Death in Saratoga Springs (26 page)

New York City
Wednesday, August 29

 

P
amela was chatting with the office clerk when Prescott arrived, refreshed and tanned. She asked, “How was camping in the Adirondacks?” He had just returned from two weeks of canoeing, fishing, swimming, and hiking with his son, Edward.

“Splendid!” he replied, leading her into his private office. “Have you heard from Harry?” Miller was away on vacation with Sergeant Larry White and his family at a cottage on Long Island.

“He met Larry's sister-in-law and fell into a budding romance.”

“Good for him! She might sweeten his disposition. What else happened while I was gone?”

“A few days ago, Robert Shaw began a life sentence in Dannemora. He had accepted the district attorney's plea bargain. I'm sure he hopes that lady luck will eventually smile on him.”

“And what's happened to Rachel?”

“She was convicted of conspiracy in her husband's death and sentenced to six years in Mount Pleasant, the women's prison on the grounds of Sing Sing.”

“I pity her,” said Prescott. “Life there will be harsh and degrading for a beautiful young courtesan.” He asked tentatively, “Any personal news?”

“Yes, according to local gossip, the Morgans at Ventfort have excused your wife Gloria's social blunder as due to a parent's misguided but well-meaning concern. Gloria and her banker friend, Mr. Fisher, are still together. . . .” Pamela searched his eyes.

Prescott frowned. “And what else?'

“She has sued you for divorce in Connecticut, accusing you of mental cruelty and infidelity.”

Prescott let out an exasperated sigh and pointed to a heaping basket of correspondence. “My lawyer's letter is probably in there, together with a summons to appear in court.”

“But there's also heartwarming news,” Pamela added. “Jason will stay with the Crawfords in the city for a week, then return to Saratoga Springs and work through September at the hotel. Signor Teti has employed him as a part-time handyman and will give him music lessons. For the time being, he'll continue to live at Carson's clinic.”

The clerk appeared at the door. “Mr. Virgil Crawford to see you, sir, concerning recent business.”

“Show him in.” Prescott glanced at Pamela with a look of surprise.

Before she could reply, Virgil entered and handed Prescott a check. “This concludes the Ruth Colt case. A coroner's jury has ruled that Captain Crake was responsible for Miss Colt's murder. Her aunt has properly buried her. This is as much justice as we can expect in an imperfect world. I would have preferred to see him convicted and hanged. Hopefully, a Higher Court will give him his due.”

“Tell me about Jason,” Prescott asked. “I understand he has drawn closer to his mother.”

“Yes, thanks to Savannah. It's touching to watch Jason and Edith grooming her together. So, we have reasons to celebrate. I'm authorized to invite you and Mrs. Thompson to dinner Friday evening at the Crawford home on Washington Square. The party will be you two, the family, and a half-dozen congenial acquaintances. Dress semiformal. As family chef, I'll arrange a memorable meal.”

Prescott glanced at Pamela, and she agreed. He said, “I accept gladly. This offers an opportunity for a gesture that I've been thinking about.” He took down the military sword hanging on the wall behind him and handed it to Virgil. “It came from Gettysburg and may have belonged to your cousin Arthur Crawford.”

Virgil held the sword at various angles to the light and studied it through a magnifying glass. Finally, he met Prescott's eye. “Sir, I can assure you that this sword once belonged to my cousin Arthur.” He pointed to tiny letters faintly engraved on the hilt:
TUTUM TE ROBORE REDDAM
. “That's Latin for the Crawford family motto: ‘With my strength I'll make you safe.' As he was leaving home to join his regiment, he raised the sword to express his devotion to our family, our country, and our way of life.”

“Would your family like it back?” Prescott asked. “Or, would it be too painful a reminder of your great losses in the war?”

Virgil replied, “James will answer for us. But I can safely say to bring the sword with you to dinner tomorrow evening.”

 

As their coach approached the Crawford home, Pamela felt uneasy, not knowing precisely what to expect. The burden of the family's tragic past always seemed present in Edith's haunted look, in James's stoic suffering, in Jason's resentful eyes, in Virgil's gracious, freely offered servitude. Besides the reconciliation of Jason and his mother, what else were they supposed to celebrate? Captain Crake's death?

She cast Prescott a side glance. The sword lay in its scabbard on his lap. For comfort in the late August heat he had chosen a light gray dinner jacket, white shirt, gray bow tie, and dark gray trousers. His figure was still athletic and trim at fifty-two. Pamela felt pleased beside him in a red short-sleeved silk gown and a pearl necklace.

Virgil met them at the door, hung the sword on a hook, and then showed them into a parlor. Edith joined them and broke into a delighted smile as Pamela presented her with a bouquet of freesias. The other guests arrived, mostly cultivated Southerners, to judge from their accent. While Virgil disappeared to check on the meal, James welcomed them all in his study. Over aperitifs they admired his collection of antique ivory chessmen and his large library of Greek and Latin literature with modern illustrations. From the study they went to the music room. Jason was there with his flute. When the guests were seated, Virgil came with a cello, and Edith moved to the piano.

At a gesture from Edith, they began the Irish folk tune “The Londonderry Air.” Pamela listened rapt as the trio poured their own painful sense of suffering and loss, and their yearnings for happiness into the bittersweet melody. As the music soared, Pamela's lost daughter, Julia, slipped unbeckoned into her mind, lovely as in life. “I miss you so,” came soundlessly from Pamela's lips.

She feared she would break into tears and spoil the party. Fortunately, Virgil announced, “To put us in a festive mood for the dinner table, we'll close the music with ‘Gaudeamus Igitur,' from the finale of Johannes Brahms's
Academic Festival Overture.
James will sing the original Latin. Sing along if you know it.” He gave a nod and the trio set out at a lively tempo.

“Gaudeamus igitur juvenes dum sumus . . .”
(“Let us rejoice while we are young . . .”)

James's voice was a strong, clear baritone. Prescott joined him in perfect harmony. The mood in the room lightened. At the song's conclusion, Virgil showed them into the dining room, where an oval table was set for ten. Virgil and Jason retreated to the kitchen.

The room's modest size, its polished hardwood floors, pastel yellow walls and green drapes, potted plants in the corners, and flower boxes on the window ledges created an impression of intimate elegance. Compared with the Morgans, Astors, and Vanderbilts, the Crawfords entertained on a small scale, consistent with their restrained social ambitions.

In a waiter's black suit and white gloves, Jason served lobster bisque, followed by broiled striped bass and anchovy sauce with new potatoes. The meat course was stuffed veal with fresh roasted vegetables. Edam and Roquefort cheese and fresh fruit came next, and for dessert crème brûlée. With each course he offered the appropriate wine. Pamela took small portions and barely sipped the wine. Afterward, Jason and Virgil served coffee and liqueur in the drawing room, then remained with the company.

Over the mantel was the large portrait of Arthur Crawford in his officer's uniform, flanked by portraits of his mother and father. A miniature of the painting stood on the mantel beneath the portrait.

Virgil came with the sword, handed it to Prescott, and said, “I believe we are ready.” The guests gathered around him.

With heightened feeling in his voice, James addressed Prescott. “Captain, tell us the story of that sword.”

Prescott bowed to James, then recounted the events of that fateful day in July at Gettysburg: the Georgia infantry's advance through the wheat field, the young officer falling, the Georgians retreating.

“When I reached him, he lay dead from a wound to the heart. Death was instant. I doubt that he suffered. I picked up his sword, intending to return it to his family. But before I could determine his identity, the Georgians rallied and drove us back. I was wounded. Months later, after my recovery, I searched unsuccessfully for the family. Years later, I mounted the sword on my office wall as a memorial to an unknown victim of the war. Since I've learned his identity, I believe the sword belongs here.”

He presented the sword to James. James drew it from the scabbard, read aloud the Crawford motto, and said, “It's Arthur's. In the confusion following the battle, his body disappeared into an unmarked grave. This sword is all we have of him, and, of course, the memories and the paintings.” He glanced up at the large portrait over the mantel. “We'll place the sword beneath it.”

Virgil had prepared the spot and now hung the sword and stepped back.

James shook Prescott's hand. “Thank you, Captain, you've brought a bitter chapter of our family's history to an honorable conclusion.”

They gathered in front of the fireplace and gazed at the sword. There was a moment of silence and a few tears, then a collective sigh of relief. “Finally,” said James, “we've put frustrated anger and resentment behind us and are free to live.”

While the others enjoyed their drinks and continued to reminisce, Pamela drifted away, looking at other portraits in the room. Her gaze fixed on a small painting of Virgil in the prime of life, seated with his right hand gripping his cane. The artist caught him in a grim mood, eyes hooded. Unwelcome suspicions raced to Pamela's mind.

She slipped out of the room and into the entrance hall. Virgil's cane stood in a rack. She drew out the sword and closely examined its blade. In tiny letters was etched the inscription:
FIAT JUSTITIA RUANT COELI
. (“Let justice prevail though the Heavens fall.”) Suddenly, the pieces of the Crake murder puzzle fell into place. She heard soft footsteps behind her.

“You won't find blood, Pamela. I cleaned the blade.” Virgil gently took the sword from her hands and slid it back into the cane. He motioned her into his parlor. “We'll talk better here,” he said, while studying her face, reading her mind.

“I see you have concluded that I killed Captain Crake. I do regret that Miss Ricci spent a month in prison. That was not in the plan. She would never have gone to trial.”

“Don't be concerned, Virgil. She has recovered and has actually gained from the experience.”

“I have no regret for Rob Shaw's life term in prison. British authorities want to hang him for a murder in South Africa, so he's fortunate to be in Dannemora. We are all better off for having one less parasite in our midst. Rachel Crake was rightly convicted of conspiring with him to kill her husband. Six years in Mount Pleasant might improve her character.”

“So, why was Crake killed?”

“Certain crimes cry out to Heaven for righteous vengeance. Crake's reached that level. In such cases, when the civil authorities fail to act or, worse yet, are complicit, then the duty falls to anyone who is able to perform it.”

“Private vengeance is risky, Virgil. The state calls it criminal and prescribes a severe punishment.”

“True, there is that risk.” His tone was sardonic. “But it's lessened by our country's long tradition of popular or vigilante justice. As we speak, a black man is probably being lynched somewhere, and not only in the South.”

Pamela flinched at his bitter irony. “How did it happen, Virgil?”

“When Rachel Crake left the concert to gamble at the casino, I knew that Crake would be alone and drugged. I slipped into his room and stabbed him. As fate would have it, while I was wiping his blood from my blade, I heard someone at the door. I hid in a cabinet. Rob Shaw stole into the room in a chambermaid's bonnet and apron, dagger drawn. The light was low. He crept close to Crake on the sofa and raised the weapon. Suddenly, he saw that the man was already dead. Cursing God, he fled from the room.”

“Were Edith and James involved in the killing in any way?”

“No, not at all. I told them only after the fact. Edith was pleased with what I had done. James refused to pass judgment. We are still best friends.”

“Have you felt any remorse?”

“Yes, I feel soiled and unsatisfied, all the more because my deed was unnecessary. Shaw would have done it.” Tears pooled in his eyes. He gazed at her with yearning. “Do you think less of me now?”

She shook her head. “I surely do not judge you, Virgil. I feel only compassion. I believe that even righteous vengeance takes a terrible toll of one's humanity, and you are suffering. I'm not obliged to report to anyone what you've told me. I hope you find peace.” She caressed his cheek. “Shall we join the others in the sitting room?”

Choked up, he gazed at her for a moment, then returned the cane to the rack. They waited while he grew calm. Then he said, “Thank you, Pamela, I'll check on things in the kitchen.”

Back in the sitting room, Pamela asked Prescott, “Shall we thank our hosts and leave now?”

“Yes, they seem reconciled with each other and with their past.”

For a readable account of Saratoga Springs in the Gilded Age, go to George Waller's
Saratoga: Saga of an Impious Era
(Prentice-Hall, Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1966). On the social background of Saratoga Springs, see Thomas A. Chambers's
Drinking the Waters: Creating an American Leisure Class at Nineteenth-Century Mineral Springs
(Smithsonian Institution Scholarly Press, Washington, DC, 2002). Chambers compares and contrasts Saratoga Springs and White Sulphur Springs, Virginia. For racial issues in Saratoga Springs, consult Myra B. Young Armstead's
“Lord, Please Don't Take Me in August”: African-Americans in Newport and Saratoga Springs, 1870–1930
(University of Illinois Press, Urbana, IL, 1999). Edward Hotaling tells the Gilded Age story of the Saratoga Springs thoroughbred racing track in
They're Off! Horse Racing at Saratoga
(Syracuse University Press, Syracuse, NY, 1995). For images and text describing the city's remarkable Gilded Age buildings, see Stephen S. Prokopoff and Joan C. Siegfried Prokopoff's
The Nineteenth-Century Architecture of Saratoga Springs: Architecture Worth Saving in New York State
(New York State Council on the Arts, New York, 1970).

 

In 1894, the Grand Union Hotel was at its peak among the world's greatest hotels. Its six floors occupied almost an entire city block and could accommodate 2,000 guests. It had hot and cold running water in every guest room, as well as indoor plumbing and electricity throughout the building and an elevator to the upper floors. Its furnishings and cuisine were luxurious. In the rear courtyard was a large park, shaded by tall elm trees and illuminated by gaslight. Concerts were regularly held there. In the twentieth century, the hotel's fortunes declined and it was demolished in the 1950s. Canfield's Casino, however, has survived to become a splendid witness to the Gilded Age and the site of the Historical Society of Saratoga Springs.

 

For the Gilded Age's memory of Sherman's March to the Sea, consult Wesley Moody's
Demon of the Lost Cause: Sherman and Civil War History
(University of Missouri, Columbus, MO, 2011). Concerning the atrocities blamed on Sherman's army, read Lee B. Kennett's
Marching Through Georgia: The Story of Soldiers and Civilians During Sherman's Campaign
(Harper Perennial, New York, 1995) for a careful analysis of accusations of rape of white women by Union soldiers. He concludes that it happened, as in the fictional case at the Crawford plantation, but it was contrary to military law and Sherman's orders, and doesn't appear to have been widespread. James Marten, in his
Sing Not War: The Lives of Union and Confederate Veterans in Gilded Age America
(University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, NC, 2011), describes how white, chiefly Northern veterans coped with civilian life and how their pension demands were ambivalently regarded by the larger society. For a detailed, readable account of Sherman's campaign, including the Ninth Pennsylvania Cavalry's foraging south of Savannah, consult Noah A. Trudeau's
Southern Storm: Sherman's March to the Sea
(Harper Perennial, New York, 2008).

 

For dependable information on NYPD police inspector “Clubber” Williams (1839–1917) and the reform of policing in late-nineteenth-century New York City, consult James F. Richardson's
The New York Police: Colonial Times to 1901
(Oxford University Press, New York, 1970).

 

Conditions in Crake's meatpacking plants on Fourteenth Street in Manhattan resemble those in the much larger Union Stockyard in Chicago, as depicted in Upton Sinclair's influential muckraking novel,
The Jungle
(1906; ed. by C.V. Eby, NY, 2003).

 

Popular music in the Gilded Age was sometimes imported. “Funiculì, Funiculà” was composed in Naples in 1880 by Luigi Denza. In 1888, the lyrics were freely translated by the English songwriter and librettist Edward Oxenford. Ben Jonson's “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” came from his poem “Song to Celia,” in 1616, and has been a favorite for centuries.