In the Shadow of Gotham (16 page)

I looked to Alistair. “The dean’s office? Could her position there have in any way brought her into contact with your research project?”

We knew that Sarah worked two afternoons a week for the graduate dean of arts and sciences in a clerical role. In light of Sarah’s political activities and the way her mathematical genius had generated rivalries, her work for Dean Arnold had seemed to be the least controversial aspect of her life. Ostensibly she worked for extra money, but according to Angus, she had also done it to gain some administrative experience. She was worried she would be barred from teaching positions after obtaining her degree, as most women were.

“But I can’t imagine how any administrative work for the dean would connect her to Fromley,” Alistair said. “At our research center, we have absolutely no dealings with the dean’s office, other than the usual requests for grants and funding throughout the year. While you might find Fromley’s name in the text of a funding request, to my knowledge, he has never been to the dean’s office or become acquainted with anyone there.”

It made no sense, but then so little did.

After catching my train home to Dobson, I reviewed the paperwork in the case file until the wee hours of the morning, working through my exhaustion. I hoped Alistair was doing the same; he had promised me he would thoroughly review the Fromley files that night in search of any mundane references to Fromley’s habits. I needed to know more about his lifestyle—for though he had vanished into the depths of the city, even someone like him couldn’t disappear forever.

The missing women were our best hope, I decided. Tomorrow I would focus my efforts toward locating Stella Gibson and Clara Murphy—both of whom apparently had seen Fromley in the hours before their disappearance. Then I collapsed into a heavy, dreamless sleep that lasted until a pounding on the door and Joe’s voice calling my name ushered in the next morning.

The sharp rapping at my door grew louder, almost matching the intensity of the pounding in my head.

“Late night?” Joe observed with raised eyebrows, after I managed to stagger to the door and let him in.

“Guess you could say that,” I acknowledged uncomfortably. My voice, I knew, sounded raspy and tired. Odd how my body reacted to the combination of stress and sleep deprivation much in the same way it would a thoroughgoing hangover. I observed Joe sniffing my clothes, trying to be discreet but failing entirely, as he tried to ascertain any signs of a night spent drinking. Had he found them, I had little doubt but that he would have attempted to convince the mayor I was guilty of some
dereliction of duty. I wondered if he would ever give up seeking excuses to get rid of me.

“Coffee?” I offered, heading toward my small kitchen to perform what was invariably my first task of the morning. The strong aroma of the fresh beans invigorated me as I turned my hand-crank grinder. Joe accepted, and I spooned the ground coffee into the filter of my metal press pot. After adding boiling water, I retreated to my bedroom to get ready for the day while the coffee and water steeped. Meanwhile, Joe sat on the small gray sofa in my sitting area, listening carefully as I shared the details of the previous day with Alistair.

Though he listened completely—and remarkably for Joe, without judgment—I anticipated his skeptical response. “That’s quite a theory your new friend has expounded. I admit there’s a logical reason to further investigate the Fromley boy, but I don’t like all this twaddle about daydreams and fantasies. I’d feel more comfortable if there were even a shred of hard evidence to connect Fromley with the Wingate girl.” And with that simple desire he succinctly voiced my own doubts.

“I know,” I said. “But from the people we spoke with yesterday, it’s clear Michael Fromley is both violent and deeply troubled. When you put that together with the remarkable coincidences that Alistair claims, then the implications are unsettling. Besides,” I reminded him, “we have no evidence pointing to a different suspect.”

“Well, there was some progress here yesterday,” Joe said. “We got the results from those fingerprints you took at the Wingate home. They were viable prints that did
not
match those of anyone within the Wingate household.”

I looked at him sharply; since Joe was so adamantly opposed
to fingerprinting, I had expected to have to call the laboratory myself to learn the results.

“If I can locate a personal item we know to be Fromley’s,” I said, “then it will show whether the prints are a match.” It would be a relief to have a solid evidentiary link between Fromley and this murder.

“Also, I spoke again with Miss Abigail. She believes the money you found under Sarah’s mattress belongs to Mrs. Wingate.”

“But she’s not sure?”

Joe sighed. “Apparently Mrs. Wingate is in the habit of hiding money all over the house, then forgetting all about it. Miss Abigail finds money everywhere—in clothes pockets, in between the pages of books, even underneath cups in the china cabinet. There’s no reason to believe the money under the mattress is any different.”

No reason, except that a young woman had been brutally murdered within four feet of it. As such, it was evidence I did not want to discount—at least not yet.

Joe was primarily worried, however, on a different count: When he had left the Wingate residence late yesterday, their housemaid Stella remained missing. “The girl probably learned of the murder, got spooked, and ran away to be with friends or family,” he said. “But Miss Abigail insists something is seriously wrong.”

“It’s possible Stella witnessed the murder itself,” I said.

“Sure,” Joe said. “But then why didn’t she say anything to the Wingates about it? She just disappeared.”

I shrugged. “People who have witnessed terrible things sometimes behave completely out of character.”

I did not mention that I, too, urgently wished to find Stella. But with that goal in mind, we would speak with Mrs. Virginia Wingate first thing this morning.

Virginia Wingate sat ramrod straight on a wooden chair, her niece hovering protectively in the rocker next to her.

Abigail Wingate had opposed this interview; worried as she was about Stella’s disappearance, she was even more concerned about her aunt’s fragile mental state.

“You don’t understand,” she had whispered into the telephone when I rang to let her know we would be coming. “She is coping with Sarah’s death by simply
refusing
to acknowledge it. She pretends Sarah is still alive, certain to return again to visit in just a few weeks. Yet she won’t go upstairs, even for bed, which tells me she knows perfectly well what happened up there—though she won’t admit it. She sleeps nights in the parlor room, and spends all day on the front porch, despite the cold.” She sighed, plainly vexed.

“But it can’t last,” I said. “Plans will be made for a funeral—”

She cut me off. “In Boston—and my aunt will not go.”

She had eventually submitted to the necessity of our talking with her aunt, and in return I had promised—to the extent it was possible—that I would not overtly reference Sarah’s murder.

“And how will you explain our being there to question her?” I had asked, dubious as to how Abigail’s odd request could be accommodated.

“I won’t need to,” she assured me. “If it occurs to Aunt Virginia to wonder why, then she will make up the reason herself. You’ll see. Her mind is an absolute marvel of invention these days.”

Thus forewarned, we all gathered on the front porch where
we exchanged a few awkward pleasantries and confirmed that there had been no word from Stella. It was Mrs. Wingate who captivated my attention as we talked. I had remembered her hair to be gray, but in the morning sunlight, it glistened pure silver. The effect was heightened by her skin, which was so pale as to be almost translucent. She was not unlike a piece of fine china: beautiful, fragile, and treated carefully in the hope she would not break.

“Mrs. Wingate, I understand you are quite close with your niece Sarah. She visits you often?” I was careful to phrase the question in the present tense, in deference to Abigail’s request.

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Wingate nodded primly. “Sarah is a devoted niece. She never misses a birthday or holiday. And she often visits to take advantage of the peace and quiet available here, as she did this past weekend.”

I watched her intently, observing her eyes. They were clear blue and watery, but unflinching as they met my own. I observed no sign of self-conscious pretense, and I began to realize Abigail Wingate was right: Some trick of the mind was working in a strange way to protect the elder Mrs. Wingate from the disturbing truth about her niece that she could not—or would not—face.

“During her visit this past weekend, did she seem upset or worried by anything?”

Mrs. Wingate pursed her thin lips, and then turned to Abigail. “Abby, would you say Sarah was out of sorts?”

“No,” Abigail said. “She seemed a little tired, that was all.”

“Mrs. Wingate, when did you last see Sarah?”

“Lunchtime Tuesday,” she said. Her tone was crisp, even tart. “Then she went to do her own work, and I did, too.”

“And Stella was helping you all afternoon?”

She nodded. Joe had remained uncharacteristically quiet, but now he broke into the conversation and asked Abigail to accompany him during a search of Stella’s room. I was happy to see Abigail leave, however briefly, for I believed her anxious presence was making my interview with Mrs. Wingate more difficult. Once Abigail no longer fiercely hovered over her, Mrs. Wingate visibly relaxed.

“Would you care for some tea, Detective?” After I accepted, she rang the bell beside her chair and a heavyset, ruddy-faced woman appeared. I recognized her as Maud Muncie, their house keeper. Mrs. Wingate asked, “Maud, would you be so kind as to bring two cups of tea? And some scones, if we’ve any left.”

I pulled out my notebook and pencil. “I understand Stella has been working for you since August?”

“That’s right,” she replied.

“Does she have friends or family in the area that you are aware of?”

Her answer took me by surprise with its bluntness. “Why is that any of your business?”

“Because I need information if you want me to investigate her disappearance.” My response was equally sharp, for I was not accustomed to being openly challenged.

“You’re right.” She sighed wearily. “I apologize. I am tremendously concerned.” Her voice grew high-pitched. “Stella just went away,” she said, leaning in toward me. “We were working together in the garden when she got up suddenly and ran toward the house. I didn’t know why, and she never came back. I haven’t seen her since.”

“When was this?” I asked, as I tried to integrate this information into the timeline.

“It was around half past three,” she replied.

“Is that a guess, or are you certain?”

“I am certain.” Her response was firm. “I had checked my watch at a quarter past three, and this was some minutes later. I was keeping my eye on the time because I wanted to finish my gardening well before four o’clock so I would have ample time to dress for dinner.”

My thoughts raced through the many different interview reports I had read, as well as Abigail Wingate’s own statement to me. Many people in the area had reported hearing a loud sound around half past three. A loon, Abigail had said—though there were no loons in these parts. An owl, Mr. Dreyer across the street had said. A strange screech, the Braithwaites had described it. Could it have been Sarah screaming? Put into context with our timeline, it made perfect sense, for Sarah was last seen by Abigail Wingate around three o’clock. It was important because it placed Sarah’s killer firmly in the house at three-thirty. So if Stella had left Mrs. Wingate at that time, then it was probable she had seen—and possibly even confronted—Sarah’s murderer.

I asked her to clarify. “And you haven’t seen Stella since?”

“No,” she replied.

“Yet, at the time, you were not concerned enough to check on her?”

“Of course I was,” she said. “I went in after her, when she did not return after several minutes. But the moment I entered the kitchen, Abby began insisting I call Dr. Fields. Dr. Fields, mind you! I am usually attended by Dr. Whittier. But Abby insisted it had to be Dr. Fields—and then she fainted dead away. Between trying to revive her and reach Dr. Fields by telephone, I had my hands full.”

That explained, at least, why we were told nothing before Dr. Fields’s message reached us near five o’clock.

Maud returned with two cups of hot tea and a plate of warm apple scones. After Mrs. Wingate murmured her thanks, I said, “Mrs. Muncie, before you leave, I have something to ask you.”

She turned and stared, hands on hips, as I helped myself to a scone. “I’ve already told the policeman who interviewed me everything. Tuesday was my shopping day. I wasn’t here.”

“I understand,” I said, my tone placating, “but my question is about Stella. Were you friendly with her?”

Maud grunted in reply. “I work here. I don’t talk much with the others, if that’s what you’re asking. Stella was a bit of a girl, but she did her part. I had no complaints about her.” She rearranged her apron, implying she was ready to return to work.

“What I’m asking is whether there is any place you can think of where Stella may have gone? Any friends she may have sought out?”