Gaslight Mystery 10 - Murder on Bank Street Read online

  “Oh, no,” Sarah lied, opening the bag so she didn’t have to meet Mrs. Ellsworth’s eye. She pulled out the soiled sheet.

  “Here, I’ll take that. Come on back and have another cup of coffee.” She took the sheet from Sarah’s unresisting hands and led her back to the kitchen.

  Sarah sat down and allowed herself to be served. Mrs.

  Ellsworth poured herself some coffee, too, and took a chair opposite her.

  “Mr. Malloy is in love with you, you know,” Mrs. Ellsworth said after a moment.

  Sarah didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

  “I think you have feelings for him, too,” she tried again.

  Sarah bit her lip. “He’s Catholic, and I’m not.”

  “I thought he’d turned his back on his church.”

  “He’s a policeman,” Sarah reminded her. She didn’t have to add that most people considered the police no better than the criminals they arrested, and in most cases they weren’t. Graft and corruption were rampant in the force, and Malloy’s hands were far from clean. He simply couldn’t be honest in that environment.

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  Victoria Thompson

  “Yes, and he’s poor and you’re rich, or at least your family is,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “That didn’t bother you the first time you married.”

  “You’re right,” Sarah agreed, idly stirring her coffee. “I married beneath myself when I married Tom, or at least that’s what my family and everyone else thought. But Tom was worth a hundred of those suitable young men my mother wanted me to choose.”

  “So is Mr. Malloy.”

  Sarah sighed. “Did you know he’s trying to find out who killed my husband?”

  “Mr. Malloy is? After all this time?” Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed in surprise. “How long has it been now, three years?”

  “A little more than four.”

  “Good gracious! How does he expect to solve that murder now when they couldn’t do it back then?”

  “Apparently, no one even tried to solve it back then,”

  Sarah said, the frustration of it welling up, as if it had happened just yesterday. “My father should have offered a reward, but he didn’t, so no one cared about finding the killer.” Their association with Malloy had taught them much about the police. No one on the force bothered to investigate a crime unless a “reward” was offered. Everyone understood the reward was simply a bribe paid to get good ser vice.

  “Wouldn’t your father have known that?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked.

  Sarah had wondered herself. “Maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t want Tom’s murder solved.”

  “I don’t believe it. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “My father doesn’t like scandal. His daughters had already Murder on Bank Street

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  brought him enough of it. Perhaps he thought it best to let Tom rest in peace.”

  “But Mr. Malloy doesn’t think so.”

  “No,” Sarah said. “He wants justice.”

  “He wants justice for you,” Mrs. Ellsworth guessed. “Do you want it, too?”

  Sarah stirred her coffee again. “I want the man who killed Tom to be punished, but that won’t bring justice. Tom will still be dead.”

  This time Mrs. Ellsworth sighed. “That’s too true. But how can he hope to find the killer now? Where would he even start to look?”

  “He’s been investigating,” Sarah explained. “He found some new information that made him think Tom was killed because of one of his patients.”

  “One of his patients? Why would someone kill him for being a doctor?”

  “People get angry at doctors all the time,” Sarah reminded her. “Many people die no matter how hard the doctor tries to save them. It happens every day.”

  “Does Mr. Malloy think Dr. Brandt was killed because he let someone die?”

  “Oddly enough, no, it’s not that at all. Actually, he thinks someone killed Tom because one of his patients fell in love with him.”

  “What?” Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed in outrage. “Why would that make somebody want to kill him?”

  “I know, it doesn’t make sense, but Malloy has found some information that makes him think it’s possible. He still may not be able to find Tom’s killer, but he’s determined to try.”

  “Of course he is,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “I think that man would walk through fire for you.”

  14

  Victoria Thompson

  Sarah was very much afraid she was right.

  “I know your parents wouldn’t approve of Mr. Malloy,”

  Mrs. Ellsworth was saying, “but you didn’t let that stop you the first time you married. His mother is a problem, too, but she’ll come around if she doesn’t have any choice, and that dear little boy of his—”

  “Mrs. Ellsworth, please . . .” Sarah felt the sting of tears.

  She was just too tired for this conversation.

  “You know I’m right,” she went on, undaunted. “You’re so perfect for each other. You can’t let what other people think stop you.”

  Sarah smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m not the one you should be trying to convince.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Sarah said wearily, “that Frank Malloy is every bit the man you think he is, and that means he’s much too honorable to ever ask me to take a man he thinks is so far beneath me.”

  Frank Malloy didn’t like this. Usually, when he investigated a murder, someone was at least a little interested in solving it. But four years after Tom Brandt’s death, no one even remembered his name. Frank had been trying to find out information about the crime for months now. He’d succeeded in finding a witness, the boy Danny who’d lured Brandt to the meeting with his killer, and learned some details about the killer. Sarah’s father, Felix Decker, had provided additional information and hired a crew of Pinkerton detectives to find out as much as they could about Brandt and the circumstances of his death. Now Frank had file folders full of information and at least three good suspects. All he had to do was get a bunch of people who had Murder on Bank Street

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  no interest in solving a four- year- old murder to cooperate with him.

  He knocked on the front door of the imposing residence.

  He’d have to mind his manners here. Luckily, he’d learned some since meeting up with Sarah Brandt.

  A maid answered the door. She was a pockmarked girl in her early twenties, and she knew immediately that Frank was trouble. “What will you be wanting, then?” she asked rudely.

  “Is that how your betters taught you to treat their visitors?” he chided her.

  She looked him over head to foot dismissively. “Trades -

  men are to use the back door,” she sniffed and started to slam the door in his face. He’d had this door slammed in his face the last time he’d been here. Back then, he’d had no real authority. This time he did.

  Frank raised his arm and slapped the door with the flat of his hand, pushing it just forcefully enough to send the girl staggering back into the front hallway. He stepped inside before she could gather her wits. “I want to see your master,”

  he said. “Tell him it’s Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police.”

  Her already surprised expression grew shocked. “The police! But they said you wasn’t going to arrest her!”

  “Arrest who?”

  “Why, Miss Or

  —” But she caught herself. “Wait a

  minute. What did you want to see the master about?” she asked warily.

  “None of your business. Just tell him I’m here. I want to talk to him about Miss Ordella.” Knowing the woman’s name convinced her he was serious. She didn’t have to know he’d gotten the name from the Pinkertons’ report.

  “Mr. Werner ain’t . . . isn’t in. Only Mrs. Rossmann.”

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  Victoria Thompson

  “I’ll see her, then.”

  “If she’s home
,” the girl said in warning. Ladies of society could instruct their servants to tell visitors they were not at home even when they were, a polite way of avoiding company if they didn’t want any.

  “She’s at home,” Frank said in a warning of his own.

  The girl left him standing in the hall as she scurried away in search of her mistress. From the Pinkertons’ report, he knew that Mrs. Rossmann was Ordella Werner’s aunt. She would probably be easier to intimidate than the girl’s father anyway.

  Frank used his wait to look around. The hallway was furnished with a few heavily carved chairs that looked as if they had come from a castle somewhere. A richly figured carpet covered the floor, and portraits of sour-looking

  ancestors hung on the ornately wallpapered walls.

  After a few minutes Frank heard a sound and looked up to see a middle- aged woman descending the stairs. She was tall and straight, and her face still held traces of the beauty she had been in her youth. She moved with stately grace, her expression betraying none of the anxiety she must feel to find a police detective on her doorstep.

  When she reached the bottom of the steps, she stopped and studied Frank for a long moment. “Meg said you’re from the police.”

  She was a cool one, but her voice had cracked ever so slightly over the word police.

  “That’s right. Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. Is there someplace we can talk in private?”

  She seemed to shake herself a bit. “Of course. This way.”

  She led him into one of the rooms that opened off the front hall, pushing the double doors open to reveal an elaborately furnished and immaculate parlor that was probably used Murder on Bank Street

  17

  only for formal occasions. She stood aside for Frank to enter, then carefully closed the doors behind her.

  “You’re here about Ordella,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Rossmann. You’re her aunt, I believe.”

  “Yes.” She wasn’t going to offer anything else.

  “Have you always lived with the family?”

  “Just for the past ten years, since my husband died.”

  “But you’ve known Ordella all her life.”

  “Of course I have. She’s my brother’s child.”

  “When did you first notice that she wasn’t quite right?”

  Mrs. Rossmann’s shoulders rose ever so slightly, as if Frank’s question threatened her in some way. “Is this necessary?” she asked, her composure slipping just a bit. “We’ve sent Ordella to an asylum upstate already. I thought you people weren’t going to press charges against her.”

  Frank mentally cursed the Pinkertons. Something had happened with Miss Ordella Werner, something violent, and they hadn’t had a thing about it in their report.

  “We aren’t,” Frank bluffed, “but we still need to make a full report. Maybe we could sit down,” he suggested. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  Mrs. Rossmann drew a deep breath, as if to fortify herself.

  “I’m sorry. I should have offered you a seat.” She walked over to where two overstuffed chairs sat beside the cold fireplace and lowered herself onto one of them carefully, as if afraid she might break. She indicated Frank should take the other one, and he did.

  “So, let’s start again. When did you first notice she wasn’t right?” he repeated.

  “About six years ago, I think,” she said. “Ordella had always enjoyed good health, but she had a serious fever that summer. For a while, we thought she might even die.”

  “That’s when she met Dr. Leiter.”

  18

  Victoria Thompson

  She seemed surprised he knew the doctor’s name. “No, she’d known him for years, but as I said, she’d never been sickly, so she’d had little contact with him until then.”

  “But she had a lot of contact with him when she was sick.”

  “Of course. He was here daily at first, until the crisis passed. Then he would come by regularly to check on her.”

  “And she fell in love with him.”

  The color rose in Mrs. Rossmann’s cheeks. Frank couldn’t tell if it was anger or embarrassment, but he could see she hated discussing this. “She developed an . . . attachment for him,” she allowed.

  “When did you first realize she had this attachment for him?”

  She tried to remember. “I don’t know exactly. She was . . .

  At first she seemed to have a relapse, so of course we called the doctor in. It happened several times, and we hated to bother him so often, but Ordella would insist. She’d become hysterical if we even hesitated to summon him. Finally, we began to understand that she was only pretending to be ill so he would come. So she could . . . see him,” she added reluctantly.

  “How did he react to this?”

  “He was patient at first. Lots of females develop a certain affection for their doctors, so this wasn’t the first time he’d been the object of admiration.”

  “But this was different,” Frank guessed.

  Again she seemed surprised at his understanding of the situation. “Yes, it was. Dr. Leiter is married. He has three children. He’s not a young man or even very . . . Well, quite frankly, he’s rather plain looking. Not at all the kind of person to inspire a young woman’s devotion.”

  “But he inspired your niece’s devotion.”

  “Yes, and the more we tried to reason with her, to explain Murder on Bank Street

  19

  how foolishly she was behaving, the more devoted she became. She even . . . Well, she even began to insist that Dr. Leiter loved her in return.”

  “You’re sure he wasn’t encouraging her?”

  “Absolutely not! He was appalled by her attentions. She would go to his office and to his home. She would leave gifts for him and love notes. She even . . .” Her voice broke, and she lifted a hand to rub her forehead. Plainly, she didn’t want to tell the rest of this story.

  Frank waited, knowing that if he said nothing, she would continue, almost as if she’d forgotten he was there.

  “She went missing,” Mrs. Rossmann said after a few moments, filling the silence he had allowed to stretch. “We searched everywhere, but we couldn’t find her. She was gone for two days. We were frantic. Dr. Leiter had taken his family away for a holiday, although we didn’t know it at the time.

  While they were gone, Ordella . . . she had gone to their house and . . . and lived there. She ate in their kitchen and even slept in . . . in Dr. Leiter’s bed. They found her when they returned home. Poor Mrs. Leiter, she was beside herself.

  Dr. Leiter was quite upset, too, as you can imagine. We had to . . . to use force to bring Ordella home.”

  Only his years of training enabled Frank to keep his expression blank. None of this had been in the Pinkertons’

  report, just the bare fact that Ordella Werner had become obsessed with her doctor.

  When Mrs. Rossmann looked up, Frank could see she had tears in her eyes, and he felt a pang of guilt for putting her through this. “Do you have enough for your report yet, Mr. Malloy?” she asked bitterly. “Or should I continue?”

  Frank hated himself for continuing to browbeat the poor woman, but he needed a little more information. “How did Dr. Tom Brandt get involved in Miss Werner’s case?”

  20

  Victoria Thompson

  “Dr. Brandt?” she asked in surprise. “How did you know about him? I’d almost forgotten myself!”

  Frank didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. All he had to do was wait. Wait and stare at her with his implacable glare, the one that had broken those much tougher than she.

  Mrs. Rossmann sighed in defeat. “I never did know how he heard about Ordella. He just knocked on our door one day with a letter of introduction from Dr. Leiter.”

  “What did he want?”

  She frowned. “He said he was studying cases like Ordel -

  la’s,” she recalled after a moment. “He said she wasn’t the on
ly female to have developed an irrational attachment to a man who had no interest in her. He was . . . he was trying to find a way to help these women, I think.”

  “What did your brother think of Dr. Brandt?” Frank asked, not allowing any emotion into his voice.

  “My brother?”

  “Yes, did he approve of Dr. Brandt trying to help your niece?”

  Plainly, she thought this an odd question. “We . . . I think we were all willing for him to try, at least at first . . .”

  “But later?” Frank prodded.

  “He upset Ordella. He was trying to reason with her, but we’d already tried that. We’d already explained to her that Dr. Leiter was not in love with her, that he had a wife and family and had no interest in leaving them for her.”

  “But she didn’t believe you,” he guessed.

  “She said he only stayed with them because he didn’t want to hurt his children. She claimed his wife had threatened to ruin him if he left her, and he wouldn’t be able to earn a living.

  She had all sorts of excuses for why he pretended not to care for her, even though none of them made sense to anyone but her.”

  “But Dr. Brandt still tried to reason with her.”

  Murder on Bank Street

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  “Yes, and he wasn’t any more successful than we had been.

  In fact . . .”

  “In fact what, Mrs. Rossmann?” His tone made her shoulders tense.

  “I never blamed him. Dr. Brandt, that is. I never believed his visit had set her off, but shortly afterwards, Ordella managed to get away again. This time we knew where to look for her, though.”

  “She’d gone to Dr. Leiter’s house again?” Frank guessed.

  “They found her hiding in the cellar. She . . . she had a knife.”

  Frank’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. “What did she intend to do with it?”

  Mrs. Rossmann’s eyes glittered like glass. “Knowing what’s happened since, I’m sure you can guess, Mr. Malloy. She never admitted to anything, though. Not then. We took her home and we kept a much closer watch on her after that.”

  Frank’s mind was racing. He didn’t want her to know he had no idea what Ordella had done recently. He’d have to find that out from another source. He also had to leave a door open so he could return and question her again. “Mrs.