Ralph Noland? Do we have the wrong address?” Isabella’s voice reflected her bewilderment as she read the name listed near the large brass knocker on the door of the rowhouse at number 135 East Ninety-first Street. According to Stella’s letter, we could expect to find Cora Czerne here. The house was a plain brownstone, marked only by the presence of two grimacing gargoyles above the front door. Alistair pretended to examine them with great care, leaving me to explain about Mrs. Noland. I rapped the knocker. “I expect it is merely an alias she uses, to make everything all right with the neighbors.” “Oh,” Isabella said, blushing, “of course.” While not fashionable, the neighborhood in which we stood was occupied primarily by upper-income families. An unmarried woman would attract attention—and ostracization—should anyone notice an unrelated man making visits. Cora Czerne’s alias allowed her to pretend to be married; she no doubt explained her husband’s absences with complaints about his frequent business travel.
