Murder on Lenox Hill (2 page)

Aggie smiled with pleasure.

“You must be so tired, Mrs. Brandt,” Maeve said. Sarah had been summoned to the delivery just after supper last night, and it had been a very long night. “Are you hungry? I can make you some eggs or something before you go to sleep.”

Sarah was perfectly capable of making her own eggs, but she said, “That would be wonderful. I'm starving.” She knew how eager Maeve was to demonstrate her new cooking skills. “Did the mail come?” she added.

“Not yet, but I almost forgot, a man left a note for you. It's there on the desk.”

“A man?” Sarah asked, picking up the envelope. The paper was good quality, and the handwriting a woman's.

“Nice-looking gent, for all he was kind of old. Clean and polite, and not in a hurry either,” she reported as she headed for the kitchen. “I told him you was out, in case it was a baby being born, but he said it wasn't no emergency,” she added over her shoulder.

Ordinarily, Sarah would have corrected her grammar, but she was too interested in opening the note. Inside was a request for her to call at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Linton at her earliest convenience for a consultation. The address was on the Upper East Side in the Lenox Hill neighborhood. That told her the Lintons were comfortably middle class. They could most likely afford a doctor to attend Mrs. Linton's pregnancy, but perhaps they preferred a midwife because of Mrs. Linton's delicate sensibilities. Whatever the case, Sarah could at least expect to collect her full fee from this family. That didn't always happen when she delivered a baby on the
Lower
East Side of the city.

Sarah was pleased that someone as respectable as the Lintons had sought her out, because they must have been referred by one of her other patients. “Isn't that nice?” she asked Aggie, not expecting a reply. “Why don't you show me what you've been doing this morning while Maeve cooks my breakfast?”

The small girl grinned hugely, grabbed Sarah's hand, and began dragging her back toward the stairs to the floor above. Those upstairs rooms had been originally intended for the children Sarah had never been able to bear Tom. Long empty, now they finally held the family Sarah had longed for.

 
 
A
FTER A NICE, LONG NAP, SARAH FELT RECOVERED enough to call on the Lintons late that afternoon, when she expected Mrs. Linton would be “at home” for visitors. She walked up to Fourteenth Street and took the Ninth Avenue elevated train to Fifty-ninth Street and then took a streetcar across town to the Lenox Hill area. The afternoon sun had warmed the winter chill somewhat, but Sarah was still glad to be admitted to the comfortable warmth of the Linton home.

A young Irish girl took her wrap and showed her into the fashionably furnished parlor where Mrs. Linton had just put aside some needlework and her husband laid down a book. They both rose somewhat anxiously when Sarah was announced, and she was a little surprised to see how old they were, at least in their fifties. If Mrs. Linton were indeed pregnant, it would be somewhat of a miracle and certainly a cause for concern.

“Mrs. Brandt, how good of you to come so quickly,” Mrs. Linton said after she'd introduced herself and her husband. “Please sit down. Kathleen, would you bring Mrs. Brandt some fresh tea?”

While they waited for the maid to return with Sarah's tea, the two women engaged in polite small talk while Mr. Linton sat in strained silence, as if too shy to participate but too polite to walk out. Mrs. Linton was small with fine features and neat, ash-brown hair that was nearly half-gray. She'd been a pretty girl who had matured into a handsome woman. Mr. Linton was balding and his waist had thickened with age, but he carried himself with an air of confidence that told even a casual observer that he considered himself a successful man and was proud of his accomplishments.

Sarah and Mrs. Linton complained about the weather and hoped spring would be early this year. Mrs. Linton told Sarah the name of the lady who had referred her to Sarah and reported that she and her child were still doing nicely. No one wanted to discuss delicate matters until they could be sure the serving girl would not accidentally overhear.

Finally, Kathleen delivered the tea things, and Mrs. Linton informed her they were not to be disturbed again. Mrs. Linton waited until the doors had closed behind her, and then another few moments, to be sure she was well away.

“I'm sure you must be wondering why we needed to see you, Mrs. Brandt,” Mrs. Linton began, folding her hands tightly in her lap, as if to steady herself.

Sarah tried a reassuring smile. “I assumed that you needed my professional services.”

To Sarah's surprise, Mrs. Linton's eyes filled with tears. “Yes, we . . .” Her voice broke, and she looked at her husband helplessly.

“Now, Mother,” he said more kindly than Sarah could have imagined. “We must be brave.” But Sarah saw his eyes were moist, too.

“Yes, dear, of course,” Mrs. Linton said, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief and stiffening her back purposefully. “I'm sorry, but when you know, you'll understand. You see, it's our daughter . . .”

“Grace,” Mr. Linton supplied when his wife nearly lost her composure again. “Our little Gracie,” he said more softly and with a tenderness that touched Sarah's heart. “She's seventeen.”

“She's our only child,” Mrs. Linton quickly explained. “We'd given up all hope of ever having a family. I was one week shy of turning forty when she was born. We were so happy . . .”

Sarah could see something had marred that happiness, and she could guess what. “Was something wrong?”

“We never guessed, not at first,” Mrs. Linton assured her anxiously.

“She's a beautiful girl,” Mr. Linton said with a combination of sadness and pride. “Perfect in every way.”

“Except . . .” Mrs. Linton dropped her gaze to the handkerchief she clutched in her lap.

Sarah waited, giving them time to tell her in their own way what she already knew.

“She was the sweetest child,” Mrs. Linton said so softly that Sarah could hardly hear her. “But slow. Slower than most to do everything—walking and talking. She was almost three before she said more than a few words.”

“We thought it was our fault,” her husband explained. “We thought we must have spoiled her or made things too easy.”

“But after a while we had to accept the truth,” Mrs. Linton said, absently dabbing at a tear that had escaped to run down her cheek. “She never really learned to read properly, and sums are beyond her.”

“She sews beautifully,” Mr. Linton added defensively, as if to say she wasn't completely worthless.

“Oh, yes, she's good with her hands. She can draw, too. But we had to take her out of school very early. Since then, she's led a very sheltered life.”

“We aren't ashamed of her,” Mr. Linton hastened to explain. “But people can be cruel. We never wanted her to be unhappy, you see, so we kept her at home.”

Sarah knew only too well how people would have shunned a girl who was judged simpleminded or “touched in the head.” She thought of Brian Malloy, the son of her friend Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. He had been judged simpleminded, too, and kept secreted away so no one could make fun of him. “I'm sure you did the best you could to protect her,” she said.

“Yes, we did,” Mrs. Linton said, pleased that Sarah had understood so easily. “Which is why this is so difficult . . .” Once again she looked down and twisted the handkerchief until Sarah thought it would tear.

“You believe your daughter is with child?” Sarah guessed, trying to help them by saying what they could not bring themselves to admit.

“We aren't sure,” Mrs. Linton said at the same instant Mr. Linton said, “It's impossible!”

They exchanged a glance, and Mr. Linton silently agreed to allow his wife to explain.

“As my husband said, it's impossible, and yet . . . Well, our maid, Barbara, came to me a few days ago to tell me that Grace hasn't had her . . .” She glanced at her husband apologetically, “her monthly flux in several months. At least four, she thought.”

“That isn't unusual for young girls,” Sarah said, thinking she could probably put their minds at ease if this was their only cause for concern.

“I knew it,” Mr. Linton said almost hopefully.

“There's more,” Mrs. Linton said, ignoring him. “Barbara wasn't concerned at first, either, but then she noticed that Grace is . . . is plumper. Not that she's getting fat, precisely, but that her stomach is noticeably larger. And so is her . . . her bosom. Grace's clothes no longer fit her properly.”

“She's probably still growing,” Mr. Linton insisted, but Sarah could hear the thin thread of fear beneath the words.

“She isn't growing anywhere else,” Mrs. Linton said, holding her composure with difficulty.

Sarah's mind was spinning, trying to think of a logical explanation that would reassure these people. “You said you've kept her at home,” she tried. A pregnancy would require a male contribution. Where could that have come from?

“Not literally,” Mrs. Linton said. “She goes to church, and I take her visiting with me to close friends who . . . who know her and are kind.”

“But she's never alone when she's away from the house,” Mr. Linton insisted. “How could this have happened? As I keep saying, it's impossible!”

Sarah had to agree, it seemed so. “Perhaps there's another explanation for Grace's symptoms,” Sarah said, although the other explanations weren't likely to be simple or even necessarily good. Ailments that simulated pregnancy were often fatal, even to young girls like Grace. “Have you taken her to a doctor?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Linton said, outraged.

Mrs. Linton gave him a warning look that silenced him again. “We couldn't allow Grace to be examined by a man. She's a very sensitive girl, and if . . . if she is with child, that means someone . . . someone . . .”

“It means some man violated my little girl,” Mr. Linton cried, near tears himself.

Mrs. Linton pressed her handkerchief to her lips to stifle a sob, and Mr. Linton covered his face with both hands.

“Of course,” Sarah said in her most professional voice, knowing full well that the least trace of sympathy would completely undo both of them. “You're absolutely right not to take her to a doctor. If you like, I can examine Grace and see if I can determine her condition. I may be able to put your minds at ease completely. Considering the circumstances, it does seem very unlikely that Grace could be with child.” She didn't promise that they would have nothing to worry about. The symptoms still concerned Sarah, but perhaps it really was nothing, as Mr. Linton had insisted.

For the first time, Mrs. Linton smiled. It was a sad thing to behold because it was so full of desperate hope, but Sarah smiled back. “Thank you, Mrs. Brandt. Mrs. Simpson spoke so highly of you and the care you gave her when her last child was born. I just knew you'd be the right one to help us. How would you like to proceed?”

“Why don't you introduce me to Grace and let us get acquainted a bit first. Then you can explain to her that I'm a nurse, and you've asked me to check her to make sure she's healthy or something. Will she believe that?”

“She'll believe most anything her mother tells her,” Mr. Linton said unhappily.

“I've never lied to her,” Mrs. Linton said. “She'll trust me.”

“Good,” Sarah said. “May I meet Grace?”

 
 
D
ETECTIVE SERGEANT FRANK MALLOY THANKED THE elevator operator when he opened the door to let him out on the seventh floor of the office building on Fifth Avenue. He'd been here before, and the only thing that would have brought him back was a summons from one of the most powerful men in the city.

Nothing had changed here in the months since his last visit. The same middle-aged man, sitting behind the same desk, looked up when the elevator door opened, and he said, “Detective Sergeant Malloy, Mr. Decker is expecting you. Please have a seat while I see if he's available.”

As the secretary disappeared into the inner office, Frank sat down to wait. Ever since he'd received the summons from Decker yesterday at Police Headquarters, he'd been trying to decide why Decker wanted to see him. The last time he'd been here, Decker had given him information that helped him solve the murder of one of Decker's oldest friends. He'd also made it clear at that visit that he didn't approve of Frank's friendship with his daughter, Sarah Brandt. Of course, Frank had only seen her once since the case had been solved, when she'd brought that little girl from the mission over to visit his son Brian. Frank had been careful since then to avoid Mrs. Brandt, so he didn't think Decker had called him in to warn him about seeing her. But what else could it be? Unless he'd found out how his wife had helped Frank and Sarah investigate that murder. Frank winced at the thought.

To Frank's surprise, Decker didn't keep him waiting, although he didn't rise and offer to shake hands this time, either, when the secretary escorted him into the large, airy office. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Malloy,” he said. “Please have a seat.”

Frank chose one of the comfortably worn leather chairs that sat in front of Decker's large desk. Decker was an imposing man, tall and handsome with the blond hair and blue eyes of his Dutch ancestors who had settled New York City. His expression said he was used to being obeyed and expected his will to be done. Frank hoped he wouldn't have to disappoint him.

“You're probably wondering why I sent for you,” Decker said and didn't wait for an answer. “First of all, I want to tell you how much I appreciate your discretion in handling the Van Dyke case.”