Victoria Thompson - Murder on Washington Square

“If they don’t stop their nonsense pretty soon, I might stab the lot of them,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with more spirit than she’d shown in a week.

Sarah smiled in spite of herself. “It wouldn’t help,” she said. “More would just come to take their places.”

“She’s right, Mother,” Nelson said. “Our only hope is to find out who really killed Anna.”

“And how are we supposed to do that when we can’t even leave the house?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked in exasperation.

“Mr. Malloy and I are doing everything we can,” Sarah assured them both. “In fact, Mr. Malloy believes he’s very close to finding the real killer.”

“Is it the same person who stabbed the reporter?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked.

“We won’t know that until Mr. Malloy questions him.”

“I thought you said a woman stabbed him,” Nelson said.

“Mr. Malloy thinks it was a man dressed up.”

Mrs. Ellsworth frowned. She thought that sounded as preposterous as Sarah did. Then her expression grew calculating. “Are you visiting this reporter at the hospital in case he remembers anything else about his attacker?”

Sarah shrugged. “If he happens to remember something important, I wouldn’t want to miss it,” she admitted, “but I don’t think there’s much chance of it. Really, I just feel sorry for him. He was a likable fellow, for a reporter, and I can’t stand the thought of anyone suffering alone like that.”

“You’re right,” Mrs. Ellsworth said decisively, rising to her feet. “That poor boy shouldn’t be left alone for an instant. Give me a moment to change, and I’ll be ready to go with you back to the hospital.”

“Mother, what are you doing?” Nelson asked, horrified.

“I’m going to do my Christian duty,” she replied.

“Mrs. Ellsworth,” Sarah began to protest, but the old woman cut her off.

“You’re right, Mrs. Brandt. No one should be left alone in a hospital, especially not someone who might hold a clue to clearing my son’s name. I’m not doing Nelson any good here, but I can at least do some good for that poor boy. And if he happens to say something useful, so much the better.”

“Mother, you won’t even get out the front door with all those reporters standing on the curb!”

“He’s right, Mrs. Ellsworth,” Sarah said.

Mrs. Ellsworth gave them both a pitying look. “I have no intention of going out the front door. But Mrs. Brandt will. She’ll take her time and keep them busy until I can get safely out the back door. I’ll wear a veil so I won’t be recognized once I’m clear of the house. Then I’ll meet you under the Sixth Avenue El at Twelfth,” she said to Sarah. “When we get to the hospital, you can show me what to do, and I’ll stay with him until… Well, as long as I need to.”

“You can’t do this,” Nelson declared. “It isn’t safe. I’ll go instead.”

“Nelson, my dear,’ ” his mother said kindly. “You couldn’t show your face without someone recognizing you. Or were you planning to dress like a woman?” she added wickedly.

Nelson started sputtering a protest, but his mother cut him off.

“I’m going to do this, Nelson. It’s not a bit dangerous, and it might even help. Besides, if I don’t get out of here soon, I shall go mad.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Sarah asked in concern.

This time Mrs. Ellsworth’s expression was contemptuous. “Are you serious? I haven’t felt this alive since I found out about that poor girl’s death. I’m going whether you help me or not, so unless you want a parade of reporters following us to the hospital, I suggest you go along with my plan to distract them.”

Sarah didn’t even need to think it over. “What do you want me to do?”

As they entered Bellevue Hospital, Sarah glanced down at her companion with admiration. Mrs. Ellsworth had swathed herself in a heavy veil that concealed every trace of her identity. She didn’t look particularly out of place, either, since women in mourning often went veiled, and her plan to escape the reporters’ notice had worked beautifully.

Sarah had endured another round of shouted questions when she left the Ellsworths’ house, and had successfully ignored them until the reporters got tired of following her and returned to their vigil. By the time she reached the appointed meeting place, Mrs. Ellsworth was waiting for her, the market basket hanging over her arm, filled with nutritious foods for Webster Prescott.

The two had taken the Sixth Avenue El up to Twenty-Sixth Street instead of walking over to Second Avenue in order to get off the street as quickly as possible. No one had even looked at them twice, though. They had arrived at their destination without incident.

When they reached the ward where Prescott lay, Sarah could see down the length of the room that a woman was sitting next to him, on the far side of his bed.

“It looks as if his aunt is already here,” Sarah said with some surprise.

“I thought you only sent her word this morning. How could she have gotten here so quickly?”

“I don’t… Oh, yes, it was in the newspaper this morning that he was attacked. Maybe she saw it and came over without being summoned. At any rate, we can certainly ask her,” Sarah pointed out, leading the way to where the woman sat beside Prescott’s bed.

Sarah noticed Prescott’s aunt was also veiled, although hers was shorter and much lighter than Mrs. Ellsworth’s. She was, Sarah knew, a widow, and she probably wore the veil all the time. Such elaborate mourning was a little excessive, but some women enjoyed flaunting their grief.

As they approached, she saw that the woman was trying to feed Prescott something, but he kept turning his head away.

He said something that sounded like, “Tastes bad,” and she could hear his aunt coaxing him softly, the way one did with ill-tempered sick people.

“Mrs. Beasley,” Sarah called when they were near enough.

Mrs. Beasley didn’t turn. She just kept coaxing Prescott to eat. She must, Sarah thought, be hard of hearing.

“Mrs. Beasley!” she called more loudly as they reached Prescott’s bed. “I’m Sarah Brandt, a friend of your nephew’s.”

Mrs. Beasley’s head came up in surprise, and she jumped to her feet, dropping the bowl from which she had been feeding her nephew. It spilled on the bed, all over Prescott, and Sarah and Mrs. Ellsworth instinctively reached to salvage what they could of the porridge.

“I’m so sorry,” Sarah said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” But when she looked up to reassure Mrs. Beasley, she saw only the woman’s back as she hurried away, nearly running in her fright.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, watching her disappear out the door. “She’s quite shy, isn’t she?”

“I certainly didn’t mean to frighten her. I should go after her and apologize,” Sarah said.

“No!” Prescott said, surprising both women.

“Mr. Prescott?” Sarah tried, wondering if he was talking to her. “How are you feeling?”

“No,” he said again, obviously not hearing her at all. “Too sweet… Tastes… bad.”

That’s what he’d been saying to his aunt. Sarah wondered what the woman had been feeding him that had caused such a reaction. She lifted the nearly empty bowl to her nose and took a sniff.

How odd, she thought, certain she must be mistaken. But when she dipped her finger in and took a taste, she cried out in alarm.

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed, but Sarah was calling for the nurse.

One of the nurses came rushing over. “Whatever is the matter?”

“That woman was trying to poison Mr. Prescott!” Sarah cried.

“Poison!” Mrs. Ellsworth was saying, over and over, but the nurse wasn’t as impressed.