Murder on Amsterdam Avenue (23 page)

Mary accepted the basket Sarah handed her, although she made sure Sarah knew how much it offended her.

“I just heard Isabel woke up,” Sarah said.

“I don't know about that,” Nicely said with a sad frown. “She was asking for her mother, but I'm not sure she was really awake.”

“Would you mind if I examined her?”

“Please do.” The Reverend Nicely let her into Isabel's room. “The ladies have been looking after her faithfully. They said you told them to give her milk, and when they ran out of milk, they started giving her water.”

“That was exactly the right thing to do,” Sarah said. She opened her medical bag, took out her stethoscope, and examined the girl. Her heartbeat seemed stronger than it had yesterday, and her lungs were still clear. She tried shaking her gently. “Isabel? Can you hear me?”

The girl moaned.

“Reverend Nicely, why don't you try? She may respond to a familiar voice.”

He stepped forward eagerly. “Isabel, dear, wake up now. It's time to wake up.” When he tried to shake her shoulder, she shrugged away.

“Look, she's responding,” Sarah said. “Shake her again.”

He did, and he called her name and told her to wake up over and over until her eyes fluttered open. “Papa,” she said hoarsely, “I'm tired.”

“Praise God,” he cried, his eyes welling with tears. “Isabel, my sweet, sweet girl.”

“Let me sleep,” she whispered, but he sank down beside her on the bed and took her in his arms, praising God for a miracle.

Sarah wasn't sure it was a miracle yet, but at least she'd come out of her coma. If they could get her to eat, and if the poison hadn't damaged her body too much . . . Too many ifs for Sarah to rejoice just yet, but it was the first good news poor Reverend Nicely had gotten in almost two days, so Sarah let him enjoy it.

Mary came to the door, and when she saw Isabel was awake, she also started praising God. “I'll go spread the word, Reverend Nicely,” she told him. “Everybody'll want to know right away.”

Sarah went to the kitchen and sorted through the various foodstuffs that the Reverend Nicely's parishioners had brought. She found a jar of soup, so she poured a bit of it into a cup and snatched up a spoon. She'd try to get some of this into Isabel before she fell asleep again.

Isabel hadn't wanted to stay awake, but her father helped Sarah keep her roused until she'd swallowed at least a few spoonfuls of the rich broth. When she'd drifted off again, exhausted from the effort, Sarah made herself useful by
unpacking the basket she had brought while the Reverend Nicely sat beside Isabel's bed, talking to her even though she gave no indication that she could hear him.

Sarah had imagined that she would ask him to go with her to visit the women from his congregation so they could question them about what they'd found in the Nicelys' house that might have contained the poison. Seeing him now, she realized it would be cruel to ask him to leave Isabel's side just yet. At least he could tell her the names of the women who had been there, or maybe she could convince Sister Mary to give her the names. Maybe Sister Mary would even go with her and introduce her to the women so Sarah could ask her questions herself. No sooner had she thought of this idea than she discarded it. Sister Mary wasn't going to help Sarah do anything. And the other women wouldn't tell her anything, she was sure. She tried to think of some other way to find out what they needed to know, but she couldn't come up with a single thing.

She was starting to wonder if she should just give up and head back home when she heard someone running up the stairs outside. She was on her feet when Sister Mary burst in, breathless and panicked.

She froze when she saw Sarah, and for a moment Sarah thought the woman was going to order her to leave again. Instead she said, “Thank heaven you're still here. My girl's sick just like Sister Rose and Sister Isabel. Real sick. Can you come?”

“I
thought you said these fellows spend all their time at their clubs,” Gino said as they made their way to Sixth Avenue to catch the elevated train uptown. “What makes you think we'll find him at home?”

“Because it's morning. These rich boys who don't have anything useful to do spend their nights drinking and their mornings sleeping.”

“And you're sure he still lives in his mother's house?”

Looking up Mrs. Peabody's sister in the City Directory had been the easy part of this. “No, but if he doesn't, we can probably get somebody there to tell us where he does live.”

The maid who answered the door at the Littlefield house looked confused when Frank asked for Percy Littlefield, but not because she didn't know where he was. “He . . . He don't get up until past noon usually.”

Frank gave Gino a smug glance. “I'm afraid you'll have
to wake him. I have some very urgent news for him about one of his friends.”

“I don't know,” she said, plainly concerned she would get in trouble if she disturbed young Percy.

“He won't thank you for turning us away, I guarantee. He'll want to hear this news immediately,” Frank lied.

She looked both of them over with a disapproving eye. She was probably wondering what an Irishman and an Italian wanted with the young master. “I'll ask his valet, but I can't promise he'll come down to see you.”

She let them in the front hall and left them standing there. The Littlefield house wasn't large enough to have a receiving room, but the neighborhood was fashionable and the house expensively furnished and well kept. Left alone, Percy would probably run through the family fortune in a few years, but for now, his mother seemed to be in control.

The maid was gone a long time, and she didn't look happy when she finally returned. “Come with me, please,” she said, and led them upstairs to a room that had probably been young Percy's father's study. Several overstuffed chairs were grouped around the hearth, and the air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and dust. After another long wait, Percy Littlefield finally made his appearance. He glared at them through red-rimmed eyes, his face chalky white above his hastily donned suit. He hadn't bothered with a necktie and his vest was buttoned crooked, but his shoes seemed to be on the right feet. He'd wet his blond hair and combed it down, but one spot on the side of his head where he had slept on it wrong had refused to be tamed. It was gradually springing back up in defiance.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Percy demanded when he saw them. He was a stocky young man with a florid complexion and obvious bad manners.

Frank introduced himself and Gino. “We need to ask you some questions about Charles Oakes.”

“Charles? Is that the friend you were supposed to tell me about?”

“Yes.”

“But he's dead, and I already knew that. And what could you possibly want to know about him?”

“Who poisoned him, for one thing.”

Percy blinked several times, as if trying to bring Frank and Gino into focus. “What do you mean,
poisoned
?”

“Somebody poisoned him with arsenic. Didn't you wonder why he died so suddenly?”

Percy scratched his head. “It did seem strange.”

“Maybe you should sit down, Mr. Littlefield,” Frank said.

“I could use a drink first,” he said.

“I'll get you one.” Gino scrambled to do so, having already located the decanters on a sideboard.

“Help yourself to one, too,” Percy said as he sank down unceremoniously into one of the chairs. His manners were improving slightly.

Gino brought him a glass with a generous quantity of amber liquid in it. Percy gratefully took a gulp.

“Who told you Charles was poisoned?” he asked while he waited for the whiskey to do its work.

“The coroner. It seems somebody was giving him arsenic for several days. The first time was the Saturday before he died. Did you see him that day?”

He needed a moment to remember. “I think so. He was at the club.”

“What club is that?”

“The Devil's Dogs.”

“Interesting name,” Frank said.

“It's all in fun,” Percy said.

Frank could imagine. “So you saw Charles Oakes that Saturday?”

“Yes, he came in and we were playing cards for a while, but he left early. He felt sick.”

“Did you see if he had anything to eat while he was there?”

He gave Frank a withering look. “We don't go to the club to eat.”

“I see. I guess he was drinking, though.”

“We were all drinking.”

“Were you all drinking the same thing?”

“I don't know. The waiters were serving us.”

For a second Frank thought maybe a waiter, angry at some slight, could have slipped something into Charles's glass, but then he remembered Charles had gotten his fatal dose at home. No waiter could have given him that one. “Do you know where Charles had been that day, before he came to the club?”

“No, I don't.” He rubbed his forehead and took another sip of whiskey. “What are you getting at? Do you think somebody at the club poisoned poor Oakes?”

“It's possible.”

“No, it isn't. Everybody liked him, and he owed everybody money. Why would anybody want to kill him?”

A good question, Frank thought. “That's what I'm trying to find out. Can you think of any reason why somebody would want to harm him?”

Percy sipped his whiskey and considered. “He's been . . . I don't know how to say it, but he's seemed kind of sad lately.”

“Sad? What do you mean?”

“I said I don't know. He just . . . Well, he was worried, I think.”

“About what?”

Percy shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. “Trouble with the wife, seemed like.”

“What kind of trouble?” Frank asked, remembering that Charles had recently started sleeping in his dressing room.

“I don't know and I didn't ask. It's none of my business, is it?”

He was right, of course, but Frank couldn't help wishing he'd been nosier. “What did he do that made you think he was sad?”

Percy grinned without humor. “You know what they say about drowning your sorrows.”

“So he was drinking heavily?” Frank remembered what Sarah had reported Mrs. Peabody saying about Charles's drinking habits.

“He always drank. We all do. But lately there's been more . . . I guess you'd say
purpose
to it. He even took to carrying a flask, so he could have a nip when we were on our way to the theater or something.”

Was his marriage enough to worry him that much? What else could have been bothering him? Frank remembered he'd regretted releasing Ella Adderly from the Asylum. “Was he worried about anything to do with his job at the hospital?”

“I told you, I don't know.” Percy's patience was running low.

“Who
would
know?”

Percy glared up at him. “Charles would know. Ask him.”

•   •   •

S
arah could hardly believe what she was hearing. “What do you mean, she's sick?”

“Sick like Sister Rose and Isabel,” Mary repeated desperately. “She told me she's been throwing up and having the runs all morning. Please, will you come?”

“Of course,” Sarah said, hurrying to fetch her medical bag from Isabel's room.

She almost collided with the Reverend Nicely, who had
obviously heard Mary's plea and was coming out of his daughter's room. “Sister Mary, what's this about Letty?”

“I went to tell some of the ladies that Isabel woke up. Then I stopped by my place to tell Letty, and she's been taken real bad, Reverend Nicely.”

“Mrs. Brandt will help her. I'll be praying for her.”

Sarah had fetched her bag, and she emerged from Isabel's bedroom. Mary was already out the door. Sarah had to rush to keep up.

Mary was almost running now, elbowing people aside as she made her way down the crowded sidewalks. Sarah was having a difficult time keeping her in sight, even though the people on the sidewalk made way for her, a white woman in a colored neighborhood. She wondered if they were being polite or if they just wanted to get a better look at her.

Only moments after Sarah realized she'd lost Mary in the crowd, the woman came stumbling back, having realized that she had left Sarah too far behind. “Please hurry,” Mary begged her. “I'm so sorry I was mean to you. You won't hold that against my girl, will you?”

“Of course not. Tell me, did your daughter say anything about not feeling well before you left her this morning?”

“No, she was fine. She's a good girl, Mrs. Brandt. She don't deserve nothing bad to happen to her.”

Sarah figured Isabel was a good girl, too, but she didn't say that. Instead she tried to figure out how on earth Mary's daughter could have been poisoned. Of course, they hadn't heard back from Dr. Wesley yet. Maybe Rose and Daisy hadn't been poisoned either. Maybe this was some malady that was just beginning to strike the city, hitting the poorest and most vulnerable people first. That would be even worse than if someone had poisoned them, because there would be no end to it.

Mary lived on the third floor of a dilapidated tenement
building two blocks away. Even though the landlord obviously hadn't done any work on the building in years, the hallway and stairs were immaculate, swept clean by the residents. Sarah rarely saw that in other neighborhoods. Mary's tiny flat was sparsely furnished, but she'd made every effort she could to make it beautiful. She'd hung curtains over the open shelves in the kitchen where she stored her dishes and made a skirt for the kitchen sink. Back in the windowless bedroom, the bed had been covered by a colorful quilt that had been pushed to the foot in a tangle. A picture of a lovely garden hung on the wall. It looked as if it had been torn from a magazine and carefully framed.

On the bed lay a girl who looked about ten years old. She was curled into a fetal position, and she gazed up at Sarah in absolute terror. A basin full of vomit sat on the floor, and the chamber pot in the corner was overflowing. The stench was overpowering in the small space.

“This here's Mrs. Brandt, Letty,” Mary said. “She's one of them nurses. She's come to help you.”

The girl shuddered, and Sarah couldn't tell if it was the sickness or fear of her.

“Maybe you could empty these,” Sarah suggested to Mary, indicating the basin and the chamber pot.

Mary hastened to do just that, while Sarah pulled out her stethoscope. The girl cringed when Sarah sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I'm not going to hurt you, Letty. Like your mama said, I'm a nurse. Can you tell me when you first felt sick?”

“Answer her,” Mary called from the kitchen when the girl did not reply.

“I . . . This morning.”

“After your mother left?”

She nodded.

“What did you have for breakfast?”

The girl's eyes widened in renewed terror. “Bread.”

“Did you have anything on it? Butter or jam?”

The girl shook her head. Of course not. Butter and jam would be a luxury here. “What did you drink?”

“Water.”

“And that's all you had to eat?”

Mary brought the empty basin back, and Sarah saw the anxious glance the girl gave her mother before she said, “Yes, ma'am.”

She was lying, but she wasn't going to admit it, at least not in front of her mother.

“I'll be right back,” Mary said. “I got to go empty the pot.”

Sarah pretended to examine the girl, looking in her throat and listening to her heart until she heard the door close behind Mary and enough time had passed for her to be well out of earshot.

“What did you eat that made you sick, Letty?”

The girl shook her head frantically in denial.

“Letty, somebody poisoned Mrs. Nicely and Isabel. That's what made them sick.”

“Poison?”

“Yes, somebody put arsenic in something they ate. It's the poison people use to kill rats.”

“Sister Honeywell?”

“Who?”

“Miss Daisy Honeywell. Is she the one who done it?”

“No, she was poisoned, too. We think she brought something with her that had the poison in it. I need to know if you ate some of it, too.”

Tears flooded her dark eyes. “I didn't mean to steal it!”

“What was it, Letty? What did you take?”

“I'm going to die now and go to hell!”

“People don't go to hell for stealing one thing,” Sarah assured her.

“Reverend Nicely, he say they do!”

“But you can ask forgiveness. Tell me what you took, and I'll forgive you, and God will, too. What was it, Letty?”

“I didn't mean to take it, but it was so pretty.”

“What was?”

“The box. I never saw a box so pretty.”

“Where was it?”

“On the floor. It got knocked off the table, I guess. Nobody noticed it. They was all looking after Mrs. Nicely and Isabel and Miss Honeywell.”

“So nobody saw you take it.”

“God saw me.” The tears were coursing down her face now. “Oh, miss, I'm so sorry! I never meant to do it. I would've give it back, but then Mrs. Nicely, she died, and I didn't know who to give it back to.”

“Where is it?” Sarah asked, looking around frantically.

Before she could speak, Letty started to retch, and Sarah got her the basin just in time. When she was finished, she was too exhausted to speak. Sarah realized she needed to irrigate the girl's stomach immediately if she had any hope at all of helping her. It was probably already too late, but she would do whatever she could.

When Mary returned, she helped, and when they were done, they let Letty sleep. At least Sarah hoped she was only sleeping and not slipping into a coma.