Death in Saratoga Springs

Book 2: Gilded Age Mystery

by Charles O'Brien

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

From the slaughterhouses of Manhattan to the elite enclaves of Saratoga Springs, private detective Pamela Thompson follows a trail of death and deception left by a Civil War hero. . . Death In Saratoga Springs New York City, 1894. Captain Jed Crake is a decorated veteran of the Union army and a successful mogul in the meatpacking industry. But this powerful man also has a hidden private life as a predator of young women. Working for attorney Jeremiah Prescott, private investigators Pamela Thompson and former NYPD detective Harry Miller are engaged to search for a maid allegedly abducted by the captain. . . Before they can find the missing woman, Crake's dark history catches up with him and he is murdered in a posh hotel in Saratoga Springs. As fate would have it, Pamela's ward, Francesca Ricci, working as a chambermaid in the hotel, is accused of the crime. Now, in this pastoral playground of the idle rich, it's up to Pamela and Miller to find Crake's killer--as well as his victim--and save an innocent girl from a fate worse than death. Praise for Death of a Robber Baron "O'Brien captures the colorful details and varied characters of an opulent era deftly." -- Publishers Weekly "A pleasingly detailed look at the age of the robber barons along with enough strongly characterized suspects to keep readers guessing." -- Kirkus Reviews "The author skillfully weaves in fascinating details about American social history. Pair with Stefanie Pintoff, and also recommend for fans of Rhys Bowen's ‘Molly Murphy' series." -- Library Journal

Release date: May 27, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 305

Sample

On a freezing Monday morning, Pamela Thompson shuffled over an icy patch on Irving Place, balancing on her steel-tipped walking stick. At the sign on the door, PRESCOTT AND ASSOCIATES, COUNSELORS-AT-LAW, she was reminded that, two years ago, she had come here, a desperate woman seeking counsel. A year ago, the law firm employed her as an investigator, and soon Prescott himself became her mentor and friend.

She stepped into the warm reception room and left her stick by the door. Peter Yates, the firm’s retired librarian and Pamela’s friend, took her coat and hat. “The receptionist is ill. I’m helping out today. Mr. Prescott would like to see you in his office. You are to meet a visitor.”

A hint in Yates’s voice made Pamela glance in a mirror and touch up her hair. He showed her into the room. A slim, elegant gentleman about fifty, a cane by his side, was sitting with Prescott. They rose to greet her. Prescott introduced the visitor as Mr. Virgil Crawford, the butler to the Crawford family. Pamela assumed from the family name that he was a relative. They gathered around the writing table.

Mr. Crawford addressed her politely in cultivated English with a Southern accent. His skin was fair in color; his eyes, almond shaped and a deep golden brown. His thick, curly hair was receding and turning gray, adding to an already strong impression of high intelligence. Pamela suddenly realized that this man was black and very likely once a slave.

Crawford took note of her surprise with the flicker of a smile, then said to her, “I have a problem: Our housekeeper’s niece, Ruth Colt, disappeared a month ago. Without evidence of a crime, the police won’t spend time or money to look for her. The detective in charge of missing persons, Larry White, recommended hiring a private investigator. So, I’ve come here. I’m acting on behalf of Mr. James Crawford, head of the family, and am prepared to contract with you for the search.”

“She’s been gone a month?” Pamela asked. “By now, she might be in California or halfway to Hawaii. A search could be expensive.”

His eyes seemed to tease her, “The Crawfords have enough money.”

Prescott asked her, “Are you willing to look for the young woman? Our firm would place its resources at your disposal.”

“I am, indeed,” Pamela replied. “It’s the kind of work I feel called to do.” She turned to Crawford. “Tell me more about the housekeeper and her niece.”

He leaned back in thoughtful reflection. “Martha Colt and Ruth are light-skinned black people who could pass for white. A widow, Martha has served the Crawford household for many years and is much respected. Ruth is fifteen and an orphan. A few months ago, she went to work as a chambermaid in a cheap hotel. When she disappeared and the police did nothing, Martha approached me for help.”

The girl’s story both moved and intrigued Pamela. As far back as she could remember, she had felt compassion for poor, neglected, or abandoned children. For years she had helped provide them with food and clothing, shelter and counseling through St. Barnabas Mission on Mulberry Street. Having become a private investigator a year ago, she could now find them if they were lost.

As the meeting drew to an end, Crawford said to Pamela, “You should visit Mrs. Colt at our home on Washington Square. Enter from the rear at the service entrance.”

He also gave her an address on a side street near Washington Square. “That’s my private office, where I do sensitive projects. Henceforth, we’ll meet there.” He raised a cautionary finger. “Our investigation must be secret. We could encounter a murderer.”

Pamela left the room with the impression that Virgil Crawford was no ordinary butler who spent his day polishing the family silver or keeping track of household accounts. He acted like a secret agent dealing with issues of life and death. Why conceal the family’s interest in this case? Did he have a hidden objective? She felt as if she was becoming a pawn in a dangerous game.

That afternoon, Pamela approached the Crawford town house on the north side of Washington Square, a simple, elegant brick residence from the 1840s. She followed a walkway around the building to the service entrance and rang a bell. While waiting, she glanced at a tall brick shaft attached harmoniously to the rear of the building.

“Master James’s elevator is inside the shaft, ma’am,” said the male servant who had opened the door. “The contraption runs on vertical rails with a system of ropes and pulleys and counterbalances. Ingenious, isn’t it? He’s crippled and uses a wheelchair. But his arms are very strong, and he manages the ropes by himself.”

The servant led her into a parlor and left to call Mrs. Colt. While waiting, Pamela studied a series of oil paintings that depicted sleek sailing ships. On a table below them stood a detailed model of a modern steamship. All the ships bore the same name, Savannah Line.

“The Crawfords have been in the shipping business for fifty years,” Mrs. Colt remarked as she stepped into the room. “These days, Master James is in charge.”

Martha Colt was a wiry, older woman with a stern cast to her face, but she smiled graciously and showed Pamela into her room in the rear of the house. It had a view of the garden and the stable beyond. To judge from faint, savory odors rising from the kitchen below, dinner was being prepared.

On the wall hung a simple, naïve painting on wood of a Southern plantation. Asked about it, Martha brightened. “We were slaves. Daddy painted coaches, walls, and anything else that needed color. One of the Crawford family’s tutors taught him how to sketch a scene and prepare a canvas and mix paints. He did this one in his spare time.”

In the middle of the picture was a large, square white house with wide verandas. To the left were farm buildings and a cluster of small slave cottages. To the right, Spanish moss dripped from the outstretched branches of giant live oaks. In the foreground, flower gardens encircled an ornamental pond. In the background were fields and orchards. Tiny black and white figures populated the scene.

“What a charming picture, its colors rich and strong,” Pamela exclaimed. “Your father had a delightful imagination. Is this a real place?”

“Yes, it’s the Crawford plantation before the war. I was born there and worked in the kitchen with Virgil Crawford. He was the chef then, and his wife was the housekeeper.” She gestured to a tea table. “Please sit down.”

Over tea, Pamela asked about Ruth, the missing young woman.

“She was less than a proper Christian and difficult to raise,” said her aunt with a sigh. “She sassed me whenever I gave her a piece of advice. She would have her own way and live by herself.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

“No, I don’t, but she’s petite, light skinned, and attractive enough to interest men. As a child, she broke her left leg. It healed badly and is a little shorter than the right one. She walks with a slight limp.”

Mrs. Colt didn’t know her niece’s friends but recalled a certain Aaron, a young black handyman at the Royal Hotel, where she worked. “I’ll show you her room and the things she left at the hotel.”

The young woman’s room was barely large enough for a chair, a table, and a bed. From beneath the bed the housekeeper pulled a small, battered suitcase. Inside were underclothes, a woolen skirt, a pair of working shoes and stockings, and a few pieces of cheap jewelry. Among scraps of paper were brief messages from the housekeeper and reminders of various duties in the hotel.

“Did she have any fancy clothes or valuables?”

“Indeed, she did. For her confirmation she got a pink silk dress and matching bonnet, and a gold bracelet with her initials. I can’t find them. She was probably going to meet a man and was wearing them when she disappeared.”

Pamela suggested, “Perhaps she was.”

As Mrs. Colt was closing the suitcase, a small notebook, hidden in the lid, fell out. Pamela fingered through it.

Ruth had entered several names followed by dates, perhaps referring to the men she met. The next to last reference was to a Mr. Johnson with an address on Madison Square. The last entry was merely five numbers in a row, 14414, hurriedly written and barely legible. Possibly a street address? Pamela would check them later. In the meantime, she would speak to Aaron, the girl’s friend at the hotel.

The Royal Hotel on Twenty-third Street in Chelsea was far from regal. The foyer reeked of stale tobacco, and its floor was grimy. Traveling salesmen in threadbare suits seemed to be its chief patrons.

At the reception desk, Pamela asked for Aaron, the handyman. Ten minutes later, he showed up, a harried look on his face. Pamela had caught him on the run. With a gentle smile and a small tip, Pamela persuaded him to sit with her in the foyer and talk.

He was a tall, slender, awkward young black man, gentle in his manner. A few sentences into their conversation, she realized to her surprise that he was speaking cultivated English.

He read her mind. “I don’t want to be a handyman for the rest of my life in rat holes like this, so I’m attending night school.”

Pamela complimented him. “It must be hard to balance work and study. I hope you persevere. If you have time, would you tell me about Ruth Colt?”

“We were friends,” Aaron said shyly. “I thought we might get married. But when I asked her, she turned me down. ‘Too poor and too black,’ she added, and then laughed at me.”

“That’s cruel. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “She was a bright, lively girl, but quick with hurtful words, heedless more than mean. She liked to mimic people and sometimes she mocked them.”

“Were there other male friends?”

“Yes, she went out with several men and allowed herself more liberties than she should.”

“Do you mean, like a loose woman or a prostitute?”

“Oh no. When we were going together, Ruth was a good girl. Later, she seemed to trust men too much and was trying to get married to a rich one.”

“Can you describe the last man who showed interest in her?”

“He was white, older than the others, broad shouldered and tall, bearded, and walked with stiff legs. I hadn’t seen him before. Called himself Mr. Johnson. When he registered, he gave us a business card that claimed he sold stocks and bonds at an address on Madison Square. His rough ways seemed to fascinate Ruth. I think he was a fraud.”

At Madison Square, Pamela checked Mr. Johnson’s address. As she suspected, it was fictitious. A clerk in Prescott’s office determined that Johnson’s business credentials were bogus: No reputable broker had ever heard of him. The so-called Johnson was clearly an imposter or worse. Pamela’s fears for Ruth Colt grew. She might have fallen into a predator’s hands.

The next day, Pamela woke in her bedroom to the sound of workmen clearing the street. She shuffled into the parlor and looked out a window. It had snowed during the night and covered Union Square with a soft, white blanket. She gave a wake-up call at the door of Francesca Ricci, the young woman living with her, and went through the apartment pulling up the shades.

During breakfast, the two women discussed the day’s agenda; then Francesca went off to school. While lingering at the table with a cup of coffee, Pamela mulled over her investigation. Her thoughts came together in the imposter, Mr. Johnson, an older, lame man, but nonetheless strong enough to prey on young women. She telephoned Virgil Crawford for a meeting that afternoon.

His private office was located in a nondescript apartment building. At the door a concierge studied Pamela with a sharp eye. As Crawford had instructed, she asked to see Scipio Africanus, a fake name that showed off Crawford’s grasp of ancient Roman history. The concierge replied, “Go to the top floor and down the hall to the back of the building. Last door on the right.”

The door lacked a nameplate, but she knocked anyway. A few seconds later, Crawford showed her into a small, tight room, and she sat facing him at his writing table. The telephone and several maps hung on the wall behind him. Through an open door she could see into a small parlor. His office was probably part of a full, compact apartment. File boxes and bookshelves covered the wall to his left. A window to his right admitted natural light and offered a view into a small garden enclosed by adjacent buildings.

“This is my den,” he said, pouring water for her and himself from a carafe. “I’m a butler with a wide range of duties. From here I protect the Crawford family’s name and its business. For example, I check the credentials of every candidate for an upper-level position in the firm.” He raised his glass to her. “Now, tell me what you’ve learned thus far.”

She summarized her investigation and concluded that the disguised Mr. Johnson had caused Ruth Colt to disappear. She had probably never left the city.

When she finished, he remarked, “I agree that the man you’ve described is an imposter. Our next step is to determine his true identity. Have you heard of Captain Jed Crake, a distinguished cavalry officer under Sherman in the war and now the owner of a meatpacking business on West Fourteenth Street?”

“He’s notorious,” replied Pamela. “When he laid workers off in a labor dispute, he impoverished several of our families at St. Barnabas Mission, on Mulberry Street.”

“Strange as it may sound, I suspect that Crake might be our disguised, predatory imposter.”

“Strange indeed!” Pamela exclaimed. “Crake may be flint-hearted, but he’s surely not foolish. Such a rich, prominent, and successful person wouldn’t risk everything for a brief sexual adventure with a chambermaid.” She felt uneasy about this conversation’s direction. “Why have you suspected Crake?” she asked. “Surely Mr. Johnson’s description could fit many men.”

“I know Captain Crake.” He spoke with an assurance that startled Pamela. “One of my duties in the Crawford family enterprise is to serve as my cousin James’s eyes and ears in the jungle that is American business. In a sense, like you, I’m a private investigator. Years ago, when we expanded our shipping company and moved from Georgia to New York, I began to investigate Captain Crake and certain other cutthroat entrepreneurs with whom we had to deal. My search aimed especially at their hidden vices.

“A certain police inspector’s unguarded remark led me to suspect Crake of a deeply flawed character. At stake was a contract to transport his company’s meat all over the East Coast in refrigerated cargo ships. In our conversation over drinks, the inspector assured me that Crake’s competitors exaggerated his faults. True, he drove a hard bargain, but he was at least as honest as they were. Then the inspector added offhandedly, ‘But let young women beware. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.’ A few seconds later, he suddenly looked embarrassed and said, ‘Forget I ever said that.’ ”

Pamela was skeptical. “Like other men, Crake may have a wolf’s instincts. Still, most of them never abduct a woman.”

“You’re right about men,” Crawford quickly agreed. “Nonetheless, from the inspector’s remark I sensed that Crake might have a deeper problem. I hired spies to follow him at night. Over several years, in various disguises and aliases, he left a trail of bruised and battered prostitutes. A young female employee also accused him of assaulting her. The police were paid off and didn’t charge him. I’ve concluded that Crake is prone to episodic violence, primarily toward women.” He met Pamela’s eye. “Is it farfetched to believe that Mr. Johnson and Crake are possibly the same person?”

“Perhaps not,” she replied. “So my task is to prove or disprove their identity, beginning with Captain Crake, and find out what happened to Ruth Colt.”

“Correct. But don’t confront him or let him know that you’re investigating him. His thugs could harm you. Also keep the Crawfords entirely out of the picture. And don’t go to the police unless you have a case that would hold up in court.”

“You’ve prescribed a very challenging investigation. I’m flattered that you believe I can do it.” She glanced toward the file boxes. “May I assume that you’ve checked my credentials as thoroughly as the others?”

“Yes, of course.” He smiled kindly but seemed reluctant to say more. She asked him to continue even though he would stir up painful memories from her past.

With a shrug, he complied. “When I asked Prescott for an investigator, he highly recommended you. However, the gossip concerning your husband’s embezzlement of bank funds and his suicide had cast a shadow over your reputation. So, first I had to clear that up in my own mind. I concluded you were innocent of any wrongdoing and went on to learn about you helping poor families at St. Barnabas Mission. After the loss of your home and inheritance, bruised but unbowed, you ran a boardinghouse for a year. Then Prescott hired you to fight theft at Macy’s. And last summer you successfully investigated murders at a great estate in the Berkshires. In brief, your story is touching and fascinating, and it reassured me that you are an intrepid and resourceful detective. I’ll stop there; I could say more to your credit.”

She took a moment to digest his remarks. Though they had only met twice, he probably knew her as well as almost anyone alive. She knew next to nothing about him. Still, he seemed utterly sincere. She felt good about working with him.

As she rose to leave, an afterthought came to her mind. She showed him the mysterious numbers from Ruth Colt’s notebook.

For a long moment he studied them, then suddenly glanced up at Pamela. “That could be an address near Crake’s meatpacking plants. Why should the missing woman have it?”

“I’ll try to find out,” replied Pamela.

“Then report your progress directly to me at this office. I’ll cover your expenses and your stipend. Good luck and be careful.”

Sunday, February 11

The sun was shining, the temperature mild for winter on this Sunday morning. Pamela waited across Fifth Avenue from the Crake mansion, a square brick building with a mansard roof. She impatiently shifted her walking stick from hand to hand. Finally, a servant came out and threw salt on icy patches on the steps. The housekeeper, Mrs. Kelly, would soon go to church.

Yesterday, Pamela had studied the mansion for what it could tell her about its rich owner. She had expected a palace but found it to be one of the older, smaller, less impressive buildings in the neighborhood. Crake apparently drew more satisfaction from amassing wealth than from displaying it. The mansion had belonged to his wife, a rich widow he married in the first flush of his success in the meatpacking business. She died five years ago, leaving him also a large fortune in railroad investments. He married again a year later.

At last, Mrs. Kelly, a stout, cheerful, middle-aged woman, emerged in a black silk dress and a matching fancy bonnet. Pamela followed her at a distance into St. Patrick’s Cathedral and sat near enough to observe her with a side-view opera glass. She met a few other servants and carried on a whispered conversation until the Mass began. After the service, Pamela followed them to a café where they drank tea, played cards, and chatted for a couple of hours.

Finally, they dispersed and the housekeeper walked alone in Central Park. Appearing to tire, she sat down on a bench and laid her purse loose in her lap. Her eyes half-closed, she didn’t notice a thief sneak up to her and snatch the purse. The sudden movement woke her up, but he was already speeding away.

Pamela had observed the scene. The thief ran toward her and flashed a knife to warn her off. As he passed by, she deftly poked her walking stick between his legs and he crashed to the stone walkway. Blood streaming from his brow, he glanced up at her with a curse on his lips. But she brought the steel point of her stick to within an inch of his eye and held him in a steady gaze. “Drop the purse and the knife or I’ll shove this stick into your brain.”

With shaking hands, he laid the purse and knife on the walkway.

“Now, get out of my sight.”

He scrambled to his feet and ran away.

Pamela picked up the purse, threw the knife into the bushes, and approached the housekeeper. She was trembling and on the verge of tears. Pamela returned the purse and introduced herself, then sat on the bench and said, “The thief is gone and you are safe now.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m most grateful to get my purse back.” She had a strong Irish accent.

“Do you need help? I could call your husband or your son.”

She shook her head. “I’ll be all right. My husband and I married late and had no children. But we were best friends. He died ten years ago, and I still miss him.”

“Then it’s hard being alone. A few years ago, I lost my husband and my only child, a lovely daughter.”

Mrs. Kelly gazed at Pamela with sympathy and interest. “How could you cope with the grief?”

“I have companions, my foster children, one at a time. Last year, an Irish girl lived with me. This year, it’s an Italian girl. They keep me young and happy.”

Mrs. Kelly was listening attentively and clucking her approval.

“May I walk you home?” Pamela asked.

The housekeeper replied hesitantly, “I don’t want to be a bother.” Still, the tone in her voice said she welcomed the offer.

“No trouble at all,” said Pamela cheerfully. “The sun is still up. I can use the walk.” Pamela helped the housekeeper to her feet. They set off together for the Crake residence.

Mrs. Kelly invited Pamela into the kitchen of her small apartment on the ground floor in the rear of the building. The house was very quiet, except for a canary in a cage and a clock ticking on the wall.

“Is anyone home?” Pamela asked. “I don’t hear anyone stirring.”

“Not a soul but me,” Mrs. Kelly replied easily. “The servants have the day off while Mrs. Crake visits a friend’s country house.”

“And Mr. Crake?”

“He left in the middle of January and will be back in a few weeks. His arthritis got so bad that it nearly crippled him, so he went to a hot springs spa in Georgia. He writes that the treatment relieves the pain.”

Pamela quickly calculated. Crake was still in New York at the time of Ruth Colt’s disappearance. She asked, “If he’s a sick man, can he go alone?”

“His nurse, Birgitta, actually one of our maids, goes along to massage him, administer his medicines, and help him move about.”

A look of surprise must have crept onto Pamela’s face at the thought of a young female, probably blond and blue-eyed, traveling alone with Crake. She must be made of steel.

“Birgitta is Swedish, mature beyond her years, and has a way with the captain.” Mrs. Kelly smiled indulgently. “She knows how to keep him calm.” Putting a kettle on the stove, she added, “Would you like tea?”

“That would be lovely.” Pamela took off her coat, set aside her stick, and began to survey the room. It had a sleeping alcove, a small kitchen, and decent, plain furniture. A variety of photographs and shelves of mementos covered the walls. Her gaze fixed on a framed photograph of a young Union army officer.

“That’s my Dennis during the war,” said Mrs. Kelly. “He served three years in the New York Sixty-ninth and won a . . .