“IT’S NO MYSTERY HOW HE DIED,” THE CORONER explained, having given Calvin’s body only a cursory examination. “The arsenic is sitting in plain sight and see how yellow his face is? That’s always a sure sign of arsenic poisoning.”
Frank had to admit he was right. Calvin had left the box of rat poison out on the dresser. An empty bottle of sarsaparilla sat on the table and had apparently been mixed with the poison to kill the taste.
“There’s the suicide note, too,” the coroner pointed out. “That’s usually enough to convince most people it’s a suicide.”
Frank ignored his sarcasm. He just didn’t want to make a mistake. Or rather, he just didn’t want to be wrong about Calvin Brown. He’d been so certain the boy was innocent, and truth to tell, he’d wanted the boy to be innocent. But here it was, a confession written with his own hand right before he’d taken his own life.
“Dear Mother,” he’d written. “I can’t live with this no more. I shot father and tried to make it look like he killed himself. He refused to help us or even to admit he was my father. I couldn’t stand thinking that he was living so rich while you worked so hard to support us. I’m sorry I did this, and I don’t want to bring more shame on the family by being arrested for it. I love you and the girls.” He’d signed it, “Calvin.”
Frank swore silently as he stuffed the note into his pocket. This didn’t make sense. The boy hadn’t acted a bit guilty, and Frank considered himself an expert in judging such matters. He also hadn’t run away, which would have been the only sensible thing to do if he’d killed his father. And certainly far less drastic than killing himself. There was an irony here, he supposed. Calvin had tried to make his father’s death look like a suicide, and now he’d committed suicide himself.
“He went awful quick,” the coroner said, as if offering Frank comfort. “It’s a mercy. Sometimes they suffer for days.”
Frank had seen the results of such suffering, and he could only be glad Calvin had given himself a large enough dose so that he succumbed almost immediately. “Tell them they can take the body away,” Frank said. “I’ll get his things together to send back to his mother.”
He could have left this for the landlady, but for some reason he felt he had to do it himself. It would be a penance of some sort, to help assuage the guilt he was feeling for his own mistakes. If he’d arrested Calvin, at least the boy would still be alive.
As he collected Calvin’s meager belongings and laid them into the cheap suitcase he’d carried with him from Virginia, Frank couldn’t help thinking how gratified Amos Potter would be to have been proved right. Collecting the reward for solving this case would give Frank no pleasure, though.
While he was putting away the last of Calvin’s things, the orderlies came to fetch the body. They had a time of it, since Calvin was still stiff. When they’d gotten him on the stretcher, lying on his side because he was fixed in a fetal position, he looked small and vulnerable under the sheet, like a child curled up for warmth or safety. It didn’t seem fair that a boy so young should have cut his life short because of a man like Edmund Blackwell. But then, as Frank had learned only too well, life was seldom fair.
When all trace of Calvin Brown had been removed from the room, Frank started down the steps after the orderlies, carrying the boy’s suitcase. He should write Mrs. Brown a letter, explaining what had happened, he thought. That was when he realized he didn’t know Mrs. Brown’s address. Calvin had carelessly not written it on his note, either.
Frank stopped at the bottom of the stairs and saw Mrs. Zimmerman, the landlady, sitting in the parlor, weeping softly into her handkerchief.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said.
She looked up, her red-rimmed eyes brimming. “Oh, Mr. Malloy, I’m so glad you was the one who found him. That sweet boy, I don’t know if I could’ve stood it or not. I should’ve knowed something was wrong, though. I should’ve gone up to check when he didn’t come down to breakfast. Maybe if I had-”
“The coroner said he died real quick,” Malloy said by way of comfort. No use in the woman torturing herself. “There was nothing you could’ve done.”
“I wish he’d come and talked to me if he was feeling poorly. Maybe I could’ve said something to stop him.”
“I wish he’d come to me, too,” Frank said, “but he didn’t. Sometimes, you just can’t help, Mrs. Zimmerman. If someone is determined to kill themselves, they’ll do it. There is something I’d like to ask you, though.”
“Oh,” she said, as if remembering. “You’ll be wanting a refund on the rent you paid for him. There’s three days left, I think. I’ll get-”
“No, it’s not that,” Frank said. “You keep the money, for your trouble. It’s just… I packed his things to send them home, but I don’t know his address. I was wondering if you had any idea-”
“Oh, my, yes! I’d almost forgot. He give me a letter to mail to his dear mother just yesterday. Wait right here, I’ll fetch it.”
Calvin had written to his mother yesterday. He’d made his decision quickly, then. He wouldn’t have bothered with a letter if he’d known he was going to be leaving a suicide note so soon. What could have caused him to decide to do something like that when he seemed to be getting away with the crime? Certainly, he had every reason to believe he’d fooled Frank, at least.
Before Frank could make any sense of it, Mrs. Zimmerman was back. She held out an envelope to him with one hand while she dabbed a damp handkerchief at her nose with the other.
The envelope was cheap, and the address had been printed in a bold, childish scrawl in pencil. Frank stared at the address for a long moment, trying to identify what was wrong. Finally, it all came together in his mind. He ripped open the envelope.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Zimmerman cried. “That’s the last thing he wrote to his dear mother! Don’t you have any respect at all?”
Frank ignored her. He pulled the folded paper out of the envelope and scanned its contents. “Dear Ma,” it began, and that’s when Frank knew the truth.
“Did Calvin have any visitors yesterday?” he asked, interrupting the landlady, who was still expressing her outrage.
“Visitors?” she scoffed angrily. “He didn’t know nobody in town but you! Nobody ever come to see him.”
“Are you sure? Could someone else have let a visitor in without you knowing it? One of the other tenants, maybe?”
Mrs. Zimmerman stared at him for a long moment, trying to make sense of his question. “Why do you think he had a visitor?”
“Because Calvin didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”
“CALVIN WAS MURDERED?” Sarah exclaimed in horror as she admitted Malloy to her house. She’d known the moment she saw him that something terrible had happened, and he’d been eager to unburden himself. “When? How?”
“The killer tried to make it look like a suicide again,” he said, taking off his hat and hanging it on the stand by the door. It occurred to her that he was becoming very comfortable in her home, but for some reason, the knowledge didn’t bother her as it should have.
“The boy was shot?” Sarah asked. “Didn’t someone hear it?”
“No, he was poisoned. Arsenic.”
“Oh, my.” She felt sick to her stomach. “I hardly knew him, but he was so young. He seemed like such a nice boy. And his poor mother…”
“Yeah, this is going to be real hard on her. She’ll probably blame herself for letting him come here in the first place.”
“Of course, we’re assuming she’s the kind of woman who would blame herself,” Sarah said.
“Calvin was pretty fond of her, so she must’ve been a good mother. Don’t forget, she supported the family alone after her husband left her.”
“You’re right, of course. I guess I was just hoping that she’d be the kind of person who wouldn’t take her son’s death so hard. I know the pain she’ll feel.”
Malloy didn’t say anything to that. He understood that pain, too, but he wasn’t going to discuss the subject with her. She realized they were still standing by the front door.
“Come in and sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”
A few moments later they were sitting in her kitchen. She cut him a slice of the cake Mrs. Ellsworth had brought over that afternoon to have along with the coffee she was boiling. When she set the plate in front of him, she saw that he’d spread two pieces of paper out on the table for her to see.
“Look at these, and tell me what you think. This is the suicide note.” He slid one over to her as she took her seat opposite him.
She winced as she read the words, and tears stung her eyes. She’d hardly known the boy, but he’d been far too young to die under any circumstances. “If you found this, why do you think he was murdered?” she asked when she’d finished.
He slid the other piece of paper over to her. It was the kind of letter a boy would write to his mother, telling her what he’d been doing and about the people he’d met. Malloy had made a big impression on the boy. He was a little afraid of the police detective, but Malloy had been very kind to him, even paying the rent so he could stay in his rooming house. Of course, Sarah knew this had been a ploy to make sure Calvin didn’t disappear, but even so, it was a kind one. He could have locked the boy up instead. Locking him up would have ensured he didn’t leave town, while leaving him in the rooming house was a gamble. The boy’s homesickness was palpable through his simple words, as was his love for his mother and sisters. One other thing was also obvious.
“Calvin didn’t write the suicide note,” she realized.
“What makes you think so?” he asked.
“The handwriting, for one thing,” she said, comparing the two letters. The letter to Mrs. Brown was written in a large childish hand, the letters formed carefully but awkwardly, as if by one to whom writing was an unwelcome chore. “Whoever wrote the suicide note was trying to make it look like a young person wrote it, but the printing is too small and neat to be Calvin’s.”
“How about what he wrote?”
Sarah compared the two letters more closely. “He calls his mother ‘Ma’ in the one and ‘Mother’ in the other. His grammar is much better in the suicide note, too.”
“That’s what I thought. I noticed the ‘Ma’ thing right away. And the handwriting. But if he hadn’t written the letter to his mother the day before, I might never have figured it out.”
“Or if he’d mailed it before you got to see it,” Sarah added. “I’m surprised the killer didn’t dispose of it.”
“I’m sure he would have, if he was clever enough or if he’d seen it at all, but Calvin had given it to his landlady to mail.”
“Thank heaven she hadn’t mailed it yet,” Sarah said with a sigh, laying the letters back down on the table. “Now you have two murders to solve. Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill both Blackwell and his son?”
“We know it had to be someone who knew about Blackwell’s first family. Out of those, just about anybody who wanted Blackwell dead, and probably all of them had a good reason to.”
“That probably eliminates Letitia and Dudley,” she guessed, “since they didn’t know about Blackwell’s other family.”
“Not necessarily. We assumed Letitia didn’t know about Calvin, but we could be wrong. As you pointed out, she wouldn’t have needed a divorce to marry Dudley if her marriage to Blackwell was bigamous, but she would need to be a widow to inherit his imaginary fortune to support her and Dudley.”
“And to escape any hint of scandal,” Sarah pointed out. “Even if she was an innocent victim of the bigamy, her reputation would be tarnished. That would have been a motive for anyone who cared about Letitia, too.”
“Do you mean her father?” Malloy asked with raised eyebrows.
“Her father or her lover,” Sarah said. “Or even Amos Potter, if he hadn’t already eliminated himself by offering a reward for Blackwell’s killer.”
“You’re going to have to forgive him for that, Mrs. Brandt,” Malloy said with just a ghost of a smile as he took a bite of Mrs. Ellsworth’s cake.
“I’ll try,” Sarah promised. “Calvin’s killer must have gone to his room. Didn’t anyone see him?”
“Not that I could find,” he said. “One of the other tenants did remember someone out on the street asking if Calvin lived in the house, but that was earlier in the day, and the man didn’t go inside.”
“What did he look like?” Sarah asked eagerly. “That should tell us something.”
Malloy just shook his head. “Mr. Snively doesn’t remember. He’s quite elderly, and his memory and his eyesight aren’t too good anymore.”
Sarah sighed in disappointment. “And nobody saw or heard the killer going in or coming out?”
“Not that they remember. He must have gotten in earlier in the evening, before the doors were locked, and he could have sneaked out later, after everyone was in bed. My guess is he brought Calvin a bottle of sarsaparilla that had been laced with arsenic. The boy drank it down, then started to feel sick. The killer probably helped him to bed and maybe even fussed over him a bit, to prevent him from calling for the landlady. The killer would have left the box of rat poison sitting in plain sight and put the suicide note out on the table, and then sneaked out. A pretty good plan, and I would’ve believed it if it wasn’t for the letter the boy had just written to his mother.”
“The killer is very clever,” Sarah pointed out. “That’s twice he’s almost convinced you his victims killed themselves.”
Sarah got up and poured him some of the freshly boiled coffee. He’d finished the cake and was rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“A killer who thinks he’s clever is usually pretty easy to catch,” he remarked. “You just have to figure out how to let him outsmart himself.”
“Are you suggesting we wait until he kills someone else and gives himself away?” she asked in alarm.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I was thinking more about letting him think he got away with Calvin’s murder. Nobody has to know just yet that it wasn’t a suicide.”
“But would you be able to continue with the investigation if everyone thought Calvin had killed his father?”
“I could pretend I didn’t find the suicide note,” he mused, obviously still working this out in his head.
“Then you could pretend you still didn’t believe Calvin was the killer, or at least that you’re not sure,” she suggested.
“That’s right. And only the killer would know about the note. He might give himself away if he thinks I didn’t find it or was trying to conceal it.”
“I suppose you’ll have to speak with each of the suspects, then,” she said.
“I’ll certainly have to notify them of Calvin’s death, just to see their reactions, if nothing else.”
“Potter will be relieved, even though he’s not the killer,” Sarah said. “I’m sure Mr. Symington will be, too. You’ll have to be careful with him, though. Men like Maurice Symington don’t appreciate being visited by the police, and if he thinks you’re considering him as a suspect, he can make your life very difficult.”
“I know,” he said with a frown. “I think I can get by with pretending I’m just notifying him personally in case there’s anything he wants to do to hush things up and prevent a scandal over the boy’s identity.”
“That’s a good idea. We already know he was aware of Blackwell’s previous marriage and had met Calvin. Don’t be surprised if he pretends he didn’st, though. He may decide that denying the whole thing is the best course of action.”
“I won’t be surprised at anything Symington does,” he assured her.
“At least now you can eliminate the Fitzgeralds as suspects, and all of Blackwell’s other clients, too.”
“And why is that?” he asked with amusement.
Sarah didn’t like it when he found her amusing. “Because they would have no reason to kill Calvin,” she pointed out quite logically.
“Unless it was to throw suspicion on him, which is the reason he was killed by whoever did it,” he pointed out right back. “Of course, they’d have to know about Calvin and his relationship to Blackwell. That’s not something Blackwell was likely to share with paying customers.”
“Wait, the Fitzgeralds knew,” Sarah remembered.
“You mean Blackwell told them?”
“No, remember they were talking to Calvin after the funeral. I heard Mrs. Fitzgerald asking him about his relationship with Blackwell. He looked very uncomfortable, so I told him you were looking for him, to give him an excuse to get away.”
“That’s right. You said they had his life story by the time you interrupted them.”
“I was exaggerating a little. Oh, dear, what did I hear them saying? Something about how much he resembled Blackwell, I think, so they must have discovered the relationship. But even if they did find out he was Blackwell’s son, why would they imagine Calvin would have a reason to kill his father unless they knew the whole story? Calvin didn’t have time to tell them, even if he’d been willing to confide in total strangers, which I doubt. And we’ve already decided Blackwell wouldn’t have told his patients.”
“Clients,” he corrected her absently. “The killer addressed the suicide note to his mother, too. Anyone finding out Calvin was Blackwell’s son would naturally assume Calvin’s mother was dead, since Blackwell had remarried, so whoever killed the boy had to have known the whole story. It doesn’t seem likely the Fitzgeralds did.”
“Unless-” Sarah began, stopping herself when she realized how silly this was.
“Unless what?”
“It’s a little farfetched,” she warned.
“Say it anyway.”
“Remember that Potter was going to meet with Mr. Fitzgerald the day after the funeral. What if he told Mr. Fitzgerald about Calvin?”
“Why would he?” he asked skeptically.
Sarah tried to reason the way Potter might have. She was amazed at how easy it was. “He’s mentioned several times that Blackwell trained him in his techniques. If he wants to set himself up in practice, he’ll need to win over Blackwell’s patients.”
“Clients,” he corrected her again, this time with a wry glint.
She ignored him, still thinking. “Maybe he was afraid they’d be too loyal to Blackwell, and he wanted to ruin the good doctor’s reputation so they’d turn to him.”
“That’s stupid. They’re just as likely to turn on Potter for speaking ill of the dead,” Malloy pointed out.
“Potter might not realize that. He doesn’t strike me as very bright about dealing with people.”
“He’s not,” Malloy agreed. “Of course, Fitzgerald would’ve had to have a reason to kill Blackwell in the first place.”
“We decided he was jealous because of Blackwell’s attentions to his wife,” Sarah reminded him.
“No, we didn’st,” Malloy contradicted her. “Besides, Fitzgerald doesn’t strike me as the jealous type. He seems more likely to be motivated by greed.”
“Then he didn’t like the fact that his wife was letting Blackwell live in her house for free.”
“Then he could’ve had him evicted.”
“Malloy, you’re ruining my perfectly good theory,” she complained, getting up to refill his coffee cup.
“Murder just seems pretty extreme if you’re only unhappy about somebody’s living arrangements,” he said.
“I guess you’re right,” she grudgingly admitted. “Who else do you think could have done it, then?”
“I’m still favoring the young lovers.”
“Then you have to prove they knew about Calvin and his family,” she reminded him.
“Do you think there’s any chance Potter might’ve told Letitia? For the same reason he might’ve told Blackwell’s clients?”
“To turn her affections from Blackwell to him?” she asked skeptically. “It would never have worked!”
“You think that because you know Letitia already had a lover. But what if you didn’t know about Dudley?” he challenged.
Now Sarah was beginning to understand. “And suppose you were Potter, who doesn’t know too much about women in general. He might imagine that a distraught Letitia would turn to him for comfort and support.”
“Instead she turns to Dudley, who kills her husband and tries to make it look like suicide,” Malloy continued.
“Because he wanted to inherit Blackwell’s money and preserve Letitia’s reputation,” Sarah concluded.
“Now, that’s a perfectly good theory,” Malloy said approvingly. “All we have to do is prove Letitia and Dudley knew about Calvin.”
“They’re certain to deny it, even if they did,” Sarah guessed.
“Before we confront them about that, we should probably find out if they have an alibi for the day Blackwell was killed. According to the servants, Letitia was out.”
“She’ll probably say she was with Dudley, even if she wasn’st,” Sarah said. “In any case, I suspect she was at her opium den.”
“They can’t give each other an alibi, but if they were at the opium den, someone will probably remember. We could eliminate Dudley pretty easily if he was seen someplace else that day.”
“Or not eliminate him if he wasn’st,” Sarah said.
“That’s right, so now you have to arrange for me to finally meet with Mrs. Blackwell,” he said.
“I could question her for you,” Sarah pointed out.
He just gave her one of his looks.
“She’ll claim she’s not well enough,” she tried.
“She was well enough to see Dudley. Remind her of that. And tell her if she doesn’t get dressed and come downstairs, I’ll be glad to visit her in her bedroom.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Sarah scoffed.
Malloy smiled blandly. “She doesn’t have to know that.”
SARAH FOUND LETITIA Blackwell looking much better when she arrived the next morning. She was still in bed, but her color was good, and she greeted Sarah with a smile.
“The baby is doing well,” she reported. “Nurse brings him in for a visit every day. She says he’s growing, although he still looks very tiny to me.”
“He does seem to be fine,” Sarah agreed, not bothering to point out that he still needed morphine daily so he wouldn’t die in agony.
“Will the morphine hurt him, do you think?” Letitia asked with a worried frown. “Could it do something to his mind?”
Sarah didn’t want to offer false hope. “He won’t be on it much longer,” she hedged. “Now, let’s see how you’re doing.”
When Sarah had completed her examination and was packing her things back into her medical bag, she said as casually as she could, “Detective Sergeant Malloy would like to speak with you this morning.”
“Who?” Letitia asked in confusion.
“The policeman who is investigating your husband’s murder,” Sarah explained. “He needs to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” She was alarmed now, her hands nervously working the edge of the coverlet. “I don’t know anything. I wasn’t even here when it happened!”
“I’m sure he just wants to verify that with you. He’ll probably also want to know if Dr. Blackwell had any enemies, or if you know of anyone who might have wished him harm. One of his patients, perhaps, or an acquaintance.”
“Everyone loved Edmund,” she insisted. “His clients were devoted to him!”
Sarah could have pointed out that his own wife didn’t love him, but instead she said, “Someone killed him, Mrs. Blackwell, so at least one person didn’t like him.”
“Can’t Mr. Potter take care of this? I don’t want to speak with a policeman. I’m not well!”
“You were well enough to receive Mr. Dudley the other day,” Sarah reminded her. “And Mr. Malloy knows it. He said to tell you he would be happy to interview you in your bedroom if you weren’t well enough to come downstairs.”
“Good heavens! He can’t be serious!” she exclaimed, horrified. “My father would never allow it.”
“I don’t think your father could stop it,” Sarah lied. “Mr. Malloy should be here in a few minutes, and I assure you, he will see you, one way or another. He’s a very determined man.”
Letitia’s smooth cheeks were scarlet with either outrage or embarrassment, Sarah couldn’t be sure which. But Sarah calmly stood her ground, just the way Malloy would have done, she told herself.
After a moment of strained silence, Sarah asked, “Should I ask your maid to come and help you dress?”
Letitia’s china-blue eyes were blazing. “I suppose I have no other choice,” she said in a strangled voice.
“I’ll be happy to stay with you while he interviews you,” Sarah offered. “If that would make you feel more comfortable.”
Tears were flooding those lovely blue eyes now. “I’m sure nothing will make me feel comfortable, but I would appreciate your support, Mrs. Brandt. Thank you. You are very kind.”
Sarah didn’t feel kind at all. “It will be over before you know it,” she said, hoping this was true. In any case, it would be over eventually. Sarah was pretty sure Letitia Blackwell was more than equal to the ordeal, in any case.
“YOU DID TELL her I’d come upstairs to see her if she wouldn’t come down?” Malloy asked Sarah as he paced the front parlor restlessly. Mrs. Blackwell had kept him waiting over half an hour.
“I’m sure she just isn’t ready yet. She’ll want to look her best, and that takes time,” Sarah said, concealing her amusement.
“Why would she want to look her best? She’s not going to a ball,” Malloy groused, checking his pocket watch again.
“A woman likes to have every possible advantage,” she explained. “She doesn’t have strength or power, so if she’s attractive, she uses that. Letitia will want you to find her extremely attractive. Or at least vulnerable. Then you won’t be so hard on her.”
Malloy made a rude noise at such a ridiculous notion.
Before Sarah could say more, the parlor doors opened and Letitia Blackwell stepped into the room. She was a vision. Her golden hair had been brushed into a soft halo, and she wore it down, curling to her shoulders and tied off of her face with a ribbon, as if she were merely a child. Her gown was soft and pink and frilly, and she’d pinned a cameo at her throat. Not very appropriate attire for a widow, but an excellent choice for a woman who wanted to be treated gently by a man. Her face was pale, although Sarah suspected rice powder instead of genuine distress had leached the color from her cheeks.
Letitia turned her moist and lovely eyes to Malloy and lifted a trembling hand to her throat, and said, “Mr. Malloy?”
Malloy hurried to meet her and even took her elbow, as if he were afraid she might collapse without support. “I’m sorry to disturb you like this, Mrs. Blackwell, but I need to ask you a few questions,” he said solicitously as he guided her to the nearest chair. “This won’t take long, I promise.”
Sarah had to cough into her hand. Malloy didn’t even notice, and Letitia pretended not to.
When he was certain Letitia was comfortably settled, Malloy took a seat on the sofa beside Sarah.
“Would you like some refreshment?” Letitia asked, her voice breathy and weak, her hands fluttering uncertainly.
“No, we don’t need anything at all,” Frank assured her. “We’ll be gone before you know it.”
Sarah rolled her eyes, but Malloy wasn’t looking at her.
“I already told Mrs. Brandt I don’t think I can be of any assistance,” Letitia said apologetically. “I have no idea who might have killed Edmund.”
“Then you don’t know of anyone who’d had an argument with your husband?” Malloy prodded. “Maybe one of his patients who couldn’t pay his fees or who thought the doctor was a fraud or-”
“Edmund wasn’t a fraud,” she insisted indignantly. “How could anyone think he was?”
“Maybe somebody he wasn’t able to help,” Malloy suggested helpfully. Or perhaps hopefully.
“He helped everyone,” she said, her eyes guileless.
Sarah had to cough into her hand again. This time Malloy glared at her, making her cough harder.
“Should I ask the maid to fetch you something to drink, Mrs. Brandt?” Letitia asked with a worried frown.
Before Sarah could shake her head, Malloy dismissed her with a, “She’s fine.”
Sarah felt compelled to cough again, just to prove him wrong, but Malloy was unmoved. “Mrs. Blackwell,” he was saying, his voice amazingly patient, “I understand you were out the afternoon your husband died.”
“That’s right,” she said, nodding. Her chin quivered a bit, as if she might weep at the slightest provocation.
“Could you tell me where you were and who you were with?”
For a second she looked uncertain, even frightened. “I… I’m not sure I remember. The shock and everything…”
“I’ve already told Mr. Malloy about your visits to the opium den,” Sarah said, gently so Malloy wouldn’t glare at her again.
“If that’s where you were, no one else need find out,” Malloy assured her. “No one even needs to know except me.”
But she still wasn’t willing to confide her darkest secret. “What possible difference could it make where I was that afternoon, so long as I wasn’t here? Do you think I killed my husband?”
“Certainly not,” Sarah said quickly, earning a black look from Malloy, “but perhaps you could vouch for someone else, someone who might have had a good reason for wanting Dr. Blackwell out of the way.”
Now Malloy was looking as if he wanted to strangle her, but she pretended not to notice as she watched the understanding dawn on Letitia’s fragile face. As Sarah had known, she was no fool.
“I was with Peter that afternoon,” she said almost eagerly. “We met every afternoon at Mr. Fong’s establishment. Peter works in the morning and the evening, but he’s free in the afternoon, so we…” Finally, she had the grace to blush, dropping her gaze to where her hands were folded in her lap.
“By Peter, do you mean Peter Dudley?” Malloy asked.
Letitia nodded, not looking up.
“I understand that the two of you were lovers,” Malloy ventured. Sarah was gratified that he was finally getting to the point.
Letitia drew a deep breath and met Malloy’s gaze bravely. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done, Mr. Malloy, but I can’t allow you to believe that Peter could have been involved with Edmund’s death. His only sin was in loving me.”
“I’m afraid that gives him a very good reason for wanting your husband out of the way,” Malloy pointed out.
“We both did, but we never would have done anything about it!” she exclaimed. “How could you even think such a thing?”
“Men have been killed for much less, Mrs. Blackwell. But if you were at this Mr. Fong’s place, he’ll vouch for both of you. Can you give me the address?”
Now she really was frightened. “I can’t send the police to Mr. Fong’s!”
“Why not?” Malloy asked, his voice still gentle and kindly, as if he were speaking to a simple child. Sarah wanted to smack him.
“Because… I don’t want to get him into trouble!”
“He won’t be in any trouble. What he’s doing isn’t against the law, Mrs. Blackwell. Morphine and opium are sold openly in every drugstore in the city. The police would have no interest in this business.”
“Because he probably pays his protection money regularly, too,” Sarah murmured for Malloy’s ears alone.
He pretended he didn’t hear her. “If you give me the address, that’s all I’ll need. You can go back upstairs then and forget I was ever here.”
Letitia still wasn’t sure. She looked at Sarah beseechingly. “It’s all right,” Sarah heard herself say. “If you have nothing to hide, you don’t have anything to be afraid of. And if Mr. Fong says you were both there, Mr. Dudley will no longer be a suspect either.”
With obvious reluctance, Letitia gave him the address. Sarah saw his surprise. It mirrored her own. Mr. Fong must attract a very elite clientele, indeed.
“I’ll need to speak to Mr. Dudley, too, to verify what you’ve told me,” he said. “Where can I find him?”
Letitia made a small sound of distress. “I… I don’t know where he lives. I can tell you where he works, but you mustn’t call for him there. If the police come looking for him, he’ll lose his job!”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t lose his job,” Malloy promised magnanimously.
Wiping a tear from her cheek, she gave him the name of the bank where Dudley was employed.
“Now, I need to ask you something even more difficult,” Malloy said, his voice even kinder. Sarah was seeing a whole new side of him, and she was quite impressed, if a little disgusted.
Letitia lifted her chin and braced herself, as if for a blow.
“Can you tell me exactly what happened when you came home that day and found Dr. Blackwell?”
This time the color drained naturally from her face, and she shuddered slightly. “I came home, as usual,” she said.
“How did you arrive?”
“I took a hansom cab,” she said. “I always do.”
“Who opened the front door for you?”
“No one. The servants were out. I opened it myself.”
“Was it locked?”
“I…” She tried to remember. “I’m sure it was, but I can’t remember. I have a key, so I probably used it.”
“Go on,” he urged.
“I came in, and the house was very quiet. I… I took off my gloves and my hat. Then I saw that… the study door was closed. It was only closed when Edmund was inside. I almost didn’t…”
“You almost didn’t what?” he prompted when she hesitated.
“I almost didn’t open the door. He didn’t really care where I was or when I came home, but I thought… I thought he should care, and so what if I interrupted him? He should pay attention to his wife. So I knocked on the door and called his name.”
“But he didn’t answer,” Malloy guessed. “What did you think?”
“I thought perhaps he wasn’t in there. Or that he hadn’t heard me. I don’t know what I thought. But I had the strangest feeling, as if something was wrong. At least I think I did. Maybe that was just afterward. But I opened the door. I was just going to tell him I was home and make him pay attention to me, just for that moment. And then I saw him-”
Her voice broke, and even Sarah wanted to spare her this gruesome memory, but Malloy pressed her.
“This is very important, Mrs. Blackwell,” he said. “Did you see or hear anyone else in the house? Did someone run out or did you hear a door open or close? Anything like that, any noise at all?”
“I… I don’t remember. I just remember I started screaming, and I ran outside and I saw the beat officer, and… and that’s all I know.” A lone tear slipped down her cheek, and she made no effort to wipe it away, silently reminding Malloy of her pain.
“Thank you, Mrs. Blackwell. That’s all I’ll need for now,” he said. “I hope this hasn’t caused you too much distress.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Letitia said, pulling herself together bravely. “You’ve been very kind. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more, but I’m happy for the opportunity to remove any suspicion from Mr. Dudley.”
Sarah couldn’t help thinking that she would also be removing suspicion from herself if Fong gave them both an alibi, but she merely smiled and helped Letitia to the door, where her maid was waiting to escort her upstairs. As soon as she’d closed the parlor doors behind them, she turned to Malloy.
“Did you have to be so hard on her, Malloy?”
He didn’t appreciate her sarcasm. “If she’d started bawling, we never would’ve gotten the address of the opium den,” he said reasonably. “But did you have to tell her to give Dudley an alibi, too?”
“If they weren’t together, this Mr. Fong will tell you,” she pointed out just as reasonably. “And I don’t think she would’ve given you Fong’s address just to protect herself. She’s too afraid of him. And as she said, everyone knows she wasn’t here when Blackwell was killed, so it doesn’t really matter where she really was.”
“Actually, everyone doesn’t know she wasn’t here. They know she went out, and they know she discovered the body, but the servants weren’t here during the murder, so how does anyone know she didn’t come home earlier than she said?”
He had a point, but Sarah didn’t think it would hold. “Can you really imagine her brazenly blowing her husband’s brains out and then arranging everything very neatly to make it look like suicide?”
“Stranger things have happened,” was all he’d say. “Now I have to go see this Mr. Fong.”
“I’ve never been in an opium den,” Sarah said hopefully.
“You’re not going in one today, either,” Malloy said.