“Mr. Ellsworth didn’t send me,” Sarah reassured her. “I just came to express my condolences,” she lied. “What a terrible tragedy.”

Catherine’s lips tightened, but she didn’t reply.

“Oh, it was that,” the maid offered, setting the teacup down in front of Sarah. She remained standing, probably thinking it too familiar to sit down with Sarah there. “We was just a minute ago saying how awful it was. Miss Blake was so pretty. The gentlemen all liked her, that’s certain.”

“Gentlemen?” Sarah asked, surprised that Anna’s suitors had apparently been numerous. “Did Miss Blake have other gentlemen callers besides Mr. Ellsworth and that fellow who came in just now?”

“She-”

“Hush, Mary,” Catherine snapped, cutting the girl off. Then to Sarah, “She’s just a foolish girl. Don’t know what she’s saying.”

“I do, too,” Mary protested, but fell silent when Catherine glared at her in warning.

“The thing that puzzles me the most,” Sarah continued, wishing now that she’d caught the talkative maid alone. She’d have to come back another time, “is why she was in the Square so late at night. Was she accustomed to going out alone like that?”

“Of course not,” Catherine said defensively. They all knew only a prostitute would have been in the Square alone after dark.

“Then do you know what made her go out that night?”

“No, we don’t know anything,” Catherine insisted. “Mary only works days, so she wasn’t here, and I was asleep. First thing I knew about it is when the police came in the morning to tell us she was dead.”

“The patrolman recognized her,” Mary supplied. “He come to tell the Walcotts.”

“How did the patrolman happen to know her?” Sarah asked.

“He knows all the girls,” Catherine said quickly, before the maid could answer. “Fancies himself a ladies’ man. He’s forever bothering us.”

Sarah made a mental note to have Malloy check this out. Maybe Anna Blake had come to the notice of the police in a less ordinary way. “It’s fortunate he knew her. Her body might have gone unclaimed otherwise.”

“Oh, Mrs. Walcott would’ve been looking for her if she didn’t come home,” Mary said. “She wasn’t one to let her boarders go disappearing without a trace. All her clothes was here, too, so we’d know she didn’t just run away, wouldn’t we?”

Catherine gave the maid an impatient glance. Plainly, she was afraid the girl was going to say something she didn’t want Sarah to hear. For her part, Sarah was determined to find out what that might be.

“How long did you know Miss Blake?” Sarah asked Catherine.

Catherine considered her answer before giving it. “A few months.”

“You met her when she moved in here, then?” Sarah guessed.

“No, when I did. She was already here.”

“I thought she hadn’t lived here long herself.”

“She was here when I came,” Catherine said, not really answering the implied question.

“Didn’t you two know each other before?” Mary asked and was silenced by another dark look from Catherine.

Yes, Sarah really would have to come back when the maid was alone. “I certainly hope this tragedy won’t frighten your friends away, Miss Porter,” Sarah tried.

As she had hoped, this got a rise out of her. “What do you mean by that?”

Sarah shrugged. “I simply meant that people who normally call here might be concerned about the notoriety. The newspapers haven’t been kind to poor Mr. Ellsworth. Few people would want to risk being associated with a scandal like this.”

“Oh, Miss Porter’s gentlemen would never-” Mary began, but Catherine cut her off with a murderous glare. How interesting. Miss Porter had numerous callers, too.

“They’ve put Mr. Ellsworth in jail now,” Catherine said. “We won’t be hearing anything more about it.”

“Oh, Mr. Ellsworth wasn’t arrested,” Sarah corrected her. “He was allowed to go home last night. The police don’t believe he’s guilty.” This wasn’t exactly a lie. Malloy, at least, didn’t think he was guilty.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Catherine asked in dismay. “Who else could’ve done it?”

“Anyone,” Sarah pointed out. “At that time of night, she might have been murdered just for the few coins in her purse.”

“But she didn’t even have her purse with her,” Mary supplied helpfully. “It’s still up in her room.”

“Mary,” Catherine snapped. “Don’t you have work to do upstairs?”

“I ain’t going up there until that policeman leaves,” Mary said. “I don’t want him putting me in jail!”

“Oh, Mary, at least act like you’ve got good sense!” Catherine said in exasperation.

“I can’t be nothing else but what I am,” Mary replied huffily. “I ain’t no stage actress like you.”

Furious, Catherine made as if to rise from her chair, and Sarah didn’t want to see where that might lead. “Are you an actress?” she asked quickly, drawing Catherine’s attention from the poor maid. “Would I have seen you in anything?”

As Sarah had hoped, she sank back down into her chair. “I did a little musical theater,” she admitted reluctantly, still glaring at Mary, daring her to say another word. “But that was a long time ago.”

When she was truly the young girl she pretended to be, Sarah thought, but she said, “How exciting. I always thought it would be fun to be in the theater.”

“It isn’t,” Catherine said. Sarah thought she detected bitterness in the words.

She wanted to pursue this topic, but footsteps in the hallway distracted them, and then Mr. Walcott appeared in the doorway.

“Mrs. Brandt,” he said, taking in the scene with disapproval. “I was afraid you’d gotten lost.”

“Not at all. I was just telling Miss Porter how sorry I am about her friend.”

Mr. Walcott exchanged a glance with Catherine, but Sarah couldn’t decipher the silent message that passed between them. “That detective was asking after you, Mrs. Brandt,” he said. “I believe he wanted to escort you home.”

Sarah knew perfectly well Malloy had no such intention, but they did need to compare notes. She would have liked to stay and question the women some more, but she’d have to come back when they weren’t together if she hoped to get any more information.

“Thank you for the tea,” Sarah said to Mary, then turned to Catherine. “Please let me know if I can do anything for you.” She pulled out her card and laid it on the table. Catherine Porter didn’t even glance at it. She was too busy watching Mr. Walcott.

“After you, Mrs. Brandt,” Walcott said, with a flourish that was an oddly effeminate gesture. The eyes that glared at her were hardly effeminate, though. She’d seen that expression before and knew better than to waste her time resisting. Mr. Walcott wanted her out of his house, and he wasn’t going to be distracted from his purpose. She preceded him down the hallway.

At least she had a little new information for Malloy. She only hoped it would help them find Anna Blake’s real killer.