Murder in Morningside Heights

by Victoria Thompson

  “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.”

  * * *

  Frank 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.”

  “Do you lock your own desk?”

  “As I said, there is no need.”

  Then why was there a key in the lock on the professor’s desk where Frank could plainly see it?

  “Thank you for your help, Professor,” Frank said, shaking the man’s hand again. “If you happen to think of anything that might help, please let me know.” He handed him one of his expensiv
e cards.

  “Of course, Monsieur Malloy. I wish you much luck in finding who killed the poor mademoiselle.”

  * * *

  Gino had foolishly thought that Mr. Malloy was doing him a favor when he assigned him to question Abigail Northrup’s students. After spending almost an hour interviewing them, he now understood that Malloy had merely fobbed off an unpleasant task to his underling. The girls were either openly hostile to a male they considered a dangerous interloper into their sacred sanctuary or they were too giggly and flirtatious to even make sense. Neither type had offered any useful information.

  One of the other female teachers had helpfully gathered Abigail’s classes together and sent them one by one into an empty classroom to meet with Gino. He had to leave the door open for propriety, but he’d set up his interviews as far from the door as possible to keep from being overheard by the teacher, who sat just outside as a chaperone. If only he’d heard anything worth overhearing. He was about to give up hope he ever would when the next student came in.

  She sat down in the chair he’d placed in front of the student desk he’d commandeered. She was a plain girl with hair the color of carrots and a generous sprinkling of freckles. She peered at him suspiciously through her spectacles as he sat down and introduced himself.

  “I’m Karen Oxley,” she offered without either a giggle or a scowl. “I did see Tobias working in the lavatory on the second floor last Wednesday, and I didn’t see anything outside. All the girls are talking, so I know what you’re going to ask. I guess you’ve figured out by now that we don’t spend a lot of time staring out the windows.”

  “It does seem like they keep you pretty busy.” Not a single girl had admitted to so much as glancing outside on the day Abigail had died, although most of them knew the janitor had been working in the girls’ dormitory.

  “Of course we’re busy. And I don’t have any idea who might’ve killed Miss Northrup either.” Her voice broke a bit, but she cleared her throat. “It’s a terrible thing. She was a good teacher.”

  “You liked her, then?”

  “Of course. We all liked her. None of us in our class knew a word of French when we came to her, and she made learning it fun.”

  “How did she do that?”

  Miss Oxley smiled at the memory. “She’d teach us the grammar and the vocabulary, and then we’d do silly examples that would make us laugh but also remember.”

  “Like what?” Gino asked with genuine interest.

  “Oh, we’d say something like, ‘The bird sat on my head.’ And then the next girl would try to think of something better, like, ‘The bird ate my head.’ By the end we’d be laughing so hard, we could hardly talk.”

  “And this isn’t the usual way people learn French?”

  “I don’t know, because I never studied French before, but no teacher ever made me laugh except Miss Northrup. If she wasn’t so young, she probably would’ve been my smash.”

  Gino blinked in surprise. “Your what?”

  “My smash.” Plainly, she thought he should know what that was.

  “What’s a smash?”

  She registered a little surprise, but she said, “It’s the teacher you . . . I’m not sure how to describe it. Love? But not romantically. Admire? Not strong enough.” She frowned in concentration.

  “But Miss Northrup was a female.”

  She gave him a pitying smile. “That’s the whole point! None of us have ever met women like the teachers here. Nor have we ever been exposed to new ideas the way we are here. Talking about them and learning so much . . . it’s intoxicating! And the females who teach here are so interesting. They’re smart and educated, and they know so much about everything. Not like our mothers at all. When you meet them, it’s like falling violently in love without having to worry about romance.”

  “Sort of like a crush?” Gino tried, still not sure he understood.

  “Yes, in a way, only much more exciting because you don’t have to be embarrassed or nervous or worry about a young man noticing you. All the freshmen girls have a smash, or most of us, anyway. They even call it the Freshman Disease,” she added with a satisfied grin.

  “And who’s your smash?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “None of your business, but not Miss Northrup. Like I said, she was too young. She was more like a friend than a teacher, I guess because she’d been a student herself just a few months ago.”

  But Abigail Northrup had probably had a smash of her own, and Gino knew exactly who it was.

  * * *

  Sarah had been waiting somewhat patiently for over half an hour in the living room of Miss Wilson’s brick town house. She’d spent her morning trying to identify a charity that would take Hannah, the pregnant young woman at the Mission, but she hadn’t had any luck. She only hoped her afternoon would be more rewarding. Finally, she heard the front door open. Bathsheba hurried down the hall to greet Miss Billingsly and tell her she had a visitor.

  Sarah couldn’t make out the exact words of the whispered conversation, but plainly, Miss Billingsly wasn’t pleased. She spoke quickly, almost frantically, and Sarah knew a moment of guilt for having forced her presence on the distraught woman. Someone needed to speak with her, though, and Sarah knew she would be the most gentle. Bathsheba’s tone was reasonable and persuasive. She’d welcomed Sarah a while ago without the slightest indication that she had set up this meeting by telling Gino when she expected Miss Billingsly to return home. Sarah had made no reference to it either.

  After a few more whispered exchanges, Miss Billingsly came in through the open doorway. She was patting her hair into place after removing her hat and looked a bit flustered. Sarah rose from her chair and said, “I’m sorry to have imposed myself on you like this, but your maid said I should wait, that you’d be home shortly.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Miss Billingsly lied with a stiff little smile. “It’s always pleasant to have company. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  Sarah wasn’t going to remind her of her unceremonious entrance the other day. “No, we haven’t. I’m Sarah Malloy. My husband is the detective investigating Miss Northrup’s death.”

  Miss Billingsly’s stiff smile vanished. “Oh yes. Georgia told me about that. A frightful business.”

  Sarah wasn’t sure if she meant the murder or the investigation. “We’re trying to determine who might have attacked Miss Northrup, so we’re speaking with all of her close friends.”

  Miss Billingsly frowned at that. “Close friends? I was hardly that.”

  “But she lived here, didn’t she? And you knew her well.”

  “I knew her, yes,” she admitted a bit reluctantly.

  “And I’m sure you’d like to know her killer is locked up and unable to harm anyone else.”

  She couldn’t possibly disagree with that, no matter how much she might have disliked Abigail Northrup, so she said, “Very well. Ask your questions.”

  She moved to the chair nearest Sarah’s and sank wearily into it. Sarah took this as an invitation to sit down again herself, so she did.

  Miss Billingsly looked her over. “Are you a detective, too?”

  “Not professionally, no, but I sometimes help my husband. He thinks ladies respond better to me than to him.”

  “And do they?”

  “Sometimes. How long had you known Miss Northrup?”

  She sighed as if in relief. “That’s an easy one. Going on five years now, I suppose. Since she first came to the Normal School as a student.”

  “Did you have her as a student?”

  “I have all the young ladies at one time or another.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “Geography.”

  “How interesting,” Sarah said with genuine enthusiasm. “I always enjoyed geography.”

  Miss Billingsly’s smile did not reach her eye
s. “Yes, learning about all those countries you’ll never see.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I always thought someday I’d travel. I wanted to ride a camel in Egypt and see the Roman Colosseum at night. I wanted to visit the Parthenon, but I’ll never do any of that now, not on the salary of a normal school instructor. So I just tell other disappointed young women about the wonders they’ll also never see.”

  Sarah had no answer for that, especially when she remembered that Abigail had traveled to France during the summer between her graduation and when she started teaching. How jealous Miss Billingsly must have been of her opportunity. “Were you happy to have Miss Northrup living here?”

  “Happy? Why should I be? This isn’t a large house. We were already crowded before she came. And it made a lot more work for poor Bathsheba. No one even considered her.”

  “And yet you agreed to let her come.”

  “It’s not my place to agree or disagree. It’s Georgia’s house. Miss Wilson’s, I mean. She had a small inheritance when her mother died, and she bought it. I’m just a guest here.”

  “More than a guest, surely,” Sarah said. “You and Miss Wilson have been friends for many years.”

  She pressed her lips together until they were no more than a straight line in her face, and Sarah slowly realized she was trying not to weep. After a few moments, she cleared her throat and said, “Yes, we have.”

  “Did you meet when you were students?”

  “Oh no, not until I came here to teach. Georgia had been here for a year already. She took me under her wing, you see. She’s like that, always making sure people feel welcome and included. That’s why the young ladies love her so.”

  “And you became close friends.”

  Her whole body seemed to soften as she remembered. “I’d never had a friend like that before. I hardly dared believe that she felt the same until she bought this house and asked me to share it with her.”

  “You must have been very happy here.”

  “Yes, until . . .”