Murder on Washington Square (32 page)

“Well,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, “I think we can be fairly certain that woman wasn’t his aunt.”

“She may have been the one who tried to kill him the first time, though,” Sarah said. “She could have seen the newspaper story, figured out where he would be, and decided to finish him off.”

“Did you see what she looked like?”

“No,” Sarah said with a rueful smile. “You were right, a veil is the perfect disguise.”

Mrs. Ellsworth had removed hers, and she smiled back at Sarah. “You probably thought I was a worthless old woman.”

“I haven’t thought that for a long time, not since I saw how you can handle an iron skillet,” Sarah said, recalling the time Mrs. Ellsworth had rescued her.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Ellsworth remembered. “One never knows what one is capable of until the time comes, does one?” She leaned back in her chair with a satisfied grin.

Sarah grinned back. “Now all you have to do is worry about keeping Mr. Prescott alive.”

“After what we’ve already been through, it will probably be very dull work indeed, but I’ll do my best. Now I’m sure you have some investigating of your own to do. I’ll be fine, and if any veiled women show up and try to give Mr. Prescott something to eat, you can rest assured I will raise the alarm . . . or the skillet, if necessary.”

“I know I can count on you. Meanwhile, I’ve got to find Mr. Malloy and let him know what’s happened here.”

 

Frank stood on Giddings’s front porch and waited for someone to answer his knock. He’d seen the front curtain twitch, so he knew his presence had been noted. He’d give them another moment before he started pounding and shouting and generally causing a disturbance.

Fortunately, Mrs. Giddings wasn’t willing to risk a scene. She opened the door and admitted Frank without a word, closing the door quickly behind him. Her expression told him how much she loathed the sight of him, but she was too much of a lady to actually say so.

“Is Harold here?” he asked.

She seemed surprised. “I thought you were here for Gilbert. What do you want with Harold?”

“I want to ask him some questions,” Frank replied.

Her anger evaporated into fear. “About what?”

“That’s something I’ll discuss with Harold. Now is he here or not?”

“I don’t think—” she began, but her son cut her off.

“Who was it, Mother?” he called from the back of the house.

Now she looked frantic. “He’s just a boy!” she cried.

Unmoved, Frank headed for the back of the house.

“Wait, I’ll get him!” she tried, hurrying after him, but Frank didn’t want to take a chance that she’d send him out the back door.

He found Harold seated at the kitchen table, eating his supper. He half rose from his chair at the sight of Frank, but Frank pushed him back down again, none too gently.

The boy’s eyes filled with fear, too, and he looked to his mother for an explanation.

“Please,” was all she said, and she said it to Frank.

“I hate interrupting your supper,” Frank said sarcastically, “but there’s a few questions I need to ask you, Harold.”

“Is it about my father?” he asked, glancing at his mother again.

“No, it’s about you.”

“Me?” What color was left in his young face drained away. “What do you need to know about me?”

“I need to know why you went to see Anna Blake the night she died,” Frank said, pulling out another of the kitchen chairs and seating himself.

“He was here that night, with me,” his mother said quickly. “I already told you that!”

Frank turned to her with mild interest. “With you and your husband?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, we were all here,” she insisted. “Just like I said!”

“Except I found out your husband was in jail that night,” he said. “So if you were trying to give him an alibi, you were wasting your time. He’s already got a good one.” Frank turned back to the boy. “Don’t
you
bother lying. You were there at Anna Blake’s house. The other women saw you, and they can identify you. Now tell me why you went there and what happened.”

Harold looked at his mother again, but not for help. This time his expression betrayed guilt. “I wanted to . . . I thought if I talked to her, told her what we were going through . . .” His gaze kept straying toward his mother. He didn’t want her to hear this.

“What?” Frank prodded sharply, drawing his attention back.

The boy swallowed. “I thought I could get her to give the money back,” he said. His mother made a strangled sound in her throat, and Harold winced. “I know now that was stupid, but . . .”

“What did she say?” Frank asked.

Humiliation mottled the boy’s face. “She laughed at me. She said she’d earned that money, and she was going to keep it. She said”—another glance at his mother—“she said some ugly things about my father. That’s when I got mad.”

“Did you hit her?” Frank asked.

“Harold!” his mother cried in anguish.

But the boy half rose from his chair again, outraged. “I didn’t lay a hand on that little tart!”

“But you did threaten to kill her if she didn’t give the money back,” Frank said mildly.

“No!”
Mrs. Giddings screamed.

At the same moment, Harold shouted, “No, I didn’t! I never!” He was completely out of his chair now, on his feet and ready to fight.

“Then what
did
you say?” Frank asked softly, not rising to the bait.

He drew a calming breath and forced himself to sit down again. “I said . . .” He took a moment to remember, his young face screwing up with the effort. “I think I said something like, she’d be sorry if she didn’t.”

“What did you mean that she’d be sorry? That you’d kill her?” Frank prodded.

“No!” He was horrified. “I mean . . . I don’t know what I meant. I couldn’t
make
her give the money back, could I? And she was laughing at me. I wanted to scare her, that’s all. I wanted her to be afraid of me so she’d give back the money.”

“And was she afraid of you when you met her later at the Square?” Frank asked.

Harold’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t meet her at the Square. I never saw her again. I swear it!”

“She left the house right after you did,” Frank said. “And you were still outside, trying to decide what to do next. You followed her, didn’t you? You wanted to scare her, so you threatened her with a knife, and when she wasn’t afraid, you got mad and you—”

“No!”
Both mother and son cried out together.

Mrs. Giddings rushed at Frank, nearly hysterical in her need to protect her child. She raised her fists as if to strike him, but he grabbed them and easily wrestled her down onto a chair. He held her there until her resistance collapsed, and she covered her face with both hands and began to sob.

Harold rushed to her, overturning his own chair in his haste. “Mother, please, don’t cry. It’s all right. I didn’t do anything to that woman. Don’t cry, please don’t!”

Mrs. Giddings’s sobs were raw, as if they’d been torn from her soul. She wasn’t a woman who cried easily, but she’d reached the end of her strength. She’d been holding herself together for the boy’s sake for a long time, but seeing him threatened had pushed her too far. She had no reserves left.

The boy was crying, too, tears streaming unheeded down his face as he helplessly tried to comfort her. He also kept swearing to her that he’d never touched Anna Blake, so she had nothing to fear. Frank had questioned enough people in his long career that he knew innocence when it was right in front of him.

He’d misjudged. He’d been so sure the boy had done it in an insane effort to avenge his family’s honor or some other misplaced loyalty. Harold had certainly had a good reason to want Anna Blake dead, and he’d been nearby when she’d been killed. He was also young and foolish enough to have done something incredibly stupid like accidentally stabbing a woman to death when he’d only meant to frighten her. But he hadn’t. Frank would have bet a year’s pay on the boy’s innocence.

“Hush, now,” Mrs. Giddings said brokenly after a few minutes. She swiped at her ravaged face with the hem of her apron and patted Harold’s arm reassuringly. “I’m all right. Don’t make such a fuss.” Then she lifted her gaze to Frank. Her eyes were red and filled with pain. “He didn’t kill that woman,” she said. “I did.”

 

 

 

“
M
OTHER!” THE BOY CRIED IN HORROR.

If Frank had entertained any lingering doubts about the boy’s innocence, they died in that moment. Obviously, Harold would have done anything to protect his mother from more unpleasantness. In a while, he’d probably realize he could confess to the crime to save her, and then he might even try it, but his first instinct had been to believe her. This meant he had no reason to doubt her word.

“Harold,” Frank said kindly, “Leave me alone with your mother.”

“No!” the boy said, putting his arm around her defiantly. “I won’t let you bully her!”

“I don’t need to bully her,” he pointed out. “She’s already confessed. I just need to ask her a few more questions, and I don’t think she wants you to hear the answers.”

“It’s all right, Harold,” his mother said softly, stroking his cheek. “I’m not afraid.”

Harold was, though. Frank could see it in his eyes. She was all he had left in the world, and Frank was going to take her away from him. He took her hand in both of his, his grip desperate. “Don’t tell him anything!” he urged her. “Don’t say another word!”

“I can’t live with this any longer,” she said, speaking gently to him, as if he were a small child. “I have to clear my conscience. Please, Harold, leave us alone. He’s right, I don’t want you to hear what I did.”

The boy’s face crumpled in despair. “Mother, how could you?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she told him.

Instantly, his despair twisted into anger. “You did it for
him
, didn’t you? Because you wanted him to come back to us!”

“No, my darling,” she said lovingly, stroking his hair. “I did it for you.”

 

Sarah walked home early that evening after a fruitless search for Malloy. No one at Police Headquarters knew where he was, or if they did, they weren’t going to tell a mere woman, even if they did think she was his mistress.

Such an assumption should have infuriated her, but for some reason, she simply found it amusing. Why couldn’t people ever accept that a man and a woman could just be friends? Or even business associates? They always had to believe the worst instead. Or maybe the police always saw the worst, so they naturally assumed it in every situation. Or maybe they enjoyed teasing Malloy too much to even care about the truth. Whatever the explanation, Sarah had to admit she enjoyed her unique status at Mulberry Street. They didn’t exactly treat her with respect, but the obvious contempt which had greeted her on her first visit there was gone now. In its place was a strange sort of acceptance. She was the red-headed stepchild who wasn’t exactly part of the family but who must be acknowledged, however grudgingly.

What Sarah hadn’t considered doing in her quest to find Malloy was going to his flat to leave a message with his mother. She would love to see Brian and check on his progress, but she didn’t feel up to dealing with Mrs. Malloy after all she’d been through today. She’d just have to wait until Malloy got her other message and made his way to her. Meanwhile, she would change her clothes and return to Bellevue to relieve Mrs. Ellsworth from her vigil.

But when Sarah turned onto Bank Street, she saw a familiar carriage parked at the curb in front of her house. The matched horses were dozing in the twilight chill, and the coachman seemed to be doing likewise. He’d wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and sat slumped in his seat, his hat pulled down over his eyes. She hoped he hadn’t been waiting for her for very long.

She stepped up to the carriage and thumped on the side to get the driver’s attention. He started awake and looked around in alarm until he saw her standing below him.

“I’m sorry I frightened you, Patrick,” she said. “Why are you here?”

He lifted his hat in respect. “Your father sent me to fetch you, missus. He wants to see you right away.”

“Is something wrong? Is someone ill?” she asked with a worried frown.

“Oh, no, ma’am. He just wanted to talk to you, he said. He has some news you’ve been waiting for.”

Sarah remembered his promise this morning to find out what he could about embezzlement and wondered if that could be his news. If so, he hadn’t wasted any time. She really should get to the hospital as quickly as possible, but hearing what her father had to say was important, too. The coach would carry her to her parents’ home, and then she could have it take her to Bellevue and bring Mrs. Ellsworth home. This would be much safer than allowing the old woman to make her own way home alone, and if any reporters were still about that time of night, the driver could see her safely into her house. As the hour grew later, the traffic would ease, as well, so the carriage would be able to travel relatively quickly through the streets.

“Please wait just a few more minutes while I freshen up,” she said to the driver and hurried inside.

When she had made herself more presentable, she also made a stop at the Ellsworth house to tell Nelson his mother was fine. Only then did she allow the carriage to take her up to Fifty-Seventh Street. When she sat down in the dark comfort of the carriage, she suddenly realized how very weary she was. She’d begun the day at her parents’ home, certain she would soon discover Anna Blake’s real killer. But the more she’d learned from her various stops, the more confused she had become. Instead of being clearer, the situation was getting more confusing. Nothing about Anna Blake made any sense, or so it seemed. Sarah knew from experience, however, that once she had all the pieces to the puzzle, it would all make sense. A twisted sort of sense, perhaps, but a sense she could understand. Probably, she and Malloy just needed to share what they had learned. Between the two of them, they may already have the solution and simply not know it yet.