Murder on St. Mark's Place

by Victoria Thompson

  The wagon stopped in front of an unassuming house set back a little from the avenue. “This is where they took him,” the driver said. Was he looking at them strangely? Sarah wished she could say something to reassure him, but that wasn’t possible.

  Malloy helped her down from the seat and slipped some coins to the driver, asking him to wait for them.

  Inside they found the doctor looking grim. “You his family?”

  “No, just ... just a friend,” Sarah said, almost choking on the word.

  “I’m sorry. Wasn’t anything I could do. He was near dead when he got here. I gave him something for the pain so he didn’t suffer too much at the end.”

  Malloy made a rude noise, which the doctor obviously mistook for grief. He murmured some condolences, which Malloy ignored.

  “What arrangements do you want to make for the body? It won’t keep long in this heat,” he added apologetically.

  “I’ll inform his family when I get back to the city,” Sarah said. “I’m sure they’ll send for the body immediately. Can you keep it until then?”

  A few moments later Sarah and Malloy were back in the waiting wagon. Malloy told the driver to take them to the trolley station. At Sarah’s questioning look, he said, “There’s nothing else we can do here, is there?”

  She had to agree.

  MALLOY HADN’T WANTED Sarah to visit Dirk’s family alone. He thought this was a police matter and that he should be the one to notify them. Sarah had argued that it wasn’t a police matter unless he was going to charge someone with murder, and since the suspect was dead, he wasn’t likely to do that. Sarah saw no need to blacken the name of the entire Schyler family by accusing their son of murder when he wasn’t able to defend himself. In fact, doing so would only bring down the very considerable wrath of that family and all their friends and relations. Malloy didn’t need that any more than Sarah did. Justice had been served with Dirk’s death, and they would have to be satisfied that they were the only ones who knew it.

  Sarah still had one last duty to perform before she could be completely satisfied, however. Somehow she had to test Dirk’s alibi for Gerda’s murder. If Dirk hadn’t been guilty of that crime, then a killer was still on the loose.

  The Schylers lived in one of the unpretentious brown-stone town houses a few blocks from her parents’ home. Outside, the homes were quietly elegant. The Dutch weren’t much for ostentatiously flaunting their wealth. Inside, however, the dwellings were as plain or elaborate as the occupants’ tastes—and fortunes—allowed. The Schylers, Sarah discovered when she was admitted to their home, were apparently still doing very well, indeed.

  The marble floor shone brightly in the summer evening sunlight, and fresh flowers filled the Oriental vase that sat on the imported English table standing in the center of the entrance hall. The butler had looked at her queerly when he’d seen her standing on the front stoop. He’d have no idea who she was, of course, and her clothes marked her as distinctly middle class. Only her message—that she had some news about Dirk—had gained her admittance. She just hoped his parents recognized her name so she wouldn’t have to explain too much. She didn’t think she was up to any more fabrications today. She’d already composed enough lies to last her a lifetime.

  After a few minutes the butler escorted her into the back parlor, where she found Dirk’s mother alone, ensconced on a sofa in a room far less grandly furnished than the formal rooms reserved for company. She was wearing a simple, at-home dress, and her hair hadn’t been arranged. Plainly, she hadn’t been receiving visitors today, and she looked annoyed at having one now.

  “Sarah Decker, is that you?” she demanded when Sarah walked in. “James said another name, but that’s who you are, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sarah said. “Brandt is my married name.”

  “But you’re widowed, I think,” she said, looking Sarah over with no apparent approval. The years had scoured away any excess flesh from her face, leaving her gaunt and sharp looking. From the way the lines on her face ran, she also seldom smiled.

  “Yes, I am. Mrs. Schyler, is your husband at home? I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news, and I think it would be better if—”

  “Nonsense,” she said, waving away Sarah’s suggestion. “Just say what you’ve come to say. It’s not the first time some female has come in here mewling that Dirk has ruined her and demanding this or that in compensation. He won’t marry you, I promise you that! You may be a Decker by birth, but anyone can see that you’re as common as dirt now. You can’t expect Dirk would waste himself on the likes of you. You should have thought about that before you took up with him.”

  “I didn’t ‘take up with him,’ Mrs. Schyler,” Sarah said, reminding herself that she was about to shatter this woman’s life. Only the thought of her grief allowed Sarah to hold her temper.

  “You certainly wanted to,” she said. “Everyone knows how you pursued him. You’ve made yourself a laughing-stock, young lady.”

  Sarah felt a twinge of annoyance at the thought of her ruined reputation among society matrons, a sad remnant of her previous life. Well, if they were gossiping about her before, just wait until they found out where her pursuit of Dirk had led.

  “Mrs. Schyler, the news I have isn’t about me. It’s about Dirk,” she said. Although she hadn’t been offered a seat, she sat down anyway, taking the fragile damask-covered chair opposite her companion. “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident.”

  There it was again, the phrase Dirk had used. Sarah shuddered slightly at the realization that if things had gone as he planned, Dirk might well be delivering this same news to her own parents instead.

  “What kind of accident?” Mrs. Schyler didn’t believe it could be very important.

  Oh, dear, where to start? “You see. Dirk and I went to Coney Island today and—”

  “Where?” she asked, horrified.

  “Coney Island,” Sarah repeated, hoping she wouldn’t question everything Sarah said. This could take all night! “There is a park there with rides and—”

  “What on earth were you doing in a place like that? I can’t believe my son would consent to such a thing. Although I suppose your tastes have grown common. They certainly have if that gown is any indication.”

  Sarah was rapidly losing patience, but she reminded herself of her mission and bit back the sharp retort that sprang so readily to her lips. “Dirk enjoyed going to the park there,” Sarah said, not really caring whether the other woman believed her or not. “We were on the Ferris wheel this afternoon and ... and that’s when the accident happened.”

  When Sarah hesitated, Mrs. Schyler grew impatient. “Go on, spit it out,” she said. “I don’t have all day.”

  Sarah drew a deep breath and began to recite the story that was almost starting to sound true to her own ears. “We were on the Ferris wheel, at the very top, and the gate across the car came loose. It flew open, and just as Dirk reached to pull it back again, the wheel started to move. He lost his balance and ... and he fell.”

  “That was very careless of him,” his mother said with disapproval. “I suppose he was injured or else you wouldn’t be here” She sighed with long-suffering. “All right, where is he? We’ll see that our doctor attends him immediately.”

  Sarah would have liked to see a bit more concern from Dirk’s mother, even if she truly believed he’d only been injured. She had no reason to believe the injuries were minor, after all. “He ... he was taken to a doctor there, but ... there was nothing he could do. I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs. Schyler, but Dirk died of his injuries.”

  Mrs. Schyler stared at her through faded blue eyes as the truth slowly penetrated. “Died?” she echoed, as if she’d never heard the word before.

  “Yes,” she said, and manufactured another lie to add to her long list for the day. “You’ll be relieved to know he didn’t suffer, though. The end came quickly.”

  Mrs. Schyler’s face had gone white. Sarah was wondering if she sho
uld summon a servant to fetch some smelling salts, but before she could, Mrs. Schyler disabused her of the notion that she was about to faint.

  “Are you telling me my son died from a fall from a... what did you call it?”

  “A Ferris wheel,” Sarah explained patiently. “It’s an amusement-park ride. It’s a large wheel, about a hundred feet high, that goes around. It has cars that people sit in—”

  “And you made Dirk ride on this ... this thing?”

  “Actually, it was his idea to ride on it,” Sarah said. She wanted to add that he’d intended to push her off of it, too, but that would accomplish nothing.

  “Nonsense,” his mother insisted for the second time that evening. “My son would never choose to do anything so common. I’m sure he never visited this Coney Island place before he met you, either. How will we ever explain this to our friends?”

  She seemed outraged. Sarah had seen unusual reactions to grief in her time, and anger was fairly common. Blaming the messenger was also fairly common. She tried not to be insulted. She had, however, expected at least a rudimentary form of grief. “It does seem a rather unpleasant way to die, but I assure you, there’s nothing to be ashamed of—”

  “Ashamed! How dare you even suggest such a thing! You, who are nothing more than a fortune hunter who tried to trap my Dirk into marriage and ended up killing him instead!”

  The truth burned inside of Sarah, but she knew Mrs. Schyler would never believe her now. On the contrary, she’d accuse Sarah of making up lies about Dirk to cover her own guilt. She reached into her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’ve written the name and address of the doctor in Coney Island. You may send someone there for Dirk... Dirk’s remains. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Schyler.” She laid the slip of paper on the table between them.

  “Sorry! You haven’t begun to know the meaning of the word! I’ll ruin you! No other respectable man will ever speak to you again!”

  Sarah didn’t bother to point out that hardly any respectable men spoke to her now, in the course of an average day. “I’ll see myself out,” she said, rising from her chair and only too happy to put an end to this conversation.

  Mrs. Schyler wasn’t finished, but Sarah didn’t listen to the rest of what she was saying. Or rather, shrieking. She’d already heard enough. At least she had a better understanding now of what might have inspired Dirk to kill women. It was small comfort.

  “OH, MY DEAR, what on earth is wrong?” Mrs. Elsworth exclaimed when she saw Sarah coming down the street that evening. “I dropped a pair of scissors today, and the point stuck in the floor. That always means bad news. It’s not another lost little one, I hope!”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” Sarah assured her.

  “Is it something to do with that fellow I saw you with this morning? I knew he was trouble the moment I set eyes on him! I warned you, didn’t I?”

  Sarah only wished she could tell Mrs. Elsworth just how right she’d been. “Dirk won’t be any trouble to anyone ever again,” she said, knowing at least a small measure of relief at the thought of how many young women would be safe now that he was dead.

  “Oh, my, that sounds serious,” she said, coming down the steps she’d been sweeping to meet Sarah in the street. “From the looks of you, it is, too!”

  Sarah toyed with the idea of telling her the fable she’d invented to protect Dirk’s family, but she no longer had the stomach for it. “You were right, Mrs. Elsworth, he was an evil man. Today he was trying to frighten me on one of the rides at Coney Island, and he accidentally fell to his death.”

  “Good heavens! You poor dear! You must be devastated!”

  “Not exactly,” Sarah admitted, “but I am exhausted. If you’ll excuse me, I’d—”

  “Let me take you inside and make you a cup of tea. I’ve got some lamb stew left from supper. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten, either. No matter, I’ll take care of you.”

  “I’d really rather just go home and—”

  “Of course, dear, go on. I’ll be over in a minute with something to eat.”

  Sarah was too tired to argue. She let Mrs. Elsworth feed her and put her to bed, where she dreamed of the faceless man who had killed Gerda Reinhard.

  THE NEXT DAY Sarah visited her mother, knowing she would soon hear of Dirk’s death and demand to know the details. Their visit was a trial for Sarah. Her mother assumed she had been romantically interested in him, and nothing she could say would convince her that she wasn’t grief-stricken at his loss. At least she had no trouble explaining why she wouldn’t be attending Dirk’s funeral. Sarah knew it was because she wouldn’t be welcome by his family, but she allowed her mother to believe it would be too difficult for her.

  That evening, Sarah took advantage of the coolness of the evening to weed her garden. That’s where Malloy found her.

  “Your neighbor told me where you were,” he explained when he came through the back gate.

  Sarah rose from where she’d been kneeling and pulled off her work gloves. She felt a little self-conscious to be dressed in the shabby gown she used for cleaning, but she reminded herself she had no need to impress Malloy. “Have you found out anything?”

  He didn’t look very pleased. “I found out that Schyler really was entertaining his friends the night Gerda Reinhard was killed. There’s no chance that he killed her.”

  “Damn,” Sarah said, throwing her gloves down in disgust.

  “Mrs. Brandt, I’m shocked,” he said, pretending to be.

  “Shut up, Malloy. You’re as annoyed as I am about this!”

  “You’re right, I am. I wanted him to be the killer, and it looks like he was, but not in this case.”

  Sarah sighed. “Come and sit down. Mrs. Elsworth brought over a bottle of homemade elderberry wine last night. I think we deserve a glass, don’t you?”

  “Homemade, did you say?” Malloy asked, following her to the back porch. “My opinion of the old bat just went up a notch.”

  Sarah smiled in spite of herself. It was the first time she’d felt like smiling since Dirk had plunged to his death.

  When they were seated at the table on her back porch with glasses of wine in front of them, Sarah said, “What do we do now?”

  Malloy stared out at the garden for a long moment. “I’m not sure we can do anything at all. We’re right back to where we started—too many suspects to even hope to find the right one. And now so much time has passed that any chance we might have had of finding the killer are pretty much gone.”

  He was right, of course. They were back to suspecting every man Gerda had known, and that was a lot of men. Even if Malloy had the time and resources to question all of them, there was no way of proving which one of them-if any of them!-had actually killed her unless he chose to confess, which seemed highly unlikely. She may have even been the victim of a total stranger, someone she didn’t know at all, which meant that all the investigation in the world probably wouldn’t find him.

  “How do you deal with it?” she asked him. “With knowing that a killer is walking free and there’s nothing you can do, I mean?”

  His dark gaze met hers. His eyes were unfathomable. Finally, he said, “How do you deal with it when one of your patients dies?”

  There was, of course, no answer to his question. She simply went on, learning from past mistakes and doing the best she could in the future. Now she understood that he did, too.

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping their wine. It was very good, and after a while Malloy poured himself a second glass without asking, then refilled her glass, too. Perhaps it was the wine that gave her courage.

  “How did your wife die, Malloy?”

  She felt the instant tension, but she waited, refusing to take back her question.

  “I told you,” he finally said. “A midwife killed her.”

  “What happened exactly?”

  At first she thought he wouldn’t answer, but she waited, giving him time. Her patience was rewarded.

  “I
t was a difficult birth. After three days, the baby still hadn’t come.”

  Sarah couldn’t help the sound of protest that escaped her.

  He glanced at her. “Would you have taken her to the hospital?”

  “Probably,” Sarah said. “Although there are some things you can do to help the baby along. I would’ve tried those first, and then—”

  “Kathleen wouldn’t go to the hospital. Her mother died in a hospital. She was terrified of them. Didn’t want a doctor either. Didn’t want a strange man to see her like that. In the end, I sent for one anyway, but it was too late by then.”

  “Didn’t the midwife do anything?”

  “Oh, yes, she did something all right. She used these ... these instruments to pull the baby out.”

  “Forceps,” Sarah guessed.

  “Yes, that’s right.” The bitterness was thick in his voice.

  “Do you know it’s illegal for a midwife to use them?” she asked him.

  “I do now. And I guess I know why, too, don’t I? She got the baby out, but she tore something inside ... inside Kathleen. She was bleeding and ... I sent for the doctor, but by the time he came, she was gone.”

  His efforts to conceal the depths of his anguish only made it more profound. Moved beyond tears, Sarah reached over and laid her hand on his arm. She understood the pain only too well, the agony of losing someone you dearly love in such a senseless way. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He looked down at where her hand rested on his arm, then up to meet her gaze. “It’s not your fault,” he reminded her. Or perhaps he was reminding himself. He’d hated her on sight because of what she was, but now he was saying he no longer held that against her. Or at least she hoped he was saying that.

  As for herself, she’d long since forgiven him for being a policeman. Now that she understood his reasons, she could not condemn him for doing the only thing he could to make sure his son was well provided for.

  Aware that they had reached a new level of understanding, she self-consciously withdrew her hand and placed it in her lap. The silence between them was no longer comfortable, but heavy with unspoken things. She cast about for some way to break it.