Authors: Victoria Thompson

Murder on Waverly Place (25 page)

BOOK: Murder on Waverly Place

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Cunningham needed a few seconds to comprehend the sudden change of topic. “Yes, I already told you that,” he replied, suddenly wary.

“And if everybody was holding somebody’s hands, then none of them could have stabbed Mrs. Gittings.”

Cunningham waited, still not sure what Frank was getting at.

“But isn’t there a way that somebody could get one of his hands free?”

“What do you mean?” The color had faded from his face again.

“I mean there’s a trick that some spiritualists use. They get up to turn out the lights, for instance, and when they sit back down, they keep one hand free.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he lied.

“Yes, you do,” Frank said. “Madame Serafina told me you do.”

His eyes widened again. “Why would she tell you that?”

“Because she wants me to think you killed Mrs. Gittings.”

“No, she doesn’t!” he cried. “I don’t believe it!”

“You don’t?” Frank asked with interest. “Then why did she also tell me that you could have managed to keep
both
your hands free that day so you could get up out of your chair and walk around to where Mrs. Gittings was sitting and stick a knife into her.”

“That’s impossible!” he nearly shouted, lunging to his feet. Instantly, he grabbed his head and sank back down into the chair, clutching it. Frank truly enjoyed questioning someone with a hangover. He hardly had to exert himself at all.

“What’s impossible? That you did it or that she told me about it?”

“All of it,” he mumbled, wincing with pain. “Why would she say a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said, pretending to try to figure it out. “Maybe she’s mad at you for something.”

“Why would she be mad at me?” he asked, looking up.

“I’m going to guess it has something to do with the mistress business.”

“But she wouldn’t do that,” he protested. “She’s . . . she’s . . .”

“What?” Frank asked, truly interested in the answer.

“She’s not like other women! She doesn’t care about money. She doesn’t even know how beautiful she is!”

Frank doubted that, but he didn’t say so. “Tell me everything that happened that day at the séance. Start at the beginning.”

“Why?” he asked, looking totally miserable.

“Because I need to know if this Italian boy could have done it. When did you arrive?”

He looked as if he could have cheerfully strangled Frank, but he said, “I don’t know what time it was. Everyone was already there when I arrived.”

“Who opened the door for you?”

“The Professor. He always does.”

“Then what happened?”

Cunningham glared at him for a long moment, and Frank couldn’t tell if he was just annoyed or if he couldn’t remember. Finally, he said. “I went into the parlor, where everyone was waiting.”

“Did you talk to anybody?”

“Yes . . . I think so. I’m sure I said hello to everyone, at least.”

“Who came to take all of you into the séance room?”

“Madame came. She always does.”

“Was she alone?”

“What do you mean? Of course she was alone.”

“Didn’t the Professor usually come with her?”

“I don’t know. I never paid any attention.”

Frank nodded, making a note of that. “Then what happened?”

“We went into the séance room and sat down.”

“How do you decide where to sit at the table?”

“Madame tells us.”

This was something new. Frank managed not to let his interest show. “So you never knew where you’d be sitting?”

“No, we sat in different places, depending on what Madame was sensing about us on that day.”

Which meant that the killer couldn’t have known he or she would be sitting in a convenient place to stab Mrs. Gittings.

But Madame Serafina could place a killer next to her if she wanted to.

“What happened after you all sat down?”

“Madame talked to us. She said she sensed great unease, lots of anger.”

“Does she usually talk to you like that before she starts?”

“Yes.”

“Then what did she do?”

“She told us to hold hands, then she got up and turned out the light and closed the door.”

“What were you doing while she did this?”

He looked startled by the question. “Nothing. I was just sitting there.”

“That’s not what Mrs. Decker said.”

Cunningham looked confused. “What did she say?”

“She said you started coughing and then you let go of her hand. She said you didn’t take hold of it again until the room was dark and Madame Serafina had returned to the table.”

“I don’t remember,” he lied. “But if she said so, I guess it must be true.”

“Why were you coughing?” Frank asked.

“What do you mean?” he asked indignantly. “How should I know why I was coughing?”

“Do you cough a lot? I haven’t heard you cough since I’ve been here.”

“No, I don’t cough a lot. What does it matter if I coughed or not?”

“It matters because you let go of Mrs. Decker’s hand, or rather, you made her let go of your wrist until the lights were out and she couldn’t see whose wrist she was holding.”

“What are you trying to say?” Cunningham demanded.

“I’m trying to say that you could have put your hands in your lap after the room was dark and let Mrs. Decker take Madame Serafina’s wrist, thinking it was yours. Then you could have waited until everyone was busy trying to talk to the spirits and gotten out of your chair and stabbed Mrs. Gittings with no one the wiser.”

“That’s ridiculous!” he cried, outraged. “Why would I want to kill her?”

“Because if she was dead, you wouldn’t have to pay her any money to get Madame Serafina to become your mistress.”

He exploded out of his chair again, but that was a mistake. He sank back down, clutching it with both hands again. “Damn you!” he whispered savagely. “I didn’t kill that bitch!”

Frank let that pass. “When did you first realize something was wrong with Mrs. Gittings?”

He glared at Frank through narrowed eyes, suspicious again. “When Mrs. Burke started screaming.”

“You were the first one to notice she’d been stabbed, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know. Everything happened so fast. I just remember seeing the knife handle sticking out of her back.”

“Did you notice anyone else in the room except the people sitting around the table?”

“Anyone else? You mean another person?”

“Yes, another person.”

“No, of course not,” he snapped.

“What about the Professor? Didn’t he come in when Madame Serafina called him?”

He frowned, trying to remember. “I guess so. He was by the door when we all started out.”

“And you never saw the Italian boy?”

“I’ve never seen an Italian boy at the house at all,” he said crossly. “Where did he come from?”

“He’s a friend of Madame Serafina’s,” Frank said with just a slight emphasis on
friend.

“What does that mean?”

“That means that they’ve known each other for a long time.”

“Then he must be the one who killed Mrs. Gittings.” He seemed relieved by the thought.

“That’s what the Professor thinks.”

“He should know, then. All
I
know is that no one at the séance could have done it.”

The door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Cunningham bustled in. “What is going on in here? I can’t imagine what could be taking so long.”

“Nothing, Mother. Mr. Malloy is finished,” he added with a note of triumph. Frank wouldn’t dare browbeat him anymore in front of his mother.

Frank rose to his feet. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Cunningham,” he said politely and gave Mrs. Cunningham a slight nod.

“What will happen now?” Cunningham asked quickly, then glanced apprehensively at his mother. Plainly, he didn’t want Frank to say anything about Serafina in front of her.

“I’ll keep looking for this Italian boy,” Frank said. “If I need your help again, I’ll let you know.”

“What about . . . ?” He glanced at his mother again. “About that young lady you mentioned? Will she be all right?”

“I’m sure she will be,” Frank said, taking perverse pleasure in torturing Cunningham.

“If she needs anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?” This time he didn’t look at his mother.

“Of course,” Frank said.

“The girl will see you out,” Mrs. Cunningham said, putting an end to their cryptic conversation.

The maid was waiting for him at the door, and she ushered him to the front door. As he left the room, he could hear Mrs. Cunningham saying, “I hope this young lady you spoke of isn’t taking advantage of you.”

Frank smiled to himself as the maid escorted him out onto the front stoop, closing the door behind him with an air of finality.

Alone again, Frank shook his head. The more he found out, the more it looked like Nicola was the only one who really could have killed Mrs. Gittings. He hoped Sarah was having better luck today than he was.

S
ARAH AND HER MOTHER STARED AT MRS. BURKE IN stunned silence for a moment before Mrs. Burke recalled herself. “Oh, I didn’t mean that, not really,” she stammered. “I mean . . . no one really deserves to die. Well, perhaps some people do, but surely not Mrs. Gittings.”

“I know you didn’t mean that, dear,” Mrs. Decker said, after a glance to see if Sarah was as shocked as she. “But I never would have dreamed she was such a terrible person. She seemed . . . I don’t know, nondescript at best.”

“You didn’t know her as I did,” Mrs. Burke said, pursing her lips in distaste.

“Obviously not. But now I understand why you seemed so anxious that day.”

“Mrs. Burke, had Mrs. Gittings threatened you?” Sarah asked.

She looked up in surprise. She’d probably forgotten Sarah was there. “Threatened me? What do you mean?”

“Had she threatened to tell Mr. Burke about your visits to Madame Serafina? Or maybe she threatened that if you didn’t give her more money, she wouldn’t let you come back to see Madame Serafina again.”

“She did both of those things,” Mrs. Burke said in despair. “I was at my wit’s end!”

“And then Madame Serafina told you to sell the diamond brooch your mother had given you,” Sarah tried.

Mrs. Burke’s eyes widened. “No, no, she did no such thing!”

“But I heard her, at the séance I attended,” Sarah insisted.

“Not Madame Serafina,” Mrs. Burke protested. “She didn’t tell me to do anything. It was the spirits! They told me to sell it, but I couldn’t! It was all I had left to remember my mother.”

“But wasn’t it your mother’s spirit who told you to sell it?” Mrs. Decker recalled.

“I know, but I still couldn’t bear to do it, and there was nothing left that Harry wouldn’t have noticed was missing. I didn’t know what to do.” She began to weep softly into her handkerchief.

“Mrs. Burke,” Sarah said sharply.

Mrs. Burke’s head snapped up, her moist eyes wide again and full of apprehension. “Yes?”

“That day when Mrs. Gittings died, when did you notice something was wrong with her?”

“Oh, dear,” she said with a delicate shudder. “I shall never forget feeling her falling against me. I dream about it and wake up screaming—”

“Did you notice anything unusual
before
that?” Sarah said, jerking her attention back. “Did she make any sound? Or maybe she squeezed your hand or something.”

“I was holding her wrist, so she couldn’t have squeezed my hand,” she reminded them both. “I think I felt her arm jerk a bit at one point, but I can’t be sure. People do move around during the séances, you know, even when nothing terrible is happening to them.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Decker agreed, nodding encouragingly. “But she didn’t make any noises?”

“None that I noticed. I was listening to what Yellow Feather was saying, though, so I might not have heard.” She seemed to have recovered from her fit of weeping.

“Did you sense anyone moving around in the room?” Sarah asked. “Maybe you thought it was a spirit.”

“I don’t know,” she said with a worried frown. “Everyone was talking at once, and with that horrible screeching noise, I couldn’t understand anything.”

Ah, yes, Nicola’s violin. “Mother, did you sense anyone moving around in the room?” Sarah suddenly thought to ask.

Mrs. Decker thought for a moment. “I’m really not sure. If someone was very quiet, I don’t think anyone would have noticed them, with all that was going on.”

“But who could have been moving around?” Mrs. Burke asked plaintively.

“The person who killed Mrs. Gittings,” Mrs. Decker said.

Mrs. Burke’s eyes widened again, and the little color left in her face drained away. “Oh, dear.”

“Of course, we don’t
know
that anyone was walking around,” Mrs. Decker hastened to explain. “But the Professor seems to think the killer was a boy who worked at the house.”

“He does?” Mrs. Burke asked, perking up a bit. “Why does he think that?”

“Because they had an argument the night before, and Mrs. Gittings tried to fire him.”

“She was a terrible woman,” Mrs. Burke reminded them. “But if they had an argument, why didn’t she fire him?”

“Madame Serafina threatened to leave with him,” Sarah said.

“Why would she do that?”

“They were childhood friends,” Mrs. Decker quickly explained, giving Sarah a warning glance. It wouldn’t do to create doubts about Madame Serafina’s character.

“She’d had an argument with the Professor, too,” Mrs. Burke said.

Sarah and her mother looked at her in surprise. “Madame Serafina had a fight with the Professor?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Burke hastened to explain. “At least, not that I know of. I meant Mrs. Gittings had an argument with him.”

BOOK: Murder on Waverly Place

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