Murder on Lenox Hill (28 page)

“What is it you need to know, because I don't know much more about cyanide than what I already told you?” he asked.

“I'm going to have the wine in the bottle Isaiah used to fill the cup tested, but near as I can tell, there isn't any poison in it. Isaiah said it wasn't opened when he took it out of the cabinet this morning. He filled the cup from the bottle after he opened it, and it appears that's about how much is missing from the bottle, so he seems to be telling the truth about that.”

“So the poison was put in the cup, after the wine was poured into it.”

“Or just before, but we do know it was only put in the cup. That means just about anyone could've done it once it was set out on the table in front of the church.”

“Does that mean you don't think young Isaiah did it?” the doctor asked.

“I'm still not sure, but there's one more thing I need to know before I go any further. Suppose people had come up this morning to take communion and had drunk from that cup. Would they all have died?”

The doctor rubbed his cheek as he considered his answer. “I'm not an expert, so I don't know how much cyanide it takes to kill someone. You'd have to check with a chemist to be sure, but I think it probably depends on the person and his size and physical condition.”

“You mean a large man would need more than a child, for instance.”

“That's right, and someone in poor health might need less than someone in good health, although I'm just guessing.”

“What if everybody took a sip from the cup, though. What would happen, generally speaking?”

“Again, I'm guessing, but I suspect that taking just a sip might not be fatal to many people. It would probably make a good many of them sick, but only some of them would die, perhaps only a few, and maybe not any at all.”

“The weaker ones would be the ones who'd probably die,” Frank said.

“That's right. But not even all of them, by any means.”

Frank nodded and mulled over what he'd learned.

“What are you thinking, Detective?” the doctor asked.

“Right now, I'm thinking that none of this makes any sense at all.”

“I doubt that murder often does,” he said sympathetically. “Is Mrs. Upchurch ill? Should I go to see her?”

“Mrs. Brandt is a midwife,” Frank said. “That's why I called for her, and if she needs help, I'm sure she'll send for it.”

The doctor's bushy white eyebrows rose. “A midwife? Does Mrs. Upchurch need a midwife?”

Frank saw no reason to keep it a secret. “She will next summer.”

“Ahh, I see,” he said. “That's too bad, after all these years, that it had to come now. . . . Oh, well, I don't suppose you'd want a man like Upchurch raising a child, now would you?”

“No, you wouldn't,” Frank agreed.

“Did you have any more questions?” the doctor asked.

“No, and I'm sorry to keep you here so long. You can go home now. If I need to know anything else, I'll find you.”

The doctor rose from his chair. “Good luck to you, young man, although I can't say I'm too anxious for this killer in particular to be caught. If you ask me, he did the world a favor.”

Frank had to agree. He hadn't been too eager to catch the killer either until innocent people started confessing to protect him . . . or her. If he didn't find the real killer soon, one of those people might end up in jail.

Wearily, he followed Dr. Thomas out and saw Mr. Linton, who was now sitting on one of the front pews, all alone. He jumped up as Frank and the doctor came out.

“Are you ready for me now, Mr. Malloy?” he asked.

“Yes, come on in,” Frank said, wondering what Linton could have to offer. Maybe he'd seen someone at the communion table, acting suspicious, but that was probably too much to hope for.

“Have a seat,” Frank said as he closed the office door, but Linton simply stood, staring at Frank with his hands clenched at his sides and desperation in his eyes.

“Mr. Malloy, I have a confession to make,” he said.

Frank's heart sank. The last thing he wanted was to lock up Grace's father for murder. And what possible motive could he have had for killing the minister?

Before he could even think of a response, the door behind them burst open and a frail-looking woman flung herself into the room. Her bonnet was crooked and her face flushed, as if she'd been running. “Are you the policeman?” she asked Frank breathlessly.

“Yes, I—”

“I'm Hazel York, Mrs. Evans's daughter. I know she told you she poisoned Reverend Upchurch, but she's just trying to protect me. I'm the killer, sir. You need look no further.”

13

I
SAIAH WAS KIND ENOUGH TO FETCH RACHEL AND Sarah's coats, and he let Rachel lean on him while they walked the short distance to the manse. At first Sarah had been merely grateful for his help in getting Rachel home, but after a while she began to realize he was much more concerned for Rachel's well-being than he should have been.

“Are you sure you don't need the doctor, because I can get him for you?” he asked for the third time.

“You're wearing me out, Isaiah,” Rachel scolded. “I told you, I'm fine. I think it finally hit me that Oliver is really dead when I was in with that detective. I realized I'm quite alone in the world. For a moment, I was quite overcome, but I'm recovered now.”

“You aren't alone,” Isaiah insisted. Then he glanced at Sarah, as if suddenly remembering her presence. “I mean, you've got lots of friends.”

“Don't be silly, dear boy. I have no friends at all, but I shall be all right. Mrs. Brandt is a widow, and she has managed to make her way in the world, haven't you, Mrs. Brandt?”

“I . . . yes, I have,” Sarah said in surprise.

“Then I shall, too.”

Sarah watched the careful way Isaiah helped Rachel up her front porch steps. She tried to imagine any other school-boy of her acquaintance being half so solicitous to a woman old enough to be his mother, and she couldn't, not at all. His care for Rachel was unnatural, just as her husband's abuse of him had been. Could that experience have changed him so drastically, or had something else changed him?

Sarah remembered the first time she'd seen the two of them. She'd gotten the impression Rachel was
flirting
with Isaiah. That's the very word she had used to describe the incident to Malloy, too. At the time she hadn't imagined it could have gone beyond that but now . . . now Rachel Upchurch was pregnant with a baby that wasn't her husband's, and she'd just tried to confess to a murder to protect someone else, someone who was probably her lover, and who must have had a good reason to want Upchurch dead.

Sarah noticed Isaiah put his hand on the middle of Rachel's back as he helped her up the stairs, a gesture that was inappropriately intimate. His head nearly touched hers as he leaned over to catch her every word. Had they been an old married couple, Sarah would have smiled at his obvious devotion. Instead, it made her heart turn cold in her chest.

“Mrs. Upchurch,” she said before she could think better of it, “that was foolish of you to confess to killing your husband.”

“
What
?” Isaiah cried in surprise. His head came up, and he turned to Sarah in amazement. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, Isaiah,” Rachel said sharply, anger bringing the color to her face.

“I said, she shouldn't have confessed to killing her husband,” Sarah said determinedly. “She could go to prison for the rest of her life.”

He turned on Rachel. “Why did you do a thing like that?”

Rachel gave Sarah a look that should have raised blisters, but when she turned back to Isaiah, her voice was gentle and pleading. “We can discuss this later. Don't worry, everything is fine.”

“No, it's not fine,” he insisted. “I can't let you go to prison!”

His eyes wild, he bolted back down the steps, nearly knocking Sarah over in his haste, and sprinted toward the church.

“Isaiah, don't!” Rachel screamed after him, but he didn't stop. She was clutching the railing for support. “I have to go after him,” she said desperately. “I have to stop him!”

“Did he kill your husband?” Sarah asked baldly.

Rachel turned to her, her face twisted with rage. “You! I thought I could trust you, and now look what you've done! That poor boy's life will be ruined!”

“Isn't it a bit late for you to worry about him?” Sarah asked. “Some would say you were the one who ruined him.”

A gust of wind whipped around their skirts and nearly knocked Rachel over. She was weeping now, the tears leaking out of her eyes unnoticed as she stared after the boy. “I've got to stop him,” she said weakly.

“No, you don't,” Sarah said, taking pity on her, in spite of herself. “Come inside.”

“But that policeman, he'll arrest him,” she protested. “I can't let him go to jail!”

“If he's innocent, Mr. Malloy won't arrest him.”

“How on earth will he know? And what if he's
not
innocent?” she asked in despair.

“Then God help him,” Sarah replied, taking her arm and directing her toward the door.

 
 
“
H
AZEL, WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?” LINTON DEMANDED.

“This doesn't concern you, Wil,” Hazel York said, laying a hand over her heart as she fought to catch her breath.

Both men instinctively went to her. Between the two of them, they escorted her to the nearest chair and sat her down. Her color had faded, and she looked as if she could barely breathe.

“Should we get Dr. Thomas back here?” Frank asked Linton.

“I don't need a doctor,” Mrs. York insisted. “I just need a minute to recover.”

“Hazel, you know you're supposed to avoid exerting yourself,” Linton said.

“I had to exert myself,” she informed him. “I can't let my mother go to prison for killing Reverend Upchurch.” She looked up at Frank, her eyes swimming with tears. “You can't put my mother in prison. She didn't kill Reverend Upchurch. I did! She was only trying to protect me when she confessed.”

Frank squeezed the bridge of his nose to ward off a threatening headache. “Mr. Linton, could I ask you to go back out and wait for me a little longer?”

“I won't leave Hazel alone,” he said. “She obviously doesn't know what she's saying.”

“I know exactly what I'm saying,” she informed him. “Please leave us so I can get this over with.”

“She can't know what she's saying,” he argued to Malloy. “She thinks her mother confessed to killing Upchurch!”

“She did,” Frank told him.

Linton's mouth dropped open.

“Tell me, Mr. Linton,” Frank said. “Were you going to confess to killing him, too?”

“Me?” he said incredulously. “No, no, of course not!”

“Then what
were
you going to confess?”

“I . . . I'm afraid I played a role in what happened here this morning, and I wanted to explain—”

“Good,” Frank said, cutting him off and slapping Linton on the back in a friendly gesture. “Then you won't mind stepping out for a few minutes while I talk with Mrs. York, will you?” Giving him no choice, he fairly shoved Linton out the door and slammed it shut behind him.

When he turned back to Mrs. York, she seemed to have recovered a bit. At least she didn't look like she was going drop over anymore. “Can I get you something, Mrs. York? I don't want you to make yourself sick.”

“The only thing that will make me feel better is if you allow me to clear my conscience,” she said.

Obligingly, Frank pulled a chair over to her and sat down. “All right, Mrs. York, tell me your story.”

She stared at him uncertainly for a long moment. “What do you want me to say?”

Once again, Frank managed not to sigh. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what happened.”

“Well, I . . . I couldn't let him get away with what he'd done to my son.”

“You're Percy's mother, aren't you?”

The tears welled in her eyes again. “Yes,” she whispered.

“He's a fine boy,” Frank said. “You should be very proud.”

“I gave him to that monster,” she said as the tears spilled down her cheeks. “It's all my fault.”

“He tricked you. He tricked all of you, not just the boys. He was a liar and a good one. You don't have anything to be ashamed of. You couldn't have known.”

She covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears.

Frank waited, hating the feeling of helplessness he always got when he saw a woman cry. She fought hard for control and eventually won. She dug in her purse and pulled out a handkerchief. Dabbing at her eyes, she apologized for her emotional outburst.

Frank ignored the apology. “Why did you kill Upchurch, Mrs. York?”

“Because of what he did to my boy,” she said indignantly. “Why else?”

“You weren't happy that they were going to run him out of the church?”

“No, that wasn't enough of a punishment for what he'd done. He'd still be out there, and other boys would be in danger. Someone had to stop him.”

“Where did you get the poison?”

“I got it from home. I put some in a paper bag and carried it to church. I saw the communion cup at the front of the church, and I put the poison in it. Then I threw the bag out in the alley.”

She looked very satisfied with her story. It was, of course, the same one he'd elicited from her mother, and it was just as false.