“The killer is very clever,” Sarah pointed out. “That’s twice he’s almost convinced you his victims killed themselves.”
Sarah got up and poured him some of the freshly boiled coffee. He’d finished the cake and was rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“A killer who thinks he’s clever is usually pretty easy to catch,” he remarked. “You just have to figure out how to let him outsmart himself.”
“Are you suggesting we wait until he kills someone else and gives himself away?” she asked in alarm.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I was thinking more about letting him think he got away with Calvin’s murder. Nobody has to know just yet that it wasn’t a suicide.”
“But would you be able to continue with the investigation if everyone thought Calvin had killed his father?”
“I could pretend I didn’t find the suicide note,” he mused, obviously still working this out in his head.
“Then you could pretend you still didn’t believe Calvin was the killer, or at least that you’re not sure,” she suggested.
“That’s right. And only the killer would know about the note. He might give himself away if he thinks I didn’t find it or was trying to conceal it.”
“I suppose you’ll have to speak with each of the suspects, then,” she said.
“I’ll certainly have to notify them of Calvin’s death, just to see their reactions, if nothing else.”
“Potter will be relieved, even though he’s not the killer,” Sarah said. “I’m sure Mr. Symington will be, too. You’ll have to be careful with him, though. Men like Maurice Symington don’t appreciate being visited by the police, and if he thinks you’re considering him as a suspect, he can make your life very difficult.”
“I know,” he said with a frown. “I think I can get by with pretending I’m just notifying him personally in case there’s anything he wants to do to hush things up and prevent a scandal over the boy’s identity.”
“That’s a good idea. We already know he was aware of Blackwell’s previous marriage and had met Calvin. Don’t be surprised if he pretends he didn’st, though. He may decide that denying the whole thing is the best course of action.”
“I won’t be surprised at anything Symington does,” he assured her.
“At least now you can eliminate the Fitzgeralds as suspects, and all of Blackwell’s other clients, too.”
“And why is that?” he asked with amusement.
Sarah didn’t like it when he found her amusing. “Because they would have no reason to kill Calvin,” she pointed out quite logically.
“Unless it was to throw suspicion on him, which is the reason he was killed by whoever did it,” he pointed out right back. “Of course, they’d have to know about Calvin and his relationship to Blackwell. That’s not something Blackwell was likely to share with paying customers.”
“Wait, the Fitzgeralds knew,” Sarah remembered.
“You mean Blackwell told them?”
“No, remember they were talking to Calvin after the funeral. I heard Mrs. Fitzgerald asking him about his relationship with Blackwell. He looked very uncomfortable, so I told him you were looking for him, to give him an excuse to get away.”
“That’s right. You said they had his life story by the time you interrupted them.”
“I was exaggerating a little. Oh, dear, what did I hear them saying? Something about how much he resembled Blackwell, I think, so they must have discovered the relationship. But even if they did find out he was Blackwell’s son, why would they imagine Calvin would have a reason to kill his father unless they knew the whole story? Calvin didn’t have time to tell them, even if he’d been willing to confide in total strangers, which I doubt. And we’ve already decided Blackwell wouldn’t have told his patients.”
“Clients,” he corrected her absently. “The killer addressed the suicide note to his mother, too. Anyone finding out Calvin was Blackwell’s son would naturally assume Calvin’s mother was dead, since Blackwell had remarried, so whoever killed the boy had to have known the whole story. It doesn’t seem likely the Fitzgeralds did.”
“Unless—” Sarah began, stopping herself when she realized how silly this was.
“Unless what?”
“It’s a little farfetched,” she warned.
“Say it anyway.”
“Remember that Potter was going to meet with Mr. Fitzgerald the day after the funeral. What if he told Mr. Fitzgerald about Calvin?”
“Why would he?” he asked skeptically.
Sarah tried to reason the way Potter might have. She was amazed at how easy it was. “He’s mentioned several times that Blackwell trained him in his techniques. If he wants to set himself up in practice, he’ll need to win over Blackwell’s patients.”
“Clients,” he corrected her again, this time with a wry glint.
She ignored him, still thinking. “Maybe he was afraid they’d be too loyal to Blackwell, and he wanted to ruin the good doctor’s reputation so they’d turn to him.”
“That’s stupid. They’re just as likely to turn on Potter for speaking ill of the dead,” Malloy pointed out.
“Potter might not realize that. He doesn’t strike me as very bright about dealing with people.”
“He’s not,” Malloy agreed. “Of course, Fitzgerald would’ve had to have a reason to kill Blackwell in the first place.”
“We decided he was jealous because of Blackwell’s attentions to his wife,” Sarah reminded him.
“No, we didn’st,” Malloy contradicted her. “Besides, Fitzgerald doesn’t strike me as the jealous type. He seems more likely to be motivated by greed.”
“Then he didn’t like the fact that his wife was letting Blackwell live in her house for free.”
“Then he could’ve had him evicted.”
“Malloy, you’re ruining my perfectly good theory,” she complained, getting up to refill his coffee cup.
“Murder just seems pretty extreme if you’re only unhappy about somebody’s living arrangements,” he said.
“I guess you’re right,” she grudgingly admitted. “Who else do you think could have done it, then?”
“I’m still favoring the young lovers.”
“Then you have to prove they knew about Calvin and his family,” she reminded him.
“Do you think there’s any chance Potter might’ve told Letitia? For the same reason he might’ve told Blackwell’s clients?”
“To turn her affections from Blackwell to him?” she asked skeptically. “It would never have worked!”
“You think that because you know Letitia already had a lover. But what if you didn’t know about Dudley?” he challenged.
Now Sarah was beginning to understand. “And suppose you were Potter, who doesn’t know too much about women in general. He might imagine that a distraught Letitia would turn to him for comfort and support.”
“Instead she turns to Dudley, who kills her husband and tries to make it look like suicide,” Malloy continued.
“Because he wanted to inherit Blackwell’s money and preserve Letitia’s reputation,” Sarah concluded.
“Now, that’s a perfectly good theory,” Malloy said approvingly. “All we have to do is prove Letitia and Dudley knew about Calvin.”
“They’re certain to deny it, even if they did,” Sarah guessed.
“Before we confront them about that, we should probably find out if they have an alibi for the day Blackwell was killed. According to the servants, Letitia was out.”
“She’ll probably say she was with Dudley, even if she wasn’st,” Sarah said. “In any case, I suspect she was at her opium den.”
“They can’t give each other an alibi, but if they were at the opium den, someone will probably remember. We could eliminate Dudley pretty easily if he was seen someplace else that day.”
“Or not eliminate him if he wasn’st,” Sarah said.
“That’s right, so now you have to arrange for me to finally meet with Mrs. Blackwell,”
he said.
“I could question her for you,” Sarah pointed out.
He just gave her one of his looks.
“She’ll claim she’s not well enough,” she tried.
“She was well enough to see Dudley. Remind her of that. And tell her if she doesn’t get dressed and come downstairs, I’ll be glad to visit her in her bedroom.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Sarah scoffed.
Malloy smiled blandly. “She doesn’t have to know that.”
SARAH FOUND LETITIA Blackwell looking much better when she arrived the next morning. She was still in bed, but her color was good, and she greeted Sarah with a smile.
“The baby is doing well,” she reported. “Nurse brings him in for a visit every day. She says he’s growing, although he still looks very tiny to me.”
“He does seem to be fine,” Sarah agreed, not bothering to point out that he still needed morphine daily so he wouldn’t die in agony.
“Will the morphine hurt him, do you think?” Letitia asked with a worried frown. “Could it do something to his mind?”
Sarah didn’t want to offer false hope. “He won’t be on it much longer,” she hedged. “Now, let’s see how you’re doing.”
When Sarah had completed her examination and was packing her things back into her medical bag, she said as casually as she could, “Detective Sergeant Malloy would like to speak with you this morning.”
“Who?” Letitia asked in confusion.
“The policeman who is investigating your husband’s murder,” Sarah explained. “He needs to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” She was alarmed now, her hands nervously working the edge of the coverlet. “I don’t know anything. I wasn’t even here when it happened!”
“I’m sure he just wants to verify that with you. He’ll probably also want to know if Dr. Blackwell had any enemies, or if you know of anyone who might have wished him harm. One of his patients, perhaps, or an acquaintance.”
“Everyone loved Edmund,” she insisted. “His clients were devoted to him!”
Sarah could have pointed out that his own wife didn’t love him, but instead she said, “Someone killed him, Mrs. Blackwell, so at least one person didn’t like him.”
“Can’t Mr. Potter take care of this? I don’t want to speak with a policeman. I’m not well!”
“You were well enough to receive Mr. Dudley the other day,” Sarah reminded her. “And Mr. Malloy knows it. He said to tell you he would be happy to interview you in your bedroom if you weren’t well enough to come downstairs.”
“Good heavens! He can’t be serious!” she exclaimed, horrified. “My father would never allow it.”
“I don’t think your father could stop it,” Sarah lied. “Mr. Malloy should be here in a few minutes, and I assure you, he will see you, one way or another. He’s a very determined man.”
Letitia’s smooth cheeks were scarlet with either outrage or embarrassment, Sarah couldn’t be sure which. But Sarah calmly stood her ground, just the way Malloy would have done, she told herself.
After a moment of strained silence, Sarah asked, “Should I ask your maid to come and help you dress?”
Letitia’s china-blue eyes were blazing. “I suppose I have no other choice,” she said in a strangled voice.
“I’ll be happy to stay with you while he interviews you,” Sarah offered. “If that would make you feel more comfortable.”
Tears were flooding those lovely blue eyes now. “I’m sure nothing will make me feel comfortable, but I would appreciate your support, Mrs. Brandt. Thank you. You are very kind.”
Sarah didn’t feel kind at all. “It will be over before you know it,” she said, hoping this was true. In any case, it would be over eventually. Sarah was pretty sure Letitia Blackwell was more than equal to the ordeal, in any case.
“YOU DID TELL her I’d come upstairs to see her if she wouldn’t come down?” Malloy asked Sarah as he paced the front parlor restlessly. Mrs. Blackwell had kept him waiting over half an hour.
“I’m sure she just isn’t ready yet. She’ll want to look her best, and that takes time,” Sarah said, concealing her amusement.
“Why would she want to look her best? She’s not going to a ball,” Malloy groused, checking his pocket watch again.
“A woman likes to have every possible advantage,” she explained. “She doesn’t have strength or power, so if she’s attractive, she uses that. Letitia will want you to find her extremely attractive. Or at least vulnerable. Then you won’t be so hard on her.”
Malloy made a rude noise at such a ridiculous notion.
Before Sarah could say more, the parlor doors opened and Letitia Blackwell stepped into the room. She was a vision. Her golden hair had been brushed into a soft halo, and she wore it down, curling to her shoulders and tied off of her face with a ribbon, as if she were merely a child. Her gown was soft and pink and frilly, and she’d pinned a cameo at her throat. Not very appropriate attire for a widow, but an excellent choice for a woman who wanted to be treated gently by a man. Her face was pale, although Sarah suspected rice powder instead of genuine distress had leached the color from her cheeks.
Letitia turned her moist and lovely eyes to Malloy and lifted a trembling hand to her throat, and said, “Mr. Malloy?”
Malloy hurried to meet her and even took her elbow, as if he were afraid she might collapse without support. “I’m sorry to disturb you like this, Mrs. Blackwell, but I need to ask you a few questions,” he said solicitously as he guided her to the nearest chair. “This won’t take long, I promise.”
Sarah had to cough into her hand. Malloy didn’t even notice, and Letitia pretended not to.
When he was certain Letitia was comfortably settled, Malloy took a seat on the sofa beside Sarah.
“Would you like some refreshment?” Letitia asked, her voice breathy and weak, her hands fluttering uncertainly.
“No, we don’t need anything at all,” Frank assured her. “We’ll be gone before you know it.”
Sarah rolled her eyes, but Malloy wasn’t looking at her.
“I already told Mrs. Brandt I don’t think I can be of any assistance,” Letitia said apologetically. “I have no idea who might have killed Edmund.”
“Then you don’t know of anyone who’d had an argument with your husband?” Malloy prodded. “Maybe one of his patients who couldn’t pay his fees or who thought the doctor was a fraud or—”
“Edmund wasn’t a fraud,” she insisted indignantly. “How could anyone think he was?”
“Maybe somebody he wasn’t able to help,” Malloy suggested helpfully. Or perhaps hopefully.
“He helped everyone,” she said, her eyes guileless.
Sarah had to cough into her hand again. This time Malloy glared at her, making her cough harder.
“Should I ask the maid to fetch you something to drink, Mrs. Brandt?” Letitia asked with a worried frown.
Before Sarah could shake her head, Malloy dismissed her with a, “She’s fine.”
Sarah felt compelled to cough again, just to prove him wrong, but Malloy was unmoved. “Mrs. Blackwell,” he was saying, his voice amazingly patient, “I understand you were out the afternoon your husband died.”
“That’s right,” she said, nodding. Her chin quivered a bit, as if she might weep at the slightest provocation.
“Could you tell me where you were and who you were with?”
For a second she looked uncertain, even frightened. “I ... I’m not sure I remember. The shock and everything ...”
“I’ve already told Mr. Malloy about your visits to the opium den,” Sarah said, gently so Malloy wouldn’t glare at her again.
“If that’s where you were, no one else need find out,” Malloy assured her. “No one even needs to know except me.”
But she still wasn’t willing to confide her darkest secret. “What possible difference could it make where I was that afternoon, so long as I wasn’t here? Do you think I killed my husband?”
“Certainly not,” Sarah said quickly, earning a black look from Malloy, “but perhaps you could vouch for someone else, someone who might have had a good reason for wanting Dr. Blackwell out of the way.”
Now Malloy was looking as if he wanted to strangle her, but she pretended not to notice as she watched the understanding dawn on Letitia’s fragile face. As Sarah had known, she was no fool.
“I was with Peter that afternoon,” she said almost eagerly. “We met every afternoon at Mr. Fong’s establishment. Peter works in the morning and the evening, but he’s free in the afternoon, so we ...” Finally, she had the grace to blush, dropping her gaze to where her hands were folded in her lap.
“By Peter, do you mean Peter Dudley?” Malloy asked.
Letitia nodded, not looking up.
“I understand that the two of you were lovers,” Malloy ventured. Sarah was gratified that he was finally getting to the point.
Letitia drew a deep breath and met Malloy’s gaze bravely. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done, Mr. Malloy, but I can’t allow you to believe that Peter could have been involved with Edmund’s death. His only sin was in loving me.”
“I’m afraid that gives him a very good reason for wanting your husband out of the way,” Malloy pointed out.
“We both did, but we never would have done anything about it!” she exclaimed. “How could you even think such a thing?”
“Men have been killed for much less, Mrs. Blackwell. But if you were at this Mr. Fong’s place, he’ll vouch for both of you. Can you give me the address?”
Now she really was frightened. “I can’t send the police to Mr. Fong’s!”
“Why not?” Malloy asked, his voice still gentle and kindly, as if he were speaking to a simple child. Sarah wanted to smack him.
“Because ... I don’t want to get him into trouble!”
“He won’t be in any trouble. What he’s doing isn’t against the law, Mrs. Blackwell. Morphine and opium are sold openly in every drugstore in the city. The police would have no interest in this business.”
“Because he probably pays his protection money regularly, too,” Sarah murmured for Malloy’s ears alone.
He pretended he didn’t hear her. “If you give me the address, that’s all I’ll need. You can go back upstairs then and forget I was ever here.”
Murder on Gramercy Park Page 20