There was a knock on her door. Pamela opened it; it was Birgitta. “Mr. Prescott has just told Mrs. Fisk and me what happened last night. I thought you might need a lift. I’ll draw a bath for you. It’ll soak the fatigue out of your body. Then I’ll give you a massage and bring you breakfast.”
Pamela felt greatly relieved. “Birgitta, you are an angel from Heaven.”
She shook her head. “I really enjoy helping people feel better. By the way, I asked Mrs. Fisk about getting into medical school. Would it be difficult for me, a woman? She said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you.’ ”
Early in the afternoon, Pamela and Prescott were shown into Brophy’s office. It was stiflingly warm. He sat behind his desk in shirtsleeves and without a collar. His coat and hat hung on a hook on the wall; his cigar lay in a tray off to one side. He hadn’t shaved or slept. Pamela feared that he might be irritable and difficult to deal with. To judge from the high pink color of his face, he risked having a stroke.
But he greeted them with a broad smile and gestured to a couple of chairs. For a moment, he gazed at them, then said, “Good work. You arrived at the cottage just in time and saved Mrs. Crake’s life. The medical examiner figured that she probably wouldn’t have lived through the night.”
“What happened to her?” Pamela asked.
“Shaw insists he didn’t try to kill her. His story, for what it’s worth, is that they were drinking wine in the parlor and she suddenly stopped breathing. When he couldn’t find her pulse, he thought she had died and he’d be blamed. So he hid her in the pit and went back to the casino to win more money. He planned to take the early train to New York and catch the first boat to any place where he could make a living at gambling.”
“What do the medical doctors say about her?”
“She may have suffered a reaction from mixing a patent medicine and the wine. Shaw claims she often indulged in a tincture of laudanum. They say she should recover.”
“It might have been accidental,” said Prescott. “But Shaw could have done it to rid himself of her. She threatened him.”
“I agree,” Brophy said. “Would you like to interrogate him while I listen in?” He glanced at Pamela. “Mrs. Thompson can join us. A constable will take notes. You could touch on Shaw’s role in the death of Captain Crake as well.”
“A good idea,” Prescott replied. “I look forward to dueling with Shaw.”
The interrogation room’s walls were whitewashed and plain. A pair of high windows let sunlight into one side of the room. The other side was shadowed. Prescott sat at a wooden table in the sunlight; the constable scribe sat next to him. Pamela and Brophy remained in the shadows.
Shaw appeared at the door in plain, shapeless prison garb, his hands and feet in irons. A constable led him to the table, set him down, and sat behind him. His brow appeared still creased with pain from the blow that Harry had given him. Nonetheless, he looked confident and ready for battle.
Prescott began, “Tell us, sir, how Rachel Crake came to be in a cottage you rented and was found near death in a concealed pit on the property?”
“She wanted to return to New York. As I told you earlier, I drove her from the hotel to the railroad station, bought her a one-way ticket, and checked her trunk.”
“I recall that part of your story. I assume you’re about to change the rest.”
His eyes flickered momentarily, possibly with embarrassment. “Rather than wait two hours in the station hall, we went to my cottage, drank wine, and chatted. She decided not to go to New York after all. I said she could stay in the cottage as long as she liked. I would go to the casino for a couple of hours of poker. At that point, she collapsed and looked dead. She must have slipped too much laudanum into her wine. I feared the police would blame me, so I hid her body.”
Prescott observed, “Your story is implausible. By trying to hide her body from the police, you’ve implicitly admitted your guilt. In fact, you attempted to kill her with a lethal mixture of wine and a patent medicine containing laudanum, ingredients that are readily available.”
“Why should I want to kill her? We were lovers.”
“Partners in crime would be closer to the truth. You and she conspired to kill her husband for his inheritance. That’s clear in the messages you hid in the Bible at Mrs. Taylor’s boardinghouse. My assistant, Harry Miller, has deciphered them, including the one in which Rachel demands a large sum of money in return for her silence about your role in the conspiracy. At first, she supported your alibi that you were gambling at the casino on the evening of July seventh. Recently, however, she stated before two witnesses that you left the casino for at least an hour, time enough to kill Captain Crake. We’ve also found the chambermaid’s apron and bonnet that you wore. Which of Rachel’s stories is true?”
“Her recent version is a lie. We had quarreled, so she was punishing me.”
“If her demand for money was based on a lie, why did you agree to her terms?”
“I thought if I paid her, she would stop spreading lies about me. Victims of extortion sometimes find it more convenient to pay off the extortioner.”
Throughout Prescott’s indictment, Shaw remained calm and collected, his head tilted slightly at a skeptical angle. At the end, he remarked, “I’ll refute you in court. I did not kill Crake. I have nothing more to say.”
After Shaw was led out of the room, Brophy remarked, “Shaw is sure that his luck will change and that he’ll wiggle out of this situation as he has throughout his life. I’ll charge him now with Mrs. Crake’s attempted murder and move him to the jail in Ballston Spa.”
Pamela asked, “Will you now charge Rachel? Messages between her and Shaw reveal that they conspired to kill the captain.”
Brophy looked skeptical. “Was Rachel actually involved in the killing?”
“Yes, she was,” Pamela replied. “Rachel, not Jason, told Shaw that Crake had retired to the cottage. She, better than anyone, knew that he would take a drug and soon be incapable of defending himself. She provided Shaw with the chambermaid disguise. Metzger the butcher wasn’t involved, either. Shaw used his own dagger, rather than a boning knife. And finally, Francesca Ricci had nothing to do with Crake’s death. At the least, could we get her out on bail?”
“I agree,” Brophy replied. “We need to revisit Captain Crake’s murder. When I deliver Shaw to the county jail, I’ll talk to the judge about your girl.”
Pamela saw a glimmer of hope for Francesca.
At supper that evening in the hotel dining hall, Harry joined Pamela and Prescott at their table. He had helped the town police prepare a report for the district attorney.
Pamela asked, “Was Brophy apologetic for charging Francesca with the death of Captain Crake?”
“The short answer is no,” Harry replied with a wry smile. “And I resisted the temptation to make him eat crow. Brophy knows he must do the investigation right this time. I made myself useful, and he seems grateful.”
At that moment, the waiter arrived to take their orders.
“Steak and potatoes for me,” Harry said, then added, “and a pint of Ruppert’s ale.” Prescott ordered the same. Pamela chose broiled cod and white wine.
When the waiter left, Harry turned to Prescott. “To strengthen our case against Shaw, we’ll have to address thorny legal issues. Your search of Rachel’s trunk and later your forced entry into Shaw’s cottage could be considered illegal. In each instance, you lacked a warrant to search private property. Shaw’s attorney will most likely ask the judge to dismiss all charges.”
Pamela objected, “The idea that Shaw could escape punishment for murder is outrageous.” She turned to Prescott. “How do you think we should respond?”
Prescott replied, “I respect the Common Law and understand the need for a search warrant under ordinary circumstances. Last night, however, you and I rightly believed that Rachel was in imminent danger. We didn’t have time to hunt for a magistrate and ask for a warrant. If challenged in court, I would invoke
the law’s principle of ‘exigent necessity,’ which means simply that saving a person’s life overruled respect for private property. I’m sure that the district attorney is familiar with the idea.”
“In view of that legal principle,” Pamela asked Harry, “how did you manage to find Shaw’s messages from Rachel?”
“When I couldn’t find them myself, I asked Mrs. Taylor to help me.”
“Did she faint? Or order you out of the house?”
“Not at all.” He winked at Prescott. “I had charmed her. She quickly found them hidden in a Bible.”
Pamela turned to Prescott. “In this instance, do we have a legal problem?”
“No,” he replied, “as the property owner, Mrs. Taylor has the right to search a suspicious renter’s room and his things.”
“What will happen to Rachel, assuming she recovers?”
“In return for testifying against Shaw, she should be held less responsible than he, but she must not be exonerated. Otherwise, as Crake’s widow, she could challenge his recent will and claim half of his estate.”
Harry asked, “How deeply, if at all, were the butcher Karl Metzger and the bellboy Jason Dunn implicated in Crake’s death?”
“We’d better find out,” Prescott replied. “Shaw might try to shift the blame to them, as well as to Rachel.”
Since coming to Saratoga Springs, Harry had cultivated the acquaintance of the German butcher, sometimes drinking beer with him in neighborhood taverns. On Sunday evening, as the news of Rachel Crake’s nearly fatal experience spread throughout the town, Harry wondered how Metzger was reacting. In her messages, Rachel had named him as a coconspirator in her husband’s death.
Harry found him at his customary table in Mickey’s. His companions were trading opinions about the incident. Karl seemed preoccupied and had little to say. Soon his companions moved on to another table and Karl sat alone, staring into his beer.
Harry approached with his usual “Mind if I join you?”
Karl lifted his gaze and grunted a tepid assent. Harry ordered a beer and asked softly, “What’s the matter, Karl?”
“I can’t bring myself to talk about it, Harry. Help me to get my mind on something else. Let’s talk baseball. Did my favorites, the Baltimore Orioles, win this afternoon?”
Harry quickly shifted into his role as a baseball fan. His interest was genuine but not centered on a single team. He loved the game itself for its drama and the speed and skill of its players. In Sing Sing, a fellow convict, who had played briefly in the National League, was amused when Harry had asked if stealing bases was a felony? By the time Harry was released, his mind held a rich treasury of baseball lore. He had even learned to pitch a curve ball.
Harry put on a doleful face. “Sad to say, Karl, the Boston Beaneaters beat the Orioles again, this time eight to four. It was the Orioles’ sixth loss in a row. They will also play Boston on Monday and should win. Do you want to bet?”
Metzger dug into his pocket and put a penny on the table. “The Orioles by four points or more!”
Harry put up a penny. “I’ll bet they don’t. You hold the stakes.”
Karl was now in a better mood. They chatted baseball and drank beer for an hour.
Harry was tempted to bring up Rachel Crake, but he sensed Metzger was still skittish. “I’ll be going back to the hotel, Karl. Will I see you tomorrow?”
Metzger appeared to reflect for a moment. “Would you join Erika and me at an old-fashioned German festival behind our clubhouse tomorrow evening?”
“Sure, I’ll see you then.”
CHAPTER 31
The Past Examined
Monday, July 30
At breakfast in the hotel dining hall, Pamela and Prescott ran into the Crawfords, and they agreed to eat together. Almost immediately, James asked Prescott, “What can you tell us about Robert Shaw’s attack on Rachel Crake? The police have released scant information. Still, the news has spread throughout the town in garbled versions.”
Prescott gave the Crawfords a careful account, Pamela adding a detail here and there.
“Well,” declared Edith, “Rachel Crake was foolish to go back to a man who was untrustworthy and had beaten her.”
“But why did he try to kill her?” James asked Prescott.
“She threatened to tell the police that she had heard Shaw conspire with two men to kill her husband. She demanded money for her silence. Shaw pretended to agree, lured her from the hotel ballroom to his secret cottage, and attempted to silence her forever.”
“And did she name the two men?” asked Edith, her voice trembling.
“Yes,” Prescott replied. “Jason, sorry to say, and Karl Metzger. But, of course, we only have her word for that. She also didn’t claim to know their roles, if any, in actually killing Crake.”
James gazed calmly at Prescott. “The circumstances of his death are still murky. You and Mrs. Thompson will have to help the police sort them out.” He smiled cheerfully. “But we have a more pleasant task before us. How shall we amuse ourselves today? The weather promises to be beautiful. I suggest that we visit Mount McGregor. It’s only a thirty-five-minute train ride from here and offers an outstanding view of the area. We could lunch at Hotel Balmoral and then visit our late President Grant’s summer cottage.”
Virgil added, “Since he died there nine years ago, it has become almost a shrine. Hundreds of his admirers visit it every day at this time of the year.”
“I’d be happy to go for the meal and the view,” said Edith dryly. “You men are welcome to the general. I had enough of him thirty years ago.” She turned to Prescott. “What do you say, Captain? Didn’t you serve under his command in the war?”
Pamela grew concerned how Prescott would react. He rarely mentioned his military service or rank, and never to glorify it. Thirty years later, he still suffered from the physical and mental wounds of combat.
He nonetheless smiled at Edith. “In the last year of the war, I occasionally saw General Grant, but only at a distance. He was a shabby-looking man with a reputation for hard drinking and outstanding horsemanship. Appearances can be deceptive. He was brilliant in the art of making war. Many say that his single-minded, ruthless, aggressive strategy brought the war to an end. In his cottage we might see him in a different light.”
He glanced toward Pamela with a teasing smile. “And what do you say, madame?”
“I’m intrigued. His military feats are much praised. But his record as president is judged to be paltry, even shamefully corrupt. Still, I admire him for writing a thick memoir to pay off his debts while dying of throat cancer in that cottage. I’d like to spend a few minutes there with him.”
For a moment, they were all silent. Then James said, “It’s settled. We’ll catch the ten o’clock train on North Broadway.”
The ride began well. With ease, Virgil and Prescott lifted James and his wheelchair into a railroad carriage. For thirty-five minutes the train chugged past farms and hamlets in the foothills of the Adirondacks. The train struggled through the last few uphill miles, but eased onto the level ground at the top of McGregor and discharged its passengers in front of the Hotel Balmoral.
They ate lunch on the hotel’s wide, shaded terrace, enjoying the view over the Hudson River valley below. A short walk on a smooth path brought them to Grant’s cottage, a plain, two-story wood frame structure with a large front porch. The cottage’s simplicity, Pamela thought, somehow suited the man. The two-volume memoir was his monument.
Their guide pointed to a chair on the porch. “The general wrote much of the time here, with a pencil on a lined, yellow legal pad. When he became too weak to write, he dictated to a stenographer. Mind you, Grant had throat cancer. It was torture for him to speak. Toward the end, his voice grew so weak the stenographer had to put his ear to the general’s mouth.”
They were led inside Grant’s bedroom. The guide gestured to a bed by the window. “There he died, three days after writing the last line of his memoir.” He showed t
hem a fancy clock on the mantel of the fireplace. “His son stopped the clock at eight minutes after eight on the morning of July 23, 1885.”
While the men continued to speak with the guide about Grant and his military achievements, Pamela and Edith walked to an outlook near the cottage. The air was crisp and clear. They had a magnificent view of the Adirondack Mountains to the north and the Catskills to the south. In the broad valley below, the Hudson flowed toward Albany and New York City.
After several minutes of quiet pleasure, Pamela asked about Mrs. Dunn. “We haven’t seen her much since she arrived. Is she well?”
Edith shrugged. “She complains of aches and pains, but nothing serious. She will leave tomorrow for New York City for a week with a cousin and then return home to Charleston.”
“Has she shown any concern for Jason?”
“None at all. When speaking with her we avoid the subject.” There was a hint of regret in Edith’s face.
“Has she always had that attitude?”
“I’m afraid so. Unfortunately, my situation at Jason’s birth seemed so desperate that even her grudging willingness to take him was welcome. I didn’t foresee the loveless misery ahead for him. When I began to notice his unhappiness with Mr. and Mrs. Dunn, it seemed too late for any practical remedy. I’ve often reproached myself for a lack of understanding and courage. Now I fear that Jason has fallen into bad company with that gambler Shaw and the German butcher Metzger.”
“Do you suspect that Jason was involved in Crake’s death?”
“Don’t you?”
“Not really. But, if he were involved, his mental illness might mitigate his responsibility. I see grounds for hope. I’m going to propose to your brother, James, that he visit the clinic with Prescott and me tomorrow. We’ll learn what several days of therapy may have accomplished.”
She threw Edith a glance.
Death in Saratoga Springs Page 24