Murder on Amsterdam Avenue (12 page)

“The maid Daisy.”

Her expression hardened for the briefest instant as she registered the name, then smoothed out again to conceal whatever thoughts had caused the reaction. “The girl who used to belong to Jenny.”

“She said they'd grown up together.”

“As they did in the South. A quaint custom, don't you think, raising your slaves and your children together, as if they were cats from the same litter?”

“I don't know much about it. My family never even had servants.”

“Of course they didn't,” she said, although not unkindly. “Mine did, and I assure you, we would never have allowed their children to mingle with ours. Nothing good comes of that.”

Frank thought she might be right. “If you aren't going to help me figure out who killed Charles, then why did you come?”

“I didn't say I wouldn't help. I'm happy to tell you what I know, although it isn't much.”

“Do you know who prepared the milk that killed him?”

“One of the servants, I suppose. Someone in the kitchen. Do you really think one of our servants poisoned him?”

“I don't know, but they would have had the best opportunity to put arsenic into the milk.”

“That might be true, if they had access to arsenic.”

This was something they hadn't explored yet. “Why wouldn't they?”

“Because I've always had a special horror of poisons, and we don't keep them in this house.”

“May I ask what caused your special horror of poisons?”

“You may not.”

“And you're sure there isn't any here at all?”

“Yes, I am. You may ask anyone. They will confirm this.”

Frank would certainly do just that. “But it's easy enough to get. Anybody could have gotten some.”

“Yes, but why poison Charles? If a disgruntled servant is responsible, she would be more likely to poison me or my daughter-in-law or Hannah, since we're the ones most likely to make their lives miserable.”

“You said ‘she.' Do you think one of the maids is responsible?”

“I said ‘she' because the vast majority of the servants are female. The only male who works inside the house is Zeller, and he was very fond of Charles.”

“Why did Charles sleep in his dressing room?”

The wrinkles around her eyes nearly disappeared when she widened them in surprise. “Really, Mr. Malloy, you do get right to the point, don't you?”

“Actually, I thought I'd been beating around the bush a lot. I was trying to put you at ease first.”

She laughed at that, a rusty sound that told him she seldom found anything amusing. “I'm beginning to see why Sarah Brandt has agreed to marry you.”

“I can be even more charming than this, but I thought you'd see right through it.”

“Indeed I would have. And to answer your question, I did not know that he
was
sleeping in his dressing room. Didn't you use your charm to ask Hannah herself?”

“No, because I didn't find out until after I questioned her. Mrs. Jenny Oakes told me.”

“The servants would have reported it to her, of course, but no one tells me anything.”

“Can you guess why?” Frank asked. “Were they quarreling about something?”

“I have no idea. Hannah may be a fool, but she was raised
properly. She would never do something so common as argue with her husband in front of other people.”

Frank hesitated for a few seconds, not sure what her reaction would be to his next question, but if she stormed off, it would tell him almost as much as if she answered him. “Could she have been upset because Charles had interfered with one of the maids?”

“Good heavens, I don't believe anyone else in this world would have dared ask me such a question,” she said, although she seemed pleased that he had.

“And do you know the answer?”

“I dearly wish I did, Mr. Malloy, if only to see your face when I gave it. But sadly, I do not, although my opinion is that he would not have dared. All of our maids are Negroes, you know.”

Frank could have pointed out that some men would have been even more likely to take advantage of a Negro maid, since many whites considered them less than virtuous by nature. He decided he'd already shocked her enough, though, so he just waited for her to think of this herself.

After a few moments of awkward silence, she said, “The men in this house have never, to my knowledge, taken their pleasure with the servants.”

“They wouldn't be likely to tell you if they did.”

“No, but I would have heard. I would have pretended not to, but I would have. I can't swear to it, but as I said, I do not have any reason to think Charles betrayed Hannah with anyone at all.”

“Do you think Hannah loved him?”

“Loved him? Good heavens, why would she bother with that? He had what she wanted, and she had what he needed.”

“She had money, I understand.”

“Not enough, unfortunately. Her father gave her a
settlement, but she couldn't buy a house in Newport and travel to Europe or hold masquerade balls and such. She wanted to be an Astor or a Vanderbilt. She thought our family connections would gain her entry into their society, but they did not. She did not accept this disappointment with pleasure, I assure you.”

“I gathered she also wasn't happy with Charles's new position at the hospital.”

“Heavens, no. She'd never known anyone who had to work for a living, or so she claims. She found it humiliating, for some reason. I suspect she's read too many English novels, and imagines she's part of the aristocracy.”

Frank had never read any English novels at all, so he wasn't particularly familiar with the habits of the English aristocracy. “Do you think she regretted her marriage?”

“I'm sure she did, but many young women do. Very few of them murder their husbands, however.”

She was right, of course. “Can you think of anyone at all who might have wanted your grandson dead?”

“Heavens no. Charles was . . . Well, one shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but he simply wasn't interesting enough to inspire someone to murder.”

Now this was something Frank hadn't considered. “What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said. Oh, he wasn't particularly boring, or at least no more so than the average young man of his social standing. He liked horse racing and cards and smoking cigars at his club with his friends. He didn't care about politics, and he didn't hold any strong beliefs about anything, so he rarely argued. I believe his friends would say he was ‘well liked,' which sounds boring all by itself.”

“But wasn't his job at the hospital a political appointment?”

She frowned at this. “I suppose it was, but if so, it wasn't
based on Charles's politics. Gerald was the one who used his influence to get him the position. He's not particularly political either, but he has many friends who are.”

“Would the people who helped him have expected Charles to grant favors in return?”

“I couldn't say, but what possible favors could Charles grant? I'm sure not many people are clamoring for the release of lunatics from the hospital.”

“You might be surprised,” Frank said, “but I'm thinking they might want someone locked up instead.”

Her eyes narrowed into a shrewd glare. “Someone who isn't insane, you mean.”

“I'm just guessing.”

“That's a very disturbing thought, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is, but like I said, I'm just guessing. Do you think Charles had a mistress?”

“Good heavens! I wouldn't have any idea, and I'm certainly not the person Charles would have confided in about such a thing.”

“But if he was spending his nights in his dressing room—”

“Please, Mr. Malloy. You're shocking me again.”

Frank didn't bother to apologize, since they both knew perfectly well she wasn't shocked. “If he wasn't bothering the maids, he might have found comfort someplace else.”

She considered the possibility for a moment. “Oh, wait a minute, do you mean that pathetic creature who fainted at the funeral? Surely, you can't mean her!”

“I don't mean anyone in particular,” he lied. “But now that you mention it, did you know her?”

“Certainly not, but she looked as if she might be a candidate for the Asylum herself.”

Frank had to agree with that. “And what about the men who took her away?”

“I don't know them either, but I saw you follow them out. Didn't you find out who they are?”

“I know their names, if that's what you mean. I haven't found out why they were at the funeral, though.”

She sniffed. “Unfortunately, none of them were here the night Charles died, so we can't blame it on any of them.”

Frank also found that unfortunate. It would be very tidy to be able to blame someone like Adderly or his cohorts. “So you agree, the killer must be someone in this house?”

“Certainly not, although I can't imagine how someone outside could have managed it. Still, as I said, no one here had any reason to want him dead.”

“That we know of.”

Her eyes widened again. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. The reason I haven't figured out who killed Charles is because I don't know
why
they did it . . . yet.”

“And how do you propose to find out?” she asked with genuine interest.

“I'll keep asking questions until I get the answer that will tell me.”

“And then you'll tell us?”

“I'll tell Mr. Oakes. He'll decide what to do next.”

Once again, she pinned him with her gaze. “And if he does not, Mr. Malloy, please come to me.”

•   •   •

F
rank found Gerald Oakes in his library, a glass in his hand. His eyes were bloodshot and his face as red as any drunken Irishman Frank had ever seen. Gerald set his glass down on the table beside his chair and struggled to his feet.

“What did you find out?” he asked.

“Not much yet. Mostly, I'm finding out who didn't do it.”

“What did Hannah tell you?”

“She thinks Daisy did it.”

Gerald frowned. “Who's Daisy?”

“The new maid,” Frank said, watching Gerald's face closely. Was he too drunk to remember or did he really not pay any attention to the servants at all, as his wife had claimed. “The one who came from your wife's old plantation.”

“What are you talking about?”

Frank wondered just how much Gerald Oakes had drunk. “Maybe we should sit down.”

Gerald sank gratefully back into his chair while Frank took the one next to his.

“Now what's this about Jenny's plantation?”

“There's a maid who was a slave on your wife's plantation.”

“That's impossible. Who told you such a thing?”

“Your wife did.”

He sat back and then lifted his glass, draining what was left in one gulp. Then he set it back on the table with a thunk. “She was on the plantation? This Daisy? You're sure?”

Frank was starting to wonder how a man could live in the same house as other people and not know anything about them. Of course, he'd never had servants, so maybe that was different, but even still, wouldn't Jenny have mentioned something to her husband if someone from her past had suddenly appeared on her doorstep? “I'm sure.”

“But how did she get here? And you say she just arrived?”

“A few months ago, I take it, and she probably came by ship. That's how most of the Negroes get here from the South now.”

“Oh yes, of course. I didn't mean . . . I mean, I know that, but why would she suddenly appear after all these years?”

“You'll have to ask her that, I'm afraid. But her name is Daisy, and she's the one Hannah accused of killing Charles.”

“Why would she do such a thing?”

“Why would Daisy kill Charles or why would Hannah accuse her?”

But Gerald wasn't listening. He was thinking or trying to. “I wonder if . . . Jenny only had a few slaves left when we found her. Years ago, in Georgia, I mean. The others had run away after the rest of her family died.”

“How did her family die?” Frank asked.

Gerald looked up in surprise, and suddenly he didn't look quite so drunk. “That wasn't what happened.”

“What wasn't what happened?”

“I know what you're thinking, but they weren't poisoned.”

“I wasn't thinking that,” Frank lied.

“The father and the older brother were killed in the war. Well, the father died in battle, and the son died of a fever in the camp. I think more soldiers died of disease than on the battlefield.”

“And the rest of the family?”

“The other brother was younger. He . . . he was never strong, Jenny said. They didn't have enough to eat, and he just got weaker and weaker. When he died, the mother just gave up. Wouldn't eat or even talk, Jenny said. She was alone in that house when I found her with just the two slaves.”

“Was Daisy one of them?”

“I . . . I suppose she was. It was a mother and daughter, I think. The daughter was about Jenny's age, maybe a little younger.”

“Why didn't she take them North with her after you got married?”

“What use would we have had for slaves in New York? Besides, Jenny said they didn't want to go. Truth to tell, I don't think she did either, but I told her she'd never be hungry. I said she'd have fine clothes and live in a big house
again. It wasn't a lie. She's had everything she could ever want, and I would've given her even more than that, if I could. You don't know what she was like then, Malloy. She was so beautiful and so fragile and so frightened. I just wanted to take her someplace safe and protect her for the rest of her life.”

Frank tried to match the Jenny Oakes he knew now with the girl Gerald described. She wasn't fragile or frightened anymore, at least that he could tell, and even her beauty had faded. Had Gerald ever regretted his choice?