Murder on Marble Row by Victoria Thompson

believe in. Then he met this girl.”
    â€œOh, dear,” Sarah said, beginning to understand.
    â€œYes,” Alberta agreed. “She’s Russian or maybe German. I’m not sure. Very pretty but just as insane as the rest of them. Full of hatred and ideas that don’t make any sense at all to rational people. And of course she believes in free love.”
    â€œI see,” Sarah said, and she did. The whole picture was clear now. Creighton had been looking for a philosophy of his own that would thoroughly shock his father. Then he’d met a girl who offered him not only new ideas but carnal satisfaction as well. The combination must have been irresistible.
    â€œThey live on the Lower East Side in a tenement with a lot of other Russian and German immigrants.” She looked at Sarah beseechingly. “Someone should warn him that the police think he killed Father.”
    â€œDo you think he’s guilty?” Sarah asked. “Do you want him to run away?”
    â€œOf course not, and I don’t think he’s guilty! But when did that ever stop the police from arresting someone? They’re looking for a person who planted a bomb, and everyone knows anarchists plant bombs. They’ll blame him and his friends because it’s easy, and Lilly will be only too happy to let Creighton be accused.”
    â€œDetective Sergeant Malloy isn’t that kind of a policeman,” Sarah told her. “I know him, and I’ve seen him work. He won’t rest until he finds the truth.”
    â€œHow on earth do you know a policeman, Sarah?” Alberta asked in amazement.
    â€œIt’s a long story, but you can take my word. Creighton has nothing to fear from Detective Malloy if he’s innocent.”
    Alberta was unconvinced. “Still, someone should warn him. Sarah, do you know anyone who could take a message to him?”
    Sarah almost volunteered herself. She often went into those neighborhoods to deliver babies, but she didn’t want to seem too eager. “I think I could find someone. Do you have his address?”
    Alberta gave her the address of a building just south of Houston Street in the German Jewish neighborhood. Sarah knew the area well.
    Â 
 
F RANK WAS LOOKING FOR A SERVANT TO SEND UP TO Miss Van Dyke’s room to ask if he could question her when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked up to see Sarah Brandt descending.
    The sight of her always amazed him. She seemed to be lit by some inner fire that gave her a presence or a glow, setting her apart from every other woman he’d ever known. He felt the familiar ache of a longing that could never be fulfilled. He had only a moment to admire her before she saw him looking up.
    â€œMalloy, I’m so glad you’re still here,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”
    She probably had some silly idea about who the killer was, and he’d have to convince her it wasn’t possible. He didn’t have time for that. He had to find out who had killed Van Dyke before Roosevelt got impatient and put somebody else on the case. “I need to speak with Miss Van Dyke,” he said, hoping to distract her.
    â€œShe can’t see you now,” she said as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “She’s too ill. That’s what I need to talk to you about.” She looked around to see if they were alone. She noticed the parlor door was closed.
    â€œMrs. Van Dyke and your mother are in there,” he explained. “Some minister is with them.”
    â€œGood, come with me.”
    To his annoyance, she headed off toward the back of the house without waiting to see if he would agree. Having no choice, he followed her down the hall and into a dimly lit room. A glance around told him this must be Van Dyke’s study. The huge and snarling head of the pelt he’d seen hanging in Van Dyke’s bedroom hung on the wall opposite the door, but it was only one of many