Murder On Gramercy Park

5

FOR THE FUNERAL THE NEXT MORNING, SARAH dressed in her best black serge and chose a hat that still looked moderately stylish. In the normal course of her life, she hardly ever needed to look stylish, but she’d been to far too many funerals since meeting Frank Malloy. She’d be forced to get a new hat if this kept up.

Although she was carrying her medical bag when Granger opened the front door to the Blackwell home, he could not miss the fact that she was here for the funeral, although she was a bit early. Her hat probably gave her away.

“I’m sure Mrs. Blackwell will be glad to see you, Mrs. Brandt,” he said, although his tone belied the words.

Sarah, of course, didn’t particularly care if Mrs. Blackwell wanted to see her or not. She was here, and they wouldn’t dare cause a scene by trying to throw her out. She was, after all, Mrs. Blackwell’s nurse, and who could fault her for paying her respects to the husband of her patient?

When she stepped into the foyer, she heard Amos Potter’s voice coming from the parlor. He was instructing someone impatiently. Sarah peeked in and saw that Dr. Blackwell’s large, ornate casket had been brought in during her absence. It was closed, probably because after having his brains blown out, he wasn’t in any condition for viewing. Several large flower arrangements stood around, their scent rather cloying in the confines of the room, and the furniture had been moved back to make space for half a dozen rows of chairs.

Potter was telling one of the maids to move the flowers closer to the casket when Sarah called, “Good morning, Mr. Potter. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Potter looked up in surprise, and for an instant couldn’t seem to place her. “Oh, good morning, Mrs. Brandt,” he said after a moment. “No, I’m sure we have everything taken care of. Is Mrs. Blackwell ill?” he added with some concern.

“Not that I am aware. I did think she might need some support today, however. This must be a terrible strain for her.”

“Oh, not at all. I told her she didn’t have to worry about anything. I’ve taken care of all the arrangements. And under the circumstances, no one expects her to attend the service, of course.”

“Sometimes that’s worse, knowing you can’t do anything or take part in something of such importance,” Sarah said. “And don’t underestimate the importance of a funeral. One must be allowed to mourn a loss such as this, and being unable to attend her husband’s funeral will make it difficult for her to come to terms with his death.”

Potter didn’t appreciate being instructed in such things. “I’m sure I will be able to give Mrs. Blackwell all the support she will need in the coming months, Mrs. Brandt. You need not concern yourself about her welfare.”

Sarah simply smiled. She’d expected as much from Potter. He was certainly eager to offer every assistance to the lovely young widow. Maybe she hadn’t been so far wrong in imagining Potter could have killed Blackwell because he wanted Mrs. Blackwell for himself. She was going to have to discard the theory that Potter had seduced Letitia, however. One preposterous solution to this case was quite enough. Malloy was going to tease her mercilessly if she couldn’t come up with a more menacing suspect than Amos Potter.

“I’ll leave you to your duties,” Sarah said, and continued on her way upstairs, ignoring Granger’s disapproving glare.

Sarah checked on the baby first. The boy appeared to be fine.

“I give him the drops, just like you told me,” the nurse reported. “No more, no less. Then he’s like an angel. Eats and sleeps just like he should.”

Sarah listened to his heart and his lungs and thumped his tummy. His color was good and his eyes were clear. He turned his head toward the nurse when she spoke, and he followed Sarah’s finger with his eyes. He wasn’t deaf or blind, and he seemed sound of body. They wouldn’t know about his mind for a while yet, but Sarah could hope he would be none the worse for the morphine his mother had taken.

“He seems perfectly healthy,” Sarah judged with more than a little relief when she’d finished her examination.

“Except for that hair. Did the morphine turn it that color, do you think?” the nurse asked with obvious disapproval.

“Certainly not,” Sarah assured her. “He simply has red hair.”

“Never saw hair like that on a baby,” the nurse insisted. “It ain’t natural.”

“Many people have red hair, and it’s perfectly natural,” Sarah assured her as patiently as she could. People had the oddest prejudices.

The nurse hmmphed her skepticism. “How long do you think we’ll have to give him that horrible stuff?”

“A few months,” Sarah said. “We’ll wait until he’s gained some weight, and we’re certain he’s healthy. Then we’ll gradually decrease his dosage. Have you heard how Mrs. Blackwell is doing?”

“Don’t nobody tell me anything,” the nurse said, a little disgusted. As a newcomer to the household she wouldn’t have gained the confidence of the other staff members, and her job, of necessity, kept her from socializing with them. “I do know they’re having the doctor’s funeral this morning.”

“So I gathered,” Sarah said. “That’s why I came today. I was afraid Mrs. Blackwell might be upset. I’d better go check on her.”

The nurse made another rude noise. “If she’s got some morphine, she probably don’t even know what’s going on in her own parlor.”

Sarah gave her a quelling look which made her frown, but at least she didn’t say any more. Sarah hoped she wasn’t going to have to suggest that Mrs. Blackwell get another nurse, but if this one was going to be so disapproving of her employer, things could become very difficult.

Sarah learned from the maid lingering in the hallway that Mrs. Blackwell was awake and wanted to see her. The bedroom was dark when Sarah entered, the heavy drapes drawn against the morning sunlight. Mrs. Blackwell lay propped against her pillows, her face pale and her expression drawn.

“How is my baby?” she asked Sarah, who decided the woman might not be as selfish and spoiled as she had originally thought. At least she’d asked about the baby first.

“He’s doing very well,” Sarah said. “We have apparently determined the correct dose of morphine to give him, and he’s thriving on the nurse’s milk.”

“Thank heaven,” she breathed, closing her lovely eyes for a moment in apparent relief.

“What have you named him?” Sarah asked to be sociable.

Her eyes flew open, and Sarah was surprised to see the alarm in them. “I… I haven’t thought,” she said. “Edmund wanted… but now… I don’t know!”

“There’s no hurry,” Sarah assured her, disturbed by her reaction. The woman seemed incapable of making any decision without her husband’s approval. If that were true, his death was going to hamper the decision-making process considerably. “It will be a while before he even knows he has a name,” Sarah added in an attempt to lighten the moment.

Mrs. Blackwell didn’t look reassured. “But other people will know,” she pointed out. “My father… he’ll expect me to…” She lifted the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture of despair.

“Why don’t you let me examine you,” Sarah suggested, hoping to take her mind off of the terrible burden of selecting a name for her child. “Are you having any discomfort?”

FRANK HAD TIMED his arrival at the Blackwell home so he would be there to see the guests as they arrived. He wanted to get a look at the people who felt the need to honor Blackwell’s memory or at least to assure themselves he was dead.

He found Amos Potter giving frantic orders to the servants, who scurried around trying to do his bidding. He didn’t look at all happy to see Frank.

“Mr. Malloy,” he said imperiously. “As I informed you yesterday, your presence here is completely unnecessary.”

“Not unless you think it’s unnecessary for me to find out who killed Dr. Blackwell,” Frank replied.

Potter glared at him impatiently. “Surely you don’t believe anyone coming here today could have killed him?”

“I won’t know until I see them, now will I?” Frank said reasonably.

Potter didn’t think this was reasonable at all. “I already told you who the killer is,” he reminded him. “You had him in your power, and you let him get away.”

“He hasn’t gotten away,” Frank said. “Besides, I don’t have any reason to believe he’s the killer.”

“Who else could it have been? The boy is insane with grief and rage. His father deserted him and his family and left them penniless. He probably spent years trying to locate Edmund, and when he did, Edmund rejected him once again. Unable to control his fury, he shot poor Edmund and tried to cover up his crime. There, you see how simple it is? And I’m not even a policeman,” Potter said smugly.

“Do you want me to accuse an innocent boy just so I can collect a reward?” Frank asked with as much genuine confusion as he could muster.

Potter barely controlled his impatience. “He isn’t innocent!”

Frank waited until the maid who was straightening the chairs moved out of earshot. “I questioned him thoroughly, and he gave me all the right answers, Mr. Potter. I don’t believe he killed his father.”

“Then he is even more clever than I imagined,” Potter informed him. “He’s Edmund’s son, all right. If he is at all like his father, he would have no trouble bending the truth to suit his needs, and he would have the advantage of his youth to lend him the appearance of innocence.”

“Was Dr. Blackwell an accomplished liar?” Frank asked curiously.

The color rose in Potter’s face, and he glanced uneasily at the casket standing nearby. “It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead,” he said.

“Then you believe that there is ill you could speak about,” Frank surmised. “Tell me, who did the good doctor lie to? You? His patients? His wife? We certainly know he lied to the current Mrs. Blackwell by not telling her about the first Mrs. Brown.”

“I refuse to discuss such a thing with Edmund lying dead just a few feet away,” Potter sniffed.

“Then we can discuss it later,” Frank said.

Plainly, Potter did not like being told what to do by a mere policeman. “You will excuse me now. I have many things to do before the guests arrive.”

Frank let him go. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with him right now anyway. He went to the kitchen to find a cup of coffee while he waited for the funeral guests to begin arriving.

“DO YOU KNOW my husband’s funeral is this morning?” Mrs. Blackwell asked Sarah as she finished her examination.

“Yes,” Sarah said. “I noticed the preparations when I arrived. I’m sure you must be disappointed that you can’t attend.”

Mrs. Blackwell sighed. “Funerals frighten me. My mother died when I was quite young, and I remember how horrible it all was, everything draped in black. I can’t stand the thought of it.”

“Then I won’t suggest that you try to go downstairs to at least pay your respects. I’m sure one of the servants could carry you if you really wanted to see your husband’s… uh… casket.”

Mrs. Blackwell shuddered. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly… Edmund wouldn’t want me to see him like that anyway. He’d want me to remember him as he was, I’m sure of it,” she reasoned. She tried to reach over to the nightstand, but couldn’t quite. “Could you…?” she asked Sarah. “In the top drawer…”

Sarah opened the drawer in the bedside table, expecting to find a handkerchief or smelling salts, and was surprised to see a syringe lying there instead. “Do you inject the morphine?” she asked in horror. This was even worse than she’d imagined.

“Please,” Mrs. Blackwell entreated, her lovely blue eyes filling with tears. “Don’t judge me! I can’t… You don’t know what I’ve had to suffer.”

Sarah had a good idea it wasn’t so very much at all, compared with many who never turned to the oblivion of opiates, but she was a nurse, not a missionary. Reluctantly, she handed the materials to her patient.

“I can’t bear to know what’s going on downstairs. I must sleep so I won’t hear it,” she said, preparing the syringe with the ease of long practice.

Sarah could not watch this. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me for anything,” she said, quickly closing up her medical bag and taking her leave.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brandt,” Mrs. Blackwell said with her best finishing-school manners. “You’ve been very kind.”

Sarah didn’t stop to wonder for what she was being thanked.

FRANK LOOKED UP from where he was sitting in the front hallway and saw Sarah Brandt descending the stairs. He didn’t like to admit that his happiness at seeing her almost outweighed his annoyance. Whatever his personal feelings for her might be, she had no business being involved in this case.

“Malloy,” she said, greeting him with her usual smile, as if she were as happy to see him as he was to see her. “Has anyone arrived for the funeral yet?”

“No,” he said, rising to his feet as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “You can leave without anybody seeing you.”

“Oh, but I intend to stay for the service,” she replied confidently. “It’s the least I can do, since Mrs. Blackwell herself can’t attend.”

“Are you her personal representative?” he asked sarcastically.

As usual, his sarcasm was wasted on her. “No, but I do feel a sense of obligation to my patient.”

“You never even set eyes on the man,” Frank reminded her.

“But I did bring his child into the world,” she reminded him right back. “His legacy, born after his death to carry on his name-”

“That’s enough,” Frank said, raising his hands in surrender. “And Blackwell wasn’t really his name.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. I wonder what Mrs. Blackwell will do now. Did her father know about Blackwell’s other family?”

“I don’t think so. He didn’t seem to know who Calvin Brown was, at any rate, but if he did, he’d certainly be a suspect in Blackwell’s death.”

“I suppose he would. I can’t imagine what my father would do if a man did to me what Blackwell did to Letitia Symington.”

“I can, and blowing his brains out would be the least of it,” Frank said. “Symington couldn’t know, now that I think of it, though. He’s giving the eulogy this morning. He’d hardly do that for the man who ruined his daughter.”

“Yes, that would pretty well prove he has no idea. Which would eliminate him as a suspect, too.”

“Probably,” was all Frank would allow, and Mrs. Brandt didn’t miss his reluctance to exonerate Symington.

“You still think he might have done it?” she asked, her fine eyes brightening with interest.

“I don’t know who did it,” was all he would say. “I guess there’s no way to get you to leave before the funeral starts.”

“Short of throwing me bodily into the street, no,” she replied cheerfully. “There’s no telling what I might learn just from eavesdropping, and I already have some information for you.”

“What?” he asked skeptically.

“I’m sure it would be better if we share our knowledge in a more private place,” she said, glancing meaningfully over to where a maid was carrying a vase into the parlor.

Frank managed to refrain from saying he wasn’t planning to share anything with her. She liked to think she was helping him, and he had to admit she sometimes did find out things that aided his investigations. But he certainly had no intention of telling her what he already knew in return She wasn’t the detective on this case, so she had no need to know more than she already did.

Fortunately, he was saved from having to reply because someone knocked on the front door at that moment. “We’ll talk later,” was all he said.

Sarah nodded and took advantage of the butler’s momentary distraction to slip into the parlor and take a seat. She chose one near the far end of the back row so no one would have to climb over her or even notice her. Being unobtrusive was an advantage, if one could manage it, and Sarah seemed to have done so.

She glanced around. The room was now perfectly in order, thanks to Potter’s rigorous attention to detail. A spray of flowers stood at both the head and foot of the casket, which gleamed in the morning sunlight filtering through the lace-curtained windows. Flowers ringed the room as well. Sarah would have to check the cards later to see who had sent them. Perhaps that would be a clue to who had killed him. Or who hadn’t.

She could hear Amos Potter welcoming the new arrivals. His tone struck her as particularly annoying. He was apparently trying to appear suave and sophisticated to Blackwell’s well-heeled patients, but Sarah found him oily and toadying. Probably others did, too.

In a few moments Potter ushered the guests in, and Sarah kept her head bowed, as if she were praying. Even Amos Potter would think twice about disturbing a praying woman, or at least she hoped he would. Either her ploy worked or Potter failed to notice her at all, because he left without comment to her.

She looked up and saw that the first guests were a well-dressed couple who had taken seats near the front of the room. The lady was dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged hankie and the man seemed to be merely resigned. Sarah based this judgment on the way his arms were crossed over his chest. The woman, probably his wife, whispered something to him, and he grumbled something back. Plainly, they were arguing.

She heard another knock at the front door, and checked the lapel watch she wore. Nearly ten o’clock. All the mourners should be arriving within the next few minutes.

Indeed, the room quickly filled with well-dressed, black-clad visitors. The women were in various stages of distress. Most were discreetly weeping, but a few sobbed openly. The husbands, the few who came, were as helpless and horrified as men usually are when confronted with a weeping female. Most of them sat looking uncomfortable, while a few were positively angry. Sarah couldn’t help remembering what Mrs. Ellsworth had told her about Blackwell’s reputation. If he indeed had seduced his female patients, their husbands would certainly be justified in being reluctant mourners at his funeral.

“Will you stop that caterwauling?” the man in front of her whispered to his wife, who was sniffling indelicately into her handkerchief.

“I’d think you’d be more sympathetic,” the woman whispered back, “after all he did for you.”

“I had a pain in my back, and he made it go away,” the man said. “Does that mean I should throw myself on his grave and expire?”

“You could hardly move, and you know it,” she snapped. “Dr. Blackwell performed a miracle on you!”

“And what did he do for you that you have cause to make a public spectacle of yourself?” he asked, forgetting to whisper.

“Attending his funeral is not making a public spectacle!”

“Carrying on like you’ve lost your best friend is,” her husband countered.

“You know what he did for me,” she said, her voice choking with tears.

“Sometimes I wonder if I do,” he replied, earning a sharp glance from his wife and an even sharper one from Sarah.

Just then, the room fell silent as Mr. Symington entered, followed by Amos Potter. Potter had chosen himself for the role of master of ceremonies. Sarah wondered why there was no minister present, but perhaps Dr. Blackwell was a freethinker and recognized no organized religion. Even if he hadn’t belonged to a church in the city, many ministers would preach a funeral for someone as well known as Blackwell for the fee alone. If there was no minister, it was by design.

Potter welcomed everyone with the same unctuous tone he’d used earlier, and Sarah found herself embarrassed for him. He certainly didn’t deserve her concern, but she believed no one should be allowed to make a total fool of himself in ignorance. She doubted Potter was the type to take constructive criticism well, however, so she knew she would never offer any.

“I know Dr. Blackwell would be gratified to see all of you here to honor him. His name will live long in the hearts of those whose pain and suffering he relieved, and as a pioneer in the healing arts.”

A woman up front sobbed aloud, and Potter seemed to take that as an encouragement. He went on for several more minutes in the same vein, lauding Blackwell as a man ahead of his time who died unrecognized by a society who would someday revere him. Sarah thought it excessive for a man who had no legitimate claim even to call himself a doctor, but no one seemed to care about her opinion.

Potter was showing no sign of running out of steam when there was a slight disturbance out in the hall. After a moment the parlor door slid open a bit, and Calvin Brown stepped in. The boy recoiled when he saw all the well-dressed people turning to look at him, and Sarah’s heart ached for him. No matter what Blackwell had done, he was still the boy’s father. Sarah waved and caught his eye and motioned to the empty chair next to her. He scurried over and slipped in beside her gratefully.

His eyes were wide and frightened, but his chin was set with determination. No one was going to shame him into missing his father’s funeral. He clutched his battered cap in both hands and sat stiffly, aware that Potter had stopped his remarks to glare at him in disapproval. Sarah patted the boy’s hand reassuringly, then nodded at Potter to continue, earning another glare for both of them.

She was aware of whispers around her. People would be wondering who Calvin was, and why someone so shabbily dressed was there at all. Good manners prevailed, however, and after a moment they all fell silent.

Potter cleared his throat, but he seemed to have forgotten where he was. After an awkward moment he turned his attention to introducing Maurice Symington, a man who had, according to Potter, more reason than anyone to be grateful to Blackwell.

Symington had been sitting in the front row, his head bowed as Sarah’s had been when she was seeking to avoid notice. She couldn’t help wondering what Symington’s reason was. Perhaps he truly was overcome with grief at the death of his son-in-law, but she somehow doubted it. Symington was hardly the type of man to be overcome by anything.

Potter finished his introduction and took his seat, but Symington hadn’t moved. In fact, another moment went by, and he still didn’t move. Everyone waited patiently. They knew this must be difficult for him. Another moment passed, and the crowd sensed that too much time was passing. People shifted uncomfortably, no one quite certain if they should be concerned or annoyed that he hadn’t gotten up to speak. Potter began to fidget nervously. Then, just when Sarah was beginning to think Symington might need her medical services, he finally rose to his feet.

The crowd’s relief was palpable, and Sarah almost sighed aloud herself, but if Symington was aware of his faux pas, he gave no indication. He took his place behind the podium and cleared this throat.

“As most of you know, I had the greatest respect for Edmund Blackwell. I met Dr. Blackwell about two years ago. A business associate introduced us. My friend had suffered great pain for many years, and Dr. Blackwell had been able to help him when all traditional medicine had failed. My friend knew that I, too, faced a similar situation, although in my case, it was my beloved daughter whom traditional medicine had failed.

“Letitia is my only child and, since my wife died years ago, the only family I have left. I love her more than life itself, and when she was severely injured in a riding accident, I would have moved heaven and earth to heal her, if it had been in my power. To my great disappointment, however, moving heaven and earth was beyond my power, as was finding someone who could restore Letitia to health. She lay helpless and in pain for almost a year while a veritable parade of physicians of all kinds came and went, each of them pronouncing her case hopeless.

“My daughter would never know the joy of a husband and family and a home of her own. She would never know freedom or friendships. She would never dance or play the piano or attend a social gathering again. I had all but given up hope when I met Edmund.”

The crowd murmured their understanding of how momentous this occasion must have been, but beside her, Calvin made a small sound in his throat, as if almost choking on his own bitterness.

“Edmund was most interested in Letitia’s case,” Symington continued. “He said he had often been able to help when other doctors had failed. His methods were new and revolutionary, and many in the medical profession did not accept them. He would, he said, do his very best to bring Letitia back to health.

“I could tell immediately that he was not like any other physician who had seen her. He spoke to her kindly, allaying her fears. He was more concerned about her than about his reputation. He only wanted to see her regain her strength. After only a few moments he had discovered the source of her pain. Then he told me he could, within a matter of weeks, have her well again.

“I was skeptical, as you can imagine. I’d seen many doctors who said they could cure her, only to be disappointed. But Letitia begged me to let him try. She believed in him, so could I do less? I granted him permission to treat her.

“I was a man without hope, so I did not expect much, but to my astonishment and joy, Letitia improved from the very first treatment. After a few weeks she was completely pain-free and able to leave her room for the first time in months. Soon my daughter was exactly as she had been before, and her ordeal was but a memory.”

Again the crowd murmured its understanding. Sarah imagined that many of them had experienced equally miraculous cures. But when she glanced at Calvin, she saw the anger on his young face. This must be terribly difficult for him to hear his father lauded as a hero after what he had done to his wife and children.

“You will understand my gratitude to Dr. Blackwell. No amount of money could ever repay what he had done for Letitia, but all he asked was that I, like my friend, recommend his services to others. That hardly seemed enough to me. A man as gifted as Edmund should be known to the thousands whom he could help, so I proposed to him that I repay him by renting a hall so he could explain to the public what wonders his treatments could work.

“Since most of you discovered Edmund’s talents through just such lectures, I don’t have to describe them to you. And when he asked if I would tell Letitia’s story at the lectures, Letitia herself insisted that she be allowed to speak instead. She is naturally reserved, but for this she overcame her shyness. She felt she could not do enough to make sure others were not suffering needlessly, as she had done for so long, when Edmund could cure them. Most of you already know the rest of the story, about how Letitia and Edmund fell in love.”

This time Calvin made a noise that was almost a groan. Several heads turned to see who had made it, and everyone who looked saw a young man who was crimson with fury. Symington either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“When Edmund asked me for her hand,” he went on, “I could only remember that had it not been for his skill, Letitia would still be an invalid. Like a knight of old, he had earned the right to her, and I could not refuse him, nor did I want to. I was happy to give her to the man whose devotion had saved her.”

Sarah could feel Calvin’s misery radiating from him. She wondered that he could sit still and listen to this. This was the kind of anger that caused people to commit murder, she realized with growing unease.

Symington hadn’t even paused. “Alas, their happiness was cut short when some fiend took Edmund’s life. Who can explain such a senseless act? And how can we measure the loss of a man so gifted? How many will suffer because he no longer lives? How many will endure senseless pain because his talented hands are stilled? And the worst tragedy of all is that his son, born the day after his death, will never know him in this life.”

There were a few gasps of surprise. Word of the baby’s birth had obviously not yet spread. Calvin’s gasp of pain was mercifully lost in the disturbance. Once again Sarah reached over and patted the boy’s hand, but he didn’t seem even to notice.

“Because my daughter cannot be here to mourn her husband, it falls to me to send him to his rest. I know I speak for all of you when I say he will be missed. Those whom he treated will, like my daughter, know lives free of pain and suffering because of his talents. That is his legacy. He could ask for none finer.”

Women in the audience were weeping into their handkerchiefs as Symington took his seat. Sarah could certainly understand why Blackwell had wanted Symington to speak at his lectures. The man was spellbinding.

“That’s the same speech he gives at the lectures,” the woman beside her murmured to her companion. “You’d think he could have said something more.”

“I’m sure he’s too overcome with grief to make the effort,” her companion said. “That poor little baby. I had no idea.”

Beside her, Calvin was breathing hard, as if merely sitting still were an effort of strength. Sarah could imagine that it was. He must long to stand up and tell everyone the truth about his father. Doing so in front of such a group would be much too intimidating, however, so he merely sat and waited for the ordeal to end.

Amos Potter was at the podium again, thanking everyone for coming and inviting them to partake of some refreshments in the dining room. As soon as it was obvious the service was over, Calvin jumped up and fled, ducking out the door even before Mr. Symington could get there to greet the mourners as they filed out, and accept their condolences.

Sarah wanted to go after Calvin, but he was surely gone by now, so she stayed where she was, trying to hear what each person said to Mr. Symington as he or she left. Perhaps she’d pick up some useful information. Most of what she heard were the usual clichés that people utter at such times, but a few of the women were obviously distraught and couldn’t seem to judge when they’d said enough. One woman went on and on about what a wonderful man Dr. Blackwell had been, until another woman took her by the arm and forcibly led her away.

Watching from under the brim of her hat, Sarah saw Symington’s face tighten. Either he was embarrassed by the unseemly display or some other emotion had overcome him. Finally, the last couple reached him. They were the ones who had been the first to arrive and who had seemed to be arguing before the service started.

“Clarence Fitzgerald,” the man said, sticking out his hand to Symington. He was a tall, spindly man of middle years. His thinning gray hair revealed a shiny pink scalp, and if his face had ever borne a smile, there was no indication. His wife was short and plump and wore a well-made suit that fit snugly enough over her rounded figure to suggest upholstery. Her pudgy face was splotched from weeping. “We’ve met several times at the club, I believe,” he added to Symington.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Mr. Symington said, although Sarah was sure he had no recollection of the man.

“I need to discuss some matters of business with you, Mr. Symington, concerning Dr. Blackwell’s affairs.”

“Not today, Clarence,” the woman with him said in distress.

“Today’s as good as any other, Martha,” Clarence snapped, and turned back to Symington.

But Symington had no intention of dealing with the fellow. “I’m afraid I know nothing of my son-in-law’s business. You’ll have to take it up with Amos Potter. I’ll be happy to introduce you if you’ll join us in the dining room.”

No longer having any reason to linger, Sarah rose from her place and made her way silently toward the door. She saw that Clarence Fitzgerald didn’t like being put off.

“It’s about this house,” he told Symington, undeterred. “I own it.”

“It’s a fine property,” Symington said. “I’m sure my daughter will want to continue living here for a while. Potter will discuss the arrangements with you. If you’ll excuse me…”

He turned to Sarah, silently dismissing them.

“I told you not to bring it up today,” Mrs. Fitzgerald was saying.

He grumbled something in reply, but Sarah didn’t catch it.

She put out her hand to Mr. Symington, whose expression told her he thought she looked familiar but could not recall her name.

“Mrs. Brandt. I’m the midwife who tended your daughter,” she added. “I’m so sorry about Dr. Blackwell.”

“My daughter, is she doing well?” Symington asked with all the concern Sarah could have wished.

“She was upset this morning,” Sarah admitted, not mentioning the need for morphine to help her through it. “It must be difficult not being able to attend her husband’s funeral.”

“No one would expect that, under the circumstances,” Symington said stiffly, as if he thought she was criticizing him in some way.

“Of course not. I meant it was difficult for her to mourn him properly. It must also be difficult for you to properly celebrate the birth of your grandson, too.”

Another emotion flickered across his face. “Yes, I… I’ve been so busy, I’ve hardly had time to realize I even have a grandson. I trust he’s doing well, too.”

“Yes, he is,” Sarah said, once again neglecting to mention the morphine that made this possible.

Symington looked at her and frowned. “Why are you here?” he asked, as if just realizing how inappropriate her presence was. “Did you know Edmund?”

“No, although I’m fascinated by his work. I felt I owed it to Mrs. Blackwell to attend, out of respect for her.”

Symington didn’t seem to agree, but he was too well-mannered to argue. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests.”

“Of course,” Sarah agreed, and let him leave her standing there.

In a moment Frank Malloy was at her side. He’d been waiting discreetly in the hallway and also eavesdropping on Symington’s conversations.

“Did you find out who the killer is?” he asked her.

She glared at him. “That isn’t funny, Malloy.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. I was hoping you had. I’d like to settle this and be done with it. I don’t like these people very much.”

“That just makes you a good judge of character. I was a little surprised to see Calvin here,” she added.

“I guess I should’ve warned him not to come. That snooty butler wasn’t going to let him in,” Malloy reported.

“But you intervened,” she guessed. “I’m sure everyone was wondering who he is. He hardly looks like one of Blackwell’s patients.”

“If they were wondering, they can ask him,” Malloy said. “I sent him to the dining room for some food.”

“Oh, my! We should probably go rescue him. What if Potter starts in on him? Or what if one of the other guests finds out who he is?”

“Potter won’t want to cause a scene, and I doubt these people will give him the time of day, much less start a conversation with him.”

“Nobody ever wants to cause a scene. That’s probably what started this whole mess in the first place.”

“What do you mean?

“I mean everyone always insists that Letitia Blackwell voluntarily spoke at Blackwell’s lectures when she says she hated doing it so much she had to take morphine to get through them. She didn’t want to make a scene, so she put herself through torture! And why didn’t anyone see that and help her?”

“That’s simple,” Malloy assured her. “The men didn’t see it because they probably don’t think they forced her into it at all. They just told her what to do, and she did it. They didn’t particularly care what she had to do to get through it.”

Sarah had to admit he was probably right.

“I suppose you know that Blackwell was still married to Calvin’s mother,” she said.

“Yeah, the boy told me the whole ugly story. Poor kid, he’s got two younger sisters, too.”

“How awful. I suppose Blackwell deserted the family.”

“Brown did, anyway,” he corrected her. “He sent them money at first, but then he stopped. They had a hard time of it, according to Calvin.”

“I’m sure they did,” Sarah said. “Who do you think knew about this other wife? That would certainly be a motive for murdering him, if it was someone who cared about Letitia and her reputation.”

“You think Symington might’ve done it? Or hired it done?”

“Mr. Potter said no one else knew about it but him and Dr. Blackwell,” Sarah said. “Of course, he might not know who else Blackwell had told.”

“Blackwell wasn’t likely to confide in his father-in-law that his marriage was a sham,” Malloy pointed out.

“Could someone else have told him?” Sarah asked.

“Who else knew?”

“Calvin did,” Sarah reminded him.

“How would Calvin meet Symington? And Symington didn’t seem to know who the boy was the other night when Potter and I told him about him.”

“That’s too bad. I don’t like him very much, and I’d like for him to be the killer,” she said.

“Not me. A man that rich and powerful would never spend a day in prison, no matter who he killed.”

“Do you think Calvin did it?” she asked.

“No, but that doesn’t mean he didn’st,” Malloy cautioned her. “I’d better get to the dining room to see what’s going on.”

“We’ll probably need to rescue Calvin, too. I hope Potter isn’t rude to him.”

“Potter will probably pretend he doesn’t see him,” Malloy said. “He won’t want to make a scene.”

Sarah ignored his sarcasm. “Maybe I can strike up a conversation with someone. You’d be surprised what you can learn from funeral gossip.” She pretended not to notice the way Malloy rolled his eyes.

They started down the hallway toward the dining room, but they stopped when they heard Amos Potter apparently arguing with someone just outside the doorway.

“This is hardly the time or the place to discuss such things, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’d be happy to make an appointment with you-”

“You don’t need an appointment. You just need to know that I own this house, and Blackwell was living here rent-free. Now that he’s dead, I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t rent it out to someone who can pay, so you can tell Mrs. Blackwell she’s got until the end of the month to get out.”