Murder On GramercyPark

by Victoria Thompson

Potter shook his head. “Oh, no, it wasn’t that. He… he was not divorced at all. He is… was still married to the boy’s mother.”

  Finally, Frank was beginning to really understand. “And the lady who discovered his body today?” he prodded.

  “Was not legally married to Edmund,” Potter said softly. “Naturally, he wanted to protect her and their… their unborn child. He was going to meet with the boy today in an attempt to ward off any scandal. He had withdrawn a sum of money to give him in exchange for… for his silence.”

  “Would Blackwell have had the money here with him?”

  Potter had to consider this. “I suppose he would if he intended to give it to the boy.”

  “We didn’t find any money,” Frank said, although he knew that if the killer hadn’t taken it, one of the servants or even the beat cop Patrick might’ve done so when nobody was looking. It wouldn’t be the first time a cop had helped himself in a situation like this.

  “Then that proves the boy was here, doesn’t it?” Potter asked. “Which means he must be the killer.”

  Malloy didn’t bother to answer since there were so many other possibilities. “Do you think the boy would have accepted the money in exchange for his silence?”

  Potter mopped his forehead again. “No, I don’t. He was very angry and bitter over the way Edmund had abandoned him and his mother. If you’re looking for someone who wanted Edmund dead, I think you should look for this boy.”

  “What’s the boy’s name?” Frank asked, pulling out his small notebook and a pencil.

  “Uh, his name is Calvin Brown.”

  Frank looked up in surprise. “You said he was Blackwell’s son.”

  “He is, of course. Dr. Blackwell changed his name when… Well, his name originally was Edward Brown.”

  “I see.” Frank did see. Blackwell had changed his name either to escape ties to his family and whatever else he’d left behind when he left Virginia, or else to give himself a more dignified name, most likely both. “Do you have any idea where I might find this Calvin Brown?”

  Potter studied Frank for a moment, as if trying to decide something. Then he said, “I’m afraid not. I’d suggest a cheap lodging house, for a start. Locating him won’t be an easy task, I’m sure, but perhaps if I told you that I am offering a five-hundred-dollar reward for finding Edmund’s killer, it might increase your level of enthusiasm for the task.”

  Frank thought about the surgeon that Sarah Brandt had recommended to him, the man who might be able to cure his son’s crippled foot. Five hundred dollars would go a long way toward pay for the surgery. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Potter.”

  2

  SARAH WAS CONCERNED ABOUT HER PATIENT. HER labor didn’t seem to be progressing, and she still seemed to be in shock. Or at least that’s what Sarah had been thinking at first, but she was beginning to suspect something else. While Mrs. Blackwell was resting between contractions, Sarah stepped into the woman’s dressing room for a quick look around. Sure enough, just as she’d suspected, she found a drawer full of patent medicines, all of them for female complaints, and all of them containing some form of opiate. One of the bottles was empty, the cork out, the traces of liquid still visible. It hadn’t been empty long.

  Like many women of her class, Mrs. Blackwell had obviously discovered the relief to be found in those little glass bottles. One could hardly blame her for seeking it under the circumstances, either. Perhaps it was as well that her brain was clouded by the drug instead of the horrible vision of her husband’s dead body. Still, if she took these remedies frequently, she might be an opium eater and the baby could be, too. In any case, the opiate could prolong her labor, and any of this could put the child’s life in danger.

  She heard Mrs. Blackwell moaning and hurried back into the bedroom. The woman’s head was tossing back and forth on the pillow, as if she battled internal demons in addition to the forces of her own body. Sarah wiped her brow with a damp cloth, hoping to make her more comfortable.

  She opened her eyes and tried to focus on Sarah’s face. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Sarah Brandt, the midwife,” she replied, not mentioning that they’d had this conversation not long ago. Plainly Mrs. Blackwell didn’t remember it. “I’m here to take care of you.”

  “Edmund won’t approve,” she said, her lovely blue eyes darkening with distress.

  “I’m sure he would want you taken care of,” Sarah said reasonably.

  She frowned. “I remember something… Edmund is dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sarah said, knowing it would be foolish to deny it, since Mrs. Blackwell had been the one to discover her husband’s body. She might want to deny it, but the image would be all too real.

  Mrs. Blackwell closed her eyes and sighed, sinking back into the pillows. She murmured something that sounded like, “It’s my fault.”

  Sarah wanted to reassure her. People often blamed themselves when a loved one committed suicide, and the generous thing to do was to tell the woman it wasn’t her fault at all. Unfortunately, she couldn’t be sure. For all Sarah knew, Dr. Blackwell’s wife had driven him to it. At any rate, none of this was her concern. She had a far more pressing problem.

  “Mrs. Blackwell, I need to know if you take patent medicines on a regular basis.”

  “What?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing with confusion.

  “I saw the bottles in your drawer. I know you must have taken something after you… after you had the shock. That’s only natural, to want something to calm your nerves. But I need to know if you drink those remedies very often.”

  “Oh,” she said, struggling to comprehend. “Oh, no. I only… only when I can’t… not very often at all!”

  Relieved, Sarah smiled and patted the woman’s shoulder. “Thank you. That’s what I needed to know. Now let’s see what we can do about encouraging this baby to arrive. If you feel like doing some walking, I think that will help,” she suggested. A woman in heavy labor had difficulty concentrating on anything else, and she wanted Mrs. Blackwell’s mind free of unpleasant thoughts for the moment.

  “Do you think it will help?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. Let me give you a hand down from the bed.”

  FRANK STOOD IN the hallway looking up the stairs, thinking he’d like to know what was going on with Mrs. Blackwell. Or perhaps he was just looking for an excuse to see Sarah Brandt again. Actually, he had no such excuse. Blackwell’s body had been taken away, he’d questioned all the servants, he’d heard Amos Potter’s theories on who might have killed Blackwell, and he’d gleaned all the information he could about Edmund Blackwell’s mysterious son. He would need to question the neighbors, too, but that would certainly be a waste of time. They would never tell a common Irish policeman anything useful, even if they knew anything useful.

  At any rate, he had no further excuse for staying there. The Blackwell baby would be born in its own sweet time, and Frank wasn’t going to wait around until then just for a glimpse of Sarah Brandt. And if he didn’t see her, he wouldn’t be able to tell her that Blackwell had been murdered and give her a reason for wanting to become involved in the investigation. He didn’t want her involved in another of his cases, so he’d best be on his way.

  “Will you be needing anything else?” the butler asked, emerging from the depths of the house.

  “No, I’m finished here, for the time being. Is Mr. Potter still here?”

  “Yes. He wanted to wait to be sure everything is all right with Mrs. Blackwell. He is very devoted to the family.”

  Frank wondered what the motivation for that devotion might be. Potter had seemed awfully concerned about Mrs. Blackwell’s welfare, almost more than he’d been concerned about Dr. Blackwell’s death. Well, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. Frank was probably just too jaded, looking for ulterior motives where none existed. Or maybe Amos Potter had seduced Mrs. Blackwell, gotten her with child, and then killed her husband so they could live happily ever after.

&nb
sp; Well, now Frank knew it was time to leave. The very thought of meek little Amos Potter seducing anyone was so preposterous Frank had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He was just about to tell the butler he’d be back the next morning to see if Mrs. Blackwell was well enough to answer some questions when someone pounded on the front door.

  Granger hurried to open it, and an imposing man in a tailor-made suit stepped into the foyer. Everything about him said power and “old money.” Frank wondered what he’d done to deserve this.

  “Good evening, Mr. Symington,” the butler said gravely.

  “What’s going on here, Granger? Potter sent me the most mysterious message-” He broke off when he saw Frank. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the city police, Mr. Symington. I’m investigating Dr. Blackwell’s death.”

  “His death? Good God! What happened?”

  At that moment Amos Potter emerged from the front parlor. “Mr. Symington, it was so good of you to come.”

  “Good?” Symington boomed. “There’s nothing good about this. This fellow says Edmund is dead.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Symington, I’m sorry to say,” Potter confirmed. “I wanted to break the news to you myself, but I see you’ve already learned the horrible truth. Even worse, the police believe he was murdered.”

  “Murdered? Who on earth would have a reason to murder Edmund?” He looked accusingly at Frank, as if he believed this was all his fault. “Where is my daughter? Does she know about this yet?”

  “Mrs. Blackwell is your daughter?” Frank guessed.

  “Of course she is,” Symington said impatiently. “Where is she, Potter?”

  “She’s upstairs,” Potter said uncomfortably. “A… a midwife is with her.”

  Frank saw the first genuine emotion cross Symington’s face. “The baby?” he asked with a worried frown.

  “Yes,” Potter said. “The shock of finding Edmund’s body-”

  “She found his body?” Symington seemed to be experiencing some shock himself. He looked as if he needed to sit down.

  “Perhaps we should step into the parlor,” Potter suggested, nodding toward the butler, who stood nearby.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Symington agreed, and allowed Potter to direct him into the other room.

  Frank followed, even though he hadn’t been specifically invited. He had a few questions to ask Mr. Symington. He closed the parlor doors behind them.

  Symington had gone directly to a cabinet and opened it to reveal bottles of liquor. With the familiarity of a frequent visitor, he poured himself a drink and downed it in one gulp. Only then did he turn back to face Potter. He seemed a bit surprised to see Frank had joined them, but he didn’t make an issue of it.

  “This midwife,” he said to Potter. “Is she someone Edmund approved?”

  Before Potter could reply, Frank said, “I sent for her. Her name is Sarah Brandt. She’s Felix Decker’s daughter.” Frank figured Sarah’s sterling family heritage would satisfy Symington, and it appeared he was right.

  “Felix Decker, eh?” he said. “I’m sure Edmund wouldn’t have approved, but I suppose, under the circumstances…”

  “We really had no choice,” Potter confirmed.

  Symington nodded, then thought for a moment. “How did Edmund die?” he asked Frank. “And what makes you think he was murdered?”

  “He was shot in the head.”

  Symington visibly winced. “And my daughter found his body?”

  “That’s right.” Frank watched his face for any betraying emotions, but he saw only the expected ones.

  “Who killed him?” Symington demanded when he had absorbed the information.

  “Mr. Potter thinks his son killed him,” Frank tried.

  Symington seemed surprised, and he turned accusing eyes to Potter.

  “Mr. Symington knows nothing about this,” Potter assured Frank. “I hope you’ll allow me to explain everything to him.”

  “Go right ahead,” Frank said.

  Potter turned to Symington, who was waiting with remarkable patience. “It seems that Edmund was married before, and his son from his first marriage came to see him several days ago.”

  “What did he want, and why would he have killed Edmund?”

  Frank braced himself for the explosion that would come when Symington found out his daughter’s marriage had been a sham.

  “The boy believed Edmund had deserted his first family. He was very angry and bitter, and he threatened to spread all sorts of lies about Edmund unless he received a large sum of money.”

  “I assume Edmund refused to be blackmailed,” Symington said, and Potter agreed enthusiastically.

  This wasn’t exactly the same story he had told Frank, but he was obviously trying to spare Symington any more pain. Sooner or later the man would have to find out the truth about his daughter and his grandchild, Frank supposed, but he’d let Potter worry about that.

  “It’s obvious that Edmund wasn’t the man I thought he was. A man who deserts his family is beneath contempt. Had I known… But that’s of no consequence now. I made a mistake, but when I make a mistake, I correct it.” Symington turned to Frank, his eyes as hard as glass. “My daughter has suffered enough. I do not want her involved in a scandal. If you can find this boy and handle the matter quietly, you will be amply rewarded.”

  “Certainly,” Frank said. He didn’t want a scandal either.

  “HERE YOU ARE, Mrs. Blackwell,” Sarah said as she tucked the swaddled bundle in next to the new mother. “A fine baby boy.”

  Mrs. Blackwell barely had the strength to open her eyes. Dawn was painting pink streaks in the sky, and she’d been laboring all night long. Both mother and baby were exhausted, but Sarah knew it was important for both of them to get the child to nurse immediately.

  “I know you’re tired,” Sarah said as Mrs. Blackwell looked down uncertainly at the baby. “But if you can feed him even a little right now, it will help with your recovery, and I’m sure he could use the nourishment.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to feed him myself,” Mrs. Blackwell said in surprise. “I’ve hired a wet nurse. Someone should send for her. Granger knows where to find her.”

  Sarah frowned. Many wealthy women hired nurses for their children, so she shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Even if you could just feed him for a few days, it would be so much better for both of you.”

  “Oh, no,” she insisted, a little alarmed. “Edmund would never allow it. He said no gently bred woman should nurse her own children. Besides, I have to be free to travel for his lectures…” Her voice trailed off as she obviously remembered her husband would be giving no more lectures. “Oh, dear,” she said very faintly and very sadly.

  “I’m sure if you’d like to take care of the child yourself, there’s no reason why you couldn’st,” Sarah suggested, tactfully not mentioning the fact that Dr. Blackwell’s opinion no longer mattered. It was all she could do.

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know anything about babies. Send for the nurse. She’ll come right away. She said she would. Oh, and someone should notify my father. He’ll want to know immediately.” She looked down at the babe on the bed beside her, studying its tiny face. “He’s awfully small, isn’t he? I really… I don’t know what to do with him.”

  “Just hold him for now,” Sarah suggested. “You can learn the rest as you go. Look how sweet he is,” she added, hoping to get Mrs. Blackwell interested in the child. “And where did he get that red hair? Does it run in your family?”

  Unfortunately, her words seemed to have exactly the opposite effect. Instead of being enchanted with the child, as most mothers would be, Mrs. Blackwell looked down at him in horror. “Please, I don’t…” Mrs. Blackwell said in despair, and Sarah had no choice but to take the poor child away.

  An hour later Sarah had sent a servant to notify Mrs. Blackwell’s father and m
et the wet nurse, a sturdy-looking woman who seemed, to Sarah’s relief, both respectable and clean. Satisfied that her work was done, she left the baby in the nurse’s care and Mrs. Blackwell sleeping on fresh sheets and made her way downstairs.

  The house was quiet as she descended into the front hallway. The servants would be engaged in their regular activities, and certainly no visitors would be lingering. Or so Sarah thought until a short, plump man emerged from the front parlor at the sound of her footsteps. He was well dressed, if a bit rumpled, and his rather homely features were twisted into a scowl. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m the midwife,” she replied. This usually had the effect of satisfying any such inquiry. People seldom cared what her name was once informed of her profession.

  Instead of placating him, however, the information seemed to alarm him. “Mrs. Blackwell? How is she? Shouldn’t you be with her?”

  “She’s perfectly fine, she and her new son. They’re both resting comfortably now.”

  “Oh, thank heaven,” the man said, placing a hand over his heart, as if trying to still it. “After the shock of finding poor Edmund, I didn’t know… What a terrible, terrible thing.” He shook his head for a moment and then looked up again, his small brown eyes anxious. “Do you think… Will there be any lasting effects? From the shock I mean. She’s such a delicate creature.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Sarah said. “She’s young and healthy. She’ll recover completely, once she’s finished mourning her husband.”

  “Oh, she’s healthy now, but it wasn’t so very long ago…” For a moment he seemed lost in thought, absently fingering his watch fob. “Well, no matter.”

  “Does she have a condition that I should know about?” Sarah asked. “Something that might affect her recovery?”

  “No, not now, at any rate. Thanks to Dr. Blackwell’s skill. And of course if she should need any further treatments, I am fully trained in Dr. Blackwell’s techniques.”

  He no longer seemed to be talking to Sarah at all, but rather ruminating to himself. He was fingering the watch fob again, and Sarah couldn’t help but notice that it appeared to be a Phi Beta Kappa key. Perhaps he was more important than she had assumed at first glance. “Are you a family member?” she asked curiously, since this was a much nicer way of inquiring as to his identity than he had used on her.