In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,47
you are quite close with your niece Sarah. She visits you often?” I was careful to phrase the question in the present tense, in deference to Abigail’s request.
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Wingate nodded primly. “Sarah is a devoted niece. She never misses a birthday or holiday. And she often visits to take advantage of the peace and quiet available here, as she did this past weekend.”
I watched her intently, observing her eyes. They were clear blue and watery, but unflinching as they met my own. I observed no sign of self-conscious pretense, and I began to realize Abigail Wingate was right: Some trick of the mind was working in a strange way to protect the elder Mrs. Wingate from the disturbing truth about her niece that she could not—or would not—face.
“During her visit this past weekend, did she seem upset or worried by anything?”
Mrs. Wingate pursed her thin lips, and then turned to Abigail. “Abby, would you say Sarah was out of sorts?”
“No,” Abigail said. “She seemed a little tired, that was all.”
“Mrs. Wingate, when did you last see Sarah?”
“Lunchtime Tuesday,” she said. Her tone was crisp, even tart. “Then she went to do her own work, and I did, too.”
“And Stella was helping you all afternoon?”
She nodded. Joe had remained uncharacteristically quiet, but now he broke into the conversation and asked Abigail to accompany him during a search of Stella’s room. I was happy to see Abigail leave, however briefly, for I believed her anxious presence was making my interview with Mrs. Wingate more difficult. Once Abigail no longer fiercely hovered over her, Mrs. Wingate visibly relaxed.
“Would you care for some tea, Detective?” After I accepted, she rang the bell beside her chair and a heavyset, ruddy-faced woman appeared. I recognized her as Maud Muncie, their house keeper. Mrs. Wingate asked, “Maud, would you be so kind as to bring two cups of tea? And some scones, if we’ve any left.”
I pulled out my notebook and pencil. “I understand Stella has been working for you since August?”
“That’s right,” she replied.
“Does she have friends or family in the area that you are aware of?”
Her answer took me by surprise with its bluntness. “Why is that any of your business?”
“Because I need information if you want me to investigate her disappearance.” My response was equally sharp, for I was not accustomed to being openly challenged.
“You’re right.” She sighed wearily. “I apologize. I am tremendously concerned.” Her voice grew high-pitched. “Stella just went away,” she said, leaning in toward me. “We were working together in the garden when she got up suddenly and ran toward the house. I didn’t know why, and she never came back. I haven’t seen her since.”
“When was this?” I asked, as I tried to integrate this information into the timeline.
“It was around half past three,” she replied.
“Is that a guess, or are you certain?”
“I am certain.” Her response was firm. “I had checked my watch at a quarter past three, and this was some minutes later. I was keeping my eye on the time because I wanted to finish my gardening well before four o’clock so I would have ample time to dress for dinner.”
My thoughts raced through the many different interview reports I had read, as well as Abigail Wingate’s own statement to me. Many people in the area had reported hearing a loud sound around half past three. A loon, Abigail had said—though there were no loons in these parts. An owl, Mr. Dreyer across the street had said. A strange screech, the Braithwaites had described it. Could it have been Sarah screaming? Put into context with our timeline, it made perfect sense, for Sarah was last seen by Abigail Wingate around three o’clock. It was important because it placed Sarah’s killer firmly in the house at three-thirty. So if Stella had left Mrs. Wingate at that time, then it was probable she had seen—and possibly even confronted—Sarah’s murderer.
I asked her to clarify. “And you haven’t seen Stella since?”
“No,” she replied.
“Yet, at the time, you were not concerned enough to check on her?”
“Of course I was,” she said. “I went in after her, when she did not return after several minutes. But the moment I entered the kitchen, Abby began insisting I call Dr. Fields. Dr. Fields, mind you! I am usually attended by Dr. Whittier. But Abby insisted it had to be Dr. Fields—and then she fainted dead away. Between trying to revive her and reach Dr. Fields by telephone, I had my hands full.”