“Are you on your way to the mission?” he asked.
“No, just coming back. How's the arm doing?” she asked before he could inquire about Aggie. She didn't want to discuss Aggie on a public street.
He carefully took the remaining two steps before answering. “The doc said I was lucky it wasn't broke, but it hurts like a . . . it hurts a lot,” he corrected himself.
“Sprains often take longer to heal than breaks,” she told him sympathetically. “I guess your mother is making sure your cuts are doing well, too.” He had several plasters visible at various places on his head and one on his face.
“She's driving me crazy,” he grumbled, making Sarah smile. The old woman would be in her element tending to him.
“You're not back to work so soon, are you?” she asked.
“No, I . . .” He glanced at Tom and looked a little embarrassed. He took her elbow and directed her up the street, away from the doorman's eavesdropping and the prying eyes of the newspaper reporters stationed across the street from Police Headquarters. When they'd turned the corner onto Houston Street and were safely out of earshot, he said, “I just wanted to give Commissioner Roosevelt a full report.”
“I hope he was suitably impressed that you managed to figure out what had happened,” she replied.
“He would've preferred to find out the anarchists were behind it,” Malloy said with a frown.
Sarah thought he was probably right. The Van Dykes would undoubtedly agree.
Malloy cleared his throat. “Quentin and I are pretty lucky you figured out the bomb was down in the cellar.”
“I just wish I'd figured it out a few minutes sooner. Maybe you wouldn't have been hurt at all.”
“A few seconds
later,
and Quentin would've walked through the door,” he reminded her. “He would've taken the blast full in the face, exactly the way Van Dyke had planned it for Lilly.” They had decided he was going to take her downstairs to show her the “surprise” gift. When the bomb exploded, killing her, everyone would assume it had been set to kill him, as the one in his office had been.
Instead, Quentin had just unlocked and opened the workshop door when they heard Sarah yelling. Malloy had walked over to the steps to see what was going on, and the valet had turned away from the door instead of stepping through it. He'd been injured, but he'd recover.
“Creighton is making sure he has the best medical care,” Sarah told him. “The doctor doesn't think he'll have any permanent damage, just a few scars.”
Malloy touched the plaster on his forehead. “I'll take a few scars any day.”
“It was such a clever plan,” Sarah marveled. “Van Dyke would've blown up both his unfaithful wife and her lover with bombs people would have believed were meant for him.”
“If he hadn't blown himself up first,” Malloy reminded her. “What's going on with the rest of the Van Dykes?”
“The coroner finally released Mr. Van Dyke's body, so they're going to bury him tomorrow. They're hoping to do it before word gets out about what really happened. You were right about Creighton, too. He hired an excellent attorney, and Tad was released on bail. He also sent Lilly to their house in the country for now, but she won't be staying there long. He told her she's got to find her own lodgings because he wants her completely out of their lives.”
“What about the other sets of lovers?” Malloy asked.
Sarah frowned. “Only one is going to live happily ever after, I'm afraid. Alberta and Mr. Reed are going to be married on Friday in a small, private ceremony. She asked me to stand up with her. Oh, and Creighton has asked Mr. Reed to manage the business for him, so his financial future is secure.”
Malloy nodded, not really surprised. “Creighton wasn't able to convert Katya to capitalism, I guess.”
“She didn't even give him a chance. During all the excitement after the explosion, she disappeared.”
“But she was . . . not well,” he protested.
“She was well enough to run away. Creighton went looking for her the instant he realized she was missing, but no one on the Lower East Side will tell him where she went.”
“Did he check with Emma Goldman?” he asked, his voice hard when he said the woman's name.
“Apparently, she's left the city, too. Seems she didn't find midwifery very exciting, so she's gone on a lecture tour or something. Creighton hired a Pinkerton detective to find Katya, but even if he does, I don't think she'll come back to him.”
“I wonder if this will change Creighton's mind about her politics,” Malloy said.
“I hope he'll at least remember his plans to make working conditions better at his father's factories.”
Malloy gave her a look that warned her not to get her hopes up. They walked across the next street, dodging various vehicles and the inevitable piles on the cobblestones.
When they were safely on the sidewalk again, Malloy asked, “Did you see little Aggie today?”
“Yes, I . . .” Sarah sighed. “We have to decide what to do with her. She can't stay at the mission forever,” she said, half-hoping he'd magically offer a solution.
“I was thinking,” he began and then hesitated.
“What?” she prodded curiously.
“Well, she wouldn't think Brian was strange because he can't talk, would she? Since she doesn't talk either, I mean.”
Sarah was so surprised, she almost bumped into a woman carrying a bundle of laundry. “No, I don't suppose she would,” she agreed when she'd regained her balance.
She waited, but he didn't say anything, forcing her to prod him again. “What did you have in mind?”
He started to shrug one shoulder, then winced from the effort. She pretended not to notice. “I was thinking maybe she'd like to visit Brian sometime.” He glanced down to check her reaction, then looked away again. “He'll need to get used to other kids if he's going to go to school.”
Sarah could hardly believe she'd heard him correctly. “Oh, Malloy, you're going to send him to school!” she cried happily. “Which one did you choose? The one that teaches sign language?”
“Yeah, he'll start after Christmas.” He glanced at her again. “So, do you think Aggie would like to visit him? You'd have to bring her,” he added, as if she might not have realized this.
Somehow she managed not to grin like a fool. “Aggie and I would be happy to visit Brian,” she said. “And you,” she added meaningfully.
This time when he looked down, he met her gaze squarely.
And he smiled. “Good.”
Author's Note
Readers often want to know where I get the ideas for my stories. Usually, they are the culmination of so many bits and pieces of information that I can never say for sure, but this book is different. The idea for
Murder on Marble Row
came from the newspaper! When I was researching the last book in the Gaslight Series,
Murder on Mulberry Bend,
I happened across a story in
The New York Times
on October 22,1896, about a man being killed by a bomb in his office. Hamlin J. Andrus was the secretary of the Arlington Chemical Works, which his brother, John Emory Andrus, owned. He arrived at his office in Yonkers the morning of October 21, and a few minutes later, a bomb that had been planted under his writing desk exploded, killing him instantly.
The newspapers reported several theories about who might have planted the bomb. The most popular one blamed anarchists and theorized the bomb had actually been meant for John Andrus, who was a millionaire. One employee at the company claimed Hamlin Andrus had recently acquired the type of pipe used in building the bomb and theorized he'd been doing chemical experiments in his home workshop. Some thought the explosion might have been an experiment gone wrong, while others suggested Mr. Andrus had committed suicide.
As the ne'er-do-well younger brother, Hamlin Andrus had failed in several careers before his more successful brother gave him a job at Arlington. This gave rise to yet another theory, that the bomb really had been meant for John Andrus and his brother had been planting it when it accidentally exploded. Unfortunately, the case was never solved, perhaps because the real solution would have brought embarrassment to a rich and powerful family or perhaps because the police did such a poor job of investigation that the real killer could never be identified.
Whatever really happened that morning, I couldn't help seeing the parallel between what anarchists were doing in those days to draw attention to their cause and what terrorists are doing today. When I began researching the anarchists of the late nineteenth century, I naturally read about Emma Goldman, who is one of the most famous. Imagine my delight to learn that in November 1896, Miss Goldman had just returned from Vienna to the Lower East Side to work as a midwife. At that time, she actually lived in a German neighborhood on Eleventh Street with her lover, Ed Brady, and not in the tenement building with Katya and Creighton. She did find her work as a midwife unsatisfactory, however, and she soon began traveling the country and speaking for the anarchist cause.
John Emory Andrus continued to be a successful businessman after his brother's unfortunate death, and he also became a major philanthropist. His legacy, The Surdna Foundation (Andrus spelled backward), is now one of the largest charitable foundations in existence. John Andrus's son, also named Hamlin Andrus, became a football All-American from Princeton University.
I hope you enjoyed this book. If you missed the earlier books in the series, they are
Murder on Astor Place, Murder on St. Mark's Place, Murder on Gramercy Park, Murder on Washington Square,
and
Murder on Mulberry Bend.
If you send me an e-mail, I will put you on my mailing list and send you a reminder when my next book,
Murder on Lenox Hill,
comes out. Contact me at:
www.victoriathompson.com
.