Mrs. Walcott frowned when Sarah drew the case out of the drawer, but she didn’t object when she opened it. To her surprise, Sarah discovered it contained a wide variety of face paint, far more than a respectable woman would ever need to own. Anna Blake had a more interesting background than she had led anyone to believe. She glanced at Malloy to make sure he’d seen the contents of the case before closing it and returning it to its proper place.
Lastly, she opened the trunk. As she had suspected, this contained Anna’s winter clothing. A heavy wool cape and a rabbit fur muff lay on top. Beneath them were several woolen skirts and some jackets, a flannel petticoat, and a knitted scarf, nothing very intriguing.
Sarah caught Malloy’s eye again. “Would you like to look around?”
He did, of course, and he was less discreet. Without asking for leave, he took the corner of the mattress and lifted it up to peer underneath. Then he picked up the pillows and pulled back the covers. He pulled out the drawers again and felt beneath them, in case something had been stuck to the bottoms. With calm efficiency, he searched all remaining crannies of the room and found nothing.
Except for the face paint, the room contained not one hint that Anna Blake was anything other than she had appeared to be. And of course, there were no letters or diaries giving more insight into her background or helpfully naming her killer.
Sarah turned to Mrs. Walcott. “Can you tell what she was wearing that night?”
The landlady looked at the clothing again. “She had a brown dress, I think. Yes, I believe that’s what she was wearing. At least, that’s all I can tell is missing.”
Something had been bothering Sarah about Anna’s wardrobe. Now she realized what it was, but she said nothing. Her theory could wait until she and Malloy were alone.
“What did this young man look like?” Malloy asked Mrs. Walcott. “The one who called on Anna the night she died.”
“Very ordinary. Tall and thin, the way boys are before they mature.”
“How was he dressed?”
“He looked like a laborer. His clothes were coarse and dirty, although his manners were good. He was very polite to me, although he was impatient to see Anna.”
“Was he polite to Anna?” Malloy inquired.
Mrs. Walcott looked away. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but…”
“Anna wasn’t polite to him?” Malloy guessed.
“She was angry with him for some reason, from the instant she saw him. As I said, they argued, and he left rather quickly after that, slamming the door behind him. And then, as I said, Anna left also.” She seemed to realize something suddenly. “Oh, dear, do you suppose…?”
“Suppose what?” Malloy asked with interest.
“That young man, he could have waited for her or seen her leaving. He could have followed her and started quarreling with her again,” she said, shaking her head. “I never should have let her leave the house that night.” With a graceful gesture, she pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes, even though Sarah saw no visible tears.
Malloy ushered Sarah out of Anna’s room, and Mrs. Walcott closed the door behind them.
“Is there any other way I can assist you?” Mrs. Walcott asked as they made their way down the stairs.
Malloy waited until they had reached the front hallway before replying. “I can’t think of anything… Oh, wait, there was something. One of your neighbors said she heard your cellar door opening late that night. Could you explain that?”
Mrs. Walcott blinked in surprise and looked a bit nonplussed. “Yes, I can, although it’s a bit embarrassing. And it can’t have anything at all to do with Anna’s death. You see, my maid has been complaining about an odor in the cellar. She thought some small animal had died down there, although we couldn’t find anything. I opened the cellar door in an attempt to air it out.”
“In the middle of the night?” Malloy asked skeptically.
“It wasn’t the middle of the night,” she said, waving such a thought away with her handkerchief. “I did wait until full dark, though. Leaving one’s cellar door open in the daylight is simply inviting someone to sneak in and steal something. I didn’t think anyone would see that it was open in the dark, though.”
Malloy nodded. “Did the odor go away?”
“No, but I asked my husband to spread some lime, and that helped. I’m afraid the poor dead creature is in one of the walls. We’re just going to have to wait for nature to take its course, I suppose.”
Sarah and Malloy took their leave, although Sarah was loath to go out. The sky looked even more threatening than before, and the wind was picking up. She hoped she could get home before the storm broke. And how would she get to her parents’ house tonight without getting soaked? She didn’t want to look like a drowned rat when she was trying to convince Mr. Dennis not to dismiss Nelson Ellsworth from the bank. But of course, she had no choice about going out. Mrs. Walcott certainly wasn’t going to invite her to stay.
As soon as they were safely away from the house, Sarah let Malloy know how displeased she was. “How long were you questioning her before I arrived?”
He gave her a measuring look, although she could see the amused glimmer in his dark eyes. “I’d only just gotten there myself. Do you think I’d presume to do my job without your assistance, Mrs. Brandt?”
She decided not to press the issue, since they both knew she had no right to assist him at all. “Did you see that case of face paint in Anna’s room?”
“Yes. What would she have done with something like that?”
“Painted her face, obviously,” Sarah said, “although she wasn’t painted when I saw her, at least not noticeably. I doubt someone who was would have appealed to Nelson, in any case. Anna’s allure was her apparent youthful innocence and helplessness. Only a prostitute would need that kind of paint for her face.”
“Do you think she was a prostitute before she met Nelson?”
Sarah considered. “If she was, she must have been a high-class one. She had a gentility about her that you don’t see in street walkers.”
“High-class whores don’t paint their faces like the street walkers do, either,” Malloy informed her, “for the same reason Anna Blake didn’t.”
“I bow to your more extensive experience in such matters,” Sarah couldn’t resist saying. “But then why would she need so much paint? It had obviously been used a lot, so she must have needed it at some time in her life.”
“What other kind of women paint their faces?” Malloy asked, thinking aloud.
The answer was so obvious, Sarah felt foolish. “Actresses!”
“Stage actresses,” Malloy agreed. “Could she have been an actress?”
“Of course, it makes perfect sense!” Sarah cried in triumph. “And I’d forgotten, Catherine Porter was an actress, too. The maid mentioned it, and she admitted it. Anna-and probably Catherine, too-was pretending to be an innocent girl, telling Nelson and Giddings outrageous lies but making them believe her stories. She was so convincing, they never doubted her for a moment, either!”
“To the point where Giddings was willing to jeopardize everything he had to take care of her.”
“Exactly! That’s how she could be so convincing. In fact, I remember thinking the first time I met her that Nelson had gotten himself into a melodrama.”
“Actresses aren’t generally known for their strict moral standards, either,” Malloy remarked.
“So they wouldn’t mind the necessary seduction,” Sarah said, deciding she’d better get hold of her hat before it blew right off her head.
“Or the lying,” Malloy said, holding on to his own hat. “And in Nelson’s case, at least, I don’t think the seduction even happened.”
“What?”