Victoria Thompson - Murder On GramercyPark

“Yes, it was, Mister…?”

“Oh, yes! Potter. Amos Potter at your service, Missus…?”

“Brandt,” Sarah supplied. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter. I’m sure Mrs. Blackwell will appreciate your concern.”

“You may convey my best wishes to her, and assure her I will take care of all the details concerning poor Edmund. She need worry for nothing.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Potter, but I believe someone has sent for Mrs. Blackwell’s father.”

“Oh, yes, of course, but I’ll need to take care of Edmund’s business affairs. Those are my responsibilities anyway. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that no burden falls on Mrs. Blackwell.”

Sarah wanted to ask him for some details about Dr. Blackwell’s demise, but she felt that would be rude of her. Besides, she was more likely to get accurate information much more easily in the kitchen, which was where she had originally been headed. “It was so nice to have met you, Mr. Potter,” she said, ready to take her leave, but Potter wasn’t quite finished with her yet.

“That policeman,” he said. “Malloy, I think his name was. You are acquainted with him?”

Sarah was surprised, but she didn’t let it show. “Yes, we met a few months ago,” she said, revealing nothing with her tone.

“Is he… Can he be trusted to be… discreet?”

“Oh, yes,” Sarah said, quite honestly. “Detective Sergeant Malloy is very good at his job. He’ll keep the news of Dr. Blackwell’s unfortunate death out of the newspapers, if that’s what his family wishes.”

Potter nodded. “And will he be diligent about finding Edmund’s killer?”

Sarah started. “Killer?” she repeated incredulously. “I thought Dr. Blackwell had committed suicide.”

Potter pulled himself up to his full, if inconsequential, height. “Mr. Malloy believes he was murdered. While that is quite distressing to me, I am naturally concerned about his ability to find and dispose of the killer.”

A thousand things were racing through Sarah’s mind, but she took no time to consider any of them. “Mr. Malloy will certainly find the killer, Mr. Potter. You can rest assured of that.”

She’d thought this news would comfort Potter, but instead he looked troubled. He would be thinking about the scandal, of course, and the effect it would have on Mrs. Blackwell. Or perhaps he simply didn’t believe her assertion that Malloy could find the killer. Most of the police detectives were totally inept and corrupt, so that would be natural. “Thank you, Mrs. Brandt,” was all he said, and then he took his leave.

Sarah’s stomach rumbled, reminding her of her original destination. The cook was in the kitchen, preparing the noon meal, and instantly offered Sarah something to eat.

“Have a seat, miss,” the cook said. “I’ll fix you something in no time. How’s the Missus and the new babe doing?”

“They’re both fine, but a little tired. It was a long night.”

“That it was, and poor Missus, remembering how her poor husband looked when she found him. It’s an awful thing, I tell you.”

“It certainly is,” Sarah agreed, taking a seat at the scrubbed oak table where the servants ate their meals. She wanted to plunge right in, asking questions, but she knew it was better to listen. She should also pretend she didn’t know about the murder, since that was most likely a secret. The cook would relish the tale much more, thinking Sarah ignorant.

The cook was a buxom woman of middle years, plain of face and sharp of tongue, if Sarah was any judge. “Do you have any idea why Dr. Blackwell would have taken his life?” she asked, hoping she was right.

“Oh, law, he’d never do such a thing! Whatever for? He was famous, he was,” she insisted as she struck a match to light the stove. “People-rich people-they come from all over, even other states, to see him, and they paid him all sorts of money to make them well. Like he did his wife.”

“His wife?” Sarah asked, remembering what Potter had said about Mrs. Blackwell’s health.

“Oh, law, yes, poor little thing. Crippled she was. A horseback-riding accident was what done it. She couldn’t get up from her bed for nigh on a year, and she was in terrible pain. Mr. Symington-that’s her father-he called in every kind of doctor you can imagine, and not a one of them could help her. She was wasting away until finally they found Dr. Blackwell. He cured her just like that!” She snapped her fingers, or tried to. Apparently, they were too greasy, though, and they only slid across each other. “Well, right quick like, anyways. Before you know it, she was right as rain. Been that way ever since.”

Sarah waited until the woman had broken several eggs into the cast-iron skillet she was heating on the stove. “What kind of a doctor was Dr. Blackwell?”

“They called him a magnetic healer. How do you like your eggs, miss?”

“Sunny-side up, please. Do you know how he healed people?”

“I’m not rightly sure, but it had something to do with his hands. He had some power in them. He could put his hands on someone and use that power and make them well.”

What a useful talent, Sarah thought, but of course she didn’t want to show the cook her skepticism. “It’s difficult to understand how a man with such a power would choose to take his own life, then,” she remarked, taking the subject back to her original question.

“Oh, he didn’t. I already told you that! I never believed it for a second, either, not a man like Dr. Blackwell, and then that police detective comes, and he says it, too. Says Dr. Blackwell was murdered, he did.”

“He did?” Sarah echoed, managing to sound surprised.

“Oh, yes. Says somebody tried to make it look like Dr. Blackwell shot himself with his own pistol, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t have, and I told that detective so, too. He talked to all the servants, one by one. Asked all of us did we know anybody who’d want to shoot poor Dr. Blackwell.”

“And did you?”

“Certainly not! Except maybe some of those doctors who was jealous of him, and there was a few, I can tell you.”

The cook scooped up the perfectly cooked eggs and slid them onto a plate. When she’d set it down in front of Sarah, she produced a freshly baked loaf of bread and cut several thick slices from it. Then she served up some creamy butter and strawberry jam and a glass of milk. For a few moments Sarah forgot all about murders and murderers and just indulged herself in the delicious meal. But only for a few moments.

“I suppose no one else has any idea who might have killed Dr. Blackwell either, then,” she surmised when she’d taken the edge off her hunger.

“No one I know of. Everybody on the staff says the same thing. He was such a good man, never a cross word to anyone.”

“His marriage was happy, too?”

“Oh, yes, he doted on his wife, he did. Nothing was too good for her. I don’t think she appreciated it like she should, though. She comes from money, you know, so she’s used to fine things.”

“And the doctor wasn’t from a wealthy family?”

“Oh, law, no! He was common as dirt. His father was a farmer, he said. It was his talents that made him rise in the world. People was so grateful for his help, you see. They give him money and presents. It embarrassed him, I think, all the fuss. But he said it was his duty to help people, and he couldn’t stop.”

Sarah found it hard to believe that anyone would be embarrassed to be recompensed for his work, even if he were a charlatan. Or perhaps especially if he were a charlatan.

“This is a lovely house. How long have the Blackwells lived here?” Sarah asked between mouthfuls.

“About three months now, I guess. They lived in a flat uptown before that. Not that the doctor couldn’t have afforded a nice home, but he was traveling so much. He didn’t have time to find them a place. At least that’s what I heard from her maid. She’s the only one that’s been with them since before they come to this house.”