free glasses at the bar.
“Am I under arrest, then?” asked Suzie Dear in a small voice. She sucked her bottom lip.
“You are,” Cobban said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Thieving Maid Speaks
“S HE GAVE ME the bracelets,” Suzie insisted. “They was gifts.” She lifted her hands before her face and rattled the gold and silver bangles on her wrists.
Suzie had sobered up fairly quickly once she was placed behind bars in the Boston jailhouse. This was a gloomy place of which I had more than a passing acquaintance, but I won’t go into those details now, patient reader. Suffice to say that I already knew that in Suzie’s cell the walls were unadorned except of graffiti, the floors bare except for stains I chose not to speculate about, and that the only window was so high up on the wall that even on tiptoe Suzie would not obtain a view of the streets below. Moreover, even that very high window was barred, so wherever light entered the room—from the gas lamp in the hall, or the sunset outside the window—it entered in thin, guilty strips. A more doleful place I’d yet to find, except for the city morgue, several floors beneath our feet. Mrs.Percy, downstairs, would probably happily change places with Suzie, if she had a choice. She didn’t.
“Not according to Mrs. Percy’s brother, Mr. Nichols, they weren’t gifts,” Cobban said. He sat next to me in a straight-backed chair, looking in at Suzie through the bars.
“Mr. Nichols? Pggh.” Suzie screwed up her mouth and spit onto the floor. “That’s what I thinks of him.”
“You should use the cuspidor,” said Sylvia, pointing to a bucket in the corner. Suzie ignored her.
“The feeling is probably mutual, since you murdered his sister and absconded with her cash and jewels,” Cobban said.
“I didn’t murder no one, and didn’t ab…absco…make off with the goods. Not I. I learned my lesson last year.”
When Constable Cobban had half pulled, half pushed Suzie Dear into the building, another constable, sitting at a desk and reading the afternoon newspaper, had looked up and winked at her.
“Suzie, is that you? I thought they rode you out of town on a rail. How have you been?” he asked jovially.
“Go bugger yourself,” the girl had told him.
“Get her for soliciting?” the man had asked Cobban.
“No. Theft and murder.” Cobban was standing awkwardly, bent at strange angles in various places since Suzie, in her wooden-heeled boots, was trying to stomp on his feet.
“Whew!” The other man let out a long whistle. “You’re in for it, Suzie.”
“They was gifts!” she insisted a few minutes later, staring forlornly at us from behind the bars.
“You are bleeding,” I said to Cobban, gingerly touching thelong scratch Suzie had left on his face. “Perhaps you should go look to it.” He made a noise very much like a horse snorting with exhaustion at the finish line, and stood.
“I’ll go with you,” offered Sylvia. “Men are useless at that kind of thing.”
When Suzie and I were alone, I gave her a look I had learned from Marmee, and Suzie cowered.
“Tell me the truth,” I said sternly. “I will help you only if you tell the truth.”
“I am,” she whined.
“They will search your room,” I said. “Will they find more money and jewelry?”
“A little, yes, ma’am.” The whine had grown higher and shriller, and I could see she was ready to begin bawling. She coughed and sneezed and choked and wiped her nose with her ragged dress sleeve.
“Pay attention,” I said, “and tell me this. Did you kill Mrs. Percy?”
“No! I never!”
“Then who do you think did? For murdered she was.”
“I’d speak with that brother of hers, Mr. Nichols.” Suzie gave me a long glance and hiccuped.
“You appear very guilty, Miss Dear.”
“I didn’t steal all of it. Some of it really was gifts, Miss Alcott, really. Gifts.” Suzie Dear pouted, looking like a child accused of stealing cookies, not gold bracelets.
“You mean
“Am I under arrest, then?” asked Suzie Dear in a small voice. She sucked her bottom lip.
“You are,” Cobban said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Thieving Maid Speaks
“S HE GAVE ME the bracelets,” Suzie insisted. “They was gifts.” She lifted her hands before her face and rattled the gold and silver bangles on her wrists.
Suzie had sobered up fairly quickly once she was placed behind bars in the Boston jailhouse. This was a gloomy place of which I had more than a passing acquaintance, but I won’t go into those details now, patient reader. Suffice to say that I already knew that in Suzie’s cell the walls were unadorned except of graffiti, the floors bare except for stains I chose not to speculate about, and that the only window was so high up on the wall that even on tiptoe Suzie would not obtain a view of the streets below. Moreover, even that very high window was barred, so wherever light entered the room—from the gas lamp in the hall, or the sunset outside the window—it entered in thin, guilty strips. A more doleful place I’d yet to find, except for the city morgue, several floors beneath our feet. Mrs.Percy, downstairs, would probably happily change places with Suzie, if she had a choice. She didn’t.
“Not according to Mrs. Percy’s brother, Mr. Nichols, they weren’t gifts,” Cobban said. He sat next to me in a straight-backed chair, looking in at Suzie through the bars.
“Mr. Nichols? Pggh.” Suzie screwed up her mouth and spit onto the floor. “That’s what I thinks of him.”
“You should use the cuspidor,” said Sylvia, pointing to a bucket in the corner. Suzie ignored her.
“The feeling is probably mutual, since you murdered his sister and absconded with her cash and jewels,” Cobban said.
“I didn’t murder no one, and didn’t ab…absco…make off with the goods. Not I. I learned my lesson last year.”
When Constable Cobban had half pulled, half pushed Suzie Dear into the building, another constable, sitting at a desk and reading the afternoon newspaper, had looked up and winked at her.
“Suzie, is that you? I thought they rode you out of town on a rail. How have you been?” he asked jovially.
“Go bugger yourself,” the girl had told him.
“Get her for soliciting?” the man had asked Cobban.
“No. Theft and murder.” Cobban was standing awkwardly, bent at strange angles in various places since Suzie, in her wooden-heeled boots, was trying to stomp on his feet.
“Whew!” The other man let out a long whistle. “You’re in for it, Suzie.”
“They was gifts!” she insisted a few minutes later, staring forlornly at us from behind the bars.
“You are bleeding,” I said to Cobban, gingerly touching thelong scratch Suzie had left on his face. “Perhaps you should go look to it.” He made a noise very much like a horse snorting with exhaustion at the finish line, and stood.
“I’ll go with you,” offered Sylvia. “Men are useless at that kind of thing.”
When Suzie and I were alone, I gave her a look I had learned from Marmee, and Suzie cowered.
“Tell me the truth,” I said sternly. “I will help you only if you tell the truth.”
“I am,” she whined.
“They will search your room,” I said. “Will they find more money and jewelry?”
“A little, yes, ma’am.” The whine had grown higher and shriller, and I could see she was ready to begin bawling. She coughed and sneezed and choked and wiped her nose with her ragged dress sleeve.
“Pay attention,” I said, “and tell me this. Did you kill Mrs. Percy?”
“No! I never!”
“Then who do you think did? For murdered she was.”
“I’d speak with that brother of hers, Mr. Nichols.” Suzie gave me a long glance and hiccuped.
“You appear very guilty, Miss Dear.”
“I didn’t steal all of it. Some of it really was gifts, Miss Alcott, really. Gifts.” Suzie Dear pouted, looking like a child accused of stealing cookies, not gold bracelets.
“You mean
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