Death in Saratoga Springs (21 page)

His interest seemed genuine and pleased her. “In the early years, my parents shielded me from its violence. Father thought I was too young and impressionable. Mother, however, believed I should have a taste of it. She herself was deeply involved. Her family came from Virginia. Many relatives still lived there and supported the Southern cause. Almost from the beginning she volunteered as a nurse in military hospitals. After Gettysburg in sixty-three, she took me along to visit the thousands of Confederate wounded left behind by Lee's retreating army. Her cousin, an officer, was among them. Because he had been blinded, Mother managed to save him from prison and brought him to our home on parole. For the rest of the war, I helped care for him. He was a thoughtful patient and taught me how to deal with suffering. I've been caring for people in need ever since.”

“Then we have something else in common. My cousin James is also an exemplary patient. He rarely complains and is grateful for services and mindful of others. Captain Crake and Sergeant Tower nearly killed his body, but that only strengthened his spirit. He is determined to make the most out of life and disdains revenge, a primitive passion.”

“So what does he think of Crake?”

“A man of unsound mind, perhaps marginally insane but functional enough to run a large business and earn a lot of money. Speaking like a scientist, James would say that Crake suffered from diminished ability to control a deep, abiding, irrational anger at whatever opposed his will. In less scientific moments, James likens Crake to a rabid dog.”

“Might James consent to putting Crake down, as a menace to society?”

“Yes, I imagine he would. And I would agree. After the plundering of the Crawford plantation, Crake went with Sherman's army to Columbia, South Carolina, where he joined other soldiers in attacking black women. To the end of his life he remained free to commit similar crimes. A few months ago, you discovered that he killed Ruth Colt. Beyond a doubt, he had committed many assaults and rapes in New York City against young female employees and prostitutes. In a few cases, he may have killed his victims and destroyed their bodies. To avoid arrest, he either paid off the victims or threatened them with reprisals, and they refused to testify against him. Or, he paid off the police and they refused to investigate.”

“You've raised a serious question. May a private person presume to eliminate such a menace?”

His expression darkened. “I think so, if the public authorities are unwilling or unable to do it. I would have killed Crake years ago, but James disapproved. Instead, he hired the Prescott agency in the hope that you could gather sufficient evidence to send Crake to the gallows. That effort failed. Fortunately, on July seventh, someone tried and succeeded.” He glanced toward the kitchen and his eyes brightened.

Madame Beaudry approached with the cold cherry soup. Pamela murmured to Virgil, “We must now honor the chef and not allow Crake to spoil our supper.”

 

The meal was worthy of the chef's reputation. The conversation was pleasant. After the omelet, Pamela proposed a toast to the chef. The freshly baked gooseberry tartlet arrived, followed by coffee. The room began to fill up as they left.

“A concert will soon begin in the hotel garden. Are you game for it?” Virgil helped Pamela into the carriage.

“Jean-Luc has restored my energy. I would enjoy the concert. Victor Herbert will conduct—again. Do you realize that it's nearly three weeks since Crake died during one of Herbert's concerts?”

“I hadn't made that connection. Is it unseemly?”

“It needn't be. Mr. Herbert isn't likely to allude to it. The hotel management would prefer that we all thought of something else.”

“Then we'll return the carriage to the livery stable. We can walk the short distance to the garden's rear entrance.”

 

As they sat down, the orchestra was already on the platform and tuning their instruments. Victor Herbert simply welcomed everyone and announced: “To open the program, we'll give you ‘Garry Owen,' the ever popular march of New York's own ‘Fighting Sixty-ninth.' You may clap with the music when I give the signal.” The following tunes were equally lively, putting the audience into a joyous, carefree mood.

Pamela enjoyed the concert as much as anyone. Still, part of her was mindful of Crake's murder in an adjacent cottage during a similar concert. She couldn't detect any similar concern, much less guilt, in her companion. Virgil seemed caught up in the music, tapping his feet to the orchestra's beat, an expression of simple pleasure on his face. He and she exchanged amused glances during the ticktock in “Grandfather's Clock.”

As the sun set, gas lanterns were lit. The garden turned into a magical world of strange, shifting shadows. In a thin silk dress, Pamela felt chilled and began to shiver. Virgil noticed and gallantly laid his coat over her shoulders. She tried to demur, but he whispered, “Humor me, I'm pretending to be a Southern gentleman.”

When the concert ended and the audience dispersed, Pamela realized that her opera glass was missing. “I would hate to lose it,” she exclaimed. “It must be in the livery stable. I had it when we left the lake and I haven't used it since. Perhaps I dropped it while climbing out of the carriage.”

“The stable is open until midnight. We'll go back there. Someone may have found it.”

They hurried through the garden to the hotel's back entrance and out into the street. It was narrow, poorly lighted, and almost deserted, creating an eerie atmosphere. The livery stable's door was half shut. Virgil and Pamela slipped inside and called out for the stableman. Finally, he came on wobbly legs, carrying a lantern, and giving off a strong scent of cheap whiskey. He stared stupidly at Pamela while she explained her problem.

“We'll have to look for ourselves,” exclaimed Virgil, seizing the stableman's lantern. “Let's find our carriage.”

That was difficult. The stable was large, crowded, and dark. Finally, they found the carriage room and then the Crawford carriage. The search took a while, but eventually Pamela lifted a seat cushion and there was the opera glass. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was now quite late. They made their way back to the entrance, Virgil holding the lantern.

The stableman was leaning against a wall near the door. Virgil stiffened. “I smell a rat,” he whispered to Pamela and handed the lantern to her. With his right hand, he gripped his cane; with his left, he suddenly seized the stableman by the scruff of the neck and forced him through the opening in the doorway.

From outside, a large club fell upon the man and he sank to the ground. Virgil pulled the sword from his cane just as a ruffian holding a club jumped over the stableman's body and burst into the stable. Virgil slashed the man's arm. He screamed and dropped the club. Pamela kicked it out of reach.

“Halt or I'll kill you.” Virgil held the blade to within an inch of the man's throat.

Pamela stared anxiously at Virgil. His jaw jutted out, his eyes seemed to burn in their sockets. The ruffian was a tall, thin man, dirty, bearded, and toothless. He cowered and began to babble and to weep. For a moment Pamela held her breath, fearing that Virgil would shove the blade into the man's jugular vein.

Then Virgil seemed to relax. He deftly sliced the man's suspenders. His trousers dropped around his ankles. Virgil ordered him to lie on his stomach; then he seized a length of rope and tied him hand and foot.

Meanwhile, Pamela held the lantern, an astounded witness of this spectacle.

Virgil wrapped the ruffian's bleeding arm, then turned to her with a troubled expression. “I'm truly sorry that our delightful outing ended in this sordid way. I must escort you back to the hotel and report to the police. Tomorrow morning, I'll tell you of any complications. Detective Brophy might want to question us.”

“Don't worry about me, Virgil. I have no regrets. You've been enjoyable company and a perfect gentleman.”

On the way out, Virgil stepped over the stableman's prostrate body, called to Pamela for the lantern, and examined him. “He'll live. The police can deal with him. I suspect that he wasn't drunk, just pretending. He and the ruffian were in league, waiting to rob a couple like us who arrived late at night.”

 

Back in her room, Pamela felt fatigued, but her mind was too agitated for sleep. She changed to nightclothes and brushed her hair but still wasn't sleepy. She paced the floor, trying to sort out her thoughts.

Tomorrow, Prescott would return. What would she say to him? The dramatic events at the stable would be broadcast on the porches of the Grand Union, at the springs in the town, and in the saloons. And what would be gained by trying to conceal the trip to the lake and the supper at the French restaurant? She ran both hands through her hair. Why was she even raising these questions with herself?

She and Virgil had behaved properly. These worries were, in fact, insulting to Prescott. He was a reasonable man and a sophisticated gentleman. Why would he be upset?

Well, for a start, Virgil Crawford was one of Prescott's potential suspects, though up to now not among the most important. Still, Prescott might fault her for drawing so close to a suspect that her judgment might be impaired.

Prior to today, Pamela had thought that Virgil's character was too peaceable and kindly for murderous action. At the stable a few minutes ago, however, he was bold and clever in the face of danger and skilled in the use of force. She could now imagine him killing Crake in retaliation for the unpunished crimes he had committed at the Crawford plantation and elsewhere.

As a veteran chef, Virgil would surely know how to use a boning knife. A friendly, engaging man, he was familiar with the hotel's kitchens and could have secretly borrowed or stolen a knife. Or, he could have used his sword cane. Its blade was thin, narrow, and single-edged, and would match Crake's wound. Finally, he and Edith shared a strong desire for justice or revenge.

They only needed an opportunity. And they had one at Victor Herbert's concert in the hotel garden, the evening of July 7. Virgil could easily have slipped away from the audience, killed Crake, and returned to his place next to James.

Pamela sighed, unhappy with her reasoning, in particular with her conclusion. It seemed out of character for the Crawfords to slaughter an old, sick, unarmed man in the dark, even if he were once a villain. Justice would not be served in that way. Brother James would have to know of the plan and, as a man of honor, would normally disapprove. But even James must acknowledge that sometimes a man must act out of character, as in war, and do evil in order to prevent greater evil.

Saturday, July 28

 

A
fter breakfast, Pamela went directly to the police station. Virgil Crawford had been there earlier. Detective Brophy took her testimony about the incident at the stable, then brought her to the jail and had her confirm the identity of the stableman and the assailant. The former had a fresh bandage on his head; the latter, on his arm.

At the stable she and Brophy talked through the incident. He seemed so matter-of-fact that she asked, “Is violence like this common in Saratoga?”

“It happens often enough,” he replied dryly. “Times are tough. Late at night, desperate, unemployed men gather near the tracks and the stables. They get their money any way they can. We play down the problem. Otherwise, hotel guests would be too frightened to go out at night. But they really needn't worry. Broadway and the hotels are safe. We chase away all the sturdy beggars, tramps, petty thieves, and common drunks, as well as the whores. That's ninety-five percent of our business.”

“What do you know about the two villains who attacked us?” Pamela was beginning to feel pity for them.

“They're typical west-side Saratoga criminals,” Brophy said with a shrug. “The stableman has been arrested elsewhere in the county for burglary and gave false references to the hotel to conceal his criminal record. The tall, thin man is a penniless, unemployed railroad worker. This is probably his first criminal offense. Later in the day, I'll ship them to the courthouse in Ballston Spa for trial and catch a couple more like them tonight.”

Pamela walked the short distance from the stable to the station and joined a large, milling crowd of expectant friends and relatives, baggage porters, and hucksters with signs and loud voices soliciting guests for the village's dozens of hotels and boardinghouses. Since the thoroughbred track began offering daily races a few days ago, the railroad companies had put more trains into service. Tourists were pouring into Saratoga Springs, boosting its population from near 10,000 to close to 50,000.

At noon, Prescott's train slowly pulled into the station, its arrival announced by jets of steam, screeching brakes, and the station bell's insistent clanging. Pamela felt her heartbeat begin to race, but she resisted the urge to join the crowd pressing toward the train. She didn't wish to appear eager but would welcome Prescott in a proper, friendly way. She reproached herself for thinking like a silly schoolgirl. After all, he had been away less than a week. And he was her friend, not her lover.

He usually traveled in a parlor car at the end of the train. The crowd was thinner there, so she could draw closer. He slowly stepped down from the car, searching the crowd, his face drawn and gray. When he spotted Pamela, he brightened. They shook hands and greeted each other. He let a porter take his bag.

As they walked toward the Grand Union Hotel, she asked how he felt. He didn't look well.

“We'll talk about it later. I'll be all right.”

When they reached the room he had reserved, he asked her in for a few words. “The stress of dealing with my wife, Gloria, has kept me from a restful sleep. That triggered nightmares from the war. Perhaps now they will go away.” He gazed at her with a disarming smile. “You are a good influence on me.”

“Why don't you eat something and then rest for a while. Let me know when you are ready. We'll meet downstairs and walk to Congress Park. Fresh air will be good for you. There we can talk.”

He bowed to her advice. “I'll be ready and eager.”

 

At four o'clock, Pamela's phone rang. Prescott's voice sounded strong. “Shall we meet in the foyer?”

“I'll be there in ten minutes.”

When they arrived, Tom Winn drew them off to a side and quietly said, “A magistrate released Shaw on bail late this afternoon. At the hearing, he sounded contrite and promised to remain in Saratoga and be available for questioning. Still, I thought I should warn both of you.”

“Do you know where he might be at this time?” asked Prescott.

“Surely he's in one of Saratoga's gambling dens, trying to rebuild his fortune.”

 

In a shaded, secluded part of Congress Park, Pamela began the conversation diplomatically. “Tell me about your son, Edward.”

“We had a good visit. He has a decent room of his own upstairs in the porter's cottage and eats with the family. His work is healthy and rewarding, an excellent break from his studies. Mr. Huss, the master gardener, generously shares his knowledge and seems to look upon Edward as a disciple.”

“And how was Gloria?”

“Difficult. As I told you earlier, she and I differ on Edward's upbringing. At Ventfort she continued to insist that gardening was wrong for Edward. If he has to be with me in the Berkshires for this summer, as our legal separation agreement requires, he should behave like a young gentleman, not a farmer.”

“What does she want the young man to do for two months?” Pamela tried not to sound sardonic.

“She says he should join the boat club on Lake Mahkeenac, improve his tennis game, and play golf. Above all, he must not hide himself away in a porter's house at Ventfort. He needs to get invited to John Sloane's magnificent new cottage, Wynd-hurst. He should also pay social visits to the Schermerhorns and other rich families, go to parties in their great cottages, and mingle with young men and women of his own class.”

“And what good will that do him?”

“According to Gloria, he would make influential contacts. When he leaves college, he'll need them. How else will he marry well and get ahead socially and in business. He should leave gardening to the servants.”

“So, Gloria spoke her mind. Any harm done?”

“She carried on in the same vein with Edward. He listened politely but told her he would continue to go his own way. Unfortunately, she became annoyed. Without telling Edward, or me, she brought her concerns to Mrs. Morgan and insisted that she tell Edward that his services were no longer needed at Ventfort.”

“What nerve!” Pamela exclaimed.

“I agree,” Prescott added. “Fortunately, Mrs. Morgan reminded Gloria of Mr. Morgan's high regard for gardening. He had personally hired young Edward Prescott, encouraged his ambition, and certainly wouldn't tell him to leave.”

“Gloria appears to have badly miscalculated.”

“Yes, indeed. Over a game of billiards, Mr. Morgan hinted as much to Mr. Fisher, Gloria's banker friend and escort. At supper that evening, Fisher announced a change of plans. He and Gloria would leave for New York on the morning train. I was seated across the table from her. She shot me a venomous look.”

“How can her wrath hurt you?”

“In our future divorce proceedings she will further blacken my reputation with false accusations of spousal abuse and infidelity. She may also seek sole custody of Edward. Finally, she may claim a large monetary settlement.”

Pamela reminded him that Edward would soon be his own man. “You can probably tolerate or fend off her other blows. But do you really think that Fisher will go ahead with her plan to divorce and remarry? This incident at Ventfort should serve as a warning to him. With a shrew's reputation, she wouldn't be as useful as he hoped. Since her beauty is also fading, she has little else to offer him. It seems to me that she's becoming a toothless tiger.”

Prescott smiled wryly. “But even without teeth, a tiger can scratch and draw blood. Now, tell me about your investigation.”

She briefly described Jason's decline into mental illness. “Dr. Carson has had him for less than three days. It may be premature to visit him today. Perhaps tomorrow we should at least speak to Carson. He may tell us if Jason can be restored to a sound mind and give us a credible account of what happened to Captain Crake on the night of July seventh.”

Pamela went on to speak of Rachel Crake and Robert Shaw. “Rachel's living temporarily with Helen Fisk, frightened and cautious. But she might eventually tell us more about Shaw. In my conspiracy theory, he might be the killer. Either she or Jason was well placed to guide him to Crake at the moment when he was most vulnerable. Perhaps we should also speak to the butcher Metzger. He might have supplied the alleged weapon for the murder.”

Prescott reflected for a moment. “Your theory is supported by the fact that these three men knew each other and shared similar grievances against Crake. At some point, they may have realized that individually none of them could safely kill Crake, but together they could manage. We might get one of them to confess and implicate the others.”

He rose to leave. “Shall we return to the hotel for supper?”

She shook her head. “First, I must tell you about my adventure yesterday.” He sat down, looking a bit startled. She began with Virgil Crawford's invitation and their visit to Saratoga Lake, moved on to their supper at the French restaurant, and finished with the evening concert at the hotel. Prescott listened, relaxed, with a slight smile on his lips.

She went on to describe how she and Virgil had gone back to the stable to retrieve her opera glass from the carriage and were attacked.

Prescott's smile vanished. “That could have ended badly,” he exclaimed. “Crawford shouldn't have allowed you to go there after dark.”

“It was safer for us to go together.” She spoke gently to avoid provoking him. “In any case, the danger seemed small. The stable's neighborhood is seedy, but it isn't a hellish slum like Mulberry Bend in Lower Manhattan.”

He relented. “I'm pleased, of course, that neither of you was injured.” He hesitated. “Did you learn anything about Virgil in that incident that might relate to Crake's death?”

“Yes, he has the physical ability, the mental agility, and the moral courage to have killed Crake. But I'm left feeling that it's not in his character. He could easily have killed our assailant, or left him to bleed to death in the stable. Instead, he bound the man's wounded arm and reported the incident immediately to the police.”

“That speaks to his humanity. However, there's a major difference in his attitude. He's personally indifferent to these villains, but he hated Crake with a special passion.”

“That's true,” she granted. “But he would defer to his cousins, Edith and James. They appear to respect the spirit as well as the letter of the law. They could have hired assassins to murder Crake years ago in New York. Instead, they engaged us, hoping to build a legal case against him. Someone killed him before they could confront him in court.”

Prescott nodded thoughtfully. “I take your point.”

“It's nearly time for supper. Shall we leave?”

Prescott gazed at her. “Would you be willing to take the evening off from crime? After supper, I'll meet Harry at the station and take him to the boardinghouse where Rob Shaw is staying. Harry will spy on him. Then you and I will go to the hotel ballroom for a dance—they call it a hop.”

“I'd be delighted. Who knows, a clue could turn up in the most unexpected moment.”

 

After supper, Pamela went to her room to prepare for the dance. Prescott walked to the station to meet Harry's train. When Harry stepped onto the platform, Prescott hardly recognized him. He was wearing a beard and a moustache, and had darkened his hair.

He proudly stroked the beard. “After you phoned that I'd be following Robert Shaw, I realized that he and I hadn't met face-to-face. Still, he might have seen me from a distance and would recognize me. In our office, I found the beard and the moustache worn by George Allen, the jewel thief we caught last summer. I dyed my hair to match.”

“You fooled me,” remarked Prescott, then noticed the initials
H.M.
on Harry's luggage. “Would Shaw recognize your name?”

Harry reflected for a moment. “I doubt that he would. Miller is a common name. I've also deliberately kept out of the limelight.”

Prescott picked up one of Harry's bags and started for the street. “We'll take a cab to Shaw's boardinghouse. I've reserved a room for you. Mrs. Taylor, the landlady, is a friend. She's aware of your mission and agrees to cooperate. Shaw doesn't know that.”

“I see,” said Harry. “Tom Winn deliberately placed Shaw and Rachel in a house where he could safely spy on them.”

“Right,” said Prescott. “Now, when you've settled into your room and have had something to eat, I would like you to search his room. The landlady agrees. Hopefully you'll find a clue to his part in the death of Captain Crake. Also, keep track of where Shaw goes and whom he meets this evening. He was most recently seen gambling at Mitchell's saloon and will probably finish the evening at Canfield's Casino.”

 

Prescott knew Mrs. Taylor from previous visits to Saratoga Springs, and had recommended guests to her. She was a sturdy, sharp-eyed matron, about fifty, the widow of an invalided Civil War sergeant who had died of old wounds a few years ago. Prescott helped disabled veterans like Taylor with their legal problems and had won a modest pension for him. Mrs. Taylor now lived on that pension and the income from her lodgers.

She came to the door, gestured to a boy to take Harry's bags, then heartily shook Prescott's hand. “We'll take good care of your friend, Captain.” She knew Prescott had been wounded in the war and referred to his rank to honor his sacrifice. He personally avoided any reference to his service, but he respected Mrs. Taylor's gesture since it came from the heart.

She turned to Harry with a smile and welcomed him, then led him into a parlor, briefly laid down the rules of the house, and showed him to his room.

Meanwhile, Prescott remained in the background, studying the house, a big, rambling, wooden building. Soon, Prescott grew anxious that Shaw might return and recognize him. So he bid Harry good-bye and good luck. They would keep in touch by courier, a dependable boy employed by Mrs. Taylor.