Murder On Gramercy Park

2

SARAH WAS CONCERNED ABOUT HER PATIENT. HER labor didn’t seem to be progressing, and she still seemed to be in shock. Or at least that’s what Sarah had been thinking at first, but she was beginning to suspect something else. While Mrs. Blackwell was resting between contractions, Sarah stepped into the woman’s dressing room for a quick look around. Sure enough, just as she’d suspected, she found a drawer full of patent medicines, all of them for female complaints, and all of them containing some form of opiate. One of the bottles was empty, the cork out, the traces of liquid still visible. It hadn’t been empty long.

Like many women of her class, Mrs. Blackwell had obviously discovered the relief to be found in those little glass bottles. One could hardly blame her for seeking it under the circumstances, either. Perhaps it was as well that her brain was clouded by the drug instead of the horrible vision of her husband’s dead body. Still, if she took these remedies frequently, she might be an opium eater and the baby could be, too. In any case, the opiate could prolong her labor, and any of this could put the child’s life in danger.

She heard Mrs. Blackwell moaning and hurried back into the bedroom. The woman’s head was tossing back and forth on the pillow, as if she battled internal demons in addition to the forces of her own body. Sarah wiped her brow with a damp cloth, hoping to make her more comfortable.

She opened her eyes and tried to focus on Sarah’s face. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sarah Brandt, the midwife,” she replied, not mentioning that they’d had this conversation not long ago. Plainly Mrs. Blackwell didn’t remember it. “I’m here to take care of you.”

“Edmund won’t approve,” she said, her lovely blue eyes darkening with distress.

“I’m sure he would want you taken care of,” Sarah said reasonably.

She frowned. “I remember something… Edmund is dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so,” Sarah said, knowing it would be foolish to deny it, since Mrs. Blackwell had been the one to discover her husband’s body. She might want to deny it, but the image would be all too real.

Mrs. Blackwell closed her eyes and sighed, sinking back into the pillows. She murmured something that sounded like, “It’s my fault.”

Sarah wanted to reassure her. People often blamed themselves when a loved one committed suicide, and the generous thing to do was to tell the woman it wasn’t her fault at all. Unfortunately, she couldn’t be sure. For all Sarah knew, Dr. Blackwell’s wife had driven him to it. At any rate, none of this was her concern. She had a far more pressing problem.

“Mrs. Blackwell, I need to know if you take patent medicines on a regular basis.”

“What?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing with confusion.

“I saw the bottles in your drawer. I know you must have taken something after you… after you had the shock. That’s only natural, to want something to calm your nerves. But I need to know if you drink those remedies very often.”

“Oh,” she said, struggling to comprehend. “Oh, no. I only… only when I can’t… not very often at all!”

Relieved, Sarah smiled and patted the woman’s shoulder. “Thank you. That’s what I needed to know. Now let’s see what we can do about encouraging this baby to arrive. If you feel like doing some walking, I think that will help,” she suggested. A woman in heavy labor had difficulty concentrating on anything else, and she wanted Mrs. Blackwell’s mind free of unpleasant thoughts for the moment.

“Do you think it will help?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. Let me give you a hand down from the bed.”

FRANK STOOD IN the hallway looking up the stairs, thinking he’d like to know what was going on with Mrs. Blackwell. Or perhaps he was just looking for an excuse to see Sarah Brandt again. Actually, he had no such excuse. Blackwell’s body had been taken away, he’d questioned all the servants, he’d heard Amos Potter’s theories on who might have killed Blackwell, and he’d gleaned all the information he could about Edmund Blackwell’s mysterious son. He would need to question the neighbors, too, but that would certainly be a waste of time. They would never tell a common Irish policeman anything useful, even if they knew anything useful.

At any rate, he had no further excuse for staying there. The Blackwell baby would be born in its own sweet time, and Frank wasn’t going to wait around until then just for a glimpse of Sarah Brandt. And if he didn’t see her, he wouldn’t be able to tell her that Blackwell had been murdered and give her a reason for wanting to become involved in the investigation. He didn’t want her involved in another of his cases, so he’d best be on his way.

“Will you be needing anything else?” the butler asked, emerging from the depths of the house.

“No, I’m finished here, for the time being. Is Mr. Potter still here?”

“Yes. He wanted to wait to be sure everything is all right with Mrs. Blackwell. He is very devoted to the family.”

Frank wondered what the motivation for that devotion might be. Potter had seemed awfully concerned about Mrs. Blackwell’s welfare, almost more than he’d been concerned about Dr. Blackwell’s death. Well, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. Frank was probably just too jaded, looking for ulterior motives where none existed. Or maybe Amos Potter had seduced Mrs. Blackwell, gotten her with child, and then killed her husband so they could live happily ever after.

Well, now Frank knew it was time to leave. The very thought of meek little Amos Potter seducing anyone was so preposterous Frank had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He was just about to tell the butler he’d be back the next morning to see if Mrs. Blackwell was well enough to answer some questions when someone pounded on the front door.

Granger hurried to open it, and an imposing man in a tailor-made suit stepped into the foyer. Everything about him said power and “old money.” Frank wondered what he’d done to deserve this.

“Good evening, Mr. Symington,” the butler said gravely.

“What’s going on here, Granger? Potter sent me the most mysterious message-” He broke off when he saw Frank. “Who are you?”

“Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the city police, Mr. Symington. I’m investigating Dr. Blackwell’s death.”

“His death? Good God! What happened?”

At that moment Amos Potter emerged from the front parlor. “Mr. Symington, it was so good of you to come.”

“Good?” Symington boomed. “There’s nothing good about this. This fellow says Edmund is dead.”

“That’s right, Mr. Symington, I’m sorry to say,” Potter confirmed. “I wanted to break the news to you myself, but I see you’ve already learned the horrible truth. Even worse, the police believe he was murdered.”

“Murdered? Who on earth would have a reason to murder Edmund?” He looked accusingly at Frank, as if he believed this was all his fault. “Where is my daughter? Does she know about this yet?”

“Mrs. Blackwell is your daughter?” Frank guessed.

“Of course she is,” Symington said impatiently. “Where is she, Potter?”

“She’s upstairs,” Potter said uncomfortably. “A… a midwife is with her.”

Frank saw the first genuine emotion cross Symington’s face. “The baby?” he asked with a worried frown.

“Yes,” Potter said. “The shock of finding Edmund’s body-”

“She found his body?” Symington seemed to be experiencing some shock himself. He looked as if he needed to sit down.

“Perhaps we should step into the parlor,” Potter suggested, nodding toward the butler, who stood nearby.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Symington agreed, and allowed Potter to direct him into the other room.

Frank followed, even though he hadn’t been specifically invited. He had a few questions to ask Mr. Symington. He closed the parlor doors behind them.

Symington had gone directly to a cabinet and opened it to reveal bottles of liquor. With the familiarity of a frequent visitor, he poured himself a drink and downed it in one gulp. Only then did he turn back to face Potter. He seemed a bit surprised to see Frank had joined them, but he didn’t make an issue of it.

“This midwife,” he said to Potter. “Is she someone Edmund approved?”

Before Potter could reply, Frank said, “I sent for her. Her name is Sarah Brandt. She’s Felix Decker’s daughter.” Frank figured Sarah’s sterling family heritage would satisfy Symington, and it appeared he was right.

“Felix Decker, eh?” he said. “I’m sure Edmund wouldn’t have approved, but I suppose, under the circumstances…”

“We really had no choice,” Potter confirmed.

Symington nodded, then thought for a moment. “How did Edmund die?” he asked Frank. “And what makes you think he was murdered?”

“He was shot in the head.”

Symington visibly winced. “And my daughter found his body?”

“That’s right.” Frank watched his face for any betraying emotions, but he saw only the expected ones.

“Who killed him?” Symington demanded when he had absorbed the information.

“Mr. Potter thinks his son killed him,” Frank tried.

Symington seemed surprised, and he turned accusing eyes to Potter.

“Mr. Symington knows nothing about this,” Potter assured Frank. “I hope you’ll allow me to explain everything to him.”

“Go right ahead,” Frank said.

Potter turned to Symington, who was waiting with remarkable patience. “It seems that Edmund was married before, and his son from his first marriage came to see him several days ago.”

“What did he want, and why would he have killed Edmund?”

Frank braced himself for the explosion that would come when Symington found out his daughter’s marriage had been a sham.

“The boy believed Edmund had deserted his first family. He was very angry and bitter, and he threatened to spread all sorts of lies about Edmund unless he received a large sum of money.”

“I assume Edmund refused to be blackmailed,” Symington said, and Potter agreed enthusiastically.

This wasn’t exactly the same story he had told Frank, but he was obviously trying to spare Symington any more pain. Sooner or later the man would have to find out the truth about his daughter and his grandchild, Frank supposed, but he’d let Potter worry about that.

“It’s obvious that Edmund wasn’t the man I thought he was. A man who deserts his family is beneath contempt. Had I known… But that’s of no consequence now. I made a mistake, but when I make a mistake, I correct it.” Symington turned to Frank, his eyes as hard as glass. “My daughter has suffered enough. I do not want her involved in a scandal. If you can find this boy and handle the matter quietly, you will be amply rewarded.”

“Certainly,” Frank said. He didn’t want a scandal either.

“HERE YOU ARE, Mrs. Blackwell,” Sarah said as she tucked the swaddled bundle in next to the new mother. “A fine baby boy.”

Mrs. Blackwell barely had the strength to open her eyes. Dawn was painting pink streaks in the sky, and she’d been laboring all night long. Both mother and baby were exhausted, but Sarah knew it was important for both of them to get the child to nurse immediately.

“I know you’re tired,” Sarah said as Mrs. Blackwell looked down uncertainly at the baby. “But if you can feed him even a little right now, it will help with your recovery, and I’m sure he could use the nourishment.”

“Oh, I’m not going to feed him myself,” Mrs. Blackwell said in surprise. “I’ve hired a wet nurse. Someone should send for her. Granger knows where to find her.”

Sarah frowned. Many wealthy women hired nurses for their children, so she shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Even if you could just feed him for a few days, it would be so much better for both of you.”

“Oh, no,” she insisted, a little alarmed. “Edmund would never allow it. He said no gently bred woman should nurse her own children. Besides, I have to be free to travel for his lectures…” Her voice trailed off as she obviously remembered her husband would be giving no more lectures. “Oh, dear,” she said very faintly and very sadly.

“I’m sure if you’d like to take care of the child yourself, there’s no reason why you couldn’st,” Sarah suggested, tactfully not mentioning the fact that Dr. Blackwell’s opinion no longer mattered. It was all she could do.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know anything about babies. Send for the nurse. She’ll come right away. She said she would. Oh, and someone should notify my father. He’ll want to know immediately.” She looked down at the babe on the bed beside her, studying its tiny face. “He’s awfully small, isn’t he? I really… I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Just hold him for now,” Sarah suggested. “You can learn the rest as you go. Look how sweet he is,” she added, hoping to get Mrs. Blackwell interested in the child. “And where did he get that red hair? Does it run in your family?”

Unfortunately, her words seemed to have exactly the opposite effect. Instead of being enchanted with the child, as most mothers would be, Mrs. Blackwell looked down at him in horror. “Please, I don’t…” Mrs. Blackwell said in despair, and Sarah had no choice but to take the poor child away.

An hour later Sarah had sent a servant to notify Mrs. Blackwell’s father and met the wet nurse, a sturdy-looking woman who seemed, to Sarah’s relief, both respectable and clean. Satisfied that her work was done, she left the baby in the nurse’s care and Mrs. Blackwell sleeping on fresh sheets and made her way downstairs.

The house was quiet as she descended into the front hallway. The servants would be engaged in their regular activities, and certainly no visitors would be lingering. Or so Sarah thought until a short, plump man emerged from the front parlor at the sound of her footsteps. He was well dressed, if a bit rumpled, and his rather homely features were twisted into a scowl. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m the midwife,” she replied. This usually had the effect of satisfying any such inquiry. People seldom cared what her name was once informed of her profession.

Instead of placating him, however, the information seemed to alarm him. “Mrs. Blackwell? How is she? Shouldn’t you be with her?”

“She’s perfectly fine, she and her new son. They’re both resting comfortably now.”

“Oh, thank heaven,” the man said, placing a hand over his heart, as if trying to still it. “After the shock of finding poor Edmund, I didn’t know… What a terrible, terrible thing.” He shook his head for a moment and then looked up again, his small brown eyes anxious. “Do you think… Will there be any lasting effects? From the shock I mean. She’s such a delicate creature.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Sarah said. “She’s young and healthy. She’ll recover completely, once she’s finished mourning her husband.”

“Oh, she’s healthy now, but it wasn’t so very long ago…” For a moment he seemed lost in thought, absently fingering his watch fob. “Well, no matter.”

“Does she have a condition that I should know about?” Sarah asked. “Something that might affect her recovery?”

“No, not now, at any rate. Thanks to Dr. Blackwell’s skill. And of course if she should need any further treatments, I am fully trained in Dr. Blackwell’s techniques.”

He no longer seemed to be talking to Sarah at all, but rather ruminating to himself. He was fingering the watch fob again, and Sarah couldn’t help but notice that it appeared to be a Phi Beta Kappa key. Perhaps he was more important than she had assumed at first glance. “Are you a family member?” she asked curiously, since this was a much nicer way of inquiring as to his identity than he had used on her.

“What? Oh, no, I’m Dr. Blackwell’s assistant. Or, that is, I was his assistant. A terrible thing. Just terrible.”

“Yes, it was, Mister…?”

“Oh, yes! Potter. Amos Potter at your service, Missus…?”

“Brandt,” Sarah supplied. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter. I’m sure Mrs. Blackwell will appreciate your concern.”

“You may convey my best wishes to her, and assure her I will take care of all the details concerning poor Edmund. She need worry for nothing.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Potter, but I believe someone has sent for Mrs. Blackwell’s father.”

“Oh, yes, of course, but I’ll need to take care of Edmund’s business affairs. Those are my responsibilities anyway. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that no burden falls on Mrs. Blackwell.”

Sarah wanted to ask him for some details about Dr. Blackwell’s demise, but she felt that would be rude of her. Besides, she was more likely to get accurate information much more easily in the kitchen, which was where she had originally been headed. “It was so nice to have met you, Mr. Potter,” she said, ready to take her leave, but Potter wasn’t quite finished with her yet.

“That policeman,” he said. “Malloy, I think his name was. You are acquainted with him?”

Sarah was surprised, but she didn’t let it show. “Yes, we met a few months ago,” she said, revealing nothing with her tone.

“Is he… Can he be trusted to be… discreet?”

“Oh, yes,” Sarah said, quite honestly. “Detective Sergeant Malloy is very good at his job. He’ll keep the news of Dr. Blackwell’s unfortunate death out of the newspapers, if that’s what his family wishes.”

Potter nodded. “And will he be diligent about finding Edmund’s killer?”

Sarah started. “Killer?” she repeated incredulously. “I thought Dr. Blackwell had committed suicide.”

Potter pulled himself up to his full, if inconsequential, height. “Mr. Malloy believes he was murdered. While that is quite distressing to me, I am naturally concerned about his ability to find and dispose of the killer.”

A thousand things were racing through Sarah’s mind, but she took no time to consider any of them. “Mr. Malloy will certainly find the killer, Mr. Potter. You can rest assured of that.”

She’d thought this news would comfort Potter, but instead he looked troubled. He would be thinking about the scandal, of course, and the effect it would have on Mrs. Blackwell. Or perhaps he simply didn’t believe her assertion that Malloy could find the killer. Most of the police detectives were totally inept and corrupt, so that would be natural. “Thank you, Mrs. Brandt,” was all he said, and then he took his leave.

Sarah’s stomach rumbled, reminding her of her original destination. The cook was in the kitchen, preparing the noon meal, and instantly offered Sarah something to eat.

“Have a seat, miss,” the cook said. “I’ll fix you something in no time. How’s the Missus and the new babe doing?”

“They’re both fine, but a little tired. It was a long night.”

“That it was, and poor Missus, remembering how her poor husband looked when she found him. It’s an awful thing, I tell you.”

“It certainly is,” Sarah agreed, taking a seat at the scrubbed oak table where the servants ate their meals. She wanted to plunge right in, asking questions, but she knew it was better to listen. She should also pretend she didn’t know about the murder, since that was most likely a secret. The cook would relish the tale much more, thinking Sarah ignorant.

The cook was a buxom woman of middle years, plain of face and sharp of tongue, if Sarah was any judge. “Do you have any idea why Dr. Blackwell would have taken his life?” she asked, hoping she was right.

“Oh, law, he’d never do such a thing! Whatever for? He was famous, he was,” she insisted as she struck a match to light the stove. “People-rich people-they come from all over, even other states, to see him, and they paid him all sorts of money to make them well. Like he did his wife.”

“His wife?” Sarah asked, remembering what Potter had said about Mrs. Blackwell’s health.

“Oh, law, yes, poor little thing. Crippled she was. A horseback-riding accident was what done it. She couldn’t get up from her bed for nigh on a year, and she was in terrible pain. Mr. Symington-that’s her father-he called in every kind of doctor you can imagine, and not a one of them could help her. She was wasting away until finally they found Dr. Blackwell. He cured her just like that!” She snapped her fingers, or tried to. Apparently, they were too greasy, though, and they only slid across each other. “Well, right quick like, anyways. Before you know it, she was right as rain. Been that way ever since.”

Sarah waited until the woman had broken several eggs into the cast-iron skillet she was heating on the stove. “What kind of a doctor was Dr. Blackwell?”

“They called him a magnetic healer. How do you like your eggs, miss?”

“Sunny-side up, please. Do you know how he healed people?”

“I’m not rightly sure, but it had something to do with his hands. He had some power in them. He could put his hands on someone and use that power and make them well.”

What a useful talent, Sarah thought, but of course she didn’t want to show the cook her skepticism. “It’s difficult to understand how a man with such a power would choose to take his own life, then,” she remarked, taking the subject back to her original question.

“Oh, he didn’t. I already told you that! I never believed it for a second, either, not a man like Dr. Blackwell, and then that police detective comes, and he says it, too. Says Dr. Blackwell was murdered, he did.”

“He did?” Sarah echoed, managing to sound surprised.

“Oh, yes. Says somebody tried to make it look like Dr. Blackwell shot himself with his own pistol, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t have, and I told that detective so, too. He talked to all the servants, one by one. Asked all of us did we know anybody who’d want to shoot poor Dr. Blackwell.”

“And did you?”

“Certainly not! Except maybe some of those doctors who was jealous of him, and there was a few, I can tell you.”

The cook scooped up the perfectly cooked eggs and slid them onto a plate. When she’d set it down in front of Sarah, she produced a freshly baked loaf of bread and cut several thick slices from it. Then she served up some creamy butter and strawberry jam and a glass of milk. For a few moments Sarah forgot all about murders and murderers and just indulged herself in the delicious meal. But only for a few moments.

“I suppose no one else has any idea who might have killed Dr. Blackwell either, then,” she surmised when she’d taken the edge off her hunger.

“No one I know of. Everybody on the staff says the same thing. He was such a good man, never a cross word to anyone.”

“His marriage was happy, too?”

“Oh, yes, he doted on his wife, he did. Nothing was too good for her. I don’t think she appreciated it like she should, though. She comes from money, you know, so she’s used to fine things.”

“And the doctor wasn’t from a wealthy family?”

“Oh, law, no! He was common as dirt. His father was a farmer, he said. It was his talents that made him rise in the world. People was so grateful for his help, you see. They give him money and presents. It embarrassed him, I think, all the fuss. But he said it was his duty to help people, and he couldn’t stop.”

Sarah found it hard to believe that anyone would be embarrassed to be recompensed for his work, even if he were a charlatan. Or perhaps especially if he were a charlatan.

“This is a lovely house. How long have the Blackwells lived here?” Sarah asked between mouthfuls.

“About three months now, I guess. They lived in a flat uptown before that. Not that the doctor couldn’t have afforded a nice home, but he was traveling so much. He didn’t have time to find them a place. At least that’s what I heard from her maid. She’s the only one that’s been with them since before they come to this house.”

“So all the servants were hired just three months ago,” Sarah said, wondering if this could possibly have any significance.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s a pity. They finally get a home of their own, and Dr. Blackwell only gets to live in it for a few months.”

“What do you suppose Mrs. Blackwell will do now?”

“Law, I don’t have no idea,” the cook said with a frown. “I don’t suppose she’ll stay in the big house all by herself, now will she?” Plainly, she found the thought unsettling, since this would mean she and the other servants would be out of a job again.

Sarah was sorry she’d brought up the subject. She thanked the woman for the meal and prepared to take her leave.

“Do you want the carriage? It’s raining outside, so you’d best take it. I can have Mr. Granger send around for it,” the cook offered. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

This time Sarah readily accepted. She was too tired to trudge back to her home, especially in the rain, and while the carriage ride would be long, she could at least doze on the way.

“You may wait in the front parlor,” the butler instructed her when asked to make the arrangements. “You’ll see the carriage pull up from the front window there.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, sinking wearily into one of the chairs by the window that overlooked the street.

The butler cleared his throat, drawing her attention again. “Mrs. Blackwell, is she doing well?”

“Yes, she and the baby both are fine,” Sarah said. She’d forgotten how involved the servants became in a family’s life. They were, in many ways, more like relations than employees, albeit poor ones.

“Do you think…? The shock of finding Dr. Blackwell, will that have any ill effects?” he asked with dignified concern.

“It was unfortunate, but I’m sure Mrs. Blackwell will recover fully.” She’d have years of nightmares, but there was no use worrying the butler over something he couldn’t help. “She is, as I said, doing very well already.”

The butler nodded his thanks. “The carriage will be around in a few minutes,” he said, and left her to wait alone.

With nothing else to do, she began to think about Dr. Blackwell’s death and how she could get Malloy to confide in her what was going on with the investigation. He’d certainly balk at involving her in another murder case. She’d managed to put herself in danger twice before while assisting him, and he’d been particularly upset the last time. Maybe if she just expressed mild curiosity. Could she fool him? Somehow she doubted it.

However, she had already obtained a bit of information he might find useful. Probably he’d soon find out the same things she’d just learned, but she could at least save him some trouble by sharing what she already knew about how the dead man had cured his wife’s injuries so miraculously when others had failed. She’d be doing him a favor, she reasoned. He couldn’t object to that. Or so she told herself, knowing full well he’d object to anything he pleased.

Lost in thought, she’d been staring at the man who had just emerged from the house sitting catty-corner from the Blackwells’ without realizing who it was. Malloy! He was no doubt going from house to house, questioning all the neighbors and their servants. Here was her chance.

Quickly gathering her things, Sarah hurried out, not waiting for the butler to open the front door for her. Fortunately, the rain had stopped for the moment, although it didn’t look like the lull would last for long. Malloy was just starting up the front steps of the next house when she called his name.

He stopped and turned, recognizing her at once. She could tell by the way he stiffened in reaction. He didn’t seem at all pleased to see her, but he turned and came back down the steps and began walking toward her.

Sarah resisted an urge to meet him halfway. It would hardly be seemly, but more important, she didn’t want to appear as eager as she felt. She set her medical bag on the front step and waited with apparent patience.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brandt,” he said when he reached her. His expression was resigned and a little reserved, but that did not deter her in the least. “I assume the Blackwell baby has been born.”

“Good morning, Mr. Malloy,” she replied. “Yes, baby and mother are doing as well as we could expect, considering Dr. Blackwell was murdered right in their home.”

He sighed. “I should have known you’d find out all about it. But don’t start thinking you’re going to be involved. You won’t have time anyway. I’ll have the killer locked up by sunset.”

“You know who it is, then?” she asked in surprise.

“Are you on your way home now?” he asked, ignoring her question. “I can get you a cab.”

“They’re bringing the carriage around for me,” she said, undeterred. “I suppose you know that Dr. Blackwell was a magnetic healer and that he supposedly healed his wife after she was crippled in a riding accident.”

If this was new information, he gave no indication. “What exactly does a magnetic healer do?” he asked instead.

“I’m not certain. It has something to do with laying his hands on people and curing them of whatever is wrong.”

“How could he make someone well just by touching them?” Malloy asked.

“Oh, there must be more to it than that, but I’m sure they keep their actual techniques a secret. It’s the only way to prevent others from doing the same thing they do and stealing their patients.”

“But people really get well?” he asked doubtfully.

“Presumably, or these so-called doctors couldn’t stay in business. The fact is that most people eventually get well from whatever is wrong with them if they believe strongly enough that they will, even with no treatment at all. These charlatans have the advantage of people wanting to believe their treatments will work, no matter how ridiculous they are. When someone gets well, they tell their friends, and people have even more confidence in the healer. So, who do you think killed Dr. Blackwell?”

Malloy’s lips twitched, as if he were holding back a smile. “Nice try, Mrs. Brandt, but you’re not getting involved in this. Go home, get some sleep, and forget all about Dr. Blackwell’s death.”

“Just exactly how do you propose I forget about it?” she asked, genuinely interested.

“Think about something else,” he suggested. “I hear your carriage. It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Brandt. Good day.”

He tipped his hat and turned away, even though Sarah was far from finished with him. She wanted to stamp her foot in protest, but such a gesture would only amuse him. “Thank you for sending for me, Malloy,” she called after him.

He turned back, not bothering to hide his smile this time. “I needed a midwife, and you’re the only midwife I know.”

Sarah glared at him, but her effort was wasted. He was already walking away. She wasn’t really angry, though. She enjoyed their sparring, and she knew he did, too. And she also knew she had a good reason to stay involved with the case. She’d be back tomorrow morning to check on Mrs. Blackwell and her baby. Then she’d find out if Malloy was as good as his word about finding the killer by sunset.

ALTHOUGH A FIERCE electrical storm woke Sarah several times during the night, the weather was fine the next morning, so she decided to walk back over to Gramercy Park. When the butler opened the front door, she immediately knew something was wrong.

“Mrs. Brandt, how good that you’ve come,” he said, maintaining his dignity even though his pinched expression revealed his concern.

“Is Mrs. Blackwell ill? You should have sent for me at once!”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Blackwell is perfectly well. It’s the child. He’s… well, he seems to be in some distress. The nurse has been up with him all night.”

It could be simple colic, of course, but usually that didn’t begin quite so soon. Her mind racing with possibilities-none of them pleasant-Sarah hurried upstairs. When she reached the landing, she could hear the faint sound of an infant crying. It was a hollow sound, one Sarah had heard before, but she knew she must be mistaken in what she was thinking. The cries came from farther down the hall than Mrs. Blackwell’s room, which meant the child was probably in the nursery. When she reached the door, she didn’t bother to knock.

She found the nurse walking the floor with the infant, vainly trying to comfort him. She looked exhausted and at her wit’s end, and she seemed infinitely relieved to see Sarah.

“Oh, Mrs. Brandt, thank heaven you’re here! I don’t know what come over him,” she exclaimed, absently patting the screaming child. “At first I thought he might be scared of the storm last night. It was so loud! Then I thought it was the colic, but don’t nothing work for it. Seems like he don’t even want to be touched, which ain’t natural at all!”

It was true. Usually, a fretful baby could be stilled by a soothing touch or rocking or walking, even one with colic. Sarah reached out, and the nurse surrendered the child gratefully. As soon as she took the baby from the nurse, however, she understood what the woman meant. The child stiffened in her arms, resisting her embrace. She took him to the nurse’s bed and laid him down, unwrapping his swaddling so she could examine him for possible injuries or defects she’d failed to notice yesterday.

His limbs were twitching, and his skin was pale and cool to the touch. He arched his little body as if in pain.

“Have you given him anything?” Sarah asked.

“Just my milk, and I never ate nothing that could upset him. I’m that careful with my milk, I am.”

Sarah knew this was far more than an upset stomach, however. “I need to speak with Mrs. Blackwell,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

The nurse nodded, not really understanding, and took the baby when Sarah had wrapped him up again.

Sarah went to Mrs. Blackwell’s room and knocked on the door.

“Come,” she called weakly, and Sarah stepped into the room.

The drapes were drawn against the morning sunlight, but Mrs. Blackwell wasn’t trying to sleep. She sat up in bed, propped by a stack of pillows, and she looked just as frazzled as the nurse. “Thank heaven you’ve come! Can you make him stop?” she asked Sarah. “He’s been doing this all night. Between the crying and the storm, I haven’t had a wink of sleep!”

Sarah didn’t like the way Mrs. Blackwell seemed more concerned for her own welfare than for her child’s, which may have put a little edge in her voice when she asked, “Do you have any idea what’s wrong with your baby?”

Mrs. Blackwell’s eyes grew large. “Certainly not! How could I?”

“I think you could. When you were in labor, I asked if you regularly took those patent medicines I found in your dressing room, and you said you didn’t.”

“I don’st! Hardly ever! I just… After finding Edmund…” Her lovely blue eyes filled with tears. “I was so distressed! I needed something for my nerves, so I… I hardly ever use them. Only when I… when I get nervous.”

A tear slid down her smooth cheek, and Sarah had the uneasy feeling the woman had practiced looking lovely when she wept. She didn’t crinkle up her face or make unladylike sounds. She simply allowed her crystal tears to slip silently down her face in a most becoming manner.

“Mrs. Blackwell, your baby is very ill. He seems to be suffering from the effects of some narcotic substance, or rather from the lack of such a substance in his system. If his mother regularly used such a substance during her pregnancy, he would be just as dependent on it as she is, except he has no way to obtain it unless someone gives it to him.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Is it? Mrs. Blackwell, I’ve seen cases like this before. If this is indeed what’s wrong with your baby, he will die unless he receives treatment, so unless you want your baby to die, you must be honest with me.”

“Die?” she echoed incredulously. “He can’t die, not from that! I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“You may not have heard of it, but I assure you, it is very possible. Now you must tell me the truth. Tell me what medicines you take and how frequently.”

“I… I tried to stop!” she exclaimed, forgetting to look attractive. Now she just looked frightened. “They said the baby would die if I stopped!”

“Who said that?”

“Mr. Fong. He’s…” She caught herself and slapped one slender hand over her lips, knowing she had revealed too much.

“Mr. Fong?” Sarah repeated. This was worse than she’d even imagined. “A Chinese man? Why were you discussing this with a Chinese man?”

“I wasn’st! I can’t tell you!” she cried, contradicting herself. Her hands were fluttering around her face now, and her eyes were more than frightened. Unfortunately, Sarah had begun to put the clues together, and now she had a pretty good idea why.

“Mrs. Blackwell, have you been visiting an opium den?” she asked, trying to keep the horror out of her voice.

The woman looked as if she might faint. “I can’t help myself! You don’t know what it’s like, the hunger and the craving! I thought I would die without it, and Edmund wouldn’t… And then the baby… I could feel him fluttering inside me every time I started needing more. He was frantic for it, too, as frantic as I! They said the baby would die if I didn’t take the morphine, so I had to do it! I didn’t have any choice!”

Unfortunately, she was probably right. Sarah had a few unkind things to say to Mrs. Blackwell, but she would save them for later. Without another word, she went into Mrs. Blackwell’s dressing room.

“What are you doing?” the woman demanded.

“I’m going to save your baby’s life,” Sarah said, yanking open the drawer she had discovered the day before. She noticed another bottle seemed to have been emptied. Since Mrs. Blackwell was unable to visit Mr. Fong, the opium content of the patent medicines would help ease her cravings until she was able to obtain a new supply of morphine. Sarah rummaged through the bottles until she found what she was looking for. Pure laudanum.

When Mrs. Blackwell saw her with the bottle, she cried out in protest. “They said the baby would be fine when he was born! They said he wouldn’t need the drug anymore!”

“They lied,” Sarah told her without apology.

She hurried down the hall, back toward the sound of the crying child. The nurse looked up hopefully when she entered. “Do you…?” she began, and then she saw the bottle in Sarah’s hand. “What on earth…?”

Sarah didn’t waste any time. She found her bag where she’d set it when she came in and rummaged inside until she located an eyedropper. Carefully, she drew a small amount of the amber liquid from the bottle and said, “Lay him on the bed, please.”

“Oh, dear heaven,” the nurse muttered, carefully laying the squalling child on the bed. “What is it? Can you give that to a tiny babe? Oh, dear, oh, dear, that’s not the right thing to be doing! I never heard of such a thing!”

She stood wringing her hands as Sarah carefully dropped some of the liquid into the child’s mouth. The baby started and made a face at the taste, and for a moment he was still. Then the crying started again.

“This should quiet him in a minute,” Sarah said.

“Of course it should!” the nurse said indignantly. “That’s what it’s supposed to do. Does his mother know what poison you’re giving him? I’m going to tell her if she doesn’st! This ain’t right!”

“Mrs. Blackwell is a regular user of morphine,” Sarah told her. “The baby is accustomed to the drug, which passed from her to him when he was in the womb. That’s why he’s been crying. It must be past time for his regular dose, and without it, he will die. I’ve seen it happen far too many times.”

“Oh, dear heaven!” the nurse cried again, this time in horror. “What’s to become of the poor thing, then?”

“He won’t need to take it forever,” Sarah assured her. “We’ll wait until he gets stronger, and then gradually wean him from it. I’ve done this before, and if the child is otherwise healthy, he should be fine.” She didn’t explain that the times she’d done this before had been with the children of prostitutes who habitually used morphine to dull the pain of their miserable existences. Why a woman like Mrs. Blackwell would feel the need for such oblivion, Sarah had no idea, and right now she was too angry even to care.

“He’s twitching so,” the nurse said, still wringing her hands.

“We’ll wait a few minutes to see if what I gave him does the trick. If not, we’ll try another drop and then another, until we get the dosage right.”

Sarah sat down on the bed beside him to wait, her fury swelling inside of her as she watched the tiny body quivering in agony. Someone should pay for doing this to a helpless child, but she had no idea who that someone should be.