She didn’t offer him a seat. There was, after all, no furniture in their front rooms. She simply turned and walked up the stairs, her back ramrod straight, her step slow and deliberate. She knew Frank would wait for as long as it took, so she took her time. It was the one thing over which she had control.
Frank was good at waiting, though, and he got some extra practice now. The silence of the house was oppressive, and except for a loud thump from upstairs that startled him-probably Gilbert falling out of bed or his wife hitting him with the chamber pot-he heard nothing until Mrs. Giddings appeared at the head of the stairs again.
She descended slowly and gracefully, her hand resting on the railing mostly for effect since she didn’t appear to need the support. He noticed she had some color in her cheeks now, but she’d blotted every other trace of whatever emotion had caused it from her expression.
“My husband will be down shortly,” she said when she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Frank gave her a moment, but she offered nothing else. “Do you mind if I wait in the back parlor? I’d like some privacy when I talk to him.”
She’d been purposely rude to him so far, but she simply couldn’t deny this request. Good manners had been too thoroughly bred into her. “Come,” she said with an air of resignation, and led him to the back parlor, where he’d spoken with her and her son before.
She was going to leave him there, but he stopped her. “Can you tell me where your husband was the night Anna Blake was killed?”
She looked at him for a long moment. She didn’t appear to be thinking or even trying to decide whether to answer or not. She simply stared, a woman who had been pushed to the very edges of her strength and wasn’t certain she had any reserves left. “He was at home that night, with me. And our son, Harold,” she added.
“Why didn’t he go out drinking as he usually does?” Frank asked, knowing he was hurting her but also knowing he needed the answer.
Again the silence before she replied. “Harold got paid that day. He brought a bottle home for his father so he’d stay with us for a change.”
That sounded very thoughtful of the boy-and also very hard to believe. Families of drunkards usually did like them to stay at home but not if they were going to be drinking. Frank made a mental note of the niggling doubt and went on. “That means all of you were here, all night. No one went out for any reason?”
“No, we did not.”
“Not even your son?”
She stared at him for another long moment, trying to read something into the question. “No, not even my son,” she replied finally.
“He didn’t even go out to buy his father another bottle?” Frank pressed, remembering what Mrs. Walcott had said about a young man coming to see Anna Blake the night she was killed.
Was that fear in her eyes? If so, she wasn’t going to let it break her. “I told you, my son was home all night.”
“And what night was this?”
Mrs. Giddings blinked in confusion. “What?”
“What night did your son get paid and your husband stay at home?”
“The night that woman was killed,” she said with a trace of impatience.
“And which night of the week was that?” he pressed, testing her since her answers had come too easily.
She took a moment to consider. “Tuesday,” she said finally.
“Your son gets paid on Tuesday?”
If he’d thought to catch her in a lie, he was disappointed. She was either a good liar or was telling the truth. “Harold does day labor. Sometimes he gets paid at the end of the day and must get another job the next morning.”
Frank nodded. He could check on what the son had been doing that day, but it might not be easy. The people he was working for could be hard to find, since they probably would have moved on to new jobs by now. He might not even know their names, and even if he did and Frank could find them, they might not remember him. In any case, they’d have no idea whether Harold or his father had been at home that night or not.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see if I can hurry my husband along,” she said. “I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary,” she added with more than a trace of malice.
Frank didn’t take offense, however. He’d been insulted by far more talented people than Mrs. Giddings. He took a seat on the worn sofa to wait, and finally, he was rewarded by the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hallway.
Frank literally winced at the sight of Gilbert Giddings. The man looked as if he’d be better off dead. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face ashen. He held himself closely, as if he were extremely old and feeble-or were afraid of jarring his aching head. He wore a collarless shirt, wrinkled trousers, and carpet slippers. His hair was uncombed and his face unshaven.
“Good morning,” Frank said more loudly than necessary.
Giddings grabbed his head with both hands and groaned. This was going to be even easier than he’d hoped.
“Better have a seat, Giddings,” Frank suggested in a more moderate tone. “I’ve got a few questions to ask you.”
“I’ve already told you all I know,” Giddings said in a hoarse whisper as he shuffled to a chair and carefully lowered himself into it.
“Where were you the night Anna Blake was killed?” Frank asked, getting up from his seat and walking over to where Giddings sat. Standing over someone, even if they were in fine fettle, was always a good tactic when interrogating them.
“What did my wife say?” Giddings asked, looking up through squinted eyes.
“Don’t you know where you were?” Frank asked in amazement. “Or are you two trying to get your stories straight?”
“No, I-” Giddings started to say, but he’d forgotten to moderate his tone, and he had to grab his head again. “She told me I was home but…”
“But what?” Frank asked, making as if to grab Giddings by the shirt front.
He cringed away, as terrified of being manhandled as he was of loud noises. “Please, don’t hurt me,” he begged. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”
“Where were you the night Anna Blake was killed?” he repeated with far less patience.
“I don’t know,” Giddings whined. “I don’t remember!”
“What do you mean, you don’t remember? It was only a week ago.”
“I know, but I… sometimes, I forget things.”
“What kind of things?” Frank asked skeptically.
“Things that happen when I’m drunk,” Giddings admitted as tears filled his eyes. “She drove me to this. I can’t help myself!”
“Your wife?” Frank guessed.
“No,” Giddings said, starting to shake his head vehemently but stopping abruptly when he realized how much pain that would cause him. “No,” he repeated more softly, hands bracing his head again. “Anna did it. She was never satisfied. She said she’d go to my wife and my employer and ruin me! I had no choice! So I borrowed the money from a couple of the estates our firm handles. I was going to pay it back, just as soon as I…”
“As soon as you what?” Frank asked curiously when he hesitated. “As soon as you killed Anna?”
“No!” Giddings said too loudly and winced at the pain. “I didn’t kill her,” he added softly.
“I thought you couldn’t remember what happened that night,” Frank reminded him.
“I don’t. I mean, I don’t know.” Giddings blubbered, awash in self-pity. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
“I guess that means you also don’t know if your wife and son were home that night, either,” Frank said.
Even through his haze of pain, Giddings heard the implication. “My wife and son had nothing to do with this. How can you even suggest such a thing?”
“They had a very good reason to want Anna Blake out of the way,” Frank pointed out. “She’d taken everything they had and ruined you. They both must have hated her.”