“Hmm, I suppose it was very similar,” Mrs. Fitzgerald allowed, “but it certainly applied, didn’t it? I mean, all the things he said about Edmund were true, regardless of when or where he said them.”

Sarah hadn’t missed the fact that Mrs. Fitzgerald had called Blackwell by his given name, an obviously unintentional slip. No matron of her position would call her physician by his given name unless she’d known him from childhood, and even then she probably wouldn’t do so to a stranger. “How long were you under Dr. Blackwell’s care?” she asked.

“Almost a year, I believe.” She sighed. “I suppose all of the good he did will be undone now, with no one to carry on his work.”

“I believe his assistant, Mr. Potter, was trained in the techniques Dr. Blackwell used,” Sarah said.

“Pshaw, who could trust a man like that with their health?” Mrs. Fitzgerald scoffed. “He isn’t even a physician. And those eyes… I just don’t trust him. How could he possibly duplicate Dr. Blackwell’s successes?”

Or Dr. Blackwell’s charm, Sarah thought. The man must have been a wonder. She was almost sorry she’d never met him in person. And if homely little Amos Potter thought he could take over where Blackwell had left off, he was going to have a rude shock.

“Martha,” someone said sharply right behind Sarah, making her start.

She turned to see Clarence Fitzgerald frowning down at his wife. “We should go now,” he said.

“Yes, dear,” she responded absently. “I’m afraid I must leave,” she said unnecessarily to Sarah. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Brandt.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, unable to return the compliment. “I hope all goes well for you.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald gave her a sad smile that said she couldn’t imagine that this was even possible.

As soon as the Fitzgeralds had left, Sarah looked around for Calvin Brown. To her relief, he seemed to have gone, so she started looking for someone else who seemed to have been unusually affected by Dr. Blackwell’s death.

WHEN THE LAST of the guests had left, Frank caught Sarah Brandt when she would have gone back upstairs to check on her patient.

“What did you find out?” he demanded, stopping her as she was about to start up the stairs.

“It’s a good thing for you that I’m not sensitive, Malloy. I might take offense at your abruptness,” she told him.

“I’m not being abrupt. I just asked you a question.”

She sighed, as if she were being put upon, when Malloy knew perfectly well that if she had any information at all, she’d be dying to tell him. “Mrs. Fitzgerald is the one who actually owns this house, and her husband may not have known she was letting Blackwell live here rent-free. She also didn’t know Mrs. Blackwell was expecting a child. I think Blackwell may have hidden that from his clients.”

“Clients?” Frank echoed.

“He preferred to call them clients instead of patients.”

“To each his own,” Frank muttered. “And it isn’t strange that he didn’t tell his clients about his wife’s condition. It’s none of their business.”

“True, but news like that gets out just the same. Mrs. Fitzgerald was actually shocked that he hadn’t confided in her. She even seemed a bit jealous, too. She claims she was one of his favorite clients.”

“Favorite? What does that mean?”

“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Fitzgerald,” she said. “I wouldn’t even want to guess. She was also shocked to find out Calvin was Blackwell’s son.”

“How did she find that out?” Malloy asked in annoyance.

“He told her. Oh, she asked him who he was, I suppose, and he’s too naive to lie,” she added when Malloy would have expressed his exasperation. “By the time I got there, she knew his life story, or just about. I hope you got him out of here before he talked to anyone else.”

“He was glad to leave. I never should’ve let him come in the first place, but Blackwell was his father, and he had a right to be here, I guess.”

“It was still awkward, and hearing Symington talk about Letitia was very difficult for him, I’m sure. I hope he’ll be all right.”

“He’ll be fine,” Malloy said, dismissing her concerns. “Did you learn anything else that might be useful?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. It seems Blackwell used mesmerism on his clients.”

“Mesmerism?”

“Yes, it’s a technique where a practitioner puts someone into a state resembling sleep and then makes suggestions to them that they will still believe when they wake up.”

“Are you telling me he was some kind of a magician?”

“No, mesmerism isn’t magic, although it’s sometimes used as a parlor trick. It’s a valid technique for helping people overcome illness that is all in their minds, and many times illness is just in people’s minds.”

“Could he have mesmerized Mrs. Fitzgerald into giving him this house to live in?” That was the first theory that made the least bit of sense to him so far.

“No, but I do think he used his skill to make his patients relax and to convince them they felt better. His treatments no doubt helped relieve physical discomforts, but mental discomforts can be just as bad. Anyone who can figure out how to make people feel better mentally will be a guaranteed success.”

Frank thought that was probably true. He wasn’t going to tell Sarah Brandt that, however. She already had too high an opinion of her powers of observation. “So are the Fitzgeralds going to throw Mrs. Blackwell and her baby out into the street?”

She glanced around to make sure no servants were lingering near and lowered her voice. “I don’t think Mrs. Fitzgerald has much use for the good doctor’s wife. If I were of a suspicious nature, I’d say she was even a little bit jealous of Mrs. Blackwell. She was certainly overly fond of the doctor, although it’s not uncommon for women to fall in love with physicians and ministers and other people who are kind or helpful to them.”

“Nobody falls in love with policemen,” Frank said sourly.

“I said kind and helpful, Malloy,” she reminded him with one of her grins. “I’ve got to go check on Mrs. Blackwell, but then I’m going home. You can walk a ways with me and discuss the case if you’ve a mind to. I found out some other interesting tidbits of gossip this morning.”

She knew perfectly well he would wait for her, Frank thought as he watched her mounting the stairs. How could he turn down an offer like that? Especially since she knew he lacked the necessary social position to mingle with the funeral guests to find out any gossip on his own.

He’d tried wandering from group to group, but they’d very neatly cut him dead each time, falling silent and staring at him until he moved on. He supposed they knew he was a policeman. People always did, even though he didn’t wear a uniform or any other outward sign of his profession. Being who he was could be an advantage when dealing with certain elements of society, the ones who could be frightened or intimidated. It was a disadvantage when dealing with the privileged few, however. They knew he had no power over them and looked upon the police mostly as a nuisance.

Taking Potter up on his offer of a reward had probably been a mistake. Now he felt obligated to solve the crime, and not just by pinning it on an innocent boy, no matter how happy that would make Potter. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the proper social credentials to find out what he really needed to know to solve the case.

But Sarah Brandt did.

The knowledge galled him, and he knew he shouldn’t allow her to be involved, no matter how helpful she might be. He didn’t need to solve the case that badly. Or at all, if the truth were known. Murders went unsolved every day in the city, and no one really cared, except perhaps a few grieving family members. If it wasn’t for the reward, he certainly wouldn’t be working so hard on this case. He didn’t even need the reward that much-he had plenty of money put aside that he was saving to bribe his way to a promotion on the force-and he was starting to think that maybe Edmund Blackwell hadn’t been such a great loss to the world anyway. Right now the only thing keeping him involved was the possibility that if he gave it up, Potter might get some other detective to arrest poor Calvin Brown for the crime.