Murder on Washington Square (18 page)

“Questions about what?”

“About you and Anna Blake. When was the last time you were with her?”

“I saw her Monday evening, the night I went there with Mrs. Brandt. I stayed for a while after Mrs. Brandt left, but Anna was so upset, I finally left.”

“You didn’t see her the next night, the night she was killed?” Frank asked.

Nelson shook his head. “No, she told me not to come back, that she never wanted to see me again.”

“So you weren’t ever going to see her again?” Frank asked incredulously.

“Oh, no, she said that often, whenever she was upset. I would give her a day or two to calm down, then call on her again. She never seemed to remember that she’d told me not to come back, you see. This time I planned to give her several days, and then . . .”

His voice broke and he covered his eyes with his hand. Frank stared at him in pity, but he had no time for such indulgences. He needed Nelson to accept the truth about the dead woman. The sooner he did, the sooner he’d be a help in solving her murder.

“Nelson, this is very important. When was the last time you . . . uh . . . screwed Anna Blake?”

Nelson’s eyes widened in shock. Plainly, no one had ever asked him such a thing. “Really, Mr. Malloy, that’s hardly—” he began in outrage, but Frank didn’t have the patience for his finer feelings.

“You’ve already told me you did it. How else could she have convinced you that you’d gotten her in a family way? Now just tell me when was the last time?”

“I . . . I don’t really remember exactly,” he hedged. “I mean, there was just the one time and—”

“Just
one
time?” Frank echoed in surprise.

Nelson flushed. “What kind of am man do you think I am? I couldn’t take advantage of her like that!”

“You did it once, why not again?” Frank countered reasonably.

Nelson grew even redder, if that was possible. “The first time it was . . . Well, it was a mistake, a terrible mistake. I’ll never forgive myself, but I wasn’t myself at all, you see, and—”

“Who were you, if you weren’t yourself?” Frank asked a little sarcastically.

Nelson had a the grace to look chagrinned. “It was the wine,” he admitted reluctantly.

“What wine?”

“The wine that . . . Anna wasn’t feeling well, and . . .” He gestured helplessly.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me how it happened,” Frank suggested.

“It’s so ungentlemanly,” Nelson protested.

“Seducing her was ungentlemanly,” Frank countered. “Telling me how it happened might save your neck.”

Nelson winced, but he couldn’t argue with such logic. “I came to call on her, just the way I had been for several weeks. I was concerned about her, you see. She didn’t have a friend in the world, and I didn’t want her to end up on the street the way so many other girls do.”

“Of course not,” Frank said encouragingly. “And of course you had to give her money.”

“It was just a loan,” he insisted. “She was going to pay me back. She didn’t want to take charity.”

“That’s very commendable, “Frank said, the irony lost on Nelson.

“One evening I stopped by on my way home from the bank, just to say hello, you understand. But Mrs. Walcott told me Anna was ill. She seemed very upset. She thought Anna might be going into a decline. Having lost her mother and no longer being able to provide for herself, Mrs. Walcott thought Anna might simply die to avoid what she considered a worse fate.”

“Was she really sick?” Frank asked when he hesitated, lost in his memories.

“She seemed to be. Although it was highly improper, and Mrs. Walcott assured me she never allowed gentleman callers above stairs, she asked me to go to Anna’s room to see if I could help in some way. That’s how concerned she was.”

This was starting to make a lot of sense to Frank. Seducing a woman wasn’t as easy as people made it sound. Women were usually trussed up in so many layers of corsets and clothing that just getting to them was half-a-day’s work. Even rape required a lot of determination to dig through all those petticoats. But if Anna were ill, she’d be in her nightclothes, simplifying the process considerably.

“So you went to her room,” Frank prodded.

“Yes, she was very ill indeed. I wanted to call a doctor immediately, but she begged me not to. She said she felt much better just having me there and knowing I cared about her. Mrs. Walcott had sent up a bottle of wine, thinking that might make Anna feel better. She didn’t want to drink it. Her mother had been a temperance worker, you see, so I took some myself, just to encourage her. I don’t know how much I drank before I finally convinced her to try some, but it must have been too much. By the time I realized I wasn’t myself, it was too late.”

“Are you telling me you turned into a raging beast?” Frank asked skeptically.

“Certainly not!” Nelson cried, but his outrage evaporated instantly. “At least I didn’t realize I did. Later, Anna told me . . . Well, I started to feel a little unsteady, and Anna tried to help me to my feet so I could go back downstairs. The last thing I remember, my arms were around her and . . .”

“You don’t remember what happened?” Frank asked in amazement.

“If I’d been in my right mind, it never
would
have happened!” he insisted. “When I came to myself again, Anna was curled up on the bed beside me, weeping piteously. I knew what I’d done, even before she told me I’d ruined her.”

“What did you do then?”

“What do you think I did? I asked her to become my wife. I’m not a cad!”

“And what did she say?” Frank asked, not bothering to express his opinion on Nelson’s honor.

“She . . . Well, she was naturally upset. I don’t think she realized the implications. She just told me to go away and never see her again. She was terribly ashamed and wanted to forget this had ever happened. She made me swear I would never tell, and of course I never would have.”

“So you just left?”

“I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t stay there with her, even if she’d wanted me to. Mrs. Walcott would have thought that strange indeed.”

“Indeed,” Frank murmured.

“I resolved to come back the next day and make my offer again, when Anna was more composed and had had time to realize her situation. But when I did return, she wouldn’t see me. She wouldn’t see me for several weeks, and then . . .”

“Then you got an urgent message,” Frank guessed.

“How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess,” Frank said wearily. “Nelson, there was no baby.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Anna Blake wasn’t with child.”

He frowned in confusion. “But she was so sure.”

“The coroner assures me she wasn’t, and what’s more, she knew it. She was actually taking precautions not to be.”

Now Nelson was really confused. “What kind of precautions?”

Frank didn’t feel as embarrassed as he had with Sarah Brandt, but he still didn’t have the proper words for this. “If a woman doesn’t want to have a child, she can put a sponge inside of her to protect her from it. She was wearing one when she died. And Nelson . . . ?”

Nelson didn’t want to hear the rest of this. “Yes?” he asked with great reluctance.

“She’d been with another man not long before she died.”

Nelson closed his eyes as the full knowledge of his betrayal washed over him. “It wasn’t me,” he whispered.

“Then we’ve got to find out who it was.”

 

 

 

S
ARAH GOT HOME EARLY THAT MORNING AFTER DELIVERING a baby girl, so she had time for a brief nap before meeting Malloy at the Walcott house. Her nap was cut even shorter when someone knocked on her door. Fearing another delivery would keep her from visiting Mrs. Walcott, she was relieved to find one of her parents’ servants with a message from her mother, inviting her to supper that night to meet Mr. Richard Dennis. Her father had kept his promise!

She was still a little groggy when she left her house, but the combination of her appointment this evening, the prospect of learning more about Anna Blake, and the brisk fall air quickly revived her. She took an umbrella with her because it looked as if a storm was brewing.

By habit she glanced over at the Ellsworth house, expecting to see Mrs. Ellsworth coming out onto her porch, broom in hand, to inquire into her business and warn her about some omen or offer her a good luck charm. But the shades were all pulled tight and the front door remained tightly closed against intruders. She wondered if Malloy had told Nelson about the story in
The World
that branded him a perfectly justified killer instead of a wanton one. Nelson probably wouldn’t appreciate the difference. She would have to be very convincing with Mr. Dennis if she hoped to save Nelson’s job at the bank. With any luck at all, she’d be able to influence him before he’d had a chance to act on the story.

Washington Square was busy on this cloudy Sabbath afternoon. Families dressed in their Sunday best hurried to their destinations, trying to beat the gathering storm. No one had time to remember a woman had died right here less than a week ago. Sarah hurried past the hanging tree, trying not to look at the place where Anna Blake had lain and trying not to think of the irony that she died beneath a tree of death.

Thompson Street was quieter than the Square, although people were rushing about here, too, on their way to or from Sunday visits. She saw no sign of Malloy when she arrived at the Walcott house, but then she hadn’t heard the city clocks striking the hour yet either. Slowing her step, she looked around, wondering what she should do. Standing on the pavement in front of the house would be a little too obvious and would certainly attract attention, and besides, it might start raining at any moment. Her presence also might warn Mrs. Walcott that trouble was on the way and allow her to make her escape out the back door. She didn’t have time to form a plan, however, because the front door of the Walcott house opened, and Catherine Porter looked out.

“Mrs. Brandt?” she called.

Sarah looked up in surprise. “Yes?”

“That police detective is here. He told me to watch for you.”

So much for needing a plan. Sarah made her way up the front steps with as much dignity as she could manage, considering she was furious with Malloy for not waiting for her. He’d probably been there for an hour and was finished with his questioning. He’d let Sarah examine the dead woman’s room and then they’d leave. She wanted to wring his neck.

Catherine closed the door, not quite meeting Sarah’s eye, as if she knew Sarah wanted to ask her about things she didn’t want to discuss. “They’re in the parlor,” she said, gesturing to the closed doors. “He said to go on in when you got here.”

Sarah would have preferred to be announced, but with a sigh of resignation, she slid open the pocket doors and found Malloy and Mrs. Walcott sociably drinking tea and chatting about the weather.

Malloy’s expression changed at the sight of her. Although it couldn’t exactly be called a smile, he did look somewhat pleased to see her. Mrs. Walcott, however, seemed less so. They both set down their cups and rose to their feet.

“Mrs. Brandt, isn’t it?” Mrs. Walcott said with a practiced smile. “How nice of you to come.” Once again, she was dressed in fashionable good taste, her artificial hair perfectly styled.

“I see Mr. Malloy told you to expect me,” Sarah said, nodding to her hostess and giving Malloy a glare.

“As I explained, Mrs. Brandt has agreed to give me the benefit of her medical knowledge to assist me in this investigation,” Malloy said with a straight face. “I’m told there are some delicate matters about this case that a female could address more easily.”

Mrs. Walcott frowned. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Malloy. Please sit down, Mrs. Brandt. Would you like some tea?”

Sarah allowed that she would, and she took a seat beside Malloy on the sofa. While Mrs. Walcott served her, she tried to catch Malloy’s eye so she could let him know just how unhappy she was with him, but he refused to cooperate.

“I’m very sorry about Miss Blake’s death,” she said finally.

“She was a lovely girl,” Mrs. Walcott said, handing Sarah a fragile China cup and saucer.

“How long had she lived here?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, four or five months, I believe. Time passes so quickly, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Walcott had a sweet, well-modulated voice. She could have passed herself off as a society matron in the right venue. Today she wore black, probably for mourning. She had a cameo brooch pinned at her throat, and black lace mitts on her hands once again. At least she looked the part of lady of the manor.

Sarah glanced at Malloy again, waiting for a cue. Had he already finished questioning her? “Have you been here long, Mr. Malloy?” she asked.

“Just a few minutes,” he replied smugly, recognizing her annoyance and enjoying it. “I was waiting for your arrival. Mrs. Walcott, I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened the night Anna Blake died.”

Mrs. Walcott’s cup rattled in the saucer, and she quickly set it down. “Forgive me,” she said, folding her hands tightly in her lap and lowering her head for a moment to regain her composure. “It’s still very difficult to discuss this.”

“I’m sure it is,” Malloy agreed sympathetically, “but if we hope to find out who killed her, we have to know where she went and who she saw.”

“Of course, although I don’t believe I’ll be much help to you.”

“Just tell us what you know,” Sarah said.

Mrs. Walcott nodded, took a deep breath, and began. “Anna had seemed distressed about something. Even more distressed than she had been ever since she discovered that . . . Well, I think you know her situation.”

“I know what she said her situation was,” Malloy corrected her. “She’d told two different men that they’d gotten her with child, if that’s what you’re talking about.”