In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,43

exhausting—and frustrating—though the initial phase of any investigation was necessarily spent gathering and evaluating information. The best detectives did so with amazing efficiency; they separated solid leads from weak premises and arrived at what appeared to be effortless conclusions.

I had learned a great deal about Sarah Wingate, enough that I could now imagine what she must have been like. And I continued to learn more about her presumed killer, Michael Fromley. But I had no conclusions to show for it. I had only a manhunt in progress, marked at either end by two missing women: Stella Gibson, who may have witnessed a murder, and Clara Murphy, who was last seen with Michael Fromley.

We were working in the meeting room with the large table, the better to spread out our notes.

“Here’s July 1905,” Horace said, struggling under the weight of seven thick folders as he entered the room.

“Thank you, Horace,” Alistair said.

“Professor, it’s getting late.” Horace leaned heavily against the table. He had been working with us all evening, bringing us file after file from Alistair’s copious case notes.

“Of course. Why don’t you go on home? You’ve been a terrific help, but we’ve everything we need. We won’t be much longer ourselves.” Alistair spoke absentmindedly, for he was already skimming through the first folder Horace had brought.

Horace nodded in relief. “Good night, Professor. Detective.” He shuffled out of the room, and even without the weight of the files, I noticed that he seemed drained of energy. His head injury had swollen in size and now had a particularly nasty appearance.

Once I was certain he was gone, I mentioned it to Alistair. “I don’t recall Horace’s injury looking so severe yesterday.”

“What?” Alistair looked at me in confusion for a moment; then my question registered. “Oh, that. Yes, it happened during his altercation at the polls yesterday, but it’s giving him more trouble today. Horace has been very active in the Hearst campaign for the past month. Rough day for supporters yesterday all around, wasn’t it? Beat up at the polls, literally and figuratively. I hear Hearst is taking charges of voter fraud and intimidation to the courts. It’ll be interesting to see what they do, although however dirty the vote, I can’t imagine them overturning the reelection of a sitting mayor.” And his focus turned once again to his case notes. His interest in the mayor’s race was only a passing one. I would have found it more interesting myself, were I not consumed by the hunt for Sarah’s killer.

Several minutes later, we were interrupted by a knocking noise downstairs. Alistair went to the door and called out into the hallway. “Horace, are you still here?”

We heard more knocking and shuffling sounds.

“I said, is anyone there?” Alistair asked, much louder this time.

The answer came from a man on the stairs. “Your message said you would be working here late tonight. So I came.” His voice—a rich low voice with a thick Scottish burr—grew louder as he came closer. “Though, until I saw your lights burning strong, I had my doubts I would still find you here.”

Alistair stepped back to admit a burly man with thick gray hair and beard, and large, mournful eyes. He was an older man, but his voice and mannerisms were energetic. I sensed that his normal personality was lively, even jocular, though his mood tonight was somber. And I recognized him immediately from his picture. Standing before us was Professor Angus MacDonald.

After we took his gray and brown tweed coat and invited him to sit, he explained that he had not received my message until well after dinnertime, but had determined to take the train into the city immediately on the chance we would be here as promised. He had learned of Sarah’s death almost immediately from a mathematics colleague, but my telephone message had been a surprise. Apparently he had—overoptimistically in my view—believed his relationship with Sarah to be entirely secret. But then again, I knew better than most how quickly secrets vanished once a murder investigation began.

I first asked the professor to confirm for us the details of his relationship with Sarah: how he had met her, and how long he had known her.

“Aye, a bright lass she was,” he said, “I’d never met the like of her, nor will I again. A man at my age is not often so lucky.”

“At what point did your relationship evolve into something more than a professional association?” I asked, and I felt as though I were prying, even