Murder in Morningside Heights

by Victoria Thompson

  “How did he happen to mention that?” Sarah asked.

  “He thought I was one of the professors from the Normal School. He wanted to know if I’d ever heard of somebody who tried really hard but couldn’t do well in school.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I did. I didn’t do well in school myself.”

  She smiled at that. “Maybe he should become a detective.”

  “Too late. He’s a gymnast.”

  “Is he?” Gino asked, obviously impressed. “Those fellows are really strong.”

  “Not only that, but the New York Athletic Club has offered him a job.”

  “Doing what?” she asked.

  “Probably training fat rich men to be gymnasts.”

  “Not gymnasts,” Gino said. “They train them to be physically fit, though. He’d probably know all about that.”

  “How do you know all about it?” Sarah asked.

  “When I was in the army in Cuba, we had a lot of rich New York boys with us. They belong to clubs like that.”

  “Roosevelt recruited the sons of all his rich friends for the Rough Riders,” Frank reminded her.

  “And we had weeks and weeks of doing nothing but training to talk about things,” Gino added.

  “I see,” Sarah said. “I guess that would be a good job for someone like Luther, then.”

  “Not something that would impress his parents, though,” Frank said. “According to him, they’re only impressed by academic accomplishments.”

  “So he had good reason to resent his sister,” Gino said.

  “And maybe he had good reason to hate her,” Sarah said. “I had an interesting conversation with Irene Raymond. She told me that Abigail could be nasty to people who didn’t meet her standards.”

  “Nasty?” Gino echoed in surprise.

  “Her exact word. I didn’t have any trouble believing her either. I’ve known women like that. They’re usually bright and accomplished and do everything perfectly, and they don’t have any patience for those who don’t.”

  “Nobody else said anything about that,” Frank said.

  “Probably because people don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” Sarah said. “Especially when they’ve died tragically.”

  “I guess Bathsheba doesn’t care about speaking ill of the dead, because she said something like that, too. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because I thought she might’ve just imagined it since she hated Abigail so much, but she said Abigail only cared about people who could do something for her. She also thought Abigail made fun of Miss Billingsly when she was talking to Miss Wilson in French.”

  “Sounds like she was a piece of work. So maybe she was lording it over her brother for years, and he finally couldn’t stand it anymore,” Frank said.

  “That’s easy to imagine, isn’t it?” Sarah said. “Irene even asked me if Abigail had goaded someone until they were angry enough to kill her, would it really be that person’s fault?”

  “What did you tell her?” Gino asked in amazement.

  “That it wasn’t my place to judge, of course, but it’s an interesting question. She must also be thinking Luther could have done it.”

  “Maybe not,” Frank said. “Don’t forget, Irene’s own brother also had a reason to be angry with Abigail, and Irene is more likely to be concerned about him than Luther.”

  “So the first thing we should do is find out where Luther and Raymond were on the day Abigail was killed,” Gino said.

  Frank nodded his approval. “It should be easy enough to check the New York Athletic Club and find out if Luther was staying there last Wednesday.”

  “I can do that tomorrow,” Gino said.

  “How will you find out about Cory Raymond?” Sarah asked.

  “That’ll be harder. He must have a job somewhere. We could check with his office to see if he was at work that day.”

  “I think he mentioned the name of the company he worked for in one of the letters we found,” Sarah said. “I’ll find it when we get home.”

  “Give the name to Gino, then,” Frank said. “He can go back up to Tarrytown and sniff around.”

  Gino’s smile threatened to split his face.

  “But let’s not forget about Miss Wilson and Miss Billingsly,” Sarah said. “Miss Billingsly was behaving very strangely today. We had a conversation with them on the way to the cemetery,” she added for Gino’s benefit.

  “What did they say?”

  “It was more how they were acting. I didn’t expect Miss Billingsly to be sad about Abigail’s death, and yet she was the one who cried the most during the funeral.”

  “Maybe she’s the killer and she was crying because she feels guilty,” Gino said.

  “That certainly crossed my mind,” Sarah said, “but when we were in the carriage, she seemed to be baiting Miss Wilson. Is that what it seemed like to you?” she asked Frank.

  “Yeah, it did. What was all that about Abigail being like a daughter to them?”

  “Miss Billingsly said having Abigail in their house was like having a daughter,” Sarah explained to Gino.

  “That would make sense, considering their ages,” Gino said.

  “But Miss Wilson took offense for some reason,” Sarah said. “She actually seemed angry.”

  “She took offense at most of what Miss Billingsly said,” Frank said. “What do you think was going on?”

  “Something private, certainly,” Sarah said. “Something only they understood. Malloy and I believe that having Abigail there somehow ruined their long friendship.”

  “Bathsheba thought it did. Like I told you, she thought Abigail set out on purpose to win Miss Wilson over and come between her and Miss Billingsly,” Gino said.

  “They certainly don’t seem close now,” Sarah said. “Miss Wilson was appalled that Miss Billingsly was subjecting her to her veiled abuse in front of us. And now that I’ve had time to think about it more, I get the oddest feeling that she was afraid.”

  “Who, Miss Billingsly?” Frank asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Afraid of us?”

  “I didn’t get that impression, since she was baiting Miss Wilson right in front of us, and not afraid of Miss Wilson either, but . . . I just don’t know, which is why I’m so confused. What would she be afraid of?”

  “The killer?” Gino asked.

  “Or maybe finding out who the killer is,” Frank said, thinking back to the conversation. “It seems like that’s what everybody’s afraid of.”

  “The killer would be afraid of that, of course, but why would anyone else?” Sarah asked.

  “Maybe because they’re afraid it’s someone they care about,” Gino said.

  “But didn’t they all care about Abigail, too?” she argued. “Except for Miss Billingsly, and she’s one of the frightened ones, so she’s probably not the killer.”

  “Unless she’s afraid we’ll find out it’s her,” Frank said.

  Sarah sighed. “As I said, it’s very confusing. Did either of you get a chance to speak to Pelletier?”

  Gino shook his head, and Frank said, “No, I never saw him after we went back to the house. I think he left.”

  “That was rude,” Sarah said. “Hardly anyone from the school was there in the first place.”

  “They probably think the memorial service at the school is enough,” Frank said.

  “Will her family be invited?” Gino asked.

  “I hope so, although I wonder if her parents will want to attend,” Sarah said. “Being in the place where she was murdered would be very difficult for them, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe they’ll send Luther,” Frank said, earning a scowl from Sarah.

  They spent some time telling Gino about their visit with the Raymonds the day before.

  �
�So now we don’t have any idea where Abigail got that ring,” Gino said when they were finished.

  “No, although we haven’t shown it to her mother yet,” Sarah said. “I wouldn’t expect her father to know much about what jewelry she owned, but her mother probably would. We should show it to her before we start coming up with any more wild theories.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Frank asked.

  “I was thinking I’d wait a few days and then visit her.”

  “Let’s hope we have this solved before then,” Frank said. “Meanwhile, Gino will find out if Luther and Cory were in New York the day Abigail was killed.”

  “And what are you going to do?” Gino asked.

  Frank sighed. “I’m going to visit Bathsheba and see if I can find out more about what’s going on in that house.”

  8

  “Your hair is getting very long,” Mrs. Ellsworth told Catherine. Their neighbor had come by earlier, and Sarah had been visiting with her in her private parlor when Maeve brought Catherine in to join them.

  “Maeve says it’s straggly,” Catherine said. “She’s going to cut it today.”

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, looking over at Maeve in alarm. “You can’t cut her hair today.”

  “Why not?” Maeve said with perfect innocence, although Sarah noted she didn’t so much as glance in Sarah’s direction, knowing they would both probably burst out laughing at what was most certainly one of Mrs. Ellsworth’s strange superstitions.

  “Because you can only cut a person’s hair on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday.”

  “Do barbers know this?” Maeve asked, still not meeting Sarah’s gaze.

  Mrs. Ellsworth waved the question away. “If you cut someone’s hair on Thursday, Friday, or Saturday, you will never grow rich.”

  “Oh, so I’m the one who has to be careful,” Maeve said. “But what about Sunday?”

  “‘Best never be born than Sunday shorn,’” Mrs. Ellsworth quoted. “And you must burn the hair clippings so . . .” She glanced at Catherine, who was staring up at her, wide-eyed. She obviously decided not to explain in front of the child the potentially dire consequences of leaving hair clippings unburned. “So they don’t make a mess.”

  “Burn them?” Maeve made a face. “Have you ever smelled burning hair?”

  “Of course I have.”

  Sarah had to assume Mrs. Ellsworth had been burning hair clippings her entire life. “You could burn them outside,” she said just to tease Maeve.

  Maeve was too fond of Mrs. Ellsworth to actually roll her eyes right in front of the woman, so she said, “I suppose I could.”

  “I’d recommend it, dear,” Mrs. Ellsworth said in all seriousness. “And what are you and Maeve planning to do today, Miss Catherine?”

  “Play inside. It’s too cold to go for a walk.”

  “Then why don’t you come over to my house. I was going to make cookies.”

  Catherine’s eyes lit up. “I love cookies.”

  “I know you do, dear.”

  “May I go, Mama?”

  “Of course you may,” Sarah said with a smile, “if it’s all right with Maeve.”

  “It’s certainly all right with Maeve,” Maeve said with a grin. “I love cookies, too, and I’m going with you.”

  “Well, then, just give your mother and me a few more minutes to finish our conversation, and we’ll go,” Mrs. Ellsworth said.

  Catherine obediently jumped to her feet. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Ellsworth.” She scurried over and gave Sarah a kiss, and Maeve escorted her back to the nursery.

  “She’s growing into a lovely young lady,” Mrs. Ellsworth said when they were gone.

  “Yes, she is. We’ve been trying to decide where to send her to school.”

  “Oh, speaking of school, Maeve told me you’re investigating a murder at the Normal School.”

  “Mr. Malloy is investigating,” Sarah clarified.

  “But you’re helping, surely. You attended the poor young lady’s funeral yesterday, I understand.”

  Nothing happened on Bank Street that Mrs. Ellsworth didn’t know all about. “Yes. It’s so sad. She had a promising future ahead of her.”

  “As a teacher, you mean?”

  “I suppose she would have become a professor eventually. The lady she lived with had recently become the first female professor at the college.”

  “Times are certainly changing. Did you say it was the lady she lived with?”

  “Yes, she was renting a room in the house where two of the other female instructors lived.”

  “It was a rooming house, then.”

  “No, Miss Wilson, the professor, owns the house. She shared it with Miss Billingsly, and Abigail had recently joined them.”

  “Are these two ladies related?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Oh my, times really are changing! My father would never have let me live on my own with people who were no relation. If I hadn’t married, I would probably still be living in his house.”

  “I’m sure her parents thought she’d be well chaperoned by the two older ladies.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing before, two unmarried, unrelated females living together in their own home.”

  “It isn’t often that unmarried females can afford to have their own home,” Sarah said. “They call it a Boston marriage.”

  “Really? Why on earth do they call it that?”

  “Because Mr. Henry James talked about it in one of his novels that was set in Boston.”

  “I’ve heard they do strange things in Boston.”

  Sarah bit back a smile. “Women’s colleges are changing a lot of things.”

  “I suppose so. They train young ladies to be teachers, don’t they?”

  “And for other professions as well. Social work, for instance. And you’ll even see female doctors now.”

  “That can only be an improvement,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “So this poor girl who was murdered was living with these two female professors.”

  Sarah decided not to bother explaining that Miss Billingsly wasn’t a full professor. “That’s right. They had a spare bedroom, and when . . .”

  “Is something wrong?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked when Sarah hesitated.

  “What? Oh no, I just . . . I just remembered something I noticed when I was visiting that house. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now it seems . . . odd.”

  “How odd?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked with interest.

  “Oh, not odd really,” Sarah said quickly to deflect her interest. “I was exaggerating. It was just unusual, I suppose. What kind of cookies are you going to make? Malloy is partial to the shortbread, you know.”

  * * *

  During his many years as an Irish police detective, Frank had often been sent around to the back door when he called on the wealthier residents of the city. He didn’t think Miss Wilson and Miss Billingsly qualified as wealthy, but he also knew he’d probably find their maid a little more friendly if he saved her the walk to the front door.

  Bathsheba answered his knock wearing a disgruntled frown that deepened when she recognized him. “The ladies ain’t home.”

  “I know. I came to see you.” When she looked as if she was going to slam the door in his face, he held up the box he carried. “I brought you something.”

  She eyed the small white box suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Bonbons.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Chocolate candy.”

  “For me?”

  “All of it, if you let me in so we can have a little chat.”

  She sniffed derisively, but she stepped back to let him inside.

  He wiped his feet and went in. The warmth of the kitchen enveloped him, and he couldn’t help h
is sigh of relief.

  “Cold out there, is it?” she asked. “Give me your coat.”

  She took it and hung it over a chair. Then she accepted the box that he presented to her. “Don’t think this’ll make any difference in what I tell you. Nothing that happens in this house is your business.”

  “Do things happen in this house you don’t want to talk about?”

  “Course not!” she snapped, irritated now.

  “Well, then, you shouldn’t mind talking to me. Can I sit down?”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, jerking her chin toward the kitchen table. “I wouldn’t mind sitting for a while myself. You’ll want some coffee, I expect.”

  She poured them each a cup, then took the chair at right angles to his. She set the box down right in front of her but made no move to open it. “I would’ve thought that young fella you sent already found out what you needed to know.”

  “He’s young and hasn’t been doing this long, and I didn’t realize how important you were until after he was here.”

  This pleased her, although she tried to pretend she was offended. “I’m just the maid.”

  “Which means you know more about your people than they do. We know a little more about Miss Northrup now than we did when Gino was here, too. For instance, I know she wasn’t always nice to people.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A good friend of hers, so we believed it.”

  “I told your boy the same thing. Didn’t you believe me?” she challenged.

  She had him there. “Let’s just say we thought you had good reason not to like her, but her friend didn’t. This friend said she had high standards and wasn’t very . . . understanding if someone didn’t meet them.”

  “Oh, that. Can’t fault a person for wanting things done right, can you?” she asked with a sly grin.

  “I don’t suppose you can, but . . . Well, did she have a temper?”

  “Do you mean did she get mad easy? No, she didn’t. She had good manners, that one. Knew how to act and how to hide what she was really feeling.”

  “I guess that does take good manners,” Frank said, sipping his coffee. “I’m still working on that one myself.”

  Bathsheba grinned knowingly. “Me, too.”