Murder on Lenox Hill (34 page)

A memory stirred in Sarah's mind, slender and fragile and seemingly unimportant at the time. Grace telling Aggie how to behave in church, and then, seeing the acolytes coming down the aisle, she'd bragged . . .

“Grace, is
Percy
your beau?” Sarah asked, her heart nearly stopping in her chest.

Grace nodded proudly. “But I didn't tell you. You guessed, so I didn't break my promise. And you said he wouldn't get in trouble. You promised!”

“Yes, I did,” she said faintly as the enormity of Upchurch's sins began to dawn on her. A scripture verse echoed in her head, something about the sins of the fathers being visited on the children. So many children, so many lives scarred by his evil. Some of them weren't even born yet.

Mrs. Linton was weeping softly into her handkerchief, and Grace went over to comfort her, still having no idea why she was upset. Sarah prayed she'd never be able to understand the evil that had touched her.

 
 
F
RANK HAD HARDLY BEEN ABLE TO BELIEVE THE LETTER Sarah sent him. He supposed he should be grateful that the Lintons had no intention of pressing charges against young Percy. Enough harm had come to both those children, and Frank had no heart for causing any more. No one outside the families would ever learn the truth about who had fathered Grace's baby, and Mrs. Evans would make sure Percy understood that what he'd done with Grace had been wrong. Frank could imagine how heartbroken the boy would be to learn how horribly Upchurch had twisted his understanding of the world, and he was glad he wouldn't be present for that conversation.

The only good news her letter brought was that he no longer needed to concern himself with the Church of the Good Shepherd and its parishioners. He'd been spending every moment of his spare time on that, so now he could afford to return to investigating Tom Brandt's death.

Whenever he could during the next few days, he tried to track down the three other women who had suffered from the same strange obsession as Edna White. At the first woman's house, a maid told him the tradesmen's entrance was in the back, and she didn't seem impressed when he told her he was the police investigating a murder. After consulting with someone inside, she'd returned to tell him they knew nothing that could help him and slammed the door in his face. If he'd been officially assigned to this case, he would've brought a squad of patrolmen back to make a rather messy and destructive search of the premises, but since he wasn't officially assigned, he decided to try his luck elsewhere.

At the second woman's house, a servant let him in, but a forbidding woman with a face like a prune and a disposition to match informed him no one there cared a fig who'd killed that quack of a doctor who'd only succeeded in upsetting poor Amelia more than she had been already.

Frank asked if he might speak to Miss Amelia's father—he didn't mention the man might well be a suspect in Tom Brandt's murder—but the old woman told him he most certainly could not and told him to leave. Since she herself left the room, he didn't have much choice. She hadn't even confirmed whether this Amelia even had a father.

The fourth woman was the one who'd had the dementia, what Dr. Quinn had told him was far more serious than just imagining herself in love with a man she hardly knew. But when he finally found the right house, the family no longer lived there. The new family wasn't home, and the maid had no idea where the previous owners might've gone.

He knew from experience that every street in the city had a resident like Mrs. Ellsworth, so Frank started knocking on doors up and down the street until he found an elderly lady who had nothing better to do than mind her neighbors' business. He had to sit in her parlor and drink tea and eat Sally Lund cake, but he found out everything he needed to know.

“Oh, yes, that poor girl behaved terribly,” Mrs. Peabody informed him. “They had to keep her locked in her room so she wouldn't run out into the street in her nightdress. I felt sorry for her family. She'd been a promising young thing, very smart and pretty. She sang, too, as I remember. Voice like an angel.”

“So she wasn't always like that,” Frank said between mouthfuls. The cake was very good.

“Heavens no. She was perfectly normal, at least as far as anyone knew, until . . . let me see, I suppose she must've been around twenty when her brother died.”

“How did he die?”

“Oh, it was the most horrible thing. He was riding one of those bicycle contraptions, and a carriage ran him over. Broke his neck, they said. They should be outlawed, if you ask me. The bicycles, I mean. I can't imagine why any sane person would get on one in the first place.”

Frank didn't point out that the police department had found them so useful that they'd started a bicycle squad. “Was it her brother's death that, uh . . .” He struggled to find the right words, but she was ahead of him.

“That unhinged her?” she supplied helpfully. “Oh, my, yes. They were twins, you see, so they'd always been close. She took to her bed for weeks afterwards, her mother told me. No one could console her, and then she started acting so strangely. She thought people were talking to her when no one was there, and she decided everyone was lying to her and her brother was still alive.”

“I suppose they called in some doctors,” Frank said.

“For what little good it did. They said to keep her locked in a dark, quiet room and make sure her life was as calm as possible. As if they had any choice. They certainly couldn't let her out of the house in her condition.”

“You said ‘they.' How much family did she have left? Were both her parents still alive?”

“They were the last time I heard anything about them.”

“What sort of man was her father?” Frank asked, finishing off the last of his cake and hoping Mrs. Peabody would offer him some more.

She seemed puzzled by the question. “He was a business-man. I'm not quite sure what business he was in, but they were quite comfortable, if that's what you mean.”

“Did he have a temper?”

“Not that I ever saw, but then, I wouldn't, would I? He was devoted to his children, though. I do know that. They both were. Losing the boy was terrible, but then they lost their daughter, too, in a way. I don't know how they bore it.”

“When did they move away?”

“Oh, dear, let me think. Two years ago at least. Yes, it was before my last grandchild was born, and he'll be two in May. I remember because I'd just told Mrs. Alberton we were expecting him when she told me they were moving out of the city. They hoped Christina would improve if they lived in the country, you see.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“Yonkers, I believe. Mr. Alberton still works in the city, so they couldn't go far. Would you like some more cake, Mr. Malloy? You seemed to enjoy it so much.”

“Yes, I believe I will, Mrs. Peabody,” he said, holding out his plate. “You wouldn't know their current address, would you?”

“I don't think so, I'm sorry to say, but they shouldn't be too difficult to find. Alberton isn't a common name.”

Frank accepted the second helping of cake and tried to think of something else she might know that could help him. “I don't suppose you know if the move to the country helped the girl or not.”

“Not for certain, of course, but I did hear through some mutual friends that they finally had to put her into a sanitarium. For her own safety, you understand.”

Frank winced inwardly. Under those circumstances, the Albertons weren't going to be eager to speak to a policeman. If Mr. Alberton had killed Tom Brandt, he'd avoid the police like the plague, and even if he hadn't, he wasn't likely to want to talk about his poor daughter's tragedy.

He had to face it: he wasn't going to be able to get any further on this case. He was the wrong social class, the wrong nationality, and the wrong religion, and as if that weren't enough, he was a policeman. No respectable Protestant family in the city would allow an Irish Catholic cop into their home unless compelled by some horrible event that had made them the victim of a crime. Even then, their cooperation would likely be perfunctory and reluctant. He'd just been reminded of that when dealing with the members of the Church of the Good Shepherd.

As Mrs. Peabody chattered on about inconsequential things, Frank thought about going back to Felix Decker to tell him he'd failed. The prospect turned the cake he was eating into sawdust in his mouth. No, he'd rather be horse-whipped than do that, but what else could he do?

 
 
S
ARAH WAS HELPING AGGIE PUT TOGETHER A PUZZLE UPSTAIRS in the playroom the following Sunday afternoon when the doorbell rang. Aggie frowned, knowing it was probably someone summoning Sarah to a delivery. Sarah felt a stab of disappointment herself. She'd been looking forward to spending this gloomy winter afternoon with Aggie.

The girl followed her down the stairs, clinging to her skirt as if she could keep her from going, but Sarah's mood lifted instantly when she saw a familiar silhouette on the frosted glass of the front door.

She was already smiling when she opened it to admit Malloy and Brian, who was fairly bouncing with anticipation. When everyone had been properly greeted and coats removed and hung up, Aggie and Brian raced upstairs to the playroom.

“Where's Maeve?” Malloy asked, chafing his hands to warm them.

“She has the day off. Come into the kitchen.”

He glanced up the stairs. “Do we dare leave them alone?”

“Not for long. We'll check on them in a few minutes.”

When they were settled at the kitchen table with coffee and some of Mrs. Ellsworth's apple pie, Sarah told him what she'd heard from Mrs. Linton.

“Mrs. Linton is taking Grace to stay with some friends in New Jersey, and she'll have the baby there. They're going to bring it back and announce that they've adopted it. There may be some gossip, but they plan to ignore it and stick to their story.”

“What about Percy? Does he know he's going to be a father?”

“They aren't going to tell him until he's older. I imagine he'll eventually figure it out for himself, even if they don't. Mrs. Evans and Mrs. York have promised that they will help support the child in case . . . well, in case it's like Grace and needs that support.”

“Any word on the Widow Upchurch?” Malloy asked sarcastically.

“None at all! Apparently, she just packed up her things and disappeared. No one even knows where she went, although she told me she had an uncle in Albany who would take her in.”

“Young Isaiah must be heartbroken,” he observed.

“I suspect he is,” Sarah said, “but he'll get over losing her soon enough, I imagine. Someday, he'll even count his blessings.”

They sipped their coffee in companionable silence for a few minutes, and then he said, “Remember when I told you about those women your husband treated?”

“The ones who were . . . deluded?” she asked, not pleased with the word she'd chosen, but knowing it made sense to him.

“That's right. I found out at least one of them is in a sanitarium.”

“How awful,” she said. “Do you still think they have something to do with Tom's death?”

“It's possible, but I can't find out for sure.”

“Why not?” she asked, feeling a stab of disappointment.

“Because none of their families will talk to a cop.”

“But you're investigating a murder,” she argued.

“Not officially,” he said. “And if I offend these people, and they didn't have anything to do with your husband's murder . . .”

“They'll complain about you,” she supplied. “Maybe even get you fired.”

He hadn't wanted to tell her that, but she certainly didn't think any less of him for it. He had a son to support, and he needed his job.

“Is there something I can do?” she asked. “Could
I
talk to the families? Surely they'd speak to me,” she argued.

He fairly cringed at the prospect. “No, you can't,” he informed her. “If one of them killed your husband, he might decide to kill you, too, if you come snooping around.”

Sarah hadn't considered that possibility, and it sobered her. “Then what
can
I do?”

She could see he'd thought this through carefully, but he still hated to ask her. “If I was officially assigned to the case, I wouldn't have to worry about offending anybody.”

She understood instantly. “I could ask Teddy to reopen the investigation and assign you,” she said, referring to her old friend Teddy Roosevelt. “He'd be happy to do it, I'm sure.”

He didn't seem as pleased by her offer as she'd expected. “Think about this before you make any offers. Don't forget that solving a murder isn't always good. Sometimes people find out things they didn't want to know.”

“You mean like with Upchurch.”

“Exactly like that.”

She stared at him, trying to see behind his neutral cop's expression. “Tom was a good man, Malloy. You won't find anything I don't want to know.”

“But if I do . . .”

“You won't. I just want to find his killer. I need to know why he died.”

“It won't change anything,” he warned her. “He'll still be dead.”

She hadn't thought of it that way. Was that what she wanted? Of course it was. She wanted Tom back, alive, and everything the way it had been. But that would never happen. He was gone forever. “The man who killed Tom robbed me of my husband and robbed the world of a great doctor and a wonderful person,” she said. “He has no right to be walking around free. I want him punished.”