Murder on Gramercy Park (7 page)

“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.

F
RANK HAD BEEN RIGHT. THE NEIGHBORS HADN’T seen or heard a thing, and if they had, they weren’t going to share the information with him. The neighboring servants had given him a bit of gossip here and there, of course. Apparently, no one thought it appropriate that Mrs. Blackwell kept going out every afternoon after her pregnancy became noticeable. It was said she visited poor and sick people, too, which only outraged her detractors even more. If she had no care for her own health, she should at least have been concerned for her unborn child and avoided the filthy poor and their unspeakable diseases.

To Frank’s surprise, however, no one had a bad word to say about Dr. Blackwell, not even those who disapproved of his brand of medicine. He seemed to be a respectable gentleman who kept to himself and maintained the tone of the neighborhood. Until his unseemly death, of course. Maybe the neighbors were just happy to have someone more socially acceptable than an abortionist in residence. But whatever the reason, Frank could find no one with any idea of why the good doctor might have been murdered or who could have done it, and no one had so much as glimpsed the boy Amos Potter had told him was Blackwell’s abandoned son. They hadn’t seen anyone else coming or going from the house the previous afternoon, either.

So much for his boast to Sarah Brandt that he’d find the killer by nightfall.

The next morning, Frank returned to the Blackwell house to continue his investigation. The butler greeted him with the kind of condescending reserve to which Frank had become accustomed. Even servants felt superior to Irish policemen.

“How is Mrs. Blackwell today, Granger?” Frank asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know. That midwife you sent over is with her now,” Granger replied stiffly.

Frank fought down the instant anxiety he felt at the prospect of Mrs. Blackwell needing medical help so soon after her delivery. He had a momentary flash of his own wife with her life’s blood draining away after giving birth to their son, but he ruthlessly banished it. “The midwife?” he echoed with as little expression as possible. “Is something wrong?”

“Not that I am aware.”

Plainly, the butler thought it was none of his business, which was just too bad. He knew exactly where to get all the information about Mrs. Blackwell that he wanted. “When Mrs. Brandt is finished, tell her I want to see her.”

The butler nodded curtly, conveying his disapproval with every ounce of his being without uttering a sound.

“Is anyone else here that you haven’t seen fit to tell me about?” Frank asked with marked sarcasm.

The butler’s lips paled as he squeezed the blood out of them in his impotent fury. “Mr. Potter is in the study,” he said with obvious reluctance.

Good, Frank thought. Maybe Potter could give him some more information about Blackwell’s son, who was rapidly becoming his prime suspect.

When Frank entered the study, he found Potter staring uncertainly at the desk where Blackwell’s body had lain. The desk had been cleared, and all traces of the crime had been scrubbed away, except for an ugly stain in the carpet. Hearing Frank enter, Potter looked up with what Frank thought might have been alarm, but he quickly recovered himself.

“Detective, you startled me,” he said, self-consciously straightening his vest. “Have you located young Calvin yet?”

Frank shook his head. “It would help if you had an idea where to begin looking. There are hundreds of cheap lodging houses in the city.” He’d instructed some officers to begin making inquiries, but they weren’t having much success.

“If he’s even still here.” Potter sighed. “In his place, I’d have fled immediately. And Edmund was going to give him some money, you know. He could be anywhere by now, of course, but you should probably check with his mother to see if she might know his whereabouts.”

“Where can I find her?” Frank asked, annoyed that Potter hadn’t suggested this yesterday.

Potter frowned, obviously trying to remember. “It’s a small town in Virginia someplace. I’m not even certain I ever heard the name. Oh, dear, I guess I’m not being very much help to you.”

Frank had to agree. If Calvin Brown had indeed fled the city, no one would ever find him. “Did you remember anything else about Brown that might help?”

“I’m afraid not. But surely you have informants who can assist you,” Potter suggested hopefully.

“Only if I’m dealing with known criminals,” Frank said, trying to be patient. “Someone like Calvin Brown probably wouldn’t have been noticed by anyone in particular. He wasn’t here that long, and he wouldn’t have gotten into any trouble.”

“Ah, yes, you’re probably right. It’s only been a week or so since he first contacted Edmund. It’s my understanding that he saw an advertisement for one of Edmund’s lectures and recognized his picture.”

“You already told me about the lectures, but I’m not sure I understand why he had to give them. Couldn’t he just advertise that he was a doctor? Hang up a sign or something?”

“He was a
healer,”
Potter corrected him primly. “His treatments were quite revolutionary, not something the average person would easily understand, so he would give lectures explaining his successes in order to educate the public.”

Educate and dupe them into coming to him for treatment, Frank thought, but he said, “Who came to these lectures?”

“All sorts of people. There was no admission charge, of course. Edmund didn’t want fame or fortune for himself, but he felt it was selfish of him not to share his knowledge with those he could help.”

“He helped his wife, I understand.”

“Yes, Letitia was a complete invalid when her father called on Edmund for help. No doctor had been able to do a thing for her.”

“She must have been very grateful,” Frank suggested, not missing the fact that Potter had called Mrs. Blackwell by her given name.

“So grateful that she insisted on giving a personal testimonial at Edmund’s lectures. Her story brought him to the public eye and convinced many people to try Edmund’s services. Her family is quite socially prominent, you know.”

“So I gathered from meeting Mr. Symington. What was wrong with Mrs. Blackwell in the first place?”

Potter seemed shocked at the question. “I told you, she was an invalid.”

“You said it was a riding accident. Was she paralyzed? Crippled? Broken bones?”

“She was injured. She was in severe pain for almost a year, so severe she couldn’t rise from her bed. With only a few treatments, Edmund was able to relieve that pain so she could live a normal life again.”

Frank remembered what Sarah had said about most people getting well if they wanted to. Perhaps Blackwell’s true gift was being able to make people want to get better. He noted that Potter hadn’t told him exactly what Mrs. Blackwell’s injuries had been. Probably he didn’t know. For an instant Frank had an errant thought of asking Sarah Brandt to find out, but he quickly caught himself. If he truly wanted to keep her from getting involved in the investigation, that was exactly the wrong thing to do.

 

O
UTSIDE MRS. BLACKWELL’S bedroom door, Sarah paused to take a deep breath. Venting the fury she felt at the woman would accomplish nothing. When she had mastered her feelings, she knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a reply.

Mrs. Blackwell appeared to be dozing, although still propped up on her mountain of pillows. She blinked uncertainly, obviously not recognizing Sarah at first.

“Oh, Mrs. Brandt,” she finally realized. Then she listened for a moment. “The baby, he stopped crying. Is he...?”

“He’s sleeping,” Sarah said. “The laudanum relieved him.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. Sarah thought she probably didn’t want to face her problems, and Sarah couldn’t really blame her. They must seem overwhelming at the moment, especially to a person who needed morphine to deal with a normal day.

After a moment Mrs. Blackwell opened her eyes again. They were clouded and full of anguish. “I never meant to hurt the baby. You must believe me.”

This was the opening Sarah had been waiting for. She stepped closer to the bed. “You were right not to stop taking the morphine. If you had, you most certainly would have lost the baby.”

She seemed relieved to hear this. “They said he would be fine, though. They said once he was born, he wouldn’t need it the way I do.”

“I’m sure they told you what you wanted to hear. It wasn’t in their best interests for you to stop using morphine, now was it?”

Her eyes filled with tears, but this time Sarah knew they were genuine and not an attempt to gain her sympathy. “I haven’t been able to stop taking the morphine, no matter how hard I try. How will he be able to stop? He’s so tiny ...”

Her voice broke on a sob, and this time Sarah took one of her hands in both of hers. It was small and soft and icy cold. “I’ve seen this before,” she said. “With a baby, it’s possible to gradually decrease the amount you give him until he’s not dependent on it anymore. We’ll wait a few months, until he’s stronger, and then we’ll start weaning him off of it.”

“But I’ve tried to stop so many times! The first time almost killed me, and I’ve never been able to do it again. The pain is unbearable.” The tears were running down her cheeks unchecked now. Sarah felt her anger melting.

“We won’t let your baby suffer, Mrs. Blackwell.”

The younger woman looked at her with desperate eyes. “I know you’re a midwife, but will you take care of him yourself? Will you come back and make sure he’s all right and help wean him from that awful stuff?”

Sarah could not refuse. “Of course I will, if that’s what you want. Tell me, though, how did you begin taking the morphine in the first place?”

She closed her eyes and seemed to shudder. “It was ... when I was hurt. I fell off a horse when I ... I hurt my back and my neck. The pain was horrible, and they gave me morphine. It was the only way I could bear it.”

“Didn’t you consult any physicians?”

Mrs. Blackwell stared at her in amazement. “Of course! My father called in every doctor he could find. There were dozens. None of them could do anything for me. They said I’d be an invalid for the rest of my life. I didn’t leave my room for almost a year, and I hardly even left my bed. Walking was excruciating and I could only sit in a chair for a few minutes at a time. And then Edmund came.”

“Your husband,” Sarah said. “What did he do that the others didn’t?”

Mrs. Blackwell’s smooth brow furrowed as she struggled to explain. “He touched me. The others wouldn’t touch me. It caused me too much pain. But Edmund told me he could make me well if he could just do some simple adjustments.”

“What kind of adjustments?”

“To my spine. That’s how he cures people. It’s like a miracle. I felt better almost instantly. Within a few weeks my pain was completely gone.”

“But you still needed the morphine,” Sarah guessed.

Mrs. Blackwell closed her eyes again, and Sarah could only imagine the anguish these admissions cost her. “Edmund thought I shouldn’t need the morphine anymore because my pain was gone. My father thought so, too. I didn’t want to take it anymore, so I did what they told me and stopped taking it. I thought I was going to die.”

“Stopping morphine is extremely difficult. Few people ever succeed,” Sarah told her, not mentioning that some of the aids physicians sometimes used were even worse than the agony of withdrawal itself.

“But I did succeed!” she informed Sarah. “It was the hardest thing I ever did in my life, but I did it! I was finally free of both the pain and the morphine. I thought I could go back to my normal life again. That was all I wanted.”

“But you didn’t?”

Mrs. Blackwell sighed, and another tear slid down her cheek. “Edmund asked me to help him. He said he could cure many other people, just the way he’d cured me, but he couldn’t unless those people knew his treatments worked. He was going to give a lecture in the city, explaining his techniques and how successful they were, but he needed someone to testify, someone he’d cured. He said ... I mean, after what Edmund had done for me, how could I refuse?” she asked, her eyes pleading for Sarah to confirm her decision.

“Of course,” Sarah said, knowing she could only imagine the pressure he must have put on her. “You must have been very grateful. But how did your father feel about it?” Sarah couldn’t imagine her own father allowing her to do such a thing as speak about her health problems at a public lecture.