Sarah tried to imagine a maid, having been chastened for not dusting thoroughly enough, pouring a bottle of laudanum into her mistress’s liquor bottle. She decided not to tell Mrs. Sprat-Williams how ridiculous that would be. “Could anyone else at the rescue house have known about Mrs. Van Orner’s little vice?”
Mrs. Spratt-Williams thought this over carefully. Sarah tried to figure out why she needed to do this. Was she trying to fairly judge who might have discovered Mrs. Van Orner’s secret? Did she know someone had and was she trying to decide whether to betray that person? Or was she thinking about something else entirely? “As I said, Vivian never let anyone see her drinking from her flask, but she was always leaving her purse lying about. Someone might have opened it, looking for money or what have you, and found the flask. Even a simpleton could figure out what it was for.”
“Did she leave her purse lying about yesterday?”
Mrs. Spratt-Williams opened her mouth to reply and caught herself. “I was going to say yes, because that’s what she usually did, but I didn’t really notice,” she said after a moment. “I’m sure Miss Biafore would know.”
“Do you know where she usually left her purse?”
“In the hall, on the table. Anyone could have found it there.”
She was right, of course. “Do you remember seeing her purse when you met with Mrs. Van Orner in her office?”
“No, I don’t. It must have been out in the hall, as usual.”
“So you asked her not to turn Amy out of the house and then you left? Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is. I had an engagement that evening, and I needed to get home.”
“Do you think your suggestion made Mrs. Van Orner angry?”
She had to think this over, too. “I wouldn’t say angry. Vivian was impatient with me. Yes, that’s it. She didn’t want to discuss Amy. I can’t say I blame her, but really, I was only trying to help.”
“Did Mrs. Van Orner speak with anyone else after you left her?”
“I have no idea. I already told you, I went home. This is all so distressing. Poor Vivian. I don’t know what we’ll do without her.”
“I hope you’ll decide soon. The women living at the rescue house are very worried.”
“I’m sure they are, especially poor Amy. Of course she may not be as concerned now that Vivian is dead.”
“She isn’t concerned at all. She packed up this morning and left.”
MR. QUIMBY HADN’T BEEN MUCH HELP, SO FRANK wasn’t expecting Mr. Porter to be either. He was surprised to find him living in a ramshackle house south of Washington Square, in a once fashionable neighborhood that was slowly changing over into rooming houses. A harried maid answered the door, and she didn’t seem at all disturbed to find a police detective asking for her master.
As he waited in the front hall for the girl to announce him, he could hear childish screams and lots of thumping coming from upstairs. After a few moments, a man with thinning hair and a thickening waist came hurrying down the hall from a rear parlor, pulling his suit coat over an unbuttoned vest.
“Mary said you’re with the police,” he said in alarm when he reached Frank. “Has something happened?”
“I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs. Vivan Van Orner died under suspicious circumstances yesterday,” Frank said.
Porter blinked several times, trying to make sense of Frank’s statement. “I knew she died, but nobody said it was suspicious. Miss Yingling should have warned us!”
“She didn’t know,” Frank said.
A loud crash from upstairs made both men jump.
“The children are getting ready for bed,” Porter explained. “Let’s go into the parlor.”
This was the formal parlor, reserved for guests and kept in pristine condition, even though the furnishings were starting to show their age. No fire had been laid, and a distinct chill hung in the air. Porter offered Frank a chair by the cold fireplace and took one opposite.
“What’s this about Mrs. Van Orner now?” he asked, leaning forward. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, I’m afraid. Mrs. Van Orner died in her carriage yesterday afternoon as she was traveling from the rescue house to her home.”
Porter shook his head, his expression inexpressibly sad. “Miss Yingling just told us she died. I couldn’t imagine why. I still can’t believe it. She was never sick a day in her life.”
“Have you known her all her life?”
“Oh, yes. Our families were great friends. We saw each other in church and at parties, everywhere really.” He shook his head, lost in memories.
Frank couldn’t help comparing the Van Orner home to this one and wondering why, if their families had been so close, Porter’s position in life was now so much less prosperous than the Van Orners’. “Did you ever court Mrs. Van Orner?” he asked, probing to see if he could find some romantic rivalry that might have soured through the years.
He looked up in surprise. “Heavens, no! We were children together. Nothing kills romance quicker than remembering how somebody looked in short pants. Besides, Vivian had higher aspirations. Once Van Orner noticed her, no one else had a chance.”
“How did you get involved in her charity work?”
“She asked me to help her several years ago. She needed some men to go with her into a bad part of town. I told her I wouldn’t be much help if she was set upon by ruffians, but she wasn’t concerned about that. As it turned out, she needed a man to knock on the door of a brothel and pretend to be a customer. She thought I would be perfect for that, and as it turned out, she was right. I’ve been helping her ever since.” He seemed very pleased with himself.
“I understand Mrs. Van Orner used her own money to support the rescue house.”
“Yes, she had an inheritance from some relative, I think. She used that for it. Van Orner wouldn’t give her a penny to help harlots. Those were his own words. I’ve heard him say them myself. So she used her own money and asked her rich friends to help her, too.”
“Did you help her?”
He shook his head sadly. “I’ve got six children, Mr .... I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Malloy.”
“Mr. Malloy, I’ve got six children. I inherited my father’s business, but I haven’t been as successful as he was at it. We manage, but . . . To tell you the truth, one reason I agreed to help Vivian was because I thought it might do me some good with Gregory’s friends—that’s her husband.”
“Did it?”
“Oh, no, not at all. Gregory’s embarrassed by her little hobby, as he calls it, and he doesn’t have any use for me or the rest of Vivian’s helpers.”
“But you still kept helping her.”
“Yes. As I said, we’re old friends.” Another crash made them both jump, even though this one was a bit muffled. “And it gives me an excuse to be out of the house,” he added.
Frank could readily understand why.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Mrs. Van Orner?”
“Oh, dear, I almost forgot why you’re here. I keep forgetting Vivian’s dead. She’s the last person in the world you’d expect to die. She had so much still to do, you know. And now you tell me someone . . . Are you telling me someone killed her?”
“It appears that she was poisoned.”
“Good God, you don’t say! I can hardly credit it. Why would someone want to do a thing like that?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
He gave the matter some thought. “Some of the madams were quite angry with her, as you can imagine.”
Frank didn’t have to imagine. He’d seen Mrs. Walker in person. “I don’t think any of them would have had access to her, though.”