A New York Christmas by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online

friend? She decided it was worth a try, and knocked on the scratched wooden door.
    There was no answer. Actually, it was not completely shut. She gave it a push and it swung wider.
    There was a slight rustling sound from inside.
    “Mr. Albright?” Jemima called. She would have said “Mrs. Cardew,” but she was not certain if that was the name Maria still used!
    Again there was no answer, just a faint swish of movement, like the fabric of a long skirt over the floor.
    She would have to use some name.
    “Mrs. Cardew?” She tried again.
    Nothing but the swish of fabric on the floor again. This was absurd. The door was unfastened; there must be someone inside. Jemima pushed the door open the rest of the way and went in, calling again for Mrs. Cardew.
    The sitting room was pleasantly furnished but very shabby. One of the windows was open and a curtain blew in the wind, making a slight noise as it moved over the carpet and settled back. That was the sound she had heard.
    She stared around her. There were plenty of signs of occupation: a number of books on the shelves, a bag with knitting needles and wool sitting neatly by one of the armchairs, a handmade rug for the knees folded up but within easy reach.
    Another door was open and she could see that it ledto a tiny kitchen. Anyone inside would have been visible.
    “Mrs. Cardew!” she called again, going to the door on the opposite side. She knocked on it and waited, then tried the handle. What could she possibly say in explanation if she intruded into someone’s bedroom and found them there? She had no earthly excuse.
    And yet she did it.
    She saw the woman immediately. The bedroom was small and neat, with two single beds in it. One was neatly made and empty, as if it were not used. On the other a woman lay motionless. The skin of her face was bleached almost gray and her dark hair, streaked with white, was loose and tangled as if she had been moving restlessly only a short while ago. One thin, blue-veined hand rested on the covers.
    Jemima felt a shock of grief. She knew the woman was dead, but what struck her most strongly was the difference between this half-sunken face, the life fled from it, and the one she had seen only yesterday, staring up at the snow-laden trees with such joy.
    She stood looking at the woman until she heard a sound behind her and swung around, her throat tight with fear.
    “Miss Pitt?” Harley’s voice broke the trance. “Are you in here? A boy downstairs said he saw you …”
    Harley appeared and relief overwhelmed her, then vanished again like a huge wave sucking back into itself.
    “I think she’s dead,” she whispered. “Poor soul …”
    “What!” Harley walked rapidly over to the bed and put his fingers to the skin of the woman’s neck. He looked across at Jemima. “Yes, she is, but she is still warm. It can’t have been long. Maybe only a few minutes.”
    She was amazed. “Just a few minutes? If we’d come sooner …”
    Harley pulled the covers away from the woman’s chin and shoulders. Suddenly all Jemima could see was scarlet blood, wide-spreading, wet, from a heart only just stopped beating. Dizziness overtook her and she had to fight to keep from fainting.
    “We had better call the police,” Harley said grimly, his voice catching in his throat. “It was not a natural death. She’s been stabbed.”
    Jemima nodded. She tried to speak but no sound came.
    “Come,” Harley ordered. “There’s nothing you can do for her now.”
    Jemima coughed and cleared her throat. “Is it … is it Maria Cardew? She looks so ill!”
    “Yes, it’s her. Come. We must go and call the police.” He held out his hand and obediently she stumbled the few steps to reach him. He gripped her firmly and guided her to the door and out into the passageway. Almost as if it were an afterthought, he pulled the door closed, but she did not hear the latch turn.
    They reached the bottom of the stairs and there was no one in sight. Harley went