Murder on Gramercy Park (12 page)

Potter was telling one of the maids to move the flowers closer to the casket when Sarah called, “Good morning, Mr. Potter. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Potter looked up in surprise, and for an instant couldn’t seem to place her. “Oh, good morning, Mrs. Brandt,” he said after a moment. “No, I’m sure we have everything taken care of. Is Mrs. Blackwell ill?” he added with some concern.

“Not that I am aware. I did think she might need some support today, however. This must be a terrible strain for her.”

“Oh, not at all. I told her she didn’t have to worry about anything. I’ve taken care of all the arrangements. And under the circumstances, no one expects her to attend the service, of course.”

“Sometimes that’s worse, knowing you can’t do anything or take part in something of such importance,” Sarah said. “And don’t underestimate the importance of a funeral. One must be allowed to mourn a loss such as this, and being unable to attend her husband’s funeral will make it difficult for her to come to terms with his death.”

Potter didn’t appreciate being instructed in such things. “I’m sure I will be able to give Mrs. Blackwell all the support she will need in the coming months, Mrs. Brandt. You need not concern yourself about her welfare.”

Sarah simply smiled. She’d expected as much from Potter. He was certainly eager to offer every assistance to the lovely young widow. Maybe she hadn’t been so far wrong in imagining Potter could have killed Blackwell because he wanted Mrs. Blackwell for himself. She was going to have to discard the theory that Potter had seduced Letitia, however. One preposterous solution to this case was quite enough. Malloy was going to tease her mercilessly if she couldn’t come up with a more menacing suspect than Amos Potter.

“I’ll leave you to your duties,” Sarah said, and continued on her way upstairs, ignoring Granger’s disapproving glare.

Sarah checked on the baby first. The boy appeared to be fine.

“I give him the drops, just like you told me,” the nurse reported. “No more, no less. Then he’s like an angel. Eats and sleeps just like he should.”

Sarah listened to his heart and his lungs and thumped his tummy. His color was good and his eyes were clear. He turned his head toward the nurse when she spoke, and he followed Sarah’s finger with his eyes. He wasn’t deaf or blind, and he seemed sound of body. They wouldn’t know about his mind for a while yet, but Sarah could hope he would be none the worse for the morphine his mother had taken.

“He seems perfectly healthy,” Sarah judged with more than a little relief when she’d finished her examination.

“Except for that hair. Did the morphine turn it that color, do you think?” the nurse asked with obvious disapproval.

“Certainly not,” Sarah assured her. “He simply has red hair.”

“Never saw hair like that on a baby,” the nurse insisted. “It ain’t natural.”

“Many people have red hair, and it’s perfectly natural,” Sarah assured her as patiently as she could. People had the oddest prejudices.

The nurse hmmphed her skepticism. “How long do you think we’ll have to give him that horrible stuff?”

“A few months,” Sarah said. “We’ll wait until he’s gained some weight, and we’re certain he’s healthy. Then we’ll gradually decrease his dosage. Have you heard how Mrs. Blackwell is doing?”

“Don’t nobody tell me anything,” the nurse said, a little disgusted. As a newcomer to the household she wouldn’t have gained the confidence of the other staff members, and her job, of necessity, kept her from socializing with them. “I do know they’re having the doctor’s funeral this morning.”

“So I gathered,” Sarah said. “That’s why I came today. I was afraid Mrs. Blackwell might be upset. I’d better go check on her.”

The nurse made another rude noise. “If she’s got some morphine, she probably don’t even know what’s going on in her own parlor.”

Sarah gave her a quelling look which made her frown, but at least she didn’t say any more. Sarah hoped she wasn’t going to have to suggest that Mrs. Blackwell get another nurse, but if this one was going to be so disapproving of her employer, things could become very difficult.

Sarah learned from the maid lingering in the hallway that Mrs. Blackwell was awake and wanted to see her. The bedroom was dark when Sarah entered, the heavy drapes drawn against the morning sunlight. Mrs. Blackwell lay propped against her pillows, her face pale and her expression drawn.

“How is my baby?” she asked Sarah, who decided the woman might not be as selfish and spoiled as she had originally thought. At least she’d asked about the baby first.

“He’s doing very well,” Sarah said. “We have apparently determined the correct dose of morphine to give him, and he’s thriving on the nurse’s milk.”

“Thank heaven,” she breathed, closing her lovely eyes for a moment in apparent relief.

“What have you named him?” Sarah asked to be sociable.

Her eyes flew open, and Sarah was surprised to see the alarm in them. “I ... I haven’t thought,” she said. “Edmund wanted ... but now ... I don’t know!”

“There’s no hurry,” Sarah assured her, disturbed by her reaction. The woman seemed incapable of making any decision without her husband’s approval. If that were true, his death was going to hamper the decision-making process considerably. “It will be a while before he even knows he has a name,” Sarah added in an attempt to lighten the moment.

Mrs. Blackwell didn’t look reassured. “But other people will know,” she pointed out. “My father ... he’ll expect me to ...” She lifted the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture of despair.

“Why don’t you let me examine you,” Sarah suggested, hoping to take her mind off of the terrible burden of selecting a name for her child. “Are you having any discomfort?”

 

F
RANK HAD TIMED his arrival at the Blackwell home so he would be there to see the guests as they arrived. He wanted to get a look at the people who felt the need to honor Blackwell’s memory or at least to assure themselves he was dead.

He found Amos Potter giving frantic orders to the servants, who scurried around trying to do his bidding. He didn’t look at all happy to see Frank.

“Mr. Malloy,” he said imperiously. “As I informed you yesterday, your presence here is completely unnecessary.”

“Not unless you think it’s unnecessary for me to find out who killed Dr. Blackwell,” Frank replied.

Potter glared at him impatiently. “Surely you don’t believe anyone coming here today could have killed him?”

“I won’t know until I see them, now will I?” Frank said reasonably.

Potter didn’t think this was reasonable at all. “I already told you who the killer is,” he reminded him. “You had him in your power, and you let him get away.”

“He hasn’t gotten away,” Frank said. “Besides, I don’t have any reason to believe he’s the killer.”

“Who else could it have been? The boy is insane with grief and rage. His father deserted him and his family and left them penniless. He probably spent years trying to locate Edmund, and when he did, Edmund rejected him once again. Unable to control his fury, he shot poor Edmund and tried to cover up his crime. There, you see how simple it is? And I’m not even a policeman,” Potter said smugly.

“Do you want me to accuse an innocent boy just so I can collect a reward?” Frank asked with as much genuine confusion as he could muster.

Potter barely controlled his impatience. “He isn’t innocent!”

Frank waited until the maid who was straightening the chairs moved out of earshot. “I questioned him thoroughly, and he gave me all the right answers, Mr. Potter. I don’t believe he killed his father.”

“Then he is even more clever than I imagined,” Potter informed him. “He’s Edmund’s son, all right. If he is at all like his father, he would have no trouble bending the truth to suit his needs, and he would have the advantage of his youth to lend him the appearance of innocence.”

“Was Dr. Blackwell an accomplished liar?” Frank asked curiously.

The color rose in Potter’s face, and he glanced uneasily at the casket standing nearby. “It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead,” he said.

“Then you believe that there is ill you could speak about,” Frank surmised. “Tell me, who did the good doctor lie to? You? His patients? His wife? We certainly know he lied to the current Mrs. Blackwell by not telling her about the first Mrs. Brown.”

“I refuse to discuss such a thing with Edmund lying dead just a few feet away,” Potter sniffed.

“Then we can discuss it later,” Frank said.

Plainly, Potter did not like being told what to do by a mere policeman. “You will excuse me now. I have many things to do before the guests arrive.”

Frank let him go. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with him right now anyway. He went to the kitchen to find a cup of coffee while he waited for the funeral guests to begin arriving.

 

“
D
O YOU KNOW my husband’s funeral is this morning?” Mrs. Blackwell asked Sarah as she finished her examination.

“Yes,” Sarah said. “I noticed the preparations when I arrived. I’m sure you must be disappointed that you can’t attend.”

Mrs. Blackwell sighed. “Funerals frighten me. My mother died when I was quite young, and I remember how horrible it all was, everything draped in black. I can’t stand the thought of it.”

“Then I won’t suggest that you try to go downstairs to at least pay your respects. I’m sure one of the servants could carry you if you really wanted to see your husband’s ... uh ... casket.”

Mrs. Blackwell shuddered. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly ... Edmund wouldn’t want me to see him like that anyway. He’d want me to remember him as he was, I’m sure of it,” she reasoned. She tried to reach over to the nightstand, but couldn’t quite. “Could you ... ?” she asked Sarah. “In the top drawer ...”

Sarah opened the drawer in the bedside table, expecting to find a handkerchief or smelling salts, and was surprised to see a syringe lying there instead. “Do you inject the morphine?” she asked in horror. This was even worse than she’d imagined.

“Please,” Mrs. Blackwell entreated, her lovely blue eyes filling with tears. “Don’t judge me! I can’t ... You don’t know what I’ve had to suffer.”

Sarah had a good idea it wasn’t so very much at all, compared with many who never turned to the oblivion of opiates, but she was a nurse, not a missionary. Reluctantly, she handed the materials to her patient.

“I can’t bear to know what’s going on downstairs. I must sleep so I won’t hear it,” she said, preparing the syringe with the ease of long practice.

Sarah could not watch this. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me for anything,” she said, quickly closing up her medical bag and taking her leave.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brandt,” Mrs. Blackwell said with her best finishing-school manners. “You’ve been very kind.”

Sarah didn’t stop to wonder for what she was being thanked.

 

F
RANK LOOKED UP from where he was sitting in the front hallway and saw Sarah Brandt descending the stairs. He didn’t like to admit that his happiness at seeing her almost outweighed his annoyance. Whatever his personal feelings for her might be, she had no business being involved in this case.

“Malloy,” she said, greeting him with her usual smile, as if she were as happy to see him as he was to see her. “Has anyone arrived for the funeral yet?”

“No,” he said, rising to his feet as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “You can leave without anybody seeing you.”

“Oh, but I intend to stay for the service,” she replied confidently. “It’s the least I can do, since Mrs. Blackwell herself can’t attend.”

“Are you her personal representative?” he asked sarcastically.

As usual, his sarcasm was wasted on her. “No, but I do feel a sense of obligation to my patient.”

“You never even set eyes on the man,” Frank reminded her.

“But I did bring his child into the world,” she reminded him right back. “His legacy, born after his death to carry on his name—”

“That’s enough,” Frank said, raising his hands in surrender. “And Blackwell wasn’t really his name.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. I wonder what Mrs. Blackwell will do now. Did her father know about Blackwell’s other family?”

“I don’t think so. He didn’t seem to know who Calvin Brown was, at any rate, but if he did, he’d certainly be a suspect in Blackwell’s death.”

“I suppose he would. I can’t imagine what my father would do if a man did to me what Blackwell did to Letitia Symington.”

“I can, and blowing his brains out would be the least of it,” Frank said. “Symington couldn’t know, now that I think of it, though. He’s giving the eulogy this morning. He’d hardly do that for the man who ruined his daughter.”

“Yes, that would pretty well prove he has no idea. Which would eliminate him as a suspect, too.”

“Probably,” was all Frank would allow, and Mrs. Brandt didn’t miss his reluctance to exonerate Symington.

“You still think he might have done it?” she asked, her fine eyes brightening with interest.

“I don’t know who did it,” was all he would say. “I guess there’s no way to get you to leave before the funeral starts.”

“Short of throwing me bodily into the street, no,” she replied cheerfully. “There’s no telling what I might learn just from eavesdropping, and I already have some information for you.”

“What?” he asked skeptically.

“I’m sure it would be better if we share our knowledge in a more private place,” she said, glancing meaningfully over to where a maid was carrying a vase into the parlor.

Frank managed to refrain from saying he wasn’t planning to share anything with her. She liked to think she was helping him, and he had to admit she sometimes did find out things that aided his investigations. But he certainly had no intention of telling her what he already knew in return She wasn’t the detective on this case, so she had no need to know more than she already did.