Victoria Thompson - Murder on Washington Square

“I know! I do! Just give me a chance to remember!” she tried, desperate to make Sarah believe her.

“Mrs. Giddings, you don’t have to protect your son. We know he didn’t kill Anna Blake. And your husband was in jail that night, so he couldn’t have killed her either. There’s no reason for you to pretend you did it anymore, and if you insist on doing so, you’ll only be protecting the real murderer.”

“I wanted her to die,” the woman said hysterically. “I wanted her to suffer the way I suffered!”

A murmur of approval went through the crowd of women gathered outside the cell, but Sarah didn’t acknowledge them. “Of course you did. But your son needs you, Mrs. Giddings. You won’t help him by letting yourself be executed for a murder you didn’t commit.”

“I couldn’t let them take him to jail!” she said, her voice breaking. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

“Yes, it does!” Sarah said, going to her. She sat down on the edge of the bunk and took the sobbing woman in her arms. “Harold needs you. That’s why you must tell the truth and save yourself.”

The matron had finally taken notice of the gathering crowd and come to see what the disturbance was. Afraid the woman would order her out, Sarah looked her straight in the eye with all the authority her parents had trained her to use on unruly servants and said, “Mrs. Giddings is going to be just fine now. Do you think she could have a cup of tea and something light to eat?”

It worked. The matron broke up the gawking crowd and sent someone for the tea. Sarah kept comforting Mrs. Giddings until the woman was finally able to talk again. Then she poured out her story of anger and humiliation at having her life ruined by a cheap, lying strumpet. Then, just when she’d thought nothing could be worse, Malloy had come to her house and accused her son of killing that woman! She’d only done what any mother would have to protect her child.

“You were right. I didn’t kill her,” she said when she’d unburdened herself. “Does this mean I can go home now?”

“I’m afraid not,” Sarah said. “At least not right away. You did confess to a murder, and even a guilty person could be expected to have second thoughts and insist she was innocent after spending a day in The Tombs.”

“What you mean is that no one will believe me now if I tell the truth,” she said miserably. “What have I done?”

“I’m sure they’ll believe you when we find the real killer,” Sarah said. “I just had to be sure you really hadn’t done it before I went any further.”

“How can you find the real killer, though?”

That was a very good question, and Sarah was saved from having to answer it when a young woman came to the door of the cell carrying a tray.

“I have tea, for the lady,” the girl said in a musical accent. She was small and very neatly dressed, and her large hazel eyes were full of pity.

“I couldn’t,” Mrs. Giddings protested, but Sarah said, “Thank you,” and went to take the tray. They had put some crackers and a bowl of soup on the tray, too.

“The lady is very sad,” the girl said. “But she will get used to it here. We will take care of her. She does not have to be afraid.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Sarah said, and suddenly she realized to whom she was speaking. “Are you Maria Barberi?”

“My name is Barbella,” the girl corrected, and Sarah remembered Malloy telling her the newspapers had gotten it wrong. This was the woman who had cut her lover’s throat out of despair when he refused to marry her. She had been tried for murder and sentenced to death, but she’d recently been granted a new trial.

“I thought your trial was supposed to start last week,” Sarah remembered, realizing she hadn’t seen any mention of it in the newspapers.

“It was, but now they say next month. So I wait.” She looked at Mrs. Giddings. “Do not cry. You will get used to it.”

As Sarah watched Maria go, she was conscious of the irony. Maria Barbella’s first trial had sold millions of newspapers for months. If her new trial, which had been scheduled to begin two days before Anna Blake was killed, had begun then, it’s possible that Anna’s death wouldn’t have gotten any notice at all. Instead, it had served to replace this postponed scandal and sell newspapers in the meantime.

“I suppose you can get used to anything,” Mrs. Giddings murmured.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to,” Sarah said briskly, setting the tray down on the bunk. “Now you must eat something to keep up your strength. You need to stay strong for your son.”

By the time she left The Tombs, Sarah’s own stomach was growling. She’d been in such a hurry to get to the jail and see Mrs. Giddings, she had neglected to eat herself. She bought a sausage sandwich from a street vendor and wolfed it down in a very unladylike manner. Then she headed back uptown to keep the promise she’d made to Mrs. Giddings to make sure Harold Giddings was all right.

Keeping that promise gave her an excuse to ask the boy some questions of her own. She wanted to clarify in her mind exactly what had happened the night Anna Blake died and who had been at the boarding house with her. Then, she was sure, she would know who the killer was.

SARAH FOUND THE GIDDINGS HOUSE EASILY ENOUGH from the directions Mrs. Giddings had given her. When she saw the neighborhood and how the family had once lived, she realized just how much damage Anna Blake had done to them. Mrs. Giddings had told her they’d sold nearly everything they owned to repay her husband’s law partners. Her husband’s career was ruined, he could no longer work in his profession, and her son had found what work he could just to keep food on the table. In the same situation, Sarah thought she might well have considered murdering Anna Blake herself.

No one answered her knock at the Giddings house for so long that Sarah was afraid she wasn’t going to have her opportunity to question Harold Giddings. But the door opened at last, and the boy himself stood there. She knew it must be he from his bloodshot eyes and his tormented expression.

“Who are you?” he asked, unknowingly echoing his mother’s suspicion.

“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “Your mother asked me to check on you and make sure you were all right.”

“My mother?” he cried almost desperately. “How is she? She told me not to visit her, but I can’t stand not knowing what’s happening to her!”

Sarah had been worried he wouldn’t believe her, but he must be even more trusting than she’d hoped. “If you’ll invite me in, I’ll be glad to tell you everything I know,” Sarah said gently.

Instantly flustered, the boy stepped back to admit her. “I’m sorry I was rude,” he said. “I didn’t know who you were.”

“That’s all right.” Sarah said, stepping into the foyer. She looked around. Every room she could see stood empty of furniture. “Is there someplace we could sit down?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” the boy said, eager to please now. “We’ve still got… I mean, the back parlor. Just… follow me.”

He led her down the hallway and into a room that still held some of its original furnishings. Sarah could imagine the family gathered here in the evening during happier times, before Gilbert Giddings had betrayed them and destroyed their lives.

“Is your father here?” she asked.

“No,” the boy said, his anger at his father painfully obvious. “He hasn’t been here in a couple days. I hope he never comes back. I hope he’s dead in some gutter.”

Sarah didn’t chasten the boy. He had a right to his feelings, and she could certainly sympathize with them. “Your mother is concerned that you’re remembering to eat and get enough sleep,” she began.