disappearance by visiting Mamie Durant’s place of business. The Wingates were anxious about her, and I believed it was possible—probable, in fact—that Stella had witnessed something that would help break open this investigation. I stopped by Columbia first in the hope I would find Alistair there, but he was not. Undeterred, I decided to take the subway downtown alone. It was still early enough in the day that I should find Mrs. Durant unoccupied and her place relatively quiet.
I had just reached the 116th Street station, about to descend underground, when I heard Isabella’s voice calling to me. I was so pleased to see her that, before I quite realized it, she had determined to accompany me on this particular interview. I immediately regretted the situation, but it was too late: She was already seated beside me on the subway, talking excitedly about what she had managed to discover from some of Sarah’s classmates. Together with Alistair, she had interviewed Lonny Moore briefly; he was the student who had lodged the complaint that Sarah’s work was not her own. “But he has an alibi for the time of Sarah’s murder,” Isabella explained, “at least to the extent we can trust the word of his friend John Nelson.”
“How good of a friend?” I asked.
“Apparently a close, longtime friend,” she said, her voice flat.
I would find that fact more worrisome if Lonny Moore were our likeliest suspect. But it seemed a far more dangerous killer was still at large—a killer I hoped Mamie Durant could help us locate.
After we exited the subway, I saw a solution to my dilemma with Isabella in the form of the Rismont Tea Room. Isabella might wait there during my visit to Mamie Durant. While unaccompanied women could not dine alone in restaurants—in fact, they were routinely asked to leave should they enter—they were welcomed at the city’s many tearooms, which catered to women out shopping. Yet when I proposed this idea to Isabella, she would have none of it.
“Don’t be ridiculous—of course I’m coming with you. You didn’t object before,” she reminded me, her brown eyes flashing.
“Yes, but I’ve thought it over, and it isn’t quite proper for me to take you,” I said. “It’s not the sort of place a lady should visit—especially accompanied by a man with whom you have just become acquainted.” My voice was stiff and forced, betraying my awkwardness.
She merely laughed. “I am not going to sit in some tea house while you do this, Simon,” she said.
It was the first time she had used my given name—and she had done so without thinking. It was an odd sensation, for it had been months since anyone else had done so. Not since first Hannah, then my mother had died.
With some effort, I refocused my attention on Isabella, who was continuing with her argument.
“I’m no longer an eighteen-year-old debutante worried what others may think, and I have every intention of accompanying you on what may well be your most interesting interview to date. Remember,” she added more gently, “I am exposed to far worse through Alistair’s research than the woman we will be meeting today.”
“But you may feel uncomfortable,” I added feebly, thinking mainly of my own discomfort, “and you should consider your reputation.”
“Simon, I will be perfectly comfortable and my reputation will survive.” She touched my arm lightly. “I do not count those who would hold such things against me among my friends.”
And so it was settled, much against my own better judgment.
The door to the limestone town house on West Thirty-eighth Street looked like any other on the street: heavy wood with a burnished brass knocker. It was answered only moments after we knocked by a girl of no more than thirteen or fourteen, wearing a black dress and white apron. It was probably standard policy that visitors should not be made to stand for very long on the stoop outside where they might be recognized. But immediately on the other side of the wooden door was a large entry hall leading to another door, this next one made of imposing steel. It had no exterior handle, but three heavy-duty locks lined the door’s edge. Unwanted visitors would clearly have a difficult time gaining admittance.
At the center of the door was an opening that resembled a mail slot. The maid explained we should submit a note explaining the purpose of our visit. I paused, pencil in hand. “Police Investigation” seemed unlikely to gain us admittance. I settled on: “We represent