In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,29

down, her fingers playing with the fringe on her shawl.

“We understand you last saw Sarah on Friday, when she left to go visit her aunt in Dobson. I wonder if you could describe her mood for us?” Isabella’s tone was friendly, as if she were merely chatting with a friend she had known for years. When Mary did not answer immediately, she offered further help. “Was she happy and excited about her weekend with her aunt?” It was just the right approach to help Mary relax and talk more comfortably.

The girl shrugged. “Sarah was out of sorts, I’d say. She hadn’t been sleeping well. She was up most nights with terrible insomnia. I think that’s why she decided to visit her aunt.” She looked up from the fringe. “We had a row about it, actually. We had opening-night tickets to go with my parents to see Maude Adams in her new musical, Peter Pan. I couldn’t believe Sarah would cancel plans like that.” Her voice was husky as she fought back tears. “I didn’t understand why she chose to go to Dobson and miss seeing it.”

“When did she change her mind?” I asked.

“Thursday night.” Mary hiccupped a sob.

“She must have given you a reason why.” Isabella tried to encourage her.

But Mary shook her head. “She said she had a great deal of work and couldn’t concentrate here. But her next dissertation chapter draft was not due for another month, and just two weeks ago, she claimed it was almost done. Her excuses made no sense.”

I mulled over this information, wondering what to make of it. Something had troubled Sarah, giving her insomnia and prompting her abrupt decision to go to Dobson. It was an altogether different picture than Abigail Wingate had painted when she described Sarah’s visit.

“Do you have any idea what may have troubled her?” Isabella asked. “Was she having any academic difficulties?”

“Of course not,” Mary said. “Sarah’s studies came very easily to her.”

“And her classmates liked her?”

Mary wrinkled her nose. “I suppose most liked her well enough. There was jealousy, of course.”

“Could you give us an example?”

“Well, only one incident comes to mind,” she said. “During Sarah’s second year in the graduate program, she briefly considered changing her focus to medicine. She enrolled in an organic chemistry course, and when she received the highest grade in the class, her classmates—most of them doing premedical studies—were up in arms. The professor used a bell curve standard and Sarah’s doing so well affected their performance. One of them filed a formal challenge, alleging that she had not done the work herself. She had to meet with a panel of three professors and submit to an informal oral exam, just to prove she knew the material.” She sighed and returned to pulling at the fringe of her shawl. “But if her classmate’s strategy was to disparage her abilities, then he failed miserably; she performed even better in that scenario than she had in her written exams. Still, she hated having her abilities doubted.”

“What about afterward?” I added. “Did she encounter that sort of suspicion elsewhere, perhaps in the math department?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I never heard about it.”

“And what about her women friends from Barnard?”

Mary thought for a minute before answering, which in itself was telling. At last, she said, “Sarah generally got on well with people, but she had a strong personality and could be argumentative. It was a trait she developed over time, since every success she achieved had to be defended against the argument she hadn’t really earned it.”

“What was her area of research?” Isabella asked.

“I know her dissertation was about the Riemann hypothesis; Sarah was fascinated with it. But I can’t begin to tell you much more than that, since I’ve no head for math myself.”

“Whom should we talk to about her research, besides her advisor?” Isabella pressed.

“Mmmm,” Mary thought aloud. “You might try Artie Shaw. He was the same year as Sarah, and they were quite friendly, talked through a lot of research issues together.”

“Quite friendly?” Isabella asked for more explanation, though her tone remained casual.

“As classmates, nothing more,” Mary clarified, before confiding shyly, “I do think she had a beau, honestly, but it wasn’t Artie.”

“Why do you think so?” I asked. Sarah’s cousin Abigail had been convinced Sarah had neither the time nor the inclination for romantic attachments.

“Because Sarah used to visit Princeton on the sly,” she replied, “always pretending she was going somewhere else.”

Mary Bonham had our full attention now, but we waited