Death in Saratoga Springs (24 page)

“Sure, I'll see you then.”

Monday, July 30

 

A
t breakfast in the hotel dining hall, Pamela and Prescott ran into the Crawfords, and they agreed to eat together. Almost immediately, James asked Prescott, “What can you tell us about Robert Shaw's attack on Rachel Crake? The police have released scant information. Still, the news has spread throughout the town in garbled versions.”

Prescott gave the Crawfords a careful account, Pamela adding a detail here and there.

“Well,” declared Edith, “Rachel Crake was foolish to go back to a man who was untrustworthy and had beaten her.”

“But why did he try to kill her?” James asked Prescott.

“She threatened to tell the police that she had heard Shaw conspire with two men to kill her husband. She demanded money for her silence. Shaw pretended to agree, lured her from the hotel ballroom to his secret cottage, and attempted to silence her forever.”

“And did she name the two men?” asked Edith, her voice trembling.

“Yes,” Prescott replied. “Jason, sorry to say, and Karl Metzger. But, of course, we only have her word for that. She also didn't claim to know their roles, if any, in actually killing Crake.”

James gazed calmly at Prescott. “The circumstances of his death are still murky. You and Mrs. Thompson will have to help the police sort them out.” He smiled cheerfully. “But we have a more pleasant task before us. How shall we amuse ourselves today? The weather promises to be beautiful. I suggest that we visit Mount McGregor. It's only a thirty-five-minute train ride from here and offers an outstanding view of the area. We could lunch at Hotel Balmoral and then visit our late President Grant's summer cottage.”

Virgil added, “Since he died there nine years ago, it has become almost a shrine. Hundreds of his admirers visit it every day at this time of the year.”

“I'd be happy to go for the meal and the view,” said Edith dryly. “You men are welcome to the general. I had enough of him thirty years ago.” She turned to Prescott. “What do you say, Captain? Didn't you serve under his command in the war?”

Pamela grew concerned how Prescott would react. He rarely mentioned his military service or rank, and never to glorify it. Thirty years later, he still suffered from the physical and mental wounds of combat.

He nonetheless smiled at Edith. “In the last year of the war, I occasionally saw General Grant, but only at a distance. He was a shabby-looking man with a reputation for hard drinking and outstanding horsemanship. Appearances can be deceptive. He was brilliant in the art of making war. Many say that his single-minded, ruthless, aggressive strategy brought the war to an end. In his cottage we might see him in a different light.”

He glanced toward Pamela with a teasing smile. “And what do you say, madame?”

“I'm intrigued. His military feats are much praised. But his record as president is judged to be paltry, even shamefully corrupt. Still, I admire him for writing a thick memoir to pay off his debts while dying of throat cancer in that cottage. I'd like to spend a few minutes there with him.”

For a moment, they were all silent. Then James said, “It's settled. We'll catch the ten o'clock train on North Broadway.”

 

The ride began well. With ease, Virgil and Prescott lifted James and his wheelchair into a railroad carriage. For thirty-five minutes the train chugged past farms and hamlets in the foothills of the Adirondacks. The train struggled through the last few uphill miles, but eased onto the level ground at the top of McGregor and discharged its passengers in front of the Hotel Balmoral.

They ate lunch on the hotel's wide, shaded terrace, enjoying the view over the Hudson River valley below. A short walk on a smooth path brought them to Grant's cottage, a plain, two-story wood frame structure with a large front porch. The cottage's simplicity, Pamela thought, somehow suited the man. The two-volume memoir was his monument.

Their guide pointed to a chair on the porch. “The general wrote much of the time here, with a pencil on a lined, yellow legal pad. When he became too weak to write, he dictated to a stenographer. Mind you, Grant had throat cancer. It was torture for him to speak. Toward the end, his voice grew so weak the stenographer had to put his ear to the general's mouth.”

They were led inside Grant's bedroom. The guide gestured to a bed by the window. “There he died, three days after writing the last line of his memoir.” He showed them a fancy clock on the mantel of the fireplace. “His son stopped the clock at eight minutes after eight on the morning of July 23, 1885.”

While the men continued to speak with the guide about Grant and his military achievements, Pamela and Edith walked to an outlook near the cottage. The air was crisp and clear. They had a magnificent view of the Adirondack Mountains to the north and the Catskills to the south. In the broad valley below, the Hudson flowed toward Albany and New York City.

After several minutes of quiet pleasure, Pamela asked about Mrs. Dunn. “We haven't seen her much since she arrived. Is she well?”

Edith shrugged. “She complains of aches and pains, but nothing serious. She will leave tomorrow for New York City for a week with a cousin and then return home to Charleston.”

“Has she shown any concern for Jason?”

“None at all. When speaking with her we avoid the subject.” There was a hint of regret in Edith's face.

“Has she always had that attitude?”

“I'm afraid so. Unfortunately, my situation at Jason's birth seemed so desperate that even her grudging willingness to take him was welcome. I didn't foresee the loveless misery ahead for him. When I began to notice his unhappiness with Mr. and Mrs. Dunn, it seemed too late for any practical remedy. I've often reproached myself for a lack of understanding and courage. Now I fear that Jason has fallen into bad company with that gambler Shaw and the German butcher Metzger.”

“Do you suspect that Jason was involved in Crake's death?”

“Don't you?”

“Not really. But, if he were involved, his mental illness might mitigate his responsibility. I see grounds for hope. I'm going to propose to your brother, James, that he visit the clinic with Prescott and me tomorrow. We'll learn what several days of therapy may have accomplished.”

She threw Edith a glance.

“I'm not ready yet.”

The men soon joined them on the outlook and admired the view. “So, what have you learned, James?” asked his sister.

“A bit of wisdom,” he replied. “Grant chose a good place to end his days, high above the petty, mundane concerns of most lives. Undistracted, he could go back three decades and consider what he and others in blue and gray wrought, for better or worse. He's remarkably fair-minded, I think.”

Pamela addressed Prescott. “What will you take away from this visit?”

“Apart from the pleasure of the present company, I leave with many questions. How shall I reconcile Grant the military butcher and Grant the gentle, private person? As a general, more than most, he was prodigal of men's lives. Did he ever shudder at the slaughter? Did he ever weep for the countless widows and orphans his orders were creating? I doubt it, but I might be wrong. As a private person, he was generous to a fault and a kind father to his children. He loved animals, especially horses, and tried to prevent their abuse. Frankly, his mind is a mystery to me.”

Prescott asked Virgil, “Any surprises?” As was his custom, he had remained in the background, observing the others, as well as the view.

“Nothing has surprised me,” he replied. “I've read about Grant. Our visit reminds me that he put an end to slavery, as much as any man then alive, but at a terrible cost. France, Britain, and other countries, like Brazil recently, did it without bloodshed. As president, Grant left the work of emancipation, at best, half done.”

James gazed thoughtfully at Virgil, then addressed the others. “This has been a delightful and rewarding visit for both mind and body. We should now return to the Balmoral for something to drink and then catch the last train to Saratoga.”

As they waited for their drinks, Pamela brought up the idea of a visit to Dr. Carson's clinic. “After several days of therapy, the doctor should be able to tell us whether it seems to be working for Jason.”

All of them but Edith agreed to go. She smiled sadly. “Perhaps on another occasion.”

Back in Saratoga Springs in the early evening, Harry and the Metzgers went out to the grassy lot behind the German clubhouse. The atmosphere was genial. Men and women with steins of foaming beer in their hands gathered around a brass band and sang to its robust marches and sentimental waltzes. Afterward, a meal of grilled bratwurst, noodles, and pickled beets was served under a tent. A dessert of cherry strudel was followed by coffee.

Harry knew little German, but most of these people were fluent in English. There were sack and egg races for children, croquet for women, and a horseshoe toss for men. Harry could throw with the best of them. Karl was his partner. Together, they shared a prize, a pair of beer steins.

As they walked away from the pitch, Karl looked as if he had something weighing on his mind. He motioned Harry to the side.

“I'd like a word, Harry, when the festival is over. Where could we meet?”

“Come to my room in the hotel. Ask for me at the front desk. I'll leave a message.”

“I'll be there.” The burly German was close to tears.

 

Shortly after nine, Harry showed Metzger into the room. Though the windows were open, the air inside was warm and still. Metzger had hurried up the stairs and was sweating profusely. Harry offered him a towel, a fan, and a glass of cold water. “We'll talk, Karl, when you've cooled down.”

After he had mopped his face and fanned himself, he drank the water. “Thanks,” he said, and put the glass aside. Harry refilled it.

“Did you like the bratwurst, Harry?”

“Does a child like candy?” Harry replied. The German was reluctant and for good reason.

Metzger stared into the glass for a long moment, then began hesitantly. “Ever since I heard the news about Rachel Crake, I can't stop thinking. I don't doubt that Shaw tried to kill her. She knew too much and couldn't keep her mouth shut. I'm trying to figure out if I encouraged him to kill old Captain Crake.”

Harry raised a hand. “Start from the beginning. Tell me how you might have helped him.”

“Since the season began here in June, Shaw has joined Jason Dunn and me in Mickey's for penny ante poker or for a throw of the dice. We often complained to each other about the captain. Over the years, he had angered all three of us, one way or another. Jason resented how he generally abused women and was trying to seduce Francesca. Shaw claimed he cheated at cards and was unfair to Rachel. I had long hated him for forcing me out of the meatpacking business. I knew that he was a guest at the hotel, but I kept out of his sight. I didn't want trouble. It would cost me my job.”

Metzger again patted sweat away from his forehead and drank from the glass. “Then, in the morning of July seventh, my boss brought Crake into the meat department on a visit. By accident, he and I met. He flared up and ordered my boss to get rid of me. If necessary, he would complain to Mr. Wooley, the proprietor.”

Metzger paused again, breathing heavily. His face was red.

“Take it easy, Karl,” Harry said. “You rightly feared that if you were fired, you'd have no prospect of work, especially during the country's present economic depression.”

“As I look back now, Harry, I see that a surge of anger carried me away. I felt I had to stop Crake. Shaw saw my anger. He urged us to act together. He would kill Crake if Jason and I would help. He asked me to lend him the new boning knife. He had earlier admired it. He said it would make a small, neat, but fatal wound and no mess. I could claim it was stolen. I would otherwise not get involved. In the evening of July seventh, Jason would keep track of Crake and guide Shaw to the right place at the right time for the killing.”

“Who did you think would be blamed for the murder?”

“I asked Shaw. He said the police would suspect that a tramp stole my knife and broke into the cottage to steal money or jewelry. Crake surprised him and was killed. We didn't know that Crake had given Francesca Ricci the bracelet. I'm sorry the police arrested her. That's bothered me. I want to clear her.”

“You're taking the right steps, Karl. So, Shaw came up with a plan to kill Crake involving the three of you. But I know it didn't work out that way. Tell me what happened next.”

“Jason and I said we needed an hour to think it over. By one o'clock, I had decided the scheme was too risky. In any case, I didn't want my knife to kill anyone, not even Crake. Jason felt the same. Shaw heard us out, smiled, and said he'd drop the idea.”