Murder on Gramercy Park

by Victoria Thompson

  “I guess it’s a good thing you never got around to questioning the Fitzgeralds.”

  “That’s right. I almost forgot all about them when Calvin was killed, but now it looks like they’re eliminated completely. They didn’t have anything against Dudley, and I think whoever tried to kill him did so for a very personal reason.”

  “Because Letitia was going to marry him,” Sarah guessed. “It’s too much of a coincidence to be anything else. That certainly gives Amos Potter a good motive,” she added hopefully.

  “But not for killing Blackwell and then Calvin. We know the person who killed Blackwell also killed Calvin and tried to make us believe the boy was the killer. We know the reason for Calvin’s death was to end the investigation. We don’t know why Blackwell was killed, but we do know why someone tried to kill Dudley.”

  “Yes, to prevent Letitia from marrying him. That was the only threat he posed.”

  “Which means only one person has a motive for all three murders,” Malloy said.

  “Amos Potter,” Sarah tried again.

  But Malloy shook his head. “He might’ve thought Blackwell was a bad husband—and we really don’t even have proof of that—but he would hardly offer me a reward to find Blackwell’s killer if he was the killer.”

  “And if he didn’t kill Blackwell, he wouldn’t have killed Calvin,” Sarah said. “Then who’s left?”

  “The only person left who’d kill just to protect Letitia is Maurice Symington.”

  Sarah’s heart sank. “Oh, dear.”

  “Yeah, oh, dear.”

  They both knew a man with Symington’s wealth and influence would never even be charged with a crime like this, no matter how much proof they found against him. The worst part was that he might well have hired the killings done, which put him even further from being held responsible.

  “What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure yet, but one thing I’m not going to do is tell Symington that Dudley is still alive. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

  “Why not ... ? Oh, because if Dudley names his attacker—”

  “I’ll know who the real killer is,” he finished for her. “If Dudley is still alive, the killer is liable to come back and try to finish the job, too.”

  “That’s why you sent for me to take care of him, then. You want me to try to get him to tell me who did this.”

  “I just want you to keep him alive,” Malloy corrected her.

  Sarah smiled knowingly. “And guard him in case the killer returns.”

  “Absolutely not! I’m going to leave a patrolman here to guard you. I know you think you’re practically a police detective now, but I doubt you’re up to defending Dudley against the killer.”

  “Maybe you could get Mrs. Ellsworth to help me. Between the two of us, I’m sure we could—”

  “That’s not funny,” Malloy informed her.

  “Are you going to tell Letitia that Dudley’s dead? She’ll be very upset.”

  Malloy considered this. “I think I will. I’d like to see if she really is upset or if the whole thing with Dudley was a bluff. Maybe she was just trying to get her father’s goat with talk of marrying him.”

  “You seem to have changed your opinion of the lovely Letitia,” she noted.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, a little affronted.

  “Nothing,” she said sweetly. “So you think the lovely widow might have been involved in the killings?”

  “She’s involved all right, but I’m pretty sure she’s just the reason men are getting killed. I can’t see her getting her hands dirty. Or sneaking around the city in the middle of night to stab her lover in his bed. And why would she want Dudley dead in the first place?”

  “Maybe she was finished with him. If he’d served his purpose, he’d just be a hindrance, especially with that red hair. Everyone would know she was an adulteress, and if she threw him over, he might try to blackmail her or cause a scandal. With him out of the picture ...”

  “So maybe she hinted to her father that things would be easier with Dudley dead,” Malloy admitted. “It still isn’t likely she killed him herself. Anyway, it’s not your job to solve this case. It’s your job to keep our only surviving witness alive.”

  “All right, I’ll do my best.” She glanced at the figure on the bed. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that Woomer disinfected the wounds before he stitched them up.”

  “Disinfected?” Malloy echoed.

  “Cleaned them,” she explained.

  “He wiped off the blood.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Would you tell the landlady that I’ll need some clean sheets and lots of hot water and towels and some whiskey?”

  “She won’t be happy,” Malloy warned her.

  “And a broom, too. And a dustpan.” She looked at the bloodstains on the floor. “I’ll need a scrub brush, too. And some lye soap.”

  Malloy was chuckling when he made his way down the stairs.

  FRANK HAD INTENDED to go straight to Maurice Symington, but Sarah Brandt had changed his mind. The quickest way to Symington was most likely through his daughter, in any case. Besides, Frank wanted to see her reaction to news of Dudley’s supposed death before someone else had a chance to break it to her gently.

  When he arrived, the butler reluctantly admitted him, but he said, “Mrs. Blackwell already has a visitor,” in an apparent attempt to discourage Frank from staying.

  Just then someone shouted, “Don’t be a fool, Letitia!” from the front parlor. It sounded like Maurice Symington.

  Granger winced, most certainly a violation of the butler’s code of conduct, Frank thought with amusement.

  “Sounds like she could use a little protection from the police,” he said to the butler. “Announce me.”

  Granger was torn, but his loyalty to Letitia won out. “Please wait here,” he said, and went to the parlor doors.

  He knocked perfunctorily before sliding the pocket doors open. “Mr. Malloy is here to see you, Mrs. Blackwell,” he said, then stepped aside.

  Frank wasn’t certain what he had expected, but Letitia Blackwell didn’t look the least bit upset that her father was shouting at her. Her delicate chin was raised and set in defiance. Symington’s face was red and his neck swollen with rage. He turned on Frank with a murderous glare.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, but didn’t wait for a reply. “Oh, never mind. I want to report a crime to you.”

  “A crime?” Frank asked curiously as Granger closed the parlor doors behind him.

  “Yes, Peter Dudley is blackmailing my daughter.”

  “Father!” she exclaimed in outrage. “How dare you?”

  “What else do you call it?” Symington asked Frank. “The man is claiming to be the father of her child and demanding she marry him or he will ruin her reputation.”

  “That’s a lie!” Letitia cried, jumping to her feet in her lover’s defense. “Dudley loves me, and I love him!”

  Her father ignored her. “I want him locked up. And this, of course, gives him a very good reason for having killed Edmund and that poor boy, doesn’t it?”

  Letitia made a strangled sound in her throat, but Frank ignored her, too.

  “It would except for one thing,” Frank said.

  “And what’s that?” Symington asked contemptuously.

  “Someone has killed Dudley, too.”

  Symington looked appropriately shocked. “What?”

  Letitia made a cry of distress. “Peter?” she asked weakly, and sank back down onto the sofa.

  At last she had their attention. Her father rushed to her. “There now, it’s all right,” he assured her, sitting beside her and taking her hand. Then he looked back up at Frank. “What’s this about Dudley?”

  “I’m sorry to have been so blunt,” Frank lied, “but I’m afraid Peter Dudley has been murdered.”

  Letitia looked up at him with unfocused eyes. “But he was just here yesterday,�
�� she argued, as if that proved Frank was wrong. She looked stunned, but she wasn’t crying, at least not yet.

  “What happened?” Symington asked more practically. “When did he die?”

  “Someone went to his rooms last night, it seems. I found him this morning when I went to ask him some questions.”

  Letitia’s lovely face crumpled, and she finally began to weep quietly, pulling a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve. “Peter,” she moaned.

  Frank found her reaction a little too well-bred for his taste. Remembering how the patrolman had described her screaming when she found Blackwell’s body, he would have expected a more violent reaction to losing the man she professed to actually love. Of course, she hadn’t had to see any of Dudley’s blood spilled on her carpet.

  Symington was trying to comfort his daughter, but his mind was still working. He looked up at Frank again, this time with a silent challenge in his piercing gaze. “Maybe it was a suicide,” he said. “He couldn’t live with himself for trying to hurt Letitia, and he killed himself from the guilt. Maybe all three of the deaths were suicides, Mr. Malloy. Isn’t that a possibility?”

  He wasn’t making a guess; he was giving Frank a solution. He’d already offered a reward to ensure that Dudley was charged as the killer in the case. He’d probably be even more grateful if Frank decreed all the deaths were suicides and closed the investigation completely. His daughter would be free of two fortune hunters, and no scandal would touch his family. What more could he ask?

  Frank could have granted his unspoken request so easily, if only Sarah Brandt hadn’t ruined him. “If Edmund Blackwell killed himself, then why would Calvin Brown have killed himself out of guilt for murdering his father?” he asked logically.

  Symington was going to protest, but Frank didn’t give him a chance. “And Peter Dudley hardly stabbed himself in the back, so who did that, if not the man who killed Blackwell and Calvin? Unless, of course, it was just someone who wanted to prevent Dudley from marrying your daughter,” he added.

  Symington needed only a moment to understand the implication. “There are many ways I could have prevented that, short of killing the man,” he snapped.

  Like having him arrested for murder, Frank thought, but he didn’t dare say it aloud. Symington could have his job in an instant, and Frank had pushed him perilously close to doing just that already.

  At the mention of killing Dudley, Letitia cried out again and began to sob. Her father instinctively put his arm around her, and she buried her head in his shoulder.

  Symington looked as if he wished Frank in hell, but he also knew that he had to do something to help his daughter. Frank could almost see him considering and rejecting various options. Finally, he said, “What if that boy Calvin did kill Edmund and then himself? And what if Dudley was simply the victim of a robbery gone wrong? That must happen frequently in cheap lodging houses.” He glanced down at the golden head resting on his shoulder, then back at Frank again. “I would still be willing to offer the same reward we discussed previously if you can find the person who robbed and murdered Mr. Dudley.”

  Frank nodded his understanding and breathed a sigh of relief. He knew perfectly well there was no robbery, but at least he was still on the case.

  15

  DUDLEY’S LANDLADY HAD GRUMBLED AND COMPLAINED about every one of Sarah’s requests. Sarah thought she should have been grateful someone was willing to clean one of her rooms for her, but no, she’d just been unhappy because Sarah was inconveniencing her with her demands for supplies. She’d been even less enthusiastic about providing supper for Sarah and the patrolman who was guarding Dudley’s room, until Sarah had offered to pay her for her trouble. Sarah had regretted her offer as soon as the food had finally arrived, though. It was barely edible. She also wanted a rich beef broth for Dudley, if he regained consciousness, but she figured there was no use asking the landlady for it. Maybe she should send a message to Mrs. Ellsworth, who would be only too happy to prepare something if she asked.

  It was getting rather late now, though. Perhaps she’d wait until morning. Dudley might not even make it through the night, although he seemed to be sleeping naturally now. Perhaps his wounds weren’t as serious as they appeared. Perhaps they wouldn’t fester and poison him either, although she considered that unlikely. But Dudley was young and healthy. Maybe he could survive even that. She didn’t think much of him as a man, but he hadn’t done anything worthy of death, either, since it now seemed unlikely he’d killed Edmund Blackwell.

  After a while she grew bored with conjecture and resumed her housekeeping duties. So far she’d changed the sheets and given the bloody ones to the landlady, and she’d scrubbed the blood off the floor. The rest of the room still needed to be swept, and if she was really bored, she could scrub that, too. Heaven knew when it had last been done.

  Sarah started sweeping at the other end of the room, working her way over to the bed. She swept slowly, trying not to stir up too much dust, but the room was small, and she was at the bed in a matter of minutes. Being careful not to disturb Dudley, she slipped the broom under the bed and tried to gather up as much dirt as possible without accidentally striking the bed frame and startling him. She’d just dragged a pile of dust bunnies and debris out when Dudley groaned.

  “Water,” he croaked.

  Sarah dropped the broom and quickly fetched him a glass of water. Blood loss created a mighty thirst, and if she quenched it, he might even be able to say a few words. She held the cup to his lips and let him drink as much as he wanted. At last he dropped back against the pillow, exhausted.

  “Mr. Dudley, can you hear me?” she asked.

  His eyes flickered and then opened. He stared at her with no sign of recognition. “Who ... ?”

  “I’m Sarah Brandt,” she explained. “Letitia Blackwell’s midwife. We met at her home the other day.”

  Dudley showed no sign of remembering. He seemed to be using all his energies trying to focus on her face.

  “Mr. Dudley, do you know who attacked you?”

  “Attacked?” he asked weakly, obviously puzzled.

  “Someone broke in here and stabbed you while you were sleeping last night. Do you know who it was?”

  He frowned, trying hard. “I don’t ...”

  “You were asleep,” she prodded him.

  “I woke up,” he recalled after a moment. “The pain ...”

  “Did you see who did it?”

  “The pain ... woke me ... dark ...”

  “Someone tried to kill you, Mr. Dudley. Who was it?” she demanded, wanting to shake him but knowing that would only make things worse.

  “I don’t ... too dark ... couldn’t see ...” His eyes closed in a grimace of pain. He needed another dose of morphine. “Hurts,” he murmured.

  Sarah sighed with disappointment and began to prepare his dose. How ironic it would be, she mused, if he survived and became a morphine addict, too.

  When Dudley was once again in a drug-induced sleep, Sarah remembered what she had been doing when he’d awakened. Picking up the broom, she had started to sweep the mess from under the bed into the dustpan when something shiny caught her eye. She reached down and picked it up, and that’s when she knew who the killer was.

  “Officer Moran!” she called, summoning her guard. “You must find Mr. Malloy right away!”

  FRANK NEEDED TO tell one more person that Peter Dudley was dead, but he’d been having a difficult time locating Amos Potter. He wouldn’t have been quite so determined if he’d gotten a better reaction from Maurice Symington. He’d fully expected Symington to act surprised at learning Dudley was dead, but he hadn’t expected the act to be quite so convincing. Symington was behaving normally in first trying to get Dudley in trouble for supposedly blackmailing Letitia and then trying to bribe Frank to name Dudley as the killer, and finally by trying to convince Frank to rule all three deaths suicide. Why hadn’t Frank been satisfied with calling Blackwell’s death a suicide in the first place? Calvin Brow
n would still be alive, and Dudley wouldn’t be dying. Frank could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble and the other two a lot of suffering if he’d just gone along with the killer’s plan in the first place.

  And who would thank him even when he did find the killer? Assuming he could, that is. Nobody but Sarah Brandt, that’s who. Which was, Frank had to admit, quite enough, thank you very much. It had better be, too, because he was likely to make some powerful enemies if he wasn’t careful. Or even if he was. Whoever said honesty was the best policy had never been a policeman.

  The hour was growing late, and the city was growing dark when Frank climbed the stairs to Potter’s flat once again. He was there earlier in the day, but Potter hadn’t been home. He was going to try once more, having left the man a note saying he’d be back, before giving up for the evening and finding himself some supper.

  The smells of cooking filled the stairwell, making Frank’s stomach growl. He thought longingly of a meal eaten in Sarah Brandt’s pleasant kitchen. Thank heaven that was out of the question tonight. She had other obligations, and Frank knew it was time to stop seeing her anyway. No good could come of it, as his mother would have pointed out to him if he’d allowed her to speak of Sarah Brandt at all. But tonight he wouldn’t even need to make a decision about whether to go to her place or not.

  Potter’s door opened seconds after Frank knocked. He’d obviously been waiting for the policeman to arrive. He still wore his suit coat, and as usual, he was fiddling nervously with his watch chain. “Come in, Mr. Malloy,” he said too jovially. “What can I do for you? Your note was very mysterious.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be mysterious,” Frank said, taking the chair Potter indicated. “I just had some news for you that I wanted to give you in person.”

  “Have you finally decided to close the investigation?” he asked hopefully. “Although it pains me to think a boy could actually kill his own father, I don’t really see any other solution to this unfortunate incident.”