“Do you at least know where he’s staying?”
“He usually stays at the club. I told him we would need to reach him, so I hope that’s where he is. I’d hate for him to miss his sister’s funeral.”
“Let me know if you can’t reach him. I can try to locate him for you.”
Northrup sighed again. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything important yet.”
“We’ve learned a lot, but as you say, nothing that points to anyone in particular. Which reminds me, do you know a young lady named Irene Raymond?”
“Irene? Of course I do. I’ve known her and her brother practically since they were born. Their parents are our neighbors. Irene attended the Normal School with Abigail, in fact.” He frowned suddenly. “Good heavens, you don’t think she had anything to do with Abigail’s death, do you?”
“No, nothing like that. We just found some letters from her in Abigail’s room,” Frank said, not telling the entire truth.
“I’m not surprised. They’re very close friends, or at least they were. They don’t see much of each other since . . .” He caught himself as the memory of Abigail’s death hit him again. “I mean, not since they graduated. Irene came home to Tarrytown. She wasn’t really interested in teaching, and I hear she’s going to become engaged soon.”
“You mentioned her brother. Is he also a close friend of Abigail’s?”
“Cornelius? I suppose so. He’s Luther’s age, I believe. Just a few years older than the girls.”
“Was there ever anything romantic between him and Abigail?”
This startled Northrup, and he frowned. “Not that I know of. What makes you ask that?”
“I don’t know,” Frank lied. “I just thought if the families were so close, maybe you hoped the boys might marry the girls and bring them even closer.”
“I suppose Cornelius was always fond of Abigail, but in a brotherly way. Luther and Irene never got along at all, though. If we’d ever entertained any thoughts of joining our families, the children themselves gave us no encouragement.”
So Northrup didn’t know about the romance brewing between Cornelius and his daughter. Why had they felt they had to keep it a secret? Surely, their parents would have approved. Maybe Abigail’s letters would have the answers, but he didn’t have Abigail’s letters. He’d need Cornelius to tell him. “Do you know if Abigail was happy living at Miss Wilson’s house?”
“She was thrilled when Miss Wilson made her the offer. The school wasn’t paying her very much to start, you see, and she would’ve either had to live in a boardinghouse or been a matron in the dormitory. She felt she wouldn’t get the proper amount of respect if she lived in the dormitory since she was so young herself.”
“And as far as you knew, she got along well with Miss Wilson?”
“I believe they were very good friends.”
“How about Miss Billingsly?”
“She hardly ever mentioned Miss Billingsly, at least to me. Maybe she said something to her mother.”
Frank wasn’t going to question Mrs. Northrup until after the funeral if she was as fragile as Northrup said. “Were there any girls . . . any students, I mean, that she didn’t get along with?”
“Abigail never had a harsh word to say about anyone.”
Frank doubted that, of course. When someone died, especially someone young and full of promise, her loved ones tended to forget any weaknesses or imperfections. “I’d like to speak with Miss Raymond. Abigail may have confided something to her that she didn’t want to worry you with.”
“Oh, I see. You think someone might have been bothering her or been hostile in some way.”
“Yes,” Frank said, glad he’d understood. “It might’ve even been someone Miss Raymond knew, so she’d sympathize.”
“I hate to think she was having trouble and didn’t confide in us,” Northrup said.
“She probably didn’t think it was serious or she would have,” Frank lied again. Children were, in fact, most likely to keep secrets from their parents when it was a serious matter.
“Her mother is so distraught. She keeps saying we never should’ve let her come to the city, that she’d still be alive if we’d kept her at home.”
Since she was right, Frank didn’t have much to offer in the way of comfort. “We’ll probably come up to Tarrytown tomorrow and see if we can call on Miss Raymond before the funeral.”
“You’ll take your wife with you?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes, she’s much better with ladies than I am. I’ll let you know where we’re staying in case you want to contact me.”
Northrup nodded. A few moments of silence passed as each man realized he had nothing else to say. Northrup started to rise but stopped himself suddenly. “I almost forgot. The coroner gave me this.” He pulled something wrapped in brown paper from his pocket. It had been opened and clumsily wrapped up again. He handed it to Frank.
It was the jewelry Doc Haynes had told him they’d found on the body. “Is something missing?”
“Not that I know of. That’s Abigail’s locket. We gave it to her for her thirteenth birthday, I think. But the ring . . . I never saw it before.”
Frank dumped the pieces on his desk and set the paper aside. The locket was gold and rather ordinary, with a floral design etched on the face. The ring was gold, too, with a blue stone in a setting surrounded by tiny clear stones. Were they diamonds or glass? He had no way of knowing, although the gold seemed real enough. “Maybe she bought it for herself here in the city.”
“She really didn’t have the resources to buy something like this for herself, but if she did, then why hide it?”
“Hide it?”
“Yes. The coroner said it was on the chain with the locket, hanging around her neck and tucked inside her clothes so it wasn’t visible.”
Haynes hadn’t told him that. No wonder nobody had stolen it before she got to the morgue. He examined the ring more closely. Engagement rings were all the style now for people who could afford them. Could this be one? Was Abigail secretly engaged to Cornelius Raymond? Or maybe to someone else entirely, which would explain why she wouldn’t agree to marry him? “Would you mind if I hold on to the ring for a while? I can see if anybody recognizes it or knows where it came from.”
“I suppose, but I’d like to take the locket home.”
“Of course.” Frank wrapped it back up in the paper and handed it to Northrup.
They took another minute to discuss hotels in Tarrytown where Frank and Sarah might stay, and then Northrup took his leave. He looked like a thoroughly beaten man.
“Poor fellow,” Gino said from where he sat at his desk.
“What does this look like to you?” Frank asked, handing him the ring.
“A lady’s ring. Where did it come from?”
Frank told him.
“I don’t know a lot about women, but I do know they don’t usually hang rings around their necks.”
“No, they don’t, especially one this pretty. A woman would want to show it off, even if she’d bought it for herself.”
“And if a man had bought it for her, she’d want to show it off even more,” Gino said.
“Exactly. Unless the woman worked at a school where she wasn’t allowed to be married.”
“And lived in a house where the other women would expect her to stay single. So you think this fellow she was writing letters to gave it to her?”
Gino handed the ring back to him. “If she was telling him she wasn’t ready to get married—and from his letters, it sounded like that’s what she was saying—then why would he give her a ring?”
“And why would she take it?”
“Those are exactly the questions I’m going to ask him when I see him tomorrow,” Frank said.
* * *
Sarah examined the ring closely and then pa
ssed it to Maeve. They’d just put the children to bed and were enjoying a quiet evening in the formal parlor. Mrs. Malloy sat knitting near the fire, which they had lit even though they had central heat. Something about a fire just made everything seem more comfortable. She and Malloy had brought Maeve up to date on what was happening in the Northrup case.
Maeve looked at the ring. “It’s a little too fancy to be something she bought herself.”
“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure what a younger woman would think,” Sarah said.
“You’re not that old,” Maeve said with a grin.
“Maybe not, but I’ve been pinching pennies for too long to remember what it was like to be single with no one to worry about but myself.”
“Northrup said Abigail wasn’t being paid very much at the college,” Malloy said. “He didn’t think she could’ve afforded a ring like that.”
“If the stones are real, you mean. Do you think they are?” Maeve asked.
Sarah took the ring back and examined it more closely. “The blue one could be a sapphire. If so, then the clear stones are probably diamond chips, and it’s an expensive ring. It’s definitely real gold at least.”
“So an admirer gave it to her,” Maeve said. “She must’ve been secretly engaged. Why else would she hide it?”
“Maybe she was ashamed,” Mrs. Malloy said, surprising them all. Sarah had almost forgotten she was in the room.
“Why would she be ashamed of a beautiful ring like this?” Maeve asked.
“Not the ring. What it stood for. Maybe she was ashamed of who gave it to her.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, Ma,” Malloy said, not bothering to hide his admiration for her reasoning.
“Well, think of it. Don’t let all those ideas of romance blind you.”
Malloy bit back a smile and turned his head so she wouldn’t see it.
“You’re absolutely right, Mother Malloy,” Sarah said. “We’ve forgotten that something was very wrong in her life or she wouldn’t have been murdered.”
“And because of this ring,” Maeve said, “we know it could’ve had something to do with somebody who wanted to marry her.”
“How many suitors did she have, though?” Sarah said. “It’s not like she could’ve had gentlemen callers at her home.”
Malloy grinned at the thought. “You’re right. I can’t imagine Miss Wilson or Miss Billingsly making them feel very welcome.”
“What about that French professor?” Maeve said. “They must’ve spent a lot of time together in that office. And he’s French . . .”
“What does that mean?” Mrs. Malloy asked with a disapproving frown.
“Frenchmen are supposed to be wildly romantic,” Maeve said, not the least bit intimidated.
Sarah turned to Malloy. “How about it? Is this Pelletier wildly romantic?”
Malloy pulled a face. “Not that I noticed.”
“Still, he’s one of the few men she spent any time with,” Maeve argued. “We have to consider him.”
“And he did lie about the keys, or at least you’re pretty sure he did,” Sarah reminded him.
“But this Raymond fellow is a more likely prospect,” he reminded her right back. “He’s young and eligible, and we know he’s wildly romantic from his letters.”
“But he lives in Tarrytown,” Maeve said.
“Which isn’t far from here,” he replied. “Luther Northrup apparently comes into the city all the time.”
“It’s too bad you didn’t find him today,” Sarah said.
“I know. I went right over to his club after Northrup left, but it didn’t matter. They said he’d already left.”
“Let’s just hope he went home,” Sarah said. “His parents will be devastated if he doesn’t attend the funeral.”
“If he didn’t go home, I’ll set Gino on his trail,” Malloy said.
“I wish I could go with you tomorrow,” Maeve said.
Malloy gave her a look of mock sternness. “You made your decision, young lady, and you decided to be a nursemaid.”
“But I told you I’d help with your investigations whenever you needed me,” she replied sweetly.
“And if we do need you, I’ll let you know,” he said just as sweetly.
“But won’t Gino look odd coming to the funeral by himself? If I was with him—”
“He won’t look odd,” Malloy said.
Maeve sighed dramatically.
Sarah hoped she wasn’t regretting her decision to continue as Catherine’s nanny instead of going to work at Malloy’s detective agency.
Then Maeve grinned. “Don’t be surprised if Gino suggests that I go with him, though.”
Malloy grinned back. “He already did.”
* * *
Tarrytown seemed to be thriving. The broad, cobblestone streets were lined with four- and five-story buildings housing businesses and shops below and apartments above. Side streets held the comfortable homes of the business owners and their families, with large shade trees and sprawling porches. Out on the bluff overlooking the Hudson River, people with names like Rockefeller had mansions they used when they wanted to escape the city.
“The desk clerk told me they’re building an automobile factory here,” Frank told Sarah as he escorted her out of the hotel where they’d be staying.
“That’ll be convenient when you decide to buy one,” she replied with a knowing grin.
Why couldn’t he convince her he had no intention of buying an automobile? “The clerk also looked up the Raymonds’ address for me. He said it’s just around the corner and down two blocks, if you’d like to walk.”
“Walking sounds lovely after being on the train all morning.”
They strolled along, enjoying the fresh air and the courtesy of the natives, who nodded and tipped their hats instead of rushing by without so much as a glance, as they would have in the city. They found the Raymond house with no trouble. It was a lovely Queen Anne style, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Pots on either side of the front door had held flowers last summer. Winter had withered them nearly to dust.
A maid answered the door and stared doubtfully at Frank’s card. “Mr. and Mrs. Raymond is not at home,” she said.
“We’d like to see Miss Raymond, if we could,” he said.
“Please tell her it concerns Miss Northrup,” Sarah added helpfully.
“The one what just died?” the girl asked, even more dismayed.
“That’s right,” Frank said.
She shook her head, but she allowed them to step inside, out of the cold, while she made the proper inquiries. In only a few moments, a young woman emerged from one of the rooms at the back of the house and came hurrying down the hallway to where they waited. She was an attractive girl, even in her unrelieved black mourning. Her dark hair framed a pleasant face that was frowning at the moment.
When she reached them, she looked them over, then glanced at Frank’s card, which she had apparently taken from the maid. “I don’t understand who you are or why you’re here.”
“I’m a private investigator, Miss Raymond. Mr. Northrup hired me to look into his daughter’s death.”
“But when I heard they’d scheduled the funeral, I thought surely they had found out who . . . who did it.”
“No, they haven’t, I’m afraid.”
“But why are you here? We don’t know anything about what happened to poor Abigail.” Her voice trembled a bit, and for a terrible moment, Frank thought she might cry, but of course she didn’t. Society women didn’t weep in front of strangers. They were made of sterner stuff than that.
“We’re hoping you can answer some questions for us,” Sarah said. “You knew her better than anyone, and we know you’ve been corresponding.”
Her eyes widened at that, but she didn’t deny it, which meant she knew about
her brother hiding his letters behind her name.
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“You might be surprised at what you know,” Sarah said. “And if you can’t answer our questions, there’s no harm done, is there? I know you want to do what you can to see her killer punished.”
She still looked unconvinced, but she invited them into the front parlor. The maid took their coats while Miss Raymond opened the room. Frank and Sarah sat on a stiff, horsehair sofa and Miss Raymond took a chair opposite them. The parlor was the old-fashioned kind, crammed full of overstuffed furniture and tables cluttered with knickknacks and doilies.
“Can I get you something? Coffee or tea?”
“Thank you, no. We just had lunch,” Sarah said.
“What is it you wanted to ask me?”
They had decided that Sarah would do most of the talking since she’d be less threatening than Frank. She smiled gently. “We know that you and Abigail were good friends since childhood.”
“Yes, our parents have known each other all their lives as well. In fact my parents are with the Northrups today, helping them plan the . . . Abigail’s service.”
“You attended the Normal School with Abigail, didn’t you?”
“You obviously know I did. We graduated last June.”
“But you didn’t want to teach?”
“Not as much as Abigail did, certainly. I . . . Well, I had met a young man, and he . . . We are planning to be married.”
“How wonderful.”
She smiled faintly. “I had thought so, but now . . . I feel guilty for being so happy about my own future.”
“That’s perfectly understandable, but I’m sure Abigail wouldn’t want to spoil your happiness.”
“You’re right, of course, but still . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about myself. What is it you want to know?”
“We believe that Abigail was killed by someone she knew.”
“That’s impossible. Everyone loved her. And I thought she was killed by a stranger. That’s what everyone thinks.”
Murder in Morningside Heights Page 9
