In the Shadow of Gotham by Stefanie Pintoff

dedicated to her research to risk something like that. I’m sure any relationship was entirely proper, but it was something she nonetheless kept secret.”
    I drew the locket out of my pocket. “Have you ever noticed Sarah wearing this?” I asked, handing it to her. She studied it, murmured, “No,” and then slowly opened it. She appeared mesmerized by the two photographs inside.
    “Do you know who the man is?”
    “No,” she answered, wide-eyed, “I’ve never seen him—or this picture of Sarah.”
    “Not even as a larger print?” I wanted to make sure.
    She shook her head.
    “What about this man?” I pulled out a small photograph of Michael Fromley that Alistair had given me for such purposes. My fingers fumbled awkwardly, for I had double-wrapped the picture inside an envelope.
    She paused a moment as if to say something, then shook her head. “I’ve never seen him. He is closer to her age, though; perhaps he is her secret beau at Princeton?”
    “I don’t think so,” I said as I returned Fromley’s photograph to my pocket.
    A glance at my watch showed we had spent over half anhour with Mary Bonham, so I moved on to my last line of questioning. “We’ve been told Sarah was involved in the suffragist movement. Is there anything you can tell us about her activity there?” I tried to be as open-ended as possible to see what information Mary would volunteer; this was a sensitive political issue for some and I had no idea where her sympathies lay.
    Mary’s response was quick and to the point, however. “Sarah became involved with a local suffragist group our senior year at Barnard, but she did not become truly active until she completed the organic chemistry class I just mentioned to you.” She sighed. “That marked the turning point when Sarah became . . .”—she paused for a moment before she found the right word—“embittered. She was frustrated by the fact that her accomplishments and research were undervalued, simply because she was a woman. Another fellow student sympathized, invited her to a suffragist rally, and ever after that, she was an active member.”
    “Did you ever attend any rallies with her?” Isabella asked, her curiosity apparent in her tone.
    “No.” Mary shook her head sheepishly. “I may agree with Sarah’s political goals. But going to rallies and marches wasn’t something I was interested in doing.” I could well imagine that such events and the crowds they drew would not appeal to such a shy and awkward girl.
    Isabella and I finished our conversation with Mary, obtaining little more information that was helpful. Before leaving, we looked through the contents of Sarah’s room. It was a spartan room—even more so, perhaps, than the guest room she had occupied at her aunt’s home. We found few possessions suggestive of her personality other than the collection of mathematics textbooks and papers on the simple wooden bookshelf by the bed.
    I had expected to see Alistair waiting for us on Broadway; he had promised to be at the corner of 113th Street by one o’clock. I glanced at my watch again; it was a quarter past one. Where was he—and what could be taking him so long to arrange a meeting with Fromley’s family? I disliked delegating this task to Alistair, but I knew that Alistair’s relationship with them—and not my police badge—would make this meeting far easier.
    “What next?” Isabella asked.
    “We wait,” I said.
    I looked up and down Broadway. No sign of Alistair.
    Isabella made a suggestion. “We could visit the math department. It’s nearby; we can leave a message at Alistair’s office.”
    I agreed, and we quickened our pace as we headed back up the three blocks to 116th Street.
    “What’s your opinion of all this?” I asked her. “Do you think Alistair has it right?”
    She smiled. “I think my father-in-law is brilliant. And that you have probably never been given so solid a lead, so early in an investigation.”
    I laughed,