Sarah didn’t like the way Mrs. Blackwell seemed more concerned for her own welfare than for her child’s, which may have put a little edge in her voice when she asked, “Do you have any idea what’s wrong with your baby?”
Mrs. Blackwell’s eyes grew large. “Certainly not! How could I?”
“I think you could. When you were in labor, I asked if you regularly took those patent medicines I found in your dressing room, and you said you didn’t.”
“I don’st! Hardly ever! I just… After finding Edmund…” Her lovely blue eyes filled with tears. “I was so distressed! I needed something for my nerves, so I… I hardly ever use them. Only when I… when I get nervous.”
A tear slid down her smooth cheek, and Sarah had the uneasy feeling the woman had practiced looking lovely when she wept. She didn’t crinkle up her face or make unladylike sounds. She simply allowed her crystal tears to slip silently down her face in a most becoming manner.
“Mrs. Blackwell, your baby is very ill. He seems to be suffering from the effects of some narcotic substance, or rather from the lack of such a substance in his system. If his mother regularly used such a substance during her pregnancy, he would be just as dependent on it as she is, except he has no way to obtain it unless someone gives it to him.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Is it? Mrs. Blackwell, I’ve seen cases like this before. If this is indeed what’s wrong with your baby, he will die unless he receives treatment, so unless you want your baby to die, you must be honest with me.”
“Die?” she echoed incredulously. “He can’t die, not from that! I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
“You may not have heard of it, but I assure you, it is very possible. Now you must tell me the truth. Tell me what medicines you take and how frequently.”
“I… I tried to stop!” she exclaimed, forgetting to look attractive. Now she just looked frightened. “They said the baby would die if I
“Who said that?”
“Mr. Fong. He’s…” She caught herself and slapped one slender hand over her lips, knowing she had revealed too much.
“I wasn’st! I can’t tell you!” she cried, contradicting herself. Her hands were fluttering around her face now, and her eyes were more than frightened. Unfortunately, Sarah had begun to put the clues together, and now she had a pretty good idea why.
“Mrs. Blackwell, have you been visiting an opium den?” she asked, trying to keep the horror out of her voice.
The woman looked as if she might faint. “I can’t help myself! You don’t know what it’s like, the hunger and the craving! I thought I would die without it, and Edmund wouldn’t… And then the baby… I could feel him fluttering inside me every time I started needing more. He was frantic for it, too, as frantic as I! They said the baby would die if I didn’t take the morphine, so I had to do it! I didn’t have any choice!”
Unfortunately, she was probably right. Sarah had a few unkind things to say to Mrs. Blackwell, but she would save them for later. Without another word, she went into Mrs. Blackwell’s dressing room.
“What are you doing?” the woman demanded.
“I’m going to save your baby’s life,” Sarah said, yanking open the drawer she had discovered the day before. She noticed another bottle seemed to have been emptied. Since Mrs. Blackwell was unable to visit Mr. Fong, the opium content of the patent medicines would help ease her cravings until she was able to obtain a new supply of morphine. Sarah rummaged through the bottles until she found what she was looking for. Pure laudanum.
When Mrs. Blackwell saw her with the bottle, she cried out in protest. “They said the baby would be fine when he was born! They said he wouldn’t need the drug anymore!”
“They lied,” Sarah told her without apology.
She hurried down the hall, back toward the sound of the crying child. The nurse looked up hopefully when she entered. “Do you…?” she began, and then she saw the bottle in Sarah’s hand. “What on earth…?”
Sarah didn’t waste any time. She found her bag where she’d set it when she came in and rummaged inside until she located an eyedropper. Carefully, she drew a small amount of the amber liquid from the bottle and said, “Lay him on the bed, please.”
“Oh, dear heaven,” the nurse muttered, carefully laying the squalling child on the bed. “What is it? Can you give that to a tiny babe? Oh, dear, oh, dear, that’s not the right thing to be doing! I never heard of such a thing!”
She stood wringing her hands as Sarah carefully dropped some of the liquid into the child’s mouth. The baby started and made a face at the taste, and for a moment he was still. Then the crying started again.
“This should quiet him in a minute,” Sarah said.
“Of course it should!” the nurse said indignantly. “That’s what it’s supposed to do. Does his mother know what poison you’re giving him? I’m going to tell her if she doesn’st! This ain’t right!”
“Mrs. Blackwell is a regular user of morphine,” Sarah told her. “The baby is accustomed to the drug, which passed from her to him when he was in the womb. That’s why he’s been crying. It must be past time for his regular dose, and without it, he will die. I’ve seen it happen far too many times.”
“Oh, dear heaven!” the nurse cried again, this time in horror. “What’s to become of the poor thing, then?”
“He won’t need to take it forever,” Sarah assured her. “We’ll wait until he gets stronger, and then gradually wean him from it. I’ve done this before, and if the child is otherwise healthy, he should be fine.” She didn’t explain that the times she’d done this before had been with the children of prostitutes who habitually used morphine to dull the pain of their miserable existences. Why a woman like Mrs. Blackwell would feel the need for such oblivion, Sarah had no idea, and right now she was too angry even to care.
“He’s twitching so,” the nurse said, still wringing her hands.
“We’ll wait a few minutes to see if what I gave him does the trick. If not, we’ll try another drop and then another, until we get the dosage right.”
Sarah sat down on the bed beside him to wait, her fury swelling inside of her as she watched the tiny body quivering in agony. Someone should pay for doing this to a helpless child, but she had no idea who that someone should be.
3
FRANK HAD BEEN RIGHT. THE NEIGHBORS HADN’T seen or heard a thing, and if they had, they weren’t going to share the information with him. The neighboring servants had given him a bit of gossip here and there, of course. Apparently, no one thought it appropriate that Mrs. Blackwell kept going out every afternoon after her pregnancy became noticeable. It was said she visited poor and sick people, too, which only outraged her detractors even more. If she had no care for her own health, she should at least have been concerned for her unborn child and avoided the filthy poor and their unspeakable diseases.
To Frank’s surprise, however, no one had a bad word to say about Dr. Blackwell, not even those who disapproved of his brand of medicine. He seemed to be a respectable gentleman who kept to himself and maintained the tone of the neighborhood. Until his unseemly death, of course. Maybe the neighbors were just happy to have someone more socially acceptable than an abortionist in residence. But whatever the reason, Frank could find no one with any idea of why the good doctor might have been murdered or who could have done it, and no one had so much as glimpsed the boy Amos Potter had told him was Blackwell’s abandoned son. They hadn’t seen anyone else coming or going from the house the previous afternoon, either.
So much for his boast to Sarah Brandt that he’d find the killer by nightfall.
The next morning, Frank returned to the Blackwell house to continue his investigation. The butler greeted him with the kind of condescending reserve to which Frank had become accustomed. Even servants felt superior to Irish policemen.
“How is Mrs. Blackwell today, Granger?” Frank asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know. That midwife you sent over is with her now,” Granger replied stiffly.
Frank fought down the instant anxiety he felt at the prospect of Mrs. Blackwell needing medical help so soon
