by Rhys Bowen
I was tempted to say that I didn’t possess any delicate sensibilities that I knew of. Instead I thanked him kindly, parted with twenty cents, and refused his offer to wrap the book in brown paper. I carried it out into the light and studied the cover. The Tragedy of Paotingfu,by Isaac C. Ketler. An authentic story of the Life, Services and Sacrifices of the Presbyterian, Congregational and China Inland Missionaries who Suffered Martyrdom at Paotingfu, China, June 30 and July 1, 1900. So now I knew that these particular missionaries were Presbyterian and I had an author’s name—presumably one of the party had survived to write the tale. What’s more, the publisher was one Fleming H. Revell, of New York, Chicago, and Toronto. After an hour or so’s diligent sleuthing, I had located their New York office and came away with an address in Pennsylvania for the author. I wrote to him and explained my plight—not mentioning I was a detective, of course. In fact my letter leaned toward the sentimental—my poor dear friend, orphaned at birth, raised knowing nothing of her parents, no mementos, no photographs, etcetera. Any help he could give me would be greatly appreciated—headquarters of missionary societies, other missionaries who might have been in China twenty-five years ago. I sealed the envelope and mailed the letter, feeling rather proud of myself.
My next task should be to find her Aunt Lydia’s maiden name. I was tempted to pay a visit to the mansion on East Seventy-ninth where Horace Lynch still lived and see if the direct approach might work. Perhaps one simple question and answer would reveal the truth about Emily’s background. But then I dismissed this idea. If there were any kind of underhand business, if he had indeed stolen her inheritance, then I should tread very carefully. Best to thoroughly check the Chinese connection first. It was just possible that everything Emily had been told was true but not completely accurate—maybe her parents had been in another Asian country rather than China. Maybe they had died before the Hinchleys arrived. And maybe Horace Lynch was so unpleasant to her simply because he objected to spending his precious money on someone who wasn’t a close relative, or on the education of a female.
Lots of things to think about, then. I went to City Hall, where they produced Lydia Lynch’s death certificate. From this I found that her maiden name was Johnson and that she had been born in Williamstown, Massachusetts. So a train ride to New England might be in my future. For the present, all I could do was wait for an answer to my letter from Isaac C. Ketler.
Unfortunately it is not within my temperament to wait patiently; nor can I sit idly. I had mailed the letter on Wednesday, and it should have arrived in Pennsylvania the next morning, and if Mr. Ketler had been at all diligent, I should have expected a response by Friday. When none had come with the morning post, I decided I should at least let Emily know that I had been working on her behalf. So I presented myself at the pharmacy and waited for Emily to emerge for her lunch hour. When she hadn’t appeared by ten minutes past one, I dared to enter that establishment to find out what was keeping her. At the sound of the bell jangling she appeared in person from the back room, tying the ribbons on a severe black bonnet of the type often worn by the women in the Salvation Army.
“Holy mother of God, you’re not thinking of following your parents into good works, are you?” I said jovially. “You look like a Salvation Army lass.”
She didn’t smile, making me realize that I had spoken rather too hastily to someone with whom I had such recent acquaintanceship.
“Oh, Molly.” She sounded flustered. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad moment. We’re just about to shut up shop and go to a funeral.”
“A funeral. I’m sorry. Was it a friend who passed away?”
“My fellow employee, Mrs. Hartmann. You remember, I had just visited her when you came to the store the other day.”
I nodded. “You said she was suffering from some kind of grippe, but she was improving.”
“She was. At least, she seemed to be.” Emily’s voice cracked. “But she must have had a relapse. Or perhaps she put on a good front for me, because she died the very next day. Such a nice woman too. A widow from Germany. Kind. Highly educated and had worked for Mr. McPherson for years.” She lowered her voice and glanced into the back room. “He’s very cut up about it. Ned’s with him now, helping him get ready.”
So Mr. McPherson did have a heart after all.
“I’ll leave you then,” I said. “My condolences. Should I stop by on Sunday to give you my report, do you think?”
“Yes, yes. By all means,” she said, but I could tell she was still distracted. At that moment Mr. McPherson emerged from the back of the shop, with Ned following at a respectful distance.
“Are you ready to shut up shop, Miss Boswell?” Mr. McPherson called. He looked positively hollow-eyed and his face was a mask of distress.
“Very good, sir,” Emily said.
“This way, Mr. McPherson, sir,” Ned led him forward. “Shall I go and find us a cab?”
I beat a hasty retreat.
Eight
Saturday arrived and still no answer. I hoped this Mr. Ketler was still alive and in good health. I hated to be held up like this and paced around the house, wondering what to do next. The words spring cleaning did enter my mind, but I realized that I owned no carpet beater, my step was relatively clean, and the most I was prepared to do was take down the curtains and give them a good shaking. I was doing this when Sid and Gus emerged from their house.
“Good heavens, Molly. Such industry,” Sid exclaimed.
“I have been shamed into doing my spring cleaning for want of anything better to do,” I confessed. “You know me. I simply can’t sit around doing nothing.”
“Then come with us,” Gus said. “We are off to an exhibition of French painters at the Metropolitan Museum.”
“Gus is wildly enthusiastic about the neoimpressionist movement,” Sid said with a chuckle. “She has spent the last week trying to paint entirely in little dots like Seurat.”
“And all I succeeded in doing was painting a picture that looks as if it has the measles,” Gus said.
“Nonsense. I think it’s quite good in its own way,” Sid said kindly.
“But then you’re biased,” Gus pointed out. “Anyway, Molly, we’re off to get more inspiration. My aim is to paint a masterpiece this year or die in the attempt.”
“Don’t joke about such things,” I said. “Too many people have died this spring. Healthy young people like us. And I was with Emily Boswell yesterday. Her fellow assistant died only this week.”
“She’s right,” Sid said. “Let’s have no talk of death. Now, Molly, are you going to put that revolting curtain back where it belongs and come with us?”
“It is rather revolting, isn’t it?” I looked at the faded velvet critically in the harsh spring light. “But it came with the house when I bought it. Perhaps my task for this spring should be to make new curtains, although my mother always said my children would go naked if they had to rely on me sewing their clothes.” As I said this I took the offending article back inside and climbed on a chair to re-hang it. A goodly amount of dust still flew out of it as I threaded the rings onto the rod.
They laughed. “Luckily your brave captain will be able to give you a clothing allowance by the time you have children,” Sid said. “Where is he these days? We haven’t seen him all week, apart from that brief appearance with lecture on Sunday.”
“He’s working on an important case that he won’t discuss with me,” I said. “I’ve hardly seen him since he was reinstated.”
“And how long ago was it that you were complaining that his constant presence was too much of a good thing?” Gus asked sweetly.
“That’s right. With me it’s either feast or famine.”
I took off my apron and went for my coat and hat. Soon we were off on a merry jaunt. We spent a delightful day at the museum. I hoped that Daniel would finally put in an appearance that evening. After all, it was Saturday night. Everybody should have a Saturday night free now and then. But the evening w
ore on and there was no sign of him. I was feeling thoroughly annoyed until suddenly it hit me: Daniel couldn’t actually be enjoying these long hours and no days off. He was only doing what he was required to do, and since he had been in disgrace so recently, he was probably working twice as hard as anyone else. Of course then I felt wretched. Only thinking of myself, as usual. A sudden brilliant idea struck me. I had bought some calves’ liver in the hope that Daniel would come to supper one evening. It would go bad if I didn’t use it soon. Why shouldn’t I go to his place and cook him a nice meal so that he’d find it waiting for him when he returned at whatever ungodly hour.
I put the liver, together with some onions, potatoes, and cabbage, into my basket and traveled northward on the El to Twenty-third Street. Daniel’s landlady opened the door cautiously in response to my knock. Chelsea was a fairly safe neighborhood by New York standards, but it was well after dark and she had a family to protect. Her face lit up when she saw me. “Why, it’s Miss Murphy. I was asking Captain Sullivan about you only the other day. He said you were doing well and he wished he had time to see you more often.”
“I’ve been feeling the same way, Mrs. O’Shea. Captain Sullivan has been working far too hard, so I thought I’d surprise him with a nice meal.”
“Well, I think that’s a lovely idea,” she said. “Up you go, then. You know the way.”
“I don’t have a key,” I reminded her. “Could you let me in?”
“The spare key’s here on the hook, same as always,” she said. “Help yourself, my dear. If you ask me, it’s time Captain Sullivan had a nice young wife to look after him. Running himself ragged, he is.”
“We’ll have to see about that.” I smiled, then climbed the two flights to Daniel’s top-floor apartment. I let myself in and stood in the doorway, savoring the familiar smell of pipe tobacco and polished wood. The living room was meticulously neat, with a dark oak table, a leather armchair by the fire, and shelves of books. Clearly a man’s abode. I wondered for a moment whether I had done the right thing and whether Daniel would appreciate my entering his place uninvited and alone. Then I decided that if I was to be his wife someday, he’d have to get used to it.
I took off my coat, unpacked my supplies, and got to work. I put the potatoes and cabbage on to boil and was in the middle of frying the onions when a grotesque shadow loomed over me. I let out a scream at the same time as a voice blurted out, “What the devil?”
I turned to see a bleary-eyed Daniel standing behind me in his nightshirt.
“I came over to make you dinner,” I said shakily. My heart was thumping. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You certainly did that,” he agreed. “I was up most of last night. I crept into bed in the middle of the afternoon and awoke to the smell of frying onions. I thought I was still dreaming until I heard a noise in my kitchen. You nearly scared the living daylights out of me!”
“That makes two of us.” I gave an uneasy laugh. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“Don’t be. Whatever it is smells delicious. I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”
“It’s liver. I thought you needed building up,” I said.
“Liver and onions. That’s a treat. I’ll have to see if I’ve a bottle of wine that might go with it.”
“But Daniel, first you should probably at least put on your dressing gown,” I suggested.
He looked down at himself, with his bare legs and feet, and had to laugh. “Lord, I must look a sight.”
“Very fetching,” I said. “I had no idea you had such nice ankles, Captain Sullivan.”
“You know very well what my ankles look like, so don’t play the prim miss with me,” he chuckled. “I shall return momentarily.”
He disappeared into his bedroom while I finished cooking the meal. The next time he appeared he was in his thick woolen robe and slippers and his hair was wetted and neatly combed. And we women think that we are the vain sex!
I laid the table while Daniel poured red wine into two goblets. “Here’s to us,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. We clinked glasses. His eyes held mine in a way that was unnerving.
“Don’t let my good food get cold,” I said. He tucked in as if he had been starving.
“Oh, this is so good,” he managed to mumble once. When the plate was clean he put down his knife and fork with a satisfied sigh. “That was so good of you, Molly. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated it.”
“Your actions spoke pretty well for you.” I smiled. “Watching you wolf that down reminded me of my little brothers at home.”
Daniel drained his glass. “Drink up,” he said and refilled his own. “There’s plenty more in the bottle.”
“I don’t think so, thank you.” I was well aware of the effect that wine had on me. “I have to get home. I don’t want to be seen staggering up Patchin Place.”
I stood up and started to clear away the dishes. Daniel grabbed my arm as I reached for his plate. “Don’t go,” he said.
“I have to go. It’s getting late. Chelsea is fairly safe, but . . .”
“Don’t go,” he said again. “Stay here with me. I’ve missed you, Molly. How long has it been since you and I shared more than polite conversation together?”
“Not always so polite,” I reminded him. “Last time we met you were yelling at me, I seem to remember.”
“Only because I care about you,” he said. “You want me to care about you, don’t you?”
“Yes, but . . .”
His other hand encircled my waist and he pulled me down to his lap. “I want you, Molly,” he whispered. “It’s been so long.”
God, if the truth were known, I wanted him too. He was nuzzling at my neck in a way that was disconcerting and I felt myself weakening.
“Oh, no,” I said, attempting to break free of his grip. “You’re not getting me into that bedroom unless and until we’re married.”
“Then let’s get married right away. We’ll find a priest in the morning. Any kind of pastor will do.”
“And you want me to come and live here?”
“I could move into Patchin Place. There’s room enough for two there.”
“I haven’t agreed to marry you yet, Daniel Sullivan,” I said, “and if and when we do marry, I want it done right. My mother settled for less than perfect. She slaved away for four ungrateful males and then she died of exhaustion. What kind of living is that?”
“I’d make everything just right for you,” he whispered, gazing into my eyes with that unnerving look. “I promise. Everything’s going to be perfect.”
“I want it done right, Daniel. A proper proposal, a proper wedding with all the trimmings, and a proper place to live. And we still have some things that need sorting out first.”
“We’ll sort them out as we go. I need a wife, Molly.”
“So that’s it, is it?” This time I did break free and stood up. “You want to make sure that someone is around to cook your dinner every evening, and keep your bed warm too.”
“I need you,” he said simply. “I’ve been on my own long enough. I’ve been through the bleakest time of my life. I’ve been in prison. I’ve been despised and wrongly accused and I’ve lost my father, who was my guiding light. Enough bad things have happened to me. I want something to look forward to.”
“You’ve got your job back,” I said. “That’s a start.”
“I want to get married. Start a family. A home of my own.”
He must have noticed my sudden reaction. “What is it?” He took my hand. “You don’t want these things?”
This would have been the perfect moment to tell him the truth. How hard would it be to say, “Daniel, there’s something you should know. When you were in jail, I found I was in the family way.” I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t make the words come out. The whole horror of that situation came flooding back to me. I had lost the baby when I had to jump off a dock and swim for my life.
“Of course I do,” I managed to say. �
�At the right time. I just don’t want to be rushed into anything.”
He laughed. “I won’t rush you, I promise. I’m going to make it all right for us.” He stood up and pulled me to him. Then he took my face in his hands and he was kissing me with unleashed passion. I felt my own passion mounting. I could feel the warmth of his body pressing hard against mine. I wanted him desperately. How easy would it be to stay with him tonight, and if I did find myself in the family way again, then we’d get married in a hurry. God knows plenty of couples had done this before us.
But there was just that germ of hesitation. Daniel’s face as he had virtually ordered me to his automobile the other day came into my head and I pushed away from him. “Daniel, I have to get home,” I whispered. “What would Mrs. O’Shea think?”
“She’s got seven children. She’d have a pretty good idea,” he said with a chuckle. “Very well. I suppose you’re right. You should go.” He slapped my behind. “Go on then, before I weaken and drag you off over my shoulder.”
I went for my cape and gathered my belongings.
“Molly, I have a day off tomorrow,” he said, following me around like a small child. “I thought of going out to see my mother. Would you like to come?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve promised to visit a client in the afternoon.”
“You blame me for having no time off work, and you’re just as bad. Clients on a Sunday?”
“She works all week.”
“Your client is a lady? That’s interesting.”
“Very interesting,” I said.
“So what does she want you to do for her?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You should know better than anyone that a professional detective can’t discuss her case,” I said. “My visit to her shouldn’t take too long, as I have little to report so far. So if you’d like to take me out tomorrow evening, when you return from your mother’s house?”
“You could cook me dinner again,” he said hopefully. “I have eaten on the run for the past three weeks. I long for home-cooked meals. And if you want me to keep saving up to buy you a house . . .”
