Death in Saratoga Springs (12 page)

“We carried on as if nothing had happened. Soon Savannah surrendered; the Ninth Pennsylvania Cavalry advanced with Sherman's army into South Carolina. For Crake and me, it was business as usual, mostly skirmishes with rebel cavalry. We occupied the state capital, Columbia, without a fight. Then came another incident involving Crake. Our men uncovered a warehouse of whiskey. That night, I wasn't with Crake, but I later heard rumors that he was involved in an orgy of drunken rape. This time the victims were black women. Again, he wasn't cited, and I didn't feel obliged to report him.

“The war soon ended. As civilians, we occasionally met afterward and carried on as if nothing untoward had happened. Meanwhile, he prospered. I didn't. Several years ago, I asked him for a loan. He refused. Since then, we've been out of touch.” He stopped as if uncertain what to say. Finally, he remarked, “Crake was a brave soldier but a wicked man. If the Crawfords killed him, I would say rough justice was done.”

 

The next day, back in his New York office, Prescott reflected on what he had learned about the Crawfords. Was their experience at Crake's hands so dreadful that they would still seek revenge thirty years later? To judge from Virgil Crawford's pursuit of Crake in the Colt case, Prescott had to say yes. But
could
they have done it?

Late in the afternoon, Peter Yates arrived at the office. He had investigated the Crawfords' whereabouts on July 7, when Crake was killed. “Their business address is at Pier 35 on the Hudson River in the general offices of the Ocean Steamship Line. James Crawford is the chief financial officer of the company. I was told that he was out of the office. A porter said that James and his sister, Edith, lived ten minutes away in a town house on Washington Square. When I came, the building was shuttered. A caretaker came to the door and said the Crawfords were not at home. ‘When did they leave?' I asked.

“The man didn't know when and where they went. The neighbor next door saw them leave with a couple of trunks on July first and overheard them tell the cab driver, ‘Grand Central Station.' Finally, at the local post office I got their forwarding address from a helpful clerk.”

Yates paused expectantly.

“Yes, what is it?”

“The Grand Union Hotel on Broadway in Saratoga Springs. To judge from the trunks, they'll stay for the season. Now, isn't that a coincidence?”

“I agree! It's beginning to look like we may have found a pair of possible suspects in the death of Captain Crake. I'll let Mrs. Thompson know.”

 

At dinner the following day, Pamela sat with Harry in the dining room. They were expecting the main course when Jason Dunn approached and handed Pamela a telegram. “It's from Prescott,” she said, then read it aloud:

“Well!” murmured Harry. “That's intriguing news. We've been here ten days and haven't heard of those people. They apparently don't call attention to themselves.”

At that moment, Jason Dunn walked by. Harry beckoned him. “Could you tell us, Mr. Dunn, who are the Crawfords, and are they here this evening?”

Without turning his head or looking up, Jason said softly, “They are arriving as we speak.”

The master waiter was leading a middle-aged couple down the main aisle of the room. She was silver haired and erect, her features delicately chiseled and her manner graceful. As she passed by Pamela's table, she spoke with a lovely Southern accent to the master waiter. Her brother, his features refined and handsome, was in a wheelchair pushed by Virgil Crawford.

For a brief moment Pamela gaped with surprise. When she last saw Virgil in February in his private office, he looked severe, clear-eyed, and confident, fully up to the challenge of investigating Jed Crake's recent crimes against women. Now, he seemed tentative and solicitous as he wheeled his crippled cousin through a crowd of waiters and diners.

Virgil glanced at Pamela, recognizing her. But he didn't wink or smile. The Crawford pursuit of Crake should remain secret even beyond his death.

The master waiter placed them at a table across the aisle in plain view of Pamela and Harry. The main course arrived, a lamb stew. During the meal, Virgil acted like one of the family without a trace of servility, adding to the conversation while deferring to his cousins.

In the hotel garden after the meal, Pamela said to Harry, “We must visit Helen Fisk immediately and learn all we can about the Crawfords. They've apparently had a shocking experience at the hands of Captain Crake.”

“Yes,” said Harry, “I can hardly wait for the details.”

Saratoga Springs
Friday, July 20

 

W
hen Prescott's train arrived at the station late in the afternoon, Pamela and Harry were there to greet him and brought him through crowded streets to the hotel. He registered at the reception desk for a room next to Harry's. Both rooms were being cleaned, so they retreated to a quiet corner in one of the public parlors.

When they had settled down, Pamela asked, “Could you tell us what you learned from Sergeant Tower?”

“I'll start at the beginning.” He described the ailing, resentful Tower, then related his account of the incident in December '64 at the Crawford plantation in all its horrendous detail.

The ferocity of Crake's assault on the Crawford family shocked Pamela, while Mrs. Crawford's fanatic heroics baffled her. She felt pity for Edith and James, hapless victims.

“What an appalling story!” she exclaimed at the end. “Just imagine what they witnessed! Besides the injuries to themselves, how could they ever forget what Crake did to their mother? If I were them, I'd never forget or forgive.”

“Even after thirty years?” Harry asked.

“That's what we have to determine,” replied Prescott. “Time heals many wounds, and the Crawfords' success in business might have drawn their minds away from their wartime tragedy. Perhaps they wouldn't risk their wealth and reputation in an attempt to get even with Crake.” He glanced from one assistant to the other. “What have you learned about the Crawfords while I was gone?”

Pamela replied, “Last night, my friend Helen Fisk told me that for several years they've spent July and August at the Grand Union Hotel, lodging in a suite on the ground floor. They avoid the limelight. Edith brought along a two-year-old thoroughbred filly named Savannah and has entered her in the Travers Race, the high point of the thoroughbred racing season. Brother James believes that Saratoga's waters, its cool, clean air, its music, and congenial atmosphere ease his pain. The ground-floor location is also convenient for him. He never talks about his crippled condition or the war. Some say, as a young man, he was injured in an accident.”

“We know now,” added Harry, “that it wasn't an accident. Crake's shot or his kicks must have paralyzed James from the waist down. Being crippled for almost thirty years and nonetheless successful in business testifies to great strength of character. Still, he isn't ever likely to forgive Crake.”

While they were involved in this discussion, the Crawfords entered the parlor, their cousin, Virgil, again pushing the wheelchair. They recognized Pamela and Harry, and seemed to hesitate for a moment. Edith said a word to James. He replied and they came forward, smiling politely.

James began, “We've heard about you and your assistants, Mr. Prescott, and would like to become better acquainted. Social conventions are relaxed here. We needn't wait for someone to bring us together.” He extended a hand to Prescott and introduced himself and his sister. He waved toward Virgil, who had deferentially stepped back. “And that's our cousin, Virgil Crawford. We're from New York and spending the season here.”

Edith Crawford addressed Prescott. “Through the director of the soldiers' home in Erie we've learned that you spoke to Sergeant Tower. He's not a trustworthy source of information in matters that concern us. We would like to invite you to our rooms for tea and a mutually beneficial conversation. Shall we say in an hour?”

“At your service, ma'am. My assistants will come with me. They are deeply involved in these matters and should hear what we say.”

The Crawfords glanced at each other. James gave the number of the ground-floor suite and added, “Then we'll meet in an hour.” He beckoned Virgil, who turned the wheelchair around, and they left the room.

Prescott turned to Harry and Pamela. “What do you make of that?”

“The Crawfords keep themselves well informed,” Harry replied. “They must have engaged the director of the home in Erie to report on Tower's activities. The old sergeant is threatening them.”

Pamela added, “I see Virgil's hand in this chance meeting with us. As the family's secret agent, he found out that we were investigating Captain Crake's murder and were in this parlor. He may wonder how close we've come to them.”

 

An hour later, with Pamela and Harry standing behind him, Prescott knocked on the door. Virgil, now playing the butler, led them down a hall and ushered them into a tastefully furnished sitting room. To the right and left were doors presumably to the brother's and sister's bedrooms. Virgil's would be near the entrance.

Edith rose from her chair and showed the visitors to places at the tea table. A silver tea service was there, together with a tray of sandwiches. Virgil poured and withdrew.

Pamela's eye followed the servant until he disappeared. He would be listening on the other side of the door.

Edith noticed her. “Virgil's been with us since he was a boy.”

James explained, “He's kin, part of the family. After the attack on our plantation, when he was free to leave, he chose to live with us.”

Edith added, “He serves as a versatile valet for James and is implicitly loyal. Years ago, when we spent a year in France, we brought him along to learn French cuisine. He became an excellent cook and fluent in the language.”

Prescott opened the conversation with a question about Edith's horse, Savannah.

She replied, “I rode her this morning. She's in perfect condition. We expect her to win the Travers Cup in a few weeks. I could sing her praises all day, but that's not why we're here.”

Her brother came to the point. “We want you to know that Sergeant Tower is trying to extort money from us by threatening to publicize certain embarrassing details of an incident that occurred in the late War Between the States. May I assume that he has shared his story with you?”

“He did, but he swore me to secrecy and declared he would deny having spoken to me. He didn't indicate that he was trying to extort money from you.”

Edith leaned forward anxiously. “What use will you make of what he told you?”

Prescott replied, “I'm a detective, not a journalist. I've no interest in digging up dirt to embarrass you or to make money. I only want to find out whether an incident thirty years ago near Savannah is related to the death of Captain Crake almost two weeks ago in this hotel. In other words, did the appalling violence that you and your family suffered at Crake's hands move you to kill him?”

The room fell silent. Edith Crawford blanched, her gaze bent inward to that distant horror. Her brother clenched the armrests of his wheelchair.

He replied evenly, “We didn't kill him.” He went on, “I believe you should hear what really happened rather than Tower's version.” He went on to tell basically the same story as Tower with a few significantly different details.

“When Sherman's army reached the Savannah area, we knew they would find us, sooner or later, and loot the plantation in order to replenish their supplies. So my father hid our most valuable possessions, personal records, and the like, in Savannah. The war was almost over. The Confederate army lacked the strength to defend the city and would soon withdraw. Therefore, Sherman had no reason to pillage or destroy it.

“Crake's foraging detachment descended on our plantation like a host of locusts devouring or destroying everything within reach. Father and Mother should have stood aside and allowed the looting to proceed. Unfortunately, the death of our older brother at Gettysburg in sixty-three and the collapse of the Confederacy deeply upset them—I dare say, unhinged their minds. Crake's blue uniform, and worse, his rude, arrogant demeanor triggered in them a fit of anger. My mother spit on Crake. My father sent a messenger for the local militia, then pulled out his pistol and shot one of the soldiers. Crake, in turn, shot us. Father and Mother died; Edith and I survived.”

“Should Crake have been punished?” Pamela asked.

James shrugged. “When I recovered, I thought of prosecuting him. But it was impossible. In fact, his actions were loosely consistent with Sherman's instructions to use lethal force in case of resistance. We had resisted—futilely and with disastrous consequences. On a much larger stage, isn't that what happened to the Southern states during the war?”

“I take your point,” replied Prescott. “You must know that Tower places all the blame for the violence on Crake and claims Crake forced him out of the room at gunpoint. He observed your torture through a window in the library door.”

James sniffed. “There was no window in the door. Tower was in the room with us, tied us up, slapped and insulted us.”

Pamela intervened. “Tower made another statement that must be tested, though it raises a painful matter. Still, it establishes a powerful motive for Crake's murder. I'll have to address you, Edith.” Pamela filled her voice with all the compassion she could muster. “Sergeant Tower asserts that Crake violated you and your mother. Is that true?”

Edith gasped. James seemed dumbstruck. Even Prescott and Harry flinched.

“If he had,” Edith sputtered, “I wouldn't be here today. At the earliest opportunity, I would have killed myself for shame.”

James added, “And as soon as I could have held a pistol, I would have found Crake and killed him, regardless of the consequences.”

Pamela wasn't convinced, but she didn't press the point.

Harry asked, “How has Tower tried to extort money from you?”

James replied, “He has insinuated that demand in messages to us. Thus far we have called his bluff with the threat of legal action that would force him in disgrace from the soldiers' home.”

“Extortion and slander are crimes. Why haven't you gone to the police?”

“We much prefer to keep this matter private. To bring Tower to court would be risky, costly, time and energy consuming. In any case, we are told that he hasn't long to live. We are patient.”

Prescott said, “We needed to go over these painful memories. Now may I ask what were you doing the night of July seventh, when Crake was killed?”

Edith replied, “We attended Victor Herbert's concert in the hotel garden. From a distance we saw Crake and his wife. Afterward, we returned to our rooms. James was tired. We read for an hour and went to bed.”

“Did you ever make yourselves known to Crake or his wife?” Pamela asked.

“If you mean, did we ever confront them, especially the captain; no, we didn't. In such a large hotel, it's possible to avoid personal contact with villainous people. Still, we noticed them. Neither his appearance nor his manner has changed much in thirty years. She advertises herself at every opportunity and must be noticed.”

Prescott indicated that it was time to go, though the tea and the sandwiches had hardly been touched. This exposure of the family's wartime crucifixion appeared to have drained the brother and sister. Nonetheless, they managed to keep up appearances and expressed no resentment toward their interrogators.

As Pamela walked past the fireplace, a fine miniature portrait on the mantel caught her eye and she stopped to gaze at it. “It's the work of a master,” she exclaimed.

“My older brother, Arthur, an officer in his uniform of the Ninth Georgia Infantry,” remarked Edith. “He died at Gettysburg.”

“I'm truly sorry,” said Pamela. “He must have been a remarkable man.” The artist had captured the young man's wavy, golden hair and physical beauty, and the hint of an extraordinary spirit. His deep-set, luminous brown eyes witnessed to his intelligence and his open, generous nature. She had the odd feeling that she had seen him recently, or someone who looked like him.

Prescott came up beside her and stared intently at the portrait. Slowly, his lips parted and a strange expression came over his face.

“This can't be true,” he murmured. Then he turned to Edith. “I wish I had had the honor of meeting your brother.” He shook James's hand. “We shall have to meet again. Good evening.”

 

Pamela and Prescott walked silently together in the hotel park. Harry had gone off in search of Robert Shaw. At the far end of the park, they stopped to rest and Pamela finally asked Prescott, “What was it that struck you so strongly about that portrait of Arthur Crawford? And what did you mean that it couldn't be true?”

“Do you remember seeing the military sword on my office wall over a year ago?”

“It's still imprinted on my mind.” She also recalled nearly every word of the conversation that followed. At Gettysburg, Prescott had seen a Confederate officer fall. He was dead by the time Prescott reached him, but he took the man's sword. Afterward, he tried in vain to discover his family and return the sword to them. So he hung it on the office wall as a reminder of the madness of war.

Prescott continued, “For a moment there by the mantel I thought the man in the portrait, Arthur Crawford, was that fallen Confederate officer of the Ninth Georgia Infantry. His sword is now on my office wall.”

“Could you be mistaken? His features in the portrait must differ greatly from those of the corpse you saw on the battlefield.”

“I agree. Still, the resemblance is remarkable. This isn't the time to discuss the matter with the Crawfords—perhaps later, when the Crake case is resolved.”

Pamela remarked, “The portrait made me think that I've recently seen someone who resembles Arthur Crawford.”

A waiter walked through the park ringing a bell for supper. Prescott asked, “Shall we have a drink before eating? Let's find Harry and go to my room.”