Murder on Sisters' Row gm-13 Read online

  As she had before, she approached the house from the rear. She looked around, but saw no sign that she was observed or that the rescue party was anywhere nearby.

  Beulah answered her knock. The cook looked her up and down. “I told Mrs. Walker you’d come. She didn’t think you would.”

  Sarah stepped into the kitchen. “I hope she hasn’t changed her mind about letting me take the baby.”

  “He’s still here. That’s all I know. You stay right here. I’ll get Mrs. Walker.”

  “I’d like to check on Amy.”

  Beulah glared at her through narrowed eyes. “You stay right here,” she repeated sternly.

  Sarah decided she’d best obey. She didn’t want to antagonize anyone and fail to get the baby away. While she waited, she listened for any sounds of activity, but she heard nothing. The stillness was almost eerie, as if the very house itself was sleeping.

  In a few moments, Beulah returned and told her Mrs. Walker wanted to see her.

  This morning, Mrs. Walker was in her nightdress and robe, with her hair still braided for sleep. Her heavy eyelids and creased face told Sarah that Beulah had awakened her.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought I should come before the other girls were awake.”

  “I wish you’d waited until I was awake,” Mrs. Walker said, “but you’re right. There’s no sense in getting everybody stirred up.”

  “I’d like to see Amy, to make sure she’s doing well.”

  “She’s doing fine, and if she sees you, she’ll know why you’re here. I don’t want her upset.”

  “She’ll be upset when she finds out the baby is gone.”

  “Yes, but it’ll be too late then, and she’ll get over it quick enough.”

  Sarah wondered if a woman could ever get over the loss of her baby, but she didn’t dare express her doubt to Mrs. Walker. She had to avoid antagonizing her at all costs. “I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. You can tell Amy that.”

  “I’ll tell her what I please,” Mrs. Walker said. “And I hope never to see your face again.”

  Sarah hoped the same thing.

  The office door opened, and Beulah came in, carrying a small bundle. “He’s sleeping like a lamb.”

  “What did you tell Amy?” Mrs. Walker asked.

  “Nothing. She’s sound asleep, too.”

  “Good.”

  Beulah handed the infant to Sarah. A wave of tenderness swept over her as she gazed down into his sweet face.

  “You can go now,” Mrs. Walker said. “And be quick.”

  Sarah had almost forgotten the most important part of her task. “Oh, dear, I was wondering, could your man Jake take me in the carriage? It’s a long walk to where I’m taking him, you see, and—”

  Mrs. Walker muttered something under her breath, but she said, “Beulah, go wake Jake up and have him take her wherever she wants to go. But take her with you. She can wait in the stable. I don’t want Amy to wake up and have the baby still in the house.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Walker,” Sarah began, but the woman waved her off.

  “Get out of here.”

  Sarah obediently followed Beulah out, onto the back porch, through the yard, across the alley, and into the stable. She waited just inside the door, holding the tiny, almost weightless bundle, while Beulah went up the stairs to what was apparently Jake’s quarters over the stable. She heard some loud grumbling and a lot of thumping around, but in a few minutes, Beulah came down the stairs with a groggy and furious Jake behind her. He was still buttoning the jacket of his uniform, and he glared at Sarah.

  “I’m very sorry,” Sarah said, trying to sound sincere, “but you were the one who told me to come early in the day.”

  He made a rude noise, and silently went about the task of harnessing the matching horses to the carriage.

  Beulah came over to Sarah and, using one finger, pushed the blanket back from the baby’s face so she could take one last look. “Good luck to you, boy. You’ll need it.” She stepped back. “You really think somebody’ll adopt him?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Beulah shook her head. “But not likely. You’re doing a good thing, though, getting him away from here. That’s a start.”

  Sarah tried to think of an appropriate response, but before she could, Beulah turned and walked away. She didn’t look back.

  Jake wasted no time getting the horses hitched, moving with practiced ease in spite of his groggy state. When he was finished, he moved to the carriage door and held it open for Sarah, indicating with a wave of his hand that she could enter. He made no effort to assist her, though, crossing his arms in silent rebellion against good manners.

  Sarah struggled a bit climbing in with the babe in her arms, but she managed. When she was settled, he said, “Where do you want to go?”

  “To the Mission, the same place you took me last time.”

  His expression told her he thought this was crazy, but he slammed the door shut and climbed up to the driver’s seat. Sarah hastily opened the curtains at the windows in hopes of seeing some indication that the rescuers were nearby and waiting. At least they would see her and know she’d gotten away. She even held the baby high against her chest, so the bundle he made would be visible. As they turned onto Seventh Street, she saw a shabby carriage stopped on the next block, its driver slumped over as if drunk or sleeping. Could that be them?

  Her carriage started down the street, and she caught a glimpse of a gentleman strolling leisurely on the opposite sidewalk, a walking stick in his hand. She recognized him. Mr. Quimby. She held the baby up even higher, so he’d know she had him. He didn’t seem to take any notice, and then they were gone, rattling away. Sarah lowered the baby to her lap and sank back against the cushions and started to pray.

  NEARLY TWO HOURS LATER, SARAH ARRIVED AT THE house where Mrs. Van Orner had provided a refuge for the women she rescued. Mrs. Keller, at the Daughters of Hope, had loaned her a market basket in which to carry the baby. She’d be less noticeable, they’d decided, if Jake did return and started asking if anyone in the neighborhood had seen a woman carrying an infant. By the time she arrived at the modest clapboard house in the Lower East Side, however, she was extremely noticeable. The baby was screaming bloody murder, drawing looks varying from pity to outrage from the people passing her in the street.

  Having only the address and seeing nothing about the house to distinguish it from its neighbors, Sarah breathed a silent prayer that she was at the right place and pounded on the door. A young woman opened it, her astonished gaze taking in Sarah and the screaming baby in the basket with one glance, then sticking her head out to hastily check the street before drawing Sarah inside and closing the door securely behind them.

  “Are you Mrs. Brandt?” the girl asked.

  “Yes, I—”

  “Thank heaven you’ve come. That girl Amy, she’s half out of her mind worrying about what happened to you and the baby.” She reached into the basket and snatched up the squalling child. “He’s soaking wet!”

  “I was in such a hurry to get him away, I didn’t even think to ask them for spare diapers,” Sarah said by way of apology, but the girl was gone, hurrying toward the stairs at the end of the front hallway.

  Sarah stood there stupidly, watching her disappear up the stairs. Then she looked around. The place reminded her of the Daughters of Hope Mission, an old house furnished with threadbare rugs and castoff furniture. Faded wallpaper covered the walls, unrelieved by a single picture. A far cry from the house on Sisters’ Row.

  She heard a door open upstairs and a woman’s voice raised in anguish, the words indistinguishable. The door closed, muffling the baby’s cries, and then they ceased altogether. Sarah sighed with relief.

  “Not exactly what you expected, was it?” a familiar voice asked.

  4

  BEING SUMMONED BY THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES WAS never a good thing, Frank observed as he made his way upstairs to Stephen O’Brien’s office. Whe
n he saw a woman was already in O’Brien’s office, he knew it was even worse than he’d thought.

  “Close the door, Malloy,” O’Brien said. He didn’t sound happy to see him.

  Frank closed the door and took a few steps closer to O’Brien’s desk. The chief didn’t invite him to sit down.

  The woman glared up at him from where she sat, as if she held him personally responsible for whatever she was so angry about. He thought she looked familiar, but maybe she just looked like every other madam in the city—a bit past her prime, more than a bit plump, and wearing expensive clothes that still looked cheap. Her hat had probably cost more than Frank made in a month, but the bird perched on it and staring at him with beady glass eyes was orange. Not a color found in nature.

  “Mrs. Walker, this is the detective sergeant I told you about,” O’Brien was saying.

  “The one who knows this Mrs. Brandt?” she asked sharply.

  Frank’s stomach knotted, and he managed not to swear aloud, although the curses were roaring in his head. In the one second that ticked by, he saw in his mind’s eye exactly what had happened. Sarah had ignored his advice and done a very stupid thing. He wasn’t going to let on that he knew, though. Things were already bad enough. Frank just clamped his teeth shut and waited, knowing anything he said would be wrong.

  “You do know Mrs. Brandt, don’t you, Malloy? The midwife?” O’Brien prompted.

  What had happened to Sarah? Was she all right? “We’ve met,” he allowed.

  O’Brien wasn’t amused. “Met? Hasn’t she been involved in some of your cases?”

  “A few.”

  “Involved in your cases?” Mrs. Walker echoed. “Does she work for the police?”

  “Of course not,” O’Brien assured her. Frank noticed his face was a dangerous shade of scarlet. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not being ridiculous,” Mrs. Walker informed him. If possible, she was even more furious than O’Brien. “I’ve been robbed, and I want you to do something about it.”

  “Did Mrs. Brandt rob you?” Frank asked before he could stop himself.

  Mrs. Walker hadn’t missed the sarcasm in his voice, but she squared her shoulders righteously. “As a matter of fact, she did. She kidnapped a baby.”

  Frank wanted to groan. He could easily imagine Sarah kidnapping a baby if she thought that was the right thing to do. He wasn’t going to admit that, though. “What were you doing with a baby? What kind of a place do you run anyway?” he asked, pretending to be shocked.

  Now her face was a dangerous shade of scarlet, but she turned to O’Brien. “I don’t have to sit here and be insulted. I pay good money for the police to protect me, and I expect you to earn it!”

  “Malloy, what do you know about this?” O’Brien demanded.

  “I know Mrs. Brandt isn’t a kidnapper. She’s a respectable lady, and she never would’ve gone into a brothel voluntarily. Maybe she was the one who was kidnapped.”

  “Nobody did anything to her,” Mrs. Walker said indignantly. “She got away scot-free.”

  The knot in Frank’s stomach loosened a bit. At least she was all right. For now. “With this baby?”

  “Yes, with the baby, and his mother, too.”

  Frank gaped at her. “She took a woman and a baby out of your house, and nobody stopped her?”

  Mrs. Walker made an exasperated noise. “Of course not! I told you, she took the baby. Then some other people came and took the woman. Kidnapped her! Carried her out of there against her will.”

  Frank remembered what Sarah had told her about those rich do-gooders who rescued prostitutes. Apparently, they’d succeeded. “Don’t you have a bouncer in the place?”

  “Of course I do, but your Mrs. Brandt asked him to take her and the baby in the carriage, so he wasn’t there when the rest of them showed up.”

  “She’s not my Mrs. Brandt,” was all Frank could think to say to that.

  “Do you know anything about this, Malloy?” O’Brien asked.

  “No,” Frank lied. “And if I did, Mrs. Brandt wouldn’t be involved in it.”

  “Well, she is involved in it, and I want you to get her in here so she can tell us where they’ve taken this woman.”

  Fury welled up in Frank, almost choking him, but he knew anger wouldn’t get him anywhere with O’Brien. Fortunately, he had another weapon he could use. “Do you know who she is, Chief?”

  “Mrs. Brandt? Of course I know who she is.”

  “No, I mean do you know who her father is?”

  “Her father? No, why should I?”

  “Because he’s Felix Decker, that’s why. I don’t think he’d be happy to hear you hauled his daughter down to Police Headquarters to ask her questions about something that happened in a brothel.”

  “Who’s Felix Decker?” Mrs. Walker asked.

  “One of the richest men in the city,” O’Brien said sourly. “And not one of your clients, I take it.”

  Mrs. Walker glared at him. “I just want my girl back. I don’t care who took her. I pay you to protect me, O’Brien. I expect to get my money’s worth.”

  “Malloy, go see this Mrs. Brandt and find out what happened to the girl,” O’Brien said.

  “She’d have to be crazy to tell me that, knowing I’d have to tell you,” Malloy said. “And she’s not crazy.”

  “I don’t care about any of that. Just find out what happened to the girl and get her back to Mrs. Walker.”

  Why, Frank wondered as he let himself out of O’Brien’s office, couldn’t Sarah ever take his advice?

  “NOT EXACTLY WHAT YOU EXPECTED, WAS IT?”

  Sarah looked up in surprise to see Miss Yingling standing in the doorway of what must be the front parlor. She wore the same drab olive green suit she’d worn the first day Sarah had met her, but she seemed much more animated today than she had then. Her eyes were actually sparkling.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Sarah admitted. “I didn’t expect to get away with the baby so easily.”

  “Mrs. Van Orner had a bit more trouble, I’m afraid.”

  “But she did get Amy out, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes, but the stupid girl wanted to get dressed and pack up all her clothes. Mrs. Van Orner tried to reason with her—how much use will those clothes be to her outside of a brothel, after all?—but she kept arguing. Finally, Mr. Porter just picked her up bodily and carried her out of the house in her nightdress.”

  “Oh, dear! I knew I should have warned her they were coming. She could have been ready.”

  “Oh, yes, waiting at the door with her grip,” Miss Yingling scoffed. “That would be a pretty picture.”

  “She could have at least gotten dressed,” Sarah said.

  “It’s just as well. They never want to part with the fancy clothes, and they even want to wear them. A woman can’t walk down the street dressed like that without attracting the wrong kind of attention, so we end up having to burn the clothes.”

  “Did Mrs. Walker try to interfere?”

  “A little, but she was late to the party. Mr. Quimby kept the cook busy at the front door for quite a while, long enough for Mrs. Van Orner and Mr. Porter to get back downstairs with the girl. The girl was making a fuss by then, and the cook heard it and started shouting for the madam. She and Mrs. Walker came running, but Mr. Quimby and Mrs. Van Orner were able to hold them off until they got Amy into the carriage.”

  “Were you with them?”

  “Oh, no, I was here, helping Lisa get everything ready. Mrs. Spratt-Williams told me all about it.”

  “Lisa?”

  “Lisa Biafore, the Italian girl who let you in just now. She’s really Analise, but she’s trying to be more American, so she changed it to Lisa.”

  Sarah heard a door open and close upstairs. “I’d like to examine Amy, to make sure she’s all right after the carriage ride and all the excitement.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Van Orner will see the wisdom of that. Should I ask her?”

  “Yes, please.
”

  She left Sarah standing in the front hall as she hurried off toward the rear of the house. In a few minutes, Mrs. Van Orner came into the front parlor, where Sarah had found a seat on a battered sofa. Miss Yingling came trailing along behind.

  “Mrs. Brandt, we can’t thank you enough,” Mrs. Van Orner said as Sarah rose. “Your information was invaluable.”

  “Not as invaluable as your courage,” Sarah replied. “If you and your friends hadn’t been willing to go in there . . .”

  Mrs. Van Orner waved Sarah’s praise away. “Not at all. We simply do God’s work. Tamar said you wanted to examine the girl. I think that’s a good idea. She was extremely agitated during the entire event. I’m so glad you brought the baby over, though. Perhaps she’ll calm down now. If not, we can give her some laudanum.”

  “I’d rather not, since it can go through the milk and make the baby too groggy to feed well. Let me see how she’s doing first.”

  “Certainly. Tamar, will you take Mrs. Brandt upstairs?”

  Miss Yingling seemed only too glad to oblige. She led the way and Sarah followed.

  “How many women live in the house?” Sarah asked as they climbed the stairs.

  “Just two others right now. We have room for more, but the women don’t do well if they have to share a room with someone, I’m afraid. They have a difficult time adjusting to normal life, so we try to give them privacy when we can.”

  “Is it unusual for a woman to be as agitated as Amy was?”

  “Not at all. They’re frightened and excited at the prospect of freedom. Some of them become hysterical while others just huddle in a corner and shake.”

  Miss Yingling stopped in front of one of the doors that lined the upstairs hallway. Sarah could hear the murmur of voices from inside. Miss Yingling tapped lightly, then opened the door without waiting for an invitation.

  “Mrs. Brandt would like to see Amy,” she announced.

  The room was already crowded. Furnished with a plain iron bedstead, a wardrobe, and a washstand, the place felt more utilitarian than comfortable. Plain muslin curtains hung at the window, and the walls were painted an ugly shade of brown. Amy lay propped in the bed, the baby at her breast, and Mrs. Spratt-Williams and the girl Tamar had told her about, Lisa Biafore, stood by, ready to help in any way. Miss Yingling and Sarah took up the remaining floor space.