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Frank didn’t bother to point out that he was no longer in a position to be any danger to Frank’s job. He had more important things to think about. Frank had been hoping that Giddings would turn out to be the one who’d killed A
Giddings rubbed his temples. “She’s a good woman. She doesn’t deserve this.”
Frank gave him another light kick to get his attention. “Where is your son working today?”
Giddings started up stupidly. “How should I know?”
That’s what he’d expected, but he still didn’t like it. He stepped back over the ragged bundle of a man sleeping between him and the door. The fellow hadn’t stirred during the entire conversation, which meant he was either dead drunk or just dead. Frank walked out of the cell, and the jailer closed the door behind him.
“Keep that one until I tell you to let him go,” Frank said, indicating Giddings.
Giddings blinked, still rubbing his head. “I thought you were going to let me go,” he said.
“Didn’t anybody ever warn you that liquor makes you stupid?” Frank asked, then turned away. He needed some fresh air.
From her parents’ house on Fifty-Seventh Street, Sarah took the Sixth Avenue Elevated Train down to Twenty-Sixth Street and walked over to Bellevue Hospital to visit Webster Prescott. As she’d feared, he was in a fever and didn’t seem to know who she was. She forced some soup down his throat and bathed him with cool water. Then she put some hot compresses on his wound, to draw out the inflammation that was poisoning him. When she left, he seemed to be sleeping more comfortably. She told the nurses she’d be back to check on him later, hoping that would motivate them to give him better than average care in the meantime.
She’d posted the letter to Prescott’s aunt that morning. With any luck, the woman would receive it in the afternoon mail and be over to visit him tomorrow. Until then, Sarah would keep a close watch on him. Breathing a silent prayer for his recovery, she left the hospital and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk when she realized she had no idea what to do next.
Malloy, she knew, was going to find Mr. Giddings’s son and try to get him to confess to A
But she didn’t feel relieved. She’d never met this boy, but for some reason she couldn’t believe he’d killed A
Pulling her cape more tightly around her, Sarah set off toward the Second Avenue Elevated for a quick trip downtown to the Walcott house.
All the way down on the train, she tried to decide what she should ask the women if she was fortunate enough to get in to ask them anything at all. Catherine might not be home, or the maid might not admit her. If the Walcotts were home, they might throw her bodily into the street. Without Malloy, she had no official reason to question them, and they would surely know it. In fact, she was probably foolish to even consider this. On the other hand, she couldn’t just go back to her house and wait. She had to do something.
With some trepidation, Sarah climbed the steps to the Walcotts’ front door and knocked. After what seemed a very long time, the door opened, and the maid looked out to see who was there.
“Good morning,” Sarah said, not really sure it was still morning but willing to take the chance. “Is Miss Porter in?”
The maid was frowning, trying to place her. Sarah smiled benignly, praying she wouldn’t be able to. Finally, the girl said, “You’re that lady what was here before about Miss Blake. You come with that policeman.”
Sarah managed not to flinch. “That’s right. Miss Porter asked me to call when I was by this way again,” she lied.
The girl looked doubtful, but she said. “Come in, please, and I’ll see if Miss Porter’s at home.”
Sarah stepped inside, as bidden, but the maid left her standing in the hallway instead of inviting her to have a seat in the parlor, silently telling her she might not really be welcome. Of course, the maid knew perfectly well whether or not Catherine Porter was at home. What she’d meant was that she would check to see if Miss Porter was at home to Mrs. Brandt. If Miss Porter didn’t wish to see her, she would simply instruct the maid to say she wasn’t at home. It was a convenient fiction that saved people from having to be overtly rude but still allowed them some control over their social lives.
Sarah wasn’t quite sure what she would do if Miss Porter refused to see her. She could always force her way past the maid and go upstairs and find the poor woman, cowering in her room. Such an approach was hardly likely to result in Sarah being able to elicit information from Miss Porter, however. She was smiling at the thought when she heard the maid coming down the stairs again. To Sarah’s relief, Catherine Porter was right behind her.
She did look wary, Sarah noted, so Sarah smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring ma
“What do you want?” Catherine Porter asked when she was halfway down the stairs, not bothering with the usual social niceties.
A very good question, and one Sarah didn’t dare answer truthfully. “I was hoping you would have a few minutes to visit with me. We’re still trying to find out who killed poor Miss Blake, and I thought perhaps you might be able to help.”
“I already told everyone, I was asleep when she went out that night,” she said defensively. She came down a few more steps, though. Sarah could see now that she wore a housedress and her hair wasn’t done, so she hadn’t been pla
Sarah knew Catherine was probably lying about having been asleep, since A
For some reason, Catherine glanced at the maid, too, as if looking for reassurance. “Is Mrs. Walcott at home?” she asked the girl.
“No, ma’am. She went out early. Said she wouldn’t be back for a while,” the girl replied.
Catherine came down the rest of the stairs. “I guess I could spare a few minutes,” she allowed. “Although it won’t do you any good. I don’t know anything that will help.” She glanced at the maid again. “Go back to work. It’s all right.”