abigail’s belongings?”
“Did he? I’m glad to hear it. I’d asked him to, but Luther can be . . . less than responsible sometimes.”
“He said he was in town visiting friends.”
Northrup didn’t even blink, although they both knew how inappropriate this was under the circumstances. “He’s a . . . restless boy, even at the best of times. Since we lost his sister, he’s been even worse than usual. When he wanted to come to the city, I suggested he make himself useful, although I didn’t really hold out much hope that he would.”
“Who are these friends he’s visiting?”
Northrup sighed. “I have no idea. They all belong to the New York Athletic Club. Apparently, young men can become very friendly indeed when they’re boxing or lifting dumbbells.”
Murder in Morningside Heights Page 8