Murder on Washington Square

by Victoria Thompson

  “I couldn’t,” Mrs. Giddings protested, but Sarah said, “Thank you,” and went to take the tray. They had put some crackers and a bowl of soup on the tray, too.

  “The lady is very sad,” the girl said. “But she will get used to it here. We will take care of her. She does not have to be afraid.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Sarah said, and suddenly she realized to whom she was speaking. “Are you Maria Barberi?”

  “My name is Barbella,” the girl corrected, and Sarah remembered Malloy telling her the newspapers had gotten it wrong. This was the woman who had cut her lover’s throat out of despair when he refused to marry her. She had been tried for murder and sentenced to death, but she’d recently been granted a new trial.

  “I thought your trial was supposed to start last week,” Sarah remembered, realizing she hadn’t seen any mention of it in the newspapers.

  “It was, but now they say next month. So I wait.” She looked at Mrs. Giddings. “Do not cry. You will get used to it.”

  As Sarah watched Maria go, she was conscious of the irony. Maria Barbella’s first trial had sold millions of newspapers for months. If her new trial, which had been scheduled to begin two days before Anna Blake was killed, had begun then, it’s possible that Anna’s death wouldn’t have gotten any notice at all. Instead, it had served to replace this postponed scandal and sell newspapers in the meantime.

  “I suppose you can get used to anything,” Mrs. Giddings murmured.

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to,” Sarah said briskly, setting the tray down on the bunk. “Now you must eat something to keep up your strength. You need to stay strong for your son.”

  By the time she left The Tombs, Sarah’s own stomach was growling. She’d been in such a hurry to get to the jail and see Mrs. Giddings, she had neglected to eat herself. She bought a sausage sandwich from a street vendor and wolfed it down in a very unladylike manner. Then she headed back uptown to keep the promise she’d made to Mrs. Giddings to make sure Harold Giddings was all right.

  Keeping that promise gave her an excuse to ask the boy some questions of her own. She wanted to clarify in her mind exactly what had happened the night Anna Blake died and who had been at the boarding house with her. Then, she was sure, she would know who the killer was.

  16

  SARAH FOUND THE GIDDINGS HOUSE EASILY ENOUGH from the directions Mrs. Giddings had given her. When she saw the neighborhood and how the family had once lived, she realized just how much damage Anna Blake had done to them. Mrs. Giddings had told her they’d sold nearly everything they owned to repay her husband’s law partners. Her husband’s career was ruined, he could no longer work in his profession, and her son had found what work he could just to keep food on the table. In the same situation, Sarah thought she might well have considered murdering Anna Blake herself.

  No one answered her knock at the Giddings house for so long that Sarah was afraid she wasn’t going to have her opportunity to question Harold Giddings. But the door opened at last, and the boy himself stood there. She knew it must be he from his bloodshot eyes and his tormented expression.

  “Who are you?” he asked, unknowingly echoing his mother’s suspicion.

  “I’m Sarah Brandt,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “Your mother asked me to check on you and make sure you were all right.”

  “My mother?” he cried almost desperately. “How is she? She told me not to visit her, but I can’t stand not knowing what’s happening to her!”

  Sarah had been worried he wouldn’t believe her, but he must be even more trusting than she’d hoped. “If you’ll invite me in, I’ll be glad to tell you everything I know,” Sarah said gently.

  Instantly flustered, the boy stepped back to admit her. “I’m sorry I was rude,” he said. “I didn’t know who you were.”

  “That’s all right.” Sarah said, stepping into the foyer. She looked around. Every room she could see stood empty of furniture. “Is there someplace we could sit down?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the boy said, eager to please now. “We’ve still got . . . I mean, the back parlor. Just . . . follow me.”

  He led her down the hallway and into a room that still held some of its original furnishings. Sarah could imagine the family gathered here in the evening during happier times, before Gilbert Giddings had betrayed them and destroyed their lives.

  “Is your father here?” she asked.

  “No,” the boy said, his anger at his father painfully obvious. “He hasn’t been here in a couple days. I hope he never comes back. I hope he’s dead in some gutter.”

  Sarah didn’t chasten the boy. He had a right to his feelings, and she could certainly sympathize with them. “Your mother is concerned that you’re remembering to eat and get enough sleep,” she began.

  “I’m not very hungry,” he said. “All I can think about is . . .”

  “I know, but your mother is doing fine. The jail isn’t so very bad, and the women aren’t locked up all day. They can socialize and sew if they wish.”

  “I don’t want her to socialize with criminals,” the boy objected.

  Sarah didn’t point out that his mother was herself a confessed murderer. “And I would like to see her released, since she really didn’t kill Anna Blake.”

  “She didn’t?” the boy asked incredulously. “She swore she did it! I couldn’t believe it, but she kept saying it, over and over. That policeman believed her, too. I begged him not to take her away, but she told me not to argue with him, that he didn’t have any choice.”

  “She lied because she thought the detective was going to arrest you for the crime,” Sarah explained.

  “Me? Why would he arrest me?” he asked in genuine bewilderment.

  Now Sarah could understand how Malloy had known he was innocent. “Some policemen don’t particularly care if they arrest the right person, so long as they arrest someone.”

  The boy frowned. “How could they do that? They’d never be able to prove an innocent person did it.”

  “They have methods of persuasion,” Sarah said. “They usually manage to obtain confessions, even from innocent people.”

  Harold paled. “Is that what they did to my mother?”

  “Oh, no. She’d already confessed willingly,” Sarah reminded him. “She’s being well treated, and you don’t have to be afraid for her. But I’m sure you don’t want your mother in jail, especially if she didn’t kill anyone, and neither do I. I’d much rather have the real killer locked up.”

  “Who is the real killer?” he asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know yet, but I was hoping you’d be able to help me find him.”

  “How could I do that?”

  “By telling me everything that happened the night you went to see Anna Blake.”

  “I already told that policeman everything, and he arrested my mother,” he reminded her.

  “I know, but I’m hoping there was some detail that you’d forgotten or didn’t think to mention to him.”

  The boy frowned. “How can that help?”

  “I won’t know until I hear what happened. Now tell me everything. Start at the beginning.”

  His young face screwed up with concentration. “My father didn’t come home that night. My mother pretended it didn’t matter, but she hated the thought that he was with that woman. I’d followed him once, to see where he went. We knew about her after . . . Well, after he had to pay back the money he stole from his law firm. He had to tell my mother everything then. I just wanted to see her. I wanted to know why he did this to us.”

  “Of course you did,” Sarah said to encourage him. “So you knew where she lived.”

  “I thought he might be with her that night, so when I got to the house, I made them let me inside. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he was there, but he wasn’t. I didn’t ask about him, of course. I just told them I wanted to see her. The man didn’t want to let me in, but—”

  “Man?” Sarah echoed in surprise. “Wh
at man?”

  Her vehemence startled him. “There was a man there. He was pretty mad, but that woman, Miss Blake, she told him not to worry, she could handle me.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “What did he look like?”

  He tried to remember. “A little shorter than me. Dark hair. A beard.”

  “Was the beard long or short?”

  “Short.”

  “Was he fat or thin?”

  “Thin. I think he didn’t want to fight me, even though he pretended he was going to if I didn’t leave. He wasn’t very big.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Sarah fought her urge to snap at him impatiently. “Was he wearing a suit? Did he look like he was visiting or did he live there?”

  “Oh, he lived there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The way he acted. How he treated me, too, I guess. Oh, now I remember. He was in his shirtsleeves. No collar either. He looked like he’d been sitting around reading the paper or something. I think he had slippers on, too.”

  This was very interesting. The man must have been Mr. Walcott, but Mrs. Walcott had claimed he wasn’t home that night. Why had she lied? And now Sarah remembered that Catherine Porter had slipped and mentioned that Mr. Walcott had ordered the boy out. She’d corrected herself when Sarah had called her on it, but now Sarah realized it hadn’t been a mistake. Could they both have been trying to give Walcott an alibi?

  “Who else did you see when you were there?”

  “Just those two. And the maid, of course.”

  “Are you sure? No other women?”

  He thought for a moment. “I think . . . maybe there was another woman upstairs. I think she was watching.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “I didn’t really see her face. I just sort of noticed that someone was there.”

  A woman watching from upstairs would have been Catherine Porter, Sarah guessed. “And did you see anyone else?”

  “No, that’s all. I’m sure.”

  Sarah couldn’t imagine a scene like that happening in the house without Mrs. Walcott coming to investigate. Of course, she might have been out. On the other hand, she’d told Malloy she was there, and that she’d been the one who had ordered the boy out.

  “Did I tell you anything that helped?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” was all Sarah could say.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to ask Anna Blake’s landlady a few more questions,” she said.

  “Can I go with you?” he asked eagerly.

  “I know you want to help, but I don’t think the Walcotts would be very happy to see you again.”

  “Who are the Walcotts?”

  “They own the house where Anna Blake lived.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m just going to ask a few questions,” she explained. “Then I’ll take this new information to Mr. Malloy. And then, I hope, he will arrest the real killer, and your mother will be free.”

  “What questions are you going to ask?”

  Sarah wasn’t sure herself. “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

  To Sarah’s relief, the El wasn’t very crowded. The hour was later than she’d realized, and most of the workers had already made their way home. Sarah sat, staring blindly out the window at the buildings whizzing by, and tried to piece together everything she’d learned about that night. Anna had been home with Catherine and Mr. Walcott and maybe Mrs. Walcott, too. Mr. Walcott was sitting around in his shirtsleeves. Harold had come barging in. Mr. Walcott hadn’t wanted him there, but Anna Blake had enjoyed tormenting the boy. Harold had threatened her, and then he’d left. Anna had played checkers with Catherine until Catherine went to bed, well after dark. According to Catherine, Mrs. Walcott was probably angry with Anna, but she hadn’t said anything to Anna in Catherine’s presence. This meant she was either there when Harold came or returned home later.

  After Catherine went to bed, something had happened, and Anna had gone out. Either she got a message from someone or she’d had a quarrel with Mrs. Walcott or maybe Mr. Walcott or both of them, and she’d left the house. Then she’d been stabbed at some unknown location. She’d been trying to get back home, but she’d fallen in Washington Square and died there before she could.

  Sarah remembered what the coroner had said about Anna having been with a man shortly before she died. Could that man have been Mr. Walcott? Was that what she and Mrs. Walcott had quarreled about? Was that why Mrs. Walcott had lied about what time Anna left the house? And why had everyone lied about Mr. Walcott being home that night? The answer was obvious, and Sarah had a pretty good idea she now knew who the killer was. She should probably go straight to Malloy with the news, but she was afraid he wouldn’t act on it unless she had more than just a suspicion. She only needed one more piece of information, and she could get it from either of the Walcotts. If she could get them to cooperate without arousing their suspicions.

  Night was falling as Sarah reached the house on Thompson Street. She’d miscalculated the time, forgetting how short the days were getting as October advanced. A light was burning in one of the front rooms at the Walcott house, however, so Sarah knew someone was home.

  No one answered her knock at first, but she wasn’t going to give up, not when she was so close, so she kept on knocking. Finally, the door opened a crack, and half of a face peered out cautiously.

  “Is Mrs. Walcott home?” Sarah asked when the person didn’t speak.

  The door opened a bit wider, revealing that the person behind it was Mrs. Walcott. She was a far different Mrs. Walcott than Sarah had seen before, however. Instead of her extravagant wig, she wore a dust cap on her head, as women did to protect their hair from dirt when house-cleaning. Or when women who wore wigs wanted to relax from the weight of them and still not reveal the condition of their real hair. The cap fit closely, which meant there wasn’t much hair underneath. Probably, Mrs. Walcott was going bald for some reason, so she did not even go bare-headed in the privacy of her own home. And instead of one of her stylish gowns, she wore a simple housedress that was faded from many washings. Her face looked faded, too, as if strain had leached the color from it. The only thing that hadn’t changed about her appearance was her expression. She still looked cool and calm and more than a little condescending.

  “What are you doing here at this time of night, Mrs. Brandt?” she asked. Her voice hadn’t changed, either. She was still cultured and precise.

  “I happened to be in this part of the city, and I thought I would stop by and see how you’re faring. I also wanted to let you know how the investigation is going,” Sarah lied. “We have some new information.”

  Mrs. Walcott looked past Sarah, as if expecting to see Frank Malloy. “Are you alone?” she asked in some surprise.

  “Yes. As I said, I was in the neighborhood, delivering a baby,” she added, embellishing her lie to sound more plausible. “I thought it was still early enough to stop by on my way home. May I come in?”

  “Certainly,” she said, stepping aside to allow her to enter. The house was as chilly as the street outside, and Sarah remembered Catherine Porter mentioning that Mrs. Walcott didn’t like to build a fire.

  “Is Miss Porter in?” Sarah asked, pulling off her gloves.

  Mrs. Walcott stiffened at the question and proceeded to close the door very carefully, not looking at Sarah. “No. No, she isn’t.”

  Her reaction had been so odd that Sarah felt a frisson of alarm. “Is she all right?” she asked.

  Mrs. Walcott managed a strained smile. “I’m sure I have no idea. Please, come in.” She led Sarah into the front parlor, the room where a lamp burned.

  Mystified, Sarah followed her into the parlor and took the seat Mrs. Walcott indicated. The landlady sat down across from her, in front of the cold fireplace, and folded her hands demurely
in her lap. She wasn’t wearing the mitts she usually wore, and she folded her hands tightly, as if she were ashamed of them or something. Perhaps she was. Perhaps that was why she wore the mitts in the first place.

  “You said you had some news,” Mrs. Walcott said. “About Anna’s death.”

  “Yes, I . . . Mrs. Walcott, I don’t know how to say this without sounding rude, but I’m afraid I have to ask you again if your husband was at home that night.”

  Mrs. Walcott stared at Sarah for a long moment, as if trying to read her thoughts. “I am assuming that you believe he was, in spite of what I told you.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “In fact, I now have very good reason to believe he was.”

  Mrs. Walcott sighed and dropped her gaze. “I don’t suppose I need to lie anymore. Yes, he was here that night.”

  “Why did you lie about it before?” Sarah asked.

  Mrs. Walcott’s expression hardened, and her eyes were full of hatred when she looked up again. “I love my husband, Mrs. Brandt. I wanted to protect him. Anna Blake’s death was no great loss to anyone, and he didn’t really mean to kill her—”

  “Your husband killed Anna?” Sarah cried, trying not to sound exultant at having proved her theory so easily.

  Mrs. Walcott nodded, her entire body rigid with emotion. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him,” she said, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes. “I knew he wasn’t always faithful to me, but . . . He could be so loving. I would have done anything to protect him.”

  Sarah couldn’t help feeling compassion for this woman, even though she would never understand the kind of devotion that led a woman to lie for a man like that. “Has something happened to change your mind?” she asked gently.

  “Oh, yes,” she said bitterly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “You asked me if Catherine Porter was here. The answer is no, she’s gone. She and my husband left together.”

  Sarah gaped at her. “You mean they ran away together?”

  “So it appears. My husband had decided he could no longer stay in the city, you see. He was afraid that sooner or later your Mr. Malloy would figure out that he had killed poor Anna. He led me to believe he and I would go together, so I helped him with the arrangements. It was wrong, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. I would have followed him anywhere, you understand, but when I woke up this morning, he and Catherine were both gone. He left me a note . . . He was very unkind.” Her voice broke, and Sarah’s heart ached for her.