Murder on Washington Square

“We certainly can’t ask Anna Blake,” Malloy pointed out blandly.

Sarah ignored this provocation. “What did Mr. Walcott have to contribute?”

“Not much. He was out of town when Anna Blake was killed. Says he spends very little time at the house. He’s too busy spending his wife’s inheritance to bother with the comings and goings of her boarders.”

This didn’t make sense either. “If she has an inheritance, why do they take in boarders?”

“It wasn’t much, I gathered. Not enough to support them and pay for Walcott’s travels, at least. And he claims his wife likes cooking and cleaning for other people.”

Sarah made a rude noise at such a preposterous notion. “I’ll be interested to hear her side of that story. Where was she today?”

“Shopping, he said. I’ll go back another time and talk to her. What’s she like?”

Sarah considered. “Well groomed and nosy.”

Malloy raised his eyebrows at this assessment. “Your powers of observation amaze me, Mrs. Brandt. How would you describe Mr. Walcott?”

“Vain and selfish.”

“Why vain?” he asked curiously. Malloy had already given her the reasons to think him selfish.

“Did you see how carefully his hair was arranged? And how meticulous his clothes were? He spends a lot of time making sure he looks his best. He wants others to think as well of him as he thinks of himself.”

“Considering how much time you spent with him, that’s very impressive,” Malloy allowed.

“Oh, stop with the blarney, Malloy. You’re turning my head. And speaking of blarney, did you see the newspapers this morning?” she asked, outraged anew at the thought of them.

“I try to avoid reading the newspapers as much as I can,” he said.

“They said the most horrible things about poor Nelson! As far as they’re concerned, he’s another Jack the Ripper, slashing innocent women to death in the dark of night,” she said in disgust.

“What did you expect? They’re trying to sell papers, not get the facts right.”

“But they’re newspapers! Don’t they have an obligation to tell the truth? Mr. Pulitzer has devoted himself to uncovering scandal and corruption in society,” she said, naming the publisher of the World. “His paper is always crusading for one cause or another. Why would he allow his reporters to make up lies about innocent people?”

“That’s something you’ll have to ask Mr. Pulitzer,” Malloy said with a tolerant grin. “The fact is that newspapers will publish anything if they think it will make people buy papers. Look at that Italian woman who killed her lover, for instance.”

The story had sold millions of papers through her trial after she slashed her lover’s throat because he refused to marry her. “The press certainly wasn’t very kind to Miss Barberi,” she recalled, remembering the salacious details they had published about her.

“That isn’t even her name,” Malloy said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean her real name is Barbella. Somebody got it wrong in the beginning, and the rest of them picked it up. I asked a reporter once why they didn’t correct the mistake, and he said that Barberi sounded like barbarian, so it made better copy.”

“That’s horrible!” Sarah exclaimed.

“I’m not arguing with you. I’m just telling you what goes on. Let me guess what they said about Nelson. They said he’s an evil seducer who ruined an innocent young woman, got her with child, and then killed her so he didn’t have to support them.”

Sarah sighed. “One even suggested he’d killed her just because he got tired of her and wanted to find a new victim for his evil lusts.”

“Very imaginative. At this rate, the police are going to have to arrest him just so the public feels safe from a monster.”

Sarah groaned. “What are we going to do?”

“We are not going to do anything. You are going home to make sure Nelson and his mother stay safely in their house while I go back to Thompson Street and try to figure out who really killed Anna Blake before Bill Broughan decides to close this case by locking up Nelson Ellsworth.”

They’d reached Washington Square and stopped on the sidewalk at the southwest corner.

“What are we going to do about the newspapers?” Sarah asked.

Malloy looked pained. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? You do not have to do anything at all except worry about the Ellsworths.”

“Malloy, you know you need my help in this! I can get more information out of Catherine Porter and the maid. I just need to catch them when Walcott isn’t around.”

“Do you honestly think anyone will ever let you back in that house again?”

He might be right about that, so Sarah decided not to argue. “Then I can talk to the newspapers and try to get them to print the truth.”

“How are you going to explain your interest in Nelson Ellsworth’s welfare?”

“We’re neighbors!”

“You’re a woman, and he’s a man. You are no relation to him. You will be drawing the unpleasant attention of the press to yourself by trying to convince people he is innocent of killing a woman he seduced. Why would you do such a thing unless you were also his mistress?”

“No one will think that!” Sarah insisted without much conviction.

“Your mother would.”

Sarah glared at him, furious because he was right. Her mother would be very upset, but it wouldn’t be the first time Sarah had disappointed her. “I long ago stopped trying to please my mother.”

“Then protect yourself for your own sake. Believe me, you don’t want to know what the press will say about you if you become Nelson’s champion. Making a scandal of Felix Decker’s daughter would sell a lot of newspapers.”

Sarah’s family was one of the oldest in the city, descendants of the original Dutch settlers, nicknamed the Knickerbockers. Their socially prominent position made them perfect targets, too. Sarah had already caused them enough heartache by marrying beneath her social station and forsaking their way of life. Plastering their name all over the scandal sheets would be unforgivable.

“I hate it when you’re right, Malloy.”

“And I’m always amazed when you admit I am,” he countered. “Now go home. I’ve got work to do. I need to get this murder solved fast because I’ve still got my own work to do, too. Don’t forget, I’m not even assigned to this case, and if anyone finds out I’m doing Broughan’s job for him, I’ll be the laughingstock of the department.”

“I suppose you want me to tell you how grateful I am that you’re helping poor Nelson,” she said with a smirk.

“I do, but I don’t expect you will,” he replied with a smirk of his own. “Good day, Mrs. Brandt.”

He tipped his hat and walked away, leaving Sarah shaking her head.

Frank strolled back to Thompson Street. The weather was turning colder. Soon the leaves would fall and winter would come with a vengeance. Tuesday evening had been a bit warmer than today but still chilly. Why had Anna Blake gone out that night? Surely not for a pleasant evening stroll. And why hadn’t she taken her purse? Had she been in a hurry?

He’d check to see if Mrs. Walcott was home yet so he could question her, and then he’d try the neighbors. He should search Anna’s room, too. Maybe someone had sent her a note asking her to meet him that night. That would be too convenient, but it was certainly worth a try. He wasn’t going to get very far at all until he found out why she’d left the house in the first place.

The maid at the Walcott house told him Mrs. Walcott hadn’t come back yet and Mr. Walcott had gone out, too. She wouldn’t admit him to the house without their permission, certainly not to search the dead woman’s room. He could have forced his way in, but he decided to wait until the landlady could escort him. No use in alienating the Walcotts before he had all the information they could give him.

As he left the Walcotts’ he noticed a curtain on the front window of the house next door moving. Someone was