Murder On GramercyPark

by Victoria Thompson

  After a few minutes he turned to Frank. “Your son is very fortunate, Mr. Malloy. I’ve seen feet much more severely disfigured than his. I believe that with surgery, we can repair most of the damage and that Brian will even be able to walk. He might have a slight limp or have to wear a special shoe on that foot, but he will walk.”

  Frank felt such a rush of emotion, he could hardly breathe. Relief and amazement and suspicion and a terrible rage. “Why did that other doctor tell me there was nothing he could do?” he demanded furiously.

  Dr. Newton didn’t look like he’d taken offense. “I’m afraid I can’t speak for my colleague. Perhaps he was simply unaware of the advances that have been made or of the newer techniques.”

  This was, of course, the politic answer, the kind of answer Frank would have given if asked why one of his colleagues had failed to solve a case or had taken a bribe to make sure a case wasn’t solved at all. It didn’t make Frank feel any less angry, but at least he knew that Dr. Newton was an honorable man. And a modest one, too. He could have said he was just smarter than the quack Frank had consulted.

  “What will you have to do to the boy’s foot?” he asked.

  Dr. Newton explained as simply as he could how he would cut and sew and rearrange the various parts of Brian’s foot to make it whole, answering Frank’s questions patiently.

  Frank couldn’t help wondering how patient the doctor would have been with the likes of Frank Malloy if Sarah Brandt hadn’t brought him in herself, but he didn’t let that stop him from making sure he understood everything as well as was possible.

  Then he asked the doctor about his fees, and Dr. Newton replied straightforwardly, as if it never occurred to him that Frank wouldn’t be able to pay them. Frank had been right, the reward in the Blackwell case would go a long way toward paying the good doctor.

  “I’ll bring you the money tomorrow,” Frank said.

  “There’s no need to pay me until I do the surgery,” the doctor assured him with a smile. “Shall we look at my schedule and see when we can fit Brian in?”

  A few minutes later they were outside on the street, with the surgery scheduled toward the end of the month. Frank hoisted Brian onto his shoulder again, and he resumed looking at everything around him with the greatest fascination.

  “Was he very upset when you took him away from your mother today?” Mrs. Brandt asked.

  “I expected he’d throw a fit,” Frank admitted, “but he just wrapped his arms around my neck so tight I thought I’d strangle and never even looked back.”

  “That’s how much he loves you, Malloy,” she said wisely. “He had no idea where you were taking him or why. He just wanted to go with you. He was willing to give up the only security he’s ever known just for the chance to have your attention.”

  Frank felt a suspicious burning behind his eyes, but he blinked a couple of times until it went away. He had to clear his throat before he could say, “It was good of you to come today.”

  “Don’t think I did it out of kindness, Malloy,” she cautioned him. “I was as anxious as you to find out if David could do anything for Brian.”

  They walked a few steps in silence before Frank came up with the right combination of words. “I looked into your husband’s file.”

  “His file?” she asked in confusion.

  “The police file. To see what they found out when they investigated his murder, if they had any idea who might’ve done it.”

  Her fine eyes lit with interest. “What did you find out?”

  “Not much,” he said, resigning himself to her instant disappointment. “You were right. Without a reward being offered, there wasn’t any reason to solve the case, so nobody tried very hard.”

  She sighed, and he thought she blinked a little harder than she usually did. “I suppose it’s far too late to investigate now. After three years…”

  Frank cleared his throat again. “I was wondering…”

  “Yes…?” she said when he hesitated, a small spark of hope lighting her eyes again.

  “Maybe I could look through your husband’s files. Of his patients, I mean. Maybe there’s something there, a reason why somebody’d want him dead.”

  It was unlikely that he’d learn anything. Just as she’d said, after three years there was little chance of learning anything new. She must have known this, too, but still she smiled a little when she looked up at him.

  “If you think it might help, you’re certainly welcome to look through all of his records,” she said. “And Malloy…?”

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Thank you for caring.”

  8

  MALLOY ARRIVED AT SARAH’S IN TIME FOR SUPPER. She’d felt obligated to cook for him since he was going to investigate Tom’s murder. Also because she wasn’t fond of eating alone, and Malloy was good company. Or at least interesting company. And they had a lot to discuss about the Blackwell case. Well, Sarah did, anyway, and she hadn’t wanted to discuss it walking down a public street this afternoon when Malloy was wrestling with his restless son. So she’d invited him to supper.

  “How’s Brian doing after his exciting day?” she asked when she’d greeted him.

  “He fell asleep on the train ride home,” Malloy told her. “I guess all the excitement was too much for him.”

  “He certainly did seem to be enjoying himself.”

  Malloy frowned as he hung his hat on the coatrack in her hallway. “I never thought of it before, but his life is pretty boring. My mother takes him shopping with her, but he sees the same things all the time. And the same people, too.”

  “If he could walk, he could go more places,” she suggested.

  “Did you understand what all that doctor said he was going to do to Brian’s foot?” he asked with a frown.

  Sarah bit back a smile. Malloy had behaved as if he’d understood perfectly when they were in the doctor’s office. “Not all of it. The techniques he’s going to use are pretty unusual, at least from my experiences with medicine. Basically, I think he’s just going to fix the parts of Brian’s foot that didn’t form properly. And I know he’s been very successful in the past. There’s every reason to believe he can help Brian, too.”

  Malloy didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t look quite so worried, either. He’d probably question her some more later, but not now. He wouldn’t want to belabor the issue and make her think he was ignorant.

  The thought startled her, and she wondered how and when she’d become such an expert on Malloy’s personality. Before she could decide, he said, “Something smells good.”

  “I hope it tastes good, too. Come on into the kitchen. Everything’s ready,” she said, leading the way.

  She’d set the table carefully, not asking herself why she’d taken such pains. Malloy probably wouldn’t even notice, and if he did, he might wonder himself.

  “Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” she said, indicating one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Would you like a glass of beer?”

  “Sure,” he said, and she poured some from the pail that she’d gotten from her neighbor, who brewed it in his basement.

  In a few moments she had the pot roast arranged on the plate with the potatoes and carrots around it. She placed it on the table with a sense of satisfaction.

  Malloy raised his eyebrows and grinned a little, as if he were amazed that she had produced such a master-piece. “You went to a lot of trouble,” he said.

  “Not really,” she assured him. “I enjoy cooking when I’ve got someone to cook for. Would you do the honors?” She handed him the knife to cut the meat.

  He didn’t take it. “Better lay it down on the table,” he suggested deadpan, indicating the knife.

  “Are you afraid I’ll stab you with it?” she asked in amusement, laying the knife down as instructed.

  “No, but my mother wouldn’t let anybody hand a knife directly to someone. Means you’ll have an argument or something like that.” He picked up the knife and, using his
own fork, began to slice the meat.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Ellsworth would say the same thing,” she said. “She sent over a pie this afternoon. She must’ve known somehow that you were coming. Sometimes I think she has a crystal ball.”

  “Maybe she just bakes a lot of pies and can’t eat them all,” he said, slipping a slab of beef onto her plate.

  When they had both been served and the bread passed, Sarah took her seat opposite him and began to eat. The beef was tender and moist, thank heaven. She was never sure how to tell when it was done but not too done. She’d guessed right this time.

  “I have some interesting news for you,” she said after a moment.

  He stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth. “About Brian?”

  “No, nothing like that,” she assured him. “About the Blackwell case.”

  He gave her a look, but she ignored it. “Did you know that Letitia Blackwell had a lover before she met her husband?”

  “A lover?” he echoed, and took a bite of potato, chewing thoughtfully. “She must’ve been pretty young. She isn’t too old even now, is she?”

  “No, she isn’t. My guess is that she had a schoolgirl infatuation. The object of her affections was the local schoolmaster. Her father disapproved, of course, or would have if he’d even known about it, which I doubt he did. Then the two of them actually eloped, or tried to. That’s when Letitia fell off her horse and was so badly injured. Apparently, the schoolmaster had to carry her home and face her father. It must have been an ugly scene, especially with Letitia hurt the way she was.”

  “What happened to the schoolmaster?”

  “He was let go and no one saw him again. Mr. Symington probably had him fired and banished from the area, as any good father would do. In any case, he was long gone when Letitia finally met Dr. Blackwell.”

  “Any possibility he got more than banished?” Malloy asked.

  Sarah blinked at him in surprise. “You mean killed?”

  “You told me once that men like Symington aren’t above doing something like that, and he did practically ruin Symington’s daughter. Eloping with her was bad enough, but he nearly crippled her for life, too.”

  “I have no idea, but we could try to find out,” she mused, then realized, “That would make Symington a definite suspect in Blackwell’s death, wouldn’t it? If he already had a history of killing men who harmed his daughter in some way.”

  “It’s something to think about,” Malloy allowed. “Anyway, so the schoolmaster, dead or alive, was out of the way when the good doctor shows up, and she turns her attentions to him instead.”

  “Not exactly,” Sarah said. “From what I understand, Blackwell was quite a devil with the ladies, and Letitia certainly may have found him attractive. You know that she was speaking at his lectures, even though she was terrified of public speaking. That’s why she started taking the morphine again. She injects it, did I tell you that?”

  “Injects it? With what?”

  “A syringe.”

  “She does that to herself?” he asked, horrified.

  “People can do amazing things when the need is great enough,” she said. “I understand that injecting it increases the drug’s potency. She’s very badly addicted.”

  Malloy grunted. Plainly, he had little sympathy for people who needed sedatives to cope with life. “All right, so she was speaking at the lectures and didn’t want to. How did that lead to them getting married?”

  “When Letitia said she didn’t want to do the lectures anymore, Blackwell suddenly developed a passion for her. He began to pay her court.”

  “What did her father think about this? If he didn’t want her running off with a schoolmaster, I can’t believe he’d be any happier to have some quack doctor for a son-in-law either.”

  “Symington didn’t think Blackwell was a quack,” she reminded him. “He respected him and was grateful for all he’d done for Letitia. And Letitia wasn’t an innocent young girl, either. If people found out about her elopement, she would’ve been ruined, and she wouldn’t have had any chance to make a suitable marriage. If the schoolmaster had actually deflowered her, her chances were even worse.”

  “So her father was glad to get her safely married to anybody at all, even a poor quack doctor,” Malloy said.

  “I don’t think it was quite that bad. He must have been genuinely impressed with Blackwell if he allowed his daughter to marry him-no matter what the circumstances. He also spoke at Blackwell’s lectures, too, when Letitia couldn’t because of her pregnancy, which proves he believed in the man. Or at least that he didn’t disapprove.”

  Malloy took another bite of her pot roast. He seemed to be enjoying it, although he didn’t say anything. “All right, so Letitia had a lover. What does he have to do with Blackwell’s murder?”

  “I haven’t gotten to that part yet,” she assured him. “I told you Blackwell courted Letitia. He must have been very charming, and Letitia would have been vulnerable. She’d had the broken romance with the schoolmaster, and she’d been an invalid for a long time, probably thinking she’d never marry at all. Then Blackwell apparently falls madly in love with her and begs for her hand in marriage.”

  “Sounds like a Sunday matinee,” Malloy remarked, frowning with distaste.

  “Exactly,” she said. “She would have been flattered, but it appears that Blackwell’s sudden affection for her was all a ploy. She wanted to stop doing his lectures, but he needed her. If they were married, he’d have her in his power, and she’d have to keep appearing at them whether she wanted to or not.”

  “Then you don’t think Blackwell cared for her?”

  “He wasn’t in love with her, certainly,” she said. “In fact, as soon as they were married, he stopped paying attention to her at all. According to her maid, Letitia was extremely unhappy because her husband neglected her so badly.”

  “If what Mrs. Ellsworth said about him was true, he was probably too busy with all his other lady friends,” Malloy said.

  “That’s certainly possible, and if the grief expressed at his memorial service was any indication, it’s true,” she said.

  Malloy mulled this over for a bit as he finished off his pot roast. “So Blackwell had an unhappy wife who used morphine. There’s still one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I already asked you if you thought she was the kind of woman who could put a bullet in her husband’s brain, and you said no. Did you change your mind?”

  “Well, no, but-”

  “Now, if you told me that she had a lover after she got married, we might have something. They both would have a reason for getting rid of her husband, then, and the lover could’ve taken care of the nasty business of actually killing him. Any chance of that?”

  It was Sarah’s turn to consider. “An unhappy woman is easy prey to seduction,” she mused. “Letitia had already been the victim of such a seduction twice, too, once with the schoolmaster and once with Blackwell. And she did go out every afternoon, supposedly visiting.”

  “You think she was meeting a lover?” Malloy asked with interest.

  Sarah frowned. “No, I think she went to an opium den.”

  “Good God,” Malloy swore.

  “Don’t be so shocked. Upper-class women go to them all the time. It’s the worst-kept secret in the city. Surely you already knew that.”

  “I never gave it much thought,” he admitted. “I don’t have a lot of dealings with upper-class women. Or at least I didn’t used to.”

  He was referring, of course, to the recent crimes they had solved together that had given him more contact than he’d wanted with such women.

  “Well, it’s true,” Sarah said. “They veil themselves so no one will recognize them, but their clothing gives them away. Only wealthy women can dress so well.”

  “All right, maybe Mrs. Blackwell met her lover at the opium den. Do you know which one she went to?”

  “No, and I doubt she’d be willing to betray the place to
me. She did mention a Mr. Fong, though. It sounded as if he was the one who sold her the morphine.”

  “A Chinese?” Malloy’s interest was piqued again. “Does her baby look Chinese?”

  “Malloy, really!”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? Does the baby look Chinese?”

  “Not at all. He has red hair.”

  “I guess Mr. Fong is no longer a suspect, then. But if we can find a redheaded morphine user…”

  “Now you’re making fun of me,” she accused.

  “No, I’m just thinking that maybe Mrs. Blackwell was unhappy, but that doesn’t prove she killed her husband. Find me her redheaded lover, though, either at the opium den or someplace else, and I might change my mind.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “I’ll do my best, Malloy, but probably the Symingtons just have a family history of red hair and there’s no lover at all.”

  “Or maybe the Brown family does, for all we know,” Malloy agreed. “I’ll ask Calvin when I see him again.”

  When they’d finished their meal and Malloy had eaten two slices of Mrs. Ellsworth’s pie, Sarah conducted him back into her office and sat him down at the battered desk that had been Tom’s.

  “The files are in alphabetical order, so there’s no way to know which patients he’d been working with most recently without going through each one. I’m sorry,” she said, laying a pile of folders in front of him.

  He shrugged. “I figured it wouldn’t be easy, and don’t get your hopes up, either. It’s still more likely he was killed by a common thief who chose him at random, and his death didn’t have anything to do with him personally.”

  “If that’s the case, we probably will never find out who killed him, then, will we?” she asked.

  She knew she was right, but Malloy just said, “Never is a long time.”

  He started on the As, and Sarah returned to the kitchen to do the dishes. When she’d finished, she checked on him, bringing him coffee and lighting a lamp because the sun was setting. Finally, she sat down by the front window and tried to knit, but she kept watching Malloy out of the comer of her eye, wondering if he’d found anything yet. Surely he’d say something if he had, but the only time he spoke was occasionally to ask her the meaning of a medical term.