"He's doing very well," Sarah said. "We have apparently determined the correct dose of morphine to give him, and he's thriving on the nurse's milk."

"Thank heaven," she breathed, closing her lovely eyes for a moment in apparent relief.

"What have you named him?" Sarah asked to be sociable.

Her eyes flew open, and Sarah was surprised to see the alarm in them. "I ... I haven't thought," she said. "Edmund wanted ... but now ... I don't know!"

"There's no hurry," Sarah assured her, disturbed by her reaction. The woman seemed incapable of making any decision without her husband's approval. If that were true, his death was going to hamper the decision-making process considerably. "It will be a while before he even knows he has a name," Sarah added in an attempt to lighten the moment.

Mrs. Blackwell didn't look reassured. "But other people will know," she pointed out. "My father ... he'll expect me to ..." She lifted the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture of despair.

"Why don't you let me examine you," Sarah suggested, hoping to take her mind off of the terrible burden of selecting a name for her child. "Are you having any discomfort?"

FRANK HAD TIMED his arrival at the Blackwell home so he would be there to see the guests as they arrived. He wanted to get a look at the people who felt the need to honor Blackwell's memory or at least to assure themselves he was dead.

He found Amos Potter giving frantic orders to the servants, who scurried around trying to do his bidding. He didn't look at all happy to see Frank.

"Mr. Malloy," he said imperiously. "As I informed you yesterday, your presence here is completely unnecessary."

"Not unless you think it's unnecessary for me to find out who killed Dr. Blackwell," Frank replied.

Potter glared at him impatiently. "Surely you don't believe anyone coming here today could have killed him?"

"I won't know until I see them, now will I?" Frank said reasonably.

Potter didn't think this was reasonable at all. "I already told you who the killer is," he reminded him. "You had him in your power, and you let him get away."

"He hasn't gotten away," Frank said. "Besides, I don't have any reason to believe he's the killer."

"Who else could it have been? The boy is insane with grief and rage. His father deserted him and his family and left them penniless. He probably spent years trying to locate Edmund, and when he did, Edmund rejected him once again. Unable to control his fury, he shot poor Edmund and tried to cover up his crime. There, you see how simple it is? And I'm not even a policeman," Potter said smugly.

"Do you want me to accuse an innocent boy just so I can collect a reward?" Frank asked with as much genuine confusion as he could muster.

Potter barely controlled his impatience. "He isn't innocent!"

Frank waited until the maid who was straightening the chairs moved out of earshot. "I questioned him thoroughly, and he gave me all the right answers, Mr. Potter. I don't believe he killed his father."

"Then he is even more clever than I imagined," Potter informed him. "He's Edmund's son, all right. If he is at all like his father, he would have no trouble bending the truth to suit his needs, and he would have the advantage of his youth to lend him the appearance of innocence."

"Was Dr. Blackwell an accomplished liar?" Frank asked curiously.

The color rose in Potter's face, and he glanced uneasily at the casket standing nearby. "It's wrong to speak ill of the dead," he said.

"Then you believe that there is ill you could speak about," Frank surmised. "Tell me, who did the good doctor lie to? You? His patients? His wife? We certainly know he lied to the current Mrs. Blackwell by not telling her about the first Mrs. Brown."

"I refuse to discuss such a thing with Edmund lying dead just a few feet away," Potter sniffed.

"Then we can discuss it later," Frank said.

Plainly, Potter did not like being told what to do by a mere policeman. "You will excuse me now. I have many things to do before the guests arrive."

Frank let him go. He wasn't going to get anywhere with him right now anyway. He went to the kitchen to find a cup of coffee while he waited for the funeral guests to begin arriving.

"DO YOU KNOW my husband's funeral is this morning?" Mrs. Blackwell asked Sarah as she finished her examination.

"Yes," Sarah said. "I noticed the preparations when I arrived. I'm sure you must be disappointed that you can't attend."

Mrs. Blackwell sighed. "Funerals frighten me. My mother died when I was quite young, and I remember how horrible it all was, everything draped in black. I can't stand the thought of it."

"Then I won't suggest that you try to go downstairs to at least pay your respects. I'm sure one of the servants could carry you if you really wanted to see your husband's ... uh ... casket."

Mrs. Blackwell shuddered. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly ... Edmund wouldn't want me to see him like that anyway. He'd want me to remember him as he was, I'm sure of it," she reasoned. She tried to reach over to the nightstand, but couldn't quite. "Could you ... ?" she asked Sarah. "In the top drawer ..."

Sarah opened the drawer in the bedside table, expecting to find a handkerchief or smelling salts, and was surprised to see a syringe lying there instead. "Do you inject the morphine?" she asked in horror. This was even worse than she'd imagined.

"Please," Mrs. Blackwell entreated, her lovely blue eyes filling with tears. "Don't judge me! I can't ... You don't know what I've had to suffer."

Sarah had a good idea it wasn't so very much at all, compared with many who never turned to the oblivion of opiates, but she was a nurse, not a missionary. Reluctantly, she handed the materials to her patient.

"I can't bear to know what's going on downstairs. I must sleep so I won't hear it," she said, preparing the syringe with the ease of long practice.

Sarah could not watch this. "I'll be downstairs if you need me for anything," she said, quickly closing up her medical bag and taking her leave.

"Thank you, Mrs. Brandt," Mrs. Blackwell said with her best finishing-school manners. "You've been very kind."

Sarah didn't stop to wonder for what she was being thanked.

FRANK LOOKED UP from where he was sitting in the front hallway and saw Sarah Brandt descending the stairs. He didn't like to admit that his happiness at seeing her almost outweighed his annoyance. Whatever his personal feelings for her might be, she had no business being involved in this case.

"Malloy," she said, greeting him with her usual smile, as if she were as happy to see him as he was to see her. "Has anyone arrived for the funeral yet?"

"No," he said, rising to his feet as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "You can leave without anybody seeing you."

"Oh, but I intend to stay for the service," she replied confidently. "It's the least I can do, since Mrs. Blackwell herself can't attend."

"Are you her personal representative?" he asked sarcastically.

As usual, his sarcasm was wasted on her. "No, but I do feel a sense of obligation to my patient."

"You never even set eyes on the man," Frank reminded her.

"But I did bring his child into the world," she reminded him right back. "His legacy, born after his death to carry on his name-"

"That's enough," Frank said, raising his hands in surrender. "And Blackwell wasn't really his name."

"Oh, yes, I'd forgotten. I wonder what Mrs. Blackwell will do now. Did her father know about Blackwell's other family?"

"I don't think so. He didn't seem to know who Calvin Brown was, at any rate, but if he did, he'd certainly be a suspect in Blackwell's death."

"I suppose he would. I can't imagine what my father would do if a man did to me what Blackwell did to Letitia Symington."

"I can, and blowing his brains out would be the least of it," Frank said. "Symington couldn't know, now that I think of it, though. He's giving the eulogy this morning. He'd hardly do that for the man who ruined his daughter."

"Yes, that would pretty well prove he has no idea. Which would eliminate him as a suspect, too."

"Probably," was all Frank would allow, and Mrs. Brandt didn't miss his reluctance to exonerate Symington.

"You still think he might have done it?" she asked, her fine eyes brightening with interest.

"I don't know who did it," was all he would say. "I guess there's no way to get you to leave before the funeral starts."

"Short of throwing me bodily into the street, no," she replied cheerfully. "There's no telling what I might learn just from eavesdropping, and I already have some information for you."

"What?" he asked skeptically.

"I'm sure it would be better if we share our knowledge in a more private place," she said, glancing meaningfully over to where a maid was carrying a vase into the parlor.

Frank managed to refrain from saying he wasn't planning to share anything with her. She liked to think she was helping him, and he had to admit she sometimes did find out things that aided his investigations. But he certainly had no intention of telling her what he already knew in return She wasn't the detective on this case, so she had no need to know more than she already did.

Fortunately, he was saved from having to reply because someone knocked on the front door at that moment. "We'll talk later," was all he said.

Sarah nodded and took advantage of the butler's momentary distraction to slip into the parlor and take a seat. She chose one near the far end of the back row so no one would have to climb over her or even notice her. Being unobtrusive was an advantage, if one could manage it, and Sarah seemed to have done so.

She glanced around. The room was now perfectly in order, thanks to Potter's rigorous attention to detail. A spray of flowers stood at both the head and foot of the casket, which gleamed in the morning sunlight filtering through the lace-curtained windows. Flowers ringed the room as well. Sarah would have to check the cards later to see who had sent them. Perhaps that would be a clue to who had killed him. Or who hadn't.

She could hear Amos Potter welcoming the new arrivals. His tone struck her as particularly annoying. He was apparently trying to appear suave and sophisticated to Blackwell's well-heeled patients, but Sarah found him oily and toadying. Probably others did, too.

In a few moments Potter ushered the guests in, and Sarah kept her head bowed, as if she were praying. Even Amos Potter would think twice about disturbing a praying woman, or at least she hoped he would. Either her ploy worked or Potter failed to notice her at all, because he left without comment to her.

She looked up and saw that the first guests were a well-dressed couple who had taken seats near the front of the room. The lady was dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged hankie and the man seemed to be merely resigned. Sarah based this judgment on the way his arms were crossed over his chest. The woman, probably his wife, whispered something to him, and he grumbled something back. Plainly, they were arguing.

She heard another knock at the front door, and checked the lapel watch she wore. Nearly ten o'clock. All the mourners should be arriving within the next few minutes.

Indeed, the room quickly filled with well-dressed, black-clad visitors. The women were in various stages of distress. Most were discreetly weeping, but a few sobbed openly. The husbands, the few who came, were as helpless and horrified as men usually are when confronted with a weeping female. Most of them sat looking uncomfortable, while a few were positively angry. Sarah couldn't help remembering what Mrs. Ellsworth had told her about Blackwell's reputation. If he indeed had seduced his female patients, their husbands would certainly be justified in being reluctant mourners at his funeral.

"Will you stop that caterwauling?" the man in front of her whispered to his wife, who was sniffling indelicately into her handkerchief.

"I'd think you'd be more sympathetic," the woman whispered back, "after all he did for you."

"I had a pain in my back, and he made it go away," the man said. "Does that mean I should throw myself on his grave and expire?"

"You could hardly move, and you know it," she snapped. "Dr. Blackwell performed a miracle on you!"

"And what did he do for you that you have cause to make a public spectacle of yourself?" he asked, forgetting to whisper.

"Attending his funeral is not making a public spectacle!"

"Carrying on like you've lost your best friend is," her husband countered.

"You know what he did for me," she said, her voice choking with tears.

"Sometimes I wonder if I do," he replied, earning a sharp glance from his wife and an even sharper one from Sarah.

Just then, the room fell silent as Mr. Symington entered, followed by Amos Potter. Potter had chosen himself for the role of master of ceremonies. Sarah wondered why there was no minister present, but perhaps Dr. Blackwell was a freethinker and recognized no organized religion. Even if he hadn't belonged to a church in the city, many ministers would preach a funeral for someone as well known as Blackwell for the fee alone. If there was no minister, it was by design.

Potter welcomed everyone with the same unctuous tone he'd used earlier, and Sarah found herself embarrassed for him. He certainly didn't deserve her concern, but she believed no one should be allowed to make a total fool of himself in ignorance. She doubted Potter was the type to take constructive criticism well, however, so she knew she would never offer any.

"I know Dr. Blackwell would be gratified to see all of you here to honor him. His name will live long in the hearts of those whose pain and suffering he relieved, and as a pioneer in the healing arts."

A woman up front sobbed aloud, and Potter seemed to take that as an encouragement. He went on for several more minutes in the same vein, lauding Blackwell as a man ahead of his time who died unrecognized by a society who would someday revere him. Sarah thought it excessive for a man who had no legitimate claim even to call himself a doctor, but no one seemed to care about her opinion.

Potter was showing no sign of running out of steam when there was a slight disturbance out in the hall. After a moment the parlor door slid open a bit, and Calvin Brown stepped in. The boy recoiled when he saw all the well-dressed people turning to look at him, and Sarah's heart ached for him. No matter what Blackwell had done, he was still the boy's father. Sarah waved and caught his eye and motioned to the empty chair next to her. He scurried over and slipped in beside her gratefully.

His eyes were wide and frightened, but his chin was set with determination. No one was going to shame him into missing his father's funeral. He clutched his battered cap in both hands and sat stiffly, aware that Potter had stopped his remarks to glare at him in disapproval. Sarah patted the boy's hand reassuringly, then nodded at Potter to continue, earning another glare for both of them.

She was aware of whispers around her. People would be wondering who Calvin was, and why someone so shabbily dressed was there at all. Good manners prevailed, however, and after a moment they all fell silent.

Potter cleared his throat, but he seemed to have forgotten where he was. After an awkward moment he turned his attention to introducing Maurice Symington, a man who had, according to Potter, more reason than anyone to be grateful to Blackwell.

Symington had been sitting in the front row, his head bowed as Sarah's had been when she was seeking to avoid notice. She couldn't help wondering what Symington's reason was. Perhaps he truly was overcome with grief at the death of his son-in-law, but she somehow doubted it. Symington was hardly the type of man to be overcome by anything.

Potter finished his introduction and took his seat, but Symington hadn't moved. In fact, another moment went by, and he still didn't move. Everyone waited patiently. They knew this must be difficult for him. Another moment passed, and the crowd sensed that too much time was passing. People shifted uncomfortably, no one quite certain if they should be concerned or annoyed that he hadn't gotten up to speak. Potter began to fidget nervously. Then, just when Sarah was beginning to think Symington might need her medical services, he finally rose to his feet.

The crowd's relief was palpable, and Sarah almost sighed aloud herself, but if Symington was aware of his faux pas, he gave no indication. He took his place behind the podium and cleared this throat.

"As most of you know, I had the greatest respect for Edmund Blackwell. I met Dr. Blackwell about two years ago. A business associate introduced us. My friend had suffered great pain for many years, and Dr. Blackwell had been able to help him when all traditional medicine had failed. My friend knew that I, too, faced a similar situation, although in my case, it was my beloved daughter whom traditional medicine had failed.

"Letitia is my only child and, since my wife died years ago, the only family I have left. I love her more than life itself, and when she was severely injured in a riding accident, I would have moved heaven and earth to heal her, if it had been in my power. To my great disappointment, however, moving heaven and earth was beyond my power, as was finding someone who could restore Letitia to health. She lay helpless and in pain for almost a year while a veritable parade of physicians of all kinds came and went, each of them pronouncing her case hopeless.

"My daughter would never know the joy of a husband and family and a home of her own. She would never know freedom or friendships. She would never dance or play the piano or attend a social gathering again. I had all but given up hope when I met Edmund."

The crowd murmured their understanding of how momentous this occasion must have been, but beside her, Calvin made a small sound in his throat, as if almost choking on his own bitterness.

"Edmund was most interested in Letitia's case," Symington continued. "He said he had often been able to help when other doctors had failed. His methods were new and revolutionary, and many in the medical profession did not accept them. He would, he said, do his very best to bring Letitia back to health.

"I could tell immediately that he was not like any other physician who had seen her. He spoke to her kindly, allaying her fears. He was more concerned about her than about his reputation. He only wanted to see her regain her strength. After only a few moments he had discovered the source of her pain. Then he told me he could, within a matter of weeks, have her well again.

"I was skeptical, as you can imagine. I'd seen many doctors who said they could cure her, only to be disappointed. But Letitia begged me to let him try. She believed in him, so could I do less? I granted him permission to treat her.

"I was a man without hope, so I did not expect much, but to my astonishment and joy, Letitia improved from the very first treatment. After a few weeks she was completely pain-free and able to leave her room for the first time in months. Soon my daughter was exactly as she had been before, and her ordeal was but a memory."

Again the crowd murmured its understanding. Sarah imagined that many of them had experienced equally miraculous cures. But when she glanced at Calvin, she saw the anger on his young face. This must be terribly difficult for him to hear his father lauded as a hero after what he had done to his wife and children.

"You will understand my gratitude to Dr. Blackwell. No amount of money could ever repay what he had done for Letitia, but all he asked was that I, like my friend, recommend his services to others. That hardly seemed enough to me. A man as gifted as Edmund should be known to the thousands whom he could help, so I proposed to him that I repay him by renting a hall so he could explain to the public what wonders his treatments could work.

"Since most of you discovered Edmund's talents through just such lectures, I don't have to describe them to you. And when he asked if I would tell Letitia's story at the lectures, Letitia herself insisted that she be allowed to speak instead. She is naturally reserved, but for this she overcame her shyness. She felt she could not do enough to make sure others were not suffering needlessly, as she had done for so long, when Edmund could cure them. Most of you already know the rest of the story, about how Letitia and Edmund fell in love."

This time Calvin made a noise that was almost a groan. Several heads turned to see who had made it, and everyone who looked saw a young man who was crimson with fury. Symington either didn't notice or didn't care.