In the Shadow of Gotham Read Online Free PDF

knowledge. And it was the rare person who did not harbor some secret, be it large or small. No one’s life was ever quite what it seemed.
    We became aware from the noises at the back of the house that Joe had brought the others inside. Amid the general uproar, we heard an agitated, querulous voice. “But of course I’m sleeping here tonight! This is my house, and my things are here.”
    Mrs. Wingate, it would seem, strenuously objected to our suggestion that she and her niece spend the night elsewhere. Most people whose homes are invaded by crime—any crime, even a lesser one than this—prefer to spend time away. After a murder, many choose never to return at all. But such emotions were apparently foreign to Mrs. Wingate. Joe carefully placated her in reply: it was “only for one night,” and “wouldn’t she be more comfortable with neighbors after such a harrowing afternoon?” The response was a vehement no, coupled with a firm statement that she intended to sleep in her own bed that night and would not hear otherwise.
    As Abigail Wingate went to reason with her aunt, I bid Joegood night. I had one task still to accomplish in town, and a brief walk in the cold night air would help to restore my senses.
    As I walked beyond the cobblestone driveway and down the hill toward the village, I found myself increasingly disturbed. Despite my assurances to Abigail Wingate, Stella’s disappearance was worrisome, another piece of a mystery that was becoming more puzzling the more we uncovered. It was possible Stella had seen or heard something important, especially since it now appeared she had run away. And so many details of this case were confounding. What was I to make of a braid of hair taken from Sarah’s head for unknown reasons? Or the locket she kept with an unknown man’s picture inside? But it was Sarah Wingate herself who bothered me most. She was an unlikely victim, her aunt’s home an unlikely setting. Why had someone killed her with such ferocity?
    All these unanswered questions so troubled me that even the sight of the Hudson River below, shimmering from the reflection of light from the full moon above, did little to calm the turbulent disorder in my mind.

CHAPTER 3

     
     
    Well past eleven o’clock, I found myself at O’Malley’s having a late dinner with Peter Voyt, the local photographer I had asked to develop the crime-scene pictures. He had agreed to do so immediately, so long as I paid for his dinner afterward. “Come and join me,” he had said, adding, “I daresay you’ve eaten nothing yourself for dinner.”
    It was true, for even had there been time, what I had seen earlier this evening had entirely ruined my appetite. But there was an unrelenting pounding in my head that would not go away unless I ate something, so I agreed. And because it would have been inappropriate not to include my boss, I stopped by the in-town Colonial Joe shared with his wife and found himready and willing to join us. Joe had just eaten a cold dinner, but he was never one to turn down a pint of ale.
    At this late hour, O’Malley’s was uncrowded, with only a handful of men clustered near the bar. It was well past their official dinner hours, but they were always willing to make something from the kitchen for regulars like me, who ate there most nights. I had been told when I first moved to Dobson that, come dinnertime, everyone went to O’Malley’s. By “everyone,” people of course meant unmarried men like myself with little time or inclination to cook for themselves. O’Malley’s food was decent and their comfortable tables made it easy to linger and talk—even when the subject of conversation was as terrible as ours that night.
    Peter, Joe, and I sat at a table by the fireplace where the searing warmth was a comforting reminder that we were safe and alive. As we reviewed the photographs, Joe assured me that more interviews were being done even as we spoke, for the Yonkers police department had assigned