"What do you mean? Don't you know who he is?"

"I know he's some kind of phony doctor."

Potter was incensed. "He's a great healer!"

"He was a healer. Now he's just dead. What I need to know is who might have killed him."

"Killed?" Potter echoed incredulously.

"You did notice he was dead, didn't you?"

"Yes, but ..."

"But what?"

"I just didn't ... You think someone murdered him?"

"Would he have had a reason to kill himself?" Frank asked with interest.

Potter seemed surprised. "Well, I ... I'm sure I don't know how to answer a question like that."

"You're Blackwell's assistant, you said."

"Yes, that's correct."

"What exactly do you assist him with?"

Potter seemed taken aback by the change of subject. "I ... I assisted him in his cures. And I plan his schedule and make his bookings and manage his lectures."

"Lectures?"

"Yes, Dr. Blackwell gives ... gave lectures to explain his method of healing. Many prominent citizens attend them. Many prominent citizens were his patients. He was very successful."

"Did he have any patients that he couldn't help? Someone who might be angry enough to murder him?"

"No! Certainly not! I can't believe you think anyone would take Edmund's life! Besides, I thought ..."

"What did you think?"

Potter applied his handkerchief to his forehead again. "I saw the gun on the desk. It looked like..."

"Like he'd shot himself?" Frank supplied.

Potter swallowed. "Yes."

"I'm sure that's what the killer wanted people to think, but I believe Blackwell was murdered."

"By whom?" Potter's voice was hoarse.

"That's my job, to find out. I was hoping you could give me some ideas, since you knew Blackwell so well."

Potter blinked a few times as he considered Frank's proposal. "I ... I really don't..."

"The servants said he had a meeting with someone this afternoon. Do you know who it was?"

Potter seemed to be thinking, trying to figure something out. Frank waited. Some of his most valuable time was spent waiting for people to decide to tell him something.

"I ... there was someone ..." Potter began tentatively.

"Someone he was going to meet this afternoon?"

"I'm sure I don't know about that," Potter insisted, "but there was something, something that happened just last week ..."

Frank took a seat in the chair opposite Potter. "Tell me all about it."

"Well, it's a rather ugly story. It does Dr. Blackwell no credit, and it's ... Well, it could hurt Mrs. Blackwell."

"Would it give Mrs. Blackwell a reason to kill her husband?"

Potter's small eyes widened as he considered this apparently unthinkable possibility. "Good heavens, no! She knows nothing about it!" Potter's face had grown a dangerous shade of red again.

"Who does, then?"

"Well, I knew," he reluctantly admitted. "Edmund confided in me, because he needed my counsel."

"Why don't you confide in me, then. Let's see if we can figure out who might have killed Dr. Blackwell."

Potter glanced at the door, as if he suspected someone might be listening. "It's quite a scandal, or it could be if anyone-"

"Potter," Frank warned in the tone he used to reduce hardened criminals to quivering terror.

Potter gulped audibly. "Well, you see, Dr. Blackwell ... That is, a young man came to see him last week. A young man who had come all the way from Virginia."

"Who was he?"

"He was ... is Dr. Blackwell's son."

"Blackwell had a son in Virginia?"

"Yes, he ... from his first marriage."

Frank nodded, believing he understood. "Blackwell thought the scandal of his divorce would ruin him?"

Potter shook his head. "Oh, no, it wasn't that. He ... he was not divorced at all. He is ... was still married to the boy's mother."

Finally, Frank was beginning to really understand. "And the lady who discovered his body today?" he prodded.

"Was not legally married to Edmund," Potter said softly. "Naturally, he wanted to protect her and their ... their unborn child. He was going to meet with the boy today in an attempt to ward off any scandal. He had withdrawn a sum of money to give him in exchange for ... for his silence."

"Would Blackwell have had the money here with him?"

Potter had to consider this. "I suppose he would if he intended to give it to the boy."

"We didn't find any money," Frank said, although he knew that if the killer hadn't taken it, one of the servants or even the beat cop Patrick might've done so when nobody was looking. It wouldn't be the first time a cop had helped himself in a situation like this.

"Then that proves the boy was here, doesn't it?" Potter asked. "Which means he must be the killer."

Malloy didn't bother to answer since there were so many other possibilities. "Do you think the boy would have accepted the money in exchange for his silence?"

Potter mopped his forehead again. "No, I don't. He was very angry and bitter over the way Edmund had abandoned him and his mother. If you're looking for someone who wanted Edmund dead, I think you should look for this boy."

"What's the boy's name?" Frank asked, pulling out his small notebook and a pencil.

"Uh, his name is Calvin Brown."

Frank looked up in surprise. "You said he was Blackwell's son."

"He is, of course. Dr. Blackwell changed his name when ... Well, his name originally was Edward Brown."

"I see." Frank did see. Blackwell had changed his name either to escape ties to his family and whatever else he'd left behind when he left Virginia, or else to give himself a more dignified name, most likely both. "Do you have any idea where I might find this Calvin Brown?"

Potter studied Frank for a moment, as if trying to decide something. Then he said, "I'm afraid not. I'd suggest a cheap lodging house, for a start. Locating him won't be an easy task, I'm sure, but perhaps if I told you that I am offering a five-hundred-dollar reward for finding Edmund's killer, it might increase your level of enthusiasm for the task."

Frank thought about the surgeon that Sarah Brandt had recommended to him, the man who might be able to cure his son's crippled foot. Five hundred dollars would go a long way toward pay for the surgery. "I'll do my best, Mr. Potter."

2.

SARAH WAS CONCERNED ABOUT HER PATIENT. HER labor didn't seem to be progressing, and she still seemed to be in shock. Or at least that's what Sarah had been thinking at first, but she was beginning to suspect something else. While Mrs. Blackwell was resting between contractions, Sarah stepped into the woman's dressing room for a quick look around. Sure enough, just as she'd suspected, she found a drawer full of patent medicines, all of them for female complaints, and all of them containing some form of opiate. One of the bottles was empty, the cork out, the traces of liquid still visible. It hadn't been empty long.

Like many women of her class, Mrs. Blackwell had obviously discovered the relief to be found in those little glass bottles. One could hardly blame her for seeking it under the circumstances, either. Perhaps it was as well that her brain was clouded by the drug instead of the horrible vision of her husband's dead body. Still, if she took these remedies frequently, she might be an opium eater and the baby could be, too. In any case, the opiate could prolong her labor, and any of this could put the child's life in danger.

She heard Mrs. Blackwell moaning and hurried back into the bedroom. The woman's head was tossing back and forth on the pillow, as if she battled internal demons in addition to the forces of her own body. Sarah wiped her brow with a damp cloth, hoping to make her more comfortable.

She opened her eyes and tried to focus on Sarah's face. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sarah Brandt, the midwife," she replied, not mentioning that they'd had this conversation not long ago. Plainly Mrs. Blackwell didn't remember it. "I'm here to take care of you."

"Edmund won't approve," she said, her lovely blue eyes darkening with distress.

"I'm sure he would want you taken care of," Sarah said reasonably.

She frowned. "I remember something ... Edmund is dead, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid so," Sarah said, knowing it would be foolish to deny it, since Mrs. Blackwell had been the one to discover her husband's body. She might want to deny it, but the image would be all too real.

Mrs. Blackwell closed her eyes and sighed, sinking back into the pillows. She murmured something that sounded like, "It's my fault."

Sarah wanted to reassure her. People often blamed themselves when a loved one committed suicide, and the generous thing to do was to tell the woman it wasn't her fault at all. Unfortunately, she couldn't be sure. For all Sarah knew, Dr. Blackwell's wife had driven him to it. At any rate, none of this was her concern. She had a far more pressing problem.

"Mrs. Blackwell, I need to know if you take patent medicines on a regular basis."

"What?" the woman asked, her eyes narrowing with confusion.

"I saw the bottles in your drawer. I know you must have taken something after you... after you had the shock. That's only natural, to want something to calm your nerves. But I need to know if you drink those remedies very often."

"Oh," she said, struggling to comprehend. "Oh, no. I only ... only when I can't ... not very often at all!"

Relieved, Sarah smiled and patted the woman's shoulder. "Thank you. That's what I needed to know. Now let's see what we can do about encouraging this baby to arrive. If you feel like doing some walking, I think that will help," she suggested. A woman in heavy labor had difficulty concentrating on anything else, and she wanted Mrs. Blackwell's mind free of unpleasant thoughts for the moment.

"Do you think it will help?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Let me give you a hand down from the bed."

FRANK STOOD IN the hallway looking up the stairs, thinking he'd like to know what was going on with Mrs. Blackwell. Or perhaps he was just looking for an excuse to see Sarah Brandt again. Actually, he had no such excuse. Blackwell's body had been taken away, he'd questioned all the servants, he'd heard Amos Potter's theories on who might have killed Blackwell, and he'd gleaned all the information he could about Edmund Blackwell's mysterious son. He would need to question the neighbors, too, but that would certainly be a waste of time. They would never tell a common Irish policeman anything useful, even if they knew anything useful.

At any rate, he had no further excuse for staying there. The Blackwell baby would be born in its own sweet time, and Frank wasn't going to wait around until then just for a glimpse of Sarah Brandt. And if he didn't see her, he wouldn't be able to tell her that Blackwell had been murdered and give her a reason for wanting to become involved in the investigation. He didn't want her involved in another of his cases, so he'd best be on his way.

"Will you be needing anything else?" the butler asked, emerging from the depths of the house.

"No, I'm finished here, for the time being. Is Mr. Potter still here?"

"Yes. He wanted to wait to be sure everything is all right with Mrs. Blackwell. He is very devoted to the family."

Frank wondered what the motivation for that devotion might be. Potter had seemed awfully concerned about Mrs. Blackwell's welfare, almost more than he'd been concerned about Dr. Blackwell's death. Well, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. Frank was probably just too jaded, looking for ulterior motives where none existed. Or maybe Amos Potter had seduced Mrs. Blackwell, gotten her with child, and then killed her husband so they could live happily ever after.

Well, now Frank knew it was time to leave. The very thought of meek little Amos Potter seducing anyone was so preposterous Frank had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He was just about to tell the butler he'd be back the next morning to see if Mrs. Blackwell was well enough to answer some questions when someone pounded on the front door.

Granger hurried to open it, and an imposing man in a tailor-made suit stepped into the foyer. Everything about him said power and "old money." Frank wondered what he'd done to deserve this.

"Good evening, Mr. Symington," the butler said gravely.

"What's going on here, Granger? Potter sent me the most mysterious message-" He broke off when he saw Frank. "Who are you?"

"Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the city police, Mr. Symington. I'm investigating Dr. Blackwell's death."

"His death? Good God! What happened?"

At that moment Amos Potter emerged from the front parlor. "Mr. Symington, it was so good of you to come."

"Good?" Symington boomed. "There's nothing good about this. This fellow says Edmund is dead."

"That's right, Mr. Symington, I'm sorry to say," Potter confirmed. "I wanted to break the news to you myself, but I see you've already learned the horrible truth. Even worse, the police believe he was murdered."