“Of course, of course.” Richard Bonham cleared his throat. “My daughter Mary had become friendly with Sarah when the two were at Barnard, and they kept up the acquaintance. Even before she came to stay with us, she was a frequent dinner guest. Quiet, polite—and a good influence on Mary, who tends to be a natural homebody. It did her good to be with Sarah, who took her to the occasional poetry reading or tea social. I’m not certain how well I remember the details of the burglary, but shortly after the incident occurred, I was contacted by Mrs. Wingate, Sarah’s aunt. Apparently she took quite a fright after the incident, and put tremendous pressure on Sarah to leave the program unless a better living arrangement could be found. So we agreed on terms: She would live with our family, up on the third floor with Mary, during academic term; for that, she paid a modest sum merely to cover the additional expense we would incur by having her.”
He sighed, sadness etched in the lines of his face. “She is—was—a fine young lady, and we will all feel her loss. Not just my daughter.” He stumbled over the words. “And mathematically, what a mind! When she was in our home, she was more often than not in her room, puzzling over some problem. It was what interested her—what she found to be fun.”
“Did you often discuss research with her?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Her research was not in my field of expertise, I’m afraid.” He added wryly, “Even within the same department, we each become isolated within our own specialty, wouldn’t you agree, Caleb?”
After Caleb assented, I determined to pick up a thread from our earlier discussion with Mary. I asked the three men in the room, “To your knowledge, was Sarah ever romantically involved with anyone in the department?”
“No,” Artie replied, adding clumsily, “If any of us had gotten spoony with her, she’d have been certain to put us in our place. She wasn’t interested in that sort of thing—not with my classmates, and certainly not with me.”
“Never?” I asked. But their opinions were a unanimous no.
I brought up the fact that Sarah had visited Princeton frequently.
“Oh, yes,” Caleb said, chuckling, “that was just one more indication of Sarah’s talent; she presented her first important academic paper four years ago at Princeton, with most of our nation’s best mathematical minds present. The paper she presented about functions of the critical line was brilliant. Positively brilliant. She had been working on it, actually, ever since she was a sophomore at Barnard. It even attracted the attention of a colleague of mine known for his cantankerous personality—Angus MacDonald. When I learned she was interested in the Riemann hypothesis, I introduced her to him.”
His answer was as perfect a lead-in as I could have scripted. The photographs in Sarah’s locket had been paid for by an A. MacDonald. “And Angus MacDonald is another mathematician?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“A professor emeritus at Princeton, obsessed, like Sarah, with the Riemann hypothesis. In fact, it has been his life’s work, trying to solve it.”
“Did Professor MacDonald have significant contact with Sarah that you were aware of?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t describe it as significant,” Caleb replied. “Yet during my meetings with her, it was clear she had exchanged substantive ideas about her proof with him.”
I pulled out the silver locket and handed it silently to Professor Muller.
His initial shock of recognition was quickly replaced by a look of unease. He handed it back, shaken. “Yes, that’s Angus.”
“This locket certainly implies that he was involved in more than a purely collegial relationship with Sarah, wouldn’t you say? And yet, you were unaware of it?”
“I was unaware.” He shook his head sadly. “Otherwise, I would have discouraged it. Strongly discouraged it.” He was adamant as he voiced his opinion. “Such an association would have done neither of them any good professionally, and possibly much harm. Sarah already fought people’s misguided assumptions that a woman could not produce the sort of mathematical work that she did. A number of people believed that a brother or father must do her work for her. A romantic association with one of this country’s most gifted mathematicians would not have helped her to rebut such presumptions.”
“What about you, Artie?” I turned to the earnest young man, who was occupied staring at his feet. “Did she ever tell you anything about her relationship with Professor MacDonald?”
“Not that kind of relationship.” He flushed again. “I knew she corresponded with him, even met with him on occasion. Every time she had a breakthrough of sorts, she seemed to talk with him about it. But I supposed it was because he understood her research so well.” He slouched deep into his chair.
Isabella asked, “You mean you were aware she went to visit him?”
Artie seemed surprised. “Why, yes. She wasn’t secretive about it. He lives with his mother, so it was all quite aboveboard. I suppose that’s the main reason I never suspected her relationship with Professor MacDonald was anything but professional.”
Yet Sarah had been secretive about the visits with both the Wingates and her friend Mary. Why had she openly told Artie about her visits, yet concealed them to the Bonhams and the Wingates?
“You said the Riemann hypothesis was Angus MacDonald’s life’s work. Would he have been angry—jealous possibly—if Sarah had solved it?” I asked.
After another bout of coughing, Richard Bonham answered me deliberately. “I have known the man some twenty years, and I cannot believe he would react badly to another person’s solving the proof. I would remind you, there have been a handful of people over the years who thought they solved the Riemann hypothesis, only to find their proof did not hold up under the scrutiny of other mathematicians. Angus never reacted badly to those attempts, however disappointed he may have been. And, do not forget: He was actively helping Sarah with her work on the hypothesis.”
“And yet, you also would not have suspected MacDonald of pursuing a romantic relationship with Sarah, either,” I reminded him. He looked away in embarrassment.
“What about this man?” Isabella asked. “Do any of you recall having seen him before?” She passed around our now dog-eared picture of Michael Fromley.
Caleb and Artie both glanced at the photograph briefly before replying no, but Richard looked at it long and hard before answering. He finally said, “There is something about the boy that looks familiar, but I can’t place him. What is your interest in him?”
“He is our prime suspect,” I said. “We have circumstantial evidence linking him to Sarah’s murder.”
But no hard evidence, I thought silently. And that was what I desperately needed.
Where was Alistair?
“Did your suspect attend Columbia?” Richard asked, puzzled.
But we answered no and imparted no further information. We thanked them for their time and left, the noise of Richard’s hacking cough following us all the way down the stairs until we were nearly out of the building.
Across the quad at the research center, there was no word from Alistair. While Isabella assured me this was typical and not to worry, I was impatient, with so much still to be done. We had learned a great deal from this afternoon’s interviews, and Sarah was beginning to take human form in my mind. But the more she became real to me, the more I felt an urgency to find her killer. Michael Fromley remained at large, and that was—unacceptable.
I made use of our wait to telephone Joe, filling him in about Angus MacDonald; then I left a message at Princeton for the mathematician himself, requesting him to telephone or come to the research center in person.
Why was Alistair taking so long?
Ten more minutes passed.
I suggested to Isabella that we walk over to Broadway to see if there was any sign of him. Perhaps we would even find him waiting to meet us at 113th Street, as originally planned.
A street vendor was selling bags of roasted peanuts at the corner of 116th and Broadway, and the moment I smelled their arom
a, I became aware that I was ravenous with hunger. I purchased two bags, which Isabella and I devoured as we walked.
“You know, I think I met her once before. It would have been a little over a year ago.” Isabella’s comment was entirely unexpected.
“Her?” I asked her to clarify, though I assumed she meant Mary Bonham, the young woman we had interviewed.
But she surprised me further with her reply. “I mean Sarah Wingate.”
“You’ve previously met Sarah?” I stopped walking and turned to face her. My disbelief was evident in my tone. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I only just remembered—and I’m not positive that I’m right. But I believe I met her last fall at a ladies’ committee meeting held in support of Seth Low’s mayoral reelection campaign. Many people, especially here at Columbia, were hoping we could persuade our former college president to run against McClellan again.”
“What was Sarah like?” I asked.
“Intense.” Isabella glanced up at me through thick black eyelashes. “By that, I mean she didn’t engage in small talk. It was all highbrow political jargon. Sarah came to just one meeting. I got the impression,” she said, smiling ruefully, “that we were not quite her style. And from what Mary has said today, I think I understand better; the ladies’ committee approach would have been too conciliatory for her tastes.”
I voiced my confusion as we began walking again. “I’m sorry. I’ve no idea what a ladies’ committee meeting is, much less why it would not be to Sarah’s taste.”
She laughed at my bewilderment, her brown eyes flashing with humor. “Oh, dear—how discouraged our organizer Mrs. Rodin would feel to hear that! You see, ladies’ committees are essentially political groups made up of women who get together and plan how to influence the male vote! You must have heard their slogan,” she gently chided, “ ‘One Man, One Vote; One Woman, One Throat’? It’s meant to remind women that their one opinion can influence the vote of many men.”
“Never heard of it,” I admitted candidly. “I take it this is part of the suffragist movement Sarah participated in?”
“Only loosely.” She laughed again. “First, you must realize I am a relative newcomer to these efforts, which actually were started many years back by a group of women who were disgusted by the political graft and scandal that pervade the Tammany machine.”
“Fair enough,” I said, and waited for her to continue as we crossed the next block, sidestepping a man with a pushcart. As yesterday’s election had once again illustrated, Tammany Hall was remarkably effective in putting specific candidates in office—and controlling them once there. They were largely motivated by their own interests, not those of their constituents.
Isabella went on. “I joined the group back in 1901, to support Seth Low’s campaign for mayor as well as generalized reforms in education, tax, and sanitation. The larger goal, of course, was to break the hold of Tammany on local politicians that kept such reforms from actually happening. That’s why the ladies’ group supported Low again in ’03, and Hearst this fall.”
But Low hadn’t won a second term, and even Hearst’s money and popular support hadn’t been enough to break the Tammany stranglehold. Reform came in cycles, while Tammany maintained consistent political control.
Still, I empathized with Isabella’s sentiments. I had to, on some level, for I owed my profession itself to President Roosevelt’s reform efforts ten years earlier. When he took over as police commissioner, he had mandated that rookie police officers be hired on the basis of admission tests, not political patronage. I had passed the test with ease, whereas I would have lacked both the money and connections necessary to gain admittance through patronage.
“General reform is a positive goal,” I said mildly, “but it sounds as though Sarah was exclusively interested in gaining the vote.”
“Yes. And reading between the lines of what Mary said, I suspect Sarah would have felt my group’s methods were ineffectual. I’m not sure but that she wasn’t right,” Isabella said. “The ladies’ committees want to effect change—but only within our current system, as it is currently set up. Someone like Sarah thinks our existing way of doing things is untenable. She didn’t want to work within the status quo; she wanted to create a new social and political order.”
Isabella tossed her empty bag into the garbage as we crossed to the other side of Broadway and turned around once more as we searched for Alistair.
“The group Sarah eventually joined has always been more radical in their goals as well as their methods: They believe women deserve their own vote, and they’re not afraid to put on a demonstration or occupy a campus building to publicize their cause.”
“What’s your opinion?” I knew this question was in no way related to the case. I simply was finding myself more and more curious about Isabella Sinclair.
“As you might guess, I’m no radical,” she said. “But I also like the practical appeal of women’s club work to change our surroundings right now, not five or ten years down the road when suffragist activity may eventually gain women the vote. I joined a ladies’ committee and supported Seth Low because I wanted cleaner streets now.”
“And would you say his administration effected much improvement?” I couldn’t resist teasing, for we had just passed one of the legacies of Seth Low’s brief tenure in office two years ago: a whitewing, one of the city’s street sweepers who wore a uniform that was completely white from hat to trousers. This man seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace, picking up garbage by hand and dumping it into the large wooden barrel that he wheeled. He was ill equipped to combat the heavy litter and horse manure covering Broadway.
“Well, at least Low tried to do something when he was mayor,” she said, laughing in response, “but there’s still lots of room for improvement, wouldn’t you say?” More soberly, she added, “In the end, no real change was accomplished. That’s why I don’t attend the meetings anymore. That, and the fact that Alistair’s projects can demand so much of one’s time.”
“Yet I gather that working with Alistair is your choice,” I hazarded. The question of why she was involved with Alistair’s research was an intriguing one, representing something I did not yet understand.
“I needed something to do after Teddy died,” she replied, and from her tone and the way her face closed down, I knew the reason was both complicated and deeply private.
It was the perfect opportunity to ask her more about the details of Alistair’s work as well as her general opinion of the man. But those questions would have to wait, for as we approached the main entrance to Columbia at 116th Street, we became aware of Alistair’s voice calling out to us from across Broadway.
“Ziele—over here!” I turned to see Alistair getting out of a new Ford Model B motorcar, which had just sputtered to a halt. As he approached the hand crank to restart it, he called out, “Come on, get in—I’ve arranged our meeting downtown.”
I looked toward Isabella, but she smiled and motioned me to go along. “If you’ve no objection, I could go ahead and speak with Sarah’s classmates.” She gestured toward the crumpled list of names that poked out of my left pocket.
“I won’t go alone,” she promised. “I will get Horace to help me.”
I finally agreed, handing her the paper. “You might speak with Dean Arnold, as well, to find out more about Sarah’s work in his office.”
Then, before I knew it, I found myself a passenger in Alistair’s Ford, filling him in on all we had learned.
“The burglary is an odd coincidence, to be sure,” Alistair said in response. “But even putting what we know about Michael Fromley aside, I don’t see a vagrant housebreaker as the sort of murderer who killed Sarah Wingate. I wouldn’t waste precious time on that lead while Fromley is still at large.”
Of course he was right, but I would check into the incident nonetheless. Certainly Michael Fromley was the priority, given what Alistair knew about him. But I couldn’t bring myself to ignore a decent lead, however
unpromising it seemed at the moment.
We continued to talk of such matters as we journeyed downtown, passing horse carts and pedestrians at the speed of about seventeen miles per hour. It was testament to how focused my mind was upon the case at hand that I did not take note of the fact, until much later, that this was my first ride ever in an automobile.
CHAPTER 8
The Wallingfords were not industrial magnates like the Schermer-horns and Rhinelanders, and their financial success had been far less spectacular. But still they had amassed significant wealth, as their family home on East Sixty-seventh Street just off Fifth Avenue in the increasingly exclusive Upper East Side neighborhood made clear.
Clyde Wallingford was what one would call a true eccentric. That I determined within five minutes of meeting him in his second-floor library. Though it was well into the afternoon, he still wore a morning dressing gown, and he chomped on a cigar for the duration of our interview. Though not yet forty, he seemed much older than his years: His thinning hair was fully gray, and his pink puffy skin was creased and wrinkled around his brow. What was most off-putting, however, was his decidedly abrupt manner.
“So what’s this about Michael gone missing?” he demanded of Alistair. “Thought you were going to be responsible for him, and take all necessary measures to ensure we had no more trouble.”
“Ah, yes.” Alistair was caught off guard for a brief moment. But he recovered his composure and managed to summarize the story of Michael’s disappearance—in addition to our suspicions of Michael’s involvement in the murder of Sarah Wingate—before Wallingford’s apoplectic anger interfered. He alternated between pounding his fist on his massive wood and leather desk and berating Alistair for abrogating his duty to Fromley and, more particularly, the Wallingford family. I suspected that Alistair was not normally the type to take such treatment without objection. But since we needed Wallingford’s help, I predicted Alistair would not risk further alienating him. When Wallingford’s tirade was spent, Alistair continued talking politely, as though nothing had happened.
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