Murder On Gramercy Park

8

MALLOY ARRIVED AT SARAH’S IN TIME FOR SUPPER. She’d felt obligated to cook for him since he was going to investigate Tom’s murder. Also because she wasn’t fond of eating alone, and Malloy was good company. Or at least interesting company. And they had a lot to discuss about the Blackwell case. Well, Sarah did, anyway, and she hadn’t wanted to discuss it walking down a public street this afternoon when Malloy was wrestling with his restless son. So she’d invited him to supper.

“How’s Brian doing after his exciting day?” she asked when she’d greeted him.

“He fell asleep on the train ride home,” Malloy told her. “I guess all the excitement was too much for him.”

“He certainly did seem to be enjoying himself.”

Malloy frowned as he hung his hat on the coatrack in her hallway. “I never thought of it before, but his life is pretty boring. My mother takes him shopping with her, but he sees the same things all the time. And the same people, too.”

“If he could walk, he could go more places,” she suggested.

“Did you understand what all that doctor said he was going to do to Brian’s foot?” he asked with a frown.

Sarah bit back a smile. Malloy had behaved as if he’d understood perfectly when they were in the doctor’s office. “Not all of it. The techniques he’s going to use are pretty unusual, at least from my experiences with medicine. Basically, I think he’s just going to fix the parts of Brian’s foot that didn’t form properly. And I know he’s been very successful in the past. There’s every reason to believe he can help Brian, too.”

Malloy didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t look quite so worried, either. He’d probably question her some more later, but not now. He wouldn’t want to belabor the issue and make her think he was ignorant.

The thought startled her, and she wondered how and when she’d become such an expert on Malloy’s personality. Before she could decide, he said, “Something smells good.”

“I hope it tastes good, too. Come on into the kitchen. Everything’s ready,” she said, leading the way.

She’d set the table carefully, not asking herself why she’d taken such pains. Malloy probably wouldn’t even notice, and if he did, he might wonder himself.

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” she said, indicating one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Would you like a glass of beer?”

“Sure,” he said, and she poured some from the pail that she’d gotten from her neighbor, who brewed it in his basement.

In a few moments she had the pot roast arranged on the plate with the potatoes and carrots around it. She placed it on the table with a sense of satisfaction.

Malloy raised his eyebrows and grinned a little, as if he were amazed that she had produced such a master-piece. “You went to a lot of trouble,” he said.

“Not really,” she assured him. “I enjoy cooking when I’ve got someone to cook for. Would you do the honors?” She handed him the knife to cut the meat.

He didn’t take it. “Better lay it down on the table,” he suggested deadpan, indicating the knife.

“Are you afraid I’ll stab you with it?” she asked in amusement, laying the knife down as instructed.

“No, but my mother wouldn’t let anybody hand a knife directly to someone. Means you’ll have an argument or something like that.” He picked up the knife and, using his own fork, began to slice the meat.

“I’m sure Mrs. Ellsworth would say the same thing,” she said. “She sent over a pie this afternoon. She must’ve known somehow that you were coming. Sometimes I think she has a crystal ball.”

“Maybe she just bakes a lot of pies and can’t eat them all,” he said, slipping a slab of beef onto her plate.

When they had both been served and the bread passed, Sarah took her seat opposite him and began to eat. The beef was tender and moist, thank heaven. She was never sure how to tell when it was done but not too done. She’d guessed right this time.

“I have some interesting news for you,” she said after a moment.

He stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth. “About Brian?”

“No, nothing like that,” she assured him. “About the Blackwell case.”

He gave her a look, but she ignored it. “Did you know that Letitia Blackwell had a lover before she met her husband?”

“A lover?” he echoed, and took a bite of potato, chewing thoughtfully. “She must’ve been pretty young. She isn’t too old even now, is she?”

“No, she isn’t. My guess is that she had a schoolgirl infatuation. The object of her affections was the local schoolmaster. Her father disapproved, of course, or would have if he’d even known about it, which I doubt he did. Then the two of them actually eloped, or tried to. That’s when Letitia fell off her horse and was so badly injured. Apparently, the schoolmaster had to carry her home and face her father. It must have been an ugly scene, especially with Letitia hurt the way she was.”

“What happened to the schoolmaster?”

“He was let go and no one saw him again. Mr. Symington probably had him fired and banished from the area, as any good father would do. In any case, he was long gone when Letitia finally met Dr. Blackwell.”

“Any possibility he got more than banished?” Malloy asked.

Sarah blinked at him in surprise. “You mean killed?”

“You told me once that men like Symington aren’t above doing something like that, and he did practically ruin Symington’s daughter. Eloping with her was bad enough, but he nearly crippled her for life, too.”

“I have no idea, but we could try to find out,” she mused, then realized, “That would make Symington a definite suspect in Blackwell’s death, wouldn’t it? If he already had a history of killing men who harmed his daughter in some way.”

“It’s something to think about,” Malloy allowed. “Anyway, so the schoolmaster, dead or alive, was out of the way when the good doctor shows up, and she turns her attentions to him instead.”

“Not exactly,” Sarah said. “From what I understand, Blackwell was quite a devil with the ladies, and Letitia certainly may have found him attractive. You know that she was speaking at his lectures, even though she was terrified of public speaking. That’s why she started taking the morphine again. She injects it, did I tell you that?”

“Injects it? With what?”

“A syringe.”

“She does that to herself?” he asked, horrified.

“People can do amazing things when the need is great enough,” she said. “I understand that injecting it increases the drug’s potency. She’s very badly addicted.”

Malloy grunted. Plainly, he had little sympathy for people who needed sedatives to cope with life. “All right, so she was speaking at the lectures and didn’t want to. How did that lead to them getting married?”

“When Letitia said she didn’t want to do the lectures anymore, Blackwell suddenly developed a passion for her. He began to pay her court.”

“What did her father think about this? If he didn’t want her running off with a schoolmaster, I can’t believe he’d be any happier to have some quack doctor for a son-in-law either.”

“Symington didn’t think Blackwell was a quack,” she reminded him. “He respected him and was grateful for all he’d done for Letitia. And Letitia wasn’t an innocent young girl, either. If people found out about her elopement, she would’ve been ruined, and she wouldn’t have had any chance to make a suitable marriage. If the schoolmaster had actually deflowered her, her chances were even worse.”

“So her father was glad to get her safely married to anybody at all, even a poor quack doctor,” Malloy said.

“I don’t think it was quite that bad. He must have been genuinely impressed with Blackwell if he allowed his daughter to marry him-no matter what the circumstances. He also spoke at Blackwell’s lectures, too, when Letitia couldn’t because of her pregnancy, which proves he believed in the man. Or at least that he didn’t disapprove.”

Malloy took another bite of her pot roast. He seemed to be enjoying it, although he didn’t say anything. “All right, so Letitia had a lover. What does he have to do with Blackwell’s murder?”

“I haven’t gotten to that part yet,” she assured him. “I told you Blackwell courted Letitia. He must have been very charming, and Letitia would have been vulnerable. She’d had the broken romance with the schoolmaster, and she’d been an invalid for a long time, probably thinking she’d never marry at all. Then Blackwell apparently falls madly in love with her and begs for her hand in marriage.”

“Sounds like a Sunday matinee,” Malloy remarked, frowning with distaste.

“Exactly,” she said. “She would have been flattered, but it appears that Blackwell’s sudden affection for her was all a ploy. She wanted to stop doing his lectures, but he needed her. If they were married, he’d have her in his power, and she’d have to keep appearing at them whether she wanted to or not.”

“Then you don’t think Blackwell cared for her?”

“He wasn’t in love with her, certainly,” she said. “In fact, as soon as they were married, he stopped paying attention to her at all. According to her maid, Letitia was extremely unhappy because her husband neglected her so badly.”

“If what Mrs. Ellsworth said about him was true, he was probably too busy with all his other lady friends,” Malloy said.

“That’s certainly possible, and if the grief expressed at his memorial service was any indication, it’s true,” she said.

Malloy mulled this over for a bit as he finished off his pot roast. “So Blackwell had an unhappy wife who used morphine. There’s still one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I already asked you if you thought she was the kind of woman who could put a bullet in her husband’s brain, and you said no. Did you change your mind?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Now, if you told me that she had a lover after she got married, we might have something. They both would have a reason for getting rid of her husband, then, and the lover could’ve taken care of the nasty business of actually killing him. Any chance of that?”

It was Sarah’s turn to consider. “An unhappy woman is easy prey to seduction,” she mused. “Letitia had already been the victim of such a seduction twice, too, once with the schoolmaster and once with Blackwell. And she did go out every afternoon, supposedly visiting.”

“You think she was meeting a lover?” Malloy asked with interest.

Sarah frowned. “No, I think she went to an opium den.”

“Good God,” Malloy swore.

“Don’t be so shocked. Upper-class women go to them all the time. It’s the worst-kept secret in the city. Surely you already knew that.”

“I never gave it much thought,” he admitted. “I don’t have a lot of dealings with upper-class women. Or at least I didn’t used to.”

He was referring, of course, to the recent crimes they had solved together that had given him more contact than he’d wanted with such women.

“Well, it’s true,” Sarah said. “They veil themselves so no one will recognize them, but their clothing gives them away. Only wealthy women can dress so well.”

“All right, maybe Mrs. Blackwell met her lover at the opium den. Do you know which one she went to?”

“No, and I doubt she’d be willing to betray the place to me. She did mention a Mr. Fong, though. It sounded as if he was the one who sold her the morphine.”

“A Chinese?” Malloy’s interest was piqued again. “Does her baby look Chinese?”

“Malloy, really!”

“It’s possible, isn’t it? Does the baby look Chinese?”

“Not at all. He has red hair.”

“I guess Mr. Fong is no longer a suspect, then. But if we can find a redheaded morphine user…”

“Now you’re making fun of me,” she accused.

“No, I’m just thinking that maybe Mrs. Blackwell was unhappy, but that doesn’t prove she killed her husband. Find me her redheaded lover, though, either at the opium den or someplace else, and I might change my mind.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I’ll do my best, Malloy, but probably the Symingtons just have a family history of red hair and there’s no lover at all.”

“Or maybe the Brown family does, for all we know,” Malloy agreed. “I’ll ask Calvin when I see him again.”

When they’d finished their meal and Malloy had eaten two slices of Mrs. Ellsworth’s pie, Sarah conducted him back into her office and sat him down at the battered desk that had been Tom’s.

“The files are in alphabetical order, so there’s no way to know which patients he’d been working with most recently without going through each one. I’m sorry,” she said, laying a pile of folders in front of him.

He shrugged. “I figured it wouldn’t be easy, and don’t get your hopes up, either. It’s still more likely he was killed by a common thief who chose him at random, and his death didn’t have anything to do with him personally.”

“If that’s the case, we probably will never find out who killed him, then, will we?” she asked.

She knew she was right, but Malloy just said, “Never is a long time.”

He started on the As, and Sarah returned to the kitchen to do the dishes. When she’d finished, she checked on him, bringing him coffee and lighting a lamp because the sun was setting. Finally, she sat down by the front window and tried to knit, but she kept watching Malloy out of the comer of her eye, wondering if he’d found anything yet. Surely he’d say something if he had, but the only time he spoke was occasionally to ask her the meaning of a medical term.

After what seemed an age, she heard a clock outside striking nine. Malloy heard it, too. “Is it that late already?” he asked, stretching his shoulders wearily.

“I’m afraid so,” she said, gratefully putting her knitting aside. She’d probably have to pull out all that she’d done tonight, since she’d been paying so little attention, she’d completely ruined the pattern. “Did you see anything interesting?”

“I saw a lot that was interesting, but nothing that somebody’d get killed over,” he said, standing and arching his back to stretch out the kinks. “I’d better be going. The neighbors will talk if I stay too late.”

“The neighbors will talk about you coming at all,” she replied, rising to see him out. “Don’t worry, though,” she assured him when she saw his worried frown, “my reputation isn’t in any danger. They’ll just be speculating on how soon we’re going to be married.”

“Married?” Malloy looked horrified.

“Anytime a gentleman calls on a lady regularly, that is the expected outcome,” she told him, amused by his reaction. “I’m sure our real relationship is beyond their ability to comprehend.”

“That’s because the police don’t usually use midwives to solve murder cases,” Malloy told her, “not even in Teddy Roosevelt’s modem police department.”

“Well, they should certainly consider using women of some kind in solving crimes,” she replied in the same vein. “You see how successful you’ve been the times I’ve helped you solve a case.”

“It’s time I left,” Malloy said diplomatically, “neighbors or no neighbors.”

“You’re right. If we continue this conversation, I’m sure we’ll only argue. I’ll get your hat.”

He settled the bowler on his head and said, “Thanks for supper.”

“Thank you for working on Tom’s case,” she replied. “I never thought anyone would care about it again.”

“Like I said, don’t get your hopes up. You know there’s not much chance we’ll find anything after all this time,” he said.

“I do know that, but it means a lot to me that you’re willing to try.” To her chagrin, she felt tears welling in her eyes.

He was plainly uncomfortable with her gratitude and the remnants of her grief. “That’s my job,” he excused himself. “Keep an eye out for that redheaded lover,” he said to lighten the mood.

“Don’t worry,” she replied with a forced smile. “I’m determined to be the one to solve this case.”

“When you do, I’ll put in a good word for you with Roosevelt. Maybe he’ll make you the first female detective sergeant.”

She was still laughing when she closed the front door behind him. Malloy had, of course, never even met Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt, while Sarah had known him all her life. And the thought of anyone, even Teddy, appointing a female police detective was too funny for words.

FRANK HAD NO desire ever to see Amos Potter again, but the man had offered him a generous reward for finding Edmund Blackwell/Eddie Brown’s killer, so he felt a certain obligation to solve the case. If that meant asking Amos Potter a few more questions, then he’d overcome his personal prejudices just this once.

Only when he’d decided he should see Potter did he realize he had no idea where to find the man. He’d never needed to inquire before because Potter had so conveniently made himself available at Blackwell’s house until now. But when Frank stopped by the next morning, Potter wasn’t there. The butler, Granger, reluctantly gave him Potter’s address. Frank thought Granger looked ill, so maybe that had weakened his resolve to be as unhelpful as possible to Frank’s investigation. Whatever the circumstances, however, Frank finally located Amos Potter’s residence in a shabby but respectable street between Greenwich Village and the infamous neighborhood known as the Tenderloin.

Potter lived on the fourth floor of a formerly grand home that had been converted into cheap flats. He opened the door in his shirtsleeves. He was unshaven, and his collarless shirt was open at the throat to reveal a few meager wisps of salt-and-pepper chest hair. His suspenders hung down at his hips, and his trousers were old and wrinkled.

“Malloy, what are you doing here?” he demanded, either annoyed or embarrassed by Frank’s appearance at his door.

“I have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Potter,” he said, exaggerating his tone of respect and making no intimidating moves. Potter wouldn’t like being caught unawares and looking so disreputable, and he probably hated having Frank, of all people, find out where and how he really lived. He was, Frank had noted, a man who liked to maintain the image of genteel respectability.

“How did you find me?” Potter snapped.

“I asked at the Blackwell house,” Frank said, still mild and unthreatening. “I won’t keep you long, Mr. Potter. I just need to ask you a few more things about Dr. Blackwell. I know you want to help me find his killer, and I need a little more information from you to accomplish that.”

“I already gave you all the information I had that would help find Edmund’s killer, and in spite of that, you let your best suspect escape,” Potter said impatiently. A door opened across the hall, and Potter glanced over uneasily. “Come inside,” he snapped, having decided he didn’t want to give his neighbors any more fodder for gossip.

Frank gladly obliged him.

Potter’s flat was sparsely furnished with items that had probably been left by a previous tenant, judging from their condition. If Blackwell had been prospering in his career as a healer, he hadn’t been sharing much of his newfound fortune with his assistant.

“What do you want to know?” Potter asked, making no effort at courtesy.

Frank chose to make himself comfortable anyway and took a seat in what appeared to be the best chair in the place. “Let’s see,” he said, pretending to try to recall why he had come. “I’ve been hearing lots of rumors about Dr. Blackwell and his relationship with his female patients,” he tried.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Potter said, grudgingly seating himself in another chair. He didn’t lean back, though, giving Frank the silent message that he didn’t intend to be sitting there very long. “I have no idea who would be spreading such scandalous rumors about poor Edmund.”

Frank let him get by with the lie. “Some people seem to think that Dr. Blackwell laid more than just his hands on the women he treated.”

“That’s preposterous!” Potter sputtered. “Edmund was a healer. His treatments were revolutionary, but there was nothing improper about them or about him.”

“Then if I question the husbands of some of these women, I won’t find out that they had any reason to be jealous of Dr. Blackwell,” Frank said.

“Certainly not! Of course,” Potter added, backpedaling just a bit, “some men are just naturally jealous of any male who pays their wives attention. Dr. Blackwell’s cures inspired a high level of gratitude and devotion from his clients, so naturally the ladies would be excessively fond of him. I’m sure you noticed how distraught they were at the memorial service.”

“Yeah, like a real close friend had died,” Frank agreed.

“And some men might feel a bit uncomfortable if their wives expressed such affection for another man.”

“How do you think they expressed their affection?” Frank asked mildly.

Potter wasn’t fooled. “Mr. Malloy, your questions are insulting. Although Edmund is beyond being hurt by your innuendos, the ladies in question are not.”

“And speaking of the ladies in question, what do you know about this Mrs. Fitzgerald? The one you were talking to at the funeral.”

Potter seemed surprised. “Why, nothing in particular. Edmund treated her for a back ailment, I believe. He helped her tremendously.”

“And she was so grateful she gave him a house to live in,” Frank said, as if that were the most natural reaction in the world.

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about that,” Potter insisted.

“Have you met with Mr. Fitzgerald to discuss the matter?”

“Yes, but… Well, he’s a reasonable man. He doesn’t expect Mrs. Blackwell to move out under the circumstances. I managed to convince him to… Well, what gentleman could do such a thing?”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” Frank said. “How long will he let her stay there? Or maybe you arranged for her to start paying rent.”

“I…” For some reason, Potter’s face grew red, and he seemed very uncomfortable. “That is, I haven’t spoken to Letitia about this yet. I’m sure when she understands the situation-and when she’s able, of course-she’ll be only too happy to retire to her father’s house. It’s the only sensible course of action, under the circumstances.”

“Why would she do that?” Frank asked. “She could just get another house if Fitzgerald doesn’t want her in his. It would be hard to go home to live with her father again after being married and on her own.”

Potter squeezed his mouth down to a bloodless line. Frank pretended not to notice his agitation. The man was, after all, taking great pains to appear reasonable. After a moment of intense self-control, he said, “I’m afraid Mrs. Blackwell would find it difficult to… to manage without her father’s assistance.”

Frank considered the possible meanings of this astonishing admission. “Are you saying that Mrs. Blackwell isn’t able to manage a home on her own?”

“Oh, no, I’m sure… that is, she’s been doing so for a while now, so… It’s not that, not that at all.”

“What is it, then?” Frank asked. It was, he had to admit, much easier to interrogate an intelligent man than a stupid one. He didn’t have to bloody his knuckles.

“Well, it would seem that… I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, you understand, but it would appear, from the records I have been able to find, that Edmund hadn’t been… Well, what I mean is-”

“Spit it out, Potter,” Frank ordered, unable to bear Potter’s hedging another moment.

Potter’s face blanched. “Edmund left no estate,” he blurted.

“Did you think he would?”

Potter was obviously uncomfortable with this subject. “He was very successful. He led me to believe… I received a salary, of course, but I was also a partner in the practice. I handled the business aspects, scheduling the lectures and renting the halls, that sort of thing. In return, Edmund trained me in his techniques, and I was to get half of the profits of the practice as soon as I was proficient enough to become a healer myself. When Edmund bought the house on Gramercy Park, or rather, when he led me to believe he’d bought it, I believed I owned half of it, too. He had many wealthy clients who paid him well for his services, but now…”

“Now it looks like he managed to spend all of it before he died,” Frank supplied. Too bad Potter had offered him a reward to find the killer before he found out there was no estate. If the man thought he’d inherit a prosperous business, he would have had an excellent motive for murder. But that would have been far too easy. Frank was going to have to work harder than that to earn this reward.

“Edmund was rather proud of his success,” Potter was saying, making excuses for the dead man. “He’d never had any before. He felt it was important to maintain the trappings of affluence in order to win the confidence of the affluent clients he wished to attract. He kept a carriage and had a full complement of servants. That’s very expensive.”

“This must’ve been a shock to Mrs. Blackwell to find out she’s penniless,” Frank suggested.

“Oh, I haven’t told her anything about this yet. She’s… Well, she’s not even receiving visitors yet, and this isn’t something I could tell her in a note or through an intermediary, and certainly not until she’s stronger.”

“Of course not,” Frank agreed. He wondered how Potter would break the news to the young widow and if he was hoping she would seek comfort from him. Or possibly even support. Potter may once have imagined he would be able to offer it, with half of Blackwell’s estate at his disposal. Now, of course, he could only offer her space in his shabby flat. “Well, now, the reason I stopped by today is that I need a list of Blackwell’s female clients, the ones who seemed most devoted to him.”

“Whatever for?” Potter asked in alarm.

“So I can question them and find out if any of their husbands were jealous of the good doctor.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Sure I can. Don’t worry, Potter. I’ll find Blackwell’s killer for you.”

“Not from among his clients!” he insisted. “None of them would even consider… It isn’t possible!”

“You think rich people don’t commit murder?”

Plainly, he’d never given the matter a great deal of thought. “I’m sure I have no opinion on that, but you just can’t question these ladies as if they were common criminals! They’ll never allow me to-”

“Allow you to what?” Frank asked when Potter caught himself.

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

Frank frowned thoughtfully. “Were you planning to take up Blackwell’s practice where he’d left off?”

“Edmund performed a valuable service for people who are suffering,” Potter insisted. “Someone must continue his work, for the good of humanity.”

“And that would be you, I guess.”

“I have been thoroughly trained,” he reminded Frank indignantly. “I can perform the same adjustments Edmund performed, and I can relieve suffering just as well. There is no need for his work to end just because he is no longer with us.”

“Not if you say so,” Frank said. “So tell me, which do you want more? Do you want me to find Blackwell’s killer or do you want me to avoid offending his clients so you can continue to treat them?”

Potter’s face mottled with rage. “I want you to find Edmund’s killer, but you had him in your grasp and you let him escape!”

Frank gave him a pitying look. “Are you still talking about Calvin Brown?”

“Of course I am! You know as well as I that he killed his father. He’s the only one with any possible reason to want him dead. If you can’t see that, then perhaps I should get another detective to investigate this case.”

Now Frank was annoyed. “First of all, Calvin hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s still right there, in his rooming house on Essex. He’s as anxious as you are to find out who killed his father.”

“So you say. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Very recently,” Frank hedged. “And his landlady will send me word if he tries to leave town. But he’s not the killer, Mr. Potter. If he was, he’d be long gone, as you pointed out yourself.”

“Unless he’s more clever than you give him credit for, Mr. Malloy,” Potter warned. “He’s his father’s son. He would know instinctively that running away would prove him guilty. That’s why he’s still here, continuing to deceive you with his innocent face and his country manners.”

Frank didn’t like Potter’s opinion of his intelligence, but he managed not to mention it. “Could I have that list of names, Mr. Potter? Or maybe I could ask Mrs. Blackwell for it,” he added, knowing this was the one thing guaranteed to inspire Potter to action.

“You wouldn’t dare! Besides, she won’t see you. I told you, she’s not receiving visitors yet.”

“I could have Mrs. Brandt ask her,” Frank said with a smile.

Potter practically swelled with impotent fury, and for a moment Frank entertained the fanciful notion that he might actually explode. Fortunately, Potter allowed his chivalry to override his anger. He wasn’t going to permit Mrs. Blackwell to be involved in any unpleasantness if he could help it. “I will give you a list, but if you offend any of these people, I will have your job.”

Frank managed not to grin in triumph.

SARAH KNEW SHE was wearing out her welcome at the Blackwell home, but until someone told her to stop visiting, she would certainly continue. Besides, this time she had a mission. She wanted to find out what had happened to the schoolmaster who’d been Letitia’s first lover. If he had, indeed, died mysteriously on the orders of Letitia’s father, as Malloy had suggested, Sarah would have a perfect suspect in the murder of Dr. Blackwell, too. Of course, proving Symington responsible for the schoolmaster’s death would avail nothing. Symington would hardly have committed the crime himself, and even if he had, and had killed Blackwell, too, he would most certainly use his money and power to avoid prosecution. But at least if they could implicate him, they would have solved the case and exonerated young Calvin Brown.

A maid answered the door at the Blackwell home. She was a young girl whom Sarah had seen only in passing.

“Mrs. Brandt, I didn’t expect you,” she said in surprise, looking distressed. Probably she was afraid she had forgotten her instructions.

“Nobody expected me,” Sarah reassured her. “I just stopped by to see how Mrs. Blackwell is doing.”

“Oh, right this way, then,” the girl said with relief, closing the front door behind her and leading her not up the stairs, as Sarah had expected, but down the hallway to the back parlor. This would be the room where the family would sit, as opposed to the front parlor, which would be reserved for guests. Probably Mrs. Blackwell was feeling well enough to get out of bed, although Sarah thought it was way too soon for that. The baby had been born less than a week ago, and Sarah encouraged her patients to stay in bed and avoid visitors for two weeks to recover. She’d have to caution the woman about exerting herself too soon, and especially about negotiating the stairs.

The maid didn’t knock, as she should have, but threw the doors open and said, “Mrs. Brandt is here to see you, ma’ am.”

Sarah didn’t know who was more startled, she or Mrs. Blackwell or the young man who had been sitting on the sofa with her. The two of them had been sitting very close, and if Sarah wasn’t mistaken, he had been holding her hand. Now he was on his feet, his face scarlet with embarrassment, and Mrs. Blackwell was looking at Sarah in alarm, the color high in her face as well.

For her part, Sarah could only gape. The young man was tall and gangly and very ordinary in appearance except for one startling feature. He had red hair.