“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.