In the Shadow of Gotham (11 page)

“Whom should we talk to about her research, besides her advisor?” Isabella pressed.

“Mmmm,” Mary thought aloud. “You might try Artie Shaw. He was the same year as Sarah, and they were quite friendly, talked through a lot of research issues together.”

“Quite friendly?” Isabella asked for more explanation, though her tone remained casual.

“As classmates, nothing more,” Mary clarified, before confiding shyly, “I do think she had a beau, honestly, but it wasn’t Artie.”

“Why do you think so?” I asked. Sarah’s cousin Abigail had been convinced Sarah had neither the time nor the inclination for romantic attachments.

“Because Sarah used to visit Princeton on the sly,” she replied, “always pretending she was going somewhere else.”

Mary Bonham had our full attention now, but we waited to see what further information she would volunteer. Sometimes simply letting people talk—in their own time, in their own way—yielded the most useful information.

“I found out the first time because I saw a baggage claim check in her room marked ‘Princeton Junction’ following a weekend when she claimed to have visited her aunt. I almost said something to her about it, but I didn’t. The next time she
supposedly returned from a weekend in Dobson, I checked her room and found more ticket receipts from Princeton.”

“Would she have had a research-related reason for visiting Princeton?” I asked. “Maybe Sarah needed to consult their library.”

“Then why would she lie about going there?” Mary countered. “Whatever her purpose, it was a reason she didn’t want to share. Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not trying to suggest Sarah was involved in some sort of tawdry affair. She had too much sense, and was too dedicated to her research to risk something like that. I’m sure any relationship was entirely proper, but it was something she nonetheless kept secret.”

I drew the locket out of my pocket. “Have you ever noticed Sarah wearing this?” I asked, handing it to her. She studied it, murmured, “No,” and then slowly opened it. She appeared mesmerized by the two photographs inside.

“Do you know who the man is?”

“No,” she answered, wide-eyed, “I’ve never seen him—or this picture of Sarah.”

“Not even as a larger print?” I wanted to make sure.

She shook her head.

“What about this man?” I pulled out a small photograph of Michael Fromley that Alistair had given me for such purposes. My fingers fumbled awkwardly, for I had double-wrapped the picture inside an envelope.

She paused a moment as if to say something, then shook her head. “I’ve never seen him. He is closer to her age, though; perhaps he is her secret beau at Princeton?”

“I don’t think so,” I said as I returned Fromley’s photograph to my pocket.

A glance at my watch showed we had spent over half an
hour with Mary Bonham, so I moved on to my last line of questioning. “We’ve been told Sarah was involved in the suffragist movement. Is there anything you can tell us about her activity there?” I tried to be as open-ended as possible to see what information Mary would volunteer; this was a sensitive political issue for some and I had no idea where her sympathies lay.

Mary’s response was quick and to the point, however. “Sarah became involved with a local suffragist group our senior year at Barnard, but she did not become truly active until she completed the organic chemistry class I just mentioned to you.” She sighed. “That marked the turning point when Sarah became . . .”—she paused for a moment before she found the right word—“embittered. She was frustrated by the fact that her accomplishments and research were undervalued, simply because she was a woman. Another fellow student sympathized, invited her to a suffragist rally, and ever after that, she was an active member.”

“Did you ever attend any rallies with her?” Isabella asked, her curiosity apparent in her tone.

“No.” Mary shook her head sheepishly. “I may agree with Sarah’s political goals. But going to rallies and marches wasn’t something I was interested in doing.” I could well imagine that such events and the crowds they drew would not appeal to such a shy and awkward girl.

Isabella and I finished our conversation with Mary, obtaining little more information that was helpful. Before leaving, we looked through the contents of Sarah’s room. It was a spartan room—even more so, perhaps, than the guest room she had occupied at her aunt’s home. We found few possessions suggestive of her personality other than the collection of mathematics textbooks and papers on the simple wooden bookshelf by the bed.

I had expected to see Alistair waiting for us on Broadway; he had promised to be at the corner of 113th Street by one o’clock. I glanced at my watch again; it was a quarter past one. Where was he—and what could be taking him so long to arrange a meeting with Fromley’s family? I disliked delegating this task to Alistair, but I knew that Alistair’s relationship with them—and not my police badge—would make this meeting far easier.

“What next?” Isabella asked.

“We wait,” I said.

I looked up and down Broadway. No sign of Alistair.

Isabella made a suggestion. “We could visit the math department. It’s nearby; we can leave a message at Alistair’s office.”

I agreed, and we quickened our pace as we headed back up the three blocks to 116th Street.

“What’s your opinion of all this?” I asked her. “Do you think Alistair has it right?”

She smiled. “I think my father-in-law is brilliant. And that you have probably never been given so solid a lead, so early in an investigation.”

I laughed, saying, “You may be right about that.”

Alistair had pointed me toward my prime suspect, using reasoning and simple logic. But I was growing doubtful that he would be able to deliver Fromley himself with similar ease.

Thursday, November 9, 1905

As soon as we arrived, Professor Richard Bonham, the chairman of the Department of Mathematics, convened an impromptu meeting in his office. His quarters were pleasant, though less amply furnished than those at Alistair’s research center. Since Columbia supplied little in the way of office furnishings, most professors had to procure for themselves whatever items they wanted: furniture, plants, even carpets. But the office’s best feature was a large window that offered an artist’s view of Low Memorial Library’s granite dome rising into the sky.

Professor Bonham did his best to make us feel welcome. “No need to call me professor,” he said, waving off our formal greeting. “That’s for my students; you should call me Richard.”

He was an older man, near sixty by my guess. A dark gray suit that was at least two sizes too big enveloped his rail-thin body. He had lost significant weight since he bought that suit, which made me suspect he was—or had recently been—quite ill.

“This is Caleb Muller, Sarah’s advisor.”

I shook hands with a much younger man who was probably nearer my own age. He had the rugged features and strong build of an outdoorsman, and were it not for his tweed jacket and black-rimmed glasses, he would look out of place in this company.

“And one of our graduate students, Arthur Shaw.” A young man with tousled hair and ruddy cheeks came over to shake hands.

“People call me Artie,” he said shyly.

Richard sat at his desk after directing us toward his paisley-covered armchairs with stiff backs, while the others sat across from us on borrowed wooden desk chairs. We soon found ourselves deep in conversation about the academic dimension of Sarah’s life.

“Yes,” Caleb was saying, “Sarah officially became my advisee when she began her dissertation proposal, but I have unofficially advised her since well before her matriculation here, even while she was an undergraduate at Barnard. Her research centered on the Riemann hypothesis, a mathematical problem that has resisted every attempt to prove it since Riemann first published it in 1859. Even,” he added with a self-deprecating grin, “my own best attempts.”

“In layman’s terms”—I returned his smile—“can you explain what the hypothesis is and Sarah’s approach to solving it?”

“Of course. Generally, the hypothesis involves our understanding of prime numbers. To be precise . . .” He rose from his
chair and wrote an equation on the blackboard, talking all the while. It made no sense to me, but as Caleb continued to explain, I tried to follow the larger point of what he was saying. “. . . so the unproved Riemann hypothesis is that all of the nontrivial zeros are actually on the critical line.”

He looked at us hopefully, even expectantly. But when he registered only blank confusion, he clarified his point. “I suppose the details are of no use to you. What is important for you to know is that either to prove—or to disprove—the Riemann hypothesis is considered one of the most interesting problems confronting mathematicians today. David Hilbert, one of the world’s most eminent mathematicians, has listed the Riemann hypothesis as one of twenty-three problems he believes will define twentieth-century mathematics. And Sarah was attempting to tackle it. She was building on the work of another mathematician, named von Koch, who had made an important breakthrough four years ago. If she could have done it, well then, not only would it have been a first rate-dissertation, but it would also have radically altered her future prospects.”

“Altered them how?” I asked, puzzled. It seemed an under-statement in light of Sarah’s talents.

“As I daresay you know, there is inherent prejudice in this profession against women. Most women Ph.D.s go on to teach at the high school level. The best of them—and make no mistake, Sarah was among the best—have a shot at a position at one of the women’s colleges. Perhaps Bryn Mawr, or Smith. If she had managed to solve this”—he tapped the board with his fingers—“she would have made history within mathematics. Even our most prestigious universities may have considered her.”

“Did others in the department know the nature of her work?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I suspect most people knew her general focus, but she was a private person. She would have been loath, I’m sure, to share her successes or her failures. Perhaps Artie can speak better to that, however.”

We all looked to Artie Shaw, who had hung back until this point. He flushed when he perceived he was the focus of our attention.

“I’m not sure how much people knew about her specific research. The general opinion was that she was brilliant, certain to write an exceptional dissertation.” Artie shifted uncomfortably. “And that didn’t sit well with a lot of them. They didn’t want to believe she could do it. They didn’t like being upstaged. And they especially didn’t like the possibility—however remote—that she just might land a position that more properly belonged to them. In their view, of course,” he added.

“And why was that?” Isabella asked. She had been bristling for the past few moments in light of the men’s general disregard of her presence.

“Well, because they’d have families to support, but she presumably would not,” Artie admitted.

His tone conciliatory, Richard Bonham explained further. “It’s one of our greatest ideological barriers to admitting women to graduate education, and from the time she entered the program, Sarah knew she would have to face up to it. Since most women Ph.D.s find the responsibilities of academic life and family to be mutually exclusive, they tend to pick only one—usually the latter.” He was stopped by a coughing fit—a rough, hacking cough that revived my suspicions he had recently been very ill. Then he added, “Though I wouldn’t have expected that choice from Sarah. She was unusually ambitious.”

“Did any of her fellow students seem particularly envious of
her talents? Or particularly irritated by her inclusion in the program?” I asked.

Richard and Caleb exchanged a quick look.

Finally Caleb spoke. “I am hesitating, because I am aware my answer will cast undue suspicion on a handful of students who don’t deserve the scrutiny. I can certainly give you their names, but you must bear in mind that, however much these young men may have complained about Sarah Wingate, there is not one of them I believe capable of her murder.”

He carefully wrote down four names and handed them to me; I scanned them quickly: John Nelson, Louis De Vry, Sam Baker, and Alonzo Moore Jr. known as “Lonny.” Caleb’s reluctance to mention these individuals was obvious, but I discounted it. If it were not for the more obvious signs pointing toward Michael Fromley, then this list would offer much in the way of real suspects.

Experience had taught me, time and again, never to believe the protestations of friends and family who declared an accused man “could never do such a thing.” “I know my son,” a father of a murder suspect had once said to me. He had been adamant, sincerely convinced of his son’s innocence. But what the father did not understand—no, not even after his son was convicted and sentenced to die—was that we only see those around us from one perspective. His son was one person at home, still another with friends, and still another when brawling at the corner bar. “I know my son
at home
,” is what the father meant, though he did not realize it. It was impossible for him to know more.

“Richard,” I continued. “Your daughter mentioned a house breaking incident last fall; I understand it is the reason why Sarah Wingate came to live with your family. Are there any additional details you could tell me? I’m interested not only
in hearing about the burglary, but also your experience of having Miss Wingate living under your roof.”