Murder on Lexington Avenue by Victoria Thompson Page B

afternoon to discuss the matter.”
    “So you’re saying you didn’t meet with Mr. Wooten that afternoon?”
    “No, I did not.”
    “And what did you do instead?”
    “I went for a long walk in Central Park.”
    “Did anyone see you?”
    “Hundreds of people saw me.”
    “Would anyone remember seeing you?” Frank tried.
    Young’s expression was bleak. “Probably not, but since I didn’t kill Mr. Wooten, it doesn’t matter. I’d like to leave now.”
    Frank studied him. He wasn’t going to get anything else out of him today. Still, he couldn’t resist a parting shot. “Don’t you even want to know if your child is a boy or a girl?”
    Young’s gaze darted upward as he recalled Mrs. Wooten’s condition and what it meant. “I had no idea!” he told Frank. He actually sounded aggrieved. “She never said a word to me.”
    “Didn’t you notice that she got fat?” Surely somebody had noticed that, but Mrs. Parmer had seemed as surprised as Young.
    “Valora . . . I mean, Mrs. Wooten has always been a voluptuous woman. She has seemed a bit more so of late, but I never thought . . . Did you think she was with child?”
    Frank had to admit it had never crossed his mind. She certainly didn’t have the usual profile of a pregnant female, and her age also made it unlikely, especially considering how old her children were and how long it had been since she’d last given birth.
    “Why would Wooten have been so certain the baby wasn’t his?” Frank asked.
    “The obvious reason,” Young said, mortified by the question.
    “You mean Wooten no longer shared his wife’s bed?” Frank guessed. “Why not?”
    “That’s something you will have to discuss with Mrs. Wooten,” Young said, and from the satisfied gleam in his eye, Young knew Frank would never dare do such a thing.
    He could, however, ask Sarah Brandt to.
     
     
    S ARAH WAS GLAD THEY HADN’T SENT A CARRIAGE FOR HER. Traffic in the city and the jams at every intersection made traveling by carriage slow and nerve-wracking, which was why Sarah usually refused to be transported unless the case was especially far away. The young footman, whose name, Sarah had learned on their brisk walk and their ride on the Sixth Avenue Elevated Train, was Jack, had carried her bag all the way to the Wootens’ front door. On the way, she had learned where she was going, although Jack knew nothing that could enlighten her as to why a midwife’s services might be needed at his employer’s house. The master had been murdered a few days ago—maybe she’d heard about it. Sarah hadn’t been out since Friday and hadn’t seen any newspapers or even had the opportunity to hear the corner newsboys shouting the details of the latest crimes in order to sell their wares. So she hadn’t heard about the murder.
    Jack was only too happy to tell her all the ugly details of how Mr. Wooten had had his head smashed in by someone who had broken into his office. She couldn’t help wondering how much of the story was true and how much had been exaggerated in the servants’ quarters from rumors and eavesdropping and from the sensationalized version in the newspapers. Sarah comforted herself in the knowledge that Malloy would never have sent for her unless he was in desperate need of her assistance. A woman in labor had inspired many men to a desperate need for her assistance.
    A frantic-looking maid admitted them, and to Sarah’s amusement, she instantly began berating Jack for taking so long in fetching her.
    “I ran nearly all the way there,” he protested, “but I couldn’t make her run back, now could I? She says she’s a midwife, but I told her nobody here was having a baby,” he added, aggrieved that he’d been sent on a wild-goose chase.
    The maid sighed in exasperation. “Go back to the stables, and forget anybody ever spoke to you today.”
    Jack made his farewells to Sarah and gave her back her bag. She thanked him for his assistance, and he disappeared into the