Table of Contents
Praise for national bestselling author VICTORIA THOMPSON and her Gaslight Mysteries:
MURDER ON ST. MARKS PLACE
Lovers of history, mystery, and romance wont be disappointed. Exciting ... Will hold the reader in thrall.
Romantic Times
As Victoria Thompson colorfully demonstrates in her latest Gaslight Mystery, New York City at the beginning of the twentieth century is a dangerous place for its melting pot immigrants ... [She] weaves a fine mystery for readers who enjoy solving a difficult puzzler.
Harriet Klausner
MURDER ON ASTOR PLACE
Nominated for the Best First Mystery Award by
Romantic Times magazine
Victoria Thompson is off to a blazing start with Sarah Brandt and Frank Malloy in Murder on Astor Place. I do hope shes starting at the beginning of the alphabet. Dont miss her first tantalizing mystery.
Catherine Coulter, author of Double Take
A marvelous debut mystery with compelling characters, a fascinating setting, and a stunning resolution. Its the best mystery Ive read in ages.
Jill Churchill, author of The Accidental Florist
Fascinating ... Sarah and Frank are appealing characters ... Thompson vividly re-creates the gaslit world of old New York. Publishers Weekly
Spellbinding. A bravura performance that will leave you impatient for the next installment.
Romantic Times
An exciting first in a series which will appeal to Anne Perry fans.Mystery Scene
Gaslight Mysteries by Victoria Thompson
MURDER ON ASTOR PLACE
MURDER ON ST. MARKS PLACE
MURDER ON GRAMERCY PARK
MURDER ON WASHINGTON SQUARE
MURDER ON MULBERRY BEND
MURDER ON MARBLE ROW
MURDER ON LENOX HILL
MURDER IN LITTLE ITALY
MURDER IN CHINATOWN
DEDICATION
With thanks to Julie and Georgia and all the members of the Vicious Circle, past and future, for helping me keep my head on straight, my feet on the ground, and my sanity intact (not to mention all the plotting, character analysis, and general advice youve provided through the years). Couldnt have made it without you!
PROLOGUE
SHE THOUGHT OF THE PAIN AS A MONSTER THAT dwelled inside of her. For long periods of time it slept, and then slowly it would begin to stir. It started with a dull ache as the beast came awake. Then it grew and grew as the monster dug his talons into her neck, squeezing and squeezing, the pain a living, breathing thing that consumed her, obliterating thought and light and even the air she breathed.
She welcomed the monster, greeted him like a beloved friend, because he gave her the only proof that she was still alive. For a few blissful moments, from the time the monster stirred until the pain became so great she had to cry out, she was awake and aware and alive, almost the way shed been before.
She gritted her teeth, holding back the moan of agony that came rumbling up from the depths of her soul, stretching out those moments as long as she possibly could. Opening her eyes to see sunlight or lamplight or a human face. Drinking in every vision with the clarity only those who were denied even the most basic pleasures of life could experience.
But sooner or later the moan or the scream or the sigh would escape, and they would know. Those who loved her. Those who could not bear to see her in pain. They would press the glass to her lips and force her to drink the bitter draft, the magic potion that would put the monster to sleep again. For a few more seconds she would revel in the beasts assault, counting each precious one of them until she felt the talons loosening their grip, slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, one by one by one, until the pain was gone and the monster slept again beneath the golden haze of the drug.
For long months she lay like this, watching each of the seasons pass by the window beside her bed. She had given up hope of ever tasting the outside air again, of ever walking down a gravel path or sitting a saddle or dancing a waltz or feeling the embrace of a lover. She had thought she would lie here forever, until at last the beast devoured her.
And then he came.
He was the only one who would put his hands on her. The only one who dared. He knew the name of the beast, and he put his hands on her and strangled it, choking it and killing it, and setting her free. Only one man could do that, one man in all the world.
Edmund Blackwell.
FRANK MALLOY FIGURED SOMEONE AT POLICE Headquarters must be mad at him. Why else would they send him out to investigate a suicide? Any drunken moron in the Detective Bureau could have handled this, and God knew, there were plenty of them to spare.
Of course, as soon as hed heard the address, he knew why hed been chosen. Gramercy Park. Some rich swell had blown his brains out, and the family would want the matter settled quietly. Frank knew how to handle the boys from Newspaper Row. Hed done it often enough. Give them just enough to keep them happy but not enough to cause the family any hardship. No hint of scandal could escape, and Frank could be trusted to be discreet.
As he approached the house, he glanced at the park surrounded by the high, gated fence that only residents of the streets around it could enter. The small patch of carefully tended grass and shrubbery would look like heaven to the urchins living on the Lower East Side who never saw anything green except rot. Here the swells had a fence to keep even their own kind from trampling on it.
When he checked the address, Frank realized with a start that he knew the house. Hed been there several months before, when the previous occupant had been found murdered. Found by Sarah Brandt, a lady of Franks acquaintance. Thats how his mother might have explained her, if his mother could have been forced to speak of her at all. Well, at least he didnt have to worry about Sarah Brandt getting involved in this case the way she had on previous ones. This wasnt really a case anyway. He was just here to tie up a few loose ends and see the body taken quietly away.
The beat cop stood guard at the front steps. He nodded at Frank and touched his round hat in a gesture of respect.
Whats going on here, Patrick? Frank asked.
The man what lives here shot hisself in the head. His poor wife found him, and shes in a state. He leaned closer, so that Frank could smell the whiskey on his breath, and added in a whisper, Shes breeding, too.
Frank managed not to flinch. Breeding?
About to drop it right on the floor any minute, too, if you ask me, Officer Patrick offered, his round head nodding knowingly.
Nobody asked you, Frank reminded him. Whats the dead fellows name?
Edmund Blackwell. Hes some kind of doctor.
Perfect. A pregnant woman about to give birth and a dead doctor.
Frank forced himself to mount the front steps, ruthlessly suppressing the visions of his own wife in her dying moments, her blood soaking the mattress beneath her as it ran unchecked from her body. This woman wasnt Kathleen. He had to remind himself of that twice before he could open the front door.
Inside, another beat cop was doing his best to keep several servants from entering the room to the left of the entrance hall. Frank figured this was probably the room the dead man had chosen for his own execution. The officer was visibly relieved to see Frank, who drew the servants attention at once.