“I’m very sorry.”
“You don’t need to be, and besides, Amy’s gone and not likely to be back, considering where she is now.”
“WHAT DO YOU THINK KILLED HER, DOC?” FRANK ASKED the medical examiner when he’d had a chance to look at the body. They were standing over where Amy still lay on the bed while Mrs. Walker glared at them, silently daring them to accuse her of murder.
“Not the chloroform,” Doc Haynes said, glancing at Mrs. Walker.
She nodded. “I told that quack it wasn’t.”
“How can you be sure?” Frank asked.
“Chloroform doesn’t work that fast, for one thing. She would’ve lingered for hours, maybe even a couple of days.”
“What else could it be, then?”
“Look at her eyes.” He raised one of her eyelids. “See the pupil?”
Frank peered at the filmy orb. “It’s really small.”
“We call it pinpointing. That’s what happens when you take an opiate.”
“My girls don’t take opium,” Mrs. Walker snapped. “I won’t allow it in my house.”
“Nevertheless, she died from an overdose of some compound of opium.”
“Like laudanum?” Frank asked, thinking of Mrs. Van Orner.
“Exactly. Women often use laudanum to commit suicide because it’s readily to hand. Could she have killed herself?”
Mrs. Walker snorted. “That one never killed herself, I guarantee you. She thought too much of herself to do something like that.”
Frank agreed. “I think she might’ve been poisoned.”
“She wasn’t poisoned here,” Mrs. Walker said, outraged at the thought. “She never had nothing to eat or drink since she walked in the door. She was too busy yelling and screaming and pitching a fit. Then she said she felt light-headed and sort of fainted. I sent for the doctor, but he said she was already dead when he got here.”
“Well, I’ll leave it up to you to figure out how it happened,” Doc Haynes told Frank. “If I find out anything more when I cut her open, I’ll let you know.”
Mrs. Walker made a strangled sound. “You’re not going to cut her up, are you?”
“I’m going to do an autopsy to find out the cause of death,” Doc Haynes explained patiently.
“You already told us the cause of death!”
“I told you my theory. Now I have to prove it.” He turned to Frank. “I’ve got an ambulance on the way.”
“Do you need me anymore?” Frank asked.
“No, I can handle it from here.”
Frank thanked him and hurried out. The arrival of the medical examiner had roused the other occupants of the house, and they hovered in the hallway in their silk kimonos, their hair tied up in rags, eyes bleary and heavy with sleep as they whispered to each other. None of them spoke to Frank as he passed by. Whores had no love for cops, he knew.
Out in the street, he saw the ambulance pulling up. He pointed to the correct house before setting off for Van Orner’s again.
SARAH HAD A LOT TO THINK ABOUT AS SHE MADE HER way to Mrs. Spratt-Williams’s house. If she was going to be of any help to the women at the rescue house, she’d have to convince Mrs. Spratt- Williams to take a more personal interest in all of them, the way she had in Amy.
Sarah kept thinking about the fact that Amy’s father had shot himself after losing all his savings and one of the men Mrs. Spratt-Williams’s husband had cheated had also shot himself. If Amy’s father was the man Mr. Spratt-Williams had cheated, his wife’s guilt over the damage that tragedy had done to Amy would certainly explain her special interest in the girl.
The maid remembered Sarah and admitted her at once. She took her straight to the front parlor, where the tea things had already been laid.
“Mrs. Brandt, how kind of you to come,” Mrs. Spratt-Williams said, rising to greet her. The room was inviting, furnished in shades of gold and lit by afternoon sunlight. As Sarah took a seat on the sofa, she noticed some things she’d missed on her last visit. While the furniture was of excellent quality and everything was immaculate, the fabric showed wear in spots. Sarah couldn’t help remembering what Lisa had said about Amy thinking everything at the rescue house was “shabby.” Mrs. Spratt-Williams’s home wasn’t shabby but was certainly showing some wear. Maybe she’d been honest when she claimed her resources were limited.
The two women exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes.
“Have you heard anything from Amy?” Mrs. Spratt-Williams asked when they had exhausted the topics of each other’s health and the weather.
“No, not a thing, although I think the nurse was supposed to arrive today. She’ll be a big help, I’m sure.”
“Oh, yes, I remember Amy mentioned that when we visited her on Saturday, didn’t she?”
The maid tapped on the door and brought in the teapot. Steam coiled gently from the spout and an exotic aroma filled the room before the maid covered the pot with a padded, brocade tea cozy. No American tea service was complete without the use of this recent British import.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Mrs. Spratt Williams said. “I thought I’d serve you a special blend of tea I’ve discovered. It has an unusual flavor that I thought you’d find appealing.”
“It smells delicious,” Sarah said.
“Are you planning to attend Vivian’s funeral tomorrow?” Mrs. Spratt-Williams asked while they were waiting for the tea to steep.
“I hope to, unless I’m called to a delivery.”
“Oh, yes, I keep forgetting you’re a midwife. That’s how you met Amy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” Sarah silently debated whether to pursue the subject and decided she had nothing to lose. “I appreciate your telling me about Amy’s hardships.”
Mrs. Spratt-Williams smiled slightly. “I ordinarily wouldn’t have violated a confidence, but I thought if you understood, you might feel kinder toward her.”
“I’m glad she chose to confide in you. She’d told me a few things about herself, but nothing to hint she’d had such a difficult time of it. For instance, she just told me her father had left them destitute.”
“I suppose his death did have that effect. And of course she’d be ashamed to admit he’d taken his own life. People often hold the family in contempt after an incident like that, instead of giving them the sympathy they truly deserve.”
“Did you happen to know Amy’s family?”
As she’d expected, her question startled Mrs. Spratt-Williams. “Whatever do you mean?”
“From what you said just now, I thought perhaps you’d known them. I understand she comes from a respectable family, and I thought your paths might have crossed back before . . . before she fell on hard times.”
Red blotches of color had bloomed on Mrs. Spratt-Williams’s face. “I’m sure I never knew her family. Respectable or not, they were hardly the type of people I would know.”
“And yet, you were so kind to Amy,” Sarah continued relentlessly.
“I’m kind to all the women we rescue.”
That was, of course, a lie. “I’m sure you are, but with Amy . . . Well, I couldn’t help noticing that no one else found it easy to be kind to her.”
“She was . . . Oh, perhaps you’re right, Mrs. Brandt. Amy was difficult, to be sure, but she isn’t like the other women we rescue. She was well bred and used to finer things, and she found life at the rescue house very confining. I suppose I couldn’t help thinking that there but for the grace of God go I.”
“I know what you mean. We aren’t shocked when a woman from a poor family is forced to sell herself to survive, but we never expect a girl from a good family to be reduced to such circumstances.”
