“So we still don’t know who the father of her child was,” she mused, and Frank felt his hackles rising again.
“Mrs. Brandt, there is no we in this investigation. I’m the detective. You’re, not.” He’d almost said she was nothing, but he’d thought better of it just in time. He figured Sarah Brandt would take offense, and besides, she wasn’t really nothing, no matter how much he might wish it.
“I did find out who Hamilton Fisher is,” she reminded him.
He had to give her that. “You’d just better hope he doesn’t come looking for you some dark night.”
She seemed amused at the thought. “So if the groom isn’t the father of her child—and I think we can be rather certain of that—then who was?”
Frank thought he had already reminded her this wasn’t her business, but obviously, she didn’t care. She just kept right on, not even waiting for Frank to respond.
“Mina—her sister—insisted that Alicia didn’t have any gentlemen friends. She hadn’t even entered society yet, so that would eliminate possible suitors.”
Frank merely grunted as he continued to devour his stew.
“What is it?” she demanded.
He looked up in surprise and swallowed a mouthful of meat and potatoes. “What is what?”
“What you aren’t telling me. I said Alicia didn’t have any suitors, and you disagreed.”
“I did not!”
She gave him a pitying look. “You know something you haven’t told me. Don’t try to deny it.”
“You shouldn’t be too surprised at that,” he warned her. “There’s no reason for me to tell you anything at all.”
She obviously couldn’t be insulted. “Alicia did have a suitor, didn’t she? Who was he?”
Frank was beginning to wonder if Sarah Brandt might be a witch. Very deliberately, he took another piece of bread from the plate, tore off a bite and popped it in his mouth. Chewing slowly, he regarded her, marveling at the way she met his stare levelly, not even blinking, when hardened criminals usually flinched. Well, what the hell, maybe she could help him make sense of this.
“Harvey, that’s the groom, he said she ran away because her father wanted her to marry somebody she hated.”
“Good heavens! She was barely sixteen!”
“And six months gone with child,” he reminded her. “Naturally, he’d want to marry her off to somebody.”
“But that man wasn’t necessarily the father, was he?”
Frank shrugged. “There’s only a couple people can tell us that, and the one most likely to is dead.”
“And the rest will probably lie.”
Frank stared at her again. Really, she had missed her calling. Of course, the police didn’t employ female detectives, but if they did, Sarah Brandt would have been pretty good. He saw she was thinking, and he knew that could be dangerous.
“It’s still none of your business, Mrs. Brandt,” he reminded her. “No matter how much you want to see the killer caught, it’s my job to catch him, not yours.”
“But I could—”
“No.” He gave her the glare that stopped felons in their tracks, but she merely frowned.
“Do you think Cornelius VanDamm is going to tell you anything? Or that Mina will? Or Mrs. VanDamm?”
“Do you think they’ll tell you either?” he countered.
“I could find out,” she insisted.
“No,” he said again. “Stay out of it.” He sighed wearily. “I thought you said if I told you what I know, you’d promise not to interfere anymore.”
“I said I’d promise not to bother you anymore. I don’t think it would be a bother if I found out who Alicia’s father wanted her to marry.”
“It will bother me if you don’t stop meddling in my investigation.”
“I found out who Hamilton Fisher is,” she reminded him again. “I told you to question the servants to find out more about her.”
“And you might’ve put yourself in danger in the meantime. You’ve done enough. Let the police do their job now, Mrs. Brandt.”
Her face hardened with a bitterness that shocked him, and anger flared in her blue-gray eyes. “I’m fully aware of how the police do their job, Detective Sergeant Malloy, so you’ll forgive me if I’m less than confident in your ability to solve this case.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded, angry himself.
“I’m talking about a murder that happened three years ago and still isn’t solved.”
“Was this someone you knew?” he asked skeptically.
“My husband.”
For a full minute, Frank could only stare. He’d known she was a widow, of course, but he’d never troubled himself to wonder what had become of the late Mr. Brandt. “How did it happen?”
“Tom was coming home late one night from a case. I didn’t think it odd when I woke up the next morning and he wasn’t here. He was frequently gone all night. Then the police came and told me he’d been found dead in an alley. His money was gone, and his skull was...” her voice caught, but she swallowed down whatever emotions threatened to choke her and forced herself to go on. “His skull was fractured.”
“It’s almost impossible to solve a case like that,” Frank said, feeling oddly defensive. “A robbery at night, with no witnesses. No connection between the killer and the victim. No clues or evidence.”
“They could have tried,” she countered, plainly not interested in reason or logic. “People like that don’t keep secrets. They brag to their friends. Someone knew who killed Tom. A few well-placed bribes, and someone would have—”
“Why didn’t you offer a bribe, then? You offered one to me quick enough,” he recalled with bitterness of his own.
“I didn’t know the rules back then, and I was too grief-stricken to learn them at the time. I thought the police would find the killer because it was the right thing to do. I know better now, and I intend to see that this killer doesn’t get away.”
“Even if it means using yourself as bait?” he asked baldly, but if he’d hoped to shock her, he failed.
“If that’s what it takes, Mr. Malloy. If that’s what it takes.”
7
SARAH HAD NEVER CARED FOR BEING ORDERED around. Her father had pretty much ruined her for it before she was out of the nursery, and after Maggie’s death, she’d determined never to do anything a man ordered her to do if it went against her better judgement. Of course, Detective Malloy might be right about her inquiries putting her in danger. Even her better judgment had to bow to common sense, but she wasn’t going to be foolish, no matter what he might think. And certainly, a visit to the VanDamms couldn’t possibly put her in any danger at all.
The windows of the VanDamm town house were draped in black, and a black mourning wreath hung on the door. Alicia’s funeral had been private, probably to avoid the kind of speculation that would only deepen the scandal of her death, and the family was most likely in seclusion for the same reason. Busybodies would be anxious to learn the least tidbit of information, and Cornelius and Mina would be shrewd enough to avoid giving them a chance to gather that tidbit. Still, Sarah had reason to believe she might gain admittance when no one else would.
She lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall. The resounding clunk seemed to echo in the cavernous house, and before long the door opened slightly, enough so she could see Alfred’s familiar face through the crack.
“Miss Decker,” he said in surprise and quickly caught himself. “I mean Mrs.... Mrs. Brandt, is it?”
“Yes, Alfred, and thank you for remembering. I don’t mean to intrude, and I know the family is in mourning, but I was wondering if Miss Mina is receiving visitors. And if she isn’t, if she would receive me anyway.”
Alfred frowned uncertainly, and Sarah realized how very uncharacteristic this was for him. Alfred had been a butler his entire life, and he knew the rules of etiquette better than any seasoned society hostess. On the other hand, those rules didn’t necessarily cover the p
resent situation, since well-mannered people were never supposed to be murdered. The very idea was unthinkable. So unthinkable, in fact, that even Alfred was beginning to doubt the rules by which he had lived his entire life.
Certainly, a family in private mourning, as the VanDamms were, would not be receiving visitors so soon after the funeral. And most certainly, a woman of Sarah’s current social standing wouldn’t ordinarily be received at all, unless she had business here and entered through the service door. But nothing was ordinary about the situation of Alicia VanDamm’s death, which meant that all the conventional rules no longer applied. Or they still might. And Alfred, whose position required him to be certain about everything, was no longer certain about anything at all. And, Sarah realized, he must also be dealing with his own grief. He’d known Alicia since the day she was born, and he most certainly would be feeling her loss. Now that she noticed, he seemed to have aged considerably since her last visit mere days ago. Suddenly, he was an old man whose entire world had been shaken to its foundation.
“I’m not certain if Miss Mina is receiving or not,” he told her. “Or if she would make an exception for you, Mrs. Brandt. Would you like to come in for a moment while I inquire?”
Sarah was most happy to wait. Alfred left her sitting on an upholstered bench in the front hallway while he made his way into the nether reaches of the house to find Mina VanDamm and obtain her instructions.
The house was unnaturally still, as if even the clocks had stopped ticking in deference to the family’s grief. Abovestairs, the servants would be speaking in hushed tones, and the family would be closeted in their chambers. Sarah found it difficult to imagine that Mina was spending her time truly mourning her sister, although she would put on a good act for anyone who happened to call, as she had done for Sarah the other day. Mrs. VanDamm would undoubtedly be prostrate and probably heavily sedated. Her doctor wouldn’t need much convincing to prescribe an opiate to calm her, and many women of her class took them freely on far less provocation than the loss of a child. Finally, Sarah considered Mr. VanDamm. He’d looked haggard when she was here before, and she could easily imagine him mourning Alicia. Not, perhaps, with the obvious emotion his wife would display, but in his own way. The way her father had mourned Maggie, knowing his actions had caused her to die in such a horrible manner while still believing he had been right in those actions. How men like that could live with themselves, Sarah had no idea.
After a long time, Sarah heard Alfred’s shuffling steps returning. He emerged from a door at the end of the hallway, his expression properly somber but his eyes improperly bleak.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brandt, but Miss Mina is unable to receive visitors today. She said she was certain you’d understand.”
Sarah understood perfectly, but she wasn’t sure exactly why she wasn’t being admitted. Perhaps Mina truly wasn’t feeling up to visitors or perhaps she simply hadn’t bothered to dress and do her hair today so she wasn’t presentable. Or perhaps—and this was the reason Sarah feared most—she had decided Sarah wasn’t worthy of her attentions. If that was the case, then Sarah wouldn’t be able to obtain any more information from the family.
Concealing her disappointment, she thanked Alfred. He was escorting her to the front door when they heard the door to one of the other rooms open, and a gentleman emerged. He was slightly past middle years, wearing a suit that fit so well, it could only have been handcrafted to fit him. His thick hair was silver and painstakingly arranged. He nodded politely at Sarah, although she saw the question in his eyes. He wondered what someone like her was doing here, especially at this time.
“Mr. Mattingly,” Alfred greeted him, and every nerve in Sarah’s body jolted to attention. “I’ll get your hat in just a moment,” he promised, opening the front door to show Sarah out.
Was it possible? Could this be the attorney for whom Hamilton Fisher had worked? And what was his connection to the VanDamm family? Could he have been asked to hire Fisher to find Alicia for them? Although this was a most logical explanation, she couldn’t help remembering Malloy’s skepticism when she’d suggested that very thing. If the VanDamms had hired Mattingly to find Alicia, why hadn’t Fisher simply informed them of her whereabouts when he located her? Why had Fisher moved into the house where she was living and tried to strike up an acquaintance with her instead? But if Mattingly was acquainted with the family, and he was obviously an intimate friend if he’d been admitted when the family was in seclusion, then why would he have sent someone to find Alicia without their knowledge and then not told them?
Alfred made no move to introduce Sarah to Mattingly. A butler would never presume to introduce visitors to each other, and even if he had, an introduction between Sarah and Mattingly would have been in questionable taste, considering their different social classes. Not for the first time, Sarah silently cursed the rigid rules that governed society. In a different time or place, she might have simply introduced herself and made some inquiries of Mr. Mattingly that would give her the information she so desperately sought. Which was probably what Malloy would do if he were here now.
As Alfred ushered her out the door, she bit back a smile at the thought of how she would enjoy the privileges of being a police detective for even one day. Malloy would be interested to know that Mattingly was at least acquainted with the VanDamm family. But what was their relationship? Was he simply a close family friend or was he VanDamm’s attorney? And would even Malloy be able to find out? He wouldn’t know how to question these people or how to win their confidence. They’d see him as an Irish thug—or worse—and might even refuse to talk with him entirely.
Did the police have the power to force someone like Mattingly to answer their questions if he didn’t choose to? Somehow, Sarah doubted it, although she found the thought of the distinguished attorney being slapped around in the filthy interrogation room she’d seen extremely interesting. She thought that perhaps Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy might, too.
Sarah lingered on the sidewalk in front of the VanDamm’s house for a while, walking slowly so Mr. Mattingly might catch up with her when he made his exit. Then she might venture to strike up a conversation with him, if she could think of something sensible to say. But in the next moment a carriage pulled up at the VanDamm’s curb, and Mr. Mattingly went straight down the VanDamm’s front steps and climbed into it.
Too bad his carriage hadn’t been waiting there when she came out. She might have been able to get some information from his driver or his footman. Servants were an invaluable source of information about their employers, as Malloy had learned. But there was an equally reliable source that Sarah had not yet tapped. One from which she had cut herself off years earlier out of anger and bitterness.
When she thought about it now, however, she found her anger and bitterness had faded considerably. Perhaps the time had finally come to reestablish those ties. She had been thinking she should for a while now, but she hadn’t had a reason. Or rather, she hadn’t had an excuse. She’d needed such an excuse to salvage her pride, and now she had the perfect one.
SARAH HADN’T BEEN to the house since Tom’s funeral, and even then it had been strange to her. Although three long years had passed since her last visit, she remembered the way well. It wasn’t far from the VanDamms’s home, just around the comer on Fifty-Seventh Street and a few blocks east, which she walked with determined strides.
The noise from Fifth Avenue faded behind her as she went. There were no tracks or horsecars on Fifty-Seventh Street, nothing to disturb the elegance and serenity of the neighborhood. The house was even more imposing than she had remembered, one of a seemingly endless row of Italianate brownstone town houses that gleamed in the warm sunlight. The neighbors were such luminaries as the Auchinclosses, the Sloanes, the Rogers, and even the Roosevelts.
Malloy would probably make fun of her for even knowing such things.
But as Sarah reached for the perfectly polished brass knocker, she forgot all about Malloy. Anxiety suddenly t
wisted her stomach, but she refused to acknowledge it. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. She was a grown woman who had her own life, and nothing and no one could change that, certainly nothing and no one in this house, not unless she allowed it herself. And since she had no intention of doing so, she was safe from any attack on her independence.
Besides, she was certain not to encounter the one person she least desired to see here today because he was miles away.
A maid she didn’t know answered her knock, and the girl stared at her in surprise. Sarah didn’t look like the usual visitor to this house.
“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she said, “and I’d like to see my mother, if she’s at home.”
As HE LOOKED at the plush surroundings, Frank figured he’d probably made a big mistake by coming here. The offices of Mattingly and Springer were plainly designed to appeal to people of a completely different social class. Folks like Frank probably came and went by the service entrance, if they came and went at all. From the way the clerk had looked at him when he’d walked through the hand-carved oak door, he guessed it was the latter.
“May I help you?” the clerk asked. Frank noticed he didn’t add “sir.” The fellow was young, not more than twenty-two or -three, and extremely thin. The bones of his face seemed to be straining to get through his tight, pale flesh. That alone would have made him unpleasant to look at, but his expression was pinched, too, like he smelled something bad. Maybe he did. Frank hadn’t changed his shirt in a day or two.
“I’m here to see Sylvester Mattingly,” Frank said. No “Mr.” Mattingly. No “please.” No “if he’s in.” Frank could be rude, too.
“Is this pertaining to a case Mr. Mattingly is handling?” the boy sniffed. Plainly, he doubted this very much.
“It’s pertaining to the death of Miss Alicia VanDamm.”
Murder on Astor Place Page 13
