Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery) Page 2

  He rewarded her with a smile. “That’s good, Daisy. That’s very good. What else do you remember? Did you say anything to Miss Livingston about being dressed up?”

  “Oh no, I’d never do that. I did ask where she was going, though. I thought maybe she was visiting somebody special.”

  “What did she say? What did she say exactly?”

  Daisy frowned in concentration. “She said, ‘I have some things to do today, and I won’t be home for luncheon.’”

  “Was it unusual for her to be gone for lunch?”

  “She’d sometimes go to visit a friend. She knows some ladies from her church. But not real often.”

  “And when she did go out, would she tell you or the other servants where she was going?”

  “Yes, always,” Daisy said, surprising herself again with the knowledge. “But not yesterday.”

  Frank nodded. “Daisy, would you help me by going through Miss Livingston’s dresser drawers? Her personal things? You know what’s supposed to be there, and you’ll know if something’s missing.”

  To his relief, Daisy hopped right up and scurried over to start her search.

  “And let me know if you find anything that shouldn’t be there, too.”

  “Like what?” she asked in alarm.

  “Letters, books, jewelry, whatever. You said you know everything she has. If you see anything you didn’t know about, I need to see it.”

  She nodded and went to work.

  Frank went to the nightstand and pulled out the top drawer. A slender packet of letters tied with a yellow ribbon lay there among the stray buttons and hairpins and other odds and ends of a young woman’s life. They were addressed to Miss Livingston but at a post office box, in a distinctly masculine hand. He almost sighed with relief. An elopement then, with an unsuitable young man. At least there was a good chance they’d find her alive.

  But when he picked up the packet, he found the small scraps of newspaper clippings beneath it, and he knew the young man might be far worse than just unsuitable.

  • • •

  OH, Mrs. Brandt, I don’t know what to say.” Mrs. Ellsworth had let her coffee grow cold in its cup while Sarah told her next-door neighbor about Frank Malloy’s amazing good fortune and their plans to marry. “Except that I’m so very happy for you both. Or for all of you, I should say. My goodness, you’ll have quite a family, won’t you?”

  “Yes, we will. Catherine is so happy that Mr. Malloy’s son is going to be her brother.”

  “I’m sure she’s happy that Mr. Malloy is going to be her father, too. She adores him so.”

  “Yes, she does.” Sarah adored him, too, but she supposed Mrs. Ellsworth had known this for a long time, so she didn’t bother to mention it.

  “Will Maeve be staying on?”

  “Yes.” They were sitting in Sarah’s kitchen, the back door standing open to the late spring afternoon. Sarah got up to get the coffee pot off the stove. “She’s especially excited that I’ll finally be able to pay her wages for being Catherine’s nursemaid.”

  “I guess you’ll be able to adopt Catherine, too. I know it will be a relief to know she’s legally your child.”

  Sarah topped off their cups. “Yes, it will. We’ve been through so much since I brought them both here from the Mission.”

  “You can probably . . . Oh dear!”

  “What is it?” Sarah asked, setting the coffee pot back on the stove.

  “I was going to say that you could probably find work for a few more of the girls from the Mission—what is it they’re calling it now?”

  “Daughters of Hope.”

  “That’s right, and they probably have some more girls there like Maeve who could be maids or cooks or whatever, but . . .” She glanced meaningfully around Sarah’s modest kitchen.

  “Oh, I see. You’re right, we don’t exactly have room for servants’ quarters here, do we?”

  “Or even for Mr. Malloy and his son. Well, I suppose Mr. Malloy will share your room, and Brian could share with Catherine, until they’re a bit older at least, but you’ll certainly be wanting a larger house very soon.”

  “We haven’t really talked about it, but I guess you’re right.”

  “And it would be selfish of you not to provide employment for a few servants. Heaven knows, there are far too many young people on the streets for lack of honest work as it is.”

  Sarah wondered if Malloy would agree. She’d grown up with servants, of course, but he’d had a far different life.

  Mrs. Ellsworth sighed. “My goodness, I just realized that if you move, I won’t be able to see the girls every day anymore.”

  “I hope you know you’ll always be welcome, no matter where we might live. The girls would miss you terribly!” A lonely widow, Mrs. Ellsworth had been making sure Maeve and Catherine were learning everything they would need to know to run a household. Since Catherine was only four years old, the lessons hadn’t been particularly advanced yet, but everyone had enjoyed them.

  “Thank you for that, Mrs. Brandt, but it won’t be quite the same if you aren’t right here anymore, will it?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Sarah hadn’t realized how many people would be affected by the changes in their lives.

  “And what about Mr. Malloy’s job at the police department? I don’t imagine he’ll continue to work there . . . or anyplace else for that matter. He’ll be a gentleman of leisure, won’t he?”

  “That’s something else we haven’t really discussed. I mean, he won’t have to earn his living anymore, but I can’t see him spending his afternoons reading the newspapers at his club.”

  “But he won’t be a police detective anymore, will he?”

  Sarah sighed. “I don’t see how he can. Once they find out, well . . .”

  “Yes, I’m sure things will change for him,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, sipping her warmed-up coffee. “No one would understand his wanting to work, and everyone would be jealous of his not having to. They would make him miserable.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I’m sure you’re right.”

  “And he won’t want you running around the city at all hours delivering babies either, will he? I never knew a man yet who didn’t want his wife home in bed with him every night.”

  Sarah felt certain Frank Malloy would agree with that sentiment. “I can’t live like my mother, though. I love her dearly, but I’ll go insane if I have to spend my days visiting other rich ladies and trading gossip.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ll have time for visits and gossip, although I hope you’ll think of me if you do,” Mrs. Ellsworth added with a twinkle that made Sarah smile. “You’ve got your work at the Mission, and you’ll probably have a few children of your own.”

  Yet another thing she and Malloy needed to discuss. She wasn’t going to mention her concerns to Mrs. Ellsworth, though. “Yes, I’m sure I’ll manage to keep busy. Now that I think of it, there are a lot of good works I’d do if I didn’t have to worry about how to finance them.”

  “And now you’re in that enviable position. How much longer do you think Mr. Malloy will be working for the police?”

  “Until they find out, I suppose. He hasn’t even told his mother yet.”

  “What!” Mrs. Ellsworth almost spilled her coffee. “What is he waiting for?”

  “I don’t know, but I suspect he’s waiting until he hasn’t got any other choice. The attorneys are still settling the estate, so Mr. Malloy doesn’t actually have access to the money yet. I think he’s a little superstitious and doesn’t want to tell her until he knows for sure it’s going to happen.”

  “So she doesn’t know that you’re engaged either?”

  “Not yet. We’re going to tell her together.”

  “I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that,” Mrs. Ellsworth said wit
h a smile.

  • • •

  Frank gingerly picked up the small scraps of newsprint. there were about a dozen of them, one column wide and a half-inch or so long, all clipped from the “lonely hearts” ads in a newspaper. A quick glance told him they represented the romantic yearnings of modest young men of comfortable means looking for respectable young ladies with matrimony in mind.

  Maybe some of them actually were modest young men of comfortable means looking for a wife. The problem, of course, is that anyone could place a newspaper advertisement. No one checked to see if an advertiser was an upright young man or a rapist. Even if the newspapers made the individuals come in person to place their ads, no one could tell simply by looking at someone if he was a rapist. That would only become apparent when a young woman had placed her trust in the young man and let him take her someplace where her cries for help could not be heard.

  Frank looked at the handful of ads. Which one had she answered? Perhaps all of them. He looked at the packet of letters. Which one had replied to her? There was only one way to find out.

  He made his way over to the slipper chair, which he found remarkably uncomfortable for a man of his size.

  “What have you got there?” Daisy asked from where she was leaning over a lower dresser drawer.

  “Some letters I found in the nightstand.”

  “Miss Grace never got no letters.”

  “They’re addressed to a post office box. Did you know she had a post office box?”

  “I never heard of such a thing. Why would she need that?”

  “To get letters she didn’t want her father to know about, I expect.”

  “Miss Grace isn’t like that. She . . . she’d never go behind her father’s back.”

  She was trying to sound certain, but Frank heard the trace of doubt. “And still, here are the letters, addressed to her at a post office box.”

  Daisy looked as if she might cry. “You shouldn’t be reading her letters.”

  “I know, but I’ve got to see who was writing to her. She might have gone to meet this person.”

  Frank laid the scraps of newsprint on the footstool and spread them out.

  “What’s that?” Daisy asked.

  “Newspaper advertisements. Have you seen them before?”

  “No! I never look at the newspaper. What would she be wanting with newspaper advertisements?”

  “They’re from young men who are looking for a wife.”

  “Pshaw! They ain’t any such thing! Who would advertise in the newspaper for a wife?”

  Frank chose one and held it up. “See for yourself.”

  She took it from his fingers as cautiously as if she feared it would burst into flames at any second. While she read it, Frank untied the yellow ribbon and checked the postmarks on the envelopes. They all seemed to be addressed in the same handwriting. At least he’d only have to locate one man.

  “I never heard of such a thing,” Daisy repeated when she’d finished. “If this fellow is as fine as he says, why can’t he find a wife on his own?”

  “Maybe because he’s not as fine as he says.”

  “You mean he’s lying?”

  “I hope it won’t shock you to find out that young men often lie when they’re trying to impress a girl.”

  Daisy sniffed. “I know that, but to put it in the newspaper . . . it just ain’t right.”

  Frank had to agree, but if he tried to arrest every bounder in the city, the jails would be full by nightfall. “Did Miss Livingston ever say anything about wanting to get married?”

  “She’s not a one for talking, at least not to us. She keeps herself to herself, if you know what I mean. I guess she’s like every other girl who wants to have a husband and children, though, but she never complained.”

  “Did she have many suitors?”

  “Oh no, sir. Not Miss Grace. She’s . . . well, she’s a plain-looking girl, and she doesn’t do anything to make herself prettier.”

  “I could tell that by her clothes.”

  Daisy nodded, gratified to find someone who agreed with her on this subject. “Not that she’d ever be a beauty, but she could fix her hair and wear prettier clothes. So, what’s in them letters?”

  “I have to read them first,” he said, and started to do just that, beginning with the oldest one.

  Dear Miss Livingston, it began in a firm masculine script. Thank you for being so kind as to answer my advertisement. There is no need for you to apologize for what you called your lack of beauty. As I said, I care nothing for that. I am seeking a wife who possesses the virtues of honesty and a pure heart. I can tell from your letter that you do. It went on to explain that he was nothing much to look at himself and that he hoped she would not find him too unattractive. He mentioned her virtues a few more times and then asked her to write again if she was interested in learning more about him.

  Apparently, she had. His next letter told her all about his family (sadly, all dead now, and how convenient), and the prosperous business he had inherited from his father, although he never actually mentioned the nature of the business. Her reply to his first letter must have told him about her family and situation as well, because he asked several questions. He wanted to know if she got along well with her father and if she had any other close family in the city.

  Frank didn’t like this one bit. The next letter carried on the same interrogation, asking more personal questions. The fellow never crossed the line into anything inappropriate, but if she’d answered all his inquiries, then he knew an awful lot about her. Had she told him her father was well-to-do? That he’d provide a dowry? And was this fellow interested in a dowry or a ransom?

  The last letter was about what Frank had expected. This fellow suggested that they meet in a park, in a very public place. He wanted her to feel comfortable, he said. If they got on well, perhaps she would consider having lunch with him at a nearby restaurant. He would be wearing a brown suit with a yellow handkerchief in his breast pocket. If she didn’t like his looks, she could walk on by, and he would never know who she was.

  Not likely, Frank thought. A young woman in that situation would be anxious and excited and looking at every man in the park. She’d be easy to pick out of the crowd, so if she turned out to be too shy to approach him, he would approach her. And Frank had a feeling this man wasn’t as homely as he made out. Probably, he was at least presentable, so when he did speak to the young lady, she’d admit she was the one he was to meet. He would be charming, too, quick with a compliment and never at a loss for words.

  Where would he take her then? Not to a restaurant, Frank was certain. Or at least that’s not where they’d end up. He’d closed the letter with a suggestion that they arrange to meet at eleven-thirty yesterday, the day Grace Livingston had gone off wearing her Sunday best and expecting to have luncheon out.

  When he’d stuffed the last letter back into its envelope, he looked up to find Daisy watching him warily. “What did it say?”

  “Do you know anyone named Milo Pendergast?”

  She scowled, chewing her bottom lip. “No. Is that his name? The fellow from the newspaper?”

  “That’s the name he signed to the letters.”

  “Did he say where he lives? Did she go there? Is that where she is?”

  “No.” Frank gathered up the letters and the clippings and pushed himself out of the chair. “Keep looking through her things. Take the bedclothes off the bed and turn the mattress up. Look everywhere, and if you find anything that doesn’t belong, let me know.”

  Frank was pretty sure she wouldn’t find anything else, but that would keep her busy. He went back downstairs, where he found Mr. Livingston in a room that must have been his study. A large leather armchair sat near the fire, and bookshelves lined the walls. Livingston was standing by a window, staring out as if he could make his daughter come down
the street by the simple force of his will.

  “Mr. Livingston?”

  He jumped slightly, but his expression lifted a bit when he saw Frank in the doorway. “Did you find something?”

  Frank made him sit down before giving him the letters to read. While he did, Frank looked through the clippings again, trying to figure out which one she’d answered. The solution turned out to be embarrassingly simple. Each ad gave a box number in care of the newspaper to which interested ladies could reply. The newspaper would then forward the replies or else the man would go to the newspaper office to pick up his mail. Frank simply had to match up the box number on the return address to figure out which ad was Milo Pendergast’s.

  Miss Livingston had obtained a box at the post office, probably, as he’d told Daisy, so her father wouldn’t know what she was doing and perhaps also to protect her from harassment if one of the men with whom she corresponded got too eager in his pursuit.

  She hadn’t given him her address, but she’d gone to meet him in person and had probably gone off alone with him somewhere or else she would have come home yesterday, safe and sound.

  “I don’t understand,” her father said when he’d finished the last letter. “She never said a word to me about this. I know she was disappointed not to be married by now, but this is so . . . so unlike her!”

  “You do understand that she probably went off to meet this man yesterday, and since she didn’t come home, we have to assume she is still with him.”

  “With him? Dear God, you mean he kept her overnight? He seduced her?”

  Seduced wasn’t the word Frank would have used, but it would do. “It seems likely. I’m going to go to this park and see if anyone saw them there. Do you have a picture of Miss Livingston that I can show?”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course.” He crossed to where a desk sat against the far wall and picked up a picture frame. He stared down at the photograph for a long moment. “If he’s harmed her in any way . . .”

  “We’ll find her, Mr. Livingston.” Frank took the picture from him. “Send word to me at Police Headquarters if you hear from her or if she returns.”