"Yes, that's right. It's a pity. They finally get a home of their own, and Dr. Blackwell only gets to live in it for a few months."

"What do you suppose Mrs. Blackwell will do now?"

"Law, I don't have no idea," the cook said with a frown. "I don't suppose she'll stay in the big house all by herself, now will she?" Plainly, she found the thought unsettling, since this would mean she and the other servants would be out of a job again.

Sarah was sorry she'd brought up the subject. She thanked the woman for the meal and prepared to take her leave.

"Do you want the carriage? It's raining outside, so you'd best take it. I can have Mr. Granger send around for it," the cook offered. "It'll only take a few minutes."

This time Sarah readily accepted. She was too tired to trudge back to her home, especially in the rain, and while the carriage ride would be long, she could at least doze on the way.

"You may wait in the front parlor," the butler instructed her when asked to make the arrangements. "You'll see the carriage pull up from the front window there."

"Thank you," Sarah said, sinking wearily into one of the chairs by the window that overlooked the street.

The butler cleared his throat, drawing her attention again. "Mrs. Blackwell, is she doing well?"

"Yes, she and the baby both are fine," Sarah said. She'd forgotten how involved the servants became in a family's life. They were, in many ways, more like relations than employees, albeit poor ones.

"Do you think ... ? The shock of finding Dr. Blackwell, will that have any ill effects?" he asked with dignified concern.

"It was unfortunate, but I'm sure Mrs. Blackwell will recover fully." She'd have years of nightmares, but there was no use worrying the butler over something he couldn't help. "She is, as I said, doing very well already."

The butler nodded his thanks. "The carriage will be around in a few minutes," he said, and left her to wait alone.

With nothing else to do, she began to think about Dr. Blackwell's death and how she could get Malloy to confide in her what was going on with the investigation. He'd certainly balk at involving her in another murder case. She'd managed to put herself in danger twice before while assisting him, and he'd been particularly upset the last time. Maybe if she just expressed mild curiosity. Could she fool him? Somehow she doubted it.

However, she had already obtained a bit of information he might find useful. Probably he'd soon find out the same things she'd just learned, but she could at least save him some trouble by sharing what she already knew about how the dead man had cured his wife's injuries so miraculously when others had failed. She'd be doing him a favor, she reasoned. He couldn't object to that. Or so she told herself, knowing full well he'd object to anything he pleased.

Lost in thought, she'd been staring at the man who had just emerged from the house sitting catty-corner from the Blackwells' without realizing who it was. Malloy! He was no doubt going from house to house, questioning all the neighbors and their servants. Here was her chance.

Quickly gathering her things, Sarah hurried out, not waiting for the butler to open the front door for her. Fortunately, the rain had stopped for the moment, although it didn't look like the lull would last for long. Malloy was just starting up the front steps of the next house when she called his name.

He stopped and turned, recognizing her at once. She could tell by the way he stiffened in reaction. He didn't seem at all pleased to see her, but he turned and came back down the steps and began walking toward her.

Sarah resisted an urge to meet him halfway. It would hardly be seemly, but more important, she didn't want to appear as eager as she felt. She set her medical bag on the front step and waited with apparent patience.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brandt," he said when he reached her. His expression was resigned and a little reserved, but that did not deter her in the least. "I assume the Blackwell baby has been born."

"Good morning, Mr. Malloy," she replied. "Yes, baby and mother are doing as well as we could expect, considering Dr. Blackwell was murdered right in their home."

He sighed. "I should have known you'd find out all about it. But don't start thinking you're going to be involved. You won't have time anyway. I'll have the killer locked up by sunset."

"You know who it is, then?" she asked in surprise.

"Are you on your way home now?" he asked, ignoring her question. "I can get you a cab."

"They're bringing the carriage around for me," she said, undeterred. "I suppose you know that Dr. Blackwell was a magnetic healer and that he supposedly healed his wife after she was crippled in a riding accident."

If this was new information, he gave no indication. "What exactly does a magnetic healer do?" he asked instead.

"I'm not certain. It has something to do with laying his hands on people and curing them of whatever is wrong."

"How could he make someone well just by touching them?" Malloy asked.

"Oh, there must be more to it than that, but I'm sure they keep their actual techniques a secret. It's the only way to prevent others from doing the same thing they do and stealing their patients."

"But people really get well?" he asked doubtfully.

"Presumably, or these so-called doctors couldn't stay in business. The fact is that most people eventually get well from whatever is wrong with them if they believe strongly enough that they will, even with no treatment at all. These charlatans have the advantage of people wanting to believe their treatments will work, no matter how ridiculous they are. When someone gets well, they tell their friends, and people have even more confidence in the healer. So, who do you think killed Dr. Blackwell?"

Malloy's lips twitched, as if he were holding back a smile. "Nice try, Mrs. Brandt, but you're not getting involved in this. Go home, get some sleep, and forget all about Dr. Blackwell's death."

"Just exactly how do you propose I forget about it?" she asked, genuinely interested.

"Think about something else," he suggested. "I hear your carriage. It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Brandt. Good day."

He tipped his hat and turned away, even though Sarah was far from finished with him. She wanted to stamp her foot in protest, but such a gesture would only amuse him. "Thank you for sending for me, Malloy," she called after him.

He turned back, not bothering to hide his smile this time. "I needed a midwife, and you're the only midwife I know."

Sarah glared at him, but her effort was wasted. He was already walking away. She wasn't really angry, though. She enjoyed their sparring, and she knew he did, too. And she also knew she had a good reason to stay involved with the case. She'd be back tomorrow morning to check on Mrs. Blackwell and her baby. Then she'd find out if Malloy was as good as his word about finding the killer by sunset.

ALTHOUGH A FIERCE electrical storm woke Sarah several times during the night, the weather was fine the next morning, so she decided to walk back over to Gramercy Park. When the butler opened the front door, she immediately knew something was wrong.

"Mrs. Brandt, how good that you've come," he said, maintaining his dignity even though his pinched expression revealed his concern.

"Is Mrs. Blackwell ill? You should have sent for me at once!"

"Oh, no, Mrs. Blackwell is perfectly well. It's the child. He's ... well, he seems to be in some distress. The nurse has been up with him all night."

It could be simple colic, of course, but usually that didn't begin quite so soon. Her mind racing with possibilities-none of them pleasant-Sarah hurried upstairs. When she reached the landing, she could hear the faint sound of an infant crying. It was a hollow sound, one Sarah had heard before, but she knew she must be mistaken in what she was thinking. The cries came from farther down the hall than Mrs. Blackwell's room, which meant the child was probably in the nursery. When she reached the door, she didn't bother to knock.

She found the nurse walking the floor with the infant, vainly trying to comfort him. She looked exhausted and at her wit's end, and she seemed infinitely relieved to see Sarah.

"Oh, Mrs. Brandt, thank heaven you're here! I don't know what come over him," she exclaimed, absently patting the screaming child. "At first I thought he might be scared of the storm last night. It was so loud! Then I thought it was the colic, but don't nothing work for it. Seems like he don't even want to be touched, which ain't natural at all!"

It was true. Usually, a fretful baby could be stilled by a soothing touch or rocking or walking, even one with colic. Sarah reached out, and the nurse surrendered the child gratefully. As soon as she took the baby from the nurse, however, she understood what the woman meant. The child stiffened in her arms, resisting her embrace. She took him to the nurse's bed and laid him down, unwrapping his swaddling so she could examine him for possible injuries or defects she'd failed to notice yesterday.

His limbs were twitching, and his skin was pale and cool to the touch. He arched his little body as if in pain.

"Have you given him anything?" Sarah asked.

"Just my milk, and I never ate nothing that could upset him. I'm that careful with my milk, I am."

Sarah knew this was far more than an upset stomach, however. "I need to speak with Mrs. Blackwell," she said. "I'll be right back."

The nurse nodded, not really understanding, and took the baby when Sarah had wrapped him up again.

Sarah went to Mrs. Blackwell's room and knocked on the door.

"Come," she called weakly, and Sarah stepped into the room.

The drapes were drawn against the morning sunlight, but Mrs. Blackwell wasn't trying to sleep. She sat up in bed, propped by a stack of pillows, and she looked just as frazzled as the nurse. "Thank heaven you've come! Can you make him stop?" she asked Sarah. "He's been doing this all night. Between the crying and the storm, I haven't had a wink of sleep!"

Sarah didn't like the way Mrs. Blackwell seemed more concerned for her own welfare than for her child's, which may have put a little edge in her voice when she asked, "Do you have any idea what's wrong with your baby?"

Mrs. Blackwell's eyes grew large. "Certainly not! How could I?"

"I think you could. When you were in labor, I asked if you regularly took those patent medicines I found in your dressing room, and you said you didn't."

"I don'st! Hardly ever! I just ... After finding Edmund..." Her lovely blue eyes filled with tears. "I was so distressed! I needed something for my nerves, so I ... I hardly ever use them. Only when I ... when I get nervous."

A tear slid down her smooth cheek, and Sarah had the uneasy feeling the woman had practiced looking lovely when she wept. She didn't crinkle up her face or make unladylike sounds. She simply allowed her crystal tears to slip silently down her face in a most becoming manner.

"Mrs. Blackwell, your baby is very ill. He seems to be suffering from the effects of some narcotic substance, or rather from the lack of such a substance in his system. If his mother regularly used such a substance during her pregnancy, he would be just as dependent on it as she is, except he has no way to obtain it unless someone gives it to him."

"That's impossible!"

"Is it? Mrs. Blackwell, I've seen cases like this before. If this is indeed what's wrong with your baby, he will die unless he receives treatment, so unless you want your baby to die, you must be honest with me."

"Die?" she echoed incredulously. "He can't die, not from that! I've never heard of such a thing!"

"You may not have heard of it, but I assure you, it is very possible. Now you must tell me the truth. Tell me what medicines you take and how frequently."

"I... I tried to stop!" she exclaimed, forgetting to look attractive. Now she just looked frightened. "They said the baby would die if I stopped!"

"Who said that?"

"Mr. Fong. He's ..." She caught herself and slapped one slender hand over her lips, knowing she had revealed too much.

"Mr. Fong?" Sarah repeated. This was worse than she'd even imagined. "A Chinese man? Why were you discussing this with a Chinese man?"

"I wasn'st! I can't tell you!" she cried, contradicting herself. Her hands were fluttering around her face now, and her eyes were more than frightened. Unfortunately, Sarah had begun to put the clues together, and now she had a pretty good idea why.

"Mrs. Blackwell, have you been visiting an opium den?" she asked, trying to keep the horror out of her voice.

The woman looked as if she might faint. "I can't help myself! You don't know what it's like, the hunger and the craving! I thought I would die without it, and Edmund wouldn't ... And then the baby... I could feel him fluttering inside me every time I started needing more. He was frantic for it, too, as frantic as I! They said the baby would die if I didn't take the morphine, so I had to do it! I didn't have any choice!"

Unfortunately, she was probably right. Sarah had a few unkind things to say to Mrs. Blackwell, but she would save them for later. Without another word, she went into Mrs. Blackwell's dressing room.

"What are you doing?" the woman demanded.

"I'm going to save your baby's life," Sarah said, yanking open the drawer she had discovered the day before. She noticed another bottle seemed to have been emptied. Since Mrs. Blackwell was unable to visit Mr. Fong, the opium content of the patent medicines would help ease her cravings until she was able to obtain a new supply of morphine. Sarah rummaged through the bottles until she found what she was looking for. Pure laudanum.

When Mrs. Blackwell saw her with the bottle, she cried out in protest. "They said the baby would be fine when he was born! They said he wouldn't need the drug anymore!"

"They lied," Sarah told her without apology.

She hurried down the hall, back toward the sound of the crying child. The nurse looked up hopefully when she entered. "Do you ... ?" she began, and then she saw the bottle in Sarah's hand. "What on earth ... ?"

Sarah didn't waste any time. She found her bag where she'd set it when she came in and rummaged inside until she located an eyedropper. Carefully, she drew a small amount of the amber liquid from the bottle and said, "Lay him on the bed, please."

"Oh, dear heaven," the nurse muttered, carefully laying the squalling child on the bed. "What is it? Can you give that to a tiny babe? Oh, dear, oh, dear, that's not the right thing to be doing! I never heard of such a thing!"

She stood wringing her hands as Sarah carefully dropped some of the liquid into the child's mouth. The baby started and made a face at the taste, and for a moment he was still. Then the crying started again.

"This should quiet him in a minute," Sarah said.

"Of course it should!" the nurse said indignantly. "That's what it's supposed to do. Does his mother know what poison you're giving him? I'm going to tell her if she doesn'st! This ain't right!"

"Mrs. Blackwell is a regular user of morphine," Sarah told her. "The baby is accustomed to the drug, which passed from her to him when he was in the womb. That's why he's been crying. It must be past time for his regular dose, and without it, he will die. I've seen it happen far too many times."

"Oh, dear heaven!" the nurse cried again, this time in horror. "What's to become of the poor thing, then?"

"He won't need to take it forever," Sarah assured her. "We'll wait until he gets stronger, and then gradually wean him from it. I've done this before, and if the child is otherwise healthy, he should be fine." She didn't explain that the times she'd done this before had been with the children of prostitutes who habitually used morphine to dull the pain of their miserable existences. Why a woman like Mrs. Blackwell would feel the need for such oblivion, Sarah had no idea, and right now she was too angry even to care.

"He's twitching so," the nurse said, still wringing her hands.

"We'll wait a few minutes to see if what I gave him does the trick. If not, we'll try another drop and then another, until we get the dosage right."

Sarah sat down on the bed beside him to wait, her fury swelling inside of her as she watched the tiny body quivering in agony. Someone should pay for doing this to a helpless child, but she had no idea who that someone should be.

3.

FRANK HAD BEEN RIGHT. THE NEIGHBORS HADN'T seen or heard a thing, and if they had, they weren't going to share the information with him. The neighboring servants had given him a bit of gossip here and there, of course. Apparently, no one thought it appropriate that Mrs. Blackwell kept going out every afternoon after her pregnancy became noticeable. It was said she visited poor and sick people, too, which only outraged her detractors even more. If she had no care for her own health, she should at least have been concerned for her unborn child and avoided the filthy poor and their unspeakable diseases.

To Frank's surprise, however, no one had a bad word to say about Dr. Blackwell, not even those who disapproved of his brand of medicine. He seemed to be a respectable gentleman who kept to himself and maintained the tone of the neighborhood. Until his unseemly death, of course. Maybe the neighbors were just happy to have someone more socially acceptable than an abortionist in residence. But whatever the reason, Frank could find no one with any idea of why the good doctor might have been murdered or who could have done it, and no one had so much as glimpsed the boy Amos Potter had told him was Blackwell's abandoned son. They hadn't seen anyone else coming or going from the house the previous afternoon, either.

So much for his boast to Sarah Brandt that he'd find the killer by nightfall.

The next morning, Frank returned to the Blackwell house to continue his investigation. The butler greeted him with the kind of condescending reserve to which Frank had become accustomed. Even servants felt superior to Irish policemen.

"How is Mrs. Blackwell today, Granger?" Frank asked.

"I'm sure I don't know. That midwife you sent over is with her now," Granger replied stiffly.

Frank fought down the instant anxiety he felt at the prospect of Mrs. Blackwell needing medical help so soon after her delivery. He had a momentary flash of his own wife with her life's blood draining away after giving birth to their son, but he ruthlessly banished it. "The midwife?" he echoed with as little expression as possible. "Is something wrong?"

"Not that I am aware."

Plainly, the butler thought it was none of his business, which was just too bad. He knew exactly where to get all the information about Mrs. Blackwell that he wanted. "When Mrs. Brandt is finished, tell her I want to see her."