Murder in Chelsea

by Victoria Thompson

  Miss Murphy’s meager wardrobe hung on pegs on the wall, an extra skirt, a woolen cape, a jacket that matched the skirt. The drawers in the washstand held her extra linen. A brush and some stray hairpins lay on the stand beside the bowl and pitcher. A battered carpetbag sat in one corner.

  He searched every inch of the room, fingering each article of clothing for anything hidden in pockets or seams. He pulled out the drawers and turned them upside down in case something had been stuck underneath. The carpetbag was empty with no secret pockets. He checked under the sagging iron bed, then he pulled off the bedclothes and shook each piece.

  Finally, he flipped the mattress up off the bed and there it was, a thin packet of letters placed squarely in the middle, so someone tucking in a sheet or blanket wouldn’t accidentally discover them. They’d been tied into a bundle with string. The envelopes were addressed to Anne Murphy but at an address a little farther north, in the Theater District.

  Frank righted the chair overturned in Anne Murphy’s final struggle and sat down. The oldest letter, dated about five weeks ago in January, instructed Anne to find a boardinghouse where no one would know her and wait there for further word. It was signed, “Emma.”

  The next letter, dated two weeks ago, told her Emma would be returning to the city soon, and she would meet Catherine and Miss Murphy and they would leave the city together. Anne was to write to her, care of General Delivery in Philadelphia, and tell her where she was living. Anne Murphy must have panicked when she realized she couldn’t locate Catherine. Emma would have been furious to find the child missing.

  The letters had no return addresses, and the postmark on the oldest one was Indianapolis and the most recent was Altoona, Pennsylvania. Miss Murphy’s theory about Emma touring was probably correct. The last letter, the most interesting one, had been sealed and addressed—in a different handwriting—to a Mr. David Wilbanks on Seventy-second Street on the Upper West Side. Frank ripped it open and found a letter from Miss Murphy, telling him that Emma would soon be returning to the city to reclaim Catherine and take her away. It also indicated that Miss Murphy would be happy to tell this man where to find Catherine, if he paid for the information. She didn’t say it right out, of course, but her meaning was clear. So Miss Murphy did know the real name of Catherine’s father, and his address, too.

  Frank decided he would leave Anne Murphy’s belongings for Mrs. Jukes to dispose of. All he needed were these letters. And he’d deliver one of them to Mr. David Wilbanks himself.

  * * *

  OH, SARAH, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? I COME BY TO spend time with our darling Catherine and you tell me you put your life in danger!” her mother asked when Sarah had finished telling her tale. “Mr. Malloy was right. What if this Miss Murphy had attacked you?”

  “I think Maeve and I could have adequately defended ourselves. I’m not the one in danger, in any case.”

  “Of course you’re not, my dear, but they might have tried to force you into telling them where Catherine was.”

  “I think you’re reading too many novels, Mother. Things like that don’t happen in real life.”

  “Of course they do. Where do you think novelists get their ideas?”

  Sarah decided not to answer that question. “And there is no ‘they’ to force me to do anything. There is just Miss Murphy.”

  “You’re forgetting this woman who is supposed to be Catherine’s mother. She’s the most dangerous of all, because if she’s telling the truth, she actually has a claim on the child.” Her eyes filled with tears, and Sarah felt the sting of tears herself. She reached across the kitchen table and clasped her mother’s hand. “I don’t even want to think about that. I hardly slept all night for worrying.”

  “I suppose we should take comfort in knowing your father will never allow anyone to take Catherine from you.”

  Sarah’s jaw dropped open, and she didn’t bother to close it. “I can’t imagine Father would involve himself in this.”

  “Can’t you? Sarah, dear, surely you know you are the most important thing in the world to him, to both of us. Your happiness is all that matters, so no one will ever take Catherine away from you.”

  Sarah shook her head, trying to make sense of this. “Mother, I know you’re fond of Catherine . . .”

  “Fond? Don’t be coy, dear. You know how much I love her. I love her as much as you do. You can’t possibly think I would stand idly by while someone snatches her away from us as if she were a rag doll to be passed from hand to hand whenever someone gets bored with her.”

  Sarah could hardly believe her senses, but she recovered quickly. “You’re right, of course. I do know how much you love her, but if this woman really is Catherine’s mother, how can we, in good conscience, keep her from her own child? If our situations were reversed, I’d be moving heaven and earth to get her back.”

  “Oh, please, be reasonable. You would never have let your child go in the first place. What kind of a woman does that?”

  Mrs. Ellsworth had said the same thing. “She might have had a very good reason.”

  “I can’t believe you’re defending her.”

  “I’m not defending her. I’m just trying to withhold judgment until I hear all the facts. And I also want to think the best of Catherine’s mother, whoever she might be, for Catherine’s sake.”

  “That’s honorable of you, darling, but you also need to think about what is best for Catherine. Would she be better off with you or with some flighty actress who disappears from her life for weeks and months and even years at a time?”

  Sarah couldn’t be sure if her mother’s argument really made sense or if she just wanted it to. “I didn’t say I was going to turn Catherine over to her, even if she is her mother. I just want to reserve judgment.”

  “Fair enough, but remember that your father has enough power and influence in the city to ensure that these women never so much as set eyes on our Catherine again.”

  “Thank you for reminding me of that,” Sarah said with some asperity.

  “You’re welcome. Now, I came here to play with Catherine, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” In another moment, Sarah sat alone in the kitchen with her fears.

  * * *

  FRANK KNEW THE UPPER WEST SIDE WELL. HE’D VISITED too many of the fancy town houses with their marble steps and their velvet draperies and their dreary furniture. He’d listened to too many rich people make the pettiest complaints and give the paltriest excuses for committing murder. He did not expect today would be much different.

  The maid who answered his knock at Mr. Wilbanks’s house looked him up and down and stuck her nose in the air. “Tradesmen use the rear,” she said and started to slam the door in his face.

  Frank gave it a shove and sent her staggering back. Before she could recover, he stepped inside and closed it behind him.

  “I’ll scream,” she said, her eyes wide.

  “Don’t bother. Just announce me to Mr. Wilbanks. Tell him I have a message from Miss Anne Murphy.”

  “I shouldn’t’ve let you in. He’ll give me the devil.”

  “Not if you tell him what I said. He’ll want to hear news of the child.”

  “What child?”

  “Just tell him. Tell him I have a message and tell him I know where the child is.”

  Frank wasn’t as confident as he let on, of course, but he’d convinced the maid. Or maybe she was just anxious to get away from him. She scurried up the stairs, leaving him to kick his heels. Or at least he might’ve kicked his heels if she’d invited him to sit, but since she hadn’t, he had to content himself with pacing around the unfurnished hallway and admiring the portraits of generations of Wilbanks ancestors. If they really were Wilbanks ancestors, of course. Frank had heard that “new money” families sometimes purchased portraits of other people’s relatives and passed them off as their own. Was Wilbanks “new money”? Maybe he should have consulted Felix Decker before coming all the way over here. On the other hand, Sarah hadn’t sa
id anything about involving her father in this, so he didn’t want to go behind her back.

  He turned at the sound of a throat clearing on the stairs. The maid, nose still in the air and now out of joint, glared down at him from the fifth step. “Mr. Wilbanks will see you.”

  Without being instructed to, he followed her upstairs and over to the door to what had to be a parlor. She stopped suddenly and turned to face him. He almost stumbled in his effort not to run into her.

  “What is your name? I need to announce you.”

  “Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police.”

  “Well, I never,” she muttered and started on her way again. She threw open the parlor door and repeated it.

  A middle-aged man in a velvet smoking jacket rose slowly from an overstuffed chair. “Good heavens, Gabby, why didn’t you tell me he was from the police?”

  3

  BOTH MEN WAITED FOR THE MAID TO LEAVE, USING THE time to take each other’s measure. Wilbanks was probably in his fifties, a tall, slender man confident of his place in the world. He still had his hair and a luxurious mustache into the bargain. Frank tried to imagine a woman of Sarah’s age finding him attractive, but perhaps his money alone would be enough for a penniless actress.

  “Gabby said you know where the child is.”

  Frank winced inwardly. The child was the most important thing to him, which meant he’d do whatever it took to get her back. Frank would have to be very careful. “I do.”

  “Where is she? Take me to her.”

  “Why should I?”

  Wilbanks obviously wasn’t used to being thwarted. The blood rushed to his face, turning him a dangerous shade of crimson. “If you’re here, then you know I’m her father. What is it you want? Money? Name your price, but you’re not getting a penny until I see her.”

  “Aren’t you at all interested to know why a police detective is here to see you?”

  Frank watched the emotions play across his face. Confusion replaced the anger, then changed rapidly to concern, and finally, fear. The color drained from his face. “Dear God, has something happened to her?” His knees appeared to buckle, and he grabbed the arm of the chair where he’d been sitting and lowered himself into it. When he looked up, he seemed almost frantic. “Answer me, damn you!”

  “No, nothing’s happened to her. She’s perfectly fine and in a safe place.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “Just what I said. She’s fine.”

  “I don’t . . .” His words strangled in a wracking cough torn from his chest. He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown for a handkerchief and pressed it to his lips. It barely muffled the painful hacking that shook his slender frame. The coughing went on much longer than Frank would have thought possible, and when Wilbanks finally pulled the cloth away from his mouth, Frank saw it was spotted with blood. Still gasping, Wilbanks said, “Water,” and indicated a tray beside his chair.

  Frank hurried to him and filled the glass sitting there from the carafe and pressed it into Wilbanks’s trembling hands. As he watched Wilbanks sip the water, he saw what he had failed to notice before. The man was not merely thin, but gaunt, his skin sallow and his eyes shadowed from illness. Frank instinctively took a step back, realizing he shouldn’t be so close.

  When Wilbanks had recovered, he looked up at Frank. He must have read something on his face, because he said, “It’s not what you think.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s not consumption, so you don’t have to worry. You can’t catch what I’ve got.”

  “And what have you got?”

  “Cancer, which means I don’t have time to waste. Now, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  Frank hesitated only a moment. “May I?” he asked, indicating a nearby chair. He sat without waiting for an answer. “I’m here because of Anne Murphy.”

  “Anne? What about her?”

  Frank removed the letter he’d found from his pocket and handed it to Wilbanks.

  He frowned when he saw it had been opened, but Frank didn’t feel any need to explain. As he read, the color returned to his face. All of this anger probably wasn’t good for a man as sick as Wilbanks, but there was nothing Frank could do about that.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked when he’d finished.

  “From Miss Murphy.”

  “You’re in league with her then.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m investigating a crime.”

  “What crime?”

  “Murder.”

  He blanched again. “Murder? Dear God, not Catherine!”

  “No, I told you, she’s fine.”

  “Who then? Emma?” The thought did not upset him nearly as much as Frank would have expected.

  “No, although I don’t know where she is, so I can’t say for sure that she’s all right.”

  “Emma is like a cat. She always lands on her feet.”

  Now wasn’t that interesting? “Anne Murphy.”

  “Anne? Yes, you said you got this letter from her.”

  “Not from her. I found it in her room, after she was murdered.”

  The news caused another coughing fit. This time Frank poured the water without being asked and waited patiently for Wilbanks to recover. This time he seemed shrunken, as if the news of Anne Murphy’s death had sapped him somehow. “Who killed her?” he asked hoarsely when he could speak again. At least Frank was now pretty sure Wilbanks had not been involved.

  “I don’t know yet. I went to question her this morning, and I found her already dead.”

  “Question her about what?”

  “That’s really none of your business, Mr. Wilbanks. I only came here because I found the letter addressed to you. I thought you might be involved somehow.”

  He smiled grimly. “You thought I might have killed Anne? I can hardly swat a fly these days, as you can see.”

  “Or that you might have an idea who did.”

  “For who might’ve killed Anne? Not any at all. Now if you’d said Emma was murdered, I could give you a list, but not for Anne. She never hurt a soul. But you said you don’t know where Emma is, and if Anne’s dead, who’s looking after Catherine?”

  “I told you she’s safe. She’s been living with a family.”

  “What family? Who are they?”

  “Mr. Wilbanks, you can’t expect me to tell you anything until you’ve answered a few questions.”

  “I most certainly can. Catherine is my daughter, and I have every right to her.”

  “And I have every right to protect her until I find out what’s going on. A woman is dead, Mr. Wilbanks. Until I know why, I don’t know that Catherine isn’t in danger, too, and neither do you.”

  “She’s in no danger from me!”

  “And you’re in no condition to protect her from anybody else.”

  That seemed to do the trick. All of Wilbanks’s bluster evaporated. He rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me, Mr. . . . Malloy, is it? What do you need to know?”

  “Tell me everything you know about this Anne Murphy. When did you first meet her?”

  He drew a breath, as if testing himself, and when he didn’t start coughing again, he said, “I met her at the same time I met Emma. Emma Hardy, Catherine’s mother. She was an actress. It was over six years ago now. My wife . . . My wife was an invalid, Mr. Malloy. She’d been ill for years and unable to . . . to perform her wifely duties. I was faithful to her all that time, I assure you. I put my energies into making money, and as you can see, I was very successful. But even making money pales after a while. You’re a man, Mr. Malloy. You can understand. I went to the theater one evening, and Emma caught my eye. She was just in the chorus, but something about her . . .”

  “So you made her acquaintance and started seeing her,” Frank said when he hesitated. “And that’s when you met Miss Murphy.”

  “Yes. Anne was a dresser.”

  “A dresser?”


  “She helped the girls get into their costumes, kept the backstage area clean, that sort of thing. When Emma . . . When she found out she was with child, I got her a house. She needed help with the housework and when the baby came, so at Emma’s suggestion, I hired Anne to take care of her.”

  “Do you know anything about her? Does she have any family? Anyone who might wish her harm?”

  “I don’t think she had any family. She was from the city, I think. She’d never been married, of course. She was grateful for the position I gave her, I know. She loved living in the country, and she adored Catherine.”

  “What happened last year, when they disappeared?”

  Wilbanks frowned. “How do you know about that?”

  “I’m investigating her murder. I’ve learned a little about her.”

  He didn’t look like he believed that, but he said, “I really don’t know what happened. I went out to visit one day, as I usually did, and they were gone.”

  “Miss Hardy didn’t leave a note?”

  “She didn’t leave anything at all except the furniture, which I assume was too cumbersome to carry away with her.”

  “Did you look for her?”

  “Of course I looked for her! She had Catherine, and whatever my feelings for Emma, I love my daughter, Mr. Malloy. I would have moved heaven and earth to find her, but I had to settle for hiring a private investigator. He could find no trace of them, however.”

  Frank wondered how hard the fellow had tried, but he didn’t want to upset Mr. Wilbanks again, so he didn’t wonder it out loud. “Do you think she left because of the argument you had with her?”

  Wilbanks gaped at him. “How do you know about that?”

  “Just assume I know everything about your affair with Miss Hardy. What did you argue about?”

  “I thought you knew everything.”

  “I want to compare your version with the one I heard.”

  Wilbanks snorted his disbelief. “I don’t know whose version you heard, but I’m sure it was a lie. I asked Emma to marry me. That’s what we quarreled about.”