Murder on Gramercy Park

by Victoria Thompson

  His eyes widened with near panic. “Please, ma’am. You don’t want to be carrying that heavy bag all the way uptown. At least let me take it for you.”

  “But I’ll need my bag as soon as I get there. I promise it will be all right,” Sarah said. “You won’t get in any trouble.”

  The boy’s face was a mask of despair, but he plainly had no choice. “I’d go with you, but I can’t leave the carriage,” he said.

  “Of course not. I’ll see you at the house. What is the address?”

  When he gave it to her, she recognized it instantly. She’d known the previous occupant slightly. The house had an unhappy history, and it seemed as if the Blackwell family had just added to it.

  Reluctantly, the boy climbed up onto the carriage seat and slapped his horses into motion. They slowly made their way into the crush of traffic.

  Sarah took note of the carriage. It wasn’t new, by any means, but had been refurbished quite expertly. She thought the gold leaf designs on the doors a bit much, however. New money, her mother would have scoffed. The team wasn’t matched but seemed well cared for, a rarity in the heat of the city. Keeping a carriage and team of any kind here was expensive. Her new clients must have money, new or not. But she’d already guessed that from the Gramercy Park address.

  Sarah set out at a brisk pace. Years of walking the city streets at all hours, hurrying to arrive before a baby did, had made her strong. And she’d been right about walking being the quickest way to get where she was going. The distance from her home on Bank Street to Gramercy Park was less than a mile, but a carriage would have to maneuver through streets choked with vehicles of every description, fighting for the right of way at every intersection. The boldest—or the most foolhardy—soul was the one who got through first, and no one gave way for anyone else voluntarily.

  The only way to travel quickly through the city was on the elevated railway, but that only went north and south. Rumor said the city fathers were considering an underground railway that would take people all over the city. Sarah could hardly credit such a thing. If they dug tunnels beneath the streets, what would keep the streets from collapsing? For an instant she pictured the entire city sinking into a gigantic hole.

  Banishing that disturbing thought, she realized she’d forgotten to ask the young man how her patient’s husband had died. He must have died violently, or Frank Malloy would not have been involved.

  Did the boy say the dead man was a doctor? Sarah thought the name was familiar, but she couldn’t recall meeting a Dr. Blackwell. Someone new in town, perhaps. Or maybe he wasn’t really a medical doctor. Many people called themselves “doctor” without any credentials at all.

  Well, she’d find out soon enough, she thought as she darted between carriages and wagons and carts all stopped at the intersection of Bank and Hudson and Eighth Avenue, their drivers screaming curses at each other as they fought for the right of way.

  “I ALREADY TOLD that other officer everything I know,” the butler informed Frank, who’d summoned him to the front parlor to question him.

  “Then it’ll be fresh in your mind, won’t it?” Frank said amiably. He was sitting in a comfortable chair, and he let the butler remain standing. “Your name is Granger?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where were you this afternoon?”

  “I was visiting my mother. She’s quite elderly, and I visit her every Wednesday afternoon. That is my customary afternoon off.”

  “Are all the servants off on Wednesday?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank noticed he wasn’t saying “sir,” but he chose to ignore the man’s subtle insult. He was already uncooperative enough, and Frank had other ways of humbling him if he needed to. “Do the servants always leave the house on their afternoon off?”

  “Usually, although sometimes one will stay. Today, however, Dr. Blackwell ordered me to make sure all the servants were out.”

  “And why was that?”

  Granger straightened even more, although Frank would have thought that impossible. “He said he had an appointment, and he wanted to be sure no one else was in the house.”

  “Do you know who his appointment was with?”

  “He did not confide in me.”

  Frank had no patience with this. “You’re a good butler, aren’t you, Granger?”

  Granger seemed insulted by the question. “I pride myself in that.”

  “If you are a good butler, then, you must have known, or at least suspected, who he was seeing today.”

  The observation placated him somewhat. “Ordinarily, that would be true, but Dr. Blackwell was very mysterious about this meeting. He did not confide in anyone.”

  “And you’re sure no one else was in the house?”

  “You can question the other servants, but I’m certain they were all out. They understood this was Dr. Blackwell’s wish. I made that very clear, and I remained until they had all gone,” he added.

  Frank was sure he had. “Was anyone else here when Mrs. Blackwell came home and found her husband?”

  “Not that I am aware. I arrived shortly afterward. As I told you, she is usually gone much longer than she was today, and I try to arrive back before she does, in case she needs anything when she arrives.”

  “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 bloo
d 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.