Fortunately, he was saved from having to reply because someone knocked on the front door at that moment. “We’ll talk later,” was all he said.
Sarah nodded and took advantage of the butler’s momentary distraction to slip into the parlor and take a seat. She chose one near the far end of the back row so no one would have to climb over her or even notice her. Being unobtrusive was an advantage, if one could manage it, and Sarah seemed to have done so.
She glanced around. The room was now perfectly in order, thanks to Potter’s rigorous attention to detail. A spray of flowers stood at both the head and foot of the casket, which gleamed in the morning sunlight filtering through the lace-curtained windows. Flowers ringed the room as well. Sarah would have to check the cards later to see who had sent them. Perhaps that would be a clue to who had killed him. Or who hadn’t.
She could hear Amos Potter welcoming the new arrivals. His tone struck her as particularly annoying. He was apparently trying to appear suave and sophisticated to Blackwell’s well-heeled patients, but Sarah found him oily and toadying. Probably others did, too.
In a few moments Potter ushered the guests in, and Sarah kept her head bowed, as if she were praying. Even Amos Potter would think twice about disturbing a praying woman, or at least she hoped he would. Either her ploy worked or Potter failed to notice her at all, because he left without comment to her.
She looked up and saw that the first guests were a well-dressed couple who had taken seats near the front of the room. The lady was dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged hankie and the man seemed to be merely resigned. Sarah based this judgment on the way his arms were crossed over his chest. The woman, probably his wife, whispered something to him, and he grumbled something back. Plainly, they were arguing.
She heard another knock at the front door, and checked the lapel watch she wore. Nearly ten o’clock. All the mourners should be arriving within the next few minutes.
Indeed, the room quickly filled with well-dressed, black-clad visitors. The women were in various stages of distress. Most were discreetly weeping, but a few sobbed openly. The husbands, the few who came, were as helpless and horrified as men usually are when confronted with a weeping female. Most of them sat looking uncomfortable, while a few were positively angry. Sarah couldn’t help remembering what Mrs. Ellsworth had told her about Blackwell’s reputation. If he indeed had seduced his female patients, their husbands would certainly be justified in being reluctant mourners at his funeral.
“Will you stop that caterwauling?” the man in front of her whispered to his wife, who was sniffling indelicately into her handkerchief.
“I’d think you’d be more sympathetic,” the woman whispered back, “after all he did for you.”
“I had a pain in my back, and he made it go away,” the man said. “Does that mean I should throw myself on his grave and expire?”
“You could hardly move, and you know it,” she snapped. “Dr. Blackwell performed a miracle on you!”
“And what did he do for you that you have cause to make a public spectacle of yourself?” he asked, forgetting to whisper.
“Attending his funeral is not making a public spectacle!”
“Carrying on like you’ve lost your best friend is,” her husband countered.
“You know what he did for me,” she said, her voice choking with tears.
“Sometimes I wonder if I do,” he replied, earning a sharp glance from his wife and an even sharper one from Sarah.
Just then, the room fell silent as Mr. Symington entered, followed by Amos Potter. Potter had chosen himself for the role of master of ceremonies. Sarah wondered why there was no minister present, but perhaps Dr. Blackwell was a freethinker and recognized no organized religion. Even if he hadn’t belonged to a church in the city, many ministers would preach a funeral for someone as well known as Blackwell for the fee alone. If there was no minister, it was by design.
Potter welcomed everyone with the same unctuous tone he’d used earlier, and Sarah found herself embarrassed for him. He certainly didn’t deserve her concern, but she believed no one should be allowed to make a total fool of himself in ignorance. She doubted Potter was the type to take constructive criticism well, however, so she knew she would never offer any.
“I know Dr. Blackwell would be gratified to see all of you here to honor him. His name will live long in the hearts of those whose pain and suffering he relieved, and as a pioneer in the healing arts.”
A woman up front sobbed aloud, and Potter seemed to take that as an encouragement. He went on for several more minutes in the same vein, lauding Blackwell as a man ahead of his time who died unrecognized by a society who would someday revere him. Sarah thought it excessive for a man who had no legitimate claim even to call himself a doctor, but no one seemed to care about her opinion.
Potter was showing no sign of running out of steam when there was a slight disturbance out in the hall. After a moment the parlor door slid open a bit, and Calvin Brown stepped in. The boy recoiled when he saw all the well-dressed people turning to look at him, and Sarah’s heart ached for him. No matter what Blackwell had done, he was still the boy’s father. Sarah waved and caught his eye and motioned to the empty chair next to her. He scurried over and slipped in beside her gratefully.
His eyes were wide and frightened, but his chin was set with determination. No one was going to shame him into missing his father’s funeral. He clutched his battered cap in both hands and sat stiffly, aware that Potter had stopped his remarks to glare at him in disapproval. Sarah patted the boy’s hand reassuringly, then nodded at Potter to continue, earning another glare for both of them.
She was aware of whispers around her. People would be wondering who Calvin was, and why someone so shabbily dressed was there at all. Good manners prevailed, however, and after a moment they all fell silent.
Potter cleared his throat, but he seemed to have forgotten where he was. After an awkward moment he turned his attention to introducing Maurice Symington, a man who had, according to Potter, more reason than anyone to be grateful to Blackwell.
Symington had been sitting in the front row, his head bowed as Sarah’s had been when she was seeking to avoid notice. She couldn’t help wondering what Symington’s reason was. Perhaps he truly was overcome with grief at the death of his son-in-law, but she somehow doubted it. Symington was hardly the type of man to be overcome by anything.
Potter finished his introduction and took his seat, but Symington hadn’t moved. In fact, another moment went by, and he still didn’t move. Everyone waited patiently. They knew this must be difficult for him. Another moment passed, and the crowd sensed that too much time was passing. People shifted uncomfortably, no one quite certain if they should be concerned or annoyed that he hadn’t gotten up to speak. Potter began to fidget nervously. Then, just when Sarah was beginning to think Symington might need her medical services, he finally rose to his feet.
The crowd’s relief was palpable, and Sarah almost sighed aloud herself, but if Symington was aware of his faux pas, he gave no indication. He took his place behind the podium and cleared this throat.
“As most of you know, I had the greatest respect for Edmund Blackwell. I met Dr. Blackwell about two years ago. A business associate introduced us. My friend had suffered great pain for many years, and Dr. Blackwell had been able to help him when all traditional medicine had failed. My friend knew that I, too, faced a similar situation, although in my case, it was my beloved daughter whom traditional medicine had failed.
“Letitia is my only child and, since my wife died years ago, the only family I have left. I love her more than life itself, and when she was severely injured in a riding accident, I would have moved heaven and earth to heal her, if it had been in my power. To my great disappointment, however, moving heaven and earth was beyond my power, as was finding someone who could restore Letitia to health. She lay helpless and in pain for almost a year while a veritable parade of physicians of all kinds came and went, ea
ch of them pronouncing her case hopeless.
“My daughter would never know the joy of a husband and family and a home of her own. She would never know freedom or friendships. She would never dance or play the piano or attend a social gathering again. I had all but given up hope when I met Edmund.”
The crowd murmured their understanding of how momentous this occasion must have been, but beside her, Calvin made a small sound in his throat, as if almost choking on his own bitterness.
“Edmund was most interested in Letitia’s case,” Symington continued. “He said he had often been able to help when other doctors had failed. His methods were new and revolutionary, and many in the medical profession did not accept them. He would, he said, do his very best to bring Letitia back to health.
“I could tell immediately that he was not like any other physician who had seen her. He spoke to her kindly, allaying her fears. He was more concerned about her than about his reputation. He only wanted to see her regain her strength. After only a few moments he had discovered the source of her pain. Then he told me he could, within a matter of weeks, have her well again.
“I was skeptical, as you can imagine. I’d seen many doctors who said they could cure her, only to be disappointed. But Letitia begged me to let him try. She believed in him, so could I do less? I granted him permission to treat her.
“I was a man without hope, so I did not expect much, but to my astonishment and joy, Letitia improved from the very first treatment. After a few weeks she was completely pain-free and able to leave her room for the first time in months. Soon my daughter was exactly as she had been before, and her ordeal was but a memory.”
Again the crowd murmured its understanding. Sarah imagined that many of them had experienced equally miraculous cures. But when she glanced at Calvin, she saw the anger on his young face. This must be terribly difficult for him to hear his father lauded as a hero after what he had done to his wife and children.
“You will understand my gratitude to Dr. Blackwell. No amount of money could ever repay what he had done for Letitia, but all he asked was that I, like my friend, recommend his services to others. That hardly seemed enough to me. A man as gifted as Edmund should be known to the thousands whom he could help, so I proposed to him that I repay him by renting a hall so he could explain to the public what wonders his treatments could work.
“Since most of you discovered Edmund’s talents through just such lectures, I don’t have to describe them to you. And when he asked if I would tell Letitia’s story at the lectures, Letitia herself insisted that she be allowed to speak instead. She is naturally reserved, but for this she overcame her shyness. She felt she could not do enough to make sure others were not suffering needlessly, as she had done for so long, when Edmund could cure them. Most of you already know the rest of the story, about how Letitia and Edmund fell in love.”
This time Calvin made a noise that was almost a groan. Several heads turned to see who had made it, and everyone who looked saw a young man who was crimson with fury. Symington either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“When Edmund asked me for her hand,” he went on, “I could only remember that had it not been for his skill, Letitia would still be an invalid. Like a knight of old, he had earned the right to her, and I could not refuse him, nor did I want to. I was happy to give her to the man whose devotion had saved her.”
Sarah could feel Calvin’s misery radiating from him. She wondered that he could sit still and listen to this. This was the kind of anger that caused people to commit murder, she realized with growing unease.
Symington hadn’t even paused. “Alas, their happiness was cut short when some fiend took Edmund’s life. Who can explain such a senseless act? And how can we measure the loss of a man so gifted? How many will suffer because he no longer lives? How many will endure senseless pain because his talented hands are stilled? And the worst tragedy of all is that his son, born the day after his death, will never know him in this life.”
There were a few gasps of surprise. Word of the baby’s birth had obviously not yet spread. Calvin’s gasp of pain was mercifully lost in the disturbance. Once again Sarah reached over and patted the boy’s hand, but he didn’t seem even to notice.
“Because my daughter cannot be here to mourn her husband, it falls to me to send him to his rest. I know I speak for all of you when I say he will be missed. Those whom he treated will, like my daughter, know lives free of pain and suffering because of his talents. That is his legacy. He could ask for none finer.”
Women in the audience were weeping into their handkerchiefs as Symington took his seat. Sarah could certainly understand why Blackwell had wanted Symington to speak at his lectures. The man was spellbinding.
“That’s the same speech he gives at the lectures,” the woman beside her murmured to her companion. “You’d think he could have said something more.”
“I’m sure he’s too overcome with grief to make the effort,” her companion said. “That poor little baby. I had no idea.”
Beside her, Calvin was breathing hard, as if merely sitting still were an effort of strength. Sarah could imagine that it was. He must long to stand up and tell everyone the truth about his father. Doing so in front of such a group would be much too intimidating, however, so he merely sat and waited for the ordeal to end.
Amos Potter was at the podium again, thanking everyone for coming and inviting them to partake of some refreshments in the dining room. As soon as it was obvious the service was over, Calvin jumped up and fled, ducking out the door even before Mr. Symington could get there to greet the mourners as they filed out, and accept their condolences.
Sarah wanted to go after Calvin, but he was surely gone by now, so she stayed where she was, trying to hear what each person said to Mr. Symington as he or she left. Perhaps she’d pick up some useful information. Most of what she heard were the usual clichés that people utter at such times, but a few of the women were obviously distraught and couldn’t seem to judge when they’d said enough. One woman went on and on about what a wonderful man Dr. Blackwell had been, until another woman took her by the arm and forcibly led her away.
Watching from under the brim of her hat, Sarah saw Symington’s face tighten. Either he was embarrassed by the unseemly display or some other emotion had overcome him. Finally, the last couple reached him. They were the ones who had been the first to arrive and who had seemed to be arguing before the service started.
“Clarence Fitzgerald,” the man said, sticking out his hand to Symington. He was a tall, spindly man of middle years. His thinning gray hair revealed a shiny pink scalp, and if his face had ever borne a smile, there was no indication. His wife was short and plump and wore a well-made suit that fit snugly enough over her rounded figure to suggest upholstery. Her pudgy face was splotched from weeping. “We’ve met several times at the club, I believe,” he added to Symington.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Mr. Symington said, although Sarah was sure he had no recollection of the man.
“I need to discuss some matters of business with you, Mr. Symington, concerning Dr. Blackwell’s affairs.”
“Not today, Clarence,” the woman with him said in distress.
“Today’s as good as any other, Martha,” Clarence snapped, and turned back to Symington.
But Symington had no intention of dealing with the fellow. “I’m afraid I know nothing of my son-in-law’s business. You’ll have to take it up with Amos Potter. I’ll be happy to introduce you if you’ll join us in the dining room.”
No longer having any reason to linger, Sarah rose from her place and made her way silently toward the door. She saw that Clarence Fitzgerald didn’t like being put off.
“It’s about this house,” he told Symington, undeterred. “I own it.”
“It’s a fine property,” Symington said. “I’m sure my daughter will want to continue living here for a while. Potter will discuss the arrangements with you. If you’ll excuse me…”
He turned
to Sarah, silently dismissing them.
“I told you not to bring it up today,” Mrs. Fitzgerald was saying.
He grumbled something in reply, but Sarah didn’t catch it.
She put out her hand to Mr. Symington, whose expression told her he thought she looked familiar but could not recall her name.
“Mrs. Brandt. I’m the midwife who tended your daughter,” she added. “I’m so sorry about Dr. Blackwell.”
“My daughter, is she doing well?” Symington asked with all the concern Sarah could have wished.
“She was upset this morning,” Sarah admitted, not mentioning the need for morphine to help her through it. “It must be difficult not being able to attend her husband’s funeral.”
“No one would expect that, under the circumstances,” Symington said stiffly, as if he thought she was criticizing him in some way.
“Of course not. I meant it was difficult for her to mourn him properly. It must also be difficult for you to properly celebrate the birth of your grandson, too.”
Another emotion flickered across his face. “Yes, I… I’ve been so busy, I’ve hardly had time to realize I even have a grandson. I trust he’s doing well, too.”
“Yes, he is,” Sarah said, once again neglecting to mention the morphine that made this possible.
Symington looked at her and frowned. “Why are you here?” he asked, as if just realizing how inappropriate her presence was. “Did you know Edmund?”
“No, although I’m fascinated by his work. I felt I owed it to Mrs. Blackwell to attend, out of respect for her.”
Symington didn’t seem to agree, but he was too well-mannered to argue. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests.”
“Of course,” Sarah agreed, and let him leave her standing there.
In a moment Frank Malloy was at her side. He’d been waiting discreetly in the hallway and also eavesdropping on Symington’s conversations.
Murder On GramercyPark Page 10