Death in Saratoga Springs (13 page)

When they settled into chairs, Prescott offered them a shot of his whiskey. Harry accepted, Pamela declined.

Prescott toasted them, then asked Harry, “Did the Crawfords kill Crake? What do you say?”

“We can't arrest and convict them on the evidence we have now. But they remain possible suspects. Tower might have lied to you about his part in that foraging incident in Georgia. In fact, he may also have fabricated the sexual violence in order to extort money from the Crawfords. But their own account of the incident is sufficiently gruesome to move ordinary men and women to murder. I don't see either the brother or the sister wielding that lethal knife. They would need an assassin, either someone they paid or who shares their hatred of Crake.”

Pamela followed Harry's ideas with difficulty. The image of Arthur Crawford on the mantel distracted her mind. Then Harry's remark that the Crawfords would have needed a sympathetic accomplice rang a bell. Pamela recalled the person who resembled the Confederate officer in the portrait.

“I may have found a possible assassin!” she exclaimed.

Prescott and Harry stared at her. “Who?” they asked in unison.

“Jason Dunn.” She quickly added, “I see in him a distant, family likeness to Arthur Crawford, especially in the eyes. He also has a Southern accent. I would like to find out if Jason is kin and might share the Crawford hatred of Captain Crake.”

Prescott turned to Harry. “What do you think? Is Pamela on to something?”

“To detect a family likeness, I'd have to see Jason and the Crawford portrait side by side. Still, Pamela's suggestion to investigate Jason Dunn is worth pursuing. He was at the Victor Herbert concert that night in the hotel garden and could easily have sneaked into Crake's room. His eagerness to implicate Francesca looks suspicious to me.”

Prescott turned to Pamela. “The hotel manager should give you Jason's background. Start there. Harry will help you.”

Before going to supper, Pamela sat at her writing table and hurriedly sketched from memory the portrait of Arthur Crawford. Tomorrow, she'd sketch Jason Dunn's features. Then she could put the two portraits side by side. She was sure Harry would see the kinship.

Friday, July 20

 

A
fter a brief supper in the dining hall, Pamela returned to her room. A note lay on the floor.

She wondered what business he might have in mind. He had not been part of their conversation with James and Edith, and might have something of interest to add. The reception desk told her that Hattie's was a decent café on William Street off South Broadway, near the hotel. That seemed safe enough.

After a five-minute walk, Pamela stood before a small, plain building, paint peeling from the brick walls. In this warm summer weather the ground-floor windows were open to the street, and she glanced in. Two black men were playing cards at one table; a white family had gathered for iced tea at another. Helping out at the bar, one of the hotel waiters recognized her and beckoned her in.

For a brief moment, she hesitated. The racial mixture disturbed her. She brushed off this concern. Saratoga didn't have dangerous, hostile neighborhoods like New York's. As she walked in, the customers gave her a momentary glance and went on with their pleasures.

Shortly afterward, Virgil arrived in a tan linen suit and a wide-brimmed straw hat. He wore light fawn gloves and carried a highly polished black walking stick with a pearl handle. She had noticed it before. In the doorway, he stopped and surveyed the room. When his eyes lighted upon Pamela, they brightened with recognition. He smiled politely and greeted her with a slight bow. They moved to a table in a quiet corner.

Pamela glanced at Virgil's walking stick. He was palming the pearl handle. “Is it what I think it is?”

Virgil smiled. “Yes, it's a sword cane from a shop in Paris near the Palais Royal. It has proved useful on New York City's waterfront, where James's shipping company is located. On occasion, I've had to fend off villains who would have robbed him. I doubt that I'll need to draw it in Saratoga Springs. But I keep it handy, just in case.” He leaned the cane against the wall.

The hotel waiter came with iced tea. He and Virgil exchanged friendly nods, while Virgil slipped a coin into his hand. In vain, Pamela objected that she would pay her own tab.

“It's my reputation, not yours, that's at stake,” he whispered with feigned fear. “They would think I'm cheap.”

The other customers watched this encounter with amused side glances.

“Shall we use our Christian names?” Pamela asked.

“Delighted,” he replied.

They lifted their glasses and toasted each other. He began, “You are honest and can be trusted. James and Edith agreed that I should speak with you. We have nothing shameful to hide.”

He spoke in beautifully articulated English with a Southern accent. If she were blind, she wouldn't have known that he was black. Even with him before her, she could hardly detect his race. His complexion was fair. The only clues were perhaps his fuller lips, almond-shaped eyes, and tightly curled gray hair.

He went on. “You are wondering whether Edith or James might have killed Captain Crake, since he had given them good reason. Well, they didn't. I felt enough of their pain and humiliation to want to kill him but lacked the courage. Still, I'm glad someone did.”

“Would you tell me your place in the family in sixty-four?”

“I was the cook and my wife was a housekeeper in the family's mansion. We were legally slaves and our work could be called servile. But the Crawfords treated us as kin, as far as the slave codes of the South allowed. My father was a visiting Crawford uncle, a handsome gentleman and Confederate officer. He died during the war—from dysentery rather than a Yankee bullet. My mother, a beautiful Crawford domestic slave, gave me all the love I needed.”

“And Edith and James?” Pamela asked.

“We were close. Growing up, we had the same tutors and played together.”

“How were you a witness to Crake's crime?”

“When he arrived at the mansion's front door and Mrs. Crawford cursed him, I realized that serious trouble was ahead. My wife and I hid in a tiny, secret room behind a bookcase in the library together with the family's most valuable works of art.”

Pamela looked askance. “The Union soldiers were supposed to free the slaves. Why wouldn't you and your wife have welcomed them?”

“We didn't trust them. They were said to abuse blacks, especially women.”

“Why believe such tales? Confederate sympathizers surely invented them.”

Virgil shook his head. “I withheld judgment, until Captain Crake and his men rode into our plantation like a band of vicious thieves. They broke into the slave quarters, as well as into barns and sheds. When they couldn't find what they wanted, they beat black men and women until they revealed hiding places in the woods. I hid because Crake would have beaten me and my wife in the same way.”

Pamela wanted to protest that Crake and his foragers were the exception in Sherman's army, but there could have been many more atrocities that she hadn't heard of. “I grant that war can turn even decent men into monsters.”

“That's true of all armies,” Virgil agreed. “At the time, my cousin James and I often asked ourselves what moved Northern soldiers to fight and die in the South. To put an end to slavery? No, we figured that most of them fought for the thrill of it or for their pay. The few idealists among them wanted to save the Union and keep the country from falling apart. In fact, very few soldiers really cared for black people or respected them. They freed them only to ruin their masters for breaking up the Union and starting the war.”

Virgil glared at Pamela, his eyes glowing with passion. “Should blacks be grateful? What could freedom mean to us, penniless and uneducated, with our plantations and our towns in ashes? Northern politicians promised us land and money. Only fools believed them.”

Pamela couldn't object. After thirty years, true freedom for most black Americans still seemed a distant hope.

“From your hiding place, how could you see what Crake was doing?”

“We could hear his loud, vicious taunts and vile curses, his heavy blows, and the shots from his pistol. We heard him tell his sergeant to set fire to the house ‘and burn the bastards.' When we left our hiding place, the room was in flames.

“The sight on the floor was pitiful. I'll carry it with me to my grave. Mother, son, and daughter were beaten bloody and shot. My wife and I pulled them out of the house and hid them until the soldiers left. The house was ruined. I learned later that Crake had killed Mr. Crawford in the basement.”

“What happened to James Crawford that keeps him in a wheelchair?”

“Edith told me that when he was shot and lay on the floor, Crake kicked him several times with his heavy boots and broke his back. Since then, the lower half of his body has been paralyzed.”

“He doesn't seem bitter. I'm surprised.”

“It was hard at first. He insisted he would walk, have a family, and lead a normal life. After a few years of self-pity, he decided that half a loaf was better than none. He threw himself into the shipping business and prospered. For pleasure, he plays chess with other amateurs and me, sings and listens to music, and reads. His conversation sparkles with wit. He's a joy to be with.”

“And Edith? How is she?”

“Crake's blows crippled her spirit rather than her body. She has a sterling character, but nonetheless struggles with anger and resentment.”

“Forgive me, but may I touch on a very sensitive issue?” Pamela searched his face for a sign to continue.

His facial expression hardly changed, but his eyes became deeply troubled. “I know what you're thinking. You've heard it from Sergeant Tower. After thirty years, I still cannot bring myself to talk about the matter. You must speak directly to Edith.”

“With the plantation in ruins, what did you do?”

“Mrs. Crawford soon died of her injuries. My wife and I brought Edith and James to their town house in Savannah and nursed them there. When they had sufficiently recovered, they asked us to remain with them, no longer as slaves but as servants with good pay and accommodations. It was the best offer we had. We agreed and have never regretted our decision.”

“May I ask your wife's name? She's not here. Is she well?”

He shook his head. “Mary died last year. I miss her.”

“I'm sorry. It's hard to lose someone who has become part of you. My young daughter died a few years ago and I haven't fully gotten over it.”

She finished her tea. “In your note you mentioned discussing business. What did you have in mind?”

“Yes, it's been five months since we suspended our investigation into the disappearance of Ruth Colt. Her body must be found and given a decent burial. We Crawfords also want justice done and Crake's evil deeds exposed.”

“I agree,” said Pamela. “With Crake dead and his money frozen, his thugs will not threaten my ward, Francesca Ricci. In any case, she is safe in prison, so to speak. On the other hand, the police might obstruct our investigation, fearing that it would expose their links to Crake. Nonetheless, we should resume the search for Ruth. At the moment, I'm engaged at a crucial point in the investigation of Crake's death. I'll speak to Prescott. He can send Harry to New York. He knows the case.”

Virgil raised a cautionary hand. “You should remind Mr. Miller to keep the Crawford family out of the public eye.”

“I understand. Now, I must go.”

He rose from the table and took his cane. “I'll speak with the other customers for a few minutes. I've enjoyed our conversation. If I can be of assistance in catching Crake's killer, please let me know.”

Momentarily uncertain, Pamela looked into his eyes. He seemed to mean what he said.

Upon her return to the hotel, Pamela walked in the garden and reflected on her visit with Virgil Crawford. She hadn't expected him to confess to Crake's death or to implicate Edith in it. But he said enough to suggest that he, or the two of them in collaboration, could have killed the captain. As an experienced chef, Virgil would surely know how to use a knife. The sword in his cane could have served the purpose. Finally, he and Edith shared a strong desire for justice and revenge.

They needed an opportunity. And they had one at Victor Herbert's concert in the hotel garden, the evening of July 7. Virgil could easily have slipped away from the audience, killed Crake, and returned to his place next to James.

Pamela sighed, unhappy with her reasoning. It seemed out of character for the Crawfords to slaughter an old, sick, unarmed man in the dark, even if he were a villain. Could justice be served in that way? Brother James would know of the plan and, as a man of honor, would probably disapprove.

Pamela went to bed, turning her thoughts to Jason Dunn. He might be a Crawford by birth—he looked like one. In any case, he wasn't burdened with a sense of honor and was free from James's control. Jason had the opportunity and the skill with knives to have killed Crake. What was missing was a motive. For that piece of the puzzle, Pamela would have to know the man better.