After tucking the letters into the crate, Frank began his systematic search of the desk, emptying every drawer and then checking to make sure nothing was underneath or behind it and that he hadn’t missed any secret compartments. He even looked under the desk and pulled it away from the wall to check the back side. He found nothing else that hadn’t been there the last time he’d searched. Finally, he looked at each of the books he’d pulled from her shelf and left lying on top of the desk when Pelletier had gone.
He fanned the pages and felt the bindings to see if she’d hidden anything in any of them. He found it in the third book he picked up, a thick volume that was probably a dictionary except it was in French, so he couldn’t tell for sure. When he fanned the pages, three more letters that had been tucked inside slipped out. The paper was expensive and delicate, making it thin enough to hide in the large, heavy book. Unfortunately, these letters were also in French.
Maybe they were simply messages from friends she’d made while she was visiting France last summer, but why would she have hidden these particular letters? Maybe they were from a lover, possibly the one who had given her the ring. If she was secretly engaged to a Frenchman, she’d certainly want to keep that a secret. But he wouldn’t know for sure about anything until he found someone who could read the letters.
Maybe Sarah’s parents knew someone French.
* * *
“This is making me wish I’d paid more attention when I studied French in school,” Sarah said, frowning over the letters. She and Malloy were in their private sitting room at home, where they could talk without the children interrupting them.
“You said the same thing when we were in France,” Malloy said.
“I know, but this time it’s really important. I’m trying to think if I know anyone who speaks French well, and I can’t.”
“Do you think your mother would?”
“Oh, what a good idea. She probably does, and she’ll be thrilled to help you on a case. Even my father can’t object since it’s not the least bit dangerous.”
“Unless the person she knows is some slippery French count who wants to seduce her.”
Sarah smiled at the memory from their honeymoon. “He wasn’t really a count, and I’m sure he wasn’t trying to seduce me.”
“Well, I’m not.”
Sarah laughed at his disgruntled frown. “Anyway, he’s far away now, and I can’t imagine my mother knows any counts, slippery or otherwise. But she might know someone French. I’ll telephone and ask her.”
“Good.”
“I still can’t help wondering why the killer took the other letters from Abigail’s desk.” They had read through the ones in English, the ones from Irene Raymond and Abigail’s other friends, and found nothing of interest. The French ones in the desk were probably equally unimportant, since Abigail had made no effort to conceal them, but the hidden ones were another story.
“We don’t know for sure that it was the killer who took them,” Malloy said. “All we know is someone had her keys and borrowed the letters.”
“But whatever they were looking for wasn’t in those letters or they wouldn’t have returned them. And you’re sure whoever it was hadn’t found these other ones?”
“As sure as I can be. If they had, they obviously decided what’s in them isn’t important either and returned them, but why bother to put them back in the book? Just throw them in the drawer with the others.”
“And they were well hidden, I guess.”
“You had to be searching the book on purpose to find them, so Abigail didn’t want anyone to see them. I guess when we find out what they say, we’ll know why.”
“That could take a while. What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“While you’re thinking, I remembered something today when I was talking to Mrs. Ellsworth.”
Malloy grinned. “Ah, Mrs. Ellsworth! I hope you didn’t do anything that’ll bring us bad luck.”
“It was a near thing!” she said with mock horror. “Did you know you should only cut someone’s hair on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday?”
“I had no idea.”
“And Maeve was going to cut Catherine’s hair today. If she had, she would never be rich.”
“Then it was a near thing. Thank heaven Mrs. Ellsworth warns us about these things,” he said, making her smile. “So what did she make you remember?”
“When we were at Miss Wilson’s house and I went upstairs to search Abigail’s room, remember?”
“Yes. Miss Billingsly had already gone up because she was stinking drunk.”
“Malloy, ladies do not get stinking drunk. She was merely indisposed.”
“She was very indisposed.”
“And Bathsheba had put her to bed. I didn’t think about it at the time, but there are only two bedrooms upstairs.”
She gave him a minute to think that over, but he only needed a few seconds. “That’s why Miss Billingsly moved into Abigail’s room, then!”
9
Sarah frowned, obviously confused. “What do you mean, she moved into Abigail’s room?”
“When I was questioning Bathsheba today and she told me about the letters Abigail had gotten from France, I started wondering if maybe she had a hiding place you’d missed, like loose floorboards or something. I asked if I could search the room again, but Bathsheba told me Miss Billingsly had moved into that room and she wouldn’t want me going through her things. I couldn’t figure out why she’d move from her room into Abigail’s room.”
“But she didn’t have a room,” Sarah said, still frowning. “At least not one of her own. She and Miss Wilson shared a room.”
Frank considered this, trying to make sense of it. “Doesn’t that seem strange? Wouldn’t a grown woman who was sharing a house with someone want a room of her own?”
“I’m sure she would. So why would they be sharing for all those years when there was another bedroom available? Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless Miss Billingsly had been using that room until Abigail came. Maybe Miss Billingsly moved in with Miss Wilson and gave her old room to Abigail,” she said with a grin.
Frank grinned back. “That would’ve been very nice of her.”
“Yes, considering she didn’t like her and wasn’t happy she moved in. And why would Miss Wilson inconvenience herself in her own house just to make room for Abigail?”
“Maybe you should ask her.”
“Ask who? Miss Wilson?”
“Yes.”
Sarah smiled sadly. “I can’t imagine she’ll want to talk to me again.”
“Maybe not, but you have something she’ll want.”
“What’s that?”
He pulled it out of his vest pocket. “Abigail’s key to her house.”
* * *
Sarah and her mother had spent most of the morning in the nursery being served imaginary tea by Catherine. When it was time for Catherine’s lunch, they withdrew to Sarah’s private parlor to visit.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you wanted to see me today?” her mother asked as soon as they were alone.
“Of course. I told you on the telephone, it’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”
Her mother took a seat on the sofa beside the fireplace. “But it does concern a case you’re working on, doesn’t it?”
Sarah walked over to the cabinet and took out the slim packet of letters. “Yes, but I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I don’t need you to question anyone or anything like that.”
“You’re right, I’m already disappointed, but you know I’ll help, no matter what it is.”
“We’re investigating the murder of a young woman at the Normal School. Perhaps you read about it in the newspapers?”
“You know I only read the society pages in the newspapers,” her mother said, eyeing the letters curiously. “But I may have noticed something about it. I thought it was a robbery.”
“That’s what the police decided when no one offered them any incentive to investigate.”
“Ah, I see nothing has changed since Frank left the police department.”
“Not much,” Sarah agreed. “At any rate, her parents wanted to find out the truth, but they were afraid of a scandal in the press if the police were involved.”
“So they hired Frank,” her mother said, delighted. “And what have you found out?”
“Only that she was loved by all and no one could possibly have a reason to kill her.”
Her mother sighed. “Isn’t that always the case? One wonders how anyone gets themselves murdered, and yet they do, with alarming regularity.”
Sarah didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Yes, they do.”
“So how can I help?”
“I’m not sure you can, but you were the only person Malloy and I could think of who might be able to. Do you know anyone who speaks French?”
“Most of the women I know studied it in school, and so did I, but that was a long time ago. I don’t think any of us could speak it today.”
“I know. I studied it, too, but that wasn’t much help to me when we were in France. It certainly wasn’t any help to me in figuring out what these letters say.”
Sarah handed her the packet and she examined them briefly.
“They’re in French.”
Sarah smiled. “Yes, they are. I’m thinking we’ll need someone who is a native of France to tell us what they say.”
“And you think what they say will help you figure out who killed this young woman?”
“We hope so, but we can’t be sure until we know what they say.”
Her mother returned her smile. “Now I see your problem. And if the letters contain something scandalous, you also need the person who reads them to be discreet.”
“Exactly right. Whatever is in these letters might very well be scandalous but have nothing at all to do with Miss Northrup’s murder. We wouldn’t want any stray gossip to ruin someone’s reputation for no reason.”
“Well, then,” her mother said with satisfaction, “you’ve set me a very challenging task. This should keep me from being bored for days!”
* * *
That morning, Gino caught the train up to Tarrytown. He had to admit, it was a pretty place. A little quiet for his tastes, of course, but for people who hadn’t ever lived in the city, he supposed it was all right. The air was sweeter, too. Oh, he could still smell the ever-present scent of horse manure, but they did a better job of keeping the streets clean here, so it wasn’t bad at all. The main thing he noticed was the place didn’t smell like garbage.
He found the building he was looking for easily. A three-story brick that took up the entire block, it housed several businesses. The first floor was entirely devoted to the Raymond family’s company, however. He stepped into the office and to his surprise, he found a very responsible-looking girl secretary sitting at a desk just inside the small lobby. She looked up at him through wire-rimmed spectacles and smiled a greeting.
“May I help you?” She wore a white shirtwaist and paper guards on her cuffs to protect them from stains.
“I’d like to see Mr. Cornelius Raymond, if he’s in.”
“Cornelius, you said?” she asked with a tiny frown.
“Yes.” He waited, knowing better than to explain anything. He didn’t want to tell more lies than absolutely necessary.
“I’m afraid he’s not in today.”
“Will he be in later? I can wait.”
“Did you have an appointment?”
“No, but he said just to stop in when I was in town.” Gino gave her his most innocent smile.
She glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Mr. Cornelius Raymond doesn’t keep regular hours here.”
Since she looked uncomfortable sharing this information, Gino figured she meant more than she was actually saying. “And where does he keep regular hours?”
She smiled a little at this. “Well, he often goes to New York City.”
“He’s got a lady friend there, I think,” Gino tried.
Her smile vanished. “He did, but . . . It was a terrible tragedy. She died, you see.”
“Died? That is a tragedy. Poor Raymond! I feel terrible that I didn’t know. How did it happen?”
She glanced around again, then leaned forward and whispered, “She was murdered.”
Gino feigned shock. “How awful! But I guess things like that happen every day in a place like New York.”
“Oh dear, I hope not!” she replied.
“Well, maybe not every day. Raymond must feel pretty bad. Was he in the city when it happened?”
“I suppose so. He was there all last week.”
“You’re sure of that?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and Gino realized he’d been a little too eager with his question.
“I mean, he must feel terrible if it happened while he was there. Because he couldn’t protect her.”
“He did feel terrible, I know,” she hedged.
“Do you know where he stays when he’s in the city? I’d like to look him up and pay my condolences.”
“I couldn’t possibly give out that information,” she said, no longer returning his smile.
“Oh, wait, it’s the New York Athletic Club, isn’t it? I think I’ve seen him there.”
“Then perhaps you’ll see him there again. Now, if you don’t have any further business . . .”
Gino thanked her with all the charm he could muster, but she wasn’t going to be charmed anymore. She turned back to her typing, silently dismissing him. He stepped out onto the sidewalk. The town had lost some of its appeal, and he wouldn’t be sorry to leave it again. He tried to think if there was anyone else in town he could talk to. He didn’t really have anything new to tell Abigail’s parents, and he felt certain Irene Raymond wouldn’t be happy to see him.
But maybe if he went back to the New York Athletic Club, he could find someone.
* * *
After her mother left, Sarah waited until midafternoon to call on Miss Wilson, remembering that Miss Billingsly hadn’t gotten home until after lunch the day Sarah had visited her. Bathsheba frowned when she opened the front door, but Sarah wasn’t sure if her displeasure was personal or if she greeted all visitors that way.
“I’d like to see Miss Wilson, if she’s at home. I have something to give her.”
Bathsheba looked her up and down, probably noticing that she didn’t seem to be carrying anything. The key, of course, was in her purse, but she wasn’t going to explain anything to a maid, and she matched Bathsheba’s intimidating stare with one of her own.
“Miss Wilson, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll see if she’s at home.” Then she closed the door in Sarah’s face.
Determined not to lose her temper, she waited patiently until Bathsheba opened the door again. She’d kept her waiting in the cold for a good ten minutes, far longer than the task of asking Miss Wilson if she was willing to see her visitor would have taken. Sarah knew it and Bathsheba knew she knew, and she didn’t care. Without a word, she led Sarah to the parlor and closed the parlor door behind her.
“Didn’t she even take your coat?” Miss Wilson asked in dismay. “I’ll have to speak to her, I’m afraid. Please, allow me.”
Sarah removed her coat and Miss Wilson laid it over a chair while Sarah went to the gas grate to warm her hands.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Sarah said. “But I wanted you to know that we found Miss Northrup’s keys.”
“Did you?” she asked stiffly. “I didn’t know the
y were missing.”
Which was a lie, if Miss Wilson had them all this time. “They were. She didn’t have them when she was found, and they weren’t in her office or her room here.”
“Where did you find them?”
“Oddly enough, in her desk in her office.”
“But you said—”
“Yes, Mr. Malloy had searched her desk on Monday, and they weren’t there, although the desk was unlocked. Yesterday, when he returned to empty it, he found the keys and some letters that hadn’t been there before. We think the killer took the letters and read them, then put them back again, along with the keys.”
Miss Wilson held her face very still, revealing nothing. “How very strange.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And why do you think the . . . why would someone have done that?”
“We aren’t sure, but we think it may have been to see what the letters said. Abigail told a friend that she’d discovered a scandal of some sort.”
Alarm flared in Miss Wilson’s eyes, but she managed to keep her composure. “What sort of scandal?”
“Abigail didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t find anything in the letters?”
“Nothing important, no.”
Miss Wilson’s hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists, even though her face remained frozen. “Who were the letters from, do you know?”
“Some women who appeared to be school friends.”
“Were any of the letters from someone in . . . in France?”
Sarah’s mind was racing. So Miss Wilson knew about the letters Abigail had received from France, and if she was the killer, she’d know the answer to that question. Unless she was trying to learn if Malloy had found them where she had failed. How would Malloy answer her? Sarah had to think he’d be bold. “As a matter of fact, they were.”
Alarm flickered across her entire face this time. “And yet, after reading them, you don’t know what the scandal was?”
Sarah felt a shiver of excitement. Miss Wilson obviously believed the scandal was mentioned in the letters from France. “No. They were written in French. We haven’t translated them yet.”
Murder in Morningside Heights Page 15
