Murder in Chelsea

by Victoria Thompson

  Sarah couldn’t see how anyone could have kept up with them in the crowded city streets, in any case. “If you’ve calmed down, can we talk about what to do next?”

  Malloy rubbed a hand over his face, and Sarah felt a pang of guilt. He’d had a long day, and now she was saddling him with her problems.

  “This can wait until tomorrow if you’re tired.”

  “I don’t dare let it wait until tomorrow. There’s no telling what the two of you will get up to in the meantime. And don’t start telling me you weren’t in any danger again, because you know you were. That’s why you didn’t tell me about this before you went. You knew I wouldn’t let you go see this woman by yourself.”

  Sarah saw no point in arguing since he was absolutely right. “So you’ll go with me tomorrow?”

  He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. “No, I will not go with you tomorrow,” he said with exaggerated care, “because you are not going anywhere tomorrow. I will go and see this woman myself and find out what you couldn’t.”

  “And then you’ll come straight here and tell us?” Maeve said.

  Malloy narrowed his eyes at her. “Didn’t I tell you to go to bed?”

  “If you’re going to start yelling again, I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Maeve,” Sarah said.

  “All right, but you know we’ll be worried. Don’t make us wait too long,” she said before flouncing away.

  Malloy shook his head. “We never should’ve let that girl get involved with those Pinkertons.”

  “We didn’t exactly let her,” Sarah reminded him. “Besides, she made a very good detective.”

  He just shook his head again and pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. “Give me the address of this woman’s rooming house.” He wrote it down and tucked the notebook back in his pocket.

  “Thank you, Malloy.”

  “For what? I’m just as fond of Catherine as you are.”

  “Thank you for being as fond of Catherine as I am.” She smiled then, and he smiled back, a lopsided half grin that made her heart flutter a bit. For a second, she thought . . .

  But he cleared his throat and stood up. “It’s late. I’d better go.”

  Knowing she had no right to be disappointed, she followed him out through the front room that served as her office, the room that had been her husband’s office when he’d been alive and practicing medicine. Malloy gathered his hat and coat from where she’d hung them earlier in the front hallway.

  “Malloy, you never told me what you and my father talked about when you went to see him.”

  He hesitated just an instant as he buttoned his coat, hardly enough to notice but enough to tell her she’d touched a nerve.

  “He just wanted to thank me.”

  She could hear the strain in his voice, the uneasiness he felt about her father. She still wondered if her father had offered him a “reward” for helping him solve the murder of one of his fellow club members. Such things were common practice in the city, of course. The police rarely solved crimes unless such rewards were paid, but she also knew Malloy’s pride chafed at having her father acknowledge it. “He should thank you. Did you talk about anything else?”

  Malloy’s dark eyes twinkled just a bit. “Why don’t you ask your father? Good night, Mrs. Brandt. I’ll stop by tomorrow when I have some news for you.”

  Sarah was gritting her teeth as she locked the front door behind him. Ask her father indeed. He’d be more tight-lipped than Malloy about whatever business they had together. She knew someone who might be able to find out, though.

  If anyone stood a chance, it was her mother.

  * * *

  MALLOY FIGURED HE’D BE SURE TO CATCH ANNE MURPHY in first thing the next morning. If he went before reporting to Headquarters, he also wouldn’t have to worry about being called out on an investigation and getting tied up all day. He wanted to get this settled as soon as possible—before Sarah and Maeve could get themselves any more involved with this Murphy woman.

  He found the address easily enough among the ramshackle houses crowded in between the looming factories and warehouses in Chelsea. He was surprised to find the front door ajar on this wintry morning. Even if the weather had been pleasant, nobody in this neighborhood left the front door hanging open. He rapped on the jam and called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”

  He pushed the door open and peered into the gloom of the entrance hall.

  He blinked, letting his eyes adjust, and then the shadow at the foot of the stairs became a woman’s body sprawled at an awkward angle. “Hello? Anybody here? Hello?” he shouted. Surely, a boardinghouse would have more than one resident.

  The woman didn’t stir at the sound of his voice or when he knelt beside her. “Miss? Are you hurt? Can you hear me?”

  She lay facedown, her head turned to one side. He touched her cheek. Still warm. He started to turn her, but stopped. Blood had soaked the front of her shirtwaist, but there was no pool of it on the floor or the stairs around her. He fumbled for her wrist, searching for a pulse even though he already knew. Only dead people did not bleed.

  The sound of footsteps on the porch brought him to his feet. He turned to find a woman in the doorway staring at him in surprise. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” She pulled her overflowing market basket closer to her worn coat. “Who might you be and what’re you doing in my house?”

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police Department, and who might you be?”

  “I might be the Queen of Sheba, for all it is to you. I don’t allow men in my house, and I especially don’t allow police in my house, so . . .” Her gaze drifted past him to the figure on the stairs. “Hello, what’s that? What’s going on here?” She pushed past him, glared down at the body, then back up at Frank. “What’ve you done?”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “The devil you say!” She slammed him with her basket. “Look at her. Annie? What has he done to you, Annie?”

  “Is that Anne Murphy?”

  “Of course it’s Anne Murphy, as if you didn’t know. What’ve you done to her? Killed her, most likely. Dear heaven, is that blood on her?”

  “It seems to be.”

  “Murder! You’ve done murder!” She dropped her basket and ran out the front door, screaming . . . Well, screaming bloody murder.

  Frank sighed. It was going to be a very long morning.

  * * *

  SARAH KNEW IT WAS GOING TO BE A LONG MORNING AND maybe a long afternoon as well, if Malloy couldn’t get back to them. She almost wished someone would summon her to a birth, just so she’d have something to help pass the time, but of course no one did. Babies never came when she wanted them to.

  Luckily her neighbor Mrs. Ellsworth came over to help the girls make a pot roast. The cooking lesson kept Catherine busy and distracted. It also kept Sarah from pulling the child into her arms and never letting her go. How would she bear it if some stranger returned to claim her?

  At least she now knew Catherine’s real age and her birth date. But would she still be here to celebrate her birthday in July? Sarah couldn’t stop the ugly thoughts from plaguing her as she watched Mrs. Ellsworth and the girls at their work.

  When the pot roast was in the oven, Maeve and Catherine went upstairs to play, and Mrs. Ellsworth turned to where Sarah sat at the kitchen table. “Mrs. Brandt, you look troubled.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  Mrs. Ellsworth pulled off her apron and hung it up. “I hope you aren’t stewing over a difficult birth or something.”

  “No, I . . . Well, I shouldn’t worry you with my troubles, but a woman went to the Mission the other day, asking about Catherine.”

  “Oh, dear! Who was she?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked, pulling out a chair for herself.

  Sarah told her what she and Maeve had learned about Anne Murphy.

  “I knew it,” Mrs. Ellsworth said.

  “You knew about this woman?”

  “Oh, no
, not about her exactly, but I knew something bad was going to happen. I saw an owl yesterday morning, in the tree out back. It’s very bad luck to see an owl in the daylight.”

  Sarah managed not to roll her eyes. At least the girls weren’t there. They were fascinated by Mrs. Ellsworth’s superstitions, and she always seemed to have one for every occasion. Sarah didn’t mention that she’d heard the owl hooting last night. Heaven only knew what that meant.

  “Mr. Malloy was right,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “You should never have gone to see this woman without him. You don’t know who her cohorts might be.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t think about her having cohorts or anything else, for that matter. I just wanted to find out if she really has any claim on Catherine.”

  “I remember that day last fall when we were outside and Catherine had that . . . Well, I don’t know what to call it.”

  “I know, I don’t either, but she was so frightened. I can’t help thinking that the ‘pretty lady’ she was remembering was her mother.”

  “I suppose I always half believed that myself, even without having heard this woman’s story. What kind of a woman sends her child off heaven knows where and doesn’t even inquire after her for a year?”

  Sarah sighed. “A woman who fears for her own life, perhaps, or that of her child.”

  “Mrs. Brandt, you’re picturing Catherine’s mother as some angelic creature who sent her child to safety, but I don’t think that’s necessarily accurate.”

  “I don’t think she’s angelic,” Sarah protested.

  “Maybe not, but you do think she’s like you, at least.”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes. You’re trying to picture her as a respectable person who loved Catherine above everything else, but the story this Miss Murphy told suggests otherwise.”

  “You mean because she was an actress?”

  “I mean because she thought nothing of going off and leaving the child for weeks at a time while she carried on in the city. Oh, I know she’d hired this Murphy woman to take care of the child,” she added when Sarah would have protested again, “and if she needed to work to support herself and her child, I could applaud her devotion. But she didn’t need to. This Mr. Smith supported her.”

  Sarah had to admit she had a point. “I suppose she really loved acting and didn’t want to give it up.”

  “Even for her child?”

  Sarah frowned. “I hate to say it, but she wasn’t very happy about having a child. Miss Murphy said Emma originally asked Mr. Smith for money for an abortionist, but he convinced her to have the baby instead. He promised to take care of them, and it sounds as if he kept that promise.”

  “At least for a while.”

  “Miss Murphy said Emma and Mr. Smith had an argument shortly before Miss Murphy left with Catherine. I hadn’t thought about it, but maybe he told her he was tired of her and was going to turn her out.”

  “If he wasn’t going to keep them anymore, that would explain why she sent Miss Murphy and the child away,” Mrs. Ellsworth said.

  “But Miss Murphy said he doted on Catherine. Surely, he wouldn’t punish her just because he was tired of her mother.”

  “Men do strange things,” Mrs. Ellsworth reminded her. “Maybe he had come to believe the child wasn’t his. Maybe he wasn’t as fond of Catherine as Miss Murphy thought. Or maybe he lost all his money and couldn’t afford to keep them anymore.”

  Sarah rubbed her temples, more than tired of trying to figure out why people she’d never set eyes on had done what they’d done. To her relief, someone rang her doorbell. Maybe it was Malloy.

  * * *

  FRANK STOOD IN THE DOORWAY, WATCHING THE ORDERLIES carry Anne Murphy’s body out to the waiting ambulance.

  Doc Haynes, the medical examiner, said, “I’ll do an autopsy, but I doubt I’ll find anything surprising. She was stabbed in the chest with an ordinary kitchen knife. The blade probably nicked her heart or a major blood vessel. From the trail of blood, she was stabbed upstairs in her room and managed to get to the stairs, probably trying to get help or maybe running away from her attacker. At some point she died and fell the rest of the way down the stairs.”

  This was pretty much what Frank had determined before Haynes ever got there, while he’d been taking a look around and waiting for the hysterical landlady to get back with a beat cop in tow. She’d expected the cop to arrest Frank, but instead he’d obeyed Frank’s orders to summon the medical examiner. “If you could tell me who stabbed her and why, I’d be very grateful, Doc.”

  Haynes grinned. “Ask me after the autopsy.”

  When he was gone, Frank closed the door and turned to the beat cop who’d been waiting around in case he was needed. “How’s the landlady doing?”

  “Fine once she broke out her gin. After a glass or two, she settled right down. She didn’t want to believe you was a copper, you know. She thought for sure you killed that woman.”

  “Thanks for looking after her.”

  “Like I said, she was no trouble after she had herself a nip or two. She’s in the kitchen.”

  Frank found her sitting at the table, staring at an empty glass. “Mrs. Jukes?”

  She scowled. “Are you still here?”

  “I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I don’t have no idea who done for her, if that’s what you want to know.”

  Frank was glad to note she didn’t seem too drunk. “How long has Miss Murphy lived here?”

  “Less than a month. Leastways, she paid for a month, and the rent’s not due for a few more weeks.”

  “What did she tell you about herself?”

  She sighed. “If a woman’s got the price of a room and she don’t look or act like a tart, I take her. I don’t ask for no references, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I don’t expect you do. I meant did she tell you anything about herself? Did she have any visitors? Did she have a job?”

  “She didn’t have a job. My other boarders, they do, though. That’s why she was here alone this morning.”

  “If she didn’t have a job, how did she pay the rent?”

  “She had the cash. I don’t do charity work, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Frank hadn’t thought that for a minute. “She didn’t mention where she got her money if she didn’t work?”

  “What do I care where she got it? She could’ve stole it from the U.S. Mint for all I know. It’s nothing to me as long as I get paid.”

  Frank didn’t sigh. “When did you last see her?”

  “She come down to breakfast early, with the rest. If you want to eat, you’re here when I serve it. Then she went back up to her room. I never saw her again until I got back from the market and . . .” She shook her head.

  “What time did you leave the house?”

  “How do I know? A little after eight, I imagine.”

  Frank had arrived a little after nine, so he’d probably just missed the killer. “Did you see the knife Miss Murphy was stabbed with?”

  She winced. “Yeah.”

  “Is it from your kitchen?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you know if Miss Murphy had it in her room?”

  She frowned at this. “How would I know? Boarders, they have all kinds of things in their rooms.”

  “So you never saw it before?”

  “No, I never.”

  “What about visitors? Did anybody come to see her while she lived here?”

  “Not that I ever saw, until yesterday. Two women come to visit. Ladies, they was. I don’t know what they wanted with her.”

  Sarah and Maeve. Maeve would be flattered to have been thought a lady. “Nobody else?”

  “Like I said, not that I ever saw, but I’m not here all the time, am I? Like today. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if I’d been here, I might be dead, too.”

  “I think whoever killed her waited until she was alone.”

  “How can you know that? How do you know
they won’t be back and kill all of us in our beds?”

  “Because Miss Murphy was involved in something dangerous. That’s why I came to see her today, to question her about it, so you don’t have to worry. Whoever killed her was only interested in her.”

  “What do you know about it? You didn’t know a thing about her or why would you be asking me?”

  Frank again managed not to sigh. “And you’re sure she didn’t have any other visitors?”

  She glared at him again.

  “Was she friendly with any of your other boarders?”

  “Not likely. Kept herself to herself, that one. But if she wanted to see somebody, she didn’t have to do it here. She went out most afternoons.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She wasn’t likely to tell me, now was she? And what did I care? It’s not like she was out all night and coming in drunk. She went out in the afternoon and come back in time for supper. It’s included with the room, and she never missed but once or twice.”

  So whoever had contacted her about Catherine must have met her someplace else. “I’ll need to search her room and pack up her belongings.”

  This got her attention. “Pack them up for what?”

  “To take as evidence.”

  “Evidence? Evidence of what, I ask you? Her clothes didn’t stab her.”

  “What do you care about her belongings?”

  “Somebody might come for them.”

  “You said she didn’t have any friends.”

  “How do I know who she had? Her family might want her things.”

  “Then they can get them from the police.”

  Mrs. Jukes frowned. “I might need to sell them to get my rent money.”

  “You said she was paid up for a month.”

  She had no answer for that and had to content herself with another glare. “Just don’t make a mess. It’s bad enough there’s blood everywhere. Them stains’ll never come out of the floorboards.”

  Frank made his way back up the stairs, following the blood drops to Anne Murphy’s room. It looked like a thousand other rooms in cheap lodging houses, where people with little money and less hope found a place to live and some human companionship. Only the overturned chair and the blood splashes on the floor betrayed the violent death the room’s occupant had suffered.