Murder on Washington Square (38 page)

No one answered her knock at first, but she wasn’t going to give up, not when she was so close, so she kept on knocking. Finally, the door opened a crack, and half of a face peered out cautiously.

“Is Mrs. Walcott home?” Sarah asked when the person didn’t speak.

The door opened a bit wider, revealing that the person behind it
was
Mrs. Walcott. She was a far different Mrs. Walcott than Sarah had seen before, however. Instead of her extravagant wig, she wore a dust cap on her head, as women did to protect their hair from dirt when house-cleaning. Or when women who wore wigs wanted to relax from the weight of them and still not reveal the condition of their real hair. The cap fit closely, which meant there wasn’t much hair underneath. Probably, Mrs. Walcott was going bald for some reason, so she did not even go bare-headed in the privacy of her own home. And instead of one of her stylish gowns, she wore a simple housedress that was faded from many washings. Her face looked faded, too, as if strain had leached the color from it. The only thing that hadn’t changed about her appearance was her expression. She still looked cool and calm and more than a little condescending.

“What are you doing here at this time of night, Mrs. Brandt?” she asked. Her voice hadn’t changed, either. She was still cultured and precise.

“I happened to be in this part of the city, and I thought I would stop by and see how you’re faring. I also wanted to let you know how the investigation is going,” Sarah lied. “We have some new information.”

Mrs. Walcott looked past Sarah, as if expecting to see Frank Malloy. “Are you alone?” she asked in some surprise.

“Yes. As I said, I was in the neighborhood, delivering a baby,” she added, embellishing her lie to sound more plausible. “I thought it was still early enough to stop by on my way home. May I come in?”

“Certainly,” she said, stepping aside to allow her to enter. The house was as chilly as the street outside, and Sarah remembered Catherine Porter mentioning that Mrs. Walcott didn’t like to build a fire.

“Is Miss Porter in?” Sarah asked, pulling off her gloves.

Mrs. Walcott stiffened at the question and proceeded to close the door very carefully, not looking at Sarah. “No. No, she isn’t.”

Her reaction had been so odd that Sarah felt a frisson of alarm. “Is she all right?” she asked.

Mrs. Walcott managed a strained smile. “I’m sure I have no idea. Please, come in.” She led Sarah into the front parlor, the room where a lamp burned.

Mystified, Sarah followed her into the parlor and took the seat Mrs. Walcott indicated. The landlady sat down across from her, in front of the cold fireplace, and folded her hands demurely in her lap. She wasn’t wearing the mitts she usually wore, and she folded her hands tightly, as if she were ashamed of them or something. Perhaps she was. Perhaps that was why she wore the mitts in the first place.

“You said you had some news,” Mrs. Walcott said. “About Anna’s death.”

“Yes, I . . . Mrs. Walcott, I don’t know how to say this without sounding rude, but I’m afraid I have to ask you again if your husband was at home that night.”

Mrs. Walcott stared at Sarah for a long moment, as if trying to read her thoughts. “I am assuming that you believe he was, in spite of what I told you.”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “In fact, I now have very good reason to believe he was.”

Mrs. Walcott sighed and dropped her gaze. “I don’t suppose I need to lie anymore. Yes, he was here that night.”

“Why did you lie about it before?” Sarah asked.

Mrs. Walcott’s expression hardened, and her eyes were full of hatred when she looked up again. “I love my husband, Mrs. Brandt. I wanted to protect him. Anna Blake’s death was no great loss to anyone, and he didn’t really mean to kill her—”

“Your
husband
killed Anna?” Sarah cried, trying not to sound exultant at having proved her theory so easily.

Mrs. Walcott nodded, her entire body rigid with emotion. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him,” she said, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes. “I knew he wasn’t always faithful to me, but . . . He could be so loving. I would have done anything to protect him.”

Sarah couldn’t help feeling compassion for this woman, even though she would never understand the kind of devotion that led a woman to lie for a man like that. “Has something happened to change your mind?” she asked gently.

“Oh, yes,” she said bitterly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “You asked me if Catherine Porter was here. The answer is no, she’s gone. She and my husband left together.”

Sarah gaped at her. “You mean they ran away together?”

“So it appears. My husband had decided he could no longer stay in the city, you see. He was afraid that sooner or later your Mr. Malloy would figure out that he had killed poor Anna. He led me to believe he and I would go together, so I helped him with the arrangements. It was wrong, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. I would have followed him anywhere, you understand, but when I woke up this morning, he and Catherine were both gone. He left me a note . . . He was very unkind.” Her voice broke, and Sarah’s heart ached for her.

How many women had she met in the city who had been victimized in just this way by men too selfish to consider anything except their own desires? Sarah might despise the weakness that made women prey to such deception, but even more, she hated the cruelty that took advantage of it.

“We’ll find him, Mrs. Walcott,” Sarah promised. “I’ll get word to Mr. Malloy, and he’ll start the search.”

“They could be anywhere by now,” Mrs. Walcott pointed out. “I’m afraid you’ll never be able to locate them.”

She was right, of course. With a day’s head start and no idea even in which direction they had gone, there was little chance they’d ever be found. They could have even stayed right here in the city and disappeared into the teeming tenements without a trace.

“Won’t someone be worried about you, Mrs. Brandt?” Mrs. Walcott asked as she dabbed at her eyes again. “It’s quite dark outside now. I feel guilty keeping you here, listening to my troubles.”

“I’m used to being out at all hours,” Sarah reassured her. “And there’s no one to wait up for me. I’m a widow.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. You’re such a young woman.”

Sarah waved away her sympathy. “You’re very upset. Can I get you something?”

Mrs. Walcott dabbed at her eyes again. “I’d love some tea, but let me get it. It will give me something to do. I’m so tired of sitting around feeling sorry for myself. Please, just wait right here. I won’t be a minute.”

When the landlady had gone, Sarah realized that the mention of tea had started her stomach growling. Except for the sausage sandwich she’d gobbled earlier today, she hadn’t eaten since . . . since Malloy had fixed breakfast for her. The memory sent a wave of heat washing over her, and she was very glad to be alone, because she had the terrible feeling she might actually be blushing.

To distract herself from such unsettling thoughts, she got up and began to walk around the room, carefully examining every detail. For the first time, she realized that the room contained not one personal item. People usually had framed photographs of loved ones or a sampler or other mementos. Sarah remembered that the Walcotts had bought the house from an old man, and most of the furniture had been his. But surely they would have brought some of their own things with them. If they had, however, none of them were displayed here.

Mrs. Walcott reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a tea tray. Sarah had been hoping she would include something edible, but the tray bore no cookies or other delicacies. She set the tray down on a side table, and proceeded to pour two cups.

“Do you take milk?” she asked Sarah.

“No, thank you.”

“I hope you don’t mind. I sweetened the tea in the pot. I always do when I’m making it for myself, and I just forgot this time.”

“That’s fine,” Sarah said. “I like it sweet.”

Mrs. Walcott stirred Sarah’s cup, then handed it to her before filling her own.

Sarah took a sip. The tea was extremely sweet, making her empty stomach clench with happiness. She wanted to gulp the whole cup at once, but good manners prevailed. Waiting until Mrs. Walcott was seated again, she asked, “Would you mind telling me what really happened the night Anna died?”

Mrs. Walcott took a fortifying sip of her tea. “I wouldn’t mind at all, since I no longer have any reason not to. I was very upset with Anna that night.”

“Because the Giddings boy came to the house?” Sarah guessed.

“No, that was merely an annoyance. I was upset because I’d found Anna and my husband together that night,” she said bitterly. “I was furious, of course, and jealous and humiliated. I ordered Anna to leave. I know you’re thinking I should have been angry at Oliver, and I was, but I’m afraid I wanted to blame Anna for everything. She ran out into the night, and Oliver went after her. He wouldn’t tell me what happened between them, but when he returned, he had blood on his clothes, and he said Anna wouldn’t be coming back. He begged me to forgive him, and he promised he would never be unfaithful to me again.”

“And you believed him?” Sarah asked incredulously.

Mrs. Walcott’s pride was all that held her together. “I wanted to believe him, Mrs. Brandt. I know that makes me a fool, but he swore he’d never cared for her, not the way he cared for me. Of course, I didn’t know Anna was dead until the next morning, when the police came. I thought . . . Well, I don’t know what I thought. Oliver had left by then and asked me to say he hadn’t been home at all that evening. He didn’t come back for several days. I was afraid he’d never come back at all.”

Sarah took another sip of the tea, and this time the sweetness was cloying, making her feel slightly nauseated. That would teach her not to eat. “I suppose all of this happened later in the evening,” Sarah guessed. “After Miss Porter went to bed.”

“Yes, I’d retired myself, but something awakened me. When I saw Oliver wasn’t in bed, I went looking for him, and . . . that’s when I found him with Anna,” the other woman explained, her eyes clouded with the painful memories. “I was grateful Catherine slept through the whole thing. There was certainly no reason to air our dirty linen in front of her. Now, of course . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Now you probably wish you had,” Sarah guessed.

“Perhaps if she’d known Oliver’s true character, she wouldn’t have run away with him,” Mrs. Walcott said sadly. “Of course, I realize he was probably dallying with her all along, too.”

“Did your husband admit to killing Anna?” Sarah asked, hating to cause the woman more pain, but knowing it was necessary. “Did he tell you how it happened?”

“Is your tea too hot?” she asked suddenly, her tone oddly insistent. “Or did I make it too sweet?”

Too sweet.
A memory stirred, the faintest of warnings. Sarah looked down at the cup, trying to remember, but a sudden disturbance distracted her. Someone was yelling outside, and several dogs began barking furiously. “What on earth?” she asked, quickly setting her cup and saucer down. She almost missed the table, and the cup teetered dangerously before Mrs. Walcott caught it.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about, just those stray dogs,” Mrs. Walcott said reassuringly. “We can’t seem to get rid of them.”

But someone was calling Sarah’s name, the person who was shouting over the barking dogs. She was sure of it. She stood up, but she must have risen too quickly, because she felt dizzy.
Something is wrong with the tea!
her mind cried, but she couldn’t seem to focus on what it might be.

“Mrs. Brandt! Get out of there! Come quick!” the voice was calling, and Sarah responded instinctively, moving toward the door.

Mrs. Walcott grabbed her arm to stop her, but she shook her off. “Someone needs help,” she said, her words sounding oddly slow to her own ears.

“Mrs. Brandt! Get out of there!” the voice was screaming, desperate now. It was vaguely familiar, the panic unmistakable.

Mrs. Walcott grabbed her again, her hands amazingly strong, like a man’s. Sarah shoved her away, panic making her stronger, too. The woman hit a table, lost her balance, and fell, but Sarah couldn’t stop to help her. She had to get to the voice.

She was running now, through the house, toward the kitchen, even though her feet felt as if they weren’t even touching the ground. The dogs, she knew, were in the backyard. They wanted to get in the cellar. Wasn’t that what had happened in her dream? She was so confused. She only knew she had to get to the backyard.

The gaslights were on in the kitchen. She saw the back door and made for it. Mrs. Walcott was behind her, shoes scuffling on the bare floor as she ran to catch up. Sarah threw open the door and launched herself out onto the porch. She caught one of the posts to keep from falling headlong down the steps.

Vaguely aware that Mrs. Walcott had followed her onto the porch, Sarah concentrated on trying to make sense of what she saw in the backyard. Harold Giddings was waving a stick, trying to chase away a pack of stray dogs who were, in turn, trying to get past him into the open cellar doors. He was alternately screaming at the dogs and screaming for Sarah.

An elderly woman, in her nightclothes and carrying a lamp, stood peering at the curious scene from the next porch. Other lights were coming on, and people were starting to shout complaints about the disturbance.

“Harold!” Sarah shouted over the din, and the boy looked up.

“Mrs. Brandt! There’s somebody dead down there!” he cried, pointing toward the open cellar doors.

She leaned forward so she could see into the opening. Someone had lit a lamp in the cellar, and there she saw a large brown dog, the one she herself had tried to shoo away the other day. He was digging furiously, and down in the hole he had dug was what appeared to be a mass of red hair.