Murder on Lenox Hill (15 page)

Sarah certainly hoped so, and she intended to meet with her as soon as possible.

7

F
RANK FOUND THE ADDRESS EASILY ENOUGH, A MODEST house on a side street in Greenwich Village. A middle-aged woman answered the bell and stared at him suspiciously.

He identified himself and added, “I'm here to see Miss Edna White.”

“What about?” the woman asked, still suspicious.

“About the murder of Dr. Thomas Brandt.”

Her eyes widened, and she leaned out the door, looking up and down the street. “Come in, quickly,” she said, clutching at the fabric of his coat sleeve and fairly pulling him inside when she was satisfied no one was watching. “I knew you'd come,” she informed him. “I knew someone would come. I'm Edna White. I'll tell you everything you need to know about Dr. Brandt.”

She took his coat and hung it on the hall tree, then led him into the front parlor. “I'm so glad you came during the day. If my brother was home, he wouldn't let me speak with you. He keeps me a prisoner here, I'm afraid. Please, sit down.”

Frank took a seat on the worn sofa, and she sat in a wing chair opposite. The furniture was good quality, but shabby. Miss White folded her hands in her lap tightly, as if to keep from fidgeting. She did seem very excited. Frank knew she was only in her late thirties, but she looked older. She seemed worn, too, like the furniture. Her face was plain and pale, even paler than most ladies he knew, as if her very blood were white. She'd never been attractive, not even in her youth. Her simple dress was faded and soft from many washings, although someone had made a new collar and cuffs for it recently. Her hair was the color of oatmeal, faded like everything else about her, and she wore it pulled carelessly into a bun. The only things not faded were her eyes. They sparkled with an intensity that made Frank uneasy.

“Are you here alone?” he asked, realizing this could be awkward for him if she was as insane as her file had indicated. She might accuse him of rape the way she had Tom Brandt.

“Oh, no. Miss Holly is here. She's always here,” Miss White reported with disdain. “She's my hired keeper, but she drinks, you see. My brother doesn't know, of course, or he'd dismiss her at once, and I don't tell him, because it suits my purpose to have her drunk. If she wasn't asleep just now, I wouldn't have been able to see you, Detective.” She smiled delightedly.

Frank had to clear his throat. “Maybe you'd like to wake her up and have her sit with us,” he suggested. Few people, especially ladies, wanted to be questioned by the police about a murder. They usually wanted someone with them for support.

“Oh, no, she'd just make you leave or send for my brother, and he'd make you leave. Please go right ahead and tell me what you need to know.”

Having no other choice, he did. “When did you first meet Dr. Brandt?”

“Oh, my, it was January twenty-second, 1892. I'll never forget that day. He came here to the house. I was very ill with the grippe. He saved my life. He's a wonderful doctor. But then, you must know that already.”

“Uh, yes,” Frank said. “That's what I've heard. So he treated you, and you got better.”

“Yes, indeed I did. It took a long time to recover my strength, but Dr. Brandt returned again and again. He said he was going to make sure I was completely well. Then one day he brought me a flower, to cheer me up. A perfect red rose. That's when I knew.” Her dark eyes seemed to glow as she looked at something far away, something only she could see.

“Knew what?” Frank prodded.

She looked at him in surprise. “Why, I knew that he loved me.” She glanced at the open parlor door, as if checking to see if anyone had overheard. “They don't like for me to talk about it,” she explained, lowering her voice. “My brother and Miss Holly. You wouldn't believe the things they've done to keep us apart.”

“Did they tell you Dr. Brandt was married?” Frank asked carefully, not certain what effect this information would have on her.

“I know all about his wife. She's a spoiled rich girl, and she only married him to shock her family. She never really loved him. Theirs is a marriage in name only. He never knew what true love was until he met me.”

Frank looked at this dried-up stick of a woman. He'd once considered the possibility that Tom Brandt had found his patient attractive enough to seduce and thus cause her romantic attachment to him, but now that he'd met her, he knew that was impossible. No husband of Sarah's could feel the slightest attraction to Edna White. “He told you he loved you?” Frank asked, nearly choking on the words.

“Many times. I know a lady should never admit such things, Mr . . . Malloy, was it? . . . but Dr. Brandt and I are lovers. It's a sin, of course, because we aren't married, but we're married in our hearts. I'm sure God doesn't judge lovers too harshly, aren't you, Detective?”

Frank had no idea, so he said, “Where did you . . . meet? To be together, I mean,” he asked as tactfully as he could.

“He has a flat in Chinatown. They know how to keep secrets in Chinatown, Mr. Malloy. We meet there in the afternoons. He wants to divorce his wife, but it's difficult. Her family is very wealthy, and they don't want the scandal, but he's going to win, and then we'll be married. Meanwhile, I must be patient, as difficult as that is.”

Frank hardly heard the lies about Sarah. “You
still
meet him?” he asked incredulously.

“Oh, yes. It's not easy for me to get away, of course, but Miss Holly drinks, as I said. When she falls asleep, I sneak out. I must, you see. Dr. Brandt couldn't endure his miserable marriage if he couldn't see me from time to time. Most women would have given up hope by now, but my love is stronger than that. I'll wait forever if I must.”

“Miss White,” Frank began, not quite trusting his own senses. She seemed so reasonable, but the words she was saying were totally insane. He was even starting to wonder if they were talking about the same man. “Did they tell you that Dr. Brandt is dead?”

She straightened her spine and sniffed in outrage. “Of course they did. They've been telling me that for years. I don't suppose I blame them very much. Albert can't bear the thought of his beloved sister having a married lover. He simply doesn't understand, so he made up that lie. He must have thought if I believed Dr. Brandt was dead then I would forget about him, so he told me that awful story about him being murdered. But I knew it wasn't true, and now you've come here to prove it!”

 
 
A
S MRS. UPCHURCH HAD SAID, HER HOME WAS JUST around the corner from the church. The manse had been built of the same material as the church and sat at the rear of the property. Sarah wasn't certain what she had expected, but the house looked no grander than the others on the street. All were comfortable abodes for families with comfortable incomes who could afford to keep several servants.

The maid seemed startled when Sarah presented her card and asked to see Mrs. Upchurch. Apparently, Mrs. Linton had been correct in assuming Mrs. Upchurch rarely entertained visitors. The girl showed Sarah inside and asked her to wait in the front parlor. The room was chilly, the grate cold, but Sarah couldn't help admiring the elegant furnishings. Although the modern trend was to clutter every available surface with knickknacks and to fill the room with as many pieces of oversized furniture as possible, Mrs. Upchurch had defied convention. She'd chosen delicately carved piecrust and marble-topped tables to accent the graceful sofas and chairs upholstered in gold velvet. A magnificent jade dragon adorned the mantelpiece, and a few other exquisite jade figurines sat on the tabletops. An oriental rug woven in golds and greens covered part of the highly polished floor. Lace curtains shielded the windows beneath gold velvet draperies. Sarah even imagined she caught an Oriental scent in the air.

“Millie is such a fool to put you in here,” Mrs. Upchurch announced, entering the room like a small tornado. “We haven't lit the fire in this room in weeks. But perhaps she's hoping I'll freeze to death. Oh, yes, good afternoon, Mrs. Brandt. How kind of you to come,” she added politely, with just the slightest irony.

Sarah couldn't help a smile. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Upchurch. I was just admiring the room.” She gestured toward the jade dragon. “Have you been to China?”

“I grew up there. My parents were missionaries,” she said. “Come back to my lair, and I'll show you some really interesting pieces. You'll also be much warmer.”

Without waiting for Sarah to agree, Mrs. Upchurch turned away, leaving her no choice but to follow. Walking down the hallway behind her, Sarah had an opportunity to notice her gown. Made of deep maroon silk, its simple lines clung to her small frame in the absence of adequate petticoats, accentuating her lack of female curves. Today she'd tied her hair at the back of her neck with a ribbon, and Sarah could see the curls were natural and a bit wild when she didn't bother to tame them. Once again she was struck by how young and girlish she looked from behind.

As Sarah had suspected, the “lair” was the less-formal back parlor where a cozy fire burned.

“I see that idiot Millie didn't even take your cape. Give it to me, and then sit down. That chair is the most comfortable,” she added, indicating the one nearest the fire.

Mrs. Upchurch called the maid by shouting in an undignified manner. The girl came at a run. “Hang this up,” Mrs. Upchurch said, handing her Sarah's cape, “and bring us something hot. Tea or coffee, Mrs. Brandt?”

“Either is fine,” Sarah said.

“Coffee then. And I said
hot
.”

The girl scurried away, and Mrs. Upchurch closed the door behind her. “I can't keep good help,” she explained. “I'm too difficult to please. Sit,” she added, pointing to the chair again. As Sarah did as she'd been bidden, Mrs. Upchurch took the chair across from it. Oddly, it didn't look comfortable at all, although it was obviously where she usually sat, because her workbasket was on the small table beside it. The chair was straight-backed with bare wooden arms. A thinly cushioned seat was the only effort at comfort, and it was well-worn. A small and equally worn footstool sat in front of it.

“You see,” Mrs. Upchurch said, indicating the mantel. “I told you the pieces in here were better.”

This room had been decorated in shades of red, to match the reddish material of the many carved figurines adorning the mantel and the tabletops. “What are they made of?” Sarah asked, marveling at the intricate patterns someone highly skilled had spent months creating.

“Jade. Jade comes in many colors, not just green.”

“They're all so beautiful. The Chinese are very artistic. You said your parents were missionaries. Are they still working there?”

“No, they're dead,” she said coolly. “They were killed by the Chinese in one of their many uprisings against the foreign devils.”

“I'm so sorry,” Sarah said automatically.

“Don't be. I'm sure they were thrilled to become martyrs. They would have considered it their ultimate accomplishment.”

Sarah needed a few seconds to absorb this information. She wasn't used to people being quite so brutally frank. “You managed to . . . escape,” she tried.

“I was away at school when it happened,” she said. “I was almost always away at school, come to that. I hardly ever saw them from the time I was five years old. They said it wasn't safe for me in the interior, but I think they just didn't want to be bothered with me. They had their work, and that was more important.”

Sarah recalled Mrs. Linton's warning that Mrs. Upchurch often said things just to be hurtful. She wondered whom she might be trying to hurt with this conversation. Her parents were beyond such things, and it couldn't be pleasant for her to remember them herself. But maybe she was just trying to shock her visitor. “You must have some happy memories of China, though, or you wouldn't keep all these beautiful things around you.”

“I hated China. I hated everything about it. No one in China ever says what they think. No one here does, either, of course, particularly if it's unpleasant. That's why I keep these things around me, to remind me to always tell the truth. The trouble is, no one wants to hear the truth, so people avoid me, which means I have no one to whom to speak the truth. That's why I have to stand in the street and invite perfect strangers to visit me.” She grinned then, a huge, ingenuous, delightful grin that startled Sarah into grinning back.

“Do you do that often?” she couldn't resist asking.

“Only when I find someone interesting. I found you
very
interesting, Mrs. Brandt.”

“Why is that?” she asked, more than curious.

“Because you're different from the other women at the church.”

“In what way?”

“You think for yourself, for one thing. I could tell from the questions you were asking. Everyone who comes to the church wants something, but usually they want something for themselves. You wanted to help someone else.”

“That's what Christians are supposed to do.”

She grinned again. She looked like a mischievous little boy. “Which is why it hardly ever happens. Tell me why you're different, Mrs. Brandt.”

“I have no idea,” Sarah said quite honestly.

“Then I suppose I shall have to figure it out for myself,” she replied, obviously delighted by the prospect. “You said you are a widow. Who was your husband?”

“He was a doctor, but not a wealthy one. He treated anyone who came to him, whether they could pay or not.”

“How very foolish of him, or at least that's what most people would think,” she added to soften the criticism. “I suppose he was happy, though, because he was working to please himself.”