Murder on Lenox Hill

by Victoria Thompson

  She looked up, startled. “You did? That’s odd. She’s hardly ever at the church. Except on Sunday, of course,” she added quickly. “What I meant was, she seems to have her own interests.”

  Sarah remembered that one of those interests seemed to be the young boys, but she didn’t say so. “She’s very different than I imagined she would be,” she tried, hoping Mrs. Linton would take the bait.

  She did. “She’s very different than she should be, if you’ll excuse my saying so,” she said with a disapproving frown. “I don’t like to gossip, but in this case, well, she’s certainly a trial to Reverend Upchurch.”

  “She is very outspoken,” Sarah said, recalling Mrs. Upchurch’s boast that she always spoke the truth.

  “I think she actually tries to embarrass him. He makes excuses for her, but everyone knows that she’s simply wicked.”

  “Wicked?” Sarah repeated, remembering the way Mrs. Upchurch was flirting with that boy Isaiah.

  “Oh, I don’t mean that she’s . . . immoral or anything like that,” Mrs. Linton hastily explained. “It’s just that she seems to go out of her way to be cruel to Reverend Upchurch or to embarrass him with her rude behavior. Can you imagine? A woman should be grateful to have such a man for a husband.”

  Mrs. Evans had said the same thing, and most people would share that opinion, but Sarah knew from going into countless homes to deliver children, both wanted and unwanted, that you could never truly know what went on between two people in private from the way they acted in public. “I’m sure it’s difficult being a minister’s wife,” Sarah offered. “And Reverend Upchurch said she misses not having children of her own.”

  “Perhaps she does,” Mrs. Linton allowed, and then she sighed again. “How odd that God withholds the gift of children from someone who wants them so much and then gives one to poor Grace.” For a moment Sarah was afraid she was going to weep again, but she pinched the bridge of her nose and drew herself up, the way a well-bred female was trained to do, and controlled her emotions. “Would you like to see Grace?” she asked suddenly. “She speaks of you often. I’m sure she would be pleased to see you.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she stood and went to summon the maid. While they waited for the girl to fetch Grace, Mrs. Linton made small talk about the weather, and Sarah made the required responses, respecting her need to speak of inconsequential things.

  After a few minutes, Grace came in. She was rubbing her eye with a fist, the way a small child would, as if she’d just awakened.

  “Grace, dear, you remember Mrs. Brandt, don’t you?” her mother prompted.

  “Hello, Mrs. Brandt,” Grace said obediently, slumping down onto the sofa beside her mother and reaching for a cookie from the tea tray, but before she could lift it to her mouth, she yawned hugely.

  “Cover you mouth, dear,” her mother chided with a worried frown. “Are you tired?”

  “No, I just woke up. I fell asleep,” she reported in amazement.

  Mrs. Linton’s gaze lifted questioningly to Sarah’s. “What do you mean, you fell asleep?” she asked the girl, silently asking Sarah if this was a matter of concern.

  Grace’s lovely face wrinkled as she concentrated, trying to remember. “I was sitting by the window, watching the birds. Barbara put some crumbs out on the fire escape for them.” She turned to Sarah. “Birds like to eat bread crumbs, and they’ll land on the fire escape and eat them. If you sit really still, you can watch them, but if you move, even just a little bit, they get scared and fly away.”

  Mrs. Linton reached out to stroke Grace’s mussed hair. “So you were watching the birds, and you fell asleep?” she asked with a worried frown.

  “I guess so. I tried not to move, because I didn’t want to scare the birds away, but I just had to put my head down on the windowsill because it felt so heavy, and the next thing I know, Barbara is waking me up just now.” She shook her head in amazement. “That’s so silly. You’re not supposed to sleep in the daytime!”

  “No, you’re not,” Mrs. Linton said, a question in her voice as she turned back to Sarah.

  “Sometimes it’s all right to sleep in the daytime, if you’re really tired,” Sarah said. “You might be getting tired in the daytime from now on, Grace, and if you are, you should lie down and take a nap.”

  “Is this because I’m growing up?” Grace asked suspiciously.

  “In a way,” Sarah replied with a smile.

  “Mama doesn’t take naps,” Grace argued.

  “I do if I feel tired,” Mrs. Linton said determinedly. “Mrs. Brandt is right, if you’re tired, you should sleep.”

  Grace considered this advice. “I don’t think I’ll sleep on the windowsill anymore, though. It’s not very comfortable.”

  Both Sarah and Mrs. Linton laughed at this, Sarah politely and Mrs. Linton with a trace of relief. “That’s a very sensible idea, Grace,” her mother said.

  “I visited your church the other day,” Sarah told Grace. “I met your minister, and I saw your friend Percy. He was with some of the other boys.”

  “Those boys are mean,” Grace informed her. “I don’t like them.”

  Sarah saw Mrs. Linton tense, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking the question Malloy would have asked, if he was here. Fortunately, Mrs. Linton asked it for her.

  “Why don’t you like them?” Her voice was a little strained, but Grace didn’t notice. “They seem like very nice boys.”

  “They make fun of me. They call me stupid. Except Percy, he doesn’t. But the others do, even when he tells them to stop.”

  Mrs. Linton couldn’t help the small cry of outrage. “That’s awful. You should have told me. I’ll speak to Reverend Upchurch about it.”

  “I don’t care,” Grace said airily. “I think they’re stupid. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. That’s what Barbara always tells me.”

  “Barbara is very right,” Sarah said, even though she knew words could do far more damage than broken bones. “And if any of those boys ever did hurt you, you’d tell your mother, wouldn’t you?”

  “They never would,” Grace said confidently. “Reverend Upchurch would get mad at them if they did, because he likes me. He told me I was a very special girl.”

  “Reverend Upchurch is right, you are a very special girl,” her mother confirmed, stroking her hair lovingly. “Now why don’t you take a few cookies upstairs to share with your baby dolls?”

  When Grace had gone, Mrs. Linton turned to Sarah with a worried frown. “I know she would have told me if one of the boys had . . . had done anything.”

  “I’m sure she would have,” Sarah said. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. Please forgive me for meddling. It’s just that I’m concerned about Grace, too.”

  “I know you are, and I’m very grateful.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry I thought that you went to the church to . . . Well, I should have known you wouldn’t do anything to hurt Grace.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said, knowing she didn’t really deserve the compliment. “I may visit your church again, though, if you don’t mind. I’m still very interested in Reverend Upchurch’s success with those boys.”

  “Oh, please do visit,” Mrs. Linton said. “We’d love to have you. You must come on Sunday morning. Our choir is excellent.”

  After a few more minutes of polite conversation, Sarah took her leave. She was turning to go when she recalled one more thing. “Mrs. Upchurch has invited me to visit her.”

  “She did?” Mrs. Linton asked in surprise. “She’s hardly ever at home to anyone,” she added. Being ‘at home’ meant you were receiving visitors. A lady could be at home but not receiving, which oddly enough meant she wasn’t at home.

  “You’ve made me very curious about her. I think I will go to see her,” Sarah said.

  Mrs. Linton frowned. “Well, if you do, just remember that you can’t always trust what she says,” she warned.

  “Do you mean she
tells lies?” Sarah asked, remembering Mrs. Upchurch’s boast that she always told the truth.

  “Not lies exactly, but . . . Oh, I shouldn’t be gossiping about her at all, but you must understand that sometimes she says things just to be hurtful. You’ll understand what I mean when you’ve met with her.”

  Sarah certainly hoped so, and she intended to meet with her as soon as possible.

  7

  FRANK FOUND THE ADDRESS EASILY ENOUGH, A MODEST house on a side street in Greenwich Village. A middle-aged woman answered the bell and stared at him suspiciously.

  He identified himself and added, “I’m here to see Miss Edna White.”

  “What about?” the woman asked, still suspicious.

  “About the murder of Dr. Thomas Brandt.”

  Her eyes widened, and she leaned out the door, looking up and down the street. “Come in, quickly,” she said, clutching at the fabric of his coat sleeve and fairly pulling him inside when she was satisfied no one was watching. “I knew you’d come,” she informed him. “I knew someone would come. I’m Edna White. I’ll tell you everything you need to know about Dr. Brandt.”

  She took his coat and hung it on the hall tree, then led him into the front parlor. “I’m so glad you came during the day. If my brother was home, he wouldn’t let me speak with you. He keeps me a prisoner here, I’m afraid. Please, sit down.”

  Frank took a seat on the worn sofa, and she sat in a wing chair opposite. The furniture was good quality, but shabby. Miss White folded her hands in her lap tightly, as if to keep from fidgeting. She did seem very excited. Frank knew she was only in her late thirties, but she looked older. She seemed worn, too, like the furniture. Her face was plain and pale, even paler than most ladies he knew, as if her very blood were white. She’d never been attractive, not even in her youth. Her simple dress was faded and soft from many washings, although someone had made a new collar and cuffs for it recently. Her hair was the color of oatmeal, faded like everything else about her, and she wore it pulled carelessly into a bun. The only things not faded were her eyes. They sparkled with an intensity that made Frank uneasy.

  “Are you here alone?” he asked, realizing this could be awkward for him if she was as insane as her file had indicated. She might accuse him of rape the way she had Tom Brandt.

  “Oh, no. Miss Holly is here. She’s always here,” Miss White reported with disdain. “She’s my hired keeper, but she drinks, you see. My brother doesn’t know, of course, or he’d dismiss her at once, and I don’t tell him, because it suits my purpose to have her drunk. If she wasn’t asleep just now, I wouldn’t have been able to see you, Detective.” She smiled delightedly.

  Frank had to clear his throat. “Maybe you’d like to wake her up and have her sit with us,” he suggested. Few people, especially ladies, wanted to be questioned by the police about a murder. They usually wanted someone with them for support.

  “Oh, no, she’d just make you leave or send for my brother, and he’d make you leave. Please go right ahead and tell me what you need to know.”

  Having no other choice, he did. “When did you first meet Dr. Brandt?”

  “Oh, my, it was January twenty-second, 1892. I’ll never forget that day. He came here to the house. I was very ill with the grippe. He saved my life. He’s a wonderful doctor. But then, you must know that already.”

  “Uh, yes,” Frank said. “That’s what I’ve heard. So he treated you, and you got better.”

  “Yes, indeed I did. It took a long time to recover my strength, but Dr. Brandt returned again and again. He said he was going to make sure I was completely well. Then one day he brought me a flower, to cheer me up. A perfect red rose. That’s when I knew.” Her dark eyes seemed to glow as she looked at something far away, something only she could see.

  “Knew what?” Frank prodded.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Why, I knew that he loved me.” She glanced at the open parlor door, as if checking to see if anyone had overheard. “They don’t like for me to talk about it,” she explained, lowering her voice. “My brother and Miss Holly. You wouldn’t believe the things they’ve done to keep us apart.”

  “Did they tell you Dr. Brandt was married?” Frank asked carefully, not certain what effect this information would have on her.

  “I know all about his wife. She’s a spoiled rich girl, and she only married him to shock her family. She never really loved him. Theirs is a marriage in name only. He never knew what true love was until he met me.”

  Frank looked at this dried-up stick of a woman. He’d once considered the possibility that Tom Brandt had found his patient attractive enough to seduce and thus cause her romantic attachment to him, but now that he’d met her, he knew that was impossible. No husband of Sarah’s could feel the slightest attraction to Edna White. “He told you he loved you?” Frank asked, nearly choking on the words.

  “Many times. I know a lady should never admit such things, Mr . . . Malloy, was it? . . . but Dr. Brandt and I are lovers. It’s a sin, of course, because we aren’t married, but we’re married in our hearts. I’m sure God doesn’t judge lovers too harshly, aren’t you, Detective?”

  Frank had no idea, so he said, “Where did you . . . meet? To be together, I mean,” he asked as tactfully as he could.

  “He has a flat in Chinatown. They know how to keep secrets in Chinatown, Mr. Malloy. We meet there in the afternoons. He wants to divorce his wife, but it’s difficult. Her family is very wealthy, and they don’t want the scandal, but he’s going to win, and then we’ll be married. Meanwhile, I must be patient, as difficult as that is.”

  Frank hardly heard the lies about Sarah. “You still meet him?” he asked incredulously.

  “Oh, yes. It’s not easy for me to get away, of course, but Miss Holly drinks, as I said. When she falls asleep, I sneak out. I must, you see. Dr. Brandt couldn’t endure his miserable marriage if he couldn’t see me from time to time. Most women would have given up hope by now, but my love is stronger than that. I’ll wait forever if I must.”

  “Miss White,” Frank began, not quite trusting his own senses. She seemed so reasonable, but the words she was saying were totally insane. He was even starting to wonder if they were talking about the same man. “Did they tell you that Dr. Brandt is dead?”

  She straightened her spine and sniffed in outrage. “Of course they did. They’ve been telling me that for years. I don’t suppose I blame them very much. Albert can’t bear the thought of his beloved sister having a married lover. He simply doesn’t understand, so he made up that lie. He must have thought if I believed Dr. Brandt was dead then I would forget about him, so he told me that awful story about him being murdered. But I knew it wasn’t true, and now you’ve come here to prove it!”

  AS MRS. UPCHURCH HAD SAID, HER HOME WAS JUST around the corner from the church. The manse had been built of the same material as the church and sat at the rear of the property. Sarah wasn’t certain what she had expected, but the house looked no grander than the others on the street. All were comfortable abodes for families with comfortable incomes who could afford to keep several servants.

  The maid seemed startled when Sarah presented her card and asked to see Mrs. Upchurch. Apparently, Mrs. Linton had been correct in assuming Mrs. Upchurch rarely entertained visitors. The girl showed Sarah inside and asked her to wait in the front parlor. The room was chilly, the grate cold, but Sarah couldn’t help admiring the elegant furnishings. Although the modern trend was to clutter every available surface with knickknacks and to fill the room with as many pieces of oversized furniture as possible, Mrs. Upchurch had defied convention. She’d chosen delicately carved piecrust and marble-topped tables to accent the graceful sofas and chairs upholstered in gold velvet. A magnificent jade dragon adorned the mantelpiece, and a few other exquisite jade figurines sat on the tabletops. An oriental rug woven in golds and greens covered part of the highly polished floor. Lace curtains shielded the windows beneath gold velvet draperies. Sarah even imagined she c
aught an Oriental scent in the air.

  “Millie is such a fool to put you in here,” Mrs. Upchurch announced, entering the room like a small tornado. “We haven’t lit the fire in this room in weeks. But perhaps she’s hoping I’ll freeze to death. Oh, yes, good afternoon, Mrs. Brandt. How kind of you to come,” she added politely, with just the slightest irony.

  Sarah couldn’t help a smile. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Upchurch. I was just admiring the room.” She gestured toward the jade dragon. “Have you been to China?”

  “I grew up there. My parents were missionaries,” she said. “Come back to my lair, and I’ll show you some really interesting pieces. You’ll also be much warmer.”

  Without waiting for Sarah to agree, Mrs. Upchurch turned away, leaving her no choice but to follow. Walking down the hallway behind her, Sarah had an opportunity to notice her gown. Made of deep maroon silk, its simple lines clung to her small frame in the absence of adequate petticoats, accentuating her lack of female curves. Today she’d tied her hair at the back of her neck with a ribbon, and Sarah could see the curls were natural and a bit wild when she didn’t bother to tame them. Once again she was struck by how young and girlish she looked from behind.

  As Sarah had suspected, the “lair” was the less-formal back parlor where a cozy fire burned.

  “I see that idiot Millie didn’t even take your cape. Give it to me, and then sit down. That chair is the most comfortable,” she added, indicating the one nearest the fire.

  Mrs. Upchurch called the maid by shouting in an undignified manner. The girl came at a run. “Hang this up,” Mrs. Upchurch said, handing her Sarah’s cape, “and bring us something hot. Tea or coffee, Mrs. Brandt?”

  “Either is fine,” Sarah said.

  “Coffee then. And I said hot.”

  The girl scurried away, and Mrs. Upchurch closed the door behind her. “I can’t keep good help,” she explained. “I’m too difficult to please. Sit,” she added, pointing to the chair again. As Sarah did as she’d been bidden, Mrs. Upchurch took the chair across from it. Oddly, it didn’t look comfortable at all, although it was obviously where she usually sat, because her workbasket was on the small table beside it. The chair was straight-backed with bare wooden arms. A thinly cushioned seat was the only effort at comfort, and it was well-worn. A small and equally worn footstool sat in front of it.