Murder on Lenox Hill Read Free

at her husband helplessly.
    â€œNow, Mother,” he said more kindly than Sarah could have imagined. “We must be brave.” But Sarah saw his eyes were moist, too.
    â€œYes, dear, of course,” Mrs. Linton said, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief and stiffening her back purposefully. “I’m sorry, but when you know, you’ll understand. You see, it’s our daughter . . .”
    â€œGrace,” Mr. Linton supplied when his wife nearly lost her composure again. “Our little Gracie,” he said more softly and with a tenderness that touched Sarah’s heart. “She’s seventeen.”
    â€œShe’s our only child,” Mrs. Linton quickly explained. “We’d given up all hope of ever having a family. I was one week shy of turning forty when she was born. We were so happy . . .”
    Sarah could see something had marred that happiness, and she could guess what. “Was something wrong?”
    â€œWe never guessed, not at first,” Mrs. Linton assured her anxiously.
    â€œShe’s a beautiful girl,” Mr. Linton said with a combination of sadness and pride. “Perfect in every way.”
    â€œExcept . . .” Mrs. Linton dropped her gaze to the handkerchief she clutched in her lap.
    Sarah waited, giving them time to tell her in their own way what she already knew.
    â€œShe was the sweetest child,” Mrs. Linton said so softly that Sarah could hardly hear her. “But slow. Slower than most to do everything—walking and talking. She was almost three before she said more than a few words.”
    â€œWe thought it was our fault,” her husband explained. “We thought we must have spoiled her or made things too easy.”
    â€œBut after a while we had to accept the truth,” Mrs. Linton said, absently dabbing at a tear that had escaped to run down her cheek. “She never really learned to read properly, and sums are beyond her.”
    â€œShe sews beautifully,” Mr. Linton added defensively, as if to say she wasn’t completely worthless.
    â€œOh, yes, she’s good with her hands. She can draw, too. But we had to take her out of school very early. Since then, she’s led a very sheltered life.”
    â€œWe aren’t ashamed of her,” Mr. Linton hastened to explain. “But people can be cruel. We never wanted her to be unhappy, you see, so we kept her at home.”
    Sarah knew only too well how people would have shunned a girl who was judged simpleminded or “touched in the head.” She thought of Brian Malloy, the son of her friend Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. He had been judged simpleminded, too, and kept secreted away so no one could make fun of him. “I’m sure you did the best you could to protect her,” she said.
    â€œYes, we did,” Mrs. Linton said, pleased that Sarah had understood so easily. “Which is why this is so difficult . . .” Once again she looked down and twisted the handkerchief until Sarah thought it would tear.
    â€œYou believe your daughter is with child?” Sarah guessed, trying to help them by saying what they could not bring themselves to admit.
    â€œWe aren’t sure,” Mrs. Linton said at the same instant Mr. Linton said, “It’s impossible!”
    They exchanged a glance, and Mr. Linton silently agreed to allow his wife to explain.
    â€œAs my husband said, it’s impossible, and yet . . . Well, our maid, Barbara, came to me a few days ago to tell me that Grace hasn’t had her . . .” She glanced at her husband apologetically, “her monthly flux in several months. At least four, she thought.”
    â€œThat isn’t unusual for young girls,” Sarah said, thinking she could probably put their minds at ease if this was their only cause for concern.
    â€œI knew it,” Mr. Linton said almost hopefully.
    â€œThere’s more,” Mrs. Linton said, ignoring him. “Barbara