Murder on Marble Row

by Victoria Thompson

  “Then go comfort your father.”

  Malloy was right; she was very angry now. “Should I just forget that Alberta is ill and leave without a word?”

  He seemed to be grinding his teeth, but he managed not to shout. He was probably afraid her mother would hear him. “You can tend to her, but then go home. Or back to your parents’ house or somewhere safe.”

  Safe? He wanted her to be safe! The novelty of that idea almost distracted her from their argument, but not quite.

  “Do you expect a bomb to explode here?” she asked, managing not to sound sarcastic.

  “I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know enough about the Van Dykes to make a judgment yet, but I do know their son Creighton is living with a pack of anarchists. If they’re responsible for this, God knows what they might do next, but if Creighton was the only Van Dyke left alive, they could have his father’s entire fortune to finance their crimes.”

  “If you think the rest of the family is in danger, shouldn’t you warn them?”

  “I will, and I’ll put a police guard on the house.”

  “Then there’s no danger,” Sarah pointed out.

  Malloy sighed impatiently. “Not if we were dealing with an ordinary criminal, but these anarchists are crazy. They don’t even care if they get killed along with their victims. Nobody can stop a man intent on killing himself to accomplish his goal.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense! If they kill themselves, how will they convince the world that they’re right?”

  “I think I mentioned that they’re crazy, so it doesn’t have to make any sense. Which is why I don’t want you anywhere near this house or this family.”

  His concern was touching, even though he expressed it with a slight snarl. She smiled sweetly. “I’ll go up and check on Alberta now, if you don’t have any more orders for me.”

  He sighed again, even more impatiently. “I do have one more. Don’t bother asking her any questions,” he warned, “because you’re not going to get involved in this. Just find out what’s wrong with her and give her some smelling salts or something and then get out of here.”

  “I wouldn’t even know what questions to ask her,” Sarah informed him indignantly. “Besides, if anarchists killed her father, Alberta isn’t likely to know anything about it anyway.”

  He’d opened his mouth to argue before he realized she had agreed with him. “Right,” he said instead.

  “Will you at least tell me what happened to poor Mr. Van Dyke?” she tried.

  “No,” he snapped. “Now go upstairs and see what you can do, and then go home.”

  Sarah wanted to argue with him some more, but it would be a wasted effort. She had never changed Malloy’s mind by arguing. She had, however, frequently changed his mind by other means, usually by just doing what she wanted and letting him realize it was the right thing after all. “Good luck with your case, Malloy,” she said with another smile. “And if you need my help, don’t hesitate to consult me.”

  She didn’t wait to see his expression because she knew what it would be. Instead, she headed for the stairs. After a moment, she heard the parlor door open and close with a loud slam.

  Sarah remembered the location of Alberta’s room from when they had been children, but the décor had changed a lot since then. Gone were the toys and dolls and frilly pink bedclothes. In their place, Alberta had created a sunny yellow room with watered silk wallpaper and graceful French furniture. One end of the room was a sitting area with a small desk, a settee, and several comfortable chairs, a quiet place where Alberta could retreat with the books she had always loved. Several were scattered around where she had obviously been reading them.

  The other end of the room was the sleeping area, where Alberta had retired. She lay upon the large, four-poster bed, looking wan, while her maid gently wiped her face with a soft cloth.

  “Who’s there?” she called weakly.

  “It’s Sarah Brandt,” Sarah replied. “Sarah Decker,” she added, in case Alberta had forgotten her married name.

  “Sarah?” Alberta repeated incredulously.

  “I heard what happened, and I went to see my parents,” Sarah explained, moving closer to the bed. “The servants told me my mother was here, so I came to see if I could help in any way. I’m so sorry about your father.”

  “Yes, it’s . . . awful,” she said. Talking seemed to be an effort.

  As Sarah came closer, she caught the odor that told her Alberta had been sick. Then she saw the slop pail sitting on the floor beside the bed. The maid quickly picked it up.

  “Excuse me, miss,” she said with a bob of her head, and hurried out with it.

  “I’m sorry . . . I haven’t felt well for several days,” Alberta explained. “And the shock . . .”

  “Of course. There’s no need to apologize. My mother asked me to come up and see if I could do anything. I’m a trained nurse, you know.”

  From her expression, she hadn’t known, and the knowledge made her frown. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” she said quickly.

  “Your stepmother thinks it’s serious enough to call a doctor in,” Sarah said, stretching the truth a bit.

  Alberta looked truly alarmed. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t need a doctor,” she insisted. She had never been a pretty girl, but she had also never particularly cared about her lack of beauty. While other girls had primped and fussed and spent their days thinking about new dresses to wear to parties, Alberta had been content to read and study.

  “I can probably determine how ill you are by asking a few questions. If it isn’t serious, I can tell Lilly and no one will bother you. How long have you been ill?”

  “Since . . . about a week, I suppose,” she said, absently clutching at the neck of her dressing gown, as if afraid Sarah would try to open it. “It’s probably something I ate that didn’t agree with me,” she added quickly. “I’m sure it will pass.”

  She took Alberta’s pulse and checked for fever. Everything seemed normal. Sarah asked about her monthly cycle.

  “Heavens, I don’t know,” Alberta said, obviously embarrassed to be discussing such a delicate subject. “I don’t keep track of those things.”

  After some more delicate questioning, Sarah got her to reluctantly admit that her bowel and bladder functions had been abnormal of late.

  Sarah was growing suspicious about the true cause of Alberta’s illness, but her friend was hardly going to answer the questions she really needed to ask to confirm those suspicions. She knew of only one other way.

  “Alberta, would you mind if I listened to your heartbeat? I don’t have my stethoscope, the instrument I use for that, but I could put my ear directly to your chest, if you don’t mind.” Sarah could see that Alberta was wearing only a dressing gown beneath the coverlet.

  “Do you think something is wrong with my heart?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I just want to make sure,” Sarah said with a reassuring smile. “Would you open your gown?”

  Still reluctant, Alberta untied the ribbons at her throat and spread the gown open far enough that Sarah could see what she needed to see. She put her ear to Alberta’s modestly endowed chest and listened long enough to convince her patient she was thorough. Just as she had suspected, Alberta’s heartbeat was strong and regular.

  “Fit as a fiddle,” Sarah proclaimed with a smile.

  “I told you,” Alberta reminded her triumphantly. “It’s just a touch of Summer Complaint.”

  Sarah didn’t point out that it was almost December. “I’ll give you some suggestions for things to do to help with the sickness.” Sarah instructed her to eat some dry toast before rising in the morning; to eat frequent, small meals; and to lie down for a while after eating. “If your stomach starts to feel upset, lie down with a hot flannel on it.”

  “I’ll certainly try all that,” Alberta said as she retied her dressing gown. “I never heard any of those cures before.”

  Sarah managed a smile. “You’d be amaz
ed what I’ve learned in my years of nursing.”

  “How on earth did you ever become a nurse?”

  “After my sister died, I wanted to do something important with my life,” she explained, telling her only a tiny portion of the truth.

  Alberta nodded her understanding, even though she couldn’t possibly understand. No one except Sarah’s immediate family knew how Maggie had died, bleeding to death in a filthy tenement after giving birth to a dead child. All she had done to earn such a fate had been running away to marry the man she loved.

  “You wanted to do something more important than marrying a rich man and having his children,” Alberta guessed. “I wanted that, too, but I wasn’t as brave as you, Sarah. I resisted marrying the rich man, but I didn’t quite manage to do anything else with my life.”

  “I thought I had read recently that you were engaged,” Sarah tried, hoping against hope.

  Alberta’s expression hardened. “You’re mistaken. I can’t even remember the last time a gentleman called on me.”

  Oh, dear, things were even worse than Sarah had thought.

  “Tell me about your work,” Alberta was saying, forcing a cheerful smile. “And how you met your husband. I heard he was a remarkable man.”

  Sarah pulled a chair closer and told her all about Tom and his work as a doctor in the tenements, all the while acutely aware that she had some vital information Malloy might need. Would he still be downstairs when she was finally able to take her leave of Alberta or would she have to seek him out?

  She didn’t mind seeking him out, but he did so hate it when she left messages for him at Police Headquarters because of the teasing he had to endure. On the other hand, a little teasing would serve him right for trying so hard to keep her out of this case.

  FRANK HAD MANAGED TO GET MRS. VAN DYKE TO GIVE him permission to question her servants. Thank God Mrs. Decker was here. She’d been the one to persuade the grieving widow that it would be a good idea. Mrs. Van Dyke hadn’t seen the necessity of “bothering” them. What could they possibly know that would be helpful? They were just servants!

  He found Mr. Van Dyke’s personal valet in the kitchen, drinking something out of a teacup that Frank suspected wasn’t tea. From the expression on his face, Van Dyke’s death had been a shock to him. He rose the instant he saw Frank, nearly spilling his drink.

  Frank introduced himself. “I’d like to take a look at Mr. Van Dyke’s room.”

  The valet nodded. “Don’t see what good it will do, but you’re welcome to it.” He led Frank up the back staircase, the one the servants used.

  The valet’s name was Quentin. A slender man with slightly graying brown hair, he looked to be about forty-five. He told Frank he’d been with Mr. Van Dyke for over twenty years.

  Van Dyke had a suite of rooms on the third floor. His bedroom was typically masculine, the walls covered in something that looked like leather and the furniture made of dark mahogany. A comfortable, overstuffed chair and ottoman sat by the gas fireplace. His bedclothes were shades of brown, and some kind of striped animal skin had been hung on the wall above the bed.

  “It’s a tiger skin,” Quentin explained, seeing Frank’s interest. “Mr. Van Dyke shot it in Africa. He had the head mounted. It’s in his study downstairs.”

  “He must’ve been quite a hunter,” Frank said, impressed.

  “Oh, yes,” Quentin said proudly. “He loved everything about it. He even cleaned his own guns and loaded his own cartridges. ‘Never leave anything to chance’ was what he always said. A very careful man.”

  Frank could see that just from looking around the room. He tried to imagine the delicate and feminine Mrs. Van Dyke in this room and failed. This was strictly a male sanctuary. Adjoining were a dressing room and a bathroom with a commode set in a mahogany chair and a tub large enough for Frank to soak in up to his neck. He looked at it longingly.

  Back in the bedroom, Frank knew he should go through the man’s drawers and cabinets to see if he could find any clue as to why someone wanted him dead. Before he shocked Quentin with his presumption, however, he’d ask him some questions.

  “Thaddeus said his father was in an especially cheerful mood this morning. Did you notice that?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Quentin said, a little surprised. “He’d been a bit down in the mouth for the past few months, you know. Business troubles, he’d tell me.”

  “What kind of business troubles?”

  Quentin shrugged. “I don’t like to talk about the family.” Of course he didn’t. Servants who told tales about their employers found themselves dismissed without a reference.

  “It might help me find out who killed Mr. Van Dyke,” Frank prodded. “No one will ever know what you told me.”

  Quentin glanced at the door that stood open to the hallway. Frank strode over and closed it purposefully. Then he turned back to Quentin.

  “Mr. Van Dyke, he didn’t say much, but what he did say ...”

  “What kind of trouble was he having?” Frank prodded.

  Quentin looked distinctly uncomfortable. “No one will know?”

  “No one,” Frank assured him.

  “He was mad at Mr. Snowberger. That’s his partner.”

  “I’ve met him. What was he mad about?”

  “You have to understand, they never did get along, but this time . . . Well, he thought Mr. Snowberger was cheating him somehow.”

  “Cheating him? You mean taking money from the business?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, Mr. Van Dyke don’t talk much. He’d just grumble a bit now and then. He’d say Snowberger thought he was getting away with it, but he was wrong. Mr. Van Dyke knew what was going on, and he’d put a stop to it.”

  Just as Frank had feared, this case wasn’t going to be simple. If Snowberger was stealing from the company, and Van Dyke had found out, Snowberger might have decided to kill him before Van Dyke could expose him. “Did Mr. Snowberger know that Mr. Van Dyke was angry with him?”

  “I don’t know, but I thought they must’ve made it up, because Mr. Van Dyke was so cheerful this morning. And he had a present for Mr. Snowberger.”

  “A present? What kind of a present?”

  “He got him a bottle of special brandy. That’s why I was sure they must’ve made up their fight. I never knew him to give Mr. Snowberger a present before. Mr. Snowberger likes his brandy, and Mr. Van Dyke ordered this from France. The bottle had gold on it and everything. He took it with him this morning to give it to him. Saw him carry it out when he left.”

  “Did he say anything to you about it?”

  Quentin tried to remember. “Just that . . . I think he said something about how this would make things right between them.”

  So maybe Snowberger wasn’t a suspect after all. Frank felt a small sense of relief. Prosecuting a man in his position would be extremely difficult, even with irrefutable evidence, and Frank doubted he’d find that kind of evidence.

  The brandy did help explain one thing, though—what Van Dyke had been doing at his liquor cabinet so early in the morning. He’d probably been putting the bottle inside for safekeeping, not knowing a bomb had been planted there. Did whoever planted it know about the gift or know that Van Dyke would be opening the cabinet that morning? Not likely. Probably, Van Dyke took a nip in the afternoon or early evening. If it was a habit with him, someone would know, someone close to him. Like his partner.

  Or his son.

  Frank would have to find out where Creighton Van Dyke was as quickly as possible. That would mean questioning Alberta Van Dyke. Which probably meant dealing with Sarah Brandt, too.

  Frank managed not to groan aloud at the thought. He distracted himself by thoroughly searching Gregory Van Dyke’s rooms, much to the chagrin of his valet.

  SARAH COULD SEE THAT ALBERTA WAS TIRING. “YOU need to get some rest now,” she said. “The next few days will be difficult.”

  Alberta closed her eyes against the thought. “Yes, they will, especiall
y with Lilly in charge of everything.”

  “Won’t that fall to Creighton? He’s the oldest son, after all,” Sarah remembered.

  Alberta looked at her sharply, as if seeking some hidden meaning behind her words. Seeing none, she said, “Creighton isn’t here.”

  “He’s not? Where is he?” She was thinking he might have taken a European tour or something.

  “He . . . he left home several months ago. He lives with . . . with some friends. He . . . Oh, dear.” She raised a hand to her forehead and rubbed it as if to soothe an ache. “I guess I might as well tell you. That policeman already found out, and everyone else will know soon enough.”

  “What?” Sarah asked in alarm. “Has something happened to Creighton?”

  “He’s taken up with some very strange people. Anarchists, they call themselves.”

  Sarah could only gape at her in stunned silence. Anarchists killed people with bombs! Everyone knew that!

  “Creighton couldn’t have had anything to do with Father’s death,” Alberta insisted, as if reading her mind. “He and Father had quarreled, but Creighton wouldn’t kill him! He’s not that kind of person.”

  Sarah hadn’t seen Creighton in many years, so she had no idea whether he was or not. “How on earth did he get involved with people like that?”

  Alberta rubbed her forehead again. “He’s always been a little rebellious. He and Father were constantly at loggerheads about something. I think . . . I honestly think that if Father had been an anarchist, Creighton would have become a conservative businessman, just to spite him.”

  “My sister Maggie was like that,” Sarah remembered sadly. Maggie had left home, too, after quarreling with their father, but the consequences for a rebellious female were much greater than for a male. Maggie was dead.

  “I’m not sure why, but Creighton started by going to some of their meetings. He was searching for something, I think. Something he could believe in. Then he met this girl.”

  “Oh, dear,” Sarah said, beginning to understand.