A New York Christmas (Christmas Novellas 12)

by Anne Perry

  ‘Come,’ Harley ordered. ‘There’s nothing you can do for her now.’

  Jemima coughed and cleared her throat. ‘Is it . . . is it Maria Cardew? She looks so ill!’

  ‘Yes. Come. We must go and call the police.’ He held out his hand and obediently she stumbled the few steps to reach him. He gripped her firmly and guided her to the door and out into the passageway. Almost as if it were an afterthought he pulled the door closed but she did not hear the latch turn.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and there was no one in sight. Harley went to the front door and out into the street. He looked one way, then the other, then came back to Jemima.

  ‘I’m going to find the nearest policeman. I don’t think anyone around here will have a telephone. It’s not that sort of area. You stay here and don’t speak to anyone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Can’t I come with you?’ she asked, then heard her own voice and wished she had not sounded so plaintive. No backbone! ‘No,’ she said before he could reply, although the refusal was in his face. ‘Of course not. You’ll move far faster without me. I understand. Please go.’

  He looked immensely relieved and turned immediately, starting to run as soon as he was on the open sidewalk.

  Jemima stood in the hallway for what seemed like for ever. A man came out of one of the ground-floor apartments, said something to her, but she could not find her voice to reply. He went out of the door and disappeared. Two more people went by similarly.

  Her mind was racing.

  Who could have killed Maria Cardew, and why? Was it some part of the evil life that Harley had hinted at that had finally caught up with her? Where had Harley been? If he had been there sooner they might have saved her! Jemima should have felt outrage, even fear, but thinking of that ravaged face all she could summon was pity. She hoped Phinnie would not have to learn the whole truth. Was there any way they could keep it from her, at least until after the wedding?

  She was still busy with that thought when Harley came back in through the front door, immediately followed by a young man easily his height, but dark-haired and with startlingly blue eyes. He introduced himself before Harley could do it.

  ‘Miss Pitt? I’m police officer Patrick Flannery. Mr Albright tells me that you discovered the body of a woman upstairs in apartment 309. Is that true?’

  Jemima looked at him. His presence, his dark blue uniform, made it all suddenly no longer a nightmare but a reality – official, ugly and dangerous. How could they possibly keep Phinnie from knowing? If this young policeman had any brains at all he would ask what Harley Albright was doing here in the first place. And she knew from her father’s experiences that lies only made everything worse. He had said more than once that the lies a person told gave away more than most truths.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. Another thing her father had said was not to answer more questions than you were asked. It made you appear nervous.

  Flannery nodded. ‘I see. Mr Albright said that he found you inside the apartment, in the bedroom with the dead woman. Is that right?’ He had a nice voice, with a lilt of the Irish in it. ‘Miss Pitt?’ he prompted.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly, trying to keep her composure. Perhaps Harley had had to say that? She had been there already when he arrived. ‘I didn’t touch her,’ she added, then wished she hadn’t. Was she so rattled she was going to forget all her father’s advice so quickly? If only he were here now!

  ‘Mr Albright says you’re English. Is that right?’ Flannery asked.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been here just a few days. I came over for the wedding of a friend.’

  ‘I see. That would be to Mr Albright’s brother? Do you know the dead woman, Miss Pitt?’

  ‘No. Mr Albright says she is Maria Cardew.’

  Harley stiffened, but he did not interrupt.

  ‘The mother of Mr Brent Albright’s fiancée,’ Flannery said. ‘He mentioned that. Perhaps we had better go up to see her. I’ve sent for the police surgeon to take a look at her.’ He looked at Harley.

  ‘The family asks for your discretion and will deeply appreciate it,’ Harley said. ‘I will personally pay for a decent burial for the woman.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Flannery nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can. If you would lead the way upstairs, please . . .?’

  Harley moved at last, and Jemima followed him with Flannery after her. It was then that she realised how much the whole affair had distressed her. She had expected an unpleasant scene, but not death: certainly not violence, blood, then the police. And now there was the fear that she would not be able to protect Phinnie from a grief that would deeply overshadow the wedding.

  Harley pushed open the apartment door. The latch was broken and had not locked behind them.

  ‘Did you find it like this, sir?’ Flannery asked.

  ‘Yes. Miss Pitt was already inside. I told you.’

  Flannery turned to Jemima, his black eyebrows raised.

  Jemima felt a prickle of fear. ‘Yes. It was open when I pushed it.’

  ‘So you went in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Flannery looked unhappy. ‘Did you know Mrs Cardew?’

  ‘No. But I’ve known her daughter, Delphinia Cardew, for . . .’ It was not so very long, but she must finish the train of thought. ‘I am here with her for the wedding, to look after her until then. She is only nineteen. Her father is ill and cannot travel. She is . . . estranged from Mrs Cardew. She has no one else . . . except the Albright family, of course.’ Was she talking too much and making it even worse?

  ‘So you were trying to bring about a reconciliation with her mother?’ Flannery looked dubious. It was plainly at odds with what Harley had implied.

  ‘No. I wished to persuade Mrs Cardew . . .’ She realised with horror what she was about to say, and how it would sound.

  ‘Not to appear at the wedding and cause distress and embarrassment,’ Harley finished for her.

  Flannery shot him a sharp look that was close to dislike, then turned back to Jemima.

  ‘Is that correct, Miss Pitt?’ he said gently.

  There was no escape.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was hollow, as if she had no air in her lungs. ‘We hoped that she would realise that it would be far better, if she wished to meet with Phinnie again, to do it privately.’ Should she add that Harley had been willing to pay her not to cause a scandal? No. It sounded desperate.

  Flannery nodded, then led the way to the bedroom. The dead woman was lying on the bed exactly as Jemima had left her, the sheet still pulled back to expose the terrible wound. She heard Flannery’s sharp intake of breath. He must have seen dead bodies before, but there was something horribly tragic about this elderly woman, so frail-looking, perhaps even dying anyway, who lay alone, soaked in her own blood, her greying hair spread across the pillow, her features sunken with pain.

  Flannery looked at her closely without touching her, except one strong hand briefly on her pulse. He must have felt, as Jemima had, that she was still warm. He turned to Jemima, his face filled with pity.

  ‘Did you see any weapon, Miss Pitt? Did you move it?’

  ‘No! Of course not!’

  ‘It would be a natural thing to do.’

  ‘My father is a policeman, Mr Flannery. In fact he is head of Special Branch in England. I know better than to move a knife from the scene of a death.’

  He looked bleak. ‘So you know quite a lot about crime?’

  Another mistake. ‘No!’ she said hotly. ‘Only what I have overheard now and then. But if you think about it, it’s common sense.’ She must stop talking, stop telling him too much. She sounded guilty, when really she was only grieved and afraid for Phinnie.

  ‘I see,’ he acknowledged. He looked increasingly unhappy. He looked back at Harley. ‘You said, sir, that you arrived here later than Miss Pitt and found her standing beside the body, which you identified as that of Mrs Maria Cardew.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harley answered quietly. ‘I’m sorry, but
that is so.’

  ‘Where were you, sir?’ Flannery met his eyes squarely.

  ‘I didn’t see anyone come in here, if that’s what you mean?’ Harley replied.

  ‘It’s part of what I mean. If you weren’t in the street outside, where were you?’ Flannery insisted.

  ‘I was late! Someone stopped to ask me directions, and I ended up having to take them part of the way,’ Harley replied a little sharply.

  ‘I see. And you found Mrs Cardew registered here under the name of Sara Godwin?’

  ‘Yes. That may be her name now, for all I know,’ Harley agreed.

  ‘When did you last see Mrs Cardew alive, sir?’

  ‘About twenty years ago, when she first met Mr Cardew. It was through my family that they became acquainted. My father and Mr Cardew are partners in business.’

  ‘Yes, sir, you mentioned that.’ Flannery’s face was pinched, his eyes bleak. He did not like Harley, but he was trapped by circumstances. He looked at Jemima again. ‘Is this all true, Miss Pitt?’

  Jemima realised with a chill that made her feel sick exactly how it looked. There was nothing she could deny.

  ‘Yes . . .’ she admitted.

  Harley spoke before Flannery could. ‘Miss Pitt, if you moved the knife, however well you meant it, it would be a good thing if you told me. I know your devotion to Miss Cardew, but this is extremely serious. I will do my best to protect you, but really, only the truth will serve now.’

  He was making it worse, as if he thought she could have killed the poor woman. Why? It would hardly protect Phinnie. The scandal of having her mother turn up at the wedding would be small, compared with that of murder. Did he really think she was so stupid, so impetuous and hysterical as not to know that? She stared at him, and the answer was clear in the sad, puzzled expression in his eyes.

  ‘I did not touch her!’ Her voice sounded frightened, as if she were close to losing control. ‘I did not touch the knife, or anything else except to know that she was beyond help. I didn’t even know for certain that she was Maria Cardew.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Harley contradicted her. ‘We saw her in Central Park yesterday evening. We followed her. That’s how we knew where to find her today.’

  ‘We were fifty yards away!’ she protested. ‘She looks quite different close to.’

  ‘But it is the same woman, Mr Albright?’ Flannery said. ‘You are quite certain?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harley said decisively. ‘There is no doubt. I’m sorry. I . . . I understand your devotion to Phinnie,’ he said to Jemima. ‘I believe you did this to protect her. It is my duty to my family now to see that you don’t in any way suggest that she had any part in this. I know how intensely she is looking forward to—’

  Flannery cut him off with a glance. ‘If you are looking to protect your family, sir, you would not serve that purpose by suggesting that anyone in your household had a part in this.’

  A dull colour swept up Harley’s face, but he did not answer.

  Flannery turned to Jemima. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Pitt, but I have no choice but to take you to the station for further questions.’

  ‘But I have no blood on me!’ Jemima protested. ‘I would have . . . if I had done that!’ She indicated the body on the bed, but could scarcely look at it.

  Harley swivelled round to look at the kitchen where the corner of a wet towel was visible in the sink. He looked back at Flannery.

  ‘Please, Miss Pitt,’ Flannery said quietly as another policeman came in through the door, followed by a third.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Harley said to Jemima, then turned on his heel without looking at Flannery or speaking to him.

  The next few hours passed in a daze of misery. Jemima was taken in a closed carriage, her hands manacled together, down to the centre of the city where she was asked questions as to her identity, nationality and her purpose here in New York. She was finally charged with the murder of Maria Cardew, and her belongings were taken from her, except the clothes she stood up in, and a small handkerchief. She was then placed in a cell and left alone, trembling and queasy with fear and shock.

  How could this have happened, in the space of a few hours? It was the middle of the day, and yet breakfast-time seemed as if it had happened in another era. Did Harley really imagine that she had killed Maria Cardew? With a knife from the kitchen? Did he think she was both stupid and cold-blooded enough to have committed murder rather than let Maria make a scene at the wedding?

  Why? To protect Phinnie from embarrassment?

  That was absurd, even insane.

  Then, sitting on the hard bench that served as a bed, shuddering with cold in the bare, iron-barred cell, she knew the answer. Not to protect Phinnie from embarrassment at all, but to make certain that the wedding went ahead and Phinnie became part of the powerful Albright family, with its immense wealth. He had all but hinted as much to Patrick Flannery. Phinnie would reward her appropriately.

  That, of course, had assumed she would not be caught! Now all she would gain was a length of rope to hang her or whatever they did with murderers in New York!

  Would anyone tell her parents? Surely they would?

  Then her father would come over and he would find the truth. He had no official status as a policeman, or anything else, here in America, but that would not prevent him. He would do anything to save her. She was not guilty of anything except . . . what? Foolishness? Over-confidence in her own ability? Perhaps pride? It was a miserable thought.

  She was given supper; by then she was hungry enough to eat even this rough and tasteless stew. The bed was hard and lumpy and the whole cell was bitterly cold. She slept very badly and woke up so stiff she could not move without pain. And of course there were no clean clothes for her, nothing even to wash in except cold water.

  About the middle of the morning, the woman in charge told her that she had a visitor, and to straighten herself up and prepare to be conducted to the room where she could speak to him. She did as she was told, wondering if it would be Harley Albright. What could she say to him? He had practically accused her of killing Maria Cardew in a secret agreement with Phinnie, to save her from any embarrassment in her new life. She hated him for that so much she felt as if she would choke on her words if she even tried to speak to him. He was the one who had asked her help in finding Maria. And yet, furious as she was, she also knew that he was trying to protect his family. That part she could believe, and even sympathise with.

  But when she was conducted to the interview room, her hands again manacled behind her back, it was Mr Rothwell Albright who stood up from the hard-backed wooden chair, not Harley. He looked tired and so pale it was as if the cold had seeped through everything he wore and reached into his bones. Was it the prospect of scandal that affected him so much?

  He looked at her with distress. ‘Are you all right, Miss Pitt? Unhurt?’

  ‘I am not physically anything worse than stiff and cold, thank you,’ she replied. She softened her voice. He had at least come to see her. She should be grateful for that. ‘Would you please contact my father to let him know what has happened to me? I have no way of doing so myself.’

  ‘Should it prove necessary, of course I will,’ he replied. His voice was gravelly, as if he had not slept either.

  ‘It is necessary,’ she said with rising panic very nearly breaking through. Had he no idea what was happening? ‘They have accused me of killing Mrs Cardew! I didn’t even touch her, except to make certain she was dead and there was nothing I could do to help her.’

  ‘I am afraid the evidence suggests otherwise,’ he answered slowly. ‘Poor Maria. She did not deserve to die in such a way. She was a good woman . . . misguided, perhaps, but not evil.’

  There was a real grief in his face, in his eyes. It seemed that he did not share the family view of her, except perhaps Celia’s opinion. What had Maria Cardew really been like? She aroused intense feelings, for good or ill.

  ‘Mr Albright, I did not harm her in any way,’ J
emima said earnestly. ‘Mr Harley asked me to help find her and persuade her not to attend the wedding and cause embarrassment. That was all I attempted to do. I never saw her at all except for a brief glimpse in the Park, and then the next morning when she was dead. I have no idea who hurt her. Please . . . please tell Phinnie that . . .’

  He avoided her eyes. ‘I am afraid Delphinia is very distressed. She has now lost all possibility of reconciliation with her mother, and this terrible manner of her death has cast a dark shadow over her forthcoming wedding. I asked her if she wished to send any message to you, perhaps of comfort or support. She declined. I’m . . . sorry.’

  It was another blow. Maybe she should have expected it. Phinnie was a changeable as the spring weather at home. But this hurt. Surely Phinnie knew her better than to imagine she would have killed anyone, let alone a frail old woman she had never even met?

  But of course Phinnie would not be thinking, only grieving, and fearing that the scandal of murder would affect the Albright family, and spoil the longed-for wedding to Brent.

  ‘I shall contact the best lawyer I can afford, Miss Pitt, and perhaps this matter may be dealt with before your family has to be informed.’ Mr Albright rose to his feet. ‘I am very sorry your visit to us has ended in this way.’

  She watched him go out of the far door without turning back, his perfectly tailored shoulders stiff, his white hair gleaming in the light. He had said nothing about putting up bail to have her released. Perhaps, considering the charge, it was not possible anyway. She would stay here, hungry, aching and cold to the bone until such time as they brought her to trial, which might be after Christmas! Then what? Oh, please heaven he would tell her father, and he would come and shatter this nightmare!

  Officer Flannery came to see her late in the afternoon, as it was already getting dark. She saw him in the same bare interview room where she had been charged, sitting on the same wooden-backed chair.

  He looked different without his police hat. He had thick, dark hair with a heavy curl in it. He looked tired and cold.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He asked her the same question Mr Albright had, and with something of the same anxiety.