“I’m not ready yet.”
The men soon joined them on the outlook and admired the view. “So, what have you learned, James?” asked his sister.
“A bit of wisdom,” he replied. “Grant chose a good place to end his days, high above the petty, mundane concerns of most lives. Undistracted, he could go back three decades and consider what he and others in blue and gray wrought, for better or worse. He’s remarkably fair-minded, I think.”
Pamela addressed Prescott. “What will you take away from this visit?”
“Apart from the pleasure of the present company, I leave with many questions. How shall I reconcile Grant the military butcher and Grant the gentle, private person? As a general, more than most, he was prodigal of men’s lives. Did he ever shudder at the slaughter? Did he ever weep for the countless widows and orphans his orders were creating? I doubt it, but I might be wrong. As a private person, he was generous to a fault and a kind father to his children. He loved animals, especially horses, and tried to prevent their abuse. Frankly, his mind is a mystery to me.”
Prescott asked Virgil, “Any surprises?” As was his custom, he had remained in the background, observing the others, as well as the view.
“Nothing has surprised me,” he replied. “I’ve read about Grant. Our visit reminds me that he put an end to slavery, as much as any man then alive, but at a terrible cost. France, Britain, and other countries, like Brazil recently, did it without bloodshed. As president, Grant left the work of emancipation, at best, half done.”
James gazed thoughtfully at Virgil, then addressed the others. “This has been a delightful and rewarding visit for both mind and body. We should now return to the Balmoral for something to drink and then catch the last train to Saratoga.”
As they waited for their drinks, Pamela brought up the idea of a visit to Dr. Carson’s clinic. “After several days of therapy, the doctor should be able to tell us whether it seems to be working for Jason.”
All of them but Edith agreed to go. She smiled sadly. “Perhaps on another occasion.”
Back in Saratoga Springs in the early evening, Harry and the Metzgers went out to the grassy lot behind the German clubhouse. The atmosphere was genial. Men and women with steins of foaming beer in their hands gathered around a brass band and sang to its robust marches and sentimental waltzes. Afterward, a meal of grilled bratwurst, noodles, and pickled beets was served under a tent. A dessert of cherry strudel was followed by coffee.
Harry knew little German, but most of these people were fluent in English. There were sack and egg races for children, croquet for women, and a horseshoe toss for men. Harry could throw with the best of them. Karl was his partner. Together, they shared a prize, a pair of beer steins.
As they walked away from the pitch, Karl looked as if he had something weighing on his mind. He motioned Harry to the side.
“I’d like a word, Harry, when the festival is over. Where could we meet?”
“Come to my room in the hotel. Ask for me at the front desk. I’ll leave a message.”
“I’ll be there.” The burly German was close to tears.
Shortly after nine, Harry showed Metzger into the room. Though the windows were open, the air inside was warm and still. Metzger had hurried up the stairs and was sweating profusely. Harry offered him a towel, a fan, and a glass of cold water. “We’ll talk, Karl, when you’ve cooled down.”
After he had mopped his face and fanned himself, he drank the water. “Thanks,” he said, and put the glass aside. Harry refilled it.
“Did you like the bratwurst, Harry?”
“Does a child like candy?” Harry replied. The German was reluctant and for good reason.
Metzger stared into the glass for a long moment, then began hesitantly. “Ever since I heard the news about Rachel Crake, I can’t stop thinking. I don’t doubt that Shaw tried to kill her. She knew too much and couldn’t keep her mouth shut. I’m trying to figure out if I encouraged him to kill old Captain Crake.”
Harry raised a hand. “Start from the beginning. Tell me how you might have helped him.”
“Since the season began here in June, Shaw has joined Jason Dunn and me in Mickey’s for penny ante poker or for a throw of the dice. We often complained to each other about the captain. Over the years, he had angered all three of us, one way or another. Jason resented how he generally abused women and was trying to seduce Francesca. Shaw claimed he cheated at cards and was unfair to Rachel. I had long hated him for forcing me out of the meatpacking business. I knew that he was a guest at the hotel, but I kept out of his sight. I didn’t want trouble. It would cost me my job.”
Metzger again patted sweat away from his forehead and drank from the glass. “Then, in the morning of July seventh, my boss brought Crake into the meat department on a visit. By accident, he and I met. He flared up and ordered my boss to get rid of me. If necessary, he would complain to Mr. Wooley, the proprietor.”
Metzger paused again, breathing heavily. His face was red.
“Take it easy, Karl,” Harry said. “You rightly feared that if you were fired, you’d have no prospect of work, especially during the country’s present economic depression.”
“As I look back now, Harry, I see that a surge of anger carried me away. I felt I had to stop Crake. Shaw saw my anger. He urged us to act together. He would kill Crake if Jason and I would help. He asked me to lend him the new boning knife. He had earlier admired it. He said it would make a small, neat, but fatal wound and no mess. I could claim it was stolen. I would otherwise not get involved. In the evening of July seventh, Jason would keep track of Crake and guide Shaw to the right place at the right time for the killing.”
“Who did you think would be blamed for the murder?”
“I asked Shaw. He said the police would suspect that a tramp stole my knife and broke into the cottage to steal money or jewelry. Crake surprised him and was killed. We didn’t know that Crake had given Francesca Ricci the bracelet. I’m sorry the police arrested her. That’s bothered me. I want to clear her.”
“You’re taking the right steps, Karl. So, Shaw came up with a plan to kill Crake involving the three of you. But I know it didn’t work out that way. Tell me what happened next.”
“Jason and I said we needed an hour to think it over. By one o’clock, I had decided the scheme was too risky. In any case, I didn’t want my knife to kill anyone, not even Crake. Jason felt the same. Shaw heard us out, smiled, and said he’d drop the idea.”
“What did you think when you heard that Crake was murdered and Francesca was arrested?”
“At first, I didn’t know what to make of it all. Had Shaw hired the girl? Or was the killing an odd coincidence unrelated to Shaw’s plan? What most disturbed me was hearing that the murder weapon was a boning knife. The police seemed to suspect that I was careless or even let the girl have the knife.”
“Unfortunately,” said Harry, “in the secret messages I’ve discovered, Rachel has implicated you and Jason, as well as Shaw. When she recovers, she’ll claim she wasn’t involved.”
He glared at Harry. “Rachel’s a liar! It was her idea from the beginning. She was always in the background, egging Shaw on. What do you think will happen?”
“That you are coming forward with the truth should work in your favor. Sometime tomorrow, Brophy will call you into his office and ask you to explain. I recommend that first thing tomorrow morning you hire a lawyer. Brophy’s not a bad sort. Still, he’s a cop. Don’t trust a cop to be kind or fair or forgiving.” Harry leaned forward and measured his words. “I speak from experience.”
CHAPTER 32
Hope
Tuesday, July 31
Pamela and Prescott were eating breakfast in the dining hall when Harry arrived late and sat down with them. “What did you learn from Metzger last night?” Pamela asked as a waiter approached.
Harry placed an order and reported briefly on the German’s confession. Then he added, “I’m concerned that Shaw’s lawyer will
try to shift at least part of the blame for Crake’s death onto Karl. I’ll make sure he gets a good lawyer.”
Pamela asked, “Could Shaw argue that Crake’s death was due to a conspiracy of Jason and Metzger and Rachel?”
“That sounds farfetched to me,” replied Prescott, “but lawyers sometimes have to make things up.”
At midmorning, Pamela and Prescott rode with James and Virgil in the Crawford carriage to Dr. Carson’s clinic for a conversation about Jason’s condition. Edith went by herself to the exercise track to ride Savannah.
Carson had chosen a time when Jason would be engaged with a nurse and wouldn’t encounter the visitors. They sat congenially at a conference table in the doctor’s office.
Pamela began, “After nearly six days of examination, Doctor, have you reached a preliminary assessment of Jason’s condition?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Fortunately, his condition is treatable. He has adjusted well to our clinic’s routine and accepts our procedures. We encourage him to speak of the past. As you already know, he has a deep-seated need to know who he is and where he comes from. For most of his young life that need was frustrated, causing resentment toward his family. He grew up with little appreciation or respect from the people in charge of him, and that led to self-doubt and then to self-loathing. When his condition recently became acute, he was tempted to seek release in suicide.”
No surprises thus far, Pamela thought. Her companions seemed to agree. She asked, “Are there grounds for hope?”
“Yes,” Carson replied. “Fortunately, Jason has strengths we can build upon, his musical talent, for example. We offer him many opportunities to perform. He also responds eagerly when we prompt him to speak his mind and then explore his complaints. It helps also that his physical condition is good. In contrast, some of our patients arrive here suffering from years of poor diet, lack of exercise, and neglected hygiene. Their recovery is much slower than I expect Jason’s to be.”
“Do you think the therapy will heal his mental illness?” James asked.
“I’m optimistic. The therapy has worked well on more desperate cases than his.”
James addressed the doctor tactfully. “Your medical colleagues and your patients assure me that you are competent and trustworthy, so I’m prepared to enter into an agreement for Jason’s treatment. We’ll hope for the best.”
As the visitors stood at the door out of the clinic, Pamela asked Carson if he could foresee any complications. He gazed at them with an eye steeped in family secrets, then said, “Mr. Dunn may try to keep certain aspects of his past hidden from us to avoid being treated. That happens occasionally in cases of severe trauma like his. If he has any secrets, my nurses are trained to discover them and will pry them open.”
Pamela asked herself, was Carson perhaps alluding to a secret as traumatic as killing one’s father? She glanced at the two Crawfords. Their expressions were opaque.
She had an afterthought and drew Carson to the side. “Doctor,” she said softly, “we learned late yesterday that Mr. Robert Shaw, a notorious gambler in this town and a suspect in Captain Crake’s murder, was arrested over the weekend and charged with attempting to kill Mrs. Rachel Crake, his former mistress. If he is released on bail, perhaps as early as today, I urge you to keep him away from the clinic. He may attempt to harm Mr. Dunn, who possibly holds secrets that incriminate him.”
Dr. Carson thanked her for the warning. “I know Mr. Shaw by reputation, and I’ve heard of Mrs. Crake’s misfortune, but I wasn’t aware of a connection to Jason. I’ll alert the nurses. By the way, could you come back this afternoon? I’d like you to visit Jason. You are one of the few persons he trusts. You might catch a significance in his remarks that my nurses miss.”
That afternoon, Pamela returned to the clinic. From Carson’s darkened office through a one-way window, she watched Jason in the foyer while the doctor stood by her side. The brightly lighted foyer served as a gathering place after the noon meal. Nurses and patients were similarly dressed in casual summer clothes. Carson remarked, “We encourage patients to wear whatever they wish within a reasonable range of decency.”
Most of the patients formed small groups and chatted normally with each other. Jason sat with a young female nurse and engaged in a rather strained conversation. “She’s giving him advice on behavior with women,” said Carson. “He’s quite awkward on that score due to a history of unhealthy sexual experiences.” Soon a female patient joined the pair and then a male. Introductions were made, followed by an exchange of teasing that produced a smile on Jason’s face. “In a few more days, he’ll be more at ease,” Carson added.
Jason reached for an instrument case by his side and pulled out his flute. The stressed look on his face vanished as he heard a request for a tune. The gathering quieted down and Jason played “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.” The others listened raptly. At the end, they asked him to play it again. This time a slender, attractive young female patient with a sweet soprano voice sang Ben Jonson’s lyrics.
“Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I’ll not look for wine.”
At the end, they bowed to the audience and then to each other. For a moment, Jason gazed fondly at the singer. His face filled with a tenderness Pamela hadn’t noticed before.
When the gathering broke up, Carson led Pamela up to Jason. “Mrs. Thompson has come to visit you,” he announced. “Please show her your garden.”
Jason reacted with an embarrassed smile and a shrug of his shoulders, then slipped into the role of a bellboy. “Come with me, ma’am,” he said to Pamela, as if she were a guest at the Grand Union Hotel.
She put on her straw hat and they walked through rows of roses in bloom next to a berry patch. “Tomorrow, I’ll feed the horses. Today, I must pick a couple of quarts of raspberries for supper.”
“May I help?” she asked.
He glanced critically at her white linen dress. “You must be very careful.”
“You’re right,” she granted. “I’ll only pick a few for the taste.” The berries were large, sun ripened, and delicious. Jason quickly picked two quarts and delivered them to the kitchen.
“Shall we find a shady bench and chat for a few minutes?” she asked.
“I’ve nothing else to do,” he replied curtly, but his voice betrayed pleasure at the suggestion. He led her to a shaded bench overlooking the pond.
“This is my favorite spot,” he remarked. “I love the sounds of the flute on the water.” He glanced at her for a sign of interest. She replied, “I would like very much to hear it.”
He began to play what resembled an endless variety of bird songs, subtly echoed by the pond.
Pamela gazed at Jason with astonishment. “I’ve never heard anything so beautiful in all my life.”
“I listen to the birds at different times of the day and learn their songs. They bring me close to God—closer than people do.”
“This place is good for you, Jason. You’ll meet people with the uplifting spirit of birds, and they will help you find a way into happiness.”
He stared at her doubtfully. “And who is paying for this?” He waved his hand over the estate.
“Your uncle, James.” She had to be truthful with Jason. Lies had nearly ruined his life. She continued. “James is a kind, generous man. This is his way to acknowledge that you and he are kin. He’s also a smart, successful businessman who believes you are a promising investment, rich in potential satisfaction for both of you.”
“I would like to believe you, Mrs. Thompson. Maybe one day I shall.”
Pamela rose from the bench. “I’ll be leaving now. May I come again for a concert by the pond?”
“Please do. I’d like that.” He remained seated. “There’s something I’d like to say to you.” She sat down again by his side, wondering what was on his mind.
“I’ve heard that Rachel Crake is in the h
ospital, and they’ve arrested Robert Shaw. I’m pleased. He’s one of the devil’s minions. When I say that, I’m not talking crazy. A little over three weeks ago, he tried to suck me and Karl Metzger into his scheme to kill the captain.”
Pamela was now paying close attention and urged him to continue. He looked out over the pond and described essentially the same conspiracy as Metzger with similar regret that it led to Francesca Ricci being blamed for Crake’s murder.
“But,” he concluded, “I see things much clearer now. Crake was a bad man and deserved to be punished. I’m not sorry he’s dead. Still, I regret now that I encouraged Shaw to kill him.”
“Did you actually help him on the night of July seventh?”
“No, earlier on that day I thought it over and told him that I didn’t have enough nerve. I’d only mess up his plan. He didn’t object and said he’d drop the idea. Somehow, he managed without me. The whole incident left me feeling distressed and unable to manage my life.”
“When did you begin to change for the better?”
“After a few days in this clinic, I feel more comfortable about myself and others, and look at everything more clearly. I still have much to learn. I wish I had come here earlier.” He hesitated. “But then I couldn’t afford it, could I?” His eyes filled with tears.
Pamela gave him a handkerchief and urged him to continue.
He dabbed at his eyes. “While we were looking out over the pond and I was playing the flute, I thought of my mother, Edith, with affection for the first time, just for an instant, as if a little bird had flown by. And now I’m thinking of her again. How she must have suffered back in Georgia in sixty-four.”
He began to tremble as if he were having a fit. Pamela grew concerned.
Jason seemed to sense her reaction. “Captain Crake has come back into my mind again and is taunting me while he violates a young woman. I’d like to tear him to pieces.” Jason looked piteously at Pamela. “I don’t feel well, ma’am. I need to go inside and see a nurse. You and I will talk again another time.”
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