Murder on Washington Square (31 page)

“Are you in love with him?”

“Are you lovers?”

“Are you engaged?”

Sarah rolled her eyes and kept moving.

“Maybe she’s the one who stabbed Prescott!” another called.

This stopped her in her tracks. “What did you say?”

“Did you stab Webster Prescott to protect your lover?” a young man with a very bad complexion asked hopefully.

“How did you find out Mr. Prescott had been stabbed?” she demanded.

“How did
you
?” another one countered provocatively.

Sarah sighed in exasperation. “The
police
told me,” she said. “Now how did
you
find out?”

“It was in the
World
this morning,” one of them said. “A woman tried to kill him because he was getting too close to the truth! Was it you, trying to protect Ellsworth?”

Sarah fought her way through the rest of them and quickly climbed her steps, ignoring their shouted questions and innuendoes. Now she was very glad she’d come home when she did. She had to see Mrs. Ellsworth and make sure she and Nelson were all right after this recent onslaught.

Once safely inside, she didn’t even remove her cloak. Making a hasty foraging trip through the kitchen for anything edible she could find, she threw the things into her market basket and slipped it over her arm. Then she snatched up her medical bag and launched herself back into the street again. There was no need to sneak around the back way. She’d simply go in the front door and the devil take them all.

They were like jackals on the scent when they saw where she was going. She didn’t allow herself to hear the shouts or the questions as she made her way through them to the Ellsworths’ front door. She pounded on it, calling, “It’s Sarah Brandt!” so they wouldn’t be afraid to let her in.

After a few moments, the door opened a crack. She glimpsed Mrs. Ellsworth’s frightened face in the instant before she squeezed through the narrow opening and threw her weight against the door to help the old woman close it behind her. By then the reporters were pounding on it, too, demanding admittance. After making sure it was locked securely, Sarah led Mrs. Ellsworth away to the relative quiet of the kitchen.

“Oh, Mrs. Brandt, I don’t know what we’re going to do,” the old woman wailed. “I thought they’d gotten tired of us, and now . . .”

“They found out someone tried to kill Webster Prescott. It was in the newspapers this morning.”

“That doesn’t explain why they’re here, though. Do they think Nelson did that, too?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Sarah said.

Mrs. Ellsworth looked pale and dangerously frail as she sat down abruptly in one of the kitchen chairs. “How is poor Mr. Prescott doing?”

“He’s still alive, or he was the last time I visited him, but he’s not doing very well, I’m afraid. In fact, when I went by the hospital to see him this morning—”

“Hospital!” Mrs. Ellsworth cried in horror. “The poor boy is in the hospital? He caused us a lot of pain, but I certainly wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Doesn’t he have someone to take care of him at home?”

“He has an aunt who lives in Brooklyn, but I just sent her word this morning, so she hasn’t had time to get here yet. He’s too weak to be moved, in any case.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, I knew something terrible was going to happen. My left eye has been itching since yesterday! That’s a bad omen, you know. Now if your right eye itches—”

“Mrs. Ellsworth, how are
you
doing?” Sarah interrupted, having no patience for a lecture on superstitions. “Do you have enough food in the house? I brought some things just in case.”

“Oh, my, yes, we haven’t eaten half of what you already brought. Neither of us has much of an appetite, as you can imagine.”

“Mother, what’s going on?” Nelson called from the hallway. The din from the reporters outside had drawn Nelson from his room. He came into the kitchen, a worried frown on his face. He hadn’t shaved, and he was in his undershirt and trousers. “Oh, Mrs. Brandt, forgive my appearance!” he exclaimed, humiliated. “I had no idea—”

“Don’t be silly,” Sarah said. “Of course you didn’t. I had to fight my way in here through a mob of newspapermen.”

“Good God!” Nelson fumbled for one of the kitchen chairs and sank down into it, just as his mother had. “When will this nightmare ever end?”

“Does Mr. Prescott know who stabbed him?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked hopefully.

“He thinks it was a woman,” Sarah said, “although he didn’t see her face. It was dark, and she was wearing a cloak with a hood.”

“A woman? That’s impossible,” Nelson declared.

“It does sound unlikely, I know,” Sarah admitted, “and of course, Mr. Malloy and I were hoping that whoever stabbed him was the same person who killed Anna Blake. Now we’re not so sure, though.”

“So that’s why the reporters are back,” Nelson said. “Do they think my mother stabbed this fellow?” he added bitterly.

“If they don’t stop their nonsense pretty soon, I might stab the lot of them,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with more spirit than she’d shown in a week.

Sarah smiled in spite of herself. “It wouldn’t help,” she said. “More would just come to take their places.”

“She’s right, Mother,” Nelson said. “Our only hope is to find out who really killed Anna.”

“And how are we supposed to do that when we can’t even leave the house?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked in exasperation.

“Mr. Malloy and I are doing everything we can,” Sarah assured them both. “In fact, Mr. Malloy believes he’s very close to finding the real killer.”

“Is it the same person who stabbed the reporter?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked.

“We won’t know that until Mr. Malloy questions him.”

“I thought you said a woman stabbed him,” Nelson said.

“Mr. Malloy thinks it was a man dressed up.”

Mrs. Ellsworth frowned. She thought that sounded as preposterous as Sarah did. Then her expression grew calculating. “Are you visiting this reporter at the hospital in case he remembers anything else about his attacker?”

Sarah shrugged. “If he happens to remember something important, I wouldn’t want to miss it,” she admitted, “but I don’t think there’s much chance of it. Really, I just feel sorry for him. He was a likable fellow, for a reporter, and I can’t stand the thought of anyone suffering alone like that.”

“You’re right,” Mrs. Ellsworth said decisively, rising to her feet. “That poor boy shouldn’t be left alone for an instant. Give me a moment to change, and I’ll be ready to go with you back to the hospital.”

“Mother, what are you doing?” Nelson asked, horrified.

“I’m going to do my Christian duty,” she replied.

“Mrs. Ellsworth,” Sarah began to protest, but the old woman cut her off.

“You’re right, Mrs. Brandt. No one should be left alone in a hospital, especially not someone who might hold a clue to clearing my son’s name. I’m not doing Nelson any good here, but I can at least do some good for that poor boy. And if he happens to say something useful, so much the better.”

“Mother, you won’t even get out the front door with all those reporters standing on the curb!”

“He’s right, Mrs. Ellsworth,” Sarah said.

Mrs. Ellsworth gave them both a pitying look. “I have no intention of going out the front door. But Mrs. Brandt will. She’ll take her time and keep them busy until I can get safely out the back door. I’ll wear a veil so I won’t be recognized once I’m clear of the house. Then I’ll meet you under the Sixth Avenue El at Twelfth,” she said to Sarah. “When we get to the hospital, you can show me what to do, and I’ll stay with him until . . . Well, as long as I need to.”

“You can’t do this,” Nelson declared. “It isn’t safe. I’ll go instead.”

“Nelson, my dear,’ ” his mother said kindly. “You couldn’t show your face without someone recognizing you. Or were you planning to dress like a woman?” she added wickedly.

Nelson started sputtering a protest, but his mother cut him off.

“I’m going to do this, Nelson. It’s not a bit dangerous, and it might even help. Besides, if I don’t get out of here soon, I shall go mad.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Sarah asked in concern.

This time Mrs. Ellsworth’s expression was contemptuous. “Are you serious? I haven’t felt this alive since I found out about that poor girl’s death. I’m going whether you help me or not, so unless you want a parade of reporters following us to the hospital, I suggest you go along with my plan to distract them.”

Sarah didn’t even need to think it over. “What do you want me to do?”

 

As they entered Bellevue Hospital, Sarah glanced down at her companion with admiration. Mrs. Ellsworth had swathed herself in a heavy veil that concealed every trace of her identity. She didn’t look particularly out of place, either, since women in mourning often went veiled, and her plan to escape the reporters’ notice had worked beautifully.

Sarah had endured another round of shouted questions when she left the Ellsworths’ house, and had successfully ignored them until the reporters got tired of following her and returned to their vigil. By the time she reached the appointed meeting place, Mrs. Ellsworth was waiting for her, the market basket hanging over her arm, filled with nutritious foods for Webster Prescott.

The two had taken the Sixth Avenue El up to Twenty-Sixth Street instead of walking over to Second Avenue in order to get off the street as quickly as possible. No one had even looked at them twice, though. They had arrived at their destination without incident.

When they reached the ward where Prescott lay, Sarah could see down the length of the room that a woman was sitting next to him, on the far side of his bed.

“It looks as if his aunt is already here,” Sarah said with some surprise.

“I thought you only sent her word this morning. How could she have gotten here so quickly?”

“I don’t . . . Oh, yes, it was in the newspaper this morning that he was attacked. Maybe she saw it and came over without being summoned. At any rate, we can certainly ask her,” Sarah pointed out, leading the way to where the woman sat beside Prescott’s bed.

Sarah noticed Prescott’s aunt was also veiled, although hers was shorter and much lighter than Mrs. Ellsworth’s. She was, Sarah knew, a widow, and she probably wore the veil all the time. Such elaborate mourning was a little excessive, but some women enjoyed flaunting their grief.

As they approached, she saw that the woman was trying to feed Prescott something, but he kept turning his head away.

He said something that sounded like, “Tastes bad,” and she could hear his aunt coaxing him softly, the way one did with ill-tempered sick people.

“Mrs. Beasley,” Sarah called when they were near enough.

Mrs. Beasley didn’t turn. She just kept coaxing Prescott to eat. She must, Sarah thought, be hard of hearing.

“Mrs. Beasley!”
she called more loudly as they reached Prescott’s bed. “I’m Sarah Brandt, a friend of your nephew’s.”

Mrs. Beasley’s head came up in surprise, and she jumped to her feet, dropping the bowl from which she had been feeding her nephew. It spilled on the bed, all over Prescott, and Sarah and Mrs. Ellsworth instinctively reached to salvage what they could of the porridge.

“I’m so sorry,” Sarah said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” But when she looked up to reassure Mrs. Beasley, she saw only the woman’s back as she hurried away, nearly running in her fright.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, watching her disappear out the door. “She’s quite shy, isn’t she?”

“I certainly didn’t mean to frighten her. I should go after her and apologize,” Sarah said.

“No!”
Prescott said, surprising both women.

“Mr. Prescott?” Sarah tried, wondering if he was talking to her. “How are you feeling?”

“No,” he said again, obviously not hearing her at all. “Too sweet . . . Tastes . . . bad.”

That’s what he’d been saying to his aunt. Sarah wondered what the woman had been feeding him that had caused such a reaction. She lifted the nearly empty bowl to her nose and took a sniff.

How odd, she thought, certain she must be mistaken. But when she dipped her finger in and took a taste, she cried out in alarm.

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed, but Sarah was calling for the nurse.

One of the nurses came rushing over. “Whatever is the matter?”

“That woman was trying to poison Mr. Prescott!” Sarah cried.

“Poison!” Mrs. Ellsworth was saying, over and over, but the nurse wasn’t as impressed.

“Who are you to know such a thing?” the nurse demanded skeptically.

“I’m a trained nurse, and if you don’t believe me, taste this for yourself.” She offered the bowl to the woman, who reared back in alarm.

“You want me to taste poison?” she asked, horrified.

“It’s opium,” Sarah said. “A very strong mixture.”

Instantly, the woman paled. “What on earth would she have been giving him that for?” she asked.

“Probably to kill him,” Sarah said impatiently. “Now hurry and find a doctor.”

“Is there a chance to save him?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked.

“He may have saved himself if he refused to eat very much of it,” Sarah said, rolling up her sleeves and getting ready to work on Prescott.

 

“Will he be all right, do you think?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked her later, after the doctor had finished examining Prescott. He lay peacefully on his pillow, but he looked awfully pale from being poked and prodded as the doctor checked to see if he showed any evidence of opium poisoning. He’d been very weak and ill to begin with, and now . . . Sarah simply didn’t know. At least the doctor had felt sure he hadn’t ingested very much of the opium. If the strain of being saved didn’t kill him, he’d probably recover.

The two women were keeping a vigil by his bed. They’d found the basket the woman had used to bring the poisoned porridge into the hospital. Unfortunately, the basket was the kind that was available at every market in the city, and it contained no clue as to who the woman might have been.