5

FRANK COULDN’T BELIEVE HE WAS STILL IN THE same state as Manhattan. The wagon he’d hired at the train station in the picturesque little village of Mamoraneck had carried him down winding country lanes through lush fields rampant with wildflowers and past stately lawns that graced enormous mansions. When he thought of the squalid tenements of the Lower East Side and the dives of the Bowery, Frank wondered that they could exist in the same world as this place that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

On the other hand, he knew that the rich must have a haven outside the city that the poor could never invade. In the city, no matter how wealthy you were, you couldn’t be very far from those who weren’t. Fifth Avenue had become home to the wealthy because it was as far as you could get from either of the island’s waterfronts and the slums and the vice found there. Even still, it was only a few short blocks away from that vice and could go no farther. Blocks that anyone, no matter how poor or depraved, could walk in a matter of minutes. Trapped on the tiny island of Manhattan, the rich could never hope to have a world completely unto themselves.

This is why, for decades, the rich had been going north to where the land opened wide and could be purchased in huge parcels that would ensure no encroachment by the unworthy. They had come here to escape the unhealthy air and the unhealthy inhabitants of the city and to live in stately splendor.

And here they could send their daughters when they wanted to hide them, as the VanDamms had wanted to hide Alicia.

Frank glanced at the fellow driving the wagon. He was dressed in rough clothes, obviously a farmer, except instead of being in the fields on this unseasonably warm spring day, he was driving Frank to the VanDamm’s summer home.

“Do you farm?” Frank asked.

The fellow looked over at him suspiciously. He was past middle years, his hair white where it straggled out beneath his farmer’s hat, and his face was as brown and withered as an old potato. “Used to,” he offered.

“But you don’t anymore?” Frank said by way of encouragement.

“I drive this wagon. Make more money carrying the swells from the train to their fancy houses than I ever did behind a plow.”

This made sense to Frank. “Do you ever drive the VanDamms?”

The fellow shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Sometimes. Mostly, they get their own carriage.”

“Did you ever drive their daughter? The younger one, Alicia?”

“Once or twice. She’s a sweet little thing. Not like the other one. That one’s got a tongue on her could raise a welt on a leather boot.”

Frank thought this was probably true. “The VanDamm girl’s dead, you know.”

He looked surprised. “Is she now? Can’t say I’m sorry.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice over the side of the wagon. “What happened? Did she try that razor tongue of hers on the wrong man?”

“Not her,” Frank said. “The younger one, Alicia. She’s the one who’s dead.”

“The hell you say!” the driver exclaimed. “And her so young. Hardly more’n a babe. She get sick or something?”

Frank watched him carefully as he said, “No, someone murdered her.”

The driver gaped at him, his shock almost painful to behold. For a long moment, the only sound was the clop, clop of the draft horse as he plodded on, but finally the driver was able to say, “What happened?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

The driver nodded wisely. “That’s it, then. I been wondering what a copper’s doing out here, asking for the VanDamm place.”

Frank frowned. He hadn’t told the man his profession, so he must have been able to tell just by looking at him. He wondered what gave him away, but he didn’t ask. The man would only lie.

“You didn’t, by chance, take her to the train station about a month ago, did you?” he tried. “She would’ve been alone, or maybe with a young man.”

The driver shook his head. “Haven’t even seen her in a couple years. They keep ’em close once they start getting ripe.”

It took Frank a minute to figure out what he was saying. “They keep a close watch on the girls, you mean?”

“Always afraid they’ll get in trouble. You know what young men’re like. It ain’t so long since you was one yourself.”

Frank could hardly remember, but he nodded his agreement. “You ever hear of her getting in trouble? With a young man, I mean?”

But the driver shook his head. “Never heard nothin’ about her at all. Like I say, they keep ’em pretty close.”

Frank knew he shouldn’t be disappointed. The odds that this fellow had driven Alicia and her lover to the train when she’d run away were pretty slim. She would’ve been much more circumspect. Probably, she stole away in the middle of the night. Maybe she didn’t even take the train at all. It was a long carriage ride back to the city and the roads were poor, but she might not have wanted to risk being recognized on the train.

“That’s it there,” the driver said, pointing with his chin.

Frank looked up and gasped in surprise at the house sitting on a rise before him. It seemed enormous, large enough to accommodate the inhabitants of an entire block of tenements. Myriad windows glittered in the blinding sun and the red bricks glowed. The grounds rolled away gently on every side, the grass newly green in the warm spring sunshine. From a distance, everything looked perfectly peaceful and serene, and why shouldn’t it? The murder had taken place far from here, in that other world he’d left behind this morning when he’d boarded the train at Grand Central Station.

This morning he’d imagined that he could come out here and learn more about Alicia VanDamm and why she had run away and with whom. Now, looking at the home from which she had fled, he couldn’t even imagine why she had done such a thing. Who in her right mind would leave this beautiful house for the uncertainty of a life alone, hiding in a strange place among people she didn’t know? To run away with a lover, that Frank could understand. He could still remember passion, although the memories were sadly dim. He could still remember love, no matter how much he wanted to forget. Without those motivations, Alicia VanDamm’s flight made no sense at all.

So now he knew one thing at least: Alicia VanDamm must have fled with a lover-or at least to a lover-be-cause she never would have simply run away from a place so utterly magnificent for any other reason.

The driver waited, as Frank had previously arranged, since he couldn’t depend upon the VanDamm’s servants to provide him transportation back. Because this was an unsanctioned visit-Sarah Brandt had warned him not to ask VanDamm’s permission because he most likely would have refused or at the very least warned his servants against revealing anything-Frank was going to have to rely on his ability to either charm or intimidate. If it had to be the latter, he wanted a guaranteed method of escape if things got too unpleasant.

Up close the house looked even more impressive. The carved oak door appeared solid enough to withstand an onslaught of armed barbarians. Through the spotless windows Frank could see the lace curtains which his mother had always told him only “quality” folks had. He’d have to get his mother some lace curtains just to prove her wrong.

Frank didn’t have to knock. This was the country, and his approach had probably* been observed when he was still halfway down the lane. The front door swung open before he reached the top of the porch steps. A formidable looking woman glared out at him, probably ready to run him off. Her ample figure was encased in black, giving the impression of rigidly tucked upholstery. Frank wondered if she was in mourning or if she always wore black. Somehow, he thought it was the latter. Her hair was hidden beneath the white cap of a servant, but her face was set into an authoritative glare which told him she was no ordinary servant.

“Good morning,” Frank said, trying out the manners he so seldom used. “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police.”

If he’d thought to cow her, he failed miserably. She simply raised her chin another notch and looked down her hawklike nose at him. “Then what are you doing out here?” she demanded.

“I’m trying to find out who killed Miss Alicia VanDamm,” he replied, hoping to strike some nerve.

Her face tightened for an instant in what might have been a spasm of grief, but she gave no other sign of weakness. “You’d best go back to the city then, since that’s where she was killed. You won’t find no murderers here.”

Frank hadn’t expected to, of course. “I was hoping to get some information about her. Maybe that will help me find who killed her.”

“I’m sure nobody here will be gossiping about Miss Alicia, so if that’s what you’re hoping, you came a long way for nothing.”

Frank figured she’d make certain none of the servants told any tales about Alicia. “I don’t want gossip. I need to know when she left and who she left with.”

“We don’t know,” the housekeeper insisted, her broad, homely face reddening. “I already explained everything to Mr. VanDamm. We just woke up one morning, and she was gone. We don’t know nothing else. Leave us alone.”

“Mr. VanDamm said I could search her room and question all the servants, just in case,” Frank lied.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, her small eyes widening in alarm.

“Do you want me to go back to the city and tell him you wouldn’t cooperate with my investigation?”

He could see her inner struggle. She didn’t want to risk VanDamm’s disapproval, but she wasn’t certain which decision would bring it. Refusing Frank admittance seemed the sensible course, since VanDamm was most certainly not in the habit of having the police search his home and interrogate his servants. On the other hand, Alicia had been murdered, not a common state of affairs to be sure. Would this render all the usual rules null and void?

“I’d have to be sure Mr. VanDamm gave you permission,” she hedged.

Frank wasn’t about to let a little thing like that stop him. “I didn’t bring a letter of reference, if that’s what you’re after.”

She sniffed derisively at him. “I’ll telephone to find out.”

Damn. Frank had forgotten that they had a telephone here. “Go ahead,” he bluffed, “but be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.”

The chances that VanDamm would be at home in the middle of the morning were probably small, and somehow he couldn’t imagine the mighty man stooping to speak to a servant on the telephone in any case. Of course, there was that snooty butler, but would he take it upon himself to withhold permission for Frank to do his duty?

Left standing on the doorstep, Frank decided to make himself comfortable. Might as well let the old bat find him taking his ease like a regular guest, not holding his hat in his hand waiting anxiously for her return.

When she returned, he was lounging quite comfortably, sitting on the steps with his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and leaning back against one of the massive pillars, his hat tipped down over his eyes. As if he had all the time in the world and not a single worry that VanDamm was going to have him tossed out on his ear.

She glared at him again, but she said, “Mr. VanDamm was out.”

Frank managed not to betray the surge of relief he felt. “Are you going to keep me waiting here on the porch until he comes back in?” he inquired with all the annoyance he could muster.

For an uncomfortable moment, he thought she was, so he took the really big gamble and rose to his feet, dusted off his seat and reached into his pocket, pulling out his notebook and pencil. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Mrs. Hightower,” she replied, nonplussed.

Frank nodded ominously and wrote it down. “I’ll be sure to tell Mr. VanDamm it was you wouldn’t let me in.”

He was gratified to see a flash of fear in her close-set eyes. Fear always worked to his advantage.

“You’re not to touch anything in her room,” she said, as if it had been her decision all along to allow him inside. “You can look around, but you’re to leave everything just as it is. That was Mr. VanDamm’s orders. Nobody is to touch anything.”

“I’ll want to talk to the servants, too. All of them. Alone.” He didn’t want her intimidating them into lying to protect Alicia’s good name.

“They don’t know anything. None of us knows anything.”

“Then it’s my time that’s wasted, isn’t it?” Frank replied, tucking his notebook back into his pocket but giving it a little pat to remind her that he had her name if she thought about giving him any more trouble.

She sniffed again and started into the house, surging ahead like a schooner at full mast. Frank had to assume she expected him to follow, which he did, but the instant he reached the doorway, she turned abruptly and snapped, “Wipe your feet before you come in here!”

Cow, he thought, but he wiped his feet. Didn’t want her complaining to VanDamm about his manners. It would be bad enough when she complained about his visit.

The interior of the house was dim, since the windows were all heavily draped. The sun faded fabrics, as his mother had told him time and again, and the VanDamms had a lot of fabric to fade. It hung in lavish folds around each window and was upholstered onto numerous pieces of furniture. This Frank glimpsed through a series of doorways during his hasty trip through the entrance hall to the long staircase at its opposite end. The hallway was paneled in dark wainscoting and wallpaper so elaborately patterned it made him dizzy to stare at it. An amazingly large crystal chandelier hung down from the second story. He knew exactly what Kathleen would’ve said: How in heaven’s name do they clean it?

He followed the housekeeper up the stairs and remembered when he’d followed Sarah Brandt up a similar set of stairs. He’d been tempted to look at her ankles, but he wasn’t the least bit tempted to look at Mrs. Hightower’s.

Upstairs, the hallway branched to the left and right, seeming to go on forever in each direction. She turned right, still surging along like a ship at full sail, never even glancing back to make sure he was behind her. A thick carpet muffled their footsteps, and Frank was struck by how silent the house was. Silent and forlorn, as if it were mourning the loss of the girl who had lived here. Or maybe it was just the result of the place being uninhabited, Frank thought, because no one really lived here even when they were here.

A little astonished at such a profound thought, Frank almost didn’t realize the housekeeper had stopped in front of one of the closed doors. Her hand was on the knob, but she hesitated for a long moment. Frank thought she was just being obstinate, making him wait so she could show her power over him. But then he noticed she was blinking furiously as she stared resolutely at the panel of the door. Good God, she was trying not to weep. For all her coldness, she must have genuinely cared for the dead girl.

Maybe Frank could use this to his advantage.

After waiting respectfully for her to regain her composure, he remarked, “You must’ve known her a long time.”

“Since the day she was born, right here in this house.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears, tears she was probably too proud to let Frank see.

“Mr. VanDamm said she’d been here a little over a month. I guess she hadn’t been feeling too well.”

Mrs. Hightower, fully recovered now, glared at him. “It was nerves, is all. That girl was never sick a day in her life.”

“What did she have to be nervous about?”

Her thin lips thinned down even more, obviously because she realized she’d already told him more than she’d intended. “I’m sure it’s not my place to know. Well-bred girls are all high strung.”

“Like thoroughbred horses,” Frank suggested.

Mrs. Hightower did not approve of his comparison. “Miss Alicia was sensitive. She let things upset her.”

Now if Frank could only find out what those things were. “She was like her mother, then?” he suggested.

“Her mother?” she echoed suspiciously.

“Mrs. VanDamm,” Frank prodded, wondering if she could have actually forgotten her own mistress.

Her expression pinched with disapproval. “She’s nothing like Mrs. VanDamm. She’s an angel.”

Frank watched as she realized the irony of her assertion. Her strong face sagged with despair as the reality of her loss struck her anew.

He gave her only a moment to absorb the impact before using her weakness to press his case. “Is the door locked?”

She glanced at it in surprise, as if she’d only just realized where she was. “No, of course not. Why would it be locked?”

“Then you can go about your work while I look around. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to talk to the servants.”

For a second he thought she would refuse to leave, but then she glanced at the door again, and he could see how painful it was for her to even consider opening it. Just as he’d suspected it would be.

After making him wait another few seconds, she nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” And then a final, sharp, “Don’t disturb anything,” before she launched herself down the hallway again.

Frank waited until she was on her way down the stairs before he opened the door. It was solid oak and moved silently on its hinges. No squeaking here. The interior of the room was dark like the rest of the house, the drapes drawn against the glare of the sun. Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, Frank looked around, getting his bearings. Then he went to one of the windows on the far wall and pulled back the draperies. He needed a minute to figure out how the chords worked for tying it back, and when he had it secured, he looked around again.

The room was large, larger than his entire flat back in the city. And if he’d known nothing about Alicia VanDamm before, he would know everything about her from simply seeing this place. While her room at the boardinghouse had been stark and impersonal, this one was hers entirely. The furniture was white with gold leaf accents, everything curved and delicate and graceful and completely feminine. The drapes and the coverlet on the bed and the canopy over it were all a pale rose and of some kind of rich material. The wallpaper depicted scenes of young maidens frolicking gaily. In one corner sat a doll’s house. Frank walked over to examine it more closely, and he saw it was furnished with remarkable attention to detail, even to the curtains on the windows. Everything was all arranged, just so, and the tiny doll family were seated around the dining room table. They even had real china dishes and a maid to serve them. Next to the house stood a chest, and when Frank lifted the lid, he found toys inside. Some dolls, worn from years of playing, the paint of their faces almost rubbed off and their clothes ragged from use. A top. A life-sized tea set. Everything had a neglected air about it, as if it hadn’t been used in some time, but Frank couldn’t help noticing the things were still here, near at hand, as if their owner hadn’t quite been ready to part with them yet. As if the owner hadn’t been ready to leave her childhood just yet.

Frank had been thinking of Alicia VanDamm as a young woman. She was pregnant, after all, so she most certainly had a lover, but now he was struck with how recently she had taken that step into adulthood. So recently that her toys were still here in her room, as if she wanted to be able to maintain her ties with the world of childhood while also trying her hand at being an adult.

Frank glanced around again, trying to imagine what kind of a person Alicia VanDamm must have been. Her room spoke of innocence. And purity. Neither of which applied to Alicia VanDamm. Something was out of kilter here, and Frank needed to find out what.

And more importantly, why.

He started his search of the room and conducted it systematically, going through each drawer and cupboard carefully so as not to disturb the contents. Mrs. Hightower would probably know what he’d done, but at least she wouldn’t be able to complain he’d left things in a mess. And of course if he didn’t leave things in a mess, he could always deny he’d searched the room at all. He reached beneath the mattress and checked under the chair bottoms and behind each piece of furniture. Behind and under every drawer. He even took each of the books off the shelf and shook them out. Examining every possible hiding place. He had no idea what he was looking for, of course. A diary naming her killer would have been just the thing, but naturally, he didn’t find one.

Nor did he find anything else. No love letters from the father of her child. No secret messages. Nothing. He’d looked in every possible hiding place, even checking beneath the rugs and tapping on the wall and floor for possible hidden compartments. But if what he failed to find disturbed him, what he did find disturbed him even more: The girl who had lived in this room was still in every way a child. The books on the shelf were mostly lesson books with a few volumes of nursery rhymes and stories. Even the clothes she’d left behind were decidedly juvenile. No scheming seductress had lived here, at least not from any evidence Frank could discover. If he hadn’t known about her condition, he might actually have believed Mrs. Hightower’s description of Alicia as having been an angel.

But even angels fell, as he remembered from his catechism lessons. Now he’d have to find out how this one had.

Mrs. Hightower had been more than reluctant for the other servants to leave their tasks, but once again Frank was able to intimidate her into accommodating him. He only hoped he wasn’t around when she found out VanDamm hadn’t given his permission for any of this.

One by one the other servants paraded through the small back parlor she had given him to use. And one by one they insisted they knew nothing of why Miss Alicia had run away or even how she had accomplished it. Either Mrs. Hightower had instructed them or else they really had no knowledge. Frank was very much afraid it was the latter.

But finally his patience was rewarded. When he’d gone through a half-dozen or so of the people who knew nothing, suddenly, he found a girl who knew everything. And even more than everything. She knew Alicia.

She was a chambermaid, Mrs. Hightower informed him, a pretty girl with bright cinnamon-colored eyes and lots of auburn curls peeking out from beneath her cap. Her name, she told him, was Lizzie.

“Short for Elizabeth, don’t you know? But nobody ever calls me that, now me Mum’s passed on. She only called it when she was that mad at me, too. I always knowed when she was gonna give me a thrashing, ’cause she’d say, Miss Elizabeth, get yourself in here right now!”

Frank had to bite his lip to keep from grinning in triumph. Instead, he settled back, ready to play his part. “Well, now, Lizzie, I’m trying to find out if anybody knows how Miss Alicia got away from the house the night she left.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to be all right, but then her lower lip began to quiver and her eyes flooded with tears, and in the next instant, she was sobbing into her apron. Actually, Frank had been expecting this reaction from someone long before now. He’d been a little disturbed that the other servants had seemed so unmoved by Alicia’s death. This probably meant they hadn’t been very close to her, but this girl had. Her tears betrayed that closeness. He waited patiently, knowing his patience would be amply rewarded, until she had sniffled her way back to coherence again.

“Oh, I’m that sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to cry thataway. Mrs. Hightower would have me hide, but when I think about poor Miss Alicia…”

“You knew her well, I guess,” Frank ventured.

“I was her maid for two years, her personal lady’s maid, but when she comes out here this time, Mrs. Hightower, she tells me, Lizzie, she says, Miss Alicia won’t be needing a maid anymore, so we’ll make you a chambermaid. A chambermaid! I’m a trained lady’s maid, I am, and now I have to empty chamber pots! Can you feature it?”

Frank assured her he could not. “Why didn’t she need a maid?”

“I’m sure I don’t know! Oh, Mrs. Hightower would do for her, help her get dressed and such, but she was the only one ever went near her. None of the rest of us could so much as speak to her, not even me, and I’d been with her for two years!”

Frank had a pretty good idea why the servants were being kept away from Alicia, but he didn’t want to share his thoughts with Lizzie.

“Then I guess you wouldn’t have any idea how she could’ve gotten out of the house the night she disappeared.”

“Oh, cor, she probably walked right out the front door, don’t you know. No reason why she shouldn’t, is there?”

“I don’t know, is there?” Frank countered, very interested indeed in this theory.

“Not at all. The servants, we all sleep on the third floor, even me since I’m not allowed to do for Miss Alicia anymore. If she wanted to go out, there was nobody to stop her or even to hear her. The front door was locked, but the key’s right beside it, so she could just open it and walk out, bold as you please. I mean, there’s no reason to hide the key. Who’d think about anybody inside getting out? The locks is to keep people on the outside from getting in, ain’t they?”

Frank had to agree that they were. “So none of the servants would have known her plans? Couldn’t anybody have helped her get away?”

“Oh, no, sir. It’s worth your job to disobey Mrs. Hightower, and none of us even spoke to Miss Alicia since she’s been here this time. Oh, except Harvey, of course.”

Frank felt a rush of excitement, but he managed not to betray himself to Lizzie so he wouldn’t frighten her. “Who’s Harvey?”

“He’s the groom. He’d take her riding every day, or nearly every day. That girl loved to ride, she did. And she loved that horse of hers even more. I never could understand it. She’d always smell like the stable when she got back, and I’d have to pour her a bath and…” Lizzie’s voice caught, and she covered her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears again, but she managed to keep her composure this time.

“You must miss her,” Frank said kindly.

Lizzie lifted her chin and swallowed her tears. “I been missing her for a while,” she said, angry now. “It was so strange, like she was prisoner here… except I guess she wasn’t really, or else they would’ve kept her locked up. Then she’d still be here, wouldn’t she?”

“Unless they didn’t think she had any way of escaping,” Frank suggested.

“That’s true enough,” Lizzie allowed. “And Lord knows, she didn’t. I mean, who would help her get away? You’d be turned out without a reference.”

“And all the servants are still here, I guess.”

“Oh, yes, every one of us. Nobody here would go against Mr. VanDamm, not even for poor Miss Alicia.”

“Why do you call her poor?”

Lizzie blinked in surprise. “Because she’s dead, ain’t she?”

Frank blinked back. “Well, yes, but is there any other reason?”

“Why should there be? She was rich. Had everything she wanted and more. And such a sweet girl. Never a harsh word for anybody. It was always, Lizzie, if you wouldn’t mind, and Lizzie, if you please. Not like she was ordering you around or nothing. Like you was doing her a favor to do for her. A real lady. Not like some I could name.”

Frank could probably name the same one. “Well, Lizzie, I want to thank you for your time.”

“Did I tell you anything that’ll help?” she asked anxiously. “I sure want to see whoever killed Miss Alicia get what’s coming to him.”

“You helped a lot,” he said, rewarding her with a smile. “Now could you tell me where to find Harvey?”


SARAH WAS BONE weary as she made her way down the sidewalk toward her flat. The sun told her the hour was hardly past noon, but she’d been up early delivering a breech baby that hadn’t wanted to leave the comfort of his mother’s womb. Her arms ached and her legs ached and her head ached and the last thing she wanted was to make small talk, so she groaned inwardly when she saw her neighbor, Mrs. Elsworth, sweeping her front stoop.

Maybe she was just enjoying the delightfully warm day after winter’s last gasp had finally given way to true spring, but more likely, she’d seen Sarah approaching and come out on purpose to engage her in conversation. Keeping house for her widowed son wasn’t nearly enough to keep her occupied, and she did enjoy hearing about Sarah’s work.

“Good morning, Mrs. Elsworth,” Sarah called as she reached the stoop where the old woman was sweeping.

Mrs. Elsworth looked up in apparent surprise, her wrinkled face breaking into a delighted smile. “Mrs. Brandt, don’t tell me you’ve been out all night!”

“I certainly have, delivering a fat baby girl who had made up her mind to come into the world backwards.”

“Oh, my, I hope everyone is all right.”

“Right as they can be.” Only then did Sarah realize that something wasn’t quite right with Mrs. Elsworth’s sweeping. “Were you sweeping dirt into the house?” she asked in alarm. Could the old woman be losing her mental faculties?

“Of course I was,” she replied without the slightest hesitation. “This is a new broom.” She held it up so Sarah could see that for herself. “You’ve got to sweep something into the house before you sweep anything out with it, or else all your luck will be swept out the door. Surely you knew that.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” was all Sarah could think to say.

Mrs. Elsworth needed no further encouragement. “Won’t you come in and take a bite with me? I’m sure you haven’t had breakfast, and I’ve got some fresh bread and elderberry jam that I put up last year. It’s hard to find fresh berries in the city, but Nelson got them in the country for me.” Nelson was her son who had his own accounting firm. “You can tell me all about the new baby, and oh, dear, I don’t suppose you’ve seen the papers, but someone sent a bomb to that nice gentleman, Commissioner Roosevelt.”

“A bomb?” Sarah echoed incredulously. “Are you sure? Did it explode? Was he hurt?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure. It was in the Times this morning, but it didn’t explode, thank heaven, and no one was hurt. Mr. Roosevelt didn’t even receive it. The postman discovered it, I think. I have the paper inside, so you can read it for yourself.”

Much as she would like to read the story for herself, it could wait. Right now, Sarah wanted nothing more than to crawl into her bed and sleep the clock around. She was still trying to think of a gracious way to decline the invitation, however, when she saw her salvation coming down the street.

Will Yardley was walking quickly and checking back over his shoulder every few seconds, as if afraid he was being followed.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on the elderberry jam, Mrs. Elsworth. It looks like I’m getting a visitor.”

Mrs. Elsworth frowned as she stared down the street at the approaching figure. “You don’t mean that little guttersnipe, do you? What would a creature like that want with a lady like you?”

“I delivered his wife of a baby girl a few days ago.”

Mrs. Elsworth was instantly all sympathy. “Oh, my, do you suppose she’s taken ill? Childbed fever is a horrible thing. I had a sister who-”

“I remember,” Sarah said quickly, recalling all too well the story of the sister who had died of it. Mrs. Elsworth had told her about it at least a dozen times. “I’ve got to see what Mr. Yardley wants. Good morning to you!”

She hurried to meet Will at her front stoop. He nodded, tipping his cap to her before looking around again. Surely, he didn’t think anyone would have followed him to her house. But then, his conscience was probably troubled enough that he was always wary lest one of his past sins catch up with him.

“Are you going out somewheres?” he asked, not bothering with a greeting.

“Just getting home. Are Dolly and the baby all right?”

He blinked in surprise. “Sure. Why wouldn’t they be? I come because of… that other matter.” He glanced around again, as if he were afraid of eavesdroppers. “Could we go inside to talk about it? I feel funny talking on the street like this.”

Sarah hid her smile. “Of course.”

She unlocked the door and led him inside.

He looked around curiously at the room that had once been Tom’s office and which now served as hers. She still had some equipment for which she had little use, since she didn’t practice the advanced forms of medicine that Tom had, but she was loath to get rid of anything he had once owned. She’d lost too much of him already.

Will’s slender hands moved restlessly as he studied the contents of the office, tugging on his earlobe and fingering his chin and massaging his chest, as if he had to keep checking to make sure his physical self was still all there.

“So Dolly and Edith Rose are doing well?” she asked as she set down her bag and removed her hat, hanging it on a peg on the wall.

“Just fine,” he said, his eyes still taking in the curiosities around him. He seemed especially fascinated by the examining table visible behind a screen in the comer. “She said you was to see her and Rosie yesterday.”

Sarah managed not to smile. Dolly had told her he refused to call the baby Edith. “I try to check on the new mothers regularly until they’re back on their feet. Dolly said you were out when I called.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I had a job.”

Sarah could just imagine. She almost said, “In broad daylight?” but managed to restrain herself. Instead she said, “Have you found out where Hamilton Fisher is? Is that why you came?”

Will’s restless gaze touched Sarah for a moment, then darted away again. She realized he wasn’t quite as interested in her office furnishings as she had thought. Instead, he seemed to be avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know where he is, but I found out who he is,” he said. Oddly, he didn’t seem the least bit proud of this admission.

“Who is he?”

Will jammed his wandering hands into his pockets as if trying to confine them. Then he finally turned and faced her, his eyes cold and relentless. “He ain’t no cadet, least not that I could find out. He’s… well, he fancies hisself a detective.”

“He works for the police?” Sarah exclaimed.

“Not likely,” Will sneered. “He works private. For some big fancy lawyer uptown what takes care of all the nobs. He hires out and spies on folks and finds out their secrets so the lawyer can get the goods on ’em.”

This wasn’t making any sense to Sarah. Why would a lawyer’s detective be spying on Alicia? “Do you know this lawyer’s name? The one he works for, I mean?”

Will nodded once, sharply, and for a second Sarah was afraid that was all the answer she was going to get. Then he said, “Sylvester Mattingly,” through gritted teeth, as if speaking the syllables hurt him somehow.

The name sounded vaguely familiar, and Sarah supposed she had probably read it in the newspaper. “What do you know about this Mattingly?”

Will’s gaze darted away again, this time to inspect the ceiling, and his lips thinned out to a bloodless line.

“Will?” she prodded.

“I don’t know much,” he said, as if he were warning her. “I don’t deal with his kind, you understand. He’s a little above me. But from what I hear, he’s a real dangerous man to cross. Real dangerous. And they say if you’ve got enough money, this Mattingly can get you out of any kind of trouble there is.”

Any kind? Sarah wondered, remembering the kind of trouble Alicia was in, but she asked, “Even murder?”

Will’s gaze was steady and maybe a little frightened. “I wouldn’t know that, Mrs. Brandt. You’ll have to ask Mr. Mattingly.”

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