There were a few gasps of surprise. Word of the baby’s birth had obviously not yet spread. Calvin’s gasp of pain was mercifully lost in the disturbance. Once again Sarah reached over and patted the boy’s hand, but he didn’t seem even to notice.

“Because my daughter cannot be here to mourn her husband, it falls to me to send him to his rest. I know I speak for all of you when I say he will be missed. Those whom he treated will, like my daughter, know lives free of pain and suffering because of his talents. That is his legacy. He could ask for none finer.”

Women in the audience were weeping into their handkerchiefs as Symington took his seat. Sarah could certainly understand why Blackwell had wanted Symington to speak at his lectures. The man was spellbinding.

“That’s the same speech he gives at the lectures,” the woman beside her murmured to her companion. “You’d think he could have said something more.”

“I’m sure he’s too overcome with grief to make the effort,” her companion said. “That poor little baby. I had no idea.”

Beside her, Calvin was breathing hard, as if merely sitting still were an effort of strength. Sarah could imagine that it was. He must long to stand up and tell everyone the truth about his father. Doing so in front of such a group would be much too intimidating, however, so he merely sat and waited for the ordeal to end.

Amos Potter was at the podium again, thanking everyone for coming and inviting them to partake of some refreshments in the dining room. As soon as it was obvious the service was over, Calvin jumped up and fled, ducking out the door even before Mr. Symington could get there to greet the mourners as they filed out, and accept their condolences.

Sarah wanted to go after Calvin, but he was surely gone by now, so she stayed where she was, trying to hear what each person said to Mr. Symington as he or she left. Perhaps she’d pick up some useful information. Most of what she heard were the usual clichés that people utter at such times, but a few of the women were obviously distraught and couldn’t seem to judge when they’d said enough. One woman went on and on about what a wonderful man Dr. Blackwell had been, until another woman took her by the arm and forcibly led her away.

Watching from under the brim of her hat, Sarah saw Symington’s face tighten. Either he was embarrassed by the unseemly display or some other emotion had overcome him. Finally, the last couple reached him. They were the ones who had been the first to arrive and who had seemed to be arguing before the service started.

“Clarence Fitzgerald,” the man said, sticking out his hand to Symington. He was a tall, spindly man of middle years. His thinning gray hair revealed a shiny pink scalp, and if his face had ever borne a smile, there was no indication. His wife was short and plump and wore a well-made suit that fit snugly enough over her rounded figure to suggest upholstery. Her pudgy face was splotched from weeping. “We’ve met several times at the club, I believe,” he added to Symington.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Mr. Symington said, although Sarah was sure he had no recollection of the man.

“I need to discuss some matters of business with you, Mr. Symington, concerning Dr. Blackwell’s affairs.”

“Not today, Clarence,” the woman with him said in distress.

“Today’s as good as any other, Martha,” Clarence snapped, and turned back to Symington.

But Symington had no intention of dealing with the fellow. “I’m afraid I know nothing of my son-in-law’s business. You’ll have to take it up with Amos Potter. I’ll be happy to introduce you if you’ll join us in the dining room.”

No longer having any reason to linger, Sarah rose from her place and made her way silently toward the door. She saw that Clarence Fitzgerald didn’t like being put off.

“It’s about this house,” he told Symington, undeterred. “I own it.”

“It’s a fine property,” Symington said. “I’m sure my daughter will want to continue living here for a while. Potter will discuss the arrangements with you. If you’ll excuse me…”

He turned to Sarah, silently dismissing them.

“I told you not to bring it up today,” Mrs. Fitzgerald was saying.

He grumbled something in reply, but Sarah didn’t catch it.

She put out her hand to Mr. Symington, whose expression told her he thought she looked familiar but could not recall her name.

“Mrs. Brandt. I’m the midwife who tended your daughter,” she added. “I’m so sorry about Dr. Blackwell.”

“My daughter, is she doing well?” Symington asked with all the concern Sarah could have wished.

“She was upset this morning,” Sarah admitted, not mentioning the need for morphine to help her through it. “It must be difficult not being able to attend her husband’s funeral.”

“No one would expect that, under the circumstances,” Symington said stiffly, as if he thought she was criticizing him in some way.

“Of course not. I meant it was difficult for her to mourn him properly. It must also be difficult for you to properly celebrate the birth of your grandson, too.”

Another emotion flickered across his face. “Yes, I… I’ve been so busy, I’ve hardly had time to realize I even have a grandson. I trust he’s doing well, too.”

“Yes, he is,” Sarah said, once again neglecting to mention the morphine that made this possible.

Symington looked at her and frowned. “Why are you here?” he asked, as if just realizing how inappropriate her presence was. “Did you know Edmund?”

“No, although I’m fascinated by his work. I felt I owed it to Mrs. Blackwell to attend, out of respect for her.”

Symington didn’t seem to agree, but he was too well-mannered to argue. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests.”

“Of course,” Sarah agreed, and let him leave her standing there.

In a moment Frank Malloy was at her side. He’d been waiting discreetly in the hallway and also eavesdropping on Symington’s conversations.

“Did you find out who the killer is?” he asked her.

She glared at him. “That isn’t funny, Malloy.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. I was hoping you had. I’d like to settle this and be done with it. I don’t like these people very much.”

“That just makes you a good judge of character. I was a little surprised to see Calvin here,” she added.

“I guess I should’ve warned him not to come. That snooty butler wasn’t going to let him in,” Malloy reported.

“But you intervened,” she guessed. “I’m sure everyone was wondering who he is. He hardly looks like one of Blackwell’s patients.”

“If they were wondering, they can ask him,” Malloy said. “I sent him to the dining room for some food.”

“Oh, my! We should probably go rescue him. What if Potter starts in on him? Or what if one of the other guests finds out who he is?”

“Potter won’t want to cause a scene, and I doubt these people will give him the time of day, much less start a conversation with him.”

“Nobody ever wants to cause a scene. That’s probably what started this whole mess in the first place.”

“What do you mean?

“I mean everyone always insists that Letitia Blackwell voluntarily spoke at Blackwell’s lectures when she says she hated doing it so much she had to take morphine to get through them. She didn’t want to make a scene, so she put herself through torture! And why didn’t anyone see that and help her?”

“That’s simple,” Malloy assured her. “The men didn’t see it because they probably don’t think they forced her into it at all. They just told her what to do, and she did it. They didn’t particularly care what she had to do to get through it.”

Sarah had to admit he was probably right.

“I suppose you know that Blackwell was still married to Calvin’s mother,” she said.

“Yeah, the boy told me the whole ugly story. Poor kid, he’s got two younger sisters, too.”

“How awful. I suppose Blackwell deserted the family.”