Murder on Marble Row
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Author’s Note
“Victoria Thompson shines . . . Anne Perry and Caleb Carr fans rejoice!”
—Tamar Myers, author of Thou Shalt Not Grill
Praise for the Edgar® Award-nominated Gaslight Mystery series
MURDER ON MARBLE ROW
“Victoria Thompson has crafted another Victorian page-turner.” —Robin Paige, author of Death in Hyde Park
“Cleverly plotted . . . provides abundant fair play and plenty of convincing period detail. This light, quick read engages the readers’ emotions.” —Publishers Weekly
“Engaging characters . . . an enjoyable read.”
—Margaret Frazer, author of The Hunter’s Tale
“Victoria Thompson has a knack for putting the reader inside her character’s heads, and her detailed descriptions of New York at the turn of the century bring the setting vividly to life.”—Kate Kingsbury, author of Paint by Number
“Each novel in the Gaslight Mystery series just keeps getting better . . . [Murder on Marble Row] is well executed and the ending will come as a complete surprise.”
—Midwest Book Review
MURDER ON MULBERRY BEND
“An exciting intrigue of murder, deception, and bigotry. Gangs of New York eat your heart out—this book is the real thing.” —Mystery Scene
“A thrilling, informative, challenging mystery.”
—The Drood Review
“There are few mysteries set back in history that I enjoy reading. This mystery series is one of those. The characters and settings are so real . . . I highly recommend this book and series.” —The Best Reviews
MURDER ON ASTOR PLACE
Nominated for the Best First Mystery Award
by Romantic Times magazine
“Victoria Thompson is off to a blazing start with Sarah Brandt and Frank Malloy in Murder on Astor Place. I do hope she’s starting at the beginning of the alphabet. Don’t miss her first tantalizing mystery.”—Catherine Coulter,
New York Times bestselling author
“A marvelous debut mystery with compelling characters, a fascinating setting, and a stunning resolution. It’s the best mystery I’ve read in ages.”—Jill Churchill, author of
The Merchant of Menace
MURDER ON ST. MARK’S PLACE
Nominated for the Edgar® Award
“Lovers of history, mystery, and romance won’t be disappointed. Exciting . . . will hold the reader in thrall.”
—Romantic Times
MURDER ON GRAMERCY PARK
“The inclusions of [historical] facts make this novel . . . superior to most of those found in the subgenre . . . The lead protagonists are a winning combination.” —BookBrowser
MURDER ON WASHINGTON SQUARE
“Victoria Thompson’s Gaslight Mysteries are always . . . exciting treats to read.” —BookBrowser
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
MURDER ON MARBLE ROW
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2004 by Victoria Thompson.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials
in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-0-425-19870-4
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging
to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To my terrific editor, Ginjer Buchanan. This one’s for you!
Gaslight Mysteries by Victoria Thompson
MURDER ON ASTOR PLACE MURDER ON ST. MARK’S PLACE MURDER ON GRAMERCY PARK MURDER ON WASHINGTON SQUARE MURDER ON MULBERRY BEND MURDER ON MARBLE ROW MURDER ON LENOX HILL (JUNE 2005)
1
FRANK DIDN’T ACTUALLY HEAR THE EXPLOSION THAT morning. He was down in the neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen, collecting a drunk who had murdered the bartender who refused to keep serving him after he’d run out of money. The moment Frank entered Police Headquarters a couple hours later, he knew something had happened, though. The place seemed to hum with tension, and before Frank could even think to wonder at it, the desk sergeant called his name.
“Commissioner Roosevelt hisself wants to see you, laddie,” the sergeant said knowingly.
Frank glanced around and noticed that the cluster of cops who had been talking in hushed tones had fallen silent and were all staring at him. Not one was smiling. This wasn’t good.
“What’s he want to see me for?” he tried.
The sergeant just shrugged. “He don’t confide in me. Just said to send you up the minute you come in.”
Frank figured the sergeant knew perfectly well what Roosevelt wanted, and so did everyone else in the building. The only way Frank was going to find out was by going upstairs, though.
Trying to appear unconcerned, he walked slowly and purposefully to the stairway and began the climb up to the second floor, where Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt had his office. Teddy wasn’t the only commissioner, of course. He just liked for people to forget about the other three. He was usually successful at doing so, too, except when the others managed to stymie his attempts at reform and the press gleefully reported it.
Frank had to admit that Roosevelt had managed to make a few real reforms in the department. Teddy and
that reporter friend of his, Jacob Riis, enjoyed prowling the streets at night to make sure the police were doing their duty. A lot of worthless beat cops had been fired when the two men found them sleeping on the job. Others had been given the sack for being too blatantly corrupt. Roosevelt had also promoted the men he felt had earned the honor. This was a huge change from the old system, where promotions had been bought and paid for. Frank himself had been saving for years to buy himself the rank of Captain.
He wasn’t planning to spend that money on something else yet, though. Roosevelt’s changes had made for good newspaper copy, but as soon as he was gone, his reforms would likely go, too. With no one to stop them, the police department would return to business as usual. That day was probably coming sooner rather than later, since Roosevelt had campaigned vigorously for McKinley, who had been elected president four weeks ago. The new president would be handing out political appointments to his supporters the minute he took office next year, and everyone knew Roosevelt would be among them. Frank had already felt the rumblings as everyone on the force tried to figure out what was going to happen to them when Teddy and his progressive ideas left New York for Washington.
Frank had reached Roosevelt’s office, and he stepped inside with more boldness than he felt. Roosevelt’s secretary, a dark-haired Irish girl named Minnie Kelly, looked up from her type writing.
“Commissioner Roosevelt is expecting you, Detective Sergeant,” she informed him before he could say a word. No smile lit her pretty face.
“What’s he want?” he tried again.
“Didn’t you hear what happened this morning? The explosion?”
“What explosion?”
Miss Kelly frowned. “I don’t know much about it. You’d better let the commissioner explain.” She got up and hurried to Roosevelt’s door to let him know Frank had arrived.
Frank sighed. Nothing good came from hiring women. Miss Kelly was the first and only female secretary in the history of the department, another one of Roosevelt’s reforms. Roosevelt was probably satisfied with her work, but Frank couldn’t help thinking a man would have given him the buzz and not let him go into the boss’s office blind.
“Go right in,” Miss Kelly instructed him before he could feel any sorrier for himself.
Roosevelt sat behind his impressive desk. He wasn’t a large man, but his personality was so big, you hardly noticed his size. He grinned at Frank, revealing teeth too large for his face.
“Dee-lighted to see you, Malloy,” he exclaimed. Even though he was sitting perfectly still, energy seemed to radiate from him, electrifying the room. “Close the door, will you? Don’t want to bother Miss Kelly, do we?”
Frank wasn’t sure whether they did or not, but he closed the door just the same.
“Terrible thing, just terrible,” Roosevelt was saying, peering through his pince-nez at what was apparently a report of some kind. “Dreadful way to die.”
“The explosion?” Frank said, figuring he should say something and not sure exactly what was expected.
“A bomb, they think,” Roosevelt said, looking up at Frank again.
“A bomb?” he echoed in amazement. The city was full of factories with machinery that exploded from time to time, killing hapless immigrant workers. He’d assumed that was what Miss Kelly’s remark had meant. “Where was it? What happened?” he demanded, forgetting for a moment that he was addressing the Commissioner of Police.
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Roosevelt asked, mildly annoyed. “Sit down, sit down.” He motioned to the two chairs facing his desk, and Frank obediently took one. “It happened this morning, around nine o’clock. Mr. Gregory Van Dyke owns some factories here in the city. He’d just arrived at his office uptown, and the place exploded. Blew him to pieces. Nearly killed his secretary, too, poor fellow.”
Frank was picturing the scene. Bombs were merciless, and the human body had no defense against them. He had a hundred questions, but he figured Roosevelt wouldn’t know any of the answers, at least this early in the investigation. “Do they have any idea who planted the bomb?”
“Anarchists, I’m sure,” Roosevelt said, waving the problem away with his hand. “No successful man is safe from them. You know what they did to Henry Frick.”
Everyone knew about Henry Clay Frick. When his workers in Pittsburgh had gone on strike, Frick hired Pinkerton detectives to break the strike. The workers had been slaughtered, and in retaliation, some Russian anarchist had shot Frick. In the ass. Not a fatal wound and hardly comparable to a bomb exploding. He decided not to point this out to Roosevelt, though. “Did Mr. Van Dyke have problems with his workers?”
“Every employer has problems with his workers, but nothing out of the ordinary that I know of. Anarchists don’t need a reason, though, do they? Killing a wealthy man is enough. Sends a warning to others and all that poppycock.”
He was probably right. Frank hadn’t given the matter much thought. He didn’t particularly want to give it any thought now, either, and he still had no idea why Roosevelt had told him all this. “Was Mr. Van Dyke a friend of yours?” he guessed.
Roosevelt’s perpetual grin faded. “An old friend. Known him all my life. Families were close.”
Of course. Van Dyke and Roosevelt were names that dated back to the original Dutch settlers, the ones they called Knickerbockers. All those families had known each other for generations.
Decker was another of those names, one Frank tried not to remember.
“I’m sorry,” Frank said politely. “That’s a hard way to lose a friend.”
“And that’s why I want you to investigate this, Detective Sergeant.”
Frank tried not to react, but he wasn’t entirely successful.
“Don’t be so surprised, Malloy,” Roosevelt said. “You’ve proven yourself to be a man who can be trusted to handle difficult situations discreetly. You also aren’t afraid of the truth, no matter where you must go to find it.”
“You’re sure anarchists killed Mr. Van Dyke,” Frank reminded him. “Solving the case won’t need much discretion. Or much courage.”
Roosevelt’s expression grew grim. “I hope not, Detective Sergeant, but one can never be sure what a police investigation will uncover. Everyone has secrets, and even if those secrets don’t have anything to do with why Gregory was murdered, they might come out and cause distress to his family.”
Frank could feel the dread forming in his belly like a lead weight. “If you know of something in particular, I’d be grateful if you told me now. I’ll have a better chance of keeping it away from the press.”
“That’s just it,” Roosevelt confessed. “I don’t. But a man in Gregory’s position . . . Well, I’m sure he’s made enemies.”
“People who might want to kill him?”
Roosevelt didn’t actually squirm. Men in his position would never do anything so craven. He did look remarkably uncomfortable, though. “Civilized people don’t kill their enemies by blowing them to bits.”
Now Frank was pretty sure he understood why he’d been selected for this task. “What if I find out it wasn’t anarchists?”
They both knew what he meant. The law was a flexible instrument, and it tended to bend a great deal for those with money and power. If Van Dyke’s killer had both, bringing him to justice could be problematic, if not actually impossible.
“I want justice to be done, no matter who the culprit is,” Roosevelt assured him, somewhat to Frank’s surprise. “When you know, come to me, and I’ll deal with it.”
Roosevelt handed Frank the papers he’d been examining, two typewritten pages containing the details of the case that were known so far. Frank knew the detectives on the scene had hastily scrawled a report, and Miss Kelly had no doubt typed it for the commissioner to read.
Sensing he had been dismissed, Frank rose. “I’ll keep you informed,” he promised.
“Give Sarah my regards,” Roosevelt replied.
Frank looked up sharply, instantly wary. Was he being
tested? Like Roosevelt, Mrs. Sarah Brandt was a Decker and one of the Knickerbockers, a woman whom Frank should, in the normal course of his life, have never even met. “I don’t expect to be seeing Mrs. Brandt,” he said guardedly. Indeed, he’d sworn to himself never to see her again.
Roosevelt’s enormous grin appeared again. “Well, I expect you will. Felix Decker was the one who called me about Gregory’s death. He asked me to put you on the case.”
Frank could not have been more stunned. Felix Decker was Sarah Brandt’s father. And Frank already knew him to be a murderer.
SARAH BRANDT HADN’T HEARD THE EXPLOSION, EITHER.
She had been delivering a baby on the Lower East Side all night and for most of the morning. As a midwife, she traveled the city at all hours, and now she was returning, bone weary, to her home on Bank Street. She’d taken the Third Avenue Elevated Train to Fourteenth Street, where she hoped to find a Hansom cab to carry her across town. Since it was raining—sleeting really—she doubted her chances.
She’d just reached the bottom of the long flight of stairs that led down from the El station three stories above the street when she heard a newsboy shouting about an explosion.
He was peddling an Extra edition of the paper, a one-sheet version that would report on an event so extraordinary, it couldn’t wait for the next day’s regular paper, or even the evening edition.
“Rich man gets blowed to pieces!” the boy cried. “Read all about it!”
People were crowding around, eagerly paying their pennies to get the gory details. Sarah approached with a sense of dread. While she hadn’t moved in those elite social circles for years, she still knew far too many rich men personally. Her own father was one of them.
“Who is it?” she asked, handing the boy her penny. He was sheltering the sheets of newsprint from the rain beneath his tattered coat. He pulled one out for her.