Watching from under the brim of her hat, Sarah saw Symington’s face tighten. Either he was embarrassed by the unseemly display or some other emotion had overcome him. Finally, the last couple reached him. They were the ones who had been the first to arrive and who had seemed to be arguing before the service started.
“Clarence Fitzgerald,” the man said, sticking out his hand to Symington. He was a tall, spindly man of middle years. His thinning gray hair revealed a shiny pink scalp, and if his face had ever borne a smile, there was no indication. His wife was short and plump and wore a well-made suit that fit snugly enough over her rounded figure to suggest upholstery. Her pudgy face was splotched from weeping. “We’ve met several times at the club, I believe,” he added to Symington.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Mr. Symington said, although Sarah was sure he had no recollection of the man.
“I need to discuss some matters of business with you, Mr. Symington, concerning Dr. Blackwell’s affairs.”
“Not today, Clarence,” the woman with him said in distress.
“Today’s as good as any other, Martha,” Clarence snapped, and turned back to Symington.
But Symington had no intention of dealing with the fellow. “I’m afraid I know nothing of my son-in-law’s business. You’ll have to take it up with Amos Potter. I’ll be happy to introduce you if you’ll join us in the dining room.”
No longer having any reason to linger, Sarah rose from her place and made her way silently toward the door. She saw that Clarence Fitzgerald didn’t like being put off.
“It’s about this house,” he told Symington, undeterred. “I own it.”
“It’s a fine property,” Symington said. “I’m sure my daughter will want to continue living here for a while. Potter will discuss the arrangements with you. If you’ll excuse me....”
He turned to Sarah, silently dismissing them.
“I told you not to bring it up today,” Mrs. Fitzgerald was saying.
He grumbled something in reply, but Sarah didn’t catch it.
She put out her hand to Mr. Symington, whose expression told her he thought she looked familiar but could not recall her name.
“Mrs. Brandt. I’m the midwife who tended your daughter,” she added. “I’m so sorry about Dr. Blackwell.”
“My daughter, is she doing well?” Symington asked with all the concern Sarah could have wished.
“She was upset this morning,” Sarah admitted, not mentioning the need for morphine to help her through it. “It must be difficult not being able to attend her husband’s funeral.”
“No one would expect that, under the circumstances,” Symington said stiffly, as if he thought she was criticizing him in some way.
“Of course not. I meant it was difficult for her to mourn him properly. It must also be difficult for you to properly celebrate the birth of your grandson, too.”
Another emotion flickered across his face. “Yes, I ... I’ve been so busy, I’ve hardly had time to realize I even have a grandson. I trust he’s doing well, too.”
“Yes, he is,” Sarah said, once again neglecting to mention the morphine that made this possible.
Symington looked at her and frowned. “Why are you here?” he asked, as if just realizing how inappropriate her presence was. “Did you know Edmund?”
“No, although I’m fascinated by his work. I felt I owed it to Mrs. Blackwell to attend, out of respect for her.”
Symington didn’t seem to agree, but he was too well-mannered to argue. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests.”
“Of course,” Sarah agreed, and let him leave her standing there.
In a moment Frank Malloy was at her side. He’d been waiting discreetly in the hallway and also eavesdropping on Symington’s conversations.
“Did you find out who the killer is?” he asked her.
She glared at him. “That isn’t funny, Malloy.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. I was hoping you had. I’d like to settle this and be done with it. I don’t like these people very much.”
“That just makes you a good judge of character. I was a little surprised to see Calvin here,” she added.
“I guess I should’ve warned him not to come. That snooty butler wasn’t going to let him in,” Malloy reported.
“But you intervened,” she guessed. “I’m sure everyone was wondering who he is. He hardly looks like one of Blackwell’s patients.”
“If they were wondering, they can ask him,” Malloy said. “I sent him to the dining room for some food.”
“Oh, my! We should probably go rescue him. What if Potter starts in on him? Or what if one of the other guests finds out who he is?”
“Potter won’t want to cause a scene, and I doubt these people will give him the time of day, much less start a conversation with him.”
“Nobody ever wants to cause a scene. That’s probably what started this whole mess in the first place.”
“What do you mean?
“I mean everyone always insists that Letitia Blackwell voluntarily spoke at Blackwell’s lectures when she says she hated doing it so much she had to take morphine to get through them. She didn’t want to make a scene, so she put herself through torture! And why didn’t anyone see that and help her?”
“That’s simple,” Malloy assured her. “The men didn’t see it because they probably don’t think they forced her into it at all. They just told her what to do, and she did it. They didn’t particularly care what she had to do to get through it.”
Sarah had to admit he was probably right.
“I suppose you know that Blackwell was still married to Calvin’s mother,” she said.
“Yeah, the boy told me the whole ugly story. Poor kid, he’s got two younger sisters, too.”
“How awful. I suppose Blackwell deserted the family.”
“Brown did, anyway,” he corrected her. “He sent them money at first, but then he stopped. They had a hard time of it, according to Calvin.”
“I’m sure they did,” Sarah said. “Who do you think knew about this other wife? That would certainly be a motive for murdering him, if it was someone who cared about Letitia and her reputation.”
“You think Symington might’ve done it? Or hired it done?”
“Mr. Potter said no one else knew about it but him and Dr. Blackwell,” Sarah said. “Of course, he might not know who else Blackwell had told.”
“Blackwell wasn’t likely to confide in his father-in-law that his marriage was a sham,” Malloy pointed out.
“Could someone else have told him?” Sarah asked.
“Who else knew?”
“Calvin did,” Sarah reminded him.
“How would Calvin meet Symington? And Symington didn’t seem to know who the boy was the other night when Potter and I told him about him.”
“That’s too bad. I don’t like him very much, and I’d like for him to be the killer,” she said.
“Not me. A man that rich and powerful would never spend a day in prison, no matter who he killed.”
“Do you think Calvin did it?” she asked.
“No, but that doesn’t mean he didn’st,” Malloy cautioned her. “I’d better get to the dining room to see what’s going on.”
“We’ll probably need to rescue Calvin, too. I hope Potter isn’t rude to him.”
“Potter will probably pretend he doesn’t see him,” Malloy said. “He won’t want to make a scene.”
Sarah ignored his sarcasm. “Maybe I can strike up a conversation with someone. You’d be surprised what you can learn from funeral gossip.” She pretended not to notice the way Malloy rolled his eyes.
They started down the hallway toward the dining room, but they stopped when they heard Amos Potter apparently arguing with someone just outside the doorway.
“This is hardly the time or the place to discuss such things, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’d be happy to make an appointment with you—”
“You don’t need an appointment. You just need to know that I own this house, and Blackwell was living here rent-free. Now that he’s dead, I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t rent it out to someone who can pay, so you can tell Mrs. Blackwell she’s got until the end of the month to get out.”
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6
P
OTIER LOOKED THUNDERSTRUCK, AND WHEN HE saw that Malloy and Sarah had overheard, he blanched. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he stammered. “Please allow me to make an appointment to speak with you privately about this matter.”
“What could that hurt?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked her husband pleadingly. “And you can’t throw Mrs. Blackwell out onto the street! She just had a new baby.”
“I’m sure her father will take them both in,” Fitzgerald said coldly.
“Then at least let me meet with you to make the arrangements,” Potter pleaded, glancing nervously at Sarah and Malloy, who were waiting patiently instead of scurrying away, as most people would have done to save themselves the embarrassment of overhearing such an unpleasant conversation.
“Fine. Monday morning at nine at my place of business,” Fitzgerald said, reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out his card.
Potter took it gingerly and quickly tucked it away. “I’m sure we can make arrangements that will suit everyone concerned,” he said with forced heartiness.
Fitzgerald grunted noncommittally and turned away, but to Sarah’s surprise, he entered the dining room, followed by his wife. The man was going to evict a newborn babe and his mother, but he didn’t think twice about enjoying their hospitality. She glanced at Malloy, who apparently shared her thoughts.
“Who is that fellow?” he asked Potter.
“Clarence Fitzgerald,” Potter said, after pulling the man’s card out and examining it. “His wife was a patient of Dr. Blackwell’s. He helped her tremendously. Sciatica, if I recall correctly.”
“And she was so grateful she let Blackwell live in this house rent-free?” Malloy asked with a frown.
“I’m sure I know nothing of any such arrangement. Edmund did not confide in me to that extent.”
“The Fitzgeralds are very generous,” Sarah noted. “The rent for a house like this would be considerable.”
“Oh, no, there was a scandal here, I understand. The Fitzgeralds owned it, but they were having trouble finding a tenant. Edmund said he cared nothing for such things, and he would take the house. He felt Letitia deserved a residence that matched her station in life, and of course he didn’t tell her about the scandal.”
“I guess it also helped that he was getting it for free,” Sarah said.
“If that is indeed the case,” Potter replied stiffly. “I believe Mr. Fitzgerald may be exaggerating his generosity. I haven’t had time to put Edmund’s affairs in order, but when I do, I’m sure I’ll discover the facts of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to the comfort of our guests.”
Potter entered the dining room and insinuated himself into the nearest group, rudely interrupting their conversation, while Sarah and Malloy stood watching in amazement.
“What do you think?” Sarah asked Malloy.
He shrugged one of his beefy shoulders. “I think Mrs. Fitzgerald was way too grateful if she gave Blackwell this house to live in.”
“That depends on what services he performed for her,” Sarah said with a smug smile, and was gratified to see Malloy’s jaw drop in surprise. She loved to shock him. “Why don’t you take care of Calvin? I think I’ll go make Mrs. Fitzgerald’s acquaintance and see what I can learn.”
Without waiting for Malloy’s reply, she moved into the room, carefully stepping around the small groups that had formed for conversational purposes and looking for the Fitzgeralds. To her alarm, she found her quarry engaged in conversation with Calvin Brown!
Or at least Mrs. Fitzgerald was. Her husband was merely standing by, glaring in disapproval. Sarah slowly made her way through the crush of the crowd to the comer where they were standing.
“I knew you must be some relation to Dr. Blackwell,” Mrs. Fitzgerald was saying. “The resemblance is striking. How long have you been in the city?”
“A week or so,” Calvin mumbled, plainly awed by people of their social status and unsure whether to answer their questions or not.
“You must have been impressed to find your father living in such a grand house,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “Which room have you been staying in?”
“I ... I ain’t been staying here,” he said, looking more and more uncomfortable.
Sarah excused herself and elbowed her way around the last person separating her from them.
“You weren’t staying with your father? Where on earth have you been staying, then?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked, a little shocked.
“A lodging house on Essex Street,” he said.
“And Edmund allowed that?” Mrs. Fitzgerald couldn’t believe such a thing.
At last Sarah was close enough to intervene. “Calvin, there you are,” she said with a smile.
The look he gave her showed desperation. She offered him hope.
“I believe Mr. Malloy was looking for you,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the dining-room door.
“Thank you, ma’ am,” he said, and made his escape with unseemly haste.
“Hello,” Sarah said to Mrs. Fitzgerald when he was safely away. “It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Fitzgerald looked surprised and a little annoyed that Sarah had sent the boy away, but she was too well-bred to be rude. “Oh, yes. I do wish they’d had a minister, though. It doesn’t seem like a funeral without a minister.” Sarah noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot and her nose was red on the tip, as if she’d cried quite a bit today.
“I know,” Sarah replied. “I wondered at that myself. Perhaps Dr. Blackwell didn’t hold with organized religion.”
As she’d hoped, Mr. Fitzgerald finally started drifting away, bored by what promised to be nothing more than female chitchat and looking for something more interesting to amuse himself.
“Oh, Dr. Blackwell was a deeply spiritual man, I know,” Mrs. Fitzgerald assured Sarah, apparently not caring where her husband went.
“I’m sure he was,” Sarah replied. “Were you one of his patients?”