Murder on Washington Square (34 page)

“That poor woman! The wife, I mean. Anna Blake asked for her trouble, but this poor woman didn’t. I guess I can’t blame her for wanting vengeance. I probably would’ve felt the same, in her place.”

“You women,” Malloy snorted. “You’re so cold-blooded.”

“I didn’t say killing Miss Blake was right,” she defended herself. “I just said I could understand why she wanted that woman dead. If my Nelson had been ruined, I might have considered the same thing.”

Frank didn’t point out that Nelson was as good as ruined unless they could find out who had really stolen money from his bank. Even if they could, it was possible the sensational stories about him that had appeared in the various newspapers would have destroyed his reputation and he would be unable to make a respectable living again. In Frank’s experience, innocent people often had to suffer for others’ crimes. Nelson Ellsworth would probably be one of them, and there might be nothing Frank could do to save him. He wasn’t going to be the one to explain all this to the man’s mother, however. His job was hard enough as it was.

To Frank’s chagrin, he had to quicken his usual pace to keep up with Mrs. Ellsworth as they walked from the train station to the hospital. The old woman was a caution.

They found Sarah Brandt sitting beside Prescott’s bed, feeding him something from a bowl. She glanced up and smiled when she saw them. Frank felt a strange flutter in his chest at the sight of that smile. Or maybe it was from the sight of her. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week, and Frank didn’t like that one bit. Why did she feel responsible for sitting up all night and guarding a newspaper reporter she hardly knew, especially one who’d caused her friends so much trouble?

“Good morning, Malloy,” she said, her eyes shining, as if she were enjoying a secret joke at his expense. “You’re a difficult man to find.”

“Finding you isn’t so hard,” he replied in kind. “I just need to look where you have no business being, and there you are.”

“I’m a nurse,” she reminded him. “Why shouldn’t I be at a hospital?”

“Because . . .” he began, but stopped when he realized he didn’t really want to explain. If he did, he’d have to reveal how worried he was about her safety, and then she might start to wonder why he cared so much. This was a topic he didn’t even want to consider himself, much less discuss with her. “Have you seen any sign of that woman who tried to kill Prescott?” he asked instead.

“No, but I’m sure she’s the same one who stabbed him in the first place,” she said. “Nothing else makes sense. And she’s also probably the person who killed Anna Blake, although I never would’ve guessed her killer would be a female.”

“Mr. Malloy arrested Miss Blake’s killer last night,” Mrs. Ellsworth reported helpfully.

Frank shot her a disapproving look, but she wasn’t paying any attention.

“Who was it?” Mrs. Brandt asked, brightening at the thought.

“Who . . . was . . . it?” Prescott echoed feebly.

Frank looked at him in surprise, having forgotten he was even there and certainly that he was listening to every word. “You’re in no condition to write a story about it, Prescott, so I’ll tell you. It was Mrs. Gilbert Giddings.”

“
Mrs.
Giddings!” Mrs. Brandt exclaimed in surprise. “I thought you were going to arrest the son!”

“She confessed when I went to question the boy,” Frank said. “She was afraid I was going to arrest him for the crime.”

“You were,” Mrs. Brandt reminded him with a small smile.

“Only if he was guilty,” Frank said, not liking the defensive tone in his voice. He didn’t need to make excuses to her, he reminded himself. “But he wasn’t.”

“Did she tell you why she tried to kill Mr. Prescott?” she asked.

Frank shook his head. “She didn’t try to kill him.”

“But—” she began to protest.

He cut her off. “Not in front of Prescott,” he cautioned.

The patient was growing restless, his eyes intent. Frank could almost imagine him mentally composing his story for the
World
.

“How’s he doing?” he asked Mrs. Brandt.

She glanced at Mrs. Ellsworth before replying, and he thought she was holding back a grin. “He’s not doing as poorly as he was before,” she said.

“What does
that
mean?” Frank asked.

“That means it’s bad luck to say someone is doing well,” she explained, with another glance at the old woman.

Frank managed not to snort in disgust. “So the opium didn’t hurt him?”

“He must not have taken very much,” she said. “The mixture was very strong, so it was also very sweet. Apparently, that didn’t appeal to Mr. Prescott, to his great good fortune.”

“Don’t like . . . sweets,” Prescott explained. He looked as if he were trying with difficulty to keep his eyes open.

“What’s going on here?” a woman demanded. “Are you the doctor? Webster, my dear boy! What’s happened?”

A small woman inserted herself into the group beside Prescott’s bed, forcing her way to him. Malloy was just about to grab her when Prescott said, “Aunt Orpah!”

“Webby, dear, what have they done to you?” she asked, smoothing his hair back from his forehead as she checked for fever. Then she turned accusing eyes to the rest of them. “Who are you people?”

“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she said. “I sent you the message about your nephew, Mrs. Beasley.”

The woman softened immediately. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Brandt. It was such a shock! I got here as soon as I could. Webby is my sister’s boy, and I promised I’d look after him for her. How on earth you can look after a grown man, I’m not sure, though. He seems determined to get himself in trouble!”

“Indeed he does,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “He’s been set upon twice by females intent on murdering him.”

Mrs. Beasley looked shocked, but Mrs. Brandt distracted her by introducing the two older women. “And this is Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy,” she added. “He’s going to find the person who attacked Mr. Prescott.”

Actually, Frank wasn’t particularly interested in finding out who had attacked Prescott. His concern had been finding Anna Blake’s killer and clearing Nelson Ellsworth. Since the person who had attacked Prescott was someone else entirely, he felt no further obligation, especially to someone who had made the Ellsworths’ lives miserable. He wasn’t going to mention all this to Aunt Orpah, though. He needed her to take over caring for Prescott so he could get Sarah Brandt away from here. Let Aunt Orpah worry about fending off would-be murderesses.

“Mr. Malloy is going to order the
World
to hire a guard to protect Mr. Prescott in the meantime, too,” Mrs. Ellsworth added.

Now Frank knew he should have tied her hand and foot to keep her from coming with him today. “I can’t
order
them to do it,” he quickly clarified, “but I was going to strongly suggest it.”

“What a good idea,” Mrs. Brandt said, smiling her approval. Frank wished her approval didn’t matter so much to him.

“And if
you
can’t order them to,
I
can,” Mrs. Beasley said tartly, sounding very much like Mrs. Ellsworth. “If they don’t, I’ll contact another newspaper and give
them
the story in exchange for a guard!”

“Aunt Orpah!” Prescott protested feebly, but his aunt paid him no attention.

Fortunately, the editor at the
World
immediately saw the news story potential in Prescott’s situation. Arrangements were quickly made by telephone to dispatch someone from the newspaper both to protect Prescott and to get the full story.

“You mustn’t allow them to tire Mr. Prescott,” Mrs. Brandt instructed his aunt when the arrangements had been made. “He’s still in danger and needs lots of rest.”

“I can talk,” Prescott protested feebly, but no one seemed interested in hearing him do so.

The three women consulted on what the best course of treatment would be for the reporter. By the time the representatives from
The World
arrived—three of them and all very excited at the prospect of reporting the second attempt on Prescott’s life—Mrs. Brandt was finally satisfied that she could safely leave Prescott in his aunt’s care.

Frank’s goal was to get Sarah Brandt home as quickly as possible since he was afraid she might keel over from exhaustion at any moment. Taking her on the train seemed the most difficult means of travel, but a Hansom cab could barely hold two passengers, and he had to return Mrs. Ellsworth to her home as well. Besides, the train was faster, even if it meant walking some distance both to and from the stations. They managed to make the trip without any mishaps.

Just in case the reporters were still keeping their vigil on Bank Street, however, Frank led the women down the alley behind their houses. A stray dog was rooting through a pile of garbage, and he looked up and growled as they approached. The animal was mangy and scrawny, and Frank hoped it wasn’t also rabid. He shouted and clapped his hands, advancing threateningly, and to his relief, the dog tucked his tail and ran.

“You’re much better at that than I am,” Mrs. Brandt remarked.

“I’m louder,” he said.

“And bigger,” Mrs. Ellsworth added.

They reached the rear of their houses without further incident. “We’ll wait here until you’re safely inside,” he told the old woman.

Mrs. Ellsworth wasn’t eager to be dismissed, however.

“Mrs. Brandt, you need to get some rest immediately,” she said. “I’ll be happy to come in and fix you something to eat so you don’t have to exert yourself.”

Frank opened his mouth to protest, but Sarah Brandt beat him to it.

“Thank you so much for the offer, but I’m afraid I must consult with Mr. Malloy before I can even think of resting. I have a lot of things to tell him . . . and to ask him, too,” she added with a meaningful look he didn’t even try to interpret.

“But you must eat,” Mrs. Ellsworth insisted. “You probably haven’t even had any breakfast.”

“I’ll fix her something,” Frank said, earning an amazed look from both women. “And if anyone comes looking for Mrs. Brandt to deliver a baby, tell them she’s already out on a call,” he added to Mrs. Ellsworth.

“Malloy!” Mrs. Brandt protested, but Frank wasn’t going to argue that point.

“Don’t you want to hear all about Mrs. Giddings’s confession?” he asked provocatively, taking her by the elbow and steering her toward her back gate.

“Thank you for your help,” she called over her shoulder to the old woman. “I’ll check on you this afternoon.” Then she said, “Ouch!” because Frank was squeezing her elbow pretty tightly.

But he didn’t let her go until he was sure she was safely in her yard with the gate closed behind them, away from Mrs. Ellsworth.

As soon as they were inside her house and the back door was shut, she said, “You better not have used the third degree on Mrs. Giddings.”

Frank pulled off his bowler hat and hung it on a hook by the back door before trusting himself to respond to that. “I didn’t lay a hand on the woman, or on her son either, for that matter. I figured out from what he told me that he didn’t kill Anna Blake. I wasn’t even going to arrest him, but I guess his mother didn’t know that, which is why she decided to confess.”

She pulled off her gloves and then her hat, jabbing the lethal-looking hat pin back into it with far more force than necessary. “Something’s not right about this, Malloy,” she insisted, making her way into the kitchen without bothering to invite him to follow. He did anyway.

“I don’t know why you can’t just accept that the woman killed Anna Blake,” he tried. “She had every reason to, and she admitted it.”

“How did she even know where Anna lived?”

“She followed her son there that night. The boy had followed his father before, so he knew where the house was. Harold wanted to confront her. He wanted her to give back the money she’d taken from his father.”

She was stuffing kindling into the stove. “I’m sure Anna found that amusing.”

“The boy said she laughed at him, if that’s what you mean. Then he left, but his mother waited for a while, so the boy wouldn’t see her, and when she saw Anna leave the house, she realized this was her chance. She followed her to the park and stabbed her.”

Mrs. Brandt had lit the kindling and looked up while she waited for it to catch. “She stabbed her in broad daylight?” she asked.

“They were standing off by themselves. No one paid them any attention.”

“And Anna just lay there until morning?” She was feeding small sticks into the growing flames. “No one noticed her?”

“She must’ve walked a bit, trying to find some help. But if anyone saw her, they probably just thought she was drunk.”

“Wouldn’t they have seen the blood?”

“The coroner said she covered the wound with her shawl, probably trying to stop the bleeding.”

“And what about the man?”

“What man?”

“The man the coroner said Anna had been with before she died. The sponge, remember?”

He’d been trying not to think about it. “She probably had a liaison with somebody we don’t know anything about,” Frank suggested.

“Malloy, this doesn’t make any sense.”

“Murder doesn’t
have
to make sense,” he reminded her in exasperation. “In fact, it hardly ever does!”

“I’m not talking about the
why.
I’m talking about the
how
. Mrs. Giddings
couldn’t
have killed Anna Blake.”

“She confessed!” Frank reminded her angrily. “Why would she do that if she didn’t kill her?”

“You said it yourself, she thought you were going to arrest her son. She might have done it to protect him. But whatever her reason, she was lying. Mrs. Giddings did not kill Anna Blake.”

 

 

 

S
ARAH STUCK A LOG INTO THE STOVE AND SLAMMED THE door shut more loudly than necessary. Malloy was glaring at her, but she didn’t care. She was right, and she knew it.