Death in Saratoga Springs

by Charles O'Brien

  Pamela kept the Crawfords posted on Jason’s progress. Then, one morning early in August, as Pamela was preparing to visit the clinic for the last time before returning to work in New York, Virgil Crawford came to her office. “Edith and James would like to go with you to the clinic,” he said. “Do you think Jason is ready to meet them?”

  “I think he is, but I’ll check. I can telephone you from the clinic.”

  Early that afternoon, Pamela found Jason by the pond, playing his flute. His girlfriend, the young soprano, was at his side. When he finished the piece, Pamela approached. Jason welcomed her. His girlfriend excused herself and left. Pamela asked about his health. He responded that he felt encouraged. That morning, his nurse had recommended a gradual transition to the “real” world.

  That same nurse had also encouraged Pamela to suggest to Jason that he meet his mother and uncle. So, Pamela now posed the idea to him. He didn’t seem surprised or resentful. For a long moment, he quietly reflected. Then he gazed at Pamela, and said, “I think it’s about time.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Deliverance

  Monday, August 6

  Later that afternoon, when Pamela returned to the hotel, a message from Prescott was waiting for her.

  Detective Brophy wants to see you in his office. Harry and I are already talking to him.

  She left immediately for the police station.

  As she walked through the door, she felt a tense atmosphere in the room. Brophy sat at his desk. His coat and hat hung on a hook. He was again collarless. Sweat stained his shirt. He was chewing on his cigar. Next to him was seated Mr. John Person, the district attorney. Pamela had met him briefly at Francesca’s arraignment in the county courthouse in Ballston Spa.

  Prescott pulled up a chair for her, and said, “We’re discussing the case against Robert Shaw. He now admits going to Crake’s cottage the night of July seventh, disguised as a chambermaid, to persuade him to leave Rachel in his will. But, he insists that Crake was already dead. He also claims that Metzger and Dunn must have killed Crake, though he had earlier tried to dissuade them.”

  Pamela shook her head. “How does he explain Rachel’s message identifying him as the killer?”

  “He says she shouldn’t be trusted since she acted out of spite and in order to extort money from him. For good measure, he continues to insist that Rachel’s overdose was an accident.”

  Harry added, “We’ve also questioned Metzger. This morning, he came here with a lawyer, who advised him to say only that he didn’t kill Crake. He wouldn’t comment on the passages in Rachel’s message that seemed to implicate him.”

  Brophy put aside his cigar and asked, “What can you tell us, Mrs. Thompson, concerning Jason Dunn’s role in this crime?”

  “I’ve spoken candidly with him. He admits having discussed the murder but decided against it. He accuses Shaw of the crime. I should add that Jason’s mental condition is still fragile, but his remarks to me were credible.”

  Mr. Person thanked her politely, then spoke with the assurance of an experienced prosecutor. “The preponderance of the evidence indicates that Shaw killed Crake with Rachel’s assistance to prevent him from cutting her out of his will. They had expected to share the inheritance. He tried to kill Rachel to prevent her from testifying against him. Both Crake’s murder and the attempt on Rachel’s life appear to be premeditated. I conclude that Shaw deserves the death penalty.”

  “I agree that’s what happened,” said Prescott. “At trial, however, Shaw’s attorney will attack the credibility of Rachel’s messages. They are obviously self-serving. She also implicated Metzger and Dunn. According to her, they conspired with Shaw to murder Crake. Shaw’s attorney will try to shift at least some responsibility to them.”

  “That could be difficult to determine in court,” the district attorney admitted. “Dunn could plead that he was acting under the influence of severe mental illness. Moreover, if I charge them with aiding and abetting a murder, they might refuse to cooperate. That could weaken my case against Shaw.” He threw up his hands. “How is justice best served?”

  Prescott came up with a suggestion. “Persuade Shaw to change his story in return for life in prison instead of the death sentence. Threaten him with the electric chair. He would have to admit to confronting Crake, but only in order to persuade him to write his will in Rachel’s favor. Crake refused and cursed him. Shaw lost his temper and killed him. Shaw never intended to kill Rachel, but their quarrel got out of hand. Shaw’s new story would not implicate Metzger and Jason in Crake’s death.”

  This discussion annoyed Pamela. She had been long enough in Prescott’s law firm to understand that the legal system was as messy as a sausage factory and often achieved much less than perfect justice. Over a span of thirty years, Captain Crake had committed several serious crimes, including Edith’s rape, but was never charged because he was rich, powerful, and clever enough to evade responsibility. Now at least Crake was no longer a threat to others.

  Still, a nagging doubt disturbed her peace of mind. No one had seen Shaw kill Crake, and he would confess only under the threat of the electric chair. He might indeed have discovered Crake’s bloody corpse and panicked. All the evidence against him was circumstantial. The testimony of Rachel, Jason, and Metzger could be dismissed as self-serving.

  If not Shaw, then who else could have killed Crake? It would have to be a very clever man with opportunity and motive.

  A few days later, when the district attorney had formally charged Shaw with Crake’s murder, Harry Miller felt it was time to deal with another piece of unfinished business, Karl Metzger. Misleading reports of his alleged role in the Crake murder had put his job at the hotel in jeopardy. If he were fired, he faced unemployment, homelessness, and destitution. Wooley thought Metzger had been too friendly with Shaw and had carelessly mislaid the boning knife that Shaw had then stolen.

  Harry went to Mr. Wooley, the hotel proprietor, and explained that the murder weapon was not Metzger’s boning knife but Shaw’s dagger. The manager of the meat department, who accompanied Harry, praised Metzger’s skill and pointed out that it would be hard to replace him at the peak of the tourist season.

  “Mrs. Thompson and I,” Harry concluded, “have observed Karl Metzger and can attest that he’s an honorable, hardworking man. The Crake affair has taught him to choose more carefully his drinking companions. He’s happy in his job at the hotel. Contrary to Captain Crake’s assertions, he has no intention to stir up trouble.”

  The meat manager seconded Harry’s argument. Wooley looked skeptical, but in the end he said Metzger could stay.

  The last unfinished business fell to Pamela. For a month, she had worked to free Francesca Ricci from prison and clear her name. When Shaw was formally charged, the district attorney petitioned the court in Ballston Spa to quash the charges against Francesca and to release her. That procedure was cumbersome and took several days while Pamela waited impatiently.

  Finally, August 10, the day of the girl’s release, Pamela drove to the prison. At the appointed hour, Francesca was led out, dressed in the frock she wore when she entered. Pamela was stunned to see how she had changed in a month. The heedless look of a young madcap was gone, replaced by dull eyes and sagging shoulders. Pamela worried that the change might be irreversible.

  They climbed into the carriage and began the ride back to Saratoga Springs. The air was warm, the sky blue. Cows grazed in lush meadows. Birds twittered in the trees. Children played in hamlets along the road. Francesca began to brighten. By the time they reached Saratoga Springs, she was humming an Italian folk tune, her feet tapping to the beat.

  She turned to Pamela with a big smile. “It’s good to be free.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Finale

  New York City

  Wednesday, August 29

  Pamela was chatting with the office clerk when Prescott arrived, refreshed and tanned. She asked, “How was camping in the Adirondacks?” He had just returned from
two weeks of canoeing, fishing, swimming, and hiking with his son, Edward.

  “Splendid!” he replied, leading her into his private office. “Have you heard from Harry?” Miller was away on vacation with Sergeant Larry White and his family at a cottage on Long Island.

  “He met Larry’s sister-in-law and fell into a budding romance.”

  “Good for him! She might sweeten his disposition. What else happened while I was gone?”

  “A few days ago, Robert Shaw began a life sentence in Dannemora. He had accepted the district attorney’s plea bargain. I’m sure he hopes that lady luck will eventually smile on him.”

  “And what’s happened to Rachel?”

  “She was convicted of conspiracy in her husband’s death and sentenced to six years in Mount Pleasant, the women’s prison on the grounds of Sing Sing.”

  “I pity her,” said Prescott. “Life there will be harsh and degrading for a beautiful young courtesan.” He asked tentatively, “Any personal news?”

  “Yes, according to local gossip, the Morgans at Ventfort have excused your wife Gloria’s social blunder as due to a parent’s misguided but well-meaning concern. Gloria and her banker friend, Mr. Fisher, are still together. . . .” Pamela searched his eyes.

  Prescott frowned. “And what else?’

  “She has sued you for divorce in Connecticut, accusing you of mental cruelty and infidelity.”

  Prescott let out an exasperated sigh and pointed to a heaping basket of correspondence. “My lawyer’s letter is probably in there, together with a summons to appear in court.”

  “But there’s also heartwarming news,” Pamela added. “Jason will stay with the Crawfords in the city for a week, then return to Saratoga Springs and work through September at the hotel. Signor Teti has employed him as a part-time handyman and will give him music lessons. For the time being, he’ll continue to live at Carson’s clinic.”

  The clerk appeared at the door. “Mr. Virgil Crawford to see you, sir, concerning recent business.”

  “Show him in.” Prescott glanced at Pamela with a look of surprise.

  Before she could reply, Virgil entered and handed Prescott a check. “This concludes the Ruth Colt case. A coroner’s jury has ruled that Captain Crake was responsible for Miss Colt’s murder. Her aunt has properly buried her. This is as much justice as we can expect in an imperfect world. I would have preferred to see him convicted and hanged. Hopefully, a Higher Court will give him his due.”

  “Tell me about Jason,” Prescott asked. “I understand he has drawn closer to his mother.”

  “Yes, thanks to Savannah. It’s touching to watch Jason and Edith grooming her together. So, we have reasons to celebrate. I’m authorized to invite you and Mrs. Thompson to dinner Friday evening at the Crawford home on Washington Square. The party will be you two, the family, and a half-dozen congenial acquaintances. Dress semiformal. As family chef, I’ll arrange a memorable meal.”

  Prescott glanced at Pamela, and she agreed. He said, “I accept gladly. This offers an opportunity for a gesture that I’ve been thinking about.” He took down the military sword hanging on the wall behind him and handed it to Virgil. “It came from Gettysburg and may have belonged to your cousin Arthur Crawford.”

  Virgil held the sword at various angles to the light and studied it through a magnifying glass. Finally, he met Prescott’s eye. “Sir, I can assure you that this sword once belonged to my cousin Arthur.” He pointed to tiny letters faintly engraved on the hilt: TUTUM TE ROBORE REDDAM. “That’s Latin for the Crawford family motto: ‘With my strength I’ll make you safe.’ As he was leaving home to join his regiment, he raised the sword to express his devotion to our family, our country, and our way of life.”

  “Would your family like it back?” Prescott asked. “Or, would it be too painful a reminder of your great losses in the war?”

  Virgil replied, “James will answer for us. But I can safely say to bring the sword with you to dinner tomorrow evening.”

  As their coach approached the Crawford home, Pamela felt uneasy, not knowing precisely what to expect. The burden of the family’s tragic past always seemed present in Edith’s haunted look, in James’s stoic suffering, in Jason’s resentful eyes, in Virgil’s gracious, freely offered servitude. Besides the reconciliation of Jason and his mother, what else were they supposed to celebrate? Captain Crake’s death?

  She cast Prescott a side glance. The sword lay in its scabbard on his lap. For comfort in the late August heat he had chosen a light gray dinner jacket, white shirt, gray bow tie, and dark gray trousers. His figure was still athletic and trim at fifty-two. Pamela felt pleased beside him in a red short-sleeved silk gown and a pearl necklace.

  Virgil met them at the door, hung the sword on a hook, and then showed them into a parlor. Edith joined them and broke into a delighted smile as Pamela presented her with a bouquet of freesias. The other guests arrived, mostly cultivated Southerners, to judge from their accent. While Virgil disappeared to check on the meal, James welcomed them all in his study. Over aperitifs they admired his collection of antique ivory chessmen and his large library of Greek and Latin literature with modern illustrations. From the study they went to the music room. Jason was there with his flute. When the guests were seated, Virgil came with a cello, and Edith moved to the piano.

  At a gesture from Edith, they began the Irish folk tune “The Londonderry Air.” Pamela listened rapt as the trio poured their own painful sense of suffering and loss, and their yearnings for happiness into the bittersweet melody. As the music soared, Pamela’s lost daughter, Julia, slipped unbeckoned into her mind, lovely as in life. “I miss you so,” came soundlessly from Pamela’s lips.

  She feared she would break into tears and spoil the party. Fortunately, Virgil announced, “To put us in a festive mood for the dinner table, we’ll close the music with ‘Gaudeamus Igitur,’ from the finale of Johannes Brahms’s Academic Festival Overture. James will sing the original Latin. Sing along if you know it.” He gave a nod and the trio set out at a lively tempo.

  “Gaudeamus igitur juvenes dum sumus . . .” (“Let us rejoice while we are young . . .”)

  James’s voice was a strong, clear baritone. Prescott joined him in perfect harmony. The mood in the room lightened. At the song’s conclusion, Virgil showed them into the dining room, where an oval table was set for ten. Virgil and Jason retreated to the kitchen.

  The room’s modest size, its polished hardwood floors, pastel yellow walls and green drapes, potted plants in the corners, and flower boxes on the window ledges created an impression of intimate elegance. Compared with the Morgans, Astors, and Vanderbilts, the Crawfords entertained on a small scale, consistent with their restrained social ambitions.

  In a waiter’s black suit and white gloves, Jason served lobster bisque, followed by broiled striped bass and anchovy sauce with new potatoes. The meat course was stuffed veal with fresh roasted vegetables. Edam and Roquefort cheese and fresh fruit came next, and for dessert crème brûlée. With each course he offered the appropriate wine. Pamela took small portions and barely sipped the wine. Afterward, Jason and Virgil served coffee and liqueur in the drawing room, then remained with the company.

  Over the mantel was the large portrait of Arthur Crawford in his officer’s uniform, flanked by portraits of his mother and father. A miniature of the painting stood on the mantel beneath the portrait.

  Virgil came with the sword, handed it to Prescott, and said, “I believe we are ready.” The guests gathered around him.

  With heightened feeling in his voice, James addressed Prescott. “Captain, tell us the story of that sword.”

  Prescott bowed to James, then recounted the events of that fateful day in July at Gettysburg: the Georgia infantry’s advance through the wheat field, the young officer falling, the Georgians retreating.

  “When I reached him, he lay dead from a wound to the heart. Death was instant. I doubt that he suffered. I picked up his sword, intending to return it to his family.
But before I could determine his identity, the Georgians rallied and drove us back. I was wounded. Months later, after my recovery, I searched unsuccessfully for the family. Years later, I mounted the sword on my office wall as a memorial to an unknown victim of the war. Since I’ve learned his identity, I believe the sword belongs here.”

  He presented the sword to James. James drew it from the scabbard, read aloud the Crawford motto, and said, “It’s Arthur’s. In the confusion following the battle, his body disappeared into an unmarked grave. This sword is all we have of him, and, of course, the memories and the paintings.” He glanced up at the large portrait over the mantel. “We’ll place the sword beneath it.”

  Virgil had prepared the spot and now hung the sword and stepped back.

  James shook Prescott’s hand. “Thank you, Captain, you’ve brought a bitter chapter of our family’s history to an honorable conclusion.”

  They gathered in front of the fireplace and gazed at the sword. There was a moment of silence and a few tears, then a collective sigh of relief. “Finally,” said James, “we’ve put frustrated anger and resentment behind us and are free to live.”

  While the others enjoyed their drinks and continued to reminisce, Pamela drifted away, looking at other portraits in the room. Her gaze fixed on a small painting of Virgil in the prime of life, seated with his right hand gripping his cane. The artist caught him in a grim mood, eyes hooded. Unwelcome suspicions raced to Pamela’s mind.

  She slipped out of the room and into the entrance hall. Virgil’s cane stood in a rack. She drew out the sword and closely examined its blade. In tiny letters was etched the inscription: FIAT JUSTITIA RUANT COELI. (“Let justice prevail though the Heavens fall.”) Suddenly, the pieces of the Crake murder puzzle fell into place. She heard soft footsteps behind her.