Murder on Trinity Place

by Victoria Thompson

  Tom, the doorman at Police Headquarters, greeted Frank warmly. “I don’t suppose you’re coming back for good, are you, Mr. Malloy?”

  “No, Tom, just visiting today.”

  “We surely miss you, Mr. Malloy.”

  Frank missed the department, too. Not everyone who worked there, of course, but he did miss the work and the camaraderie. “That’s nice to hear, Tom. I’m wondering if Detective Sergeant O’Connor is here.”

  “I saw him come in earlier, but I didn’t see him leave.”

  “Thanks, Tom.”

  Tom opened the door for them, and they stepped into the madhouse that was Police Headquarters. Someone was shouting and struggling with two patrolmen who were trying to subdue him. Several newly arrested prisoners sat on the benches beside the front door, looking dispirited and more than a bit afraid while uniformed officers swarmed around.

  Frank took a minute to absorb the sights and smells, aware that Nelson wouldn’t be quite as appreciative of their surroundings. Then he made his way to the desk, with Nelson at his heels.

  The desk sergeant looked down his bulbous nose at them. “Malloy, is it? What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to see Detective Sergeant O’Connor. Is he in?”

  “That he is,” the sergeant reported with a smirk. “He’s probably upstairs licking his wounds.”

  “His wounds?” Frank didn’t think they were actual wounds, but poor Nelson was looking a little pale.

  “Yeah, the chief had to take him in hand this morning. Poor fellow won’t be eating solid food for a while, I’m guessing.”

  “He’s upstairs, you say?”

  The sergeant nodded. “Be gentle with him, will you? He’s just a boy.”

  Frank grinned and motioned for Nelson to accompany him.

  “What did he mean? What happened to O’Connor?” Nelson whispered as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  “Not what you’re probably imagining,” Frank said. “Chief Devery just called him on the carpet for something.”

  “Not to do with Mr. Pritchard’s case, surely.”

  “I doubt it.” Pritchard’s death could hardly be important enough for Big Bill Devery to concern himself.

  Devery had been the chief of police for a little over a year, after a notorious career that ended with him being convicted of bribery and extortion, of which he was more than guilty. When his sentence was overturned on appeal, he’d been reinstated on the force and promoted twice before being named chief of police in an effort by the politicians to undo all the reforms Theodore Roosevelt had made during his tenure as police commissioner. Devery was making a good job of it, too.

  They found O’Connor at his desk in the detectives’ room. Only two other detectives were at their desks and they studiously ignored the visitors. O’Connor had been staring glumly into space until he heard their approach. Then he scowled murderously.

  “You started this.”

  “Started what?” Frank asked, pulling over a couple of chairs so he and Nelson could be comfortable.

  “You’re the one set the chief on me.”

  “Why would I do that? And the chief isn’t likely to listen to me anyway.”

  O’Connor glanced at Nelson and frowned. “What are you doing here? You come to gloat?”

  “Uh, no,” Nelson said in surprise. “I came to . . . to offer a reward . . .”

  “A reward for what?” O’Connor growled, angry now.

  Nelson blinked rapidly. “For finding who killed Clarence Pritchard.”

  O’Connor gave a mirthless bark of laughter. “That’s rich, especially when you know I can’t even investigate that case.”

  “What are you talking about?” Frank asked.

  “I’m talking about how you told Devery to take me off the case so you could take it on yourself.”

  Frank thumbed back the brim of his hat and scratched his head. “Why would I do that?”

  “So you could get the reward yourself.”

  Frank exchanged a confused glance with Nelson again.

  “That’s not true,” Nelson said with just a touch of outrage. “I tried to hire Mr. Malloy to investigate, but he said I had to give you a chance first, so that’s why we’re here, to tell you I’m offering a reward.”

  O’Connor frowned. “You are?”

  “Yes, he is,” Frank said. “Because I thought you should at least have a chance. This may surprise you, but I’m not interested in taking over all the crime investigations for the city of New York.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you’re rich, and you never need to work another day in your life,” O’Connor said bitterly.

  “No, I don’t, so I brought Mr. Ellsworth down here to do the right thing, and here you are accusing us of . . . What exactly are you accusing us of, O’Connor?”

  O’Connor shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced at Nelson warily. “You really came down here to offer a reward?”

  Nelson was getting angry now, too. “Of course. Mr. Malloy assures me that is the expected thing.”

  O’Connor had the grace to wince. “Devery expects it, but this time he got the reward, not me.”

  “What does that mean?” Frank asked, rapidly losing patience.

  “It means that somebody paid Devery not to look into Pritchard’s death, so he told me to forget about it.”

  “Who would do that?” Nelson asked, obviously as confused as Frank.

  “Devery don’t confide in me, and I didn’t think I should ask. Somebody with bigger moneybags than you, I’d guess, Mr. Ellsworth.”

  “So he took you off the case?” Frank asked.

  “Me and everybody else. Nobody here cares who killed Pritchard.”

  Frank leaned back in his chair and considered this new development. “They’d care if somebody figures out who did it and the newspapers report it.”

  O’Connor brightened a bit at the thought. “That would be a bit embarrassing, wouldn’t it?”

  “It certainly would.” Frank turned to Nelson. “I suppose this means I’m free to investigate Mr. Pritchard’s death.”

  “I suppose it does,” Nelson said a little uncertainly.

  Frank turned back to O’Connor. “Maybe you’ll tell me what you’ve learned so far.”

  “Not much more than what you told me, to tell the truth. I didn’t even get to talk to Doc Haynes about the autopsy yet.”

  “Do you have any idea why somebody wouldn’t want you investigating?”

  “No. As far as I know, Pritchard was just a businessman with really strange ideas about the centuries. The only person who doesn’t seem to like him is his son.” He apparently remembered that Nelson was family and shrugged apologetically. “I don’t like my old man much either, come to that.”

  “You’re right about the son,” Frank said. “But sons don’t usually kill their fathers, no matter how much they dislike them.”

  “That’s true. Sorry I can’t be more help, but like I said, I didn’t have much time.”

  “If you think of anything, you know where to find me,” Frank said, rising. “And I’ll give you a nod when I know who the killer is so you can be ready when it hits the newspapers.”

  Plainly, O’Connor didn’t like the idea of Frank doing favors for him, but he grunted his acceptance. Frank and Nelson left him to sink back into gloom.

  “That was interesting,” Nelson said when they reached the stairs. “Who would pay the chief of police to stop the investigation?”

  “I’m guessing it’s whoever killed Mr. Pritchard, so all we have to do is figure out who that is.”

  Nelson sighed. “One good thing, at least, now I can tell Theda you’re going to be doing the investigation.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Satisfied that Mal
loy and Nelson had the Pritchard situation in hand, Sarah took the opportunity to pay a visit to the maternity clinic she had opened on the Lower East Side a few months earlier. With any luck, someone there would be in labor, and she could help with the delivery. Although she thoroughly enjoyed her new life, she very much missed her old vocation of midwife.

  She took the elevated train down. Gino would love to have driven her in the motorcar, but it caused too much of a sensation in that neighborhood. The children would run alongside, and she was terrified one of them would get run over.

  She allowed herself a moment of pride as she caught sight of the formerly abandoned house that was now a bustling center of activity for the neighborhood. Pregnant women came for medical advice, and the resident midwives would go out for the deliveries of women fortunate enough to have a stable home, but their most important work was with those women who had no home and no one to care for them. Some had been deserted by faithless husbands while others had been thrown out by scandalized families because they had no husbands. No pregnant woman was turned away from this house, though, regardless of her situation.

  The front porch had been recently swept and the windows sparkled in the winter sunshine, making a stark contrast to most of the other dwellings on the street. Sarah rang the bell, silently lamenting the need to keep the front door locked. While the house held little worth stealing, the city’s poor were often desperate enough to break in anyway. The clinic also had to worry about the occasional husband or lover who had had a change of heart and wanted to reclaim his paramour, whether she wished it or not.

  The woman who answered the door was a stranger to Sarah. Although she was young, she seemed very self-possessed and her clothing had been made by a skilled seamstress, unlike the women who usually sought refuge here. Sarah introduced herself, but the woman gave no sign of recognition and made no offer to admit her.

  “I founded the clinic,” Sarah tried.

  The woman blinked and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” and stepped aside to allow Sarah to enter. The interior of the house was as spotless as the front porch.

  Sarah pulled off her gloves as the young woman closed and locked the door behind her. Sarah took the opportunity to study her for a moment. She was fair, her hair the color of corn silk, with the alabaster complexion to match. Her hands showed no sign they had ever done any labor. Who was this girl and why was she here? “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “No, we haven’t. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

  “There’s no reason why you should, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Oh, it’s miss.” Color blossomed in her cheeks at the admission, although she refused to lower her eyes in shame. She wouldn’t be in this house if she wasn’t expecting, although she might just have been a little plump at this point. She hadn’t even had to let out the seams of her dress yet.

  “Miss . . . ?” Sarah prodded.

  “Oh! You must think I’m a goose!” she cried, covering her scarlet cheeks with her hands. “Jocelyn Vane.”

  “Welcome, Miss Vane. I hope you’ve been made comfortable here.”

  “Oh yes. Everyone has been . . . very kind.” But she didn’t look grateful. If anything, she looked resentful.

  “Is Miss Kirkwood or Miss Hanson available?” Sarah asked, thinking she’d ask one of the resident midwives about Miss Vane.

  “They’re both out, I believe.”

  “Who was that at the door?” another woman asked as she came down the hall from the kitchen, drying her hands on the apron stretched tightly over her expanded belly. “Oh, Mrs. Malloy. Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you, Stella,” Sarah said. “How are you doing?”

  Stella patted her belly. “We’re both doing fine.”

  Jocelyn Vane frowned and eyed Stella warily, making Sarah wonder just how truly kind Jocelyn’s reception had been.

  “Perhaps you’d like some refreshment, Mrs. Malloy,” Stella said.

  “Something warm would be lovely,” Sarah said.

  Stella smirked. “Make Mrs. Malloy some tea, duchess. You know how to make tea, don’t you?”

  Jocelyn flushed again and sent Stella a murderous glare, but she said, “Of course I do.” She turned to Sarah. “Please make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Malloy. I’ll be right back.”

  Stella watched her go with apparent amusement. This wasn’t good.

  “Why did you call her duchess?” Sarah asked when Jocelyn disappeared into the kitchen.

  Stella shrugged unrepentantly. “Because she acts like one. Showed up here in a big, fancy carriage with a trunk full of fancy clothes and thinks she’s better than the rest of us, but she’s here for the same reason we are, isn’t she?”

  “Thank you, Stella. I think I’ll take my tea in the kitchen.”

  Leaving the girl staring after her, Sarah went down the hall and found Jocelyn arranging some tea things on a battered tin tray while a kettle of water heated on the stove. She’d done a good job of finding mismatched equivalents of the items that would normally appear on such a tray in the kind of house she’d obviously grown up in.

  “I was going to bring the tray to the parlor,” she said.

  “I know, but you don’t need to go to any trouble. I thought we’d be more comfortable here.”

  “All right,” Jocelyn said uncertainly.

  Sarah slipped off her coat and hung it on a peg by the back door while Jocelyn finished her preparations. She moved uncertainly, obviously not as comfortable in a kitchen as the other women here would be. She’d probably had servants and deportment lessons instead of learning to cook.

  Sarah took a seat at the kitchen table, while Jocelyn finished gathering everything. By then the water was boiling, so she rinsed the chipped teapot and then put in the tea leaves and filled the pot with more hot water.

  “How long have you been here?” Sarah asked when Jocelyn had set the pot on the table and taken a seat across from her.

  “I . . . Two days.”

  “I don’t want to pry into your business. I’m sure Miss Kirkwood and Miss Hanson told you that we don’t need to know your circumstances unless you want to tell us.”

  “But you’re curious about why a duchess needs to come to a place like this,” she said bitterly.

  “I’ll speak to the other women about that. We do insist that everyone here be treated courteously.”

  Jocelyn waved away her concern. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore, really.”

  “Many things matter, Miss Vane. Your future welfare and your child’s matter very much.”

  Jocelyn’s hand went instinctively to the small mound beneath her skirt and her gaze darted away, as if from guilt. “My future welfare is assured. My parents are angry with me now, which is why they chose to humiliate me by sending me here instead of to Europe, which is where I am assured girls of my class who are in my condition are usually sent.”

  Sarah’s heart clenched at a memory never far from her mind. They’d tried to send her sister, Maggie, to Europe, but she had defiantly run away to find her lover. If she had sailed that day, would she still be alive? The possibilities were too painful to contemplate. “I wonder how your parents knew of this place.”

  “Gossip, I assume. Some wealthy matron took it into her head to minister to the fallen women of the slums and . . . Oh,” she said, suddenly realizing Sarah was that matron.

  “Don’t worry about my feelings,” Sarah said. “What else do they say about me?”

  “They’re just jealous, I imagine,” Jocelyn said, flushing once again.

  “I doubt that, but I am curious what they think of the clinic.”

  “Oh, they’re jealous, all right. They resent anyone not in society who might be richer than they are.”

  “What makes them think I’m not in society?” Sarah asked with amusement.

  Plainly, J
ocelyn didn’t want to reply, but Sarah waited expectantly until she finally said, “Your name.”

  “Of course. I should have known. How had some Irish upstart gotten rich enough to do charitable works?”

  “But you’re not an Irish upstart,” Jocelyn observed shrewdly. She had most likely noticed the same things about Sarah that Sarah had noticed about her.

  Sarah merely smiled. “The tea is probably ready.”

  Jocelyn took the hint and filled two cups. Then she passed Sarah the sugar and the cream.

  “This really is a charity,” Sarah said when she’d prepared her tea. “If your parents could afford to send you to Europe—”

  “Don’t worry, they paid for me. My father and Miss Kirkwood had a brief conversation and arrangements were made. To her credit, she tried to talk him out of leaving me here.”

  Sarah truly hoped so. “This is very different from what you’re used to, I’m sure.”

  Jocelyn smiled grimly. “I told you, it’s my punishment. Fallen women don’t deserve a grand tour.”

  “And what about afterward? Will they take you back?”

  Jocelyn closed her eyes for a moment, as if considering the future was too difficult to bear. “Yes, or at least they assured me they would. I think they don’t want to have to explain what became of me, so it’s easier if I just return from visiting an aunt in Connecticut.”

  “And the child?”

  Emotion flickered across her lovely face, but she had been trained since birth not to surrender to such nonsense. She raised her chin. “The child will be given to some deserving family.”

  Many young women would actually be thankful for the opportunity to resume their normal lives after a few months of inconvenience, unencumbered by the living reminder of their shame. Jocelyn Vane did not appear to be one of them.

  “Would you like to keep your child?”

  “Please don’t ask me that when you know it’s impossible.”