Death in Saratoga Springs

by Charles O'Brien

  Months ago, Pamela had already formed an unflattering impression of the victim: a ruthless businessman suspected of assaulting young women. Now she added the image of a cuckolded husband and false hero. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Pamela began, “if the Crake you described might have made enemies along the way. Could one of them have done him in and shifted the blame to the maid?”

  Mr. Wood shrugged. “How is that possible? Before the police arrested her, they must have thought of other suspects.” His voice now seemed uncertain.

  Pamela persisted. “No one saw her kill Crake, and she has denied doing it. True, the circumstantial evidence seems compelling, but it should be tested. For example, the maid claims Captain Crake gave Mrs. Crake’s bracelet to her. It could be true. We should take care. If the maid didn’t kill Crake, then the killer is still among us.”

  “That’s a sobering thought,” remarked Mrs. Wood. “But here comes a meat course, spring lamb with mint sauce. Let’s leave Crake’s murder for another day.”

  After dinner, Pamela called Harry to her room to meet the bellboy Jason Dunn. She had already learned that this was his second season at the Grand Union. According to the hotel’s manager, Jason came with sterling recommendations from hotels in New York City. Raised in South Carolina, he had moved to New York as a young man looking for work. He was trustworthy, resourceful, and well mannered.

  There was a knock on the door. Pamela opened and found a handsome man in a smartly pressed bellboy’s uniform.

  “Jason Dunn, at your service, ma’am.”

  For a fraction of a second, she was speechless, struck by his golden brown eyes. Then she invited him in and gestured to a chair. He looked puzzled. She explained who they were and added, “We have a few questions.”

  He immediately became wary. “Mr. Winn and the police detective have already questioned me. What more can I say?” His English had retained a Southern accent.

  “That was then,” Pamela replied. “Tell the story again. Perhaps you’ll think of a new detail or two. That’s how the mind works.”

  He reflected for a moment, then began in a tentative voice. At dusk in the evening of the seventh of July, the front desk sent him to the hotel garden to deliver a message. When he arrived, the orchestra was playing. So he stood behind the crowd, off to one side, looking for the person to whom the message was addressed. His gaze drifted to the nearby hotel cottages. Captain Crake was entering his. That was close to 7:00. Near the end of the concert, about 9:00, Jason was back in the garden and saw a young woman hurry from the Crake cottage toward the service stairway.

  “That woman was Miss Ricci in a chambermaid’s apron and bonnet.” His tone was now firm.

  “Are you sure, Jason?” Pamela asked. “By that time, it was dark. The garden lanterns throw a weak light and only a short distance. Could you see her face?”

  He wavered. “In that light her features weren’t distinct. But I knew she served those cottages in the evening. And the person I saw had Miss Ricci’s size and shape, and her way of walking. No maid is quite as beautiful.”

  Pamela turned to Harry. “Any questions?”

  He shook his head. “Thank you, Jason. You may go. We’ll speak to you later.”

  After he left, Harry said, “Jason’s attitude toward Francesca appears suspect to me. He probably has made advances to her and she rebuffed him. Now he’s punishing her. His description of her is vague. A clever killer could dress and act as a chambermaid. We need to know more about him to challenge his testimony in court.”

  “True,” said Pamela. “Still, he might have recognized her. Perhaps Francesca hasn’t told us the whole truth. She could have entered Crake’s cottage later than she said and found him dead. Tomorrow, we shall have to confront her.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Crucial Decision

  Wednesday, July 11

  After breakfast, Pamela and Harry returned to the town jail. Francesca’s anxiety had worsened. Tears stained her cheeks, and her eyelids were heavy. She probably hadn’t slept for fear of the arraignment looming before her in Ballston Spa.

  Pamela offered her a pastry from the hotel’s breakfast table. She sniffed. “I’m not hungry. This afternoon they’re going to send me to prison. I’ll be there forever.”

  “Perhaps for only a week or two, until we find Captain Crake’s killer. We’re prepared to defend you if you tell us the truth. The bellboy said you left the cottage later than you told us. Is that true?”

  “No, he’s mistaken or lying. He’s angry because I don’t like him. I was in my room. I didn’t stab Captain Crake.” Her eyes began to tear.

  Pamela took her hand. “Trust us, Francesca. Mr. Miller and I shall leave now. But this afternoon, we’ll go to the courthouse for your arraignment and speak on your behalf. We’ll also ask Mr. Prescott what more could be done.”

  Late in the morning, Pamela and Harry rented horses in the livery stable behind the hotel and rode to Ballston Spa, ten miles south of Saratoga Springs. They arrived in time for a short visit with Francesca. She was sullen and had little to say, though she appeared well treated.

  The county seat was a charming village, bustling with summer visitors there for the mineral waters. Prescott’s office had contacted Mr. Barnes, a local attorney with a good reputation. Pamela and Harry met him for lunch at the Whistling Kettle and discussed Francesca’s situation. He seemed competent and genuinely concerned, so they engaged him to represent her before Judge Houghton that afternoon.

  The arraignment took place informally in the judge’s chambers in the courthouse. Mr. John Person, the prosecutor, briefly presented the state’s case against Francesca, stressing her background in petty crime, her lack of an alibi, and her possession of Mrs. Crake’s bracelet. The judge then called on Francesca. “Young lady, did you kill Mr. Crake?”

  She rose to speak, bowed politely to the judge, and said clearly, “No, your honor.” Barnes’s coaching had almost entirely removed the Italian inflection from her speech.

  Barnes then argued that the prosecutor’s evidence implicating Miss Ricci in Crake’s death was merely circumstantial, and no one witnessed the crime.

  “My client insists that Mr. Crake gave her the bracelet.”

  “But Mrs. Crake says he didn’t,” retorted Houghton, then called on Pamela, “Mrs. Thompson, as the girl’s guardian, what do you have to say on Miss Ricci’s behalf? I understand that she has a criminal record.”

  Pamela acknowledged Francesca’s truancy and her arrest at Macy’s. “But, sir, she has never committed a violent act, and her behavior has improved since coming into my care. Her attendance at school and her grades are now excellent.”

  Judge Houghton appeared to reflect thoughtfully for a few moments, then ruled that the evidence justified holding Francesca for trial in the autumn. “Issues involving the bracelet will be discussed then.”

  That timetable pleased Pamela, at least as it lessened the danger of the trial becoming a circus. With the end of the tourist season, journalists would pay less attention. She also would have time for what might be a lengthy, complicated investigation.

  However, the judge denied Francesca bail, claiming, “She might sneak back to New York City and disappear.”

  Pamela argued, “I’ll be personally responsible for Francesca. She’s not violent and threatens no one. It’s cruel to put such a young person in jail with hardened criminals.”

  Her protest appeared to nudge the judge’s conscience. He addressed Sheriff Worden, “I want Miss Ricci’s detention to be consistent with her tender age and sex. House her apart from adult inmates, and allow Mrs. Thompson to provide her with books, clothing, and such additional care as she may need.”

  Outside the courtroom, Pamela visited briefly with Francesca, both of them sobbing. It was as distressing a good-bye as any Pamela could remember. At that moment, she felt helplessly responsible for this emotional shock to a young person in her charge. She also had grown fond of Francesca and hopeful for her prosp
ects in life.

  Her distress gave way to anger at the injustice of putting a young woman in prison on flimsy grounds, though still innocent in the eyes of the law, while Crake’s killer walked free through the streets of Saratoga Springs.

  Pamela took Francesca’s manacled hands. “I’ll not rest until I get you out of here.” Then the sheriff led Francesca away. Pamela urged Mr. Barnes to look after Francesca while she investigated Crake’s murder. Finding his killer was the surest way to free the girl.

  From a nearby hotel, Pamela immediately telegraphed Prescott:

  MISS RICCI’S CASE COULD REQUIRE A COSTLY AND TIME-CONSUMING INVESTIGATION. WOULD YOU COME HERE AND HELP US DECIDE WHAT TO DO?

  Pamela and Harry returned to the Grand Union. He immediately began to investigate the bellboy Jason Dunn. How credible was his testimony concerning Francesca? What were his secrets? Meanwhile, Pamela waited anxiously for Prescott’s reply.

  It arrived that evening.

  I’LL LEAVE THE BERKSHIRES FROM

  LENOX TOMORROW FOR SARATOGA

  SPRINGS, ARRIVING IN THE

  AFTERNOON. RESERVE A ROOM FOR

  ME AT THE HOTEL. I’LL STUDY THE

  CASE AND DETERMINE WHETHER TO

  TAKE ON FRANCESCA’S DEFENSE.

  She sighed. The terse message didn’t indicate how he was leaning. She would have to wait and hope.

  Concealed in the shadows, Harry observed Jason enter Mickey’s Tavern on Washington Street, west of the D&H tracks. For a few minutes, Harry waited outside, recognizing many hotel workers. Then he went inside and sat at a small table with a view of Jason and two male companions drinking beer. One of the men produced a pair of dice, and they started playing for pennies.

  Harry signaled a waiter and asked confidentially, “Who are the two men with Mr. Dunn?”

  “The big German is Karl Metzger, a butcher at the hotel. The slim, handsome gambler in charge of the dice is Rob Shaw, a Britisher.”

  In less than an hour, Harry had gathered the impressions he needed. As he left, he reflected thoughtfully. Crake’s bitter enemy Metzger had access to boning knives; Dunn had been close to the scene of Crake’s murder; Shaw was bedding Crake’s wife. What might they talk about, quietly, while they tossed the dice? The death of Captain Crake? Harry asked himself, “Could the three of them have been in it together?”

  The next day, Pamela met Prescott at the station. As he climbed down from the train, he greeted her with a wan smile. Something wasn’t right, but she sensed he didn’t want to talk about it.

  As they walked the short distance to the Grand Union Hotel, he studied the building and remarked, “It seemed huge when I was here a few years ago on legal business, but it has since grown even larger along Congress Street.”

  “From that visit, you might also be familiar with the county court in Ballston Spa. Miss Ricci is in the jail.”

  “Yes, I had legal business there. Fortunately for her, if I may say so, the old courthouse and jail were torn down five years ago. Still, even the new jail must be a dreadful place for a young woman. We’ll visit her tomorrow and make sure she has decent accommodations.”

  That evening in Prescott’s room, Pamela and Harry brought him up to date on the Crake case. He mostly listened and asked questions concerning Metzger’s conflict with Crake, Shaw’s romance with Crake’s wife, and Dunn’s obscure motivation. Part of Prescott’s mind seemed elsewhere.

  Pamela suspected that contentious issues with his separated wife, Gloria, were distracting him. When Harry left, Pamela was tempted to ask what had happened in Lenox. But by this time, Prescott looked so tired and distressed that she decided to wait until he was ready.

  On Friday morning, while Harry followed Robert Shaw around Saratoga, Pamela and Prescott visited the county jail in Ballston Spa and found Francesca in a small interior cell with two rough-looking older women.

  Prescott complained to the jailor, Mr. Wilbur Smith. “Sir, the judge gave explicit instructions to place Miss Ricci separate from adult inmates.”

  The jailor glowered. “It doesn’t cost him anything. We have a tight budget.”

  “I’ll pay the difference,” said Prescott. He arranged to move Francesca to a private room with a window, barred, to be sure, where she could sing without disturbing anyone. Pamela also brought her fresh undergarments, a book of her favorite music, and toiletries.

  Though their visit seemed to please her, she remained listless and sad. Prescott pressed her to speak about the “stolen” bracelet.

  “Had you seen it before Captain Crake gave it to you?”

  “Mrs. Crake wore it often during the day. When she dressed for dinner, she’d toss it aside and put on a fancier bracelet for the evening. She’d pull up her sleeve and wave her arm around so everyone could admire it.”

  He turned to Pamela. “Where is the ‘stolen’ bracelet now?”

  “Here in the courthouse, probably in the sheriff’s office. It was presented as evidence during Francesca’s arraignment but not examined. I’ve looked at it and saw problems I’d like to point out to you.”

  “Let’s talk to the sheriff.”

  That afternoon, Prescott and Pamela met Sheriff Worden in his office and asked to examine the bracelet. He had earlier said he was too busy, so they made this appointment.

  With a sigh, he opened his safe. “The town police brought the bracelet here together with other evidence for the court.” He laid it on a table. On the wide gold band was a lightly etched floral pattern. On the underside, opposite the jeweler’s mark, was inscribed RC.

  “I was stunned when I noticed the initials,” remarked Pamela. “I also recognized the design and the jeweler’s mark, Tiffany on Union Square. The bracelet looks like Ruth Colt’s.”

  “The company probably made dozens of them,” said Prescott dismissively.

  Irritated, Pamela lightly rubbed the RC initials. “They must be Ruth Colt’s.”

  “And, of course, Rachel Crake’s initials as well,” Prescott countered. “Still, an extraordinary coincidence.”

  This discussion confused the sheriff. Pamela gave him a brief summary of the Ruth Colt investigation. “There’s a strong possibility that Crake killed her and possibly other young women.”

  She explained that Crake must have removed the bracelet from the murdered girl’s wrist. Later, after a quarrel with his wife, Rachel, he gave her the bracelet in a false gesture of reconciliation. On July 6, still angry with his wife, he offered it to Miss Ricci.

  The sheriff’s lips parted in astonishment. He shook his head. “I see that the issue of the bracelet is complicated. The girl’s story begins to look plausible. But, for the time being, I’ll reserve judgment on Crake. It’s hard to believe that one of our decorated heroes committed such crimes. Did you report your findings to the NYPD?”

  “Ours was a private investigation,” Prescott replied. “We reported confidentially to our client, who must remain nameless. Had we found the victim’s body with signs of homicide, we would have gone with our evidence to the police.”

  “Unfortunately,” added Pamela, “the body is still missing.”

  When they returned to Saratoga Springs, Pamela proposed tea and sandwiches at the Phila Street Café. Prescott looked pale and drawn. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and probably hadn’t slept well recently.

  After they placed an order, she asked, “Is something the matter, Jeremiah?”

  Her use of his Christian name seemed to startle him. Then he smiled. “You’ve read my mind, Pamela. Yes, I should bring you up to date.” The waiter arrived with the food, interrupting him.

  Prescott and Gloria’s only child, nineteen-year-old Edward, who had just completed his second year at Williams College in Williamstown, was the chief bone of contention between his parents. Pamela was a discreet outside observer, but her heart went out to the young man.

  When the waiter left, Prescott continued. “This summer, Edward is gardening in Lenox at Ventfort, the great Morgan cottage th
at the financier J. P. Morgan’s sister built last year near my cabin. Edward wanted to work in fresh air with clean dirt, beautiful flowers, and the like. So I placed him at Ventfort and apprenticed him to Mr. Huss, a master gardener from Switzerland.”

  “I’m happy for Edward,” said Pamela. “That garden is the finest in the Berkshires. Last year, however, he wanted to become a lawyer. Has he chosen a new direction in life and intends to become a master gardener like Huss?”

  “It’s too early to say, but that’s what my wife, Gloria, fears. She hotly objects and accuses me of encouraging the young man to follow his fancy. He should become a gentleman lawyer like her father and earn lots of money and social prestige.”

  “Has she gone beyond complaining?”

  “I’m afraid so. Through her banker friend George Fisher she has arranged an extended visit to Ventfort as guests of the Morgans.”

  At the mention of Fisher, Pamela must have unwittingly frowned.

  Prescott remarked, “Yes, you are thinking of the Fisher, president of your late husband Jack’s savings and loan bank on Union Square.”

  “Fisher’s not one of my favorite people. He called me a thief, an accomplice in Jack’s embezzlement of the bank’s funds. How close is his relationship to Gloria?”

  “They claim to be merely good friends, but they travel together. He’s a widower; she’s legally separated from me. I haven’t heard of any scandal. Society appears to be showing tolerance.”

  “Nonetheless, their visit to the Morgans seems remarkable.”

  “You may not know that Fisher and Morgan are friends and play billiards together. I fear Gloria will try to put Edward back on the right track, as she sees it, and turn his summer and mine into a nightmare. She and Fisher will arrive shortly. Edward is already upset.”