Victoria Thompson - Murder on St. Mark’s place

“And the deaths of four girls isn’t important?” Sarah cried, but she didn’t need Malloy’s pitying look to remind her that no, these deaths weren’t very important in the grand scheme of things. No one outside their families cared about them, and none of their families had the money or connections necessary to ensure a thorough investigation. Even with all the resources money could buy at their disposal, the police were unlikely to solve any single one of these murders, simply because the pool of suspects was so very large.

But now Sarah saw a way to surmount all these difficulties. “The deaths of four girls is important if we can prove they were all killed by the same man, especially since he’s likely to kill again.”

“We don’t know the murders were committed by one man,” Malloy pointed out reasonably.

This time Sarah was the one giving the pitying look. “Oh, Malloy, I thought we already settled that. All the girls had been to a dance hall, and they were all killed the same way in the same neighborhood. How many men do you think are skulking around the city beating young women to death?”

“More than you’d like to imagine, I’m sure,” Malloy said. “And even if one man did kill all these girls, we don’t have any reason to think he’ll kill again.”

“How can you say that? He’s gotten away with it four times! He must think he’s invincible by now. If anything, he’ll start to kill more often!”

“What makes you such an expert on the criminal mind, Mrs. Brandt?” he asked sourly.

Sarah couldn’t resist. “All the training I’ve received from a very wise police detective.”

Malloy’s expression was priceless, but Sarah didn’t gloat. She merely smiled serenely.

Malloy finally found his tongue. “Do you feel up to walking back to the trolley station now? I’ve had enough of this place.”

“So have I,” Sarah agreed. “On the way back to the city, we can discuss how we’re going to proceed with our investigation.”

SARAH WAS ACTUALLY quite surprised that Malloy had agreed to allow her to help investigate the murders. She’d only been teasing him when she suggested they work out a system, but he had been willing-if not eager-for her to assist him. Apparently, the investigation into the murders of all the other girls had been abandoned just as Malloy had abandoned his, and for the same reasons. Sarah suspected that Malloy felt a bit guilty for not trying harder to solve the case that had been his originally, even though they both agreed the task had been hopeless with only one victim. Now, of course, they had a way of narrowing down the list of suspects.

Sarah had planned to begin with Gerda’s sister first thing the next day, but an early morning call delayed her. By the time she’d brought a healthy baby boy safely into the world, it was late in the afternoon. Men were returning to their homes carrying their now empty lunch pails, and the smells of thousands of suppers being prepared filled the hot, summer air as thunderclouds gathered overhead. At least a storm might break the oppressive heat.

Sarah hated to intrude on the Otto family at this time of day, and she certainly didn’t want to encounter Lars Otto again, but she also didn’t want to lose any more time in her quest to find Gerda’s killer. Maybe she could catch Agnes before her husband came home from work.

She climbed the dark stairs to the Ottos’ flat, the heat from dozens of cooking stoves turning the stairwell into a giant oven. The two older Otto children were playing on the landing, the boy entertaining the girl as best he could, probably trying to keep her out of their mother’s way. Young as he was, he could understand that his mother didn’t need any distractions just now.

Sarah could see Agnes sitting in her kitchen through the door that stood open to catch whatever air might be stirring, superheated though it might be. Agnes was listlessly rolling out dough for biscuits. On the floor beside the table sat a cradle which she was rocking with one of her slippered feet. Inside the cradle lay the new baby, clad only in a ragged diaper. She looked no healthier than she had the last time Sarah saw her, and she was mewling pitifully. Agnes appeared oblivious to the child’s complaints.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Otto,” Sarah called, startling her.

When Agnes turned to face her, Sarah was startled in turn by how haggard she looked. Like a dishrag that had been thoroughly wrung out. Sweat had dampened the hair around her face, her lips had little color, and her eyes were red-rimmed and dark-circled. Sarah instantly diagnosed anemia and no relief from the postnatal depression. Agnes’s condition was alarming, but the baby was in even more danger.

“Mrs. Brandt?” Agnes said after a moment, as if she needed that time to properly identify her visitor. “Why are you here? Is it Mrs. Gertz’s time?”

Sarah smiled. “Not that I know of. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing. The little one seems unhappy.”

Agnes glanced down at the cradle she still rocked automatically, as if the action of her foot was independent of the rest of her body. Only then did she appear to become aware of the child’s misery.

“She is so good, I hardly remember she is there,” the new mother said, picking the baby up out of the cradle with little tenderness.

Sarah thought it more likely she hardly noticed, but she said nothing, waiting for Agnes to offer the child her breast. Instead, she tried bouncing the baby, as if that would soothe her cries.

Sarah’s fear was a tight ball in her stomach, but she tried not to show it. In her fragile state, Agnes probably wouldn’t be able to tolerate any perceived criticism of her mothering. Making her feel attacked would only harden her against the child. “She might be hungry,” Sarah suggested mildly.

The baby was rooting frantically, digging her face fruitlessly into the bodice of her mother’s dress, looking for milk. “I do not have time now. I have to finish supper,” Agnes said, laying the babe back in the cradle. “Lars will be angry if his supper is not ready when he comes home.”

The child’s little face was pinched and red, but she appeared too weak to cry any harder than the small, pitiful sounds she was making. Sarah knew what was happening. The baby wasn’t getting enough attention or sustenance, and she would die. Not today or tomorrow, but eventually. She wouldn’t grow, wouldn’t fatten, would shrivel and grow sickly and die. Sarah had seen it happen often enough. Too many unwanted babies seemed to recognize their fate and choose oblivion to further suffering. Some might say they were better off dead than alive in a world that didn’t want them, but not Sarah. Sarah hated death. Too many tiny lives had ended from injury and disease already. In the city, one in every three infants died from any number of reasons. Sarah never surrendered those in her care easily, and she wasn’t going to stand by helplessly and allow this one to go for no good reason at all.

“I can keep an eye on the other children and finish making those biscuits while you take the baby into the front room and nurse her. I’m prescribing some rest and relaxation for you.” She smiled with what she hoped looked like kindness, and prayed Agnes wouldn’t sense her desperation.

But Agnes was far too withdrawn into her own anguish even to notice Sarah’s expression, much less to divine her intentions. For a long moment she simply stared at the half-flattened dough ball sitting on the table in front of her, as if she were trying to remember what she had been doing with it.

“Lars will be angry,” she repeated. “He wants his supper waiting when he comes home.”