"When Edmund asked me for her hand," he went on, "I could only remember that had it not been for his skill, Letitia would still be an invalid. Like a knight of old, he had earned the right to her, and I could not refuse him, nor did I want to. I was happy to give her to the man whose devotion had saved her."

Sarah could feel Calvin's misery radiating from him. She wondered that he could sit still and listen to this. This was the kind of anger that caused people to commit murder, she realized with growing unease.

Symington hadn't even paused. "Alas, their happiness was cut short when some fiend took Edmund's life. Who can explain such a senseless act? And how can we measure the loss of a man so gifted? How many will suffer because he no longer lives? How many will endure senseless pain because his talented hands are stilled? And the worst tragedy of all is that his son, born the day after his death, will never know him in this life."

There were a few gasps of surprise. Word of the baby's birth had obviously not yet spread. Calvin's gasp of pain was mercifully lost in the disturbance. Once again Sarah reached over and patted the boy's hand, but he didn't seem even to notice.

"Because my daughter cannot be here to mourn her husband, it falls to me to send him to his rest. I know I speak for all of you when I say he will be missed. Those whom he treated will, like my daughter, know lives free of pain and suffering because of his talents. That is his legacy. He could ask for none finer."

Women in the audience were weeping into their handkerchiefs as Symington took his seat. Sarah could certainly understand why Blackwell had wanted Symington to speak at his lectures. The man was spellbinding.

"That's the same speech he gives at the lectures," the woman beside her murmured to her companion. "You'd think he could have said something more."

"I'm sure he's too overcome with grief to make the effort," her companion said. "That poor little baby. I had no idea."

Beside her, Calvin was breathing hard, as if merely sitting still were an effort of strength. Sarah could imagine that it was. He must long to stand up and tell everyone the truth about his father. Doing so in front of such a group would be much too intimidating, however, so he merely sat and waited for the ordeal to end.

Amos Potter was at the podium again, thanking everyone for coming and inviting them to partake of some refreshments in the dining room. As soon as it was obvious the service was over, Calvin jumped up and fled, ducking out the door even before Mr. Symington could get there to greet the mourners as they filed out, and accept their condolences.

Sarah wanted to go after Calvin, but he was surely gone by now, so she stayed where she was, trying to hear what each person said to Mr. Symington as he or she left. Perhaps she'd pick up some useful information. Most of what she heard were the usual cliches that people utter at such times, but a few of the women were obviously distraught and couldn't seem to judge when they'd said enough. One woman went on and on about what a wonderful man Dr. Blackwell had been, until another woman took her by the arm and forcibly led her away.

Watching from under the brim of her hat, Sarah saw Symington's face tighten. Either he was embarrassed by the unseemly display or some other emotion had overcome him. Finally, the last couple reached him. They were the ones who had been the first to arrive and who had seemed to be arguing before the service started.

"Clarence Fitzgerald," the man said, sticking out his hand to Symington. He was a tall, spindly man of middle years. His thinning gray hair revealed a shiny pink scalp, and if his face had ever borne a smile, there was no indication. His wife was short and plump and wore a well-made suit that fit snugly enough over her rounded figure to suggest upholstery. Her pudgy face was splotched from weeping. "We've met several times at the club, I believe," he added to Symington.

"Oh, yes, of course," Mr. Symington said, although Sarah was sure he had no recollection of the man.

"I need to discuss some matters of business with you, Mr. Symington, concerning Dr. Blackwell's affairs."

"Not today, Clarence," the woman with him said in distress.

"Today's as good as any other, Martha," Clarence snapped, and turned back to Symington.

But Symington had no intention of dealing with the fellow. "I'm afraid I know nothing of my son-in-law's business. You'll have to take it up with Amos Potter. I'll be happy to introduce you if you'll join us in the dining room."

No longer having any reason to linger, Sarah rose from her place and made her way silently toward the door. She saw that Clarence Fitzgerald didn't like being put off.

"It's about this house," he told Symington, undeterred. "I own it."

"It's a fine property," Symington said. "I'm sure my daughter will want to continue living here for a while. Potter will discuss the arrangements with you. If you'll excuse me...."

He turned to Sarah, silently dismissing them.

"I told you not to bring it up today," Mrs. Fitzgerald was saying.

He grumbled something in reply, but Sarah didn't catch it.

She put out her hand to Mr. Symington, whose expression told her he thought she looked familiar but could not recall her name.

"Mrs. Brandt. I'm the midwife who tended your daughter," she added. "I'm so sorry about Dr. Blackwell."

"My daughter, is she doing well?" Symington asked with all the concern Sarah could have wished.

"She was upset this morning," Sarah admitted, not mentioning the need for morphine to help her through it. "It must be difficult not being able to attend her husband's funeral."

"No one would expect that, under the circumstances," Symington said stiffly, as if he thought she was criticizing him in some way.

"Of course not. I meant it was difficult for her to mourn him properly. It must also be difficult for you to properly celebrate the birth of your grandson, too."

Another emotion flickered across his face. "Yes, I ... I've been so busy, I've hardly had time to realize I even have a grandson. I trust he's doing well, too."

"Yes, he is," Sarah said, once again neglecting to mention the morphine that made this possible.

Symington looked at her and frowned. "Why are you here?" he asked, as if just realizing how inappropriate her presence was. "Did you know Edmund?"

"No, although I'm fascinated by his work. I felt I owed it to Mrs. Blackwell to attend, out of respect for her."

Symington didn't seem to agree, but he was too well-mannered to argue. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I have guests."

"Of course," Sarah agreed, and let him leave her standing there.

In a moment Frank Malloy was at her side. He'd been waiting discreetly in the hallway and also eavesdropping on Symington's conversations.

"Did you find out who the killer is?" he asked her.

She glared at him. "That isn't funny, Malloy."

"It wasn't meant to be. I was hoping you had. I'd like to settle this and be done with it. I don't like these people very much."

"That just makes you a good judge of character. I was a little surprised to see Calvin here," she added.

"I guess I should've warned him not to come. That snooty butler wasn't going to let him in," Malloy reported.

"But you intervened," she guessed. "I'm sure everyone was wondering who he is. He hardly looks like one of Blackwell's patients."

"If they were wondering, they can ask him," Malloy said. "I sent him to the dining room for some food."

"Oh, my! We should probably go rescue him. What if Potter starts in on him? Or what if one of the other guests finds out who he is?"

"Potter won't want to cause a scene, and I doubt these people will give him the time of day, much less start a conversation with him."

"Nobody ever wants to cause a scene. That's probably what started this whole mess in the first place."

"What do you mean?

"I mean everyone always insists that Letitia Blackwell voluntarily spoke at Blackwell's lectures when she says she hated doing it so much she had to take morphine to get through them. She didn't want to make a scene, so she put herself through torture! And why didn't anyone see that and help her?"

"That's simple," Malloy assured her. "The men didn't see it because they probably don't think they forced her into it at all. They just told her what to do, and she did it. They didn't particularly care what she had to do to get through it."

Sarah had to admit he was probably right.

"I suppose you know that Blackwell was still married to Calvin's mother," she said.

"Yeah, the boy told me the whole ugly story. Poor kid, he's got two younger sisters, too."

"How awful. I suppose Blackwell deserted the family."

"Brown did, anyway," he corrected her. "He sent them money at first, but then he stopped. They had a hard time of it, according to Calvin."

"I'm sure they did," Sarah said. "Who do you think knew about this other wife? That would certainly be a motive for murdering him, if it was someone who cared about Letitia and her reputation."

"You think Symington might've done it? Or hired it done?"

"Mr. Potter said no one else knew about it but him and Dr. Blackwell," Sarah said. "Of course, he might not know who else Blackwell had told."

"Blackwell wasn't likely to confide in his father-in-law that his marriage was a sham," Malloy pointed out.

"Could someone else have told him?" Sarah asked.

"Who else knew?"

"Calvin did," Sarah reminded him.

"How would Calvin meet Symington? And Symington didn't seem to know who the boy was the other night when Potter and I told him about him."

"That's too bad. I don't like him very much, and I'd like for him to be the killer," she said.

"Not me. A man that rich and powerful would never spend a day in prison, no matter who he killed."

"Do you think Calvin did it?" she asked.

"No, but that doesn't mean he didn'st," Malloy cautioned her. "I'd better get to the dining room to see what's going on."

"We'll probably need to rescue Calvin, too. I hope Potter isn't rude to him."

"Potter will probably pretend he doesn't see him," Malloy said. "He won't want to make a scene."

Sarah ignored his sarcasm. "Maybe I can strike up a conversation with someone. You'd be surprised what you can learn from funeral gossip." She pretended not to notice the way Malloy rolled his eyes.

They started down the hallway toward the dining room, but they stopped when they heard Amos Potter apparently arguing with someone just outside the doorway.

"This is hardly the time or the place to discuss such things, Mr. Fitzgerald. I'd be happy to make an appointment with you-"

"You don't need an appointment. You just need to know that I own this house, and Blackwell was living here rent-free. Now that he's dead, I don't see any reason I shouldn't rent it out to someone who can pay, so you can tell Mrs. Blackwell she's got until the end of the month to get out."

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6.

POTIER LOOKED THUNDERSTRUCK, AND WHEN HE saw that Malloy and Sarah had overheard, he blanched. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Fitzgerald," he stammered. "Please allow me to make an appointment to speak with you privately about this matter."

"What could that hurt?" Mrs. Fitzgerald asked her husband pleadingly. "And you can't throw Mrs. Blackwell out onto the street! She just had a new baby."

"I'm sure her father will take them both in," Fitzgerald said coldly.

"Then at least let me meet with you to make the arrangements," Potter pleaded, glancing nervously at Sarah and Malloy, who were waiting patiently instead of scurrying away, as most people would have done to save themselves the embarrassment of overhearing such an unpleasant conversation.

"Fine. Monday morning at nine at my place of business," Fitzgerald said, reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out his card.

Potter took it gingerly and quickly tucked it away. "I'm sure we can make arrangements that will suit everyone concerned," he said with forced heartiness.

Fitzgerald grunted noncommittally and turned away, but to Sarah's surprise, he entered the dining room, followed by his wife. The man was going to evict a newborn babe and his mother, but he didn't think twice about enjoying their hospitality. She glanced at Malloy, who apparently shared her thoughts.

"Who is that fellow?" he asked Potter.

"Clarence Fitzgerald," Potter said, after pulling the man's card out and examining it. "His wife was a patient of Dr. Blackwell's. He helped her tremendously. Sciatica, if I recall correctly."

"And she was so grateful she let Blackwell live in this house rent-free?" Malloy asked with a frown.

"I'm sure I know nothing of any such arrangement. Edmund did not confide in me to that extent."

"The Fitzgeralds are very generous," Sarah noted. "The rent for a house like this would be considerable."

"Oh, no, there was a scandal here, I understand. The Fitzgeralds owned it, but they were having trouble finding a tenant. Edmund said he cared nothing for such things, and he would take the house. He felt Letitia deserved a residence that matched her station in life, and of course he didn't tell her about the scandal."

"I guess it also helped that he was getting it for free," Sarah said.

"If that is indeed the case," Potter replied stiffly. "I believe Mr. Fitzgerald may be exaggerating his generosity. I haven't had time to put Edmund's affairs in order, but when I do, I'm sure I'll discover the facts of it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must see to the comfort of our guests."

Potter entered the dining room and insinuated himself into the nearest group, rudely interrupting their conversation, while Sarah and Malloy stood watching in amazement.

"What do you think?" Sarah asked Malloy.

He shrugged one of his beefy shoulders. "I think Mrs. Fitzgerald was way too grateful if she gave Blackwell this house to live in."

"That depends on what services he performed for her," Sarah said with a smug smile, and was gratified to see Malloy's jaw drop in surprise. She loved to shock him. "Why don't you take care of Calvin? I think I'll go make Mrs. Fitzgerald's acquaintance and see what I can learn."

Without waiting for Malloy's reply, she moved into the room, carefully stepping around the small groups that had formed for conversational purposes and looking for the Fitzgeralds. To her alarm, she found her quarry engaged in conversation with Calvin Brown!

Or at least Mrs. Fitzgerald was. Her husband was merely standing by, glaring in disapproval. Sarah slowly made her way through the crush of the crowd to the comer where they were standing.

"I knew you must be some relation to Dr. Blackwell," Mrs. Fitzgerald was saying. "The resemblance is striking. How long have you been in the city?"