"Murdered? Who on earth would have a reason to murder Edmund?" He looked accusingly at Frank, as if he believed this was all his fault. "Where is my daughter? Does she know about this yet?"

"Mrs. Blackwell is your daughter?" Frank guessed.

"Of course she is," Symington said impatiently. "Where is she, Potter?"

"She's upstairs," Potter said uncomfortably. "A ... a midwife is with her."

Frank saw the first genuine emotion cross Symington's face. "The baby?" he asked with a worried frown.

"Yes," Potter said. "The shock of finding Edmund's body-"

"She found his body?" Symington seemed to be experiencing some shock himself. He looked as if he needed to sit down.

"Perhaps we should step into the parlor," Potter suggested, nodding toward the butler, who stood nearby.

"Oh, yes, of course," Symington agreed, and allowed Potter to direct him into the other room.

Frank followed, even though he hadn't been specifically invited. He had a few questions to ask Mr. Symington. He closed the parlor doors behind them.

Symington had gone directly to a cabinet and opened it to reveal bottles of liquor. With the familiarity of a frequent visitor, he poured himself a drink and downed it in one gulp. Only then did he turn back to face Potter. He seemed a bit surprised to see Frank had joined them, but he didn't make an issue of it.

"This midwife," he said to Potter. "Is she someone Edmund approved?"

Before Potter could reply, Frank said, "I sent for her. Her name is Sarah Brandt. She's Felix Decker's daughter." Frank figured Sarah's sterling family heritage would satisfy Symington, and it appeared he was right.

"Felix Decker, eh?" he said. "I'm sure Edmund wouldn't have approved, but I suppose, under the circumstances ..."

"We really had no choice," Potter confirmed.

Symington nodded, then thought for a moment. "How did Edmund die?" he asked Frank. "And what makes you think he was murdered?"

"He was shot in the head."

Symington visibly winced. "And my daughter found his body?"

"That's right." Frank watched his face for any betraying emotions, but he saw only the expected ones.

"Who killed him?" Symington demanded when he had absorbed the information.

"Mr. Potter thinks his son killed him," Frank tried.

Symington seemed surprised, and he turned accusing eyes to Potter.

"Mr. Symington knows nothing about this," Potter assured Frank. "I hope you'll allow me to explain everything to him."

"Go right ahead," Frank said.

Potter turned to Symington, who was waiting with remarkable patience. "It seems that Edmund was married before, and his son from his first marriage came to see him several days ago."

"What did he want, and why would he have killed Edmund?"

Frank braced himself for the explosion that would come when Symington found out his daughter's marriage had been a sham.

"The boy believed Edmund had deserted his first family. He was very angry and bitter, and he threatened to spread all sorts of lies about Edmund unless he received a large sum of money."

"I assume Edmund refused to be blackmailed," Symington said, and Potter agreed enthusiastically.

This wasn't exactly the same story he had told Frank, but he was obviously trying to spare Symington any more pain. Sooner or later the man would have to find out the truth about his daughter and his grandchild, Frank supposed, but he'd let Potter worry about that.

"It's obvious that Edmund wasn't the man I thought he was. A man who deserts his family is beneath contempt. Had I known... But that's of no consequence now. I made a mistake, but when I make a mistake, I correct it." Symington turned to Frank, his eyes as hard as glass. "My daughter has suffered enough. I do not want her involved in a scandal. If you can find this boy and handle the matter quietly, you will be amply rewarded."

"Certainly," Frank said. He didn't want a scandal either.

"HERE YOU ARE, Mrs. Blackwell," Sarah said as she tucked the swaddled bundle in next to the new mother. "A fine baby boy."

Mrs. Blackwell barely had the strength to open her eyes. Dawn was painting pink streaks in the sky, and she'd been laboring all night long. Both mother and baby were exhausted, but Sarah knew it was important for both of them to get the child to nurse immediately.

"I know you're tired," Sarah said as Mrs. Blackwell looked down uncertainly at the baby. "But if you can feed him even a little right now, it will help with your recovery, and I'm sure he could use the nourishment."

"Oh, I'm not going to feed him myself," Mrs. Blackwell said in surprise. "I've hired a wet nurse. Someone should send for her. Granger knows where to find her."

Sarah frowned. Many wealthy women hired nurses for their children, so she shouldn't have been surprised. Still, she couldn't stop herself from saying, "Even if you could just feed him for a few days, it would be so much better for both of you."

"Oh, no," she insisted, a little alarmed. "Edmund would never allow it. He said no gently bred woman should nurse her own children. Besides, I have to be free to travel for his lectures ..." Her voice trailed off as she obviously remembered her husband would be giving no more lectures. "Oh, dear," she said very faintly and very sadly.

"I'm sure if you'd like to take care of the child yourself, there's no reason why you couldn'st," Sarah suggested, tactfully not mentioning the fact that Dr. Blackwell's opinion no longer mattered. It was all she could do.

"Oh, no," Mrs. Blackwell said. "I wouldn't know where to start. I don't know anything about babies. Send for the nurse. She'll come right away. She said she would. Oh, and someone should notify my father. He'll want to know immediately." She looked down at the babe on the bed beside her, studying its tiny face. "He's awfully small, isn't he? I really ... I don't know what to do with him."

"Just hold him for now," Sarah suggested. "You can learn the rest as you go. Look how sweet he is," she added, hoping to get Mrs. Blackwell interested in the child. "And where did he get that red hair? Does it run in your family?"

Unfortunately, her words seemed to have exactly the opposite effect. Instead of being enchanted with the child, as most mothers would be, Mrs. Blackwell looked down at him in horror. "Please, I don't ..." Mrs. Blackwell said in despair, and Sarah had no choice but to take the poor child away.

An hour later Sarah had sent a servant to notify Mrs. Blackwell's father and met the wet nurse, a sturdy-looking woman who seemed, to Sarah's relief, both respectable and clean. Satisfied that her work was done, she left the baby in the nurse's care and Mrs. Blackwell sleeping on fresh sheets and made her way downstairs.

The house was quiet as she descended into the front hallway. The servants would be engaged in their regular activities, and certainly no visitors would be lingering. Or so Sarah thought until a short, plump man emerged from the front parlor at the sound of her footsteps. He was well dressed, if a bit rumpled, and his rather homely features were twisted into a scowl. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"I'm the midwife," she replied. This usually had the effect of satisfying any such inquiry. People seldom cared what her name was once informed of her profession.

Instead of placating him, however, the information seemed to alarm him. "Mrs. Blackwell? How is she? Shouldn't you be with her?"

"She's perfectly fine, she and her new son. They're both resting comfortably now."

"Oh, thank heaven," the man said, placing a hand over his heart, as if trying to still it. "After the shock of finding poor Edmund, I didn't know ... What a terrible, terrible thing." He shook his head for a moment and then looked up again, his small brown eyes anxious. "Do you think ... Will there be any lasting effects? From the shock I mean. She's such a delicate creature."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Sarah said. "She's young and healthy. She'll recover completely, once she's finished mourning her husband."

"Oh, she's healthy now, but it wasn't so very long ago ..." For a moment he seemed lost in thought, absently fingering his watch fob. "Well, no matter."

"Does she have a condition that I should know about?" Sarah asked. "Something that might affect her recovery?"

"No, not now, at any rate. Thanks to Dr. Blackwell's skill. And of course if she should need any further treatments, I am fully trained in Dr. Blackwell's techniques."

He no longer seemed to be talking to Sarah at all, but rather ruminating to himself. He was fingering the watch fob again, and Sarah couldn't help but notice that it appeared to be a Phi Beta Kappa key. Perhaps he was more important than she had assumed at first glance. "Are you a family member?" she asked curiously, since this was a much nicer way of inquiring as to his identity than he had used on her.

"What? Oh, no, I'm Dr. Blackwell's assistant. Or, that is, I was his assistant. A terrible thing. Just terrible."

"Yes, it was, Mister ... ?"

"Oh, yes! Potter. Amos Potter at your service, Missus...?"

"Brandt," Sarah supplied. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter. I'm sure Mrs. Blackwell will appreciate your concern."

"You may convey my best wishes to her, and assure her I will take care of all the details concerning poor Edmund. She need worry for nothing."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Potter, but I believe someone has sent for Mrs. Blackwell's father."

"Oh, yes, of course, but I'll need to take care of Edmund's business affairs. Those are my responsibilities anyway. I'll do everything I can to ensure that no burden falls on Mrs. Blackwell."

Sarah wanted to ask him for some details about Dr. Blackwell's demise, but she felt that would be rude of her. Besides, she was more likely to get accurate information much more easily in the kitchen, which was where she had originally been headed. "It was so nice to have met you, Mr. Potter," she said, ready to take her leave, but Potter wasn't quite finished with her yet.

"That policeman," he said. "Malloy, I think his name was. You are acquainted with him?"

Sarah was surprised, but she didn't let it show. "Yes, we met a few months ago," she said, revealing nothing with her tone.

"Is he ... Can he be trusted to be ... discreet?"

"Oh, yes," Sarah said, quite honestly. "Detective Sergeant Malloy is very good at his job. He'll keep the news of Dr. Blackwell's unfortunate death out of the newspapers, if that's what his family wishes."

Potter nodded. "And will he be diligent about finding Edmund's killer?"

Sarah started. "Killer?" she repeated incredulously. "I thought Dr. Blackwell had committed suicide."

Potter pulled himself up to his full, if inconsequential, height. "Mr. Malloy believes he was murdered. While that is quite distressing to me, I am naturally concerned about his ability to find and dispose of the killer."

A thousand things were racing through Sarah's mind, but she took no time to consider any of them. "Mr. Malloy will certainly find the killer, Mr. Potter. You can rest assured of that."

She'd thought this news would comfort Potter, but instead he looked troubled. He would be thinking about the scandal, of course, and the effect it would have on Mrs. Blackwell. Or perhaps he simply didn't believe her assertion that Malloy could find the killer. Most of the police detectives were totally inept and corrupt, so that would be natural. "Thank you, Mrs. Brandt," was all he said, and then he took his leave.

Sarah's stomach rumbled, reminding her of her original destination. The cook was in the kitchen, preparing the noon meal, and instantly offered Sarah something to eat.

"Have a seat, miss," the cook said. "I'll fix you something in no time. How's the Missus and the new babe doing?"

"They're both fine, but a little tired. It was a long night."

"That it was, and poor Missus, remembering how her poor husband looked when she found him. It's an awful thing, I tell you."

"It certainly is," Sarah agreed, taking a seat at the scrubbed oak table where the servants ate their meals. She wanted to plunge right in, asking questions, but she knew it was better to listen. She should also pretend she didn't know about the murder, since that was most likely a secret. The cook would relish the tale much more, thinking Sarah ignorant.

The cook was a buxom woman of middle years, plain of face and sharp of tongue, if Sarah was any judge. "Do you have any idea why Dr. Blackwell would have taken his life?" she asked, hoping she was right.

"Oh, law, he'd never do such a thing! Whatever for? He was famous, he was," she insisted as she struck a match to light the stove. "People-rich people-they come from all over, even other states, to see him, and they paid him all sorts of money to make them well. Like he did his wife."

"His wife?" Sarah asked, remembering what Potter had said about Mrs. Blackwell's health.

"Oh, law, yes, poor little thing. Crippled she was. A horseback-riding accident was what done it. She couldn't get up from her bed for nigh on a year, and she was in terrible pain. Mr. Symington-that's her father-he called in every kind of doctor you can imagine, and not a one of them could help her. She was wasting away until finally they found Dr. Blackwell. He cured her just like that!" She snapped her fingers, or tried to. Apparently, they were too greasy, though, and they only slid across each other. "Well, right quick like, anyways. Before you know it, she was right as rain. Been that way ever since."

Sarah waited until the woman had broken several eggs into the cast-iron skillet she was heating on the stove. "What kind of a doctor was Dr. Blackwell?"

"They called him a magnetic healer. How do you like your eggs, miss?"

"Sunny-side up, please. Do you know how he healed people?"

"I'm not rightly sure, but it had something to do with his hands. He had some power in them. He could put his hands on someone and use that power and make them well."

What a useful talent, Sarah thought, but of course she didn't want to show the cook her skepticism. "It's difficult to understand how a man with such a power would choose to take his own life, then," she remarked, taking the subject back to her original question.

"Oh, he didn't. I already told you that! I never believed it for a second, either, not a man like Dr. Blackwell, and then that police detective comes, and he says it, too. Says Dr. Blackwell was murdered, he did."

"He did?" Sarah echoed, managing to sound surprised.

"Oh, yes. Says somebody tried to make it look like Dr. Blackwell shot himself with his own pistol, but he didn't. He wouldn't have, and I told that detective so, too. He talked to all the servants, one by one. Asked all of us did we know anybody who'd want to shoot poor Dr. Blackwell."

"And did you?"

"Certainly not! Except maybe some of those doctors who was jealous of him, and there was a few, I can tell you."

The cook scooped up the perfectly cooked eggs and slid them onto a plate. When she'd set it down in front of Sarah, she produced a freshly baked loaf of bread and cut several thick slices from it. Then she served up some creamy butter and strawberry jam and a glass of milk. For a few moments Sarah forgot all about murders and murderers and just indulged herself in the delicious meal. But only for a few moments.

"I suppose no one else has any idea who might have killed Dr. Blackwell either, then," she surmised when she'd taken the edge off her hunger.

"No one I know of. Everybody on the staff says the same thing. He was such a good man, never a cross word to anyone."

"His marriage was happy, too?"

"Oh, yes, he doted on his wife, he did. Nothing was too good for her. I don't think she appreciated it like she should, though. She comes from money, you know, so she's used to fine things."

"And the doctor wasn't from a wealthy family?"

"Oh, law, no! He was common as dirt. His father was a farmer, he said. It was his talents that made him rise in the world. People was so grateful for his help, you see. They give him money and presents. It embarrassed him, I think, all the fuss. But he said it was his duty to help people, and he couldn't stop."

Sarah found it hard to believe that anyone would be embarrassed to be recompensed for his work, even if he were a charlatan. Or perhaps especially if he were a charlatan.

"This is a lovely house. How long have the Blackwells lived here?" Sarah asked between mouthfuls.

"About three months now, I guess. They lived in a flat uptown before that. Not that the doctor couldn't have afforded a nice home, but he was traveling so much. He didn't have time to find them a place. At least that's what I heard from her maid. She's the only one that's been with them since before they come to this house."

"So all the servants were hired just three months ago," Sarah said, wondering if this could possibly have any significance.