Murder on Trinity Place

by Victoria Thompson

  Pritchard let his very satisfied gaze touch everyone around the table, and for a long moment, no one could think of a single thing to say in response to his lecture.

  Finally, Malloy said, “So there was no year one?”

  “Never. Not ever. So we can count time the way it should be counted, and the year of 1900 should be the first year of the twentieth century.”

  “Clarence, let’s remember we are guests here,” Mrs. Pritchard said a little sharply.

  “Nonsense. Theda is our daughter. Besides, I’m sure these people are glad to know the truth instead of that garbage the newspapers are publishing. Something must be done. We only have two days left.”

  “What do you propose we do?” Gino asked with apparent seriousness that didn’t fool Sarah at all.

  Sarah glared at him this time, and Mrs. Pritchard made a small sound of distress, but he ignored them both.

  “We must spread the word,” Pritchard said. “We must tell everyone. This is an outrage. The new century must be welcomed with ceremony.”

  Theda had gone pale, Mrs. Pritchard looked as if she really might want to murder her husband, and Harvey had once again drained his wineglass. Before anyone could speak, however, the maid carried in the tray of desserts.

  “The tarts are here,” Theda cried with relief. “Mother Ellsworth made them. Did I tell you? They’re so delicious.”

  As the maid served the tarts, Mrs. Ellsworth managed to catch Sarah’s eye and send her a silent plea for help. Sarah wasn’t certain what she could do, but after racking her brain, she took advantage of the momentary distraction of the sweet treat to say, “Mr. Pritchard, do you pasteurize the milk at your dairy?”

  Harvey’s expression when he turned to her was pure astonishment, and she could feel the wave of dismay from the others, but Pritchard leaned forward so he could see her past Maeve and Harvey. “Of course I do. Do you know that bad milk has killed thousands of children in this city alone?”

  “Yes, I do,” Sarah said. “I know that only a few years ago half of the children in New York died before their fifth birthdays.”

  “Because of swill milk,” Pritchard confirmed, nodding vigorously. “Some died from the milk itself and some from consumption and other diseases that took them because they were weakened by the bad milk. I call my company Pure Milk so people know that’s what I sell.”

  “Do you deliver in this neighborhood?” Sarah asked. “I have two children, you see, and I’d like to be sure they’re drinking the very best milk I can find.” She caught a glimpse of Malloy, who was staring at her in wonder.

  “Yes, we do,” Pritchard said, but he got no further.

  “These tarts are delicious, Mrs. Ellsworth,” Gino said. “But then, I’ve never tasted anything you made that wasn’t delicious.”

  “Mrs. Ellsworth taught me to cook,” Maeve reported, obviously having joined Gino’s blatant effort to change the subject.

  “She’s teaching me all her recipes,” Theda said. “I just hope I can learn how to do them as well as she does.”

  “You’re all too kind,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “I’m sure Mrs. Pritchard is an excellent cook as well.”

  And so, by the simple method of not giving him another moment of silence to fill, they managed to keep Mr. Pritchard from causing any further disturbances during dessert. When they were finished, Theda suggested the ladies withdraw so the men could enjoy cigars and brandy, and all the women gladly did so.

  As soon as they were safely in the parlor again, Mrs. Pritchard took Mrs. Ellsworth’s hands. “Oh, Edna, I’m so sorry about Clarence. I don’t know what’s come over him. These past few weeks he’s talked of nothing except the new century, and he won’t listen to reason at all.”

  “That’s all right, Ilsa. I know how men get. My late husband had his own hobbyhorses. He used to have opinions about all sorts of ridiculous things, and as much as he annoyed me then, I’d give anything to hear him spouting off about them now.”

  Mrs. Pritchard smiled wanly at that, but she didn’t look as if she’d miss Mr. Pritchard in quite the same way. “And Theda, dear, I’m afraid he ruined your first party.”

  “Not at all. I’m sure we’ll look back and laugh someday,” Theda said with forced cheerfulness. “Let’s sit down and forget all about it.”

  But they couldn’t forget about it for long because they soon heard Mr. Pritchard shouting.

  “Oh dear,” his wife said, rising to her feet and wringing her hands helplessly. “I never should have let him come.”

  The parlor door flew open and Pritchard was there, his face alarmingly red and his eyes wild. “Come along, Ilsa. We’re leaving.”

  “But Father, we were going to play charades and—” Theda tried.

  “Ilsa, get your coat!” Pritchard thundered, ignoring his daughter completely.

  Theda’s face crumbled and Nelson, who had come in behind his father-in-law, hurried to her side.

  “Really, Mr. Pritchard,” Gino was saying, “we agree with you completely.” He and Malloy had followed their host from the dining room.

  But Pritchard wasn’t listening. He was throwing coats off the hall tree until he found his own and his wife’s.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Pritchard whispered to Mrs. Ellsworth before taking her coat from him and allowing him to hustle her outside.

  Pritchard stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Are you coming, Harvey?”

  “No, I’ll make my own way home.”

  Satisfied, Pritchard pulled the door closed behind him and his wife.

  For a long moment the others were all too stunned to even move, and then Theda burst into tears. As Nelson tried to comfort her, Mrs. Ellsworth fetched a small glass of brandy and made her drink it.

  “I don’t know what could have come over him,” Theda said between sobs.

  “He’s always been a strange bird,” Harvey said, “but lately, he’s been stranger than usual.”

  “Has something happened recently to cause him strain or anxiety?” Sarah asked him.

  He gave her a startled glance and said, “Of course not” a little too quickly. Then he turned to his sister. “Little bug, I’m going to scamper. Don’t give the old man another thought. He’ll probably forget this even happened by tomorrow.” Before anyone could stop him, he made his escape.

  “I think we should go, too,” Sarah said.

  “But we were going to play charades,” Theda wailed.

  “We’ll do it another time,” Mrs. Ellsworth promised before escorting the last of her guests into the foyer. “I’m so sorry this happened. I have no idea what could have set him off like that.”

  “You don’t need to apologize to us,” Sarah assured her. “You’re not responsible for any of this, and obviously, Mr. Pritchard is not himself.”

  “He certainly isn’t. The worst thing I’ve ever seen him do is bore people with the history of milk production in New York City,” she said sadly.

  Malloy helped Sarah with her coat while Gino picked up his and Maeve’s off the floor and assisted her. By mutual agreement, Gino went home with them. Malloy’s mother was surprised to see them back so early, and they had to tell her about their strange evening.

  “I almost choked when you asked him about pasteurizing his milk, Mrs. Frank,” Gino said when they’d finished the tale. By then they were drinking coffee in the parlor.

  “I was just trying to distract him, and it was the only thing I could think of.”

  “It was brilliant,” Malloy said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

  “I just want to know which one of you got him all riled up again after the ladies left,” Maeve said.

  “It was Harvey,” Gino said. “Although I can’t figure out what he said that made the old man so mad.”

  “I can’t either. I thought he was actually tr
ying to agree with him,” Malloy said.

  “What did he say exactly?” Sarah asked.

  The two men exchanged a glance as they tried to remember. “Something about how he’d bet most people agreed with him about the turn of the century being this year, I think,” Malloy said.

  “Oh, that’s right, and then Pritchard said something about how Harvey would bet on anything, and the next thing you know he’s yelling something about his milk trucks and . . .” Gino gestured helplessly.

  “It didn’t make much sense,” Malloy admitted.

  “Sounds like he’s losing his mind,” Mrs. Malloy said. “Mrs. Ellsworth always did think he wasn’t quite right.”

  “She warned us he can be rather boring on the subject of milk,” Sarah said, “but this was something else entirely.”

  “Which reminds me,” Maeve said. “What is swill milk?”

  “Probably what you were raised on,” Mother Malloy said.

  “I thought I was raised on cow’s milk.”

  “Cows fed with swill,” Sarah said. “That’s the leftover mash from breweries. Instead of throwing it away, they’d feed it to cows.”

  Maeve frowned. “But why? I thought cows ate grass.”

  “Only if they’re on a farm where there’s lots of grass,” Malloy said. “Years ago, they used to have farms with cows right here where the city is now.”

  “That’s right,” Mother Malloy said. “There was a wall on Wall Street to keep them from wandering downtown.”

  “Really?” Maeve marveled. “A wall?”

  “How do you think that street got its name?” Mother Malloy said.

  “I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

  “But the city got bigger and they tore down the wall and built houses on the farmland, so there wasn’t any place for the cows to graze close by anymore,” Malloy continued, “so they started keeping the cows in big warehouses in the city and feeding them swill.”

  “But I know they keep cows out on the farms upstate and bring the milk in on the trains,” Gino said.

  “They do now,” Sarah said, “but we didn’t always have trains and when we did, we didn’t have a way to keep the milk cold, so the cows had to be nearby.”

  “Now they put the milk in big metal cans and cover them with ice,” Malloy said. “But we haven’t been able to do that until recently.”

  “And they only started pasteurizing milk in the city a few years ago, so even if the milk was fresh, it might still be contaminated.”

  “You asked Mr. Pritchard if his company pasteurizes his milk,” Gino said. “Does that mean not all of them do?”

  “That’s exactly what it means. And some companies are still keeping cows in the city and feeding them swill.”

  “But isn’t milk just milk? If it comes from the cow, why does it matter what the cow eats?” Gino asked.

  “Swill must not be as nourishing as grass,” Sarah said. “Swill milk is thin and kind of bluish, so dairies would mix things like starch or chalk or even plaster into it to make it whiter.”

  “Plaster?” Maeve cried.

  “And it would also make babies drunk,” Mother Malloy said.

  Everyone turned to her in surprise.

  “Drunk?” Gino echoed. “Babies got drunk on milk?”

  “Of course. Swill is what is left when they make whiskey. Why wouldn’t it pass into the milk?”

  “How horrible,” Maeve said with a shudder.

  “As I mentioned at dinner, lots of babies died from drinking bad milk,” Sarah said. “I guess I can understand why Mr. Pritchard is a bit enthusiastic about the subject.”

  “But no babies die because of New Year’s Eve,” Gino said, “although a lot of people do get drunk, so why is he so enthusiastic about that?”

  No one had any idea.

  “At least New Year’s Eve will be over in a few days, so Mr. Pritchard can go back to just talking about milk,” Malloy said. “Are you really going to start having his milk delivered here?”

  Sarah smiled. “We already do. We switched to Pure Milk as soon as Nelson and Theda became engaged.”

  “It was Edna’s idea,” Mother Malloy said. “But I didn’t see any reason not to.”

  “Nor did I,” Sarah said. “Theda will probably inherit the dairy or at least part of it someday, so we’re doing our part to support it.”

  “Someday might come sooner than she expects if Mr. Pritchard doesn’t stop being so obnoxious about the new century,” Maeve said. “Did you see the way Mrs. Pritchard looked at him when he started ranting?”

  “Fortunately, wives don’t murder their husbands just because they’re embarrassing,” Sarah said.

  “If they did, there wouldn’t be any husbands left alive,” Malloy added with a grin.

  * * *

  • • •

  Frank braced himself against the leather seat and once again cursed himself for buying a motorcar. Why anyone thought this was an improvement over a horse and carriage, he had no idea. Whizzing along like this, they were all freezing, even though they were completely bundled up, with woolen underwear beneath their clothes and dusters over their heaviest coats and mufflers wrapped up to their hats.

  Fortunately, the city streets were still crowded at this late hour as people roamed around, waiting for the stroke of midnight that would mark the beginning of the New Year, and the crowds kept Gino from going much faster than five miles an hour. The motorcar could go up to twenty miles per hour or so Gino had informed him. Frank couldn’t imagine why anyone would need to go that fast. Five miles per hour was enough to rip your eyeballs right out of your head, which was why they all had to wear goggles in addition to the cotton dusters that protected their clothes from the dust and dirt of the streets. Someone should really come up with a way to protect them from the wind, at least.

  “Get a horse!” some wit hollered from the safety of the sidewalk. Frank glared at him, but Sarah and Maeve waved gaily. Sarah seemed to be enjoying herself, even if her elaborate hat kept threatening to blow off, and Maeve was positively thrilled. She’d claimed the front seat beside Gino, which was fine with Frank. He much preferred sitting in the rear seat—the tonneau—with Sarah, snuggled under the fur lap robe.

  At last they reached Trinity Church, or near enough, and found a place to park along Broadway. The grounds around the church had filled long ago, and pedestrians were spilling off the sidewalk and the grassy median into the wide street. The racket was nearly deafening, as seemingly every reveler had purchased a tin horn from the peddlers making their way through the crowds. A few other motorcars had also pulled up along the street.

  “Look at that phaeton,” Gino said. “Come on, Maeve. Let’s get a better look at her.”

  Without so much as a backward glance, Gino hopped down and assisted Maeve to the ground so the two of them could go off to question the phaeton’s owner, who would probably be thrilled to discuss it with them. The decision to select a gasoline-powered vehicle over an electric- or steam-powered model had been a difficult one, and Gino enjoyed arguing their reasons with people who had chosen differently.

  “Are you warm enough?” Frank asked Sarah.

  “Oh yes, although I imagine riding in the motorcar will be much more pleasant in warmer weather.”

  Frank wasn’t so sure, but he said, “At least we have a place to sit to listen to the bells.”

  “And almost as good a view of the crowds as if we were in the bell tower,” she said.

  She was exaggerating, but only a little. The tonneau was at least a foot higher than the front seat of the vehicle, putting them well above street level. The design had something to do with the mechanical structure of the vehicle, although Frank hadn’t understood it when Gino explained, and he wasn’t really interested in finding out more about it.

  They sat for a few moments, wa
tching the people milling about and tooting their horns and taking surreptitious sips from hip flasks. Everyone seemed to be having a good time except one gentleman who was lurching through the crowd and stopping to speak to anyone who would pay him the slightest heed. Whatever he was saying apparently met with no one’s approval because, without exception, each person or group of people he addressed turned away from him after a moment or two.

  “Is that . . . ?” Sarah asked, peering through the night as the man passed under a streetlamp. “Could that be Mr. Pritchard?”

  Frank looked again and realized she was right. He was closer now, and Frank caught the words new century being shouted over the din from the crowd and the tin horns. “Oh no. He’s trying to convince people they should be welcoming the new century.”

  As they watched, Pritchard approached three men who were laughing at something one of them had said. After a few moments, their smiles faded and one of them started shouting at Pritchard. More words were exchanged, and one of the men gave Pritchard a shove that sent him staggering.

  Frank was half out of his seat before Pritchard got his balance, and Sarah grabbed Frank’s arm and pulled him back down. “He won’t thank you for coming to his rescue,” she said.

  She was right, but Pritchard was going to get himself into real trouble if he didn’t stop accosting people. “We can’t just let him go.”

  “No, we can’t,” she said. “But he’s coming this way.” She started waving. “Mr. Pritchard!”

  Frank waved, too, and Pritchard finally noticed. He moved toward them, a puzzled frown on his face, and Frank noticed he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. Had he been drinking? Certainly, most of the crowd had been.