9. Estelle

9

Estelle

M rs. Bancroft stood in the doorway of the sitting room, her complexion ashen and her hands trembling. I rushed to her and drew her over to the sofa, encouraging her to sit.

"I've heard from Percy."

I waited, holding my breath.

"They found Mary's body. She froze to death and was then attacked by some kind of wild animal. Or at least, that's their initial conclusion."

I held on to the back of a chair, afraid I might faint, as black dots danced before my eyes. "The poor woman," I whispered. "Who would do this?"

"I have to believe it was an accident," Mrs. Bancroft said. "She wandered outside for whatever reason her addled brain would give her and got lost. With the weather as it is, it wouldn't take long for her to freeze to death."

"How will we ever know?"

"The police are doing a thorough investigation. Percy said to expect them to come by tonight or tomorrow to question us."

"I don't know what to say. Or think."

"Me either," Mrs. Bancroft said. "I have to tell Clara."

"Not yet. Not until Percival returns."

"Yes, yes. It can wait, I suppose."

"May I get you something?" I asked.

"A sherry, please."

My own hands shook as I poured us each a small glass and returned to the sitting area in front of the fire.

No sooner had we settled in than Robert announced a visitor. "It's Mr. Price, ma'am. Shall I show him in?"

"Yes, please," Mrs. Bancroft said, her gaze darting toward me.

Simon appeared, looking frazzled and grief-stricken, with red eyes and wild hair, as if he'd spent the last hour running his hands through the dark strands.

"Simon?" Mrs. Bancroft got to her feet. "I suppose by the look on your face, I can assume you've heard."

"Yes, the police questioned me. I came right over afterward."

"May I get you a drink?" I asked.

He scowled at me. "I'll get my own."

"Allow me, sir," Robert said.

He knew how to blend into the scenery so well that I'd forgotten he was there.

"What did they want from you?" Mrs. Bancroft asked after Simon had sat and taken what appeared to be a fortifying drink of his whiskey.

"They asked me a lot of questions about my whereabouts yesterday." He took another drink. "This is unthinkable." Tears filled his eyes, and despite our differences, I felt terribly sorry for him.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Truly."

He glared at me through narrowed eyes. "Did you have anything to do with this? Was it you? Don't deny this gives you what you want."

I felt the color drain from my face. "I would never do another person harm if I could help it. Anyway, I was here all day and night with Mrs. Bancroft and Percival. The staff can tell you that it's so."

He stared at me for a while longer and then shrugged, as if I didn't matter enough to acknowledge. I knew better. Inside, he seethed with anger.

"Stella had nothing to do with this…unfortunate tragedy," Mrs. Bancroft said.

"If you say so," Simon said, bitterness dripping from his mouth like coffee left on the stove too long.

"What did the police ask you?" Mrs. Bancroft asked.

"They wanted to know why I was there yesterday and what time I left and on and on. I was on the train home when she supposedly disappeared and had a ticket to prove it. For now, they let me go. But, Miss Sullivan, they know everything that happened between our two families. They implied that this may be related to my father's involvement in organized crime."

"As in, revenge from a warring family?" Mrs. Bancroft asked, sitting forward slightly.

"Something like that." Simon got up and went to the liquor cabinet to pour himself another drink. "They told me not to leave the country until they're further along in their investigation. I'm afraid Sullivan's going to kill me, and the cops may jail me."

"You must stay here with us," Mrs. Bancroft said. "We'll keep you safe."

"I don't have much choice. Not with Sullivan's thugs and the cops suspecting I killed my own sister." His voice cracked, and he dropped his face into his hands.

"What if they're right?" I asked. "What if this does have something to do with our families' rivalries? My father's vengeful. He might have done this to further punish you." I hated to say out loud the words that I feared were the truth, but it had to be said. I'd learned my lessons about lies. It was better to say the truth than hide within your lies. Eventually, they always came to light.

"Is your father really so cruel?" Mrs. Bancroft asked.

"That's been proven," Simon said.

"I have to agree with you." I kept my voice matter-of-fact. The less emotion I showed Simon, who still felt very much my enemy, the better.

Mrs. Bancroft nodded and then seemed to speak her thoughts out loud as they came to her. "They appear to have taken more interest in this than they typically would—that is, for a mental patient to freeze to death in the woods not far from her asylum's grounds wouldn't normally get this much attention."

"You're right," Simon said. "No one cares about the poor souls trapped in that place."

"Given that, it would make sense they think it's related to your fathers," Mrs. Bancroft said.

"Was this supposed to be a message to me?" Simon asked.

"One my father thought the authorities wouldn't care about?" I asked, also speaking my thoughts as they entered my mind. "Less likely to gather attention but a sure way to let us know he's out there, controlling us. Sending clear instructions to stay out of his business.

"Simon, he threatened Percival and had Clara and me followed. Maybe he thought it wasn't enough to get your attention and decided to kill your sister." By the time I finished this thought, tears leaked from my eyes. How could my father have done such a thing? We'd all gotten the message. Simon was supposed to leave for Europe tomorrow.

What had I told my father? Had I somehow given him information that helped in his decision?

Robert came in then to tell us the police detectives were here. Mrs. Bancroft and I immediately rose to our feet. "Show them into the study," she said to Robert.

"Yes ma'am."

"Simon, go up to the guest room and wait for them to leave," Mrs. Bancroft said. "There's no reason they need to know you're here."

For once, he did as suggested.

It was only one detective who waited for Mrs. Bancroft and me in the study. Tall and lanky, with a head that brought to mind a watermelon, he was named Forsyth.

He greeted us politely and then asked Mrs. Bancroft if he might speak to me alone. She gave my hand a reassuring squeeze before leaving us.

"Please sit," Forsyth said. "I have a few questions for you. Shouldn't take long."

"I'm here to help."

"How long have you known the Bancrofts?"

"Since last fall. I was unwell, and they were kind enough to take me in."

"Is Percival Bancroft a benefactor or your lover?" He asked this in a calm, almost soothing voice that normally would lull me into a sleepy state. However, I was much too nervous to be lulled into anything.

"He's only my benefactor," I said. "After all, he's a married man. He takes care of me out of the kindness of his heart."

"He puts you up in an apartment simply because he's kind?" The detective, as mild-mannered as he appeared, had a gaze that could fell a large tree with its intensity.

I sighed, having grown tired of this question. "That's correct." I went on to explain that I helped Mrs. Bancroft with her work. "After she nursed me back to health, that is."

"A woman such as yourself, devoting hours to the poor—it's somewhat unusual, is it not?"

"I was only too happy to do something useful with my time."

The usual questions followed. Where was I yesterday and so forth. I detailed the time in question without hesitation. He scribbled it into a small notebook with a pencil.

Forsyth looked up from his writing to say, "One of the employees at the asylum has confessed to seeing Mrs. Bancroft—that is, Mary Bancroft—in the company of a woman he didn't recognize just minutes before her disappearance. He was outside having a cigarette instead of keeping watch at the door. Before he knew it, she'd vanished. As had the woman with her. He couldn't see the woman's face, given she wore a large-brimmed hat and scarf."

"Was she wearing a coat?" I don't know what made me ask such a question, but it fell out of my mouth.

Forsyth flipped through his notes, clearly taken during another interview. "Yes. The employee believes the coat was an ordinary brown, with a matching hat. The scarf was purple." His brow wrinkled. "Or rather, lavender, to be more precise."

"That is very specific."

"Does it bring to mind anything or anyone?" Forsyth asked. "As in, do you know anyone who wears a lavender scarf?"

"I can't say that I do. However, my circles are rather small these days."

"What do you mean?"

"Other than the Bancrofts, I have little social activity. My family and I no longer…speak." That was the best way to say it.

"What do you mean? You're estranged?"

"Correct." I peered at him, curious about what he knew. Was he feigning ignorance? How much did he know about my father's business affairs? Or should I say, criminal affairs.

"Miss Sullivan, it would be best if you told me the truth in plain terms. Why are you no longer welcome in your father's home?"

"After the death of my fiancé and my subsequent…you know…condition, he didn't want anything to do with me."

He looked at me blankly. "Condition?"

Ah, he did not know about the baby. Should I tell him? It wasn't relevant to the murder of Mary Price Bancroft. May she rest in peace. Was she at peace now? I certainly hoped so.

Forsyth cleared his throat. "Miss Sullivan, my apologies for being blunt, but I need you to focus on my questions."

I startled, as if pulled from a trance. "Yes, I'm sorry."

"In addition, I need you to tell me everything. If I think you're hiding something, then it only strengthens my suspicions."

Suspicions. How could he think I would ever hurt anyone? Wasn't it obvious? "What do you want to know?"

"Your condition—to what do you refer?"

"I was pregnant." My mother would have cringed at the term. In polite circles, she always told us one should refer to it as "with child." All I knew was that my child was no longer with me.

God bless the detective. He had the decency to flush. So, he didn't know everything.

"My fiancé was killed right before he could propose. By then, I was already pregnant. My father and mother didn't take kindly to the shame I would bring to the family should it come out that I was to have a child out of wedlock. Thus, my sister and her husband agreed to take the baby. A little girl." I paused to swallow the lump that developed in the back of my throat.

"Are you aware of the ties your father has to organized crime?"

"Is that why you're so interested in Mary Bancroft's death?" It was my turn to be blunt. "Are you using it as a means to my father?"

"Why would you ask such a thing? Are they related?"

"I have no idea. What I do know is that my father's ties, as you so subtly put it, destroyed our family. My sister and her husband wanted nothing to do with his ways and moved far away."

"Why move?"

I stared at him, trying to decipher if he had an inkling that my father had killed Connie. What exactly did the police know? How many of them were in his pocket?

"My father wanted both my fiancé and Pierre to work for him. Neither wanted to. We suspect that Connie threatened to expose him by going to the police. Thus, Pierre didn't feel confident he could refuse without suffering the consequences."

Forsyth blinked, then cocked his head to the right. "Consequences. Are you saying you think your father ordered a hit on your fiancé?"

Despite everything, the idea of betraying my father seemed impossible. Remember the grief and rage , I reminded myself. He took everything from me. My love, my baby. He'd allowed me to nearly perish on the streets of New York City while he entertained his mobster friends and spent time with his mistress.

"It is my belief that my father's responsible for Constantine Harris's death." There, I said it. "I have no proof, nor does anyone else. Except for Mary Bancroft." Oh, my goodness. I hadn't connected that fact until this very moment. "She witnessed her father's killing and went mad not a month later. Simon Price, whom I gather you've already spoken to, believes the shock and grief of it all contributed greatly to her demise, in addition to giving birth. The psychosis appeared shortly after having Clara. She became violent, as I'm sure you know."

"Yes, ma'am."

I'd said too much. I could see it in his eyes. He'd come to a conclusion, false though it may be. I'd killed Mary Bancroft so that I could have her husband all to myself.

"I would never hurt anyone," I said softly. "Not after what I've been through. I'd never betray the people who have taken me in and treated me like family. You may think that Percival and I are intimate, but you're wrong."

"Forgive me if I find that hard to believe. It's rarely the case that people do the moral thing."

"You may think that, given your line of work, but that doesn't mean it's true. People, for the most part, are decent."

"You may be correct. But whether it's true of you and Dr. Bancroft has yet to be seen."

He said I could go and to send Mrs. Bancroft in to speak with him next. I agreed, leaving the room on legs that felt weak and wobbly and a stomach that churned with nerves.