Murder On GramercyPark

by Victoria Thompson

  “No, I… We never met.” It was apparent that Dudley was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the endless questions. Sarah wasn’t sure what Potter was trying to determine, but perhaps he wasn’t either. Maybe he just wanted to find out whatever he could in an effort to identify some weakness in the man whom he instinctively recognized as a rival for Letitia’s hand.

  “It’s a pity you never met Dr. Blackwell,” Potter was saying. “He was very gifted. Letitia wouldn’t be sitting here with us if he hadn’t helped her after her terrible accident. Isn’t that right, Letitia?”

  “I… Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. She was also uncomfortable. Sarah imagined that talking about your dead husband in front of the lover with whom you had betrayed him might be difficult. Add to this that Dudley had been involved in her accident, and she must be wishing the floor would open and swallow her up.

  “We’ll always be grateful for what he did to cure Letitia,” Dudley said in an effort to be agreeable.

  But Potter didn’t miss the fact that Dudley had used her given name. He didn’t like it, either. “Apparently someone wasn’t grateful for something he did, or Edmund would still be alive,” he noted.

  “Do we have to speak of Edmund’s death?” Letitia protested weakly.

  “Does it upset you?” Potter asked in apparent concern.

  “It was so… so unpleasant,” Letitia said.

  “Murder is always unpleasant,” Sarah offered, and everyone looked at her in surprise. They had apparently forgotten she was there.

  “But this one was particularly so,” Potter said with an odd disregard for Letitia’s sensibilities. “It must have been horrible for you, finding him that way.”

  Letitia had the grace to look pale, but perhaps she was just remembering all the blood. Heaven knew, she probably hadn’t shed many tears over her husband’s demise. “I shall never be able to get that image out of my head,” she said faintly.

  Instinctively, both men leaned forward to comfort her. Fearing they might collide, Sarah quickly spoke up. “Mr. Granger is quite upset that he didn’t get home first to spare you that shock.”

  The men both caught themselves before actually touching Letitia, but Sarah wasn’t sure if this was because of their own good sense or if her interruption had jolted them back to propriety.

  Potter looked at her in confusion, probably having once again forgotten she was there. “Who is Mr. Granger?”

  “The butler,” Sarah said, smiling innocently. “He takes his responsibilities very seriously, and he’s usually home before Mrs. Blackwell on Wednesdays. But he said she came home earlier than usual that day, which is why she was the one to, uh, to find Dr. Blackwell. He’s actually made himself sick worrying over it.”

  “I didn’t feel well that afternoon,” Letitia remembered. “That’s why I came home earlier than usual.”

  She glanced at Dudley, who was red again. Neither of them wished to discuss Letitia’s activities of that afternoon, especially in front of Potter. Sarah wondered if there was a particular reason, other than the obvious one of Letitia’s infidelity.

  Why had Letitia come home early that day? Had the lovers quarreled? But if Dudley wasn’t there-if he was off murdering Blackwell-they couldn’t have. Perhaps they’d quarreled afterward, or even before. Or perhaps Letitia had grown too anxious waiting for Dudley to complete his task and had misjudged the time. Curiosity could have drawn her into the study even if she’d known her husband lay dead in there. She would have no idea how horrible the scene would be. She’d probably imagined Blackwell neatly laid out, in dignity and repose, like a corpse in a coffin.

  Fortunately, the baby started fussing again, bringing an end to her fancies. Malloy would certainly find some flaw with her scenario, but Sarah thought it merited consideration, at least. She still liked the theory of the desperate lovers disposing of an unwanted husband, and neither of them had a dependable alibi for the afternoon of the murder. Besides, she liked them less and less each time she saw them, she decided as she tried to soothe the fretful child.

  Letitia looked askance at the baby. “I should send for the nurse,” she said. “He shouldn’t be here anyway.”

  She was right, of course. No lady of her station would have brought her infant into the front parlor when she had a visitor. Unless, of course, her visitor was the baby’s father and she’d wanted him to see the child.

  “He’s a… a handsome boy,” Potter said without much conviction. “What are you going to call him?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” she said with another glance at Dudley.

  Potter frowned in disapproval. “You must name him after his father. Surely there is no other logical thing to do under the circumstances.”

  This time Letitia colored, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “I may do that,” she said.

  Dudley made a small sound, probably of surprise, and Potter’s mouth thinned to a bloodless line.

  Sarah was enjoying this thoroughly, but the baby was beginning to root, his hungry mouth searching her bodice in vain for sustenance. Although Letitia had said she should call for the nurse, she had made no move to do so. Sarah gathered the child up and carried him over to where the bell rope hung and managed to pull it to summon a maid. Letitia didn’t even seem to notice.

  Potter was still glaring at Letitia. “We must put an announcement in the papers about the birth,” he said. “Edmund’s clients will want to… to acknowledge the child.” Trust Potter to be thinking about the practical aspects of the situation. Considering the condition of Blackwell’s estate, a few monetary gifts would be well received.

  “I don’t want any of them to know. I don’t need anything from those people,” Letitia insisted.

  “But they’ll want to send gifts,” Potter insisted. He sounded almost desperate. Sarah began to wonder if he needed the money even more than Letitia did. At least she had her father to fall back on. Sarah was sure Potter had no wealthy relatives in his family tree.

  “I don’t care if they do or not,” Letitia said petulantly. “I don’t want anything from those people. I had to let them gawk at me before, but I don’t have to even see them now if I don’t want to, and I don’t want to.”

  “I’ve never known you to be so unreasonable, Letitia,” Potter chided her. “It isn’t very becoming.”

  She gaped at him. “And I’ve never known you to be so imperious, Amos. What gives you the right to tell me what to do?”

  “I’m only looking out for your best interests,” he defended himself. “Someone must. Edmund left things in a terrible state.”

  “That doesn’t give you any reason to be rude to me,” Letitia reminded him. “I’m not responsible for what Edmund did or didn’t do.”

  Potter was instantly contrite, probably because there was no advantage to being anything else. “I didn’t intend… You have mistaken my meaning, Letitia. It’s just that I’m so concerned for you…”

  “If you were truly concerned, you would be a great deal kinder to me, Amos. I have been through a very difficult time, and my health is still precarious.” She emphasized this by dabbing her nose with the handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.

  “Forgive me, Letitia. I forgot myself,” he said, finally giving her the apology she was demanding. “It’s just… You look so well, it’s hard to remember you are so lately recovered from your confinement.”

  “I’m not recovered,” Letitia informed him. “In fact, I’m surprised Mrs. Brandt isn’t taking me to task for being up at all.” She gave Sarah a challenging look, which Sarah returned with a smile. She was still standing by the parlor door, waiting for a maid to come and take the baby.

  Sarah thought of several things she could say in reply, but all of them would have gotten her banned for life from the Blackwell home. “I’m sure you are the best judge of your ability to entertain visitors,” she demurred.

  This pleased Letitia for some reason. “Yes, you’re right,” she said, and turned back to Potter. “Thank
you so much for coming to see me, Amos, but I’m afraid I’m growing quite tired and will have to bid you good afternoon.”

  Potter’s face fell. “I… But I need to speak with you privately,” he reminded her almost desperately, “about matters of grave importance.”

  “Not today. I couldn’t possibly deal with anything important. Could I, Mrs. Brandt?” she asked in challenge.

  “Certainly not,” Sarah replied obligingly. She still needed access to the Blackwell home if she was going to find the killer, and Letitia’s favor was the only entrée she had.

  “There, you see? I hope you will call again in a few days,” Letitia said to Potter, who could no longer ignore the fact that he was being dismissed.

  He got reluctantly to his feet, then looked suspiciously at Dudley. “Mr. Dudley, perhaps we can share a cab,” he suggested.

  “Please allow me to say my private farewells to my dear friend Mr. Dudley,” Letitia said. “And he doesn’t need a cab, in any case. He lives very close by.”

  “How convenient for you,” Potter said coldly, then turned to Letitia and tried to muster up some charm. “I’m so glad to see you,” he said, bowing over her and reaching out, expecting her to give him her hand.

  She did so, but with little enthusiasm, and she let him hold it only for an instant. He was visibly disappointed.

  “I’m afraid my business cannot wait much longer. I will call on you again tomorrow,” he said, brooking no argument.

  Letitia did not reply. Everyone knew she didn’t have to receive him if she didn’t want to, so he could call all he wanted. “Good afternoon, Amos.”

  His anger evident in every move, Potter nodded stiffly to Dudley, then turned and marched to the parlor door. Just as he reached it, it opened to admit the maid, who had finally come in response to the bell. She seemed a little breathless.

  “Peggy, see Mr. Potter out,” Letitia said. “Mrs. Brandt, would you take the baby back to his nurse?”

  Sarah pretended not to hear the request. Instead, she handed the child to the unsuspecting maid, who was too startled to refuse him. “You may take him back to his nurse,” she told the girl, then shooed both her and Potter out and closed the doors decisively behind them.

  She turned to see Letitia’s outraged expression. Dudley was simply looking confused.

  “I’m afraid I must speak with both of you immediately,” Sarah explained by way of excuse for her outrageous behavior, “and don’t bother dismissing me. I’m not as easily intimidated as Mr. Potter, and besides, you need to hear what I have to say, whether you want to or not.”

  13

  FRANK FOUND MAURICE SYMINGTON IN HIS WELL-APPOINTED office in a building on upper Fifth Avenue. According to Frank’s sources, Symington owned property all over the city and made his living by collecting rents and spending as little on maintaining his buildings as possible. Most of his property was located in the poorer sections of the city, so the tenants didn’t complain much about their living conditions for fear of being evicted.

  Anticipating the possibility that Symington would refuse to see him, Frank told the man’s secretary that he had some news about Dr. Blackwell’s death. Even so, Symington kept him cooling his heels for almost an hour, but finally the young man who handled the clerical work in the office invited him into the inner sanctum.

  The office was large and meant to intimidate. The wall behind Symington’s desk was a huge window providing a panoramic view of the city below and the sky above. Symington looked up impatiently from a stack of papers on his enormous mahogany desk.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “And make it quick. I don’t have time for any nonsense.”

  “Calvin Brown is dead,” Frank said baldly, still standing because he hadn’t been invited to sit.

  Symington’s gaze had returned to his papers, as if assuming Frank could have nothing interesting enough to say to distract him, but this time when he looked up, Frank had his undivided attention. “Who did you say?”

  “Edmund Blackwell’s son,” Frank said politely. Symington knew perfectly well who he was talking about. “I know you were trying to be discreet when you pretended not to know who he was the other day with Potter, but Calvin told me he’d met with you. He said the only way he got in to see his father was because you intervened for him.”

  Symington was a careful man. He took a moment to weigh his options. He could, of course, have called Frank a liar and ordered him from the room. He could have feigned ignorance and demanded an explanation. But he was too wise to take any chances. He understood that a scandal like this, involving the betrayed daughter of a wealthy and powerful man, would sell a lot of newspapers. The respectable papers wouldn’t publish it, of course, but there were many papers in the city that made no pretense to respectability. They would pay a large sum of money for the information Frank had, and Symington had no reason to trust Frank’s discretion.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Malloy,” Symington said, instantly reasonable.

  Frank did as he was told, noticing that the chair here was much more comfortable and expensive than the one in Blackwell’s former office. This one was leather and as soft as butter. A real man’s chair.

  “How did the boy die?” Symington asked when Frank was settled.

  “Arsenic. Somebody put it in a bottle of sarsaparilla.”

  “Somebody?” he asked, not missing the implication.

  “It could have been a suicide.”

  Symington thought this over. “You don’t believe it was,” he guessed.

  “I’m paid to be skeptical.”

  “Do you know the entire story?” Symington asked, folding his hands on the desktop. “About the boy, I mean.”

  Now it was Frank’s turn to be cautious. He certainly didn’t want to be the one telling Symington something he didn’t know about his own daughter. “I know that Blackwell used to be Eddie Brown and that Eddie Brown had a wife he’d neglected to divorce and three children he’d deserted in Virginia. I know Calvin had traced his father here and that they’d met. Calvin said Blackwell had promised to give him some money and start supporting the Brown family again. I only have his word on that, since Blackwell wasn’t around to confirm anything. Oh, and Amos Potter said Blackwell had gotten some money together and planned to meet with Calvin on the afternoon he was killed. The boy claimed nobody answered the door that day, so he never even saw his father, but nobody’s seen the money since, either.”

  “Potter believes the boy killed Edmund. If he did, he could have killed himself out of remorse,” Symington suggested.

  “That would make everything neat and tidy,” Frank pointed out. “But if he did kill Blackwell, why didn’t he take the money and leave town? Why stay around and put himself in the way of being caught? If Calvin didn’t kill his father-and that’s a pretty unnatural thing to do, no matter what your old man did to you-then somebody’s gotten away with murdering two men.”

  “Two men about whom I care little, Mr. Malloy,” Symington pointed out without apology. “I do care very much about my daughter, however. Protecting her good name and that of her child must be my main concern.”

  “Any father would feel the same,” Frank allowed. “Too bad Blackwell wasn’t as concerned about his children. That Calvin, for instance; he seemed like a good boy, and he’d gotten a pretty rough deal from his old man. Had to go to work when he was just a kid to help support his mother and two little sisters. Now his mother’s lost her husband and her only son. Don’t hardly seem fair to mark the boy a killer if he’s innocent.”

  “Many things in life aren’t fair, Mr. Malloy, as I’m sure you are well aware. But I would be happy to compensate Mrs. Brown for her loss. It’s not my responsibility, of course, but it’s the right thing to do. The poor woman has suffered too much already. There’s no reason she should be rendered destitute by the loss of her son, and I have the means to help her. I also feel some obligation because I allowed Edmund to marry my daughter in the first place.”

&nbs
p; He’d be responsible for blackening Calvin’s name, too, which would be even worse, because he’d do it intentionally. Frank didn’t think reminding him of this would help the situation any, though. He was already dangerously close to having Symington order him to declare Calvin as Blackwell’s killer and close the case. A rich man had done this to him once before, and a word from Symington to Chief of Police Conlin was all it would take. Frank wasn’t going to let that happen again if he could help it.

  “But what if somebody else killed both of them?” he suggested to Symington. “Somebody you don’t care about either. Somebody who’d be better off locked up. Somebody you’d also like to keep away from your daughter.”

  Symington’s face hardened. “You seem to be speaking of someone in particular, Mr. Malloy. Is that the case?”

  “I’ve learned a few things about your daughter’s past that might give a man we both know a reason for wanting Blackwell out of the way,” Frank said, not really answering the question.

  Symington was angry, although he was trying not to show it. “My daughter’s past is none of your concern, Malloy.”

  “What if her past has moved into the present?”

  Symington was angrier still, but he was also afraid of how much Frank might know and of what he might do with that knowledge. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about old friends suddenly showing up. Friends who might prefer it if your daughter wasn’t married anymore. A friend who might even want to marry her himself the way he tried to once before.”

  “That’s impossible,” Symington insisted, but it sounded more like a frantic hope than a certainty.

  “Peter Dudley visited your daughter just the other day,” Frank said.

  “That son of a bitch.” Symington’s rage was interesting. He looked as if he wanted to shout and pound on his desk and even throw something out that impressive window. Instead, he merely turned a deep shade of purple and stared murderously at a spot somewhere over Frank’s left shoulder. Frank was afraid he might have apoplexy, and that wouldn’t serve Frank’s purpose at all.