SARAH WAS CONCERNED ABOUT HER PATIENT. HER labor didn’t seem to be progressing, and she still seemed to be in shock. Or at least that’s what Sarah had been thinking at first, but she was beginning to suspect something else. While Mrs. Blackwell was resting between contractions, Sarah stepped into the woman’s dressing room for a quick look around. Sure enough, just as she’d suspected, she found a drawer full of patent medicines, all of them for female complaints, and all of them containing some form of opiate. One of the bottles was empty, the cork out, the traces of liquid still visible. It hadn’t been empty long.
Like many women of her class, Mrs. Blackwell had obviously discovered the relief to be found in those little glass bottles. One could hardly blame her for seeking it under the circumstances, either. Perhaps it was as well that her brain was clouded by the drug instead of the horrible vision of her husband’s dead body. Still, if she took these remedies frequently, she might be an opium eater and the baby could be, too. In any case, the opiate could prolong her labor, and any of this could put the child’s life in danger.
She heard Mrs. Blackwell moaning and hurried back into the bedroom. The woman’s head was tossing back and forth on the pillow, as if she battled internal demons in addition to the forces of her own body. Sarah wiped her brow with a damp cloth, hoping to make her more comfortable.
She opened her eyes and tried to focus on Sarah’s face. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sarah Brandt, the midwife,” she replied, not mentioning that they’d had this conversation not long ago. Plainly Mrs. Blackwell didn’t remember it. “I’m here to take care of you.”
“Edmund won’t approve,” she said, her lovely blue eyes darkening with distress.
“I’m sure he would want you taken care of,” Sarah said reasonably.
She frowned. “I remember something… Edmund is dead, isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so,” Sarah said, knowing it would be foolish to deny it, since Mrs. Blackwell had been the one to discover her husband’s body. She might want to deny it, but the image would be all too real.
Mrs. Blackwell closed her eyes and sighed, sinking back into the pillows. She murmured something that sounded like, “It’s my fault.”
Sarah wanted to reassure her. People often blamed themselves when a loved one committed suicide, and the generous thing to do was to tell the woman it wasn’t her fault at all. Unfortunately, she couldn’t be sure. For all Sarah knew, Dr. Blackwell’s wife had driven him to it. At any rate, none of this was her concern. She had a far more pressing problem.
“Mrs. Blackwell, I need to know if you take patent medicines on a regular basis.”
“What?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing with confusion.
“I saw the bottles in your drawer. I know you must have taken something after you… after you had the shock. That’s only natural, to want something to calm your nerves. But I need to know if you drink those remedies very often.”
“Oh,” she said, struggling to comprehend. “Oh, no. I only… only when I can’t… not very often at all!”
Relieved, Sarah smiled and patted the woman’s shoulder. “Thank you. That’s what I needed to know. Now let’s see what we can do about encouraging this baby to arrive. If you feel like doing some walking, I think that will help,” she suggested. A woman in heavy labor had difficulty concentrating on anything else, and she wanted Mrs. Blackwell’s mind free of unpleasant thoughts for the moment.
“Do you think it will help?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Let me give you a hand down from the bed.”
FRANK STOOD IN the hallway looking up the stairs, thinking he’d like to know what was going on with Mrs. Blackwell. Or perhaps he was just looking for an excuse to see Sarah Brandt again. Actually, he had no such excuse. Blackwell’s body had been taken away, he’d questioned all the servants, he’d heard Amos Potter’s theories on who might have killed Blackwell, and he’d gleaned all the information he could about Edmund Blackwell’s mysterious son. He would need to question the neighbors, too, but that would certainly be a waste of time. They would never tell a common Irish policeman anything useful, even if they knew anything useful.
At any rate, he had no further excuse for staying there. The Blackwell baby would be born in its own sweet time, and Frank wasn’t going to wait around until then just for a glimpse of Sarah Brandt. And if he didn’t see her, he wouldn’t be able to tell her that Blackwell had been murdered and give her a reason for wanting to become involved in the investigation. He didn’t want her involved in another of his cases, so he’d best be on his way.
“Will you be needing anything else?” the butler asked, emerging from the depths of the house.
“No, I’m finished here, for the time being. Is Mr. Potter still here?”
“Yes. He wanted to wait to be sure everything is all right with Mrs. Blackwell. He is very devoted to the family.”
Frank wondered what the motivation for that devotion might be. Potter had seemed awfully concerned about Mrs. Blackwell’s welfare, almost more than he’d been concerned about Dr. Blackwell’s death. Well, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. Frank was probably just too jaded, looking for ulterior motives where none existed. Or maybe Amos Potter had seduced Mrs. Blackwell, gotten her with child, and then killed her husband so they could live happily ever after.
Well, now Frank knew it was time to leave. The very thought of meek little Amos Potter seducing anyone was so preposterous Frank had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He was just about to tell the butler he’d be back the next morning to see if Mrs. Blackwell was well enough to answer some questions when someone pounded on the front door.
Granger hurried to open it, and an imposing man in a tailor-made suit stepped into the foyer. Everything about him said power and “old money.” Frank wondered what he’d done to deserve this.
“Good evening, Mr. Symington,” the butler said gravely.
“What’s going on here, Granger? Potter sent me the most mysterious message-” He broke off when he saw Frank. “Who are you?”
“Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the city police, Mr. Symington. I’m investigating Dr. Blackwell’s death.”
“His
At that moment Amos Potter emerged from the front parlor. “Mr. Symington, it was so good of you to come.”
“That’s right, Mr. Symington, I’m sorry to say,” Potter confirmed. “I wanted to break the news to you myself, but I see you’ve already learned the horrible truth. Even worse, the police believe he was murdered.”
“Murdered? Who on earth would have a reason to murder Edmund?” He looked accusingly at Frank, as if he believed this was all his fault. “Where is my daughter? Does she know about this yet?”
“Mrs. Blackwell is your daughter?” Frank guessed.
“Of course she is,” Symington said impatiently. “Where is she, Potter?”
“She’s upstairs,” Potter said uncomfortably. “A… a midwife is with her.”
Frank saw the first genuine emotion cross Symington’s face. “The baby?” he asked with a worried frown.
“Yes,” Potter said. “The shock of finding Edmund’s body-”
“Perhaps we should step into the parlor,” Potter suggested, nodding toward the butler, who stood nearby.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Symington agreed, and allowed Potter to direct him into the other room.
Frank followed, even though he hadn’t been specifically invited. He had a few questions to ask Mr. Symington. He closed the parlor doors behind them.
Symington had gone directly to a cabinet and opened it to reveal bottles of liquor. With the familiarity of a frequent visitor, he poured himself a drink and downed it in one gulp. Only then did he turn back to face Potter. He seemed a bit surprised to see Frank had joined them, but he didn’t make an issue of it.
“This midwife,” he said to Potter. “Is she someone Edmund approved?”
Before Potter could reply, Frank said, “I sent for her. Her name is Sarah Brandt. She’s Felix Decker’s daughter.” Frank figured Sarah’s sterling family heritage would satisfy Symington, and it appeared he was right.
“Felix Decker, eh?” he said. “I’m sure Edmund wouldn’t have approved, but I suppose, under the circumstances…”
