Murder On GramercyPark

by Victoria Thompson

  “What? Oh, no, I’m Dr. Blackwell’s assistant. Or, that is, I was his assistant. A terrible thing. Just terrible.”

  “Yes, it was, Mister…?”

  “Oh, yes! Potter. Amos Potter at your service, Missus…?”

  “Brandt,” Sarah supplied. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter. I’m sure Mrs. Blackwell will appreciate your concern.”

  “You may convey my best wishes to her, and assure her I will take care of all the details concerning poor Edmund. She need worry for nothing.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Potter, but I believe someone has sent for Mrs. Blackwell’s father.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, but I’ll need to take care of Edmund’s business affairs. Those are my responsibilities anyway. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that no burden falls on Mrs. Blackwell.”

  Sarah wanted to ask him for some details about Dr. Blackwell’s demise, but she felt that would be rude of her. Besides, she was more likely to get accurate information much more easily in the kitchen, which was where she had originally been headed. “It was so nice to have met you, Mr. Potter,” she said, ready to take her leave, but Potter wasn’t quite finished with her yet.

  “That policeman,” he said. “Malloy, I think his name was. You are acquainted with him?”

  Sarah was surprised, but she didn’t let it show. “Yes, we met a few months ago,” she said, revealing nothing with her tone.

  “Is he… Can he be trusted to be… discreet?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sarah said, quite honestly. “Detective Sergeant Malloy is very good at his job. He’ll keep the news of Dr. Blackwell’s unfortunate death out of the newspapers, if that’s what his family wishes.”

  Potter nodded. “And will he be diligent about finding Edmund’s killer?”

  Sarah started. “Killer?” she repeated incredulously. “I thought Dr. Blackwell had committed suicide.”

  Potter pulled himself up to his full, if inconsequential, height. “Mr. Malloy believes he was murdered. While that is quite distressing to me, I am naturally concerned about his ability to find and dispose of the killer.”

  A thousand things were racing through Sarah’s mind, but she took no time to consider any of them. “Mr. Malloy will certainly find the killer, Mr. Potter. You can rest assured of that.”

  She’d thought this news would comfort Potter, but instead he looked troubled. He would be thinking about the scandal, of course, and the effect it would have on Mrs. Blackwell. Or perhaps he simply didn’t believe her assertion that Malloy could find the killer. Most of the police detectives were totally inept and corrupt, so that would be natural. “Thank you, Mrs. Brandt,” was all he said, and then he took his leave.

  Sarah’s stomach rumbled, reminding her of her original destination. The cook was in the kitchen, preparing the noon meal, and instantly offered Sarah something to eat.

  “Have a seat, miss,” the cook said. “I’ll fix you something in no time. How’s the Missus and the new babe doing?”

  “They’re both fine, but a little tired. It was a long night.”

  “That it was, and poor Missus, remembering how her poor husband looked when she found him. It’s an awful thing, I tell you.”

  “It certainly is,” Sarah agreed, taking a seat at the scrubbed oak table where the servants ate their meals. She wanted to plunge right in, asking questions, but she knew it was better to listen. She should also pretend she didn’t know about the murder, since that was most likely a secret. The cook would relish the tale much more, thinking Sarah ignorant.

  The cook was a buxom woman of middle years, plain of face and sharp of tongue, if Sarah was any judge. “Do you have any idea why Dr. Blackwell would have taken his life?” she asked, hoping she was right.

  “Oh, law, he’d never do such a thing! Whatever for? He was famous, he was,” she insisted as she struck a match to light the stove. “People-rich people-they come from all over, even other states, to see him, and they paid him all sorts of money to make them well. Like he did his wife.”

  “His wife?” Sarah asked, remembering what Potter had said about Mrs. Blackwell’s health.

  “Oh, law, yes, poor little thing. Crippled she was. A horseback-riding accident was what done it. She couldn’t get up from her bed for nigh on a year, and she was in terrible pain. Mr. Symington-that’s her father-he called in every kind of doctor you can imagine, and not a one of them could help her. She was wasting away until finally they found Dr. Blackwell. He cured her just like that!” She snapped her fingers, or tried to. Apparently, they were too greasy, though, and they only slid across each other. “Well, right quick like, anyways. Before you know it, she was right as rain. Been that way ever since.”

  Sarah waited until the woman had broken several eggs into the cast-iron skillet she was heating on the stove. “What kind of a doctor was Dr. Blackwell?”

  “They called him a magnetic healer. How do you like your eggs, miss?”

  “Sunny-side up, please. Do you know how he healed people?”

  “I’m not rightly sure, but it had something to do with his hands. He had some power in them. He could put his hands on someone and use that power and make them well.”

  What a useful talent, Sarah thought, but of course she didn’t want to show the cook her skepticism. “It’s difficult to understand how a man with such a power would choose to take his own life, then,” she remarked, taking the subject back to her original question.

  “Oh, he didn’t. I already told you that! I never believed it for a second, either, not a man like Dr. Blackwell, and then that police detective comes, and he says it, too. Says Dr. Blackwell was murdered, he did.”

  “He did?” Sarah echoed, managing to sound surprised.

  “Oh, yes. Says somebody tried to make it look like Dr. Blackwell shot himself with his own pistol, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t have, and I told that detective so, too. He talked to all the servants, one by one. Asked all of us did we know anybody who’d want to shoot poor Dr. Blackwell.”

  “And did you?”

  “Certainly not! Except maybe some of those doctors who was jealous of him, and there was a few, I can tell you.”

  The cook scooped up the perfectly cooked eggs and slid them onto a plate. When she’d set it down in front of Sarah, she produced a freshly baked loaf of bread and cut several thick slices from it. Then she served up some creamy butter and strawberry jam and a glass of milk. For a few moments Sarah forgot all about murders and murderers and just indulged herself in the delicious meal. But only for a few moments.

  “I suppose no one else has any idea who might have killed Dr. Blackwell either, then,” she surmised when she’d taken the edge off her hunger.

  “No one I know of. Everybody on the staff says the same thing. He was such a good man, never a cross word to anyone.”

  “His marriage was happy, too?”

  “Oh, yes, he doted on his wife, he did. Nothing was too good for her. I don’t think she appreciated it like she should, though. She comes from money, you know, so she’s used to fine things.”

  “And the doctor wasn’t from a wealthy family?”

  “Oh, law, no! He was common as dirt. His father was a farmer, he said. It was his talents that made him rise in the world. People was so grateful for his help, you see. They give him money and presents. It embarrassed him, I think, all the fuss. But he said it was his duty to help people, and he couldn’t stop.”

  Sarah found it hard to believe that anyone would be embarrassed to be recompensed for his work, even if he were a charlatan. Or perhaps especially if he were a charlatan.

  “This is a lovely house. How long have the Blackwells lived here?” Sarah asked between mouthfuls.

  “About three months now, I guess. They lived in a flat uptown before that. Not that the doctor couldn’t have afforded a nice home, but he was traveling so much. He didn’t have time to find them a place. At least that’s what I heard from her maid. She’s the only one that’s been with them since
before they come to this house.”

  “So all the servants were hired just three months ago,” Sarah said, wondering if this could possibly have any significance.

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s a pity. They finally get a home of their own, and Dr. Blackwell only gets to live in it for a few months.”

  “What do you suppose Mrs. Blackwell will do now?”

  “Law, I don’t have no idea,” the cook said with a frown. “I don’t suppose she’ll stay in the big house all by herself, now will she?” Plainly, she found the thought unsettling, since this would mean she and the other servants would be out of a job again.

  Sarah was sorry she’d brought up the subject. She thanked the woman for the meal and prepared to take her leave.

  “Do you want the carriage? It’s raining outside, so you’d best take it. I can have Mr. Granger send around for it,” the cook offered. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  This time Sarah readily accepted. She was too tired to trudge back to her home, especially in the rain, and while the carriage ride would be long, she could at least doze on the way.

  “You may wait in the front parlor,” the butler instructed her when asked to make the arrangements. “You’ll see the carriage pull up from the front window there.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said, sinking wearily into one of the chairs by the window that overlooked the street.

  The butler cleared his throat, drawing her attention again. “Mrs. Blackwell, is she doing well?”

  “Yes, she and the baby both are fine,” Sarah said. She’d forgotten how involved the servants became in a family’s life. They were, in many ways, more like relations than employees, albeit poor ones.

  “Do you think…? The shock of finding Dr. Blackwell, will that have any ill effects?” he asked with dignified concern.

  “It was unfortunate, but I’m sure Mrs. Blackwell will recover fully.” She’d have years of nightmares, but there was no use worrying the butler over something he couldn’t help. “She is, as I said, doing very well already.”

  The butler nodded his thanks. “The carriage will be around in a few minutes,” he said, and left her to wait alone.

  With nothing else to do, she began to think about Dr. Blackwell’s death and how she could get Malloy to confide in her what was going on with the investigation. He’d certainly balk at involving her in another murder case. She’d managed to put herself in danger twice before while assisting him, and he’d been particularly upset the last time. Maybe if she just expressed mild curiosity. Could she fool him? Somehow she doubted it.

  However, she had already obtained a bit of information he might find useful. Probably he’d soon find out the same things she’d just learned, but she could at least save him some trouble by sharing what she already knew about how the dead man had cured his wife’s injuries so miraculously when others had failed. She’d be doing him a favor, she reasoned. He couldn’t object to that. Or so she told herself, knowing full well he’d object to anything he pleased.

  Lost in thought, she’d been staring at the man who had just emerged from the house sitting catty-corner from the Blackwells’ without realizing who it was. Malloy! He was no doubt going from house to house, questioning all the neighbors and their servants. Here was her chance.

  Quickly gathering her things, Sarah hurried out, not waiting for the butler to open the front door for her. Fortunately, the rain had stopped for the moment, although it didn’t look like the lull would last for long. Malloy was just starting up the front steps of the next house when she called his name.

  He stopped and turned, recognizing her at once. She could tell by the way he stiffened in reaction. He didn’t seem at all pleased to see her, but he turned and came back down the steps and began walking toward her.

  Sarah resisted an urge to meet him halfway. It would hardly be seemly, but more important, she didn’t want to appear as eager as she felt. She set her medical bag on the front step and waited with apparent patience.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Brandt,” he said when he reached her. His expression was resigned and a little reserved, but that did not deter her in the least. “I assume the Blackwell baby has been born.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Malloy,” she replied. “Yes, baby and mother are doing as well as we could expect, considering Dr. Blackwell was murdered right in their home.”

  He sighed. “I should have known you’d find out all about it. But don’t start thinking you’re going to be involved. You won’t have time anyway. I’ll have the killer locked up by sunset.”

  “You know who it is, then?” she asked in surprise.

  “Are you on your way home now?” he asked, ignoring her question. “I can get you a cab.”

  “They’re bringing the carriage around for me,” she said, undeterred. “I suppose you know that Dr. Blackwell was a magnetic healer and that he supposedly healed his wife after she was crippled in a riding accident.”

  If this was new information, he gave no indication. “What exactly does a magnetic healer do?” he asked instead.

  “I’m not certain. It has something to do with laying his hands on people and curing them of whatever is wrong.”

  “How could he make someone well just by touching them?” Malloy asked.

  “Oh, there must be more to it than that, but I’m sure they keep their actual techniques a secret. It’s the only way to prevent others from doing the same thing they do and stealing their patients.”

  “But people really get well?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Presumably, or these so-called doctors couldn’t stay in business. The fact is that most people eventually get well from whatever is wrong with them if they believe strongly enough that they will, even with no treatment at all. These charlatans have the advantage of people wanting to believe their treatments will work, no matter how ridiculous they are. When someone gets well, they tell their friends, and people have even more confidence in the healer. So, who do you think killed Dr. Blackwell?”

  Malloy’s lips twitched, as if he were holding back a smile. “Nice try, Mrs. Brandt, but you’re not getting involved in this. Go home, get some sleep, and forget all about Dr. Blackwell’s death.”

  “Just exactly how do you propose I forget about it?” she asked, genuinely interested.

  “Think about something else,” he suggested. “I hear your carriage. It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Brandt. Good day.”

  He tipped his hat and turned away, even though Sarah was far from finished with him. She wanted to stamp her foot in protest, but such a gesture would only amuse him. “Thank you for sending for me, Malloy,” she called after him.

  He turned back, not bothering to hide his smile this time. “I needed a midwife, and you’re the only midwife I know.”

  Sarah glared at him, but her effort was wasted. He was already walking away. She wasn’t really angry, though. She enjoyed their sparring, and she knew he did, too. And she also knew she had a good reason to stay involved with the case. She’d be back tomorrow morning to check on Mrs. Blackwell and her baby. Then she’d find out if Malloy was as good as his word about finding the killer by sunset.

  ALTHOUGH A FIERCE electrical storm woke Sarah several times during the night, the weather was fine the next morning, so she decided to walk back over to Gramercy Park. When the butler opened the front door, she immediately knew something was wrong.

  “Mrs. Brandt, how good that you’ve come,” he said, maintaining his dignity even though his pinched expression revealed his concern.

  “Is Mrs. Blackwell ill? You should have sent for me at once!”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Blackwell is perfectly well. It’s the child. He’s… well, he seems to be in some distress. The nurse has been up with him all night.”

  It could be simple colic, of course, but usually that didn’t begin quite so soon. Her mind racing with possibilities-none of them pleasant-Sarah hurried upstairs. When she reached the landing, she could hear the faint sound of an infant crying. It was a
hollow sound, one Sarah had heard before, but she knew she must be mistaken in what she was thinking. The cries came from farther down the hall than Mrs. Blackwell’s room, which meant the child was probably in the nursery. When she reached the door, she didn’t bother to knock.

  She found the nurse walking the floor with the infant, vainly trying to comfort him. She looked exhausted and at her wit’s end, and she seemed infinitely relieved to see Sarah.

  “Oh, Mrs. Brandt, thank heaven you’re here! I don’t know what come over him,” she exclaimed, absently patting the screaming child. “At first I thought he might be scared of the storm last night. It was so loud! Then I thought it was the colic, but don’t nothing work for it. Seems like he don’t even want to be touched, which ain’t natural at all!”

  It was true. Usually, a fretful baby could be stilled by a soothing touch or rocking or walking, even one with colic. Sarah reached out, and the nurse surrendered the child gratefully. As soon as she took the baby from the nurse, however, she understood what the woman meant. The child stiffened in her arms, resisting her embrace. She took him to the nurse’s bed and laid him down, unwrapping his swaddling so she could examine him for possible injuries or defects she’d failed to notice yesterday.

  His limbs were twitching, and his skin was pale and cool to the touch. He arched his little body as if in pain.

  “Have you given him anything?” Sarah asked.

  “Just my milk, and I never ate nothing that could upset him. I’m that careful with my milk, I am.”

  Sarah knew this was far more than an upset stomach, however. “I need to speak with Mrs. Blackwell,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  The nurse nodded, not really understanding, and took the baby when Sarah had wrapped him up again.

  Sarah went to Mrs. Blackwell’s room and knocked on the door.