Murder on Lenox Hill (13 page)

She wasn't sure what she had expected, but not the sudden wariness she felt crackle through the room. The boys all looked at Upchurch who had stiffened slightly, although his expression was still friendly and open.

“They're good boys, Mrs. Brandt,” he said with just a trace of defensiveness. “They wouldn't be getting into trouble even if they weren't here, would you, boys?”

“No, sir,” they all agreed, almost in unison.

“But you
are
here, instead of many other places you could be,” Sarah said, not sure exactly how to phrase a question so she'd get the answer she needed. “I'm interested in helping children in the Lower East Side stay out of trouble, so I'm wondering what you find at the church that you don't find anywhere else.”

Now they all seemed uncomfortable, and once again they looked to Upchurch for something. Perhaps they needed a clue from him on how to answer. Or perhaps he himself was the answer.

“Don't be so bashful,” Mrs. Upchurch ordered them with an odd glint in her dark eyes. “Tell Mrs. Brandt what it is that draws you here, fellows. You aren't ashamed, are you?”

Behind Sarah, Mrs. Evans made a disapproving sound, but the youngest boy in the group, the one who had come in with Percy just now, piped up. “We come for Mr. Upchurch. He teaches us things.”

One of the older boys gave him an elbow to silence him, earning a black look, and Mrs. Evans decided she had had enough. “Of course they come because of Reverend Upchurch,” she said in exasperation. “He cares about them, and he takes care
of
them. You should be proud to have such a fine man as your husband,” she informed Mrs. Upchurch.

“ ‘Pride goeth before a fall,' ” Mrs. Upchurch quoted, taking great delight in turning away the implied criticism with a scripture verse. “I'm sure my husband wouldn't want me to sin, would you, Oliver?”

Oliver didn't have time to say, because she turned with a swish of her skirts and left the room, leaving everyone gaping.

Reverend Upchurch was the first to recover. “Well, boys, we'll let you get back to your game now.” He touched Sarah lightly on the elbow, to indicate she should leave. She was only too happy to oblige. Mrs. Evans remained behind a moment to speak to Percy and the other boys.

“I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Brandt,” Upchurch was saying softly. “My wife is a very troubled woman.”

Sarah looked around, half-expecting Mrs. Upchurch to be lying in wait to confront her husband and challenge his assessment of her character, but she didn't see the minister's wife. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she said as neutrally as she could.

“Some women can accept not having children, but Rachel isn't one of them. I think she's angry at God, and she takes it out on me.”

Sarah found this a rather personal observation to make to a virtual stranger, especially from a man whose profession demanded discretion. She could only conclude that he wanted her to know this about his wife. What she couldn't figure out was why.

“Thank you for your time, Reverend Upchurch,” Sarah said, not wanting to invite any more intimate revelations. “You seem to be having great success, at least with those particular boys.”

“We do what we can, Mrs. Brandt, and hope for the best. With children, you can never be certain how they'll turn out, though, can you?”

“No, I suppose you can't,” she had to agree, a little disappointed that he didn't have more confidence in his efforts.

Mercifully, Mrs. Evans caught up with them then. Sarah thanked her for her help, and Upchurch fetched Sarah's cape. In a few moments she was standing on the sidewalk outside the church, trying to decide if she had accomplished anything at all with her visit.

“Mrs. Brandt!” a voice called, and Sarah looked up to see Rachel Upchurch walking toward her. Her cheeks were rosy, in spite of the thick wool cape she wore with its hood pulled tightly around her face. She must have been waiting out here in the cold for Sarah to emerge.

“Hello again,” Sarah said.

“Is it true, what you said? Are you really interested in Oliver's work with those boys?” she asked, startling Sarah with her frankness. She hadn't been exaggerating when she said she always spoke the truth.

“Yes, I am.”

Mrs. Upchurch's thin lips turned up in a sly smile. “Then call on me some afternoon, and I'll be glad to tell you more about it.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a calling card with her address printed on it. “I just live around the corner, and don't worry about privacy. No one ever calls on me. They find it too disturbing, but I think you may be made of sterner stuff than most. Are you, Mrs. Brandt?”

“I believe I am,” Sarah replied, thoroughly intrigued. She took the extended card.

“Then I shall look forward to seeing you very soon.” With that, Rachel Upchurch turned and strolled away.

 
 
F
RANK HAD HEARD ABOUT SIGMUND FREUD. HE WAS some quack doctor over in Europe who thought he'd figured out why people go insane. He also thought he could talk them back into their right minds again. That was the part that didn't make any sense. Frank had always believed that too much talk was what drove people crazy in the first place. He knew that's how his mother sometimes made him feel. Frank didn't believe for a moment that anyone could cure a person from insanity, but he did want to know more about Tom Brandt's four female patients. From what Sarah had said about her late husband, he wasn't the type of man who'd take advantage of deluded women for his own pleasure. On the other hand, the wife was usually the last person to know if her husband had a sexual perversion he purposely kept secret.

Dr. Quinn's office was located on a quiet side street on the Upper West Side, identified only by a discreet brass plaque bearing his name. The door was locked, so Frank tried ringing the bell. After a minute or two, he rang it again and was just about to give up and come back another time when he heard footsteps inside. A disheveled young man answered the door. Frank guessed he hadn't seen thirty yet. He'd buttoned his collar too hastily, and his tie was crooked. He was still straightening his suit coat, and his hair looked like he'd been running his fingers through it.

“Did you have an appointment?” he asked Frank with a puzzled frown. Apparently, Frank didn't look like his usual clients.

“No, I'm Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy, with the police. I'd like to ask you a few questions about a case I'm working on.”

“Does it involve one of my patients?” he asked in alarm.

“No, or not that I know of, anyway,” Frank assured him. “Dr. Newton sent me. He said you'd be able to explain some things I need to understand about
dementia praecox
and hysteria.”

Quinn blinked a few times in surprise. “Dr. Newton, you say? Well, I'll help you if I can. Come in, come in.”

The doctor let him into the foyer of a modest house. The doors along the hallway were all closed, and Frank figured the good doctor lived here and saw his patients here, too. Quinn pushed open the first door on the right and motioned Frank inside.

The room was small and simply furnished, with a desk and a glass-fronted bookcase at one end. At the other sat a few comfortable chairs and a reclining couch of some kind.

“Would you like to lie down?” Dr. Quinn asked, leading Frank toward the couch.

“Why would I want to lay down?”

“Well, because . . . that is, some people feel more comfortable that way, especially when they are talking about difficult things.”

“I'm usually fine sitting up, no matter what I'm talking about,” Frank informed him.

Dr. Quinn smiled magnanimously. “Very well, then, please have a seat.”

Frank took the chair he indicated, and Quinn sat in another one, facing him.

“Did you say Dr. Newton sent you?” he asked.

“Yes. He doesn't know much about insanity, but he said you could answer my questions. He said you'd studied with Freud.”

“That's right,” Quinn said proudly. “Dr. Freud is a genius. The things he's discovered about the human mind are astonishing.”

Frank figured he knew a few astonishing things about the human mind that could curl Dr. Quinn's messy hair, but he refrained from saying so. “What can you tell me about
dementia praecox
and hysteria?” he asked to move the conversation along.

“Quite a bit, so perhaps you should tell me exactly why you need to know. Then I'll be better able to judge what information you need.”

“A doctor had four patients, all women. They were all in love with him, and they all thought he was in love with them, too. They even said he'd seduced them.”

“Have these women accused him of rape? Is that why you're investigating?”

“No, he's dead. Somebody killed him, and I think it was because of this.”

“Oh, my,” Dr. Quinn said in dismay. “You think one of the women? . . .”

“No, the killer was a man, probably a father.”

“But not a husband. I'm guessing none of them is married.”

“That's right,” Frank said. “How did you know?”

“The condition you're describing is sometimes called ‘Old Maid's disease,' because the women who suffer from it are usually unmarried.”

“And it's also called hysteria?”

“Sometimes doctors use the term
hysteria
to describe a condition in a female they don't understand. It isn't exactly an accurate diagnosis.”

“Then what can you tell me about this ‘Old Maid's disease'?”

“It's been recognized for centuries. A Frenchman wrote a treatise about it in the early sixteen hundreds, and even Hippocrates referred to it in his writings.” Frank wasn't sure who that was, but he nodded wisely as if he did. “Simply, it's a form of mental disease in which the sufferer imagines herself in a love affair with a man who has no feelings for her at all and may hardly even know her. Usually the man is someone prominent or sometimes just someone who has been kind to her. You said the murdered man was a doctor. Because of the nature of their work, doctors are often the love objects for these women.”

“So it happens a lot?”

“More frequently than anyone would like, especially the unfortunate gentlemen who are the objects of this misplaced devotion. The woman will often make a nuisance of herself, paying inappropriate attention to the man, giving him gifts, following him, and sometimes even sneaking into his home because she imagines she is his wife and that she lives there with him.”

“And sooner or later, the man takes advantage of her,” Frank guessed.

“You mean because of the accusations of seduction?” Dr. Quinn asked. “No. Actually, the men involved are usually repulsed by the woman's attentions, but nothing they say or do can discourage her. She interprets a simple tip of the hat or an impersonal greeting as a declaration of undying devotion, and sometimes the man is someone famous who has never even met the woman or had any contact with her at all. The seductions are almost always in the woman's imagination. Even virgins will describe erotic encounters with the man they love, but rarely have these encounters actually happened.”

“But why would a woman make up something like that? What would make her throw herself at a man who didn't want her?”

“We don't know, Mr. Malloy, at least not yet. People do many things that the rest of us consider irrational and will never understand. This is what Dr. Freud's work is all about. We're trying to find out what makes some people's minds malfunction to the point that they behave in a manner society calls insane.”

“So what you're talking about is
dementia praecox
?”

“Oh, no, at least not always.
Dementia praecox
is a much more serious condition, and it afflicts men as well. The sufferers often hallucinate—see and hear things that aren't there,” he explained. “They may develop an attachment to an individual as part of the illness, but they are seriously ill and unable to function normally. They must be confined for their own safety, while women suffering from Old Maid's disease are usually normal in every other way.”

“How do you cure a woman of this?”

Dr. Quinn didn't like the question. “Since the woman is irrational, at least on this one subject, it's almost impossible to convince her anything is even wrong with her, so she isn't likely to seek a cure. Sometimes the attachment simply fades with time. Other times the families succeed in controlling the woman so she cannot continue to humiliate herself. Rarely is the woman ‘cured' the way you mean it, though.”

Frank considered all of this information and tried to decide how it applied to Tom Brandt.

“Have I helped you with your case, Mr. Malloy?”

“I'm not sure. If a doctor had a patient who fell in love with him like this, why would he go out and try to find more women who had this illness and get them to fall in love with him, too?”

Dr. Quinn's young face creased into a frown. “I . . . I wouldn't want to offer a conjecture without more information,” he hedged.

“Oh, I think you could if you tried,” Frank replied, leaning forward in a slightly threatening manner. “From what you said, most men don't like being pursued by these crazy women.”

“We don't use the word ‘crazy.' ”

“Whatever word you use, that's what they are. So why would a man purposely go out looking for more of them?”

“I can't think of any logical reason,” Quinn tried.

“Then how about one that isn't logical?”

Quinn swallowed. “I know what you're trying to make me say, and I assure you, no reputable doctor would engage in that sort of behavior.”