In the Shadow of Gotham (10 page)

“Yes, well,” Horace said, “I did speak with Richard Bonham first thing this morning—in fact, I got there within a half hour of the policeman who broke the news about the murder.” Horace beamed with satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself. “Professor Bonham was quite a help. He thought the girl had tremendous academic potential. But from what he said about her activities, I’d say she was also a troublemaker. Apparently Sarah was one of those rabble-rousing feminists desperate for the vote, always marching in one demonstration or another,” he said. “Last month she led the group that demonstrated on the president’s steps for granting women admission to the undergraduate program.”

I happened to glance at Isabella. For an instant so brief I was convinced I must have imagined it, I saw disapproval in her eyes as she looked toward Horace—who was by now again seated immediately to her right. Once more, I had not noticed him move.

“Horace, isn’t your fiancée a member of one of those feminist groups?” Isabella asked. “You’ll have to change your tune once you’re married next summer!”

“She’s not in
that
kind of feminist group,” Horace snapped, flushing with embarrassment.

“Enough of this,” Tom interrupted. “It’s not what got Sarah Wingate murdered, after all.”

“Actually, we can’t know that yet,” I said. “We don’t know
what her connection with Michael Fromley was—if indeed that’s what led to her murder. And until we’ve solved her murder, nothing about her life is unimportant.”

“Ziele is right,” Alistair said, his expression unreadable. “Horace, please continue.”

“Yes, well,” Horace continued, “Sarah was determined to get her doctorate in mathematics, and had just started her fourth year of graduate work this fall. According to Professor Bonham, she was in good academic standing and performing well. He also mentioned that she had a part-time job at the dean’s office. Just some filing, simple clerical work.”

“Thank you, Horace,” Alistair said. “Perhaps some of Sarah Wingate’s friends can offer more detail about these matters.”

“I actually have a list of Sarah Wingate’s friends,” Horace said, producing a grimy, wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. “Do you want me to follow up?”

“I would like to,” I said, and he handed me the list wordlessly. While the extra efforts of these people were well intended, the success or failure of this investigation was ultimately mine—and I disliked relying on the opinions of others. This was especially true in interviews, where I had to evaluate the information I learned in light of the credibility of the person speaking.

Alistair must have understood, because he immediately delegated other assignments—but all entailing simple background research. Tom and Fred, as senior faculty, would visit the registrar’s office to get a list of Sarah Wingate’s courses and talk with the faculty about her performance. They would also visit the dean’s office to determine the length of her employment there and the scope of her duties. Horace would visit the offices of the student paper,
The Spectator
, to view back issues and gather any past articles mentioning Sarah Wingate. Alistair would try
to reach Fromley’s family, the Wallingfords, to arrange an immediate meeting. Meanwhile, I would interview the Bonham family as well as Caleb Muller, her academic advisor. Alistair promised to meet me at 113th Street and Broadway at one o’clock; he was confident he would have reached the Wallingfords by then. Then, he took me aside to offer an additional suggestion.

“You may want to take Isabella with you to the Bonhams. She will be able to put Miss Bonham at ease—and that will enable your interview to proceed more smoothly.”

“Understood. But first, I need to check in with the office; may I use your telephone?” I asked.

He directed me to his private office next door, where I closed the door and dialed Joe. It was some moments before Charlie, our secretary, brought Joe to the telephone. I filled him in, omitting nothing.

“You trust everything this professor says?” he asked. After hearing my tale, he sounded incredulous.

“Not for a moment,” I said. “But it bears looking into, wouldn’t you say?”

Joe’s answer was a loud grunt.

He went on to tell me that Peter Voyt had scored a breakthrough of sorts. His calls to a number of the more successful—and thus expensive—photographers in the city had yielded results. After discovering a photographer who promised to be the right match on the telephone, Peter had straightaway gone to examine the photographer’s files. The tiny photographs in Sarah’s locket were indeed part of a larger series of portraits, completed in December 1899, and paid for by an A. MacDonald. The photographer barely remembered the couple, since almost six years had passed. But he was able to confirm Peter’s suspicion that
the photographs were part of a larger series, typical of couples sitting for engagement pictures.

“It was very unusual to have photographs like that reduced for a tiny locket,” Joe explained.

But Sarah had wanted to keep the photographs secret—and that would have been impossible with a large photograph. The other photographs were no doubt within the possession of A. MacDonald.

Now that we had a name, Joe would follow up by attempting to locate as many A. MacDonalds as he could identify in the New York City area.

“What’s your plan if you find him?” I asked.

“To figure out what he had to do with Sarah Wingate and her murder. I’ll just ask him.”

Of course. That always worked.

I hung up before I said something I would truly regret.

The brownstone near the corner of 113th Street and Riverside Drive where the Bonhams lived was newly built, marked by ornamental iron filigree combined with patterns of red, yellow, and tan brick. Similar buildings throughout the Upper West Side were going up as fast as construction would allow, each one more elaborate than the last, in a real estate boom that seemingly had no end in sight. The city was expanding northward, and its growing economy enabled more and more people to afford what was being so rapidly built.

Once inside the Bonham home, Isabella and I were taken through a passage behind the stairwell to a large, comfortable library to wait for Sarah’s friend. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominated the room, each filled with old books stuck in at odd
angles. No doubt they were the source of the room’s musty smell. Mary Bonham did not keep us waiting long. A short and plump young woman, she had brown hair, a round face, and red, puffy eyes behind thick glasses. I noticed that she visibly relaxed upon seeing Isabella, and I silently thanked Alistair for his foresight in suggesting Isabella as a companion.

“Our condolences,” I offered gently, after we had made the necessary introductions. “We appreciate your talking with us this afternoon; we realize this is a difficult time for you.”

She nodded insensibly, but remembered her manners and asked if we cared for coffee or sandwiches. Though I was famished, I declined. I always felt it was inappropriate to eat or drink in these circumstances, as though this were a social visit. It was not, and I disliked having any pretense about that.

I began by asking Mary a few simple questions about her family and the duration of her friendship with Sarah. Her responses—even to such simple questions—were so reluctant that I signaled Isabella to try. Perhaps she would have better success with this shy young girl. The risk, of course, was that she might not formulate the right questions, but I soon found myself appreciating her natural instincts. She first asked when Sarah came to live with the Bonhams.

“Just over a year ago,” Mary said, pulling a green shawl tightly around her. “She came to us soon after last fall’s robbery.”

“Can you tell us—”

I cut off Isabella’s question with my own. “What robbery?”

But I was too abrupt, and Mary recoiled from what she perceived as a rude reply. “I’m sorry,” I said, modifying my response, “I’m not familiar with that incident, and it could be important.” Then I waited, annoyed that I had overreacted.

“Well,” she said, “it happened a year ago September, right after Labor Day. It’s the reason why Sarah moved here, since the Wingates wouldn’t hear of her living alone after the robbery.” She corrected herself quickly. “Of course, Sarah had never lived
alone
; Mrs. Gardner runs a respectable rooming house for young ladies who attend college. But it’s not the same as living with a family.”

“We understand,” Isabella demurred before prompting her to get back on point. “And the robbery?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, almost breathlessly. “Sarah returned to her room one night and surprised a stranger rifling through her personal things. She screamed and the man left, but he made off with money and some jewelry.”

“This man was caught and identified?” I asked.

“Eventually, yes,” she said, “and Sarah recovered the jewelry, but not the money. That was long spent by the time the police arrested him.”

“Do you remember anything more about the incident? Perhaps the man’s name or occupation?”

“He was German, I think,” she said, trying to remember. She frowned. “I believe he was a vagrant who took advantage of an open window. Sarah described him as having long, unkempt hair and wearing soiled clothes.”

“Did the experience change her behavior in any way?” I asked.

“Apart from changing her living arrangements, I don’t think Sarah thought much of it at all.”

September 1904
. I jotted the date down in my notebook. I would have one of my contacts at the department pull all arrest records from the Morningside Heights precinct to try to locate the case.

Mary looked down, her fingers playing with the fringe on her shawl.

“We understand you last saw Sarah on Friday, when she left to go visit her aunt in Dobson. I wonder if you could describe her mood for us?” Isabella’s tone was friendly, as if she were merely chatting with a friend she had known for years. When Mary did not answer immediately, she offered further help. “Was she happy and excited about her weekend with her aunt?” It was just the right approach to help Mary relax and talk more comfortably.

The girl shrugged. “Sarah was out of sorts, I’d say. She hadn’t been sleeping well. She was up most nights with terrible insomnia. I think that’s why she decided to visit her aunt.” She looked up from the fringe. “We had a row about it, actually. We had opening-night tickets to go with my parents to see Maude Adams in her new musical,
Peter Pan
. I couldn’t believe Sarah would cancel plans like that.” Her voice was husky as she fought back tears. “I didn’t understand why she chose to go to Dobson and miss seeing it.”

“When did she change her mind?” I asked.

“Thursday night.” Mary hiccupped a sob.

“She must have given you a reason why.” Isabella tried to encourage her.

But Mary shook her head. “She said she had a great deal of work and couldn’t concentrate here. But her next dissertation chapter draft was not due for another month, and just two weeks ago, she claimed it was almost done. Her excuses made no sense.”

I mulled over this information, wondering what to make of it. Something had troubled Sarah, giving her insomnia and prompting her abrupt decision to go to Dobson. It was an altogether
different picture than Abigail Wingate had painted when she described Sarah’s visit.

“Do you have any idea what may have troubled her?” Isabella asked. “Was she having any academic difficulties?”

“Of course not,” Mary said. “Sarah’s studies came very easily to her.”

“And her classmates liked her?”

Mary wrinkled her nose. “I suppose most liked her well enough. There was jealousy, of course.”

“Could you give us an example?”

“Well, only one incident comes to mind,” she said. “During Sarah’s second year in the graduate program, she briefly considered changing her focus to medicine. She enrolled in an organic chemistry course, and when she received the highest grade in the class, her classmates—most of them doing premedical studies—were up in arms. The professor used a bell curve standard and Sarah’s doing so well affected their performance. One of them filed a formal challenge, alleging that she had not done the work herself. She had to meet with a panel of three professors and submit to an informal oral exam, just to prove she knew the material.” She sighed and returned to pulling at the fringe of her shawl. “But if her classmate’s strategy was to disparage her abilities, then he failed miserably; she performed even better in that scenario than she had in her written exams. Still, she hated having her abilities doubted.”

“What about afterward?” I added. “Did she encounter that sort of suspicion elsewhere, perhaps in the math department?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I never heard about it.”

“And what about her women friends from Barnard?”

Mary thought for a minute before answering, which in itself was telling. At last, she said, “Sarah generally got on well with
people, but she had a strong personality and could be argumentative. It was a trait she developed over time, since every success she achieved had to be defended against the argument she hadn’t really earned it.”

“What was her area of research?” Isabella asked.

“I know her dissertation was about the Riemann hypothesis; Sarah was fascinated with it. But I can’t begin to tell you much more than that, since I’ve no head for math myself.”