Murder in Morningside Heights

by Victoria Thompson

  “I thought all women wanted to get married,” Gino said.

  Maeve gave him another scowl, but Frank had come to understand that was the main reason Gino said such outrageous things.

  “Getting married is one of the few ways for a woman to obtain security in this world, Gino, but a teaching job in a college would certainly be another,” Sarah said.

  “And maybe even a better one,” Maeve said. “A teaching job isn’t going to die or desert you, like a husband might.”

  “And the old maids might just be jealous because they never had a suitor themselves,” Frank said, earning a scowl from Sarah, which he didn’t enjoy at all. “Well, it’s true.”

  “It might be,” Sarah said. “At any rate, Abigail obviously understood her hostess wouldn’t be happy to learn she was receiving letters from a young man, so she and Cornelius went to great lengths to conceal that information. According to Miss Wilson, this Irene Raymond was an old friend of Abigail’s from home who also attended the Normal School.”

  “And from the letters, it appears Cornelius was her brother,” Maeve said. “He must’ve had Irene address the envelopes. That’s kind of romantic, I guess, getting your sister to keep your romance a secret. But do we think Abigail was going to leave the school and marry him?”

  Frank shook his head. “From Cornelius’s last letter, it sounds to me like she still hadn’t made up her mind.”

  “And since it was dated a week ago, she probably had time to reply to it,” Sarah said. “So if she said no, maybe he came to New York to see if he could change her mind. If he was very unhappy with her, well . . .”

  “Do you want me to go to Tarrytown and find him?” Gino asked, obviously ready to leave immediately.

  “Let’s wait,” Frank said. “If he did kill her, he can’t imagine we even know about him, so he’s not going anywhere. In the meantime, I’d like you to drop by Miss Wilson’s house on Monday morning, when she and Miss Billingsly are at school, and talk to their maid, Bathsheba.”

  “Bathsheba? Is that really her name?” Gino asked.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Sarah asked.

  “Why wouldn’t it be wise?” Gino asked.

  “Sarah’s afraid this Bathsheba will eat you alive,” Frank said. “But I have confidence in your boyish charm.”

  “Boyish?” Gino echoed, insulted.

  “Definitely boyish,” Maeve said, earning a scowl from Gino, which she obviously savored.

  “But the important part is ‘charm,’” Sarah said, trying not to grin. “Bathsheba is a tough lady, and I get the impression she isn’t too impressed with her employers. She might be willing to gossip a bit if you show her some attention and flatter her.”

  “All right,” Gino said, obviously feeling put-upon.

  “And then I’d like you to interview the girls in Abigail’s classes,” Frank said, having saved the best for last.

  He perked right up at that, although Frank saw at once that Maeve was none too pleased. “Do you think one of them did it?”

  “I doubt it, but they might know something or have an idea about who didn’t like Abigail.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Sarah asked.

  “I’d like you to talk with Miss Billingsly, but I’m not sure how to do that without Miss Wilson knowing.”

  Sarah glanced at Gino. “Maybe you could find out from Bathsheba how we could arrange it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And what will you do, Malloy?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m going to take a look at Abigail’s office and talk to the French professor she worked for, Mr. Pelletier.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if we can do any of this until Monday, though,” Sarah said. “Which means we should plan to do something with the children on Sunday afternoon. How about ice-skating in Central Park?”

  * * *

  Gino easily found the redbrick house where the lady professors lived. The neighborhood was peaceful early on a Monday morning. The men—and the single ladies who had careers—would have already left for the day. Monday was washday, as everyone knew, so wives and servants would be busy with that. He rounded the corner and found the alley running behind the house.

  Counting the houses, he located the right gate and stepped inside the fence to find the woman he’d come to interview hanging wash on a clothesline strung the length of the yard. She was just as formidable as Malloy had described, although her turban was plain calico today, and the look she was giving him could’ve drawn blood on a boot.

  “Good morning, miss,” he said, pulling off his bowler hat.

  “I ain’t nobody’s miss, and put your hat back on, boy. Your head’ll freeze.”

  He resettled his hat but didn’t let his smile fade. “I’m Gino Donatelli, and I work for Mr. Frank Malloy. I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about Miss Northrup.”

  “I’m busy.” She pulled the last garment from the laundry basket, a pair of ladies’ drawers, and clothespinned them to the line.

  “I can see that. I don’t expect you to stop what you’re doing just for me.” Before she could move, he scooped up the basket in a silent offer to carry it inside for her.

  She was still frowning, not sure what to make of him, but she let him carry the basket and follow her back into the steamy warmth of the kitchen, where a huge pot of water simmered, ready for the next load of wash.

  He wiped his feet carefully before entering, knowing this would please his hostess.

  “Put that basket down anywhere,” she snapped as she pulled off her coat. “And close the door if you’re staying.”

  He shut the back door against the wintry weather and set the basket down nearby.

  “Ain’t you a little young to be a detective?” she asked, eyeing him shrewdly.

  “I’m young, but I was a police officer for almost two years, and I fought in Cuba with the Rough Riders.”

  She brightened slightly at this news. “My nephew Thomas fought in Cuba with the colored troops.”

  “They were very brave. They were right with us when we charged up San Juan Hill.”

  She sniffed at this, and Gino wasn’t sure if she approved or not, but at least she hadn’t asked him to leave yet.

  “Take off your coat and sit yourself down. I gotta get this next load finished and on the line.”

  Gino made himself useful, carrying the hot water from the stove to the washer for her before finally taking a seat at the kitchen table while she churned the clothes in the wooden tub and then started fishing each piece out with a stick and running it through the mangle to squeeze out the excess water. He knew better than to offer to help with that. He didn’t want to handle the ladies’ clothes, but he also didn’t want to get a finger crushed in the wringer.

  Bathsheba cranked the first few items through before she said, “Why didn’t that Malloy fellow come himself?”

  “He thought you’d rather talk to me.”

  She grinned at that, showing a gold canine. “He was right about that. So what did you want to know? I ain’t sayin’ I’ll answer, but you can ask whatever you want.”

  “Fair enough. I don’t want to ask you to gossip about your employers—”

  “Oh, of course you do. Don’t lie, boy.”

  “All right, then,” Gino said with a grin. “Seems kind of funny, three ladies living together in one house. Did they get along all right?”

  “It ain’t funny at all. It’s necessary. A female can’t live in a house by herself. It ain’t proper and it ain’t safe, not in a city like this.”

  “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Of course not. You can live wherever you want and ain’t nobody gonna bother you. A female alone, she gonna attract all kinda the wrong attention.”

  Gino supposed she was right.

  �
��They also can’t afford to live by themselves,” she added without even being prodded.

  “But aren’t they all professors at that college?” Gino said, playing dumb.

  “Only Miss Wilson is a full professor, and that just come real recent. Even still, they don’t pay her the same salary they pay to the mens. She shares a house to save money.”

  Gino blinked at her honesty and stored that tidbit of information away for future reference. Of course, he knew that women usually got paid less than men, but that was because men had to support their families. Unmarried women had to support only themselves. It was only fair.

  “I guess they were all good friends, then,” Gino said, since she hadn’t yet answered the part of the question he really cared about.

  “Miss Wilson and Miss Billingsly, they lived here real nice for almost eighteen years now,” she said, paying particular attention to the piece of clothing she was running through the mangle.

  Gino didn’t miss the implication. “I guess Miss Northrup coming kind of changed things.”

  Bathsheba made a rude noise.

  “You didn’t like her,” he said.

  “Ain’t my place to like her or not.”

  “You’re still entitled to your opinion. Why didn’t you like her?”

  Bathsheba turned her dark gaze on Gino. “Not for the reason you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking of any reasons at all,” he claimed. “The only things I know about Miss Northrup are that she was real smart and got herself hired on at the college when nobody else could.”

  “That’s true enough. She was pretty, too, which made it strange. Pretty girls don’t have to work as hard as the rest of us, you know, but she always wanted to be the best. Pretty girls can usually get themselves a husband, too, so why did she want to teach school instead?”

  “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.”

  4

  The 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.”

  * * *

  Gino 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 as
ked. 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.”