Murder on Washington Square Read Free Page B

moments a slender woman laced very tightly into a very fashionable gown of blue and silver plaid opened the front door. Her first reaction was a slight frown when she saw Sarah and didn’t recognize her. Then she noticed Nelson, and the frown become a worried scowl.
    “Mr. Ellsworth, what a surprise,” she said, glancing uneasily at Sarah and back to Nelson again. “What brings you here this lovely evening?”
    “Mrs. Walcott, this is Mrs. Brandt, a friend of mine whom I’ve brought to meet Miss Blake. We were hoping she would be available,” Nelson explained.
    Mrs. Walcott hardly looked reassured. “A friend, you say? I’m sure I can’t imagine why you’ve brought her here to meet Miss Blake.” Mrs. Walcott was taking Sarah’s measure and apparently trying to figure out her relationship to Nelson. Sarah offered her no assistance and merely smiled sweetly. “I’m afraid Miss Blake really isn’t up to meeting anyone right now, though. She isn’t feeling well.”
    Sarah thought it was very presumptuous of the landlady to make this decision for Miss Blake, but it was Nelson who replied. “Then all the more reason for her to see us. Mrs. Brandt is a trained nurse.”
    Now Mrs. Walcott really was at a loss. If Anna Blake was ill, how could she turn away a nurse who might help her? But plainly, she was loath to admit Sarah to the house under any circumstances. “I . . . I’ll have to ask Miss Blake if she . . . Well, I can’t make decisions for her, now can I?” she concluded somewhat belatedly, satisfied that she had struck the proper note between concern and caution.
    “We’ll be happy to wait inside while you consult with her,” Sarah said, still smiling sweetly but moving determinedly forward across the doorsill and forcing Mrs. Walcott to make way or be trampled.
    Her eyes widened in surprise, but she stepped back and allowed them to enter without making a fuss. Once inside, Sarah noted that Mrs. Walcott was a woman of at least thirty years whose hair was still a rich brown color and styled rather elaborately for a woman who kept a boarding house. A style like that usually required the assistance of a lady’s maid and several hours of preparation, neither of which someone of Mrs. Walcott’s situation in life was likely to have. Then it dawned on her: the landlady was wearing a wig. It was, Sarah had to concede, a clever compromise for a woman vain enough to want to look her best but who had neither the time nor the resources to accomplish it naturally.
    Sarah and Nelson paused in the foyer, waiting for instructions, and Mrs. Walcott straightened, or rather stiffened, to her full height. Sarah noticed the woman was several inches taller than she’d realized, as tall as Nelson Ellsworth, in fact, yet still very feminine in spite of her modest curves. “Please, have a seat in the parlor,” she said, gesturing gracefully toward the doorway to their right. Sarah admired the lace mitts she wore. Another affectation assumed to suggest wealth, she guessed. Surely she didn’t wear lace like that all the time. It could hardly survive the labors of normal life. “I’ll see if Miss Blake can receive you.”
    She turned and started up the stairs, her back ramrod straight and her stiff skirts rustling discreetly. Even Sarah had to admit she made an impressive picture.
    Left to themselves, Nelson motioned for Sarah to enter the parlor. He was familiar with the place—too familiar, Sarah knew. She entered the modestly furnished room and looked around, seeking some clue as to the true character of the occupants of this house. Mrs. Walcott had taken great pains to be as simple yet elegant as she could in her decor as well as in her dress. This could have been a parlor in any middle-class family home. A pair of shepherd girl figurines adorned the mantelpiece along with some silverplated candlesticks and a few other knickknacks. The piecrust table beside the sofa held an painted glass lamp and several more