Murder in Morningside Heights (A Gaslight Mystery) (7 page)

“Maybe she liked teaching.”

Bathsheba shook her head at such nonsense. “Nobody wants to work when they don’t have to.”

“So what’s the real reason you didn’t like her?”

For a minute, he thought she wouldn’t answer. “She wasn’t what everybody thought she was.”

“What did they think she was?”

“A sweet young girl who loved everything and everybody.
She only loved you if you could do something for her, and she never let anybody see what she was really thinking.”

“Except you.”

She sniffed. “She didn’t think it mattered what I thought of her, but even still, she tried to pretend she was this gracious lady in front of me. I saw right through her, though.”

“What about Miss Wilson and Miss Billingsly?”

“Miss Wilson never did. Miss Wilson thought she hung the moon.”

“And Miss Billingsly?”

Bathsheba shook her head. “Poor lady. She never harmed anybody in her whole life. She didn’t deserve what that girl done to her.”

T
he lobby area of the Normal School was much busier on a Monday morning than it had been on Friday afternoon. Young ladies stood in clusters of three and four, speaking in hushed whispers, while others strolled purposefully by, probably on their way to something important. Every single one of them eyed Frank with suspicion, but at least none of them ran screaming up the stairs to report him to the president.

He climbed the stairs himself and found Professor Pelletier’s office halfway down one of the wings. The room held two desks, some chairs, and some bookshelves filled with books. A window overlooked the courtyard where Abigail Northrup had died. The man was in, sitting at one of the desks and staring intently at something lying on it. Frank startled him with a knock on the doorframe.

He looked up and sighed. “Ah, you must be the detective
Hatch told us about.” He spoke with an accent. Frank hadn’t expected that.

“Can I come in?”

“Mais oui.”
He pushed himself to his feet and stuck out his hand to shake. He was tall with broad shoulders and erect posture, almost military in his stiffness. He wore his dark hair parted in the middle and smooth against his head and had trimmed his facial hair into a neat mustache and goatee. A set of pince-nez hung from a cord attached to a button on his vest. His suit, while cheap, was clean and neatly pressed. Since he’d come into money, Frank had become something of an expert in judging other men by their suits.

“Frank Malloy, Professor,” Frank said as they shook hands.

“
Enchanté.
S’il vous plaît
, sit down.” He gestured to a wooden chair beside his desk. Frank imagined hundreds of anxious young ladies had sat in that chair to discuss whatever college girls discussed with their professors.

“You’re French,” Frank said.

“
Mais oui.
Is that a surprise to you?”

“Yes, although I guess it’s easier to teach French if you already speak it.”

“You are probably correct,” he said with a small smile.

“Miss Northrup didn’t already speak it, though, did she?”

His smile vanished, instantly transformed into an expression of painful but dignified grief. Frank imagined this was exactly the expression that would be proper for a man in Pelletier’s position. “She spoke it very well, for an American, and she took great joy in teaching it to others.”

“She must have for you to give her a job teaching here.”

To his credit, Pelletier didn’t even blink. “I know what you are probably thinking. When a man chooses a young, attractive female upon whom to bestow an honor, many people assume something is . . . improper.”

That wasn’t the word Frank would’ve chosen, but it would do. “I would think it’s hard for a man to work with young females all the time.”

Pelletier smiled ruefully. “You can have no idea, but not perhaps for the reasons you think. The young ladies can be silly and dramatic, and they can develop romantic attachments with the slightest provocation. A man must be constantly on his guard not to encourage such things. Rarely does the attraction go the other way, I assure you.”

“Did Miss Northrup develop a romantic attachment to you?”

“
Pas du tout.”
He helpfully shook his head so Frank knew he meant “no.” “You flatter me, Mr. Malloy. I have not had this problem with the young ladies for a few years now.” He stroked his beard where some gray hairs mingled with the dark ones. “In truth, it was not my idea to hire Miss Northrup at all. Miss Wilson convinced President Hatch that I needed help, and she proposed Miss Northrup.”

“And did you really need help?”

He shrugged the way Frank had noticed Frenchmen shrug when he’d been in France. He thought it made them look silly. “One grows weary of teaching the beginners, Mr. Malloy. I was glad to pass those duties to Miss Northrup.”

“Did any of the other teachers resent her? I understand it was unusual for the school to hire somebody who had just graduated to teach here.”

“I cannot speak for the others, but there is always a bit of jealousy when someone is chosen, is there not?”

“I don’t have much experience with colleges, Professor. You tell me.”

His smile looked a little bitter around the edges. “There is, I am afraid, but if you are thinking this is the reason someone attacked poor Miss Northrup, you will be wrong. If someone attacked Miss Wilson, then I would understand.”

“Miss Wilson? What did she do?”

“She do what no female ever does here. She becomes a professor.”

*   *   *

G
ino hoped the surge of excitement he felt didn’t show too much in his face. “What did Miss Northrup do to Miss Billingsly?”

Bathsheba stirred the washtub water with her stick and found no additional clothes to wring out. “Reckon I better get these things hung up.”

She stood up and got her coat. Not to be deterred, Gino put his coat back on as well and picked up the laundry basket without being asked. She acted as though she didn’t even notice, but she let him follow her outside.

“Set it there.” She pointed.

He did and stepped back, waiting because she was in charge and he knew better than to push her when she’d probably tell him everything in her own good time.

She pinned a few items to the rope before she said, “Miss Billingsly, she and Miss Wilson been friends since they first met. I never saw two womens get along like them two. They always talking about things together.”

“What kind of things?”

“School things. Book things. I don’t know. I never went to school, but they read books and get ideas about life and then they’d talk it over. I never understood much of it, but it was a comfort to hear them talk. They’d argue sometimes, because they didn’t agree about something, but they’d never get mad. I couldn’t understand that. I never saw peoples argue without getting mad at each other. It was a wonder.”

Gino would like to see that himself. “But things changed when Miss Northrup moved in, I guess.”

“Before that, even,” she said with more than a trace of bitterness. “She started coming here long time ago and stirring up trouble.”

“How long ago?”

“Since she first come to the school, I reckon. She was Miss Wilson’s student, see. The two ladies would invite their favorite students over on a Sunday. Sometimes they’d read together or sometimes a visitor would give a talk. Then the ladies would all talk over what they learned. I never seen nothing like it. The young ladies—that’s what they call the students—they never seen nothing like it either, I guess. They had more fun talking than I ever seen people have when they was at a party. Queerest thing you ever saw.”

Gino was pretty sure she was right. “So Miss Northrup had already spent a lot of time here.”

“She come real regular. Not like the other girls. They’d usually come for a year or maybe two, but she come for four years straight. It was plain to see she was up to no good.”

“Why? What was she doing?”

Bathsheba pinned another garment to the line. “Wasn’t what she was doing, exactly. It was how she was with Miss Wilson. It was like . . . I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Try.”

Bathsheba cast him a dark look. “The teachers at the school, they have pet students.”

“Pet students?”

“That’s what they call them. Favorites, like.”

Ah, Gino knew all about that. He’d seen it in his own school experience. The smart students who were well behaved and wore nice clothes. He’d never been a favorite. “I guess it’s only natural for them to like some of their students more than others.”

“I don’t know nothing about that, but I do know they
have different favorites every year. New girls come and the others move on. But Miss Northrup didn’t move on. She just kept being Miss Wilson’s favorite, and Miss Northrup made sure of it.”

“How did she do that?”

“Oh, she was a clever one. She didn’t do what you’d expect. You’d expect her to always agree with Miss Wilson and pay her compliments and such. Instead, she’d argue with her, like she didn’t agree, and then she’d pretend Miss Wilson had convinced her and change her mind. Not every time, but often enough, you understand. Made Miss Wilson feel so important and smart. Made me feel sick.”

“And what about Miss Billingsly?”

“I never knew if she saw through the girl or not, but she did know that Miss Wilson didn’t argue with her no more. She only was interested in what Miss Northrup had to say about something. I was so glad when they said she was graduating. I figured we’d seen the last of her, but then I hear she’s got hired by the college and she’s coming to live here.” She shook her head at such an unfortunate event.

“I guess Miss Billingsly wasn’t too happy about that.”

Bathsheba whirled to face him. “Don’t you go thinking she killed that girl because she was jealous. She’d never do no such thing. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, that one.”

Gino nodded obediently, although he wasn’t going to clear Miss Billingsly of suspicion just because her maid vouched for her. “But it must’ve been awkward when Miss Northrup moved in.”

“Oh, it was. She’d just gotten home from France.” Bathsheba said the word
France
as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. “She kept saying things in that Frenchy talk, like she expected people to understand her.”

“And nobody did?”

“Miss Wilson did. She said she learned it in school, but Miss Northrup could talk it a lot better than she could. Miss Northrup said her accent wasn’t right, and she’d learned to talk it right when she was in France, so they’d practice together, but . . .”

“But what?”

Bathsheba pulled the last article of clothing from the basket and pinned it with angry jabs. “Let’s go inside.”

She marched off, leaving the basket for Gino, who happily grabbed it and followed her back into the kitchen. By the time he got there, she’d removed her coat and started draining the washtub. The water on the stove had begun to boil, so she told him to pour it into the tub. Then she shaved some slivers of soap into it and stirred the whole thing with her stick until she was satisfied. Then she dropped in a bunch of bedsheets.

Before she could start turning the crank to agitate the load, he said, “Let me do that,” and gently moved her out of the way. She sank down wearily into one of the kitchen chairs and watched him work.

She’d been silent for so long, Gino figured she’d forgotten what they were talking about, but she hadn’t.

“They’d talk their Frenchy talk and giggle like they was little girls and then they’d look at poor Miss Billingsly who never learned to talk Frenchy, and you’d just know they was making fun of her. They could’ve said anything about her and nobody but them would’ve known. Made me sick to see it.”

It must’ve made Miss Billingsly sick, too. And maybe it made her drink. Would it have made her mad enough to commit murder, though?

He knew better than to ask Bathsheba such a question. “There’s nothing worse than having folks make fun of you right to your face and you can’t even answer back.”

“Well, there might be some things worse, but not many.”

“How are the ladies now that Miss Northrup is gone? Do you think they’ll make up?”

Bathsheba took her time answering him. “I don’t know. I think it might be too late.”

*   *   *

F
rank studied Pelletier’s smug expression. “Are you saying that the other female teachers would be angry that Miss Wilson became a professor?”

“Not only the female teachers. The male professors as well. She is taking a position a man could have filled. A man who needs to feed a family, you understand.”

Frank understood perfectly. “Did they think she didn’t deserve it?”

“That is not the question. Many of the female instructors deserve to be professors.”

“And wouldn’t they also resent Miss Northrup for taking an instructor position?”

“Of course, but perhaps not as much.”

And yet Miss Northrup was the one dead. Frank studied the professor for a moment. “I could’ve used you a few months ago, when I was in France.”

Frank had expected Pelletier to brighten at the mention of his home country. Frenchmen seemed inordinately proud of it, although Frank couldn’t understand why. Instead, Pelletier stiffened slightly. “You visited France?”

“Yes. My wife and I took a European tour.” He didn’t mention it was their honeymoon.

“Where did you visit?”

“Paris. Some cities in the south. I don’t remember the names. We saw a lot of old things. Are you from Paris?”

“
Mais non
, I am from a tiny town in Bourgogne. You would not have visited it.”

“Doesn’t it have any old things?”

He smiled slightly at this. “All of France is old, but there is nothing of note in my hometown.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea who might’ve killed Miss Northrup.”

Pelletier sighed. “I wish that I did. Such a tragedy.”

“It certainly is.” Frank glanced over at the other desk. “I’m afraid I need to go through Miss Northrup’s desk. I don’t suppose you know where the key is.” He remembered the coroner hadn’t said anything about finding keys on Abigail’s body.

Pelletier also glanced over at the desk. “I do not think it is locked.”

Frank got up and went over. Sure enough, the drawers opened easily. He noticed that Pelletier had turned back to whatever had been fascinating him when Frank came in. Or maybe he was just unwilling to watch him search through the dead woman’s belongings.

Frank wasn’t satisfied with his conversation with Pelletier. He wasn’t sure what had unsettled him, but he did know he’d probably be back with more questions very soon.

The search was brief. Abigail’s desk contained nothing personal or particularly interesting. He found a sheaf of papers that appeared to be student assignments that she was in the process of grading. They were all in French, though, so he had no idea what they said. The rest were just the normal supplies he’d expected to find. All except for one thing, which he did not find.

“Did she always keep her desk unlocked?”

Pelletier looked up in surprise. “
Mais oui
. We keep the office door always locked, and there is nothing here worthy of stealing, I think.”