Murder on St. Mark's Place

by Victoria Thompson

  She climbed the dark stairs to the Ottos’ flat, the heat from dozens of cooking stoves turning the stairwell into a giant oven. The two older Otto children were playing on the landing, the boy entertaining the girl as best he could, probably trying to keep her out of their mother’s way. Young as he was, he could understand that his mother didn’t need any distractions just now.

  Sarah could see Agnes sitting in her kitchen through the door that stood open to catch whatever air might be stirring, superheated though it might be. Agnes was listlessly rolling out dough for biscuits. On the floor beside the table sat a cradle which she was rocking with one of her slippered feet. Inside the cradle lay the new baby, clad only in a ragged diaper. She looked no healthier than she had the last time Sarah saw her, and she was mewling pitifully. Agnes appeared oblivious to the child’s complaints.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Otto,” Sarah called, startling her.

  When Agnes turned to face her, Sarah was startled in turn by how haggard she looked. Like a dishrag that had been thoroughly wrung out. Sweat had dampened the hair around her face, her lips had little color, and her eyes were red-rimmed and dark-circled. Sarah instantly diagnosed anemia and no relief from the postnatal depression. Agnes’s condition was alarming, but the baby was in even more danger.

  “Mrs. Brandt?” Agnes said after a moment, as if she needed that time to properly identify her visitor. “Why are you here? Is it Mrs. Gertz’s time?”

  Sarah smiled. “Not that I know of. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing. The little one seems unhappy.”

  Agnes glanced down at the cradle she still rocked automatically, as if the action of her foot was independent of the rest of her body. Only then did she appear to become aware of the child’s misery.

  “She is so good, I hardly remember she is there,” the new mother said, picking the baby up out of the cradle with little tenderness.

  Sarah thought it more likely she hardly noticed, but she said nothing, waiting for Agnes to offer the child her breast. Instead, she tried bouncing the baby, as if that would soothe her cries.

  Sarah’s fear was a tight ball in her stomach, but she tried not to show it. In her fragile state, Agnes probably wouldn’t be able to tolerate any perceived criticism of her mothering. Making her feel attacked would only harden her against the child. “She might be hungry,” Sarah suggested mildly.

  The baby was rooting frantically, digging her face fruitlessly into the bodice of her mother’s dress, looking for milk. “I do not have time now. I have to finish supper,” Agnes said, laying the babe back in the cradle. “Lars will be angry if his supper is not ready when he comes home.”

  The child’s little face was pinched and red, but she appeared too weak to cry any harder than the small, pitiful sounds she was making. Sarah knew what was happening. The baby wasn’t getting enough attention or sustenance, and she would die. Not today or tomorrow, but eventually. She wouldn’t grow, wouldn’t fatten, would shrivel and grow sickly and die. Sarah had seen it happen often enough. Too many unwanted babies seemed to recognize their fate and choose oblivion to further suffering. Some might say they were better off dead than alive in a world that didn’t want them, but not Sarah. Sarah hated death. Too many tiny lives had ended from injury and disease already. In the city, one in every three infants died from any number of reasons. Sarah never surrendered those in her care easily, and she wasn’t going to stand by helplessly and allow this one to go for no good reason at all.

  “I can keep an eye on the other children and finish making those biscuits while you take the baby into the front room and nurse her. I’m prescribing some rest and relaxation for you.” She smiled with what she hoped looked like kindness, and prayed Agnes wouldn’t sense her desperation.

  But Agnes was far too withdrawn into her own anguish even to notice Sarah’s expression, much less to divine her intentions. For a long moment she simply stared at the half-flattened dough ball sitting on the table in front of her, as if she were trying to remember what she had been doing with it.

  “Lars will be angry,” she repeated. “He wants his supper waiting when he comes home.”

  “He won’t like listening to a crying baby, either,” Sarah said. “I can roll out biscuits as well as you.”

  That might be a lie, but Sarah felt no guilt in telling it. Instead she waited patiently while Agnes considered the possible ramifications and the baby continued to whimper. Finally, Agnes pulled herself to her feet. Her faded house-dress hung on her, and Sarah was amazed at how quickly she had lost the extra weight from her pregnancy. In fact, she was too thin, as if she were starving herself as well as the child.

  Sarah was so concerned about Agnes’s weight loss that she almost didn’t notice the way she clutched at her side when she rose, as if she felt a pain there.

  “Are you all right?” Sarah asked, automatically reaching to help her.

  Agnes recoiled, cringing as if in fear of a blow, but then seemed to catch herself. She straightened, pride overcoming her obvious discomfort. “I am fine.”

  “Your side hurts,” Sarah said, mentally nmning through a list of possible complications from the pregnancy. She couldn’t think of anything offhand that would cause pain up high on Agnes’s side, though. “I’d be happy to examine you and see if—”

  “It is nothing,” Agnes insisted. “Just a bruise. I ... I fall out of bed. Ja, I fall out of the bed. In the night. It was foolish. Like a little child. I have the bad dreams still. About Gerda.”

  Sarah nodded. She sometimes had dreams about her dead sister, too, even though Maggie had been gone for more than a decade. Maggie, who had died bringing a child into the world. Maggie who had taught Sarah to hate death with a vengeance and fight it at every turn.

  “Go on now and lie down. Feed the baby and get a little rest. I’ll get the biscuits in the oven for you.”

  Agnes’s expression was heartbreakingly pitiful as she struggled with emotions Sarah couldn’t begin to understand. Finally, she said, “I cannot pay you.”

  “I don’t charge people for doing them a favor,” Sarah replied gently. “Please get some rest. If you get sick after having a baby that I delivered, it will hurt my reputation,” she added with a small smile.

  Agnes didn’t appreciate Sarah’s attempt at humor, but she allowed Sarah to pick the baby up and place her in her arms.

  “I forgot to ask what you’d named her,” Sarah said.

  Agnes glanced down at the child, as if she needed to remind herself. “Marta,” she said after a moment. “After Lars’s mother. I wanted to call her Gerda, but—” Her voice broke, and Sarah was afraid she would collapse if she didn’t get into bed soon.

  With professional efficiency, Sarah guided her patient to her unmade bed and tucked her into it, making sure the baby was suckling properly before leaving them. She checked on the other two children, who were still playing so quietly Sarah found it disturbing. They stared at her with large, wary eyes when she told them their mother was resting, but they didn’t make a sound. She remembered Malloy’s silent son and wondered for a moment ... But then she recalled hearing them speak on earlier visits and realized that they were most likely simply cowed by things they couldn’t understand.

  Sarah made short work of the biscuits. She was afraid she’d added too much flour to the dough, but she hated when it stuck to the rolling pin. She hated everything about dough, in fact. It was either sticky and messy or powdery and messy. She cut the biscuits with the top of a drinking glass, found a sheet of tin to bake them on, and stuck them in the oven. By then her clothes were damp and her face running with sweat. All that work, and she still hadn’t so much as asked Agnes a single question about her sister.

  She was just cleaning up the last of the flour from the kitchen table when she heard footsteps on the stairs and cries of, “Papa! Papa!” Lars Otto must be home, and he’d be annoyed because his supper wasn’t ready. He’d probably be even more annoyed to find Sara
h there. She steeled herself to face him.

  Lars Otto called something in German, something that sounded a bit angry to Sarah, as he stepped through the doorway, his small daughter perched on one hip while his son proudly carried his father’s lunch pail in with both hands. His work clothes were dirty, probably stained with dried blood from the animals he butchered, but he’d made some attempt to clean himself up before coming home. He stopped short when he saw Sarah and frowned.

  “Something is wrong with Agnes?” he asked, apparently more angry than concerned. Or maybe he was just one of those men who hid his finer feelings behind anger. Sarah hoped that was true.

  “She’s very tired, and she still hasn’t recovered from the birth. I’m worried about her and the baby. Marta isn’t thriving and—”

  “Why should you worry about the baby? That is not your job.”

  “I’m a trained nurse, Mr. Otto. I treat sick babies as well as their mothers.”

  “Is Marta sick?” Plainly, he believed she was not.

  “She will be soon if her mother doesn’t recover her strength. She’s not getting enough to eat. You could try giving her canned milk, but babies rarely do well on that. I’d suggest—”

  “Agnes will feed this baby just like she fed the others,” he interrupted her, outraged. “We have no money to waste on milk from a store!”

  “I don’t want that, either. Mother’s milk is best, in any case, but Agnes—”

  “Did Agnes send for you?” he demanded, setting his daughter down. The little girl was starting to cry, upset at seeing adults argue.

  “No,” Sarah admitted. “I just stopped by to see how she was doing.”

  “I will not pay you for this visit,” he informed her haughtily. “We did not send for you, and nothing is wrong here.”

  “Something is very wrong, Mr. Otto. Your wife is mourning her sister, and she isn’t able to properly take care of the baby.”

  “Lars?” Agnes’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, and when Sarah turned to see her standing in the bedroom doorway, she was shocked at the look of naked terror on her face. “Your supper is almost ready.”

  Only then did Sarah remember the biscuits, and when she looked, she saw a suspicious curl of smoke coming from the oven door. Quickly, she grabbed a towel and pulled the door open. The biscuits were just starting to burn, and Sarah was able to pull them out before any serious damage was done. Still, she could see that Lars wasn’t pleased. In fact, his face was scarlet.

  “Now you are cooking in my house?” he asked her.

  “I was just helping Agnes so she could get some rest. She needs some time to mourn her sister and—”

  “No one will mourn that woman here! She does not deserve any of our tears.” He glared at Agnes as if daring her to contradict him. She ducked her head like a whipped dog and scurried to put the now sleeping baby back in her cradle. Without looking up, she hurried to the stove and began dishing up something from the pot that had been simmering there.

  “You will go now,” Lars told Sarah. “And do not come back here. We do not need a midwife any longer.”

  Sarah decided not to mention the other reason for her visit, which was to see if Agnes had any useful information about Gerda’s male companions. Under the circumstances, she didn’t think he would be too pleased to know she was helping investigate Gerda’s death.

  Not wanting to linger any more than Mr. Otto wanted her to stay, Sarah gathered her things. “If you need me, just let me know,” she told Agnes, but the woman gave no indication she even heard. She was too busy setting her husband’s meal on the table.

  Sarah saw herself out, gratefully escaping into the busy street, where the air was marginally fresher, at least. She could feel her cheeks burning with indignation at the way Lars Otto had treated her. He could be excused for being angry at the scandal his sister-in-law had brought down on them, but he should be more understanding of his wife’s grief. He should at least feel concern for the health of his wife and his baby daughter, if nothing else. But Sarah knew that many men cared little for such things.

  Agnes Otto was afraid of displeasing her husband, and she might well have good reason to be. Sarah would do nothing further to annoy him. At least that he would know about. And he certainly wouldn’t know if she questioned Gerda’s friends.

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  6

  “MRS. BRANDT, ARE YOU OFF TO DELIVER A baby?” a voice called as Sarah descended her front stoop the next evening.

  “Not this evening,” Sarah replied to her next-door neighbor Mrs. Elsworth, who never seemed to miss a single event that happened in their neighborhood. Mrs. Elsworth spent an inordinate amount of time sweeping her front steps just so she’d have a good vantage point. That’s what she was doing just now, but at least she had an excuse. The showers that had fallen throughout the day had left leaves and small twigs in their wake. “I’m going to meet some friends.”

  “Not that nice detective sergeant?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Sarah said, unable to hide her smile. She wondered what Malloy would say to being characterized as “nice.”

  “Are you expecting visitors, then? I found a button today while I was cleaning upstairs, which means I’m going to make a new friend. I wonder if you’ve got any babies due soon. If someone comes while you’re out, I’ll certainly take a message for you.”

  “No babies due that I know of, but certainly take a message if anyone comes. I won’t be late, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, that won’t matter to me. I hardly sleep anymore as it is. The slightest noise wakes me, and then I’m awake for the rest of the night. Getting old is such a bother.”

  “But far preferable to the alternative, don’t you think?” Sarah replied with a smile.

  Mrs. Elsworth smiled back. “I expect you’re right about that.”

  Sarah left her still sweeping as she watched for other activity which might excite her interest.

  A few minutes later Sarah was outside Faircloths when the girls came out at the end of their shift. She tried to imagine Gerda working in this place, sitting over a sewing machine for long hours, making men’s shirts, then coming out at the end of the day, tired but rejuvenated at the prospect of going dancing that evening and meeting a young man who might marry her and change her life.

  Of course, changing her life might not necessarily have been a change for the better. She would most likely have traded her good times for life in a tenement apartment with too many children and too little money. Unfortunately, Gerda’s only alternatives would have been prostitution and an early death or spinsterhood, living on the charity and goodwill of relatives. When Sarah thought of Lars Otto’s potential for showing goodwill, she knew why women chose spinsterhood only when they had no other choice.

  At first Sarah was afraid she might miss Gerda’s friends in the crowd of girls pouring out of the building, but then she saw Bertha’s outrageous hat with the red bird on top, and she called out to attract her attention. Bertha was surprised, and as Sarah had expected, she directed the attention of the other two girls, who were with her, to Sarah. They made their way over to where she stood beside the building.

  “Mrs. Brandt, what’re you doing here?” Lisle asked “Did you find out something?”

  “Did you find the killer?” Bertha asked, saying what Lisle wouldn’t.

  “Not yet, which is why I need your help. Is there someplace we can go to talk? I’ll treat you to supper,” she added when the girls looked doubtful.

  She knew that the girls frequently skipped lunch to have money for their frolics, and they eagerly accepted the invitation. They found a German beer garden nearby, where they feasted on bratwurst and sauerkraut and chunks of freshly baked bread.

  “What do you want from us?” Lisle asked when they were settled at their table, heaping plates in front of them.

  “I need to know the names of all the men that Gerda had been seeing right before she died,” Sarah expl
ained. “My friend Detective Malloy is going to question the friends of all the other murdered girls, too. We’re going to try to narrow down the list of suspects to men that all the girls knew. Try to think of men who paid Gerda particular attention those last days.”

  The girls thought and argued. “He did so dance with her!” “No, he didn’t!” It was a frustrating process, and Sarah was afraid it might be equally fruitless since evenings at the dance halls seemed to run together in their minds.

  Still, she jotted down every name the girls mentioned in relation to Gerda, no matter how casual the contact. Sarah thought perhaps the killer wouldn’t want to have been seen with the victim very much before the crime. Perhaps he’d kept their contact mostly private. The thought was discouraging. That would mean he was clever enough to hide his identity from everyone.

  “And there was George, don’t forget,” Bertha reminded them. “He bought her that fancy hat.”

  Hetty nodded grimly. “George liked her a lot. He got mad one night when she danced with somebody else.”

  “What night was that?” Sarah asked, her interest quickened. “Was it near the time she died? Was it before or after he gave her the hat?”

  “After, I think,” Bertha said, glancing at Lisle, who was frowning. Plainly, she didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken.

  Sarah waited for her verdict. “Yes, it was after,” Lisle reluctantly recalled. “She was wearing the hat that night, I think. That’s what started the fuss. George thought she should only dance with him, but she was tired of him.”

  “That’s right,” Hetty remembered. “She’d found somebody she liked better. He had more money to spend, too. He’d treated her to dinner at a real nice place, she said.”

  The other girls nodded.

  “And George was jealous,” Sarah guessed.

  “I guess you could call it that,” Bertha allowed as the girls exchanged a look.