Victoria Thompson - Murder On Astor Place

In fact, it might bring her face to face with him.

FRANK COULDN’T BELIEVE HE WAS STILL IN THE same state as Manhattan. The wagon he’d hired at the train station in the picturesque little village of Mamoraneck had carried him down winding country lanes through lush fields rampant with wildflowers and past stately lawns that graced enormous mansions. When he thought of the squalid tenements of the Lower East Side and the dives of the Bowery, Frank wondered that they could exist in the same world as this place that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

On the other hand, he knew that the rich must have a haven outside the city that the poor could never invade. In the city, no matter how wealthy you were, you couldn’t be very far from those who weren’t. Fifth Avenue had become home to the wealthy because it was as far as you could get from either of the island’s waterfronts and the slums and the vice found there. Even still, it was only a few short blocks away from that vice and could go no farther. Blocks that anyone, no matter how poor or depraved, could walk in a matter of minutes. Trapped on the tiny island of Manhattan, the rich could never hope to have a world completely unto themselves.

This is why, for decades, the rich had been going north to where the land opened wide and could be purchased in huge parcels that would ensure no encroachment by the unworthy. They had come here to escape the unhealthy air and the unhealthy inhabitants of the city and to live in stately splendor.

And here they could send their daughters when they wanted to hide them, as the VanDamms had wanted to hide Alicia.

Frank glanced at the fellow driving the wagon. He was dressed in rough clothes, obviously a farmer, except instead of being in the fields on this unseasonably warm spring day, he was driving Frank to the VanDamm’s summer home.

“Do you farm?” Frank asked.

The fellow looked over at him suspiciously. He was past middle years, his hair white where it straggled out beneath his farmer’s hat, and his face was as brown and withered as an old potato. “Used to,” he offered.

“But you don’t anymore?” Frank said by way of encouragement.

“I drive this wagon. Make more money carrying the swells from the train to their fancy houses than I ever did behind a plow.”

This made sense to Frank. “Do you ever drive the VanDamms?”

The fellow shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Sometimes. Mostly, they get their own carriage.”

“Did you ever drive their daughter? The younger one, Alicia?”

“Once or twice. She’s a sweet little thing. Not like the other one. That one’s got a tongue on her could raise a welt on a leather boot.”

Frank thought this was probably true. “The VanDamm girl’s dead, you know.”

He looked surprised. “Is she now? Can’t say I’m sorry.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice over the side of the wagon. “What happened? Did she try that razor tongue of hers on the wrong man?”

“Not her,” Frank said. “The younger one, Alicia. She’s the one who’s dead.”

“The hell you say!” the driver exclaimed. “And her so young. Hardly more’n a babe. She get sick or something?”

Frank watched him carefully as he said, “No, someone murdered her.”

The driver gaped at him, his shock almost painful to behold. For a long moment, the only sound was the clop, clop of the draft horse as he plodded on, but finally the driver was able to say, “What happened?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

The driver nodded wisely. “That’s it, then. I been wondering what a copper’s doing out here, asking for the VanDamm place.”

Frank frowned. He hadn’t told the man his profession, so he must have been able to tell just by looking at him. He wondered what gave him away, but he didn’t ask. The man would only lie.

“You didn’t, by chance, take her to the train station about a month ago, did you?” he tried. “She would’ve been alone, or maybe with a young man.”

The driver shook his head. “Haven’t even seen her in a couple years. They keep ’em close once they start getting ripe.”

It took Frank a minute to figure out what he was saying. “They keep a close watch on the girls, you mean?”

“Always afraid they’ll get in trouble. You know what young men’re like. It ain’t so long since you was one yourself.”

Frank could hardly remember, but he nodded his agreement. “You ever hear of her getting in trouble? With a young man, I mean?”

But the driver shook his head. “Never heard nothin’ about her at all. Like I say, they keep ’em pretty close.”

Frank knew he shouldn’t be disappointed. The odds that this fellow had driven Alicia and her lover to the train when she’d run away were pretty slim. She would’ve been much more circumspect. Probably, she stole away in the middle of the night. Maybe she didn’t even take the train at all. It was a long carriage ride back to the city and the roads were poor, but she might not have wanted to risk being recognized on the train.

“That’s it there,” the driver said, pointing with his chin.

Frank looked up and gasped in surprise at the house sitting on a rise before him. It seemed enormous, large enough to accommodate the inhabitants of an entire block of tenements. Myriad windows glittered in the blinding sun and the red bricks glowed. The grounds rolled away gently on every side, the grass newly green in the warm spring sunshine. From a distance, everything looked perfectly peaceful and serene, and why shouldn’t it? The murder had taken place far from here, in that other world he’d left behind this morning when he’d boarded the train at Grand Central Station.

This morning he’d imagined that he could come out here and learn more about Alicia VanDamm and why she had run away and with whom. Now, looking at the home from which she had fled, he couldn’t even imagine why she had done such a thing. Who in her right mind would leave this beautiful house for the uncertainty of a life alone, hiding in a strange place among people she didn’t know? To run away with a lover, that Frank could understand. He could still remember passion, although the memories were sadly dim. He could still remember love, no matter how much he wanted to forget. Without those motivations, Alicia VanDamm’s flight made no sense at all.

So now he knew one thing at least: Alicia VanDamm must have fled with a lover-or at least to a lover-be-cause she never would have simply run away from a place so utterly magnificent for any other reason.

The driver waited, as Frank had previously arranged, since he couldn’t depend upon the VanDamm’s servants to provide him transportation back. Because this was an unsanctioned visit-Sarah Brandt had warned him not to ask VanDamm’s permission because he most likely would have refused or at the very least warned his servants against revealing anything-Frank was going to have to rely on his ability to either charm or intimidate. If it had to be the latter, he wanted a guaranteed method of escape if things got too unpleasant.

Up close the house looked even more impressive. The carved oak door appeared solid enough to withstand an onslaught of armed barbarians. Through the spotless windows Frank could see the lace curtains which his mother had always told him only “quality” folks had. He’d have to get his mother some lace curtains just to prove her wrong.

Frank didn’t have to knock. This was the country, and his approach had probably* been observed when he was still halfway down the lane. The front door swung open before he reached the top of the porch steps. A formidable looking woman glared out at him, probably ready to run him off. Her ample figure was encased in black, giving the impression of rigidly tucked upholstery. Frank wondered if she was in mourning or if she always wore black. Somehow, he thought it was the latter. Her hair was hidden beneath the white cap of a servant, but her face was set into an authoritative glare which told him she was no ordinary servant.