Gaslight Mystery 05 - Murder on Mulberry Bend Read online

  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

  Praise for national bestselling author

  VICTORIA THOMPSON

  and her Edgar® Award — nominated

  Gaslight Mystery series ...

  “Fascinating ... Sarah and Frank are appealing characters ... Thompson vividly re-creates the gaslit world of old New York.” — Publishers Weekly

  “A series which will appeal to Anne Perry fans.”

  — Mystery Scene

  MURDER ON ASTOR PLACE

  Nominated for the Best First Mystery Award

  by Romantic Times

  “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

  “Victoria Thompson shines in this debut mystery. Anne Perry and Caleb Carr fans rejoice!”

  — Tamar Myers, author of The Hand that Rocks the Ladle

  “Spell-binding. A bravura performance that will leave you impatient for the next installment.” — Romantic Times

  “A charming new mystery set in turn-of-the-century New York.” — Murder Ink

  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

  “As Victoria Thompson colorfully demonstrates in her latest ‘Gaslight Mystery,’ New York City at the beginning of the twentieth century is a dangerous place for its melting pot immigrants.... [She] weaves a fine mystery for readers who enjoy solving a difficult puzzler.” — BookBrowser

  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

  “Gripping — satisfying in its twists and turns under the gaslight.” — KLIATT

  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), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, 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), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, 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 ORL, 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  MURDER ON MULBERRY BEND

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2003

  Copyright © 2003 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 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 : 978-1-440-67342-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  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 BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my grandparents,

  Salvatore and Carmelina (Pizzuto) Straface,

  who came to America as children.

  1

  “I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE EVENING.”

  Sarah Brandt turned toward her companion, even though he was merely a shadow in the dark coach beside her. “It was lovely. I can’t remember when I was last at the opera.”

  Indeed, she felt more than a little like Cinderella. Dressed this afternoon in finery borrowed from her mother. Dinner at Delmonico’s. Then the theater, with its glittering performers singing soul-shattering music and the magnificently garbed patrons who were more interested in being seen than watching the performance. Now she was riding home in a carriage that was going to deliver her, if not back to her place among the cinders, at least back to ordinariness again.

  “There’s no reason you couldn’t go out like this frequently,” Richard Dennis said, amusement in his voice.

  They both knew her present life on Bank Street, working as a midwife, usually allowed little opportunity for an evening like this one. “Ah, I see it all now. My mother bribed you to tempt me back into the world of the idle rich, didn’t she?”

  He sighed theatrically. “I thought I was being so discreet. How did you guess?”

  “Because she tries it with everyone,” Sarah assured him without rancor. Her mother only wanted what she thought was best for her child, and Sarah’s birthright entitled her to a life of leisure. The kind of life Richard enjoyed. “What did she offer you as a reward for rescuing me?”

  “Why, your hand in marriage, of course. Nothing less could have satisfied me.”

  Sarah smiled in the darkness. “Then you should be grateful that I am proof against your charms. My last suitor came to a very bad end.”

  “I’d be faint-hearted indeed if I allowed that to deter me,” he insisted. “Most men would only consider it a challenge to be overcome.”

  “I hope you’re more sensible than most men, then,” she said.

  “No one
has ever accused me of that,” he replied with mock outrage, making her laugh. “And how about you, Sarah Brandt? Are you more sensible than most women?”

  Her amusement faded. “I’m afraid I am. Too sensible to marry again, at least.”

  Although she couldn’t see his expression in the darkness, she sensed the change in him. As the coach continued bouncing gently over the cobbled streets, they sat in silence for a few moments while they both remembered their lost mates. The three years that Tom Brandt had been gone seemed like only as many days. Her companion’s wife had been gone longer, but she was just as sorely missed.

  “How do you bear the loneliness?” he asked finally.

  “I don’t. I just try to fill my days so I’m too busy to think of it.”

  This time his sigh was weary. “But we still have the nights, don’t we?”

  Yes, they did still have the nights. The darkness that sometimes seemed endless when you had no one to hold you. Sarah wanted to reach out to him, to tell him she understood, but that would be a mistake. Lonely people could make terrible mistakes if they weren’t careful. She’d been careful for too long to risk it now.

  “Richard,” she said, calling him by his given name in spite of their brief acquaintance, “you don’t need to be lonely. You must know you’re attractive, and you’re certainly eligible. You could have your pick of women in this city.”

  “And what about you, Sarah?” he asked, taking the liberty of using her first name as well. “You could have your pick, too, starting with that policeman. What’s his name?”

  “Malloy?” she asked in astonishment.

  “Oh, well done!” he teased. “Anyone would think you had no idea how he feels about you.”

  Sarah had no intention of discussing Malloy’s feelings for her. “I’m happy with the life I’ve chosen, Richard, even though I am lonely sometimes. But you don’t seem happy at all, which is why I don’t understand why you haven’t found someone else.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he tried, but she wasn’t fooled. She could hear the wistfulness in his voice.

  “Your wife would want you to be happy, Richard.”

  “Is that what you tell yourself, Sarah? Do you really think your husband would want you to be with another man?”

  She almost said it was different for men, but she caught herself. She had no idea if it was or not. “I never knew your wife. What was she like?” she asked instead.

  “Was she jealous, do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure what I mean,” Sarah confessed. “You were obviously devoted to her, so you must have loved her very much.”

  “Is that what you think? That I was devoted to her?”

  She couldn’t quite read the expression in his voice. “You still miss her,” she reasoned. “And you haven’t been able to find anyone who could take her place in your life.”

  “So you assume I’m still grieving for her.”

  “Aren’t you?” she asked, although she was no longer certain she wanted to know the answer.

  “Grief isn’t the only emotion that keeps people in mourning.”

  Something Sarah knew only too well. She thought of her parents, who still mourned the death of her sister Maggie, although they rarely spoke her name. Their guilt would never allow them to forgive themselves enough to truly let her go. “You can’t think you were responsible for your wife’s death,” she said. “She died of a fever, and even the doctors couldn’t do anything for her. You told me that yourself.”

  The glow from a passing streetlight briefly illuminated his face, and Sarah saw the kind of pain felt only by those suffering the torment of the damned. He must have seen her reaction, because he turned away quickly.

  “I have no right to burden you with my sins. I never should have ...”

  “You never should have what?” she prodded when he hesitated.

  He didn’t reply, but she was afraid she already knew. “You didn’t invite me out just because you wanted the pleasure of my company, did you?”

  “You are very pleasant company, Sarah,” he insisted. “I consider myself extremely fortunate to have met such a charming lady as yourself, and — ”

  “Stop that nonsense,” she snapped. “I know exactly what I am, and charming isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe myself. Something else drew you to me, and if you don’t tell me what it is, I shall never speak to you again.”

  “How heartless you are, Mrs. Brandt,” he tried in a feeble attempt at levity.

  “I have many other undesirable qualities, too, and if you wish to see them, then by all means continue lying to me.”

  “I’ve never lied to you,” he protested.

  “There are lies of omission,” she reminded him sternly.

  “You are a hard woman,” he said. “I wonder if even a policeman could tame you.”

  “Richard,” she warned.

  “All right.” He lifted his white-gloved hand in mock surrender. “I was hoping that ... that you could help me understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Hazel. My wife. She ... Oh, God.” His voice broke, and Sarah was instantly contrite.

  “I’m sorry, Richard! I can be so stupid sometimes. I warned you that I have bad qualities. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to — ”

  “No, stop,” he said, clearing the emotion out of his voice. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Just like it’s my fault that Hazel is dead.”

  Sarah wasn’t sure she’d understood him. “Do you feel responsible for your wife’s death?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Now Sarah understood. “We always feel responsible when a loved one dies,” she assured him. “We blame ourselves for not loving them enough when they were with us, and we feel guilty for being the one still alive and — ”

  “But do you feel responsible for your husband’s death, Sarah?” he challenged.

  “I’ve wished a thousand times I’d stopped him from going out that night,” she admitted.

  “But are you responsible for his death?” he insisted desperately. “Do you blame yourself for killing him?”

  Sarah felt herself grow cold beneath the many layers of her fancy dress clothing. “Did you ... Did you cause your wife’s death, Richard?”

  “As surely as if I’d plunged a knife into her heart!”

  Sarah gasped, instinctively recoiling from him. Over the past few months, she’d heard several confessions of murder, but she’d never expected to hear one riding in a luxurious carriage while returning from the opera.

  He muttered something that might have been a curse and slapped his thigh in anger, making her jump. “That’s not how I meant to tell you,” he said. “Why does nothing ever go the way I plan?”

  Now Sarah was sliding her gloved hand over the side wall of the carriage, trying to find the door handle. Even if she found it, would she be able to get the door open and escape, hampered as she was by her borrowed finery? Once on the street, where could she go? Would the carriage driver help her or be loyal to his master? And where were they? She might actually be in more danger outside the carriage than inside with a confessed killer, depending on the neighborhood.

  “Sarah?”

  She started, instantly alert and ready to scream bloody murder, if necessary. She waited, holding her breath beneath her tightly laced corset.

  “Oh, God, I’ve frightened you,” he said in despair. “I didn’t mean ... Please forgive me. I just ... Sometimes I get so angry when I remember ...”

  He lifted a hand to his forehead, and his whole body seemed to sag in the shadowed darkness of the carriage.

  Sarah forced herself to take a fortifying breath. “How did you kill her, Richard?” she asked softly, wary of angering him again.

  “What?”

  “If it was an accident, no one will blame — ”

  He groaned, causing her to recoil again, but this time she had no farther to go because the carriage wall was against her back.

 
“How did I manage to make such a hash of this?” he asked of no one in particular. “Maybe I should let you think I killed her and turn myself in to your policeman. I’ve often thought I should be punished for what I did to her. Would your Mr. Malloy punish me, Sarah?”

  “Richard, I don’t think — ”

  “Enough of this,” he said, interrupting her. “I can’t allow you to be frightened anymore. I’m not a killer, Sarah. Not the way you think. But even still, I’m responsible for Hazel’s death.”

  Sarah felt the knot in her stomach loosen just enough that she could breathe without conscious thought. “What do you mean?” she asked, glad that her voice sounded perfectly reasonable.

  He sighed, and she heard the anguish that came straight from his soul. “I didn’t mean to make you think I’d taken her life,” he explained. “She did die of a fever. The doctors came, but they could do nothing for her. It was a fever she’d caught from those people.”

  “What people?”

  “The people she went to help. At the mission. You know what they’re like. Filthy and diseased, little more than vermin. All she wanted to do was help them, and they took her life instead.”

  Sarah didn’t know how to reply. There was some truth to what he said. “How did she get involved with this place — what was it called?” she asked in hopes of finding a way to help him.

  “It’s called the Prodigal Son Mission. A friend of hers had been approached for a donation. She and Hazel went down to see what kind of work they were doing. The next thing I know, she’s going down there every week to help.”