Murder on Gramercy Park (20 page)

“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.

 

F
RANK 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.