Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery) by Victoria Thompson Page B

pleasant residential street. Nothing set it apart from its neighbors. No one would suspect that anything untoward was going on there.
    Still holding Livingston’s arm, she felt him stiffen as Malloy raised his hand to knock. After a few moments, he knocked again. The three men seemed to consult, and then it looked like Malloy opened the door. Livingston bolted then, breaking free of Sarah’s grasp and running toward the house.
    • • •
    T he smell hit Frank first, the coppery scent of fresh blood that was like a fist to his gut. “Pendergast?” he shouted, his gaze searching every corner. “Pendergast, where are you?”
    Silence was his only reply.
    “You”—he indicated the officer—“search down here. Gino, come with me.”
    Donatelli followed him up the stairs. The smell was stronger here, and Frank silently willed Sarah to keep Livingston outside.
    “Pendergast!” he tried again when they reached the top of the stairs, and this time he thought he heard a sound coming from the front room. One of the double doors to what must have been a parlor stood half-open, as if someone had left in a hurry.
    Frank strode over and threw it wide to a scene of crimson horror.
    A man lay on the floor in a position so unnatural, he had to be dead. Beyond him, slumped against the wall and staring vacantly into nothingness, was a woman clad only in a shift and covered—no,
drenched
—in blood. Frank knew her instantly. He carried her photograph in his pocket.
    “Is that her?” Donatelli asked.
    Frank nodded. “Grace Livingston.”
    The staring eyes blinked.
    “Grace?” Frank said, not trusting his own senses.
    An ear-piercing sound broke the silence, a wail so tortured, it could have come straight out of hell. Frank needed a few seconds to realize it was coming from her.
    “She’s alive,” he told Gino. “Go get Mrs. Brandt up here, but keep her father out.”
    • • •
    S arah and Maeve managed to catch Livingston just as he reached the porch steps. They grabbed his arms and held on for all they were worth, slowing him, but she knew they couldn’t stop him for long.
    Then Gino Donatelli burst out the front door, catching himself just before he would have plowed into them. “Mrs. Brandt, Mr. Malloy wants you right away. Upstairs,” he added as she pushed past him. “Mr. Livingston, you’ve got to wait here,” she heard him say as she ran inside and up the stairs.
    She was almost to the top before she realized what she was smelling and what it must mean. Malloy stood in the doorway of the front room, his expression grim.
    “She’s alive,” he said when she’d reached him. “There’s blood everywhere, though. She’s covered in it, but I can’t tell where she’s hurt.”
    She nodded, thinking she understood.
    “It’s bad, Sarah.”
    “I’m a nurse,” she reminded him. She’d seen blood before.
    He nodded and stepped aside. Only then did she understand. The smell hit her first, and then the sight: the man’s contorted body, the darkening pools soaking into the oriental carpet, and the woman’s half-naked body sprawled like a discarded doll. How could she be alive? Her shift was literally dyed red with the blood, her face splattered, her bare arms and legs streaked.
    But then the poor creature took a shuddering breath, breaking the spell of horror, and Sarah went to her. Carefully, trying not to step in the blood, she finally reached her and knelt down beside her.
    “Grace? Can you hear me?”
    Slowly, the staring eyes turned to her. They held such pain, Sarah could hardly bear it.
    “Grace, I’m Sarah Brandt. I’m a nurse. I’m here to help you. The police are here, too. We’ve come to take you home.”
    She shook her head, or at least Sarah thought she did.
    “Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”
    She did shake her head this time.
    “You can’t tell me or you don’t know?”
    “Not . . . not hurt.”
    “But all this blood . . .”
    The pain-filled gaze shifted, and one