“So you took them to this mission,” Malloy guessed. “The Prodigal Son? Isn’t that the one on Mulberry Street, down by Police Headquarters?”
“Yes, do you know anything about it?”
He shrugged, which either meant that he didn’t know anything or that he didn’t want to say. “So who did you give the clothes to at the mission?”
She opened her mouth to say she’d given them to Mrs. Wells, when the real meaning of his question hit her. “The dead woman must be someone from the mission!”
“Or at least they’ll know who they gave your clothes to,” he said.
Sarah felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach. “Did you say the dead woman had blond hair?”
He winced a little, reminding her that he’d thought the body was hers at first. “Yes. She had brown eyes. Younger than you, but about the same size.”
Sarah groaned and closed her eyes.
“Do you know who it is?” he asked.
“I think... I’d have to see her, of course, but one of the girls at the mission fits that description. An Italian girl.”
“This girl was blond,” he reminded her.
“She must have been from Northern Italy. Her name was Emilia.”
“Emilia what?”
“I don’t know. They’ll know her at the mission, I suppose. If it really is her. They might have given the clothes to someone else,” she added hopefully. Maybe it would turn out to be someone she didn’t know at all.
Malloy sighed again. “I’ll get someone from the mission to identify the body then.”
Sarah remembered the girl she’d met who’d been so full of life and hope. She was learning to sew so she could make an honest living and overcome her unfortunate past.
“I could identify her,” she offered. “If it is Emilia, that would save someone who really knew her from having to go.”
“The city morgue isn’t a very pleasant place,” he warned her.
“That’s why I’d like to save someone else from making the trip. I only met her once, so seeing her in a place like that won’t be as painful for me as it would for someone who cared about her.”
Malloy didn’t want to take her there. She could see it in every line of his face.
“I can go without you,” she reminded him.
“And what if it isn’t her?”
“Then we can go to the mission and tell them what happened. They’ll send someone to find out who it really is.”
This was a perfectly logical plan, but Malloy didn’t like it at all. She wasn’t sure what part of it bothered him until he said, “I guess you won’t want me to go with you.”
“Why not?” she asked without thinking. He didn’t reply, giving her a chance to figure it out for herself. “Oh,” she said after a moment. “Because you were so rude to me yesterday.”
He didn’t confirm or deny it. He just sat there, stubborn as always.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” she said. “Were you angry at me for being late?”
His lips tightened. “I told you, you didn’t have to come. I didn’t really expect you’d come at all.”
She suspected that wasn’t true, but she said, “Then you must be mad because I did come.”
He sighed. “I’m not mad about anything.”
She wanted to ask if he was jealous, but she decided that would be a waste of time. He’d deny it, and she’d look silly. She decided on another tactic. “Then are you going to explain why you were so rude to me?”
He gave her one of the looks he reserved for uncooperative criminals. “I wasn’t being rude, Mrs. Brandt. I was just stating a fact.”
His look didn’t bother her one bit. “Then I won’t expect an apology,” she retorted pleasantly.
She thought he might be grinding his teeth. “Do you want me to go with you to the morgue or not?” he asked finally.
She wasn’t going to fall into that trap. “You’ll need to know if I recognize the dead woman, so you might as well go with me,” she said, trumping him. “I’ll need to change my clothes first. I won’t be long.”
Sarah took her time changing and redoing her hair. Perversely, she wanted to look her best for this awful task. She distracted herself from thinking about what lay ahead by thinking about the way Malloy had embraced her when he came into the house. The act in itself was shocking. Even more shocking was the fact that he hadn’t apologized for taking such a liberty. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she wasn’t going to ask him about it. The mood he was in, she couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say on the matter, and she thought perhaps they were both better off pretending it hadn’t happened.
Until she was ready to mention it again, of course.
One thing was certain, however: he’d been very happy to find her alive and well, happier than he felt he had a right to be.
The question was, did Sarah think he had a right to be? She remembered how he’d kissed her that night last week when he’d thought she wouldn’t remember. She remembered how she’d felt in his arms a short while ago. She remembered how her parents had warned her about Malloy. And she remembered how Malloy had warned her about Malloy. Too many things to remember, she decided as she slid her foot-long hat pin carefully into her new hat. The sturdy pin would hold it in place through the force of a hurricane.
Sarah thought she looked very attractive in the stylish suit her mother had insisted she couldn’t possibly wear again because it was a year old. Malloy didn’t look impressed, however. His eyes narrowed, and she realized he was staring at her hat.
“Don’t tell me you think
this
hat is ugly, too,” she challenged.
“I remember now. You were wearing this one yesterday.”
Which meant the dead woman had been wearing the old one. Sarah didn’t want to think about that. “Let’s go,” she said.
They walked over to Sixth Avenue in silence, and Malloy hailed a Hansom cab to take them to the morgue.
Malloy’s bulk made for close quarters in the cab. Sarah should have felt awkward, but the enforced intimacy came naturally to her now. In the months she’d known Malloy, they’d been through a lot together. A few recent, awkward moments couldn’t make him an unfamiliar or uncomfortable presence.
“How is Brian doing?” she asked to break the silence. Traffic was moving slowly, as usual, so they’d have a lot of time to fill before they reached their destination.
He carefully didn’t look at her. “He’s driving my mother crazy. All he wants to do is walk on his new foot. He even tries to get out every time somebody opens the door to the flat.”
“It’s cruel to keep him inside,” she pointed out.
“He doesn’t have shoes yet,” Malloy reminded her. “Ma won’t let him out without shoes.”
“What did she say when she saw he could walk?”
Malloy did look at her then. “She crossed herself and said a Hail Mary.”
Sarah could easily imagine Mrs. Malloy doing just that. She wouldn’t dare express joy, for fear of attracting bad fortune to her loved ones.
When he offered nothing else, she let a few minutes pass before she said, “What do you know about the Prodigal Son Mission?”
“I know they don’t allow any prodigal sons in.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s for prodigal daughters only. I thought you said you visited them. You didn’t see any boys around, did you?”
“There were boys playing in the yard,” she said.
“The old woman lets them in the yard, but no further.”
“But that’s good,” Sarah argued. “The girls she takes in probably need to be protected from men.”
“Then she should call the mission something else,” Malloy argued back.
He still hadn’t answered her question. “Do you know Mrs. Wells, the lady who runs it?”
“Not very well. Everybody knew her husband. He preached on street comers for years.”
“What was he like?”
“A fanatic, like all of them.”
“Like all of who?” she challenged. “Protestants?”
He gave her another of his looks. “Evangelists,” he corrected her. “At least the kind who think they’re called to save the poor.”
“Don’t you think that’s a worthy calling?”
“Depends on what you’re saving them from.”
“I imagine they’re trying to save them from hell,” she said.
“There are lots of kinds of hell,” he reminded her. “And you can find all of them on the Lower East Side.”
“Mrs. Wells is saving girls from that, too,” Sarah pointed out. “Emilia, the girl I was telling you about, was a prostitute when Mrs. Wells took her in.”
“You didn’t ask me what I thought of Mrs. Wells. You asked me what I thought of her husband.”
That was true. “And you haven’t really told me.”
Malloy gave her a put-upon look. “He was enthusiastic but... weak,” he said, finally settling on a word.
“Weak in what way?” Sarah thought he might mean physically, since she knew Mr. Wells had died young.
“I’m not sure weak is the right word, but he just never accomplished anything important. He preached for years, and he still never had a congregation or many followers. He tried to help people, but he never had much success.”
“How did he get the mission?”
“Some rich woman gave him the money, or at least that’s what I heard. He bought the house, and then he got sick and died.”
“And his wife took over his ministry,” Sarah said. “She seems to have been stronger than he was.”
“She’s more successful, at least.”
“But you don’t seem to think much of her, either.”
“She doesn’t have any use for Papists, Mrs. Brandt.”
Sarah recalled that Mrs. Wells had been pleased that Emilia had renounced her Catholic faith. “Does she force people to convert?”
“I’m not sure you’d call it forcing. She just doesn’t help anyone who doesn’t.”
“Oh,” was all Sarah could think to say. She tried to imagine turning away someone in need because she didn’t agree with the way they worshipped God. Mrs. Wells seemed too kind to do something like that, but she
was
deeply religious and convinced her faith was the only correct one.
As if tired of the subject, Malloy asked if she’d seen Webster Prescott, the newspaper reporter who had been injured during their last investigation. Sarah informed him of Prescott’s improving condition, and they discussed the young man’s situation for the rest of the trip.
When the cab reached the morgue, Sarah began to regret her decision to come. The building seemed to loom over her, casting a shadow across the sun of this pleasant day. Malloy paid the cab driver, then offered her a hand down. A small part of her wanted to tell him she’d changed her mind, but pride controlled the larger part of her. She took his hand and stepped out of the cab.
His fingers were strong, but he released her as soon as she was safely on the pavement and stepped back, as if anxious to keep a safe distance between them now that they were out of the confines of the cab.
“You don’t have to do this,” he reminded her, as if sensing her doubts.
“Yes, I do,” she said. He shook his head, but he led her inside.
For some reason, she had expected more ceremony around the viewing of a body. The unidentified dead were kept in a basement room, their bodies lying on tables and covered with sheets. The place reeked of chemicals and death. She fought an urge to put her handkerchief over her nose. She didn’t want to betray any weakness before Malloy.
The attendant was a scrawny young man with a pockmarked face who acted annoyed at being disturbed.
“This is the one,” he said, leading them to one of the tables after consulting his list. “Came in this morning.” Sarah followed him and stood beside the table holding the shrouded body he’d indicated. He went to the other side of the table and casually drew back the sheet, revealing the dead woman’s face and bare shoulders. They had already removed her clothing, the last indignity of death.
Someone had closed her eyes, but no one would imagine she slept. Her skin was blue, her lips almost purple. Still, Sarah recognized her instantly, and the sadness was like a weight in her chest. “It’s Emilia,” she informed Malloy who stood off a ways, waiting for her verdict. “How did she die?” she asked the attendant.
He shrugged.
“Her cheek is all red. Did someone beat her?” she asked.
“No, that’s from the blood,” he explained importantly. “She was laying on her face when they found her. The blood settles to the lowest point.” Sarah looked more closely and realized he was right.
“She’s blue,” she told Malloy this time. “That means she must have suffocated.”
“Coroner says not,” the attendant said, now with an air of superiority. “Her eyes ain’t bloodshot, like she would be if somebody smothered her.”
To the attendant’s surprise, Sarah reached out and raised the dead girl’s eyelid. He was right. Then she leaned closer, examining the girl’s neck for signs she was choked. “There aren’t any bruises on her throat, either.”
“What are you, lady, some kind of doctor?” the attendant asked, giving Malloy a questioning glance.
“I’m a trained nurse,” she informed him. A nurse who had seen death many times and witnessed dying far too often. She turned to Malloy. “What does the coroner think killed her?”
“He don’t know,” the attendant replied, obviously taking great pleasure in knowing more than either of them. “There ain’t a mark on her anyplace.”
“Well, something made her stop breathing against her will,” Sarah said impatiently. “Maybe she was poisoned.”
“You know of a poison makes people stop breathing like that?” he replied in challenge.
Sarah supposed there could be, but she wasn’t exactly an expert on poisons. She turned to Malloy, who was looking even more annoyed than he had before. “Could I examine her myself? Maybe I can find something they missed.”
“They ain’t done an autopsy yet,” the attendant said with a small smirk, “but if you think you can save ’em the trouble, go ahead.” With a flick of his wrist, he jerked the sheet off the body, leaving the poor girl lying there naked and completely exposed.