Murder in Morningside Heights

by Victoria Thompson

  “But if she did kill Abigail,” Maeve said, “imagine how terrible she’d feel knowing Abigail was wearing the token she’d given her. I’m guessing she would break down if you pressed her and maybe even confess, if she did it.”

  “Where did you get the idea it’s that easy to get somebody to confess to murder?” Malloy asked with some amazement.

  She shrugged sheepishly and Gino chuckled.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t matter if it’s easy or difficult,” Sarah said, “because I doubt Miss Wilson is going to even speak to us again after today. If she did kill Abigail, we’ll have to find out some other way.”

  To everyone’s surprise, the telephone rang, its shrill blast making them all jump even though it was out in the hallway.

  “Who would be telephoning us at this time of night?” Malloy grumbled, going off to answer it.

  “Maybe it’s Miss Wilson,” Gino told Maeve with wide-eyed innocence. “Maybe she’s ready to confess.”

  Maeve swatted him.

  Malloy had left the parlor door open, and they could hear his side of the conversation as he shouted into the mouthpiece to make himself heard. Unfortunately, his side consisted of one- or two-word responses that gave no clue as to who was on the other end or why they had chosen to disturb the family at this late hour.

  Maeve turned to Sarah. “What are you going to do next?”

  Sarah sighed. “I hope Malloy has an idea, because I don’t.”

  “I still need to check on alibis for Luther and Raymond,” Gino reminded them.

  “Oh yes, you ran off before you could ask them,” Maeve said with a smirk, and he pretended to swat her in return.

  “And don’t forget the letters from France,” Sarah said, smiling again at their teasing. “We might find something interesting there.”

  “Maybe we should pay your mother a visit tomorrow,” Maeve said to Sarah.

  “If you’re thinking we need to encourage her, I can assure you, she’s already working as hard as she possibly can to get those letters translated. It’s the most interesting thing she’s done in a month.”

  At last Malloy ended the call, and Sarah’s heart dropped when she saw his expression as he reentered the parlor. She instinctively rose to her feet, and she was vaguely aware that Gino and Maeve had, too.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s Miss Wilson. She’s been murdered.”

  * * *

  The lobby at the Normal School was eerily quiet when Frank entered the next afternoon. Of course, it was Sunday, and no classes were in session, but he figured the news of Georgia Wilson’s murder had spread by now, so the students would be making themselves scarce. Some had probably even gone home.

  President Hatch was the one who had telephoned Frank last night to tell him about Miss Wilson’s death, and they had arranged to meet in his office today. Frank wasn’t sure why Hatch wanted to meet with him, but Frank certainly wanted to find out as much as he could about Miss Wilson’s death, because he was sure it had something to do with Abigail’s. Two women who lived in the same house being murdered within ten days couldn’t be a coincidence.

  The door to the president’s office suite stood open, and no one sat at his secretary’s desk. He knocked on the doorframe. “Hatch?”

  President Hatch appeared in the doorway to his inner office. “Mr. Malloy, thank you for coming. Please, come inside.”

  When Frank had taken a seat in one of the chairs provided for guests, Hatch sat down in his own chair and sighed deeply. “This is a disaster for the school.”

  “It’s pretty serious for Miss Wilson, too,” Frank said blandly.

  Hatch’s body jerked. “I didn’t mean . . . Of course, you’re right. We’re all grieving for the poor woman. I only meant . . .” He winced, since they both knew what he’d meant.

  “You’re worried about the safety of the students and the female faculty,” Frank said, offering Hatch an easy explanation.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it. There’s obviously a madman on the loose. We need to catch him and stop him before he harms anyone else.”

  And before parents start permanently removing their daughters from the Normal School, Frank thought, but he said, “How did you find out about Miss Wilson’s murder?”

  “I thought I told you last night. I received a message at my home. They’d sent a police officer to fetch me because . . . well, apparently, Miss Billingsly told them to.”

  “Why would she have done that?”

  Hatch shrugged. “I guess because in an emergency, she would normally have sent for Miss Wilson, but under the circumstances, I suppose I was the only other authority figure she could think of.”

  Frank supposed that made sense. “You said they found the body outside, near her house?”

  “Yes, she’d gone out earlier, I understand, and someone walking home found her body lying in the alley behind the house.”

  “How was she killed?”

  Hatch’s face twisted with distaste. “They said she was strangled.”

  Not the same way Abigail had died, but it was another impulsive way to kill someone when no weapons were at hand. “How was she strangled?”

  “Good God, man, do you have to be so ghoulish?”

  Frank supposed it would seem that way to Hatch. “I need to know how she died. That will tell me if only a man could have done it, or if a woman could have killed her as well. If she was strangled with someone’s bare hands, for example—”

  “Yes, yes,” Hatch snapped, waving away his explanation with both hands while the color drained from his face. “I see. The police said the killer used a scarf of some kind.”

  “A scarf? Was it hers?”

  “I don’t know, but it seems likely, doesn’t it?”

  Not necessarily, but he wasn’t going to bother discussing that with Hatch, who already looked like he might faint. He’d have to find out where they’d taken her body and who had done the autopsy. If they’d done one at all, of course. He hated not having the authority to order one, the way the police would. He decided to ask Hatch something less upsetting. “Why did she go out? Was she meeting someone?”

  “I don’t know. Miss Billingsly was quite distraught, as you can imagine, and she couldn’t answer any questions.”

  “Was she drunk?”

  President Hatch gaped at him, appalled. “Really, Mr. Malloy, I don’t know where you’d get an idea like that.”

  “From seeing her drunk before,” Frank said. “But never mind. How about their maid? Bathsheba, I think her name is. What did she have to say?”

  “Nothing helpful, but what can you expect, after all, from a colored maid? She told me and the police both that she had no idea where Miss Wilson was going or why. She said the ladies don’t confide in her, and I saw no reason to doubt it.”

  Frank saw a lot of reasons to doubt it. Hatch was a bigger fool than Frank had already taken him for if he thought a colored maid wouldn’t know what was going on in her own house. He’d bet all of his new fortune that Bathsheba knew at least something that would be helpful. She wasn’t going to say anything that might harm her ladies, though, certainly not to the police. Or even to Hatch, probably. Hatch was the one who’d neglected to have a female professor at a school for women for the first twenty-some years. Bathsheba wouldn’t have a higher opinion of him than Frank did. “Why did you send for me, Mr. Hatch?”

  Hatch sighed again. “Mr. Malloy, I know you’ve been hired by Miss Northrup’s parents to look into the circumstances of her tragic death. I’m wondering if there is any reason I couldn’t hire you to look into the circumstances of Miss Wilson’s death as well.”

  Frank leaned back in his chair and studied Hatch for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Why would you do that? Aren’t the police going to investigate?”

  “I did discuss it with them. Or r
ather, with the detective they sent over last night. He didn’t seem very interested in the case, just as the police hadn’t seemed very interested in Miss Northrup’s death. He said it was probably a robbery gone bad and Miss Wilson had no business being out in the streets alone after dark and a lot of other things that made me think he wasn’t particularly anxious to find out who killed her.”

  Frank figured the detective would’ve been much more interested if Hatch had offered a reward, but they both knew Hatch wouldn’t have done that because he didn’t really want the police investigating at all. “I don’t suppose I need to remind you that you don’t want the press involved either.”

  “No, you do not, and that is another reason I would like your assistance with this matter, Mr. Malloy.”

  “Mr. Hatch, I must warn you that we’ve already uncovered some, uh, situations that could be considered sensational if the press discovered them, too.”

  “I assumed that would be the case, Mr. Malloy, because that is always the case when someone is murdered, which is why I want to hire you. I want to have some control over the investigation and how much information is given to the police and ultimately to the newspapers. I want to protect the Northrups from scandal, just as much as I want to protect the Normal School. But I also want the killer identified and caught, because his existence is just as dangerous to the school as any hint of scandal would be.”

  “You’re asking an awful lot, Mr. Hatch.”

  “And I’m willing to pay for it, Mr. Malloy, but I think you are an honorable man who also wants to protect the reputation of these ladies and save the Northrup family any unnecessary heartache.”

  Frank wondered when he’d become an honorable man. He certainly hadn’t been one when he first met Sarah Brandt. The process had been gradual, too, sneaking up on him and taking over before he even suspected. Whenever it had happened, though, Hatch was right. He’d already shielded the Northrups as much as he could, and he would continue to do so. “I can’t make you any promises, Mr. Hatch, but I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  Sarah and Gino had traveled up to Morningside Heights with Malloy and then separated from him. While Malloy went to the Normal School, Sarah and Gino went to Miss Wilson’s house to offer what comfort and assistance they could to her friend.

  And of course to see what Miss Billingsly had to say about Miss Wilson’s death, if possible.

  The shades were all tightly drawn when they reached the house, and black crepe hung on the knocker.

  “Do you suppose they’re still here?” Gino asked.

  “Where would they go? I think they’re just trying to discourage visitors.”

  But no one answered their knock the first time. Sarah tried a second time, using a little more force. Finally, a curtain in the front window twitched a bit. Sarah waited a few minutes, to give whoever was there time to get to the door, and when nothing happened, she pounded on the door with her fist. “We aren’t leaving,” she called.

  At last the door opened a crack, and Bathsheba gave them a murderous glare. “We ain’t receiving visitors.”

  “We aren’t visitors and you know it,” Sarah said. “We’re here to help. Miss Billingsly is going to have to deal with the police and funeral arrangements and possibly even the press. Is she up to that?”

  “Mr. Hatch say he gonna take care of everything.”

  Sarah gave her an understanding smile. “Mr. Hatch telephoned my husband last night and is meeting with him right now. That is how he’s taking care of everything.”

  Bathsheba sighed wearily, then opened the door all the way. “I expect you oughta come in, then.”

  Unlike the last time Sarah had called, this time Bathsheba took Sarah’s coat and Gino’s, too. “Don’t know why you need him with you,” she muttered.

  “There’s a murderer on the loose,” Sarah said.

  “You afraid he might get you?” Bathsheba scoffed.

  “No, but we thought you and Miss Billingsly might be concerned, since two of the four women who lived in this house have now been murdered.”

  This time Bathsheba did register some genuine emotion, but to Sarah’s surprise, it was anger. “You don’t think this killer is interested in either of us, do you?”

  “I have no idea, since I don’t know why Miss Wilson and Miss Northrup were murdered. But if you know, we’d be very grateful if you’d tell us.”

  “We don’t know nothing about it. Why can’t you people leave that poor soul alone in her misery?”

  “You mean Miss Billingsly?” Gino asked.

  “Who else am I gonna mean? She been grieving all night long. Neither one of us hardly slept a wink.”

  “I don’t suppose she’d speak with us,” Sarah said. “Even if she’s not involved in whatever caused the murders, she may know something that will help us figure out who did it.”

  “She not in any shape to talk to anybody. She can’t hardly talk sense.”

  “Then she needs to get hold of herself and soon.”

  “Why?” Bathsheba asked coldly. “Just to help you out?”

  “Yes, to help us catch a killer who murdered two people who lived with her. You are anxious to catch this person, aren’t you?”

  Bathsheba couldn’t very well deny it, but she still wanted to protect Miss Billingsly. “I’m telling you, she ain’t well.”

  “If you mean she’s been drinking, we’ll take that into consideration. Do you think I should go up to her?”

  Bathsheba glanced at Gino. “She ain’t dressed proper. It’d take some time to get her presentable enough to come downstairs.”

  “I’ll go up, then. Would you mind entertaining Mr. Donatelli while I talk with her for a little while?”

  Gino, bless him, gave Bathsheba his most appealing smile. She snorted, but she said, “If he don’t mind sitting in the kitchen. I’ll take you upstairs first, Mrs. Malloy. It’ll be better if I tell her you’re here and take you in to see her.”

  For the second time, Sarah went up the stairs, and again she followed Bathsheba to the back bedroom, the one that had been Abigail Northrup’s. She remembered that after Abigail died Miss Billingsly had moved out of the room she’d shared with Miss Wilson all those years.

  They stopped at the closed door, and Bathsheba said, “Wait here while I tell her.”

  Bathsheba slipped inside, leaving the door open a bit. Sarah could see the room was dark. The shades were drawn here, too. Bathsheba crooned to her charge, soft words of comfort Sarah couldn’t make out.

  “Did I dream it or is she really dead?” Miss Billingsly asked on a wail.

  More crooning from Bathsheba.

  “Did I do it, Bathsheba? Please tell me I didn’t do it!”

  11

  “Don’t you be silly now, Miss Estelle,” Bathsheba said. “You never woulda hurt Miss Georgia. You loved her too much.” Sarah noticed the maid had said this loudly enough for her to hear. “Now, listen here, you got a visitor. That nice Mrs. Malloy come to see you. She and her man are gonna find out who been causing all this trouble for us.”

  “Why is she here? I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “I know, sweet pea, but she needs your help.”

  “I can’t help anybody. I can’t even help myself.” She was blubbering now, and Sarah managed not to sigh. She hated making people weep.

  “Course you can. You can do all kinda things now. Miss Georgia, she’d expect you to do what you can.”

  “But what can I do?”

  “We won’t know till you try, now, will we? That Mrs. Malloy, she just outside. She gonna talk to you a spell.”

  “But I’m not even dressed.”

  “Mrs. Malloy don’t care, now, do you, Mrs. Malloy?”

  Sarah recognized this as her summons. She stepped into the darkened room. “No, I don’t care a bit.”

 
The room smelled stale and faintly of liquor. She smiled, hoping she looked friendly and not threatening. Miss Billingsly made a sound of distress and pulled the covers up to her throat.

  “Bathsheba,” Sarah said, “why don’t you make us some tea. Has Miss Billingsly eaten anything today?”

  “No, ma’am, she ain’t.”

  “And some toast, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bathsheba hurried out, and Miss Billingsly made another little distressed sound.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me,” Sarah said, as if she’d had a choice. Casting about, she saw a chair at the dressing table and pulled it over next to the bed. Miss Billingsly cowered a bit as she sat down, but Sarah pretended not to notice. Miss Billingsly wore a plain nightdress and her hair hung down her back in a braid. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, but maybe that was just from crying. Sarah purposely didn’t look at the half-empty bottle of sherry on the nightstand.

  “I was very sorry to hear about Miss Wilson. That must have been a terrible shock.”

  Miss Billingsly eyed her suspiciously, but Sarah noticed she’d stopped clutching the covers as if afraid Sarah was going to snatch them away. “I . . . I couldn’t believe it was her at first.”

  “Were you the one who found her?”

  “Oh heavens, no! I don’t think I could’ve borne it. It was Mr. Stevens. Coming home from work. They live on the next corner, and he goes through the alley because it’s shorter.”

  “It must have been dark back there. I’m surprised he saw her.”

  “She was . . .” She had to swallow. “She was lying right in the middle. He nearly tripped over her, he said.” Her voice broke and she sobbed a few times.

  “What was she doing in the alley?”

  Miss Billingsly stopped in mid-sob. “What?”

  “I was wondering why a woman alone would have chosen to walk down the alley in the dark.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right. That would be strange, wouldn’t it?”

  “Can you think of any reason she would? I mean, do you use the alley in the daylight?”