Victoria Thompson: Murder On Mulberry Bend

They were certainly attracting more than their share of attention. Dennis’s tailor-made clothing and aristocratic bearing set him apart. The only reason they hadn’t been approached or intimidated yet is because so many people knew Sarah. Several in every block greeted her by name, and when anyone made a move toward them, either to beg or to steal, someone else would warn them away with shouts and curses.

“That’s Mrs. Brandt, the midwife! She saved my daughter’s life!” was a common theme, repeated in many languages.

“You have a lot of friends here,” Dennis marveled after they’d gone several blocks.

“The poor are very sensitive. They know when someone is patronizing them and when someone treats them with genuine respect.”

“Respect?” he repeated as if he’d never heard the word. Plainly, he could not imagine having such a feeling for these people.

“Yes, and their loyalty is the reward for that respect.”

At last they reached Mulberry Street. Police Headquarters sat on the block between Bleeker and Houston, and Sarah thought of Malloy as they passed. He would be at home today, spending time with his son. She’d see them both on Wednesday, when Brian went to the doctor’s office to get his cast off. Malloy had invited Sarah to be there, and she would be. She told herself the thought of seeing them made her stomach flutter only because she was excited for the boy.

The buildings across the street from Headquarters were quiet today. The rooms there were rented by newspaper reporters who spent their time watching to see who came and went at Headquarters in hopes of getting a story. Only a few cub reporters would be on duty on a Sunday, and they were probably sleeping until the next Black Maria full of prisoners arrived.

“Is that a saloon?” Dennis asked in surprise, pointing to a building located half a block away. “It’s practically next door to the police station!”

“I’ve heard that the owner justifies it by saying ‘the nearer the church, the closer to God.’ ”

Dennis frowned in disapproval. Sarah wondered if he disapproved the sentiment or of hearing her express it. “That’s blasphemy.”

“Yes, it is.” Sarah managed not to smile. “The area farther down, where the street curves, is known as Mulberry Bend,” she added. “It contains the worst slums in the city.”

“There are worse slums than this?” he asked in amazement, looking around.

“Indeed, although they aren’t as bad as they used to be. Just a few years ago, the police would only go in there in large groups,” Sarah said. “The Italians have settled there now. So many of them live here, they call it Little Italy.”

“The real Italy is nothing like this,” he informed her, making no effort to conceal his dismay. Sarah could imagine the inhabitants of Little Italy would agree with him.

The Prodigal Son Mission was located in the next block. Sarah had never paid much attention to it before. Missions and settlement houses had started appearing in various locations in the Lower East Side as society developed a social conscience.

This mission was in an old Dutch-style house that had once been a large and comfortable home to a well-to-do family. That family had long since moved farther north, leaving the house to be divided into flats for the flood of poor immigrants currently invading the city. Now the house had changed character again. Someone had hung a large cross over the front door, and a sign identified the mission to anyone in the neighborhood who could read English.

When she glanced at Dennis, he was frowning.

“Isn’t it what you were expecting?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what I was expecting,” he said. “I was just trying to imagine Hazel coming here, walking down these streets and seeing these people.” He turned to her. “She wasn’t like you, Sarah. She wasn’t brave or strong.”

Sarah didn’t consider herself particularly brave or strong, either. “Perhaps you misjudged her.”

He wasn’t prepared to admit such a thing.

They’d reached the front stoop, and Sarah walked up the steps and knocked on the door while Dennis waited on the sidewalk, still holding Sarah’s bundle. In a few moments the door opened. A young woman stood there, and she smiled uncertainly at Sarah.

“You want something, yes?” she asked with a lilting accent. She was an ordinary-looking girl, but her smile brightened her face and her light brown eyes, making her almost pretty.

“We’d like to see Mrs. Wells, if she’s available,” Dennis informed her from his place at the bottom of the steps.

The girl looked down in surprise, and her smile vanished. Richard Dennis was used to intimidating those he considered his inferior, and he’d certainly intimidated this girl. “Sì, Signore, I mean, yes. Please to come in, Signora.”

She stood back hastily to allow them to enter. Sarah recognized her accent as Italian, but unlike most of the Italian immigrants, she had light hair and a fair complexion. Sarah knew from her dealings in the neighborhood that this meant she was probably from Northern Italy, although Northern Italian immigrants were much rarer than Southern ones.

“You will wait here, please,” the girl asked, still wary of Dennis, since he hadn’t done anything to reassure her. In fact, he was practically glaring at her in apparent disapproval. Sarah couldn’t imagine why he would disapprove of the girl.

She wanted to chide him, but she didn’t know exactly how to make him see how rude he was being. Instead, she looked around while they waited for the girl to return. The entrance hall was remarkably clean and virtually bare of furniture and decoration except for a cheap picture of Jesus on one wall. The floors had been painted brown and scrubbed until they were spotless. From another room, Sarah could hear young voices uncertainly singing a hymn.

The girl had disappeared into that room farther down the hallway, and after a moment, the singing stopped and a woman came out. The girl made as if to follow her, but the woman said, “Thank you, Emilia. Please stay with the girls and have them continue with their Bible lesson,” and came down the hall alone to meet them.

“Mrs. Wells?” Sarah asked as she approached. She was a small woman of middle age. The years had thickened her figure and put silver streaks into her dark hair, but her face was remarkably unlined. Her dark brown eyes glowed with the confidence and serenity of someone very confident of her place in the world.

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Wells,” she replied. “Welcome to the mission. Have you visited us before?”

“No, we haven’t,” Sarah said. “I’m Sarah Brandt, and this is Mr. Richard Dennis. His wife used to – ”

“Mr. Dennis, of course,” Mrs. Wells said, her intense gaze instantly on him. Sarah saw a flicker of emotion cross her smooth face. She must have been amazed that Richard had suddenly turned up on her doorstep after five years. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. We met when I visited your wife during her last illness.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten,” Dennis said apologetically. “That was a difficult time. I’m afraid much of what happened then is a little unclear to me, even today.”

She nodded with understanding. “No need to explain. It has been a long time. Your wife was a remarkable woman, so dedicated to the work we do here. You must feel her loss deeply. I know we still do.”

“Thank you,” Richard murmured uncomfortably. Sarah knew he didn’t want to discuss his wife’s death, particularly when they were standing in a corridor.

Mrs. Wells obviously realized it, too. “Now tell me,” she continued briskly, as if as eager as Richard to move on from the unpleasant thoughts of Hazel’s death. “What brings you here after all this time?”