“Where does Mrs. Blackwell go?”
Granger plainly thought this was none of Frank’s business. “She visits the sick.”
“What sick does she visit?”
“You will have to ask her that. I’m sure I don’t know.”
Frank figured he probably knew perfectly well, but he was going to make Frank work for the information. “Did you see the gun on the desk beside Dr. Blackwell?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Have you ever seen it before?”
“Dr. Blackwell has a similar pistol. He keeps it in his right-hand desk drawer. It appeared to be the same one, but I couldn’t be sure without examining it more closely and checking the drawer to see if it’s missing.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Granger, I’ll do that,” Frank said. He didn’t like this butler, but then, he seldom liked butlers. They were all uppity and thought they were better than common policemen. “Did anyone else know Blackwell kept a pistol in his desk?”
“I’m sure everyone in the household did. I had warned them so they wouldn’t come upon it by accident when they were cleaning.”
“They clean inside the doctor’s private desk drawers?” Frank asked mildly.
Granger pretended he didn’t hear the question.
“So everyone on the staff knew about it,” Frank continued. “What about visitors to the house?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know that. You would have to ask them.”
“Did he have a lot of visitors?”
“Yes, he did.”
Frank was beginning to feel the urge to commit a murder himself. “Who visited him?”
“His patients frequently came to consult with him.”
“Thank you for your kind cooperation, Granger,” he said, his sarcasm wasted. “If I need anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Granger did not look happy at that prospect.
SOON ENOUGH, SARAH arrived at the relative tranquillity of Gramercy Park. Traffic avoided the square, no street vendors hawked their wares here, and no streetcars clattered past. Residents of the Lower East Side who lived five to a room in squalor would probably imagine that such stately homes could house only happiness. Sarah knew better.
A policeman guarded the front door. He’d been slouching in the shade until he realized she was going to try to enter. He straightened, trying to look official.
“I’m Mrs. Brandt, the midwife,” she said.
He visibly relaxed. “We’ve been looking for you, missus,” he said, then glanced around. “Where’s the carriage?”
“Still in traffic, I would imagine,” she replied, climbing the front steps.
He pushed open the front door and stood aside for her to enter. “The midwife’s here,” he called to anyone inside.
Sarah knew a moment of reluctance when she remembered the last and only time she’d entered this house. Death had visited here again, but this time she wouldn’t be the one to discover it.
She was surprised to see how much the place had changed in a few short months. Plainly, the new residents were anxious for people to recognize that they were comfortably fixed. The decor was lavish, bordering on ostentatious, with brocade wall coverings and heavy velvet drapes and Oriental carpets. She saw an elephant’s-foot umbrella stand in the corner by the front door, and an enormous Oriental vase stood by the stairs to the second floor.
She glanced into the room to the right, where she’d found that other body, and almost expected to see it still lying there. But the room was entirely different now, and nothing untoward lay on the expensive Oriental carpet. Another policeman stood by the door to her left, the room where she guessed the new murder had been committed. The door behind him opened, and Malloy stepped out.
Sarah felt the odd sense of pleasure she always experienced upon seeing him, no matter how intimidating he might look. He certainly looked very intimidating at the moment, probably because he was so unhappy to have had to call for her.
“Mrs. Brandt,” he said gruffly, by way of greeting. “I see you got my message.”
“I’m glad I was available,” she replied, equally formal. She glanced around. “This house has a sad history.”
“It does,” he agreed.
They were both conscious of the others listening to their every word. Sarah longed to ask him what had happened here, but that would have to wait.
“My patient?” she asked.
“She’s upstairs. She was the one who found her husband. Looks like he committed suicide. She was pretty upset, and considering her condition…”
Sarah nodded her understanding, knowing she shouldn’t be disappointed to learn Malloy wasn’t investigating a murder. Her own life was exciting enough without sticking her nose into someone else’s trouble. She’d already put herself in danger too many times from trying to assist Malloy in his business.
A butler had materialized from somewhere. “Mrs. Blackwell is upstairs in her room,” he informed Sarah. “I will escort you.”
Then the butler took her bag, and she glanced at Malloy, who nodded his approval. She gave him a look that warned him she’d want some more details later, then followed the butler upstairs.
“Mrs. Blackwell came home earlier than usual,” the butler said gravely. “Ordinarily, I would have been here before her. I should have been the one to find him. If any harm comes to her because of that…” He caught himself and said no more.
Although he was managing to maintain his dignity, Sarah could see the man blamed himself for Mrs. Blackwell’s horrible experience and was enduring the guilt of having caused her so much distress.
“You couldn’t have known,” she reassured him. “And although this is very tragic, it probably won’t harm either mother or child if the baby was ready to be born anyway. It’s really no one’s fault.”
The butler didn’t look convinced. Sarah felt genuine pity for him and great respect for his devotion to his mistress.
Mrs. Blackwell’s maid admitted her to a large bedroom furnished in white, French-style furniture. The walls were covered in paper that depicted a bucolic scene in the French countryside over and over again all around the room, and the windows were draped in a heavy, floral-patterned material that hung bunched on the floor in a style designed to show the occupant had money to buy fabric that wasn’t even necessary.
The enormous four-poster bed sat high off the floor, and Sarah had to walk over closer to even see the occupant. Mrs. Blackwell was an attractive young woman, probably in her early twenties. She lay with her eyes closed, moaning softly, her face damp with perspiration, even though the room was comfortably cool.
“Mrs. Blackwell?” Sarah said softly, waiting until the woman opened her eyes. “I’m Sarah Brandt. I’m a midwife.” Sarah was already rolling up her sleeves and assessing the situation.
“Does Edmund know you’re here?” she asked in alarm. Her face was pale and her lovely blue eyes were dilated. Sarah realized she might well be in shock from discovering her husband’s body.
“Yes,” Sarah lied without regret. “He sent for me. He wants to make sure you’re well cared for.”
She seemed doubtful, but she didn’t argue and even seemed to relax a bit. Sarah turned to the maid and began giving her instructions on what she was going to need.
MALLOY WENT BACK into Blackwell’s study swearing softly under his breath. He’d thought he was safe involving Sarah Brandt in this case. Clearly, Blackwell had shot himself, or so someone had taken great pains to make it appear. If Police Headquarters had sent someone else, perhaps that would have been the official report, too. Unfortunately, they’d sent Frank, and he’d discovered the truth.
He heard the front door open again, and this time Officer Patrick announced the medical examiner.
A moment later Dr. Haynes stepped into the study, a small room with heavily draped windows in which the smell of death was strong.
Dr. Haynes was a small man, well past middle age, who had seen too many dead bodies in
his life. His eyes were sad behind his spectacles, and his clothes hung on him, as if he’d shrunk beneath them.
“A suicide, Malloy?” he said hopefully, assessing the situation at a glance.
“That’s what it looks like from here, but I’m afraid it ain’t going to be that easy.”
Haynes frowned. “The neighbors won’t like it. Another murder in this house. Are you sure?”
“Tell me what you think,” Malloy invited.
The dead man had been sitting at his desk and was now slumped over it, his head a blasted wreck, his blood and brains spilling over the desktop and onto the floor. A pistol lay beside his right hand.
“Is that his gun?” Haynes asked.
“The butler says he had one just like it that he kept in his desk drawer there.” He pointed. “It’s not there now.”
Haynes gave him an impatient glance. “Looks like a suicide to me, and it would to anybody else, too,” he insisted.
“Look again.” Malloy pointed to the piece of paper lying on the desk, beneath the blood and gore.
“A suicide note?”
“I doubt it.” It wasn’t possible to read all the words, but one thing was clear. “See there?”
He pointed at the last word on the page. It was just one letter that ended in a long, jagged line and a blotch, as if the writer had been startled or jarred, and the pen had fallen and made a blotch. “See the ink on his fingers? He was sitting here writing, and something surprised him. A man doesn’t shoot himself in the head while he’s in the middle of writing a letter, and if he does, he usually finishes it first. And even if he doesn’st, he wouldn’t surprise himself, would he?”
“Maybe somebody in the house startled him.”
“He was alone in the house. It’s Wednesday afternoon. The servants had the afternoon off, and he made sure they were all out. Told the butler he had a meeting with someone, and he didn’t want to be interrupted.”
“Who was he meeting?”
“Nobody knows. I don’t like where the pistol is laying, either. It’s all very neat, but a little far from his hand. If he’d dropped it, it might be anywhere, and if he didn’t drop it, it would be in his grasp. Instead, it’s right there, close to his hand, and placed just so, as if the killer wanted it to be there but couldn’t bear to touch Blackwell to put the gun in his hand.”
“Or didn’t want to get all bloody.”
“He risked it by moving the pen,” Malloy said. “Remember I said Blackwell was writing when he was shot? The killer put the pen back in the holder after he shot Blackwell. It’s got blood on it.”
“Maybe it got splashed when this poor fellow’s head went flying all over the room,” Haynes suggested.
“The blood is on the wrong side of the pen for that. And it’s a little smeared.” He showed Haynes what he meant.
“Looks like the mark of a finger in the blood, too.” Haynes sighed. “Frank, why can’t you just go along? You know nobody wants this to be a murder.”
“They’d rather let a killer go free, I guess,” Frank said. “What if somebody snuck in here to rob the place and found Blackwell and got scared and killed him? The neighbors should be worried about that.”
“If that’s what happened, the killer wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to make it look like a suicide,” Haynes pointed out.
“So you agree with me? It’s a murder.”
Haynes sighed again. “Frank-” he began, but he was interrupted by a commotion in the hallway.
The door to the study burst open and a man burst in. He was short and round and balding, with muttonchop whiskers, his face red with outrage. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, and then he saw the body. “Edmund!” he cried. “My God, what happened?”
“Who are you?” Frank demanded as Mahoney made a belated effort to restrain the gentleman.
“What have you done to him?” the man was shouting.
“We haven’t done nothing to him, yet,” Malloy said, stepping in front of the man to block his view of the body. “Who are you?” he asked again.
“What?” the fellow asked, still looking with horror at the body.
“Your name?” Frank prodded. “And your reason for being here.”
At last he looked at Frank and seemed to recover himself. “Oh, yes, of course. My name is Potter. Amos Potter. I’m Dr. Blackwell’s assistant.” He glanced at the body again. His face had visibly paled.
“Let’s go sit down someplace, Mr. Potter,” Frank suggested gently, and took him by the arm.
He offered no resistance as Frank led him from the room.
“I tried to stop him,” Mahoney offered as he closed the office door behind them, but Frank just glared at him. He’d settle with him later.
“Have a seat, Mr. Potter,” Frank said when they’d reached the formal parlor across the hall. Frank pulled the doors shut behind him.
Potter sank down gratefully onto the ornately carved sofa and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face. “Good heavens. How horrible.” Then he seemed to remember something. “Mrs. Blackwell will be coming home from her visits soon. She ministers to the poor every afternoon, you know, and she should return any moment. She’s in a… a delicate condition. The sight of all these policemen will frighten her. Her health is very fragile, and the shock-”
“Mrs. Blackwell is already here,” Malloy interrupted him. “She was the one who found her husband’s body.”
Malloy had only thought Potter was pale before. Now even his lips lost their color. “Good heavens,” he said again. “She… I must go to her. She must be hysterical.” He started struggling to his feet.
“‘There’s no need. Mrs. Blackwell is being attended to.”
“By whom?” he asked indignantly.
“By a midwife.”
Potter sank back on the sofa. “Oh, dear.” He mopped his face again. “How is she doing?”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Now, what can you tell me about this Dr. Blackwell?”
“What do you mean? Don’t you know who he is?”
“I know he’s some kind of phony doctor.”
Potter was incensed. “He’s a great healer!”
“He was a healer. Now he’s just dead. What I need to know is who might have killed him.”
“Killed?” Potter echoed incredulously.
“You did notice he was dead, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
“I just didn’t… You think someone murdered him?”
“Would he have had a reason to kill himself?” Frank asked with interest.
Potter seemed surprised. “Well, I… I’m sure I don’t know how to answer a question like that.”
“You’re Blackwell’s assistant, you said.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“What exactly do you assist him with?”
Potter seemed taken aback by the change of subject. “I… I assisted him in his cures. And I plan his schedule and make his bookings and manage his lectures.”
“Lectures?”
“Yes, Dr. Blackwell gives… gave lectures to explain his method of healing. Many prominent citizens attend them. Many prominent citizens were his patients. He was very successful.”
“Did he have any patients that he couldn’t help? Someone who might be angry enough to murder him?”
“No! Certainly not! I can’t believe you think anyone would take Edmund’s life! Besides, I thought…”
“What did you think?”
Potter applied his handkerchief to his forehead again. “I saw the gun on the desk. It looked like…”
“Like he’d shot himself?” Frank supplied.
Potter swallowed. “Yes.”
“I’m sure that’s what the killer wanted people to think, but I believe Blackwell was murdered.”
“By whom?” Potter’s voice was hoarse.
“That’s my job, to find out. I was hoping you could give me some ideas, since you knew Black
well so well.”
Potter blinked a few times as he considered Frank’s proposal. “I… I really don’t…”
“The servants said he had a meeting with someone this afternoon. Do you know who it was?”
Potter seemed to be thinking, trying to figure something out. Frank waited. Some of his most valuable time was spent waiting for people to decide to tell him something.
“I… there was someone…” Potter began tentatively.
“Someone he was going to meet this afternoon?”
“I’m sure I don’t know about that,” Potter insisted, “but there was something, something that happened just last week…”
Frank took a seat in the chair opposite Potter. “Tell me all about it.”
“Well, it’s a rather ugly story. It does Dr. Blackwell no credit, and it’s… Well, it could hurt Mrs. Blackwell.”
“Would it give Mrs. Blackwell a reason to kill her husband?”
Potter’s small eyes widened as he considered this apparently unthinkable possibility. “Good heavens, no! She knows nothing about it!” Potter’s face had grown a dangerous shade of red again.
“Who does, then?”
“Well, I knew,” he reluctantly admitted. “Edmund confided in me, because he needed my counsel.”
“Why don’t you confide in me, then. Let’s see if we can figure out who might have killed Dr. Blackwell.”
Potter glanced at the door, as if he suspected someone might be listening. “It’s quite a scandal, or it could be if anyone-”
“Potter,” Frank warned in the tone he used to reduce hardened criminals to quivering terror.
Potter gulped audibly. “Well, you see, Dr. Blackwell… That is, a young man came to see him last week. A young man who had come all the way from Virginia.”
“Who was he?”
“He was… is Dr. Blackwell’s son.”
“Blackwell had a son in Virginia?”
“Yes, he… from his first marriage.”
Frank nodded, believing he understood. “Blackwell thought the scandal of his divorce would ruin him?”
Murder On GramercyPark Page 2
