by Rhys Bowen
By morning the wind and rain had abated and a lovely spring day awaited me as I came out of the inn, my stomach full of hotcakes, sausage, and maple syrup. The hotcakes and maple syrup were a new experience for me, one that I looked forward to repeating. I soon realized that it was Saturday. The college was not bustling with students as it had been the day before. No doubt they were enjoying sleeping in after a hard week of study, or a harder night at the taverns!
I turned off Main Street as directed and found myself on Buckley. Miss Addison’s was announced on a painted sign swinging outside a dignified old white clapboard house. I went up the path and knocked on the front door. A maid opened it and immediately I heard the sound of girlish laughter coming from a back room. I explained my mission and was admitted to a parlor, where I was soon joined by Miss Addison herself—a venerable old woman with upright carriage, steel-gray hair, and steely eyes. I explained my visit.
“You remember Lydia Johnson?” I asked.
Her face softened. “Indeed I do. A bright girl. Very bright indeed. Loved to read. Absolutely devoured books. And not just light, fluffy novels that most girls of her age love. She’d wade through the biographies and the histories, finish them in no time, and beg for more. She wanted very much to go to college but her father wouldn’t hear of her going away. We tried to persuade him that a ladies’ institution like Vassar or Smith would be suitable and safe, but he wouldn’t bend. It’s always a shame when a good brain goes to waste, I think.”
“I agree,” I said. “So would you happen to know of any women who were Lydia’s friends while she was here, with whom she might have kept in contact after she moved away?”
“I couldn’t tell you with whom she corresponded,” Miss Addison said, “but I could take a look at her class records. Let me see. She would have been the class of seventy-seven, wouldn’t she? Please take a seat.”
She went and I amused myself by looking at graduation pictures of past years—all similar young girls in white, holding sprays of flowers like brides, their faces alive and hopeful, also like brides. How many of them went on to use their minds and pursue their dreams, I wondered. There was a squeal outside the door and a girl rushed in, her red-blond curls tied back in a big bow, a gingham pinafore over her dress. She saw me, started with a look of alarm, and turned bright red.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize anybody was here. We were just—”
“I’m going to get you, Mary Ann,” another girl’s voice shouted outside. “You just wait and—” It fell silent.
“Letitia. Young ladies never raise their voices. How many times do I have do tell you?” came the headmistress’s deep voice.
“Sorry, Miss Addison,” came the muttered response.
Mary Ann slunk out of the room as Miss Addison reentered. “I apologize for that little outburst,” she said with just the hint of a smile. “It is Saturday and the girls do need to let off steam occasionally.” She came to sit beside me on the sofa. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Here we are. Lydia Johnson. Now let me see. Rose Brinkley—she’s still in town. Married a professor at Williams. What was his name? Sutton. That’s it. And Jennie Clark. She married locally. Herman Waggoner. He’s a doctor. Went into partnership with his father here in town. And Hannah Pike. I seem to remember that she and Lydia were good friends. She hasn’t married but she became a professor at Mount Holyoke ladies’ college. A proud moment for me, as you can imagine.”
I was rather afraid she’d go down the whole list, giving me the history of each graduate, so I interrupted. “So were any of these girls Lydia’s particular friends, do you recall? How about Rose Sutton, née Brinkley?”
“Yes, I think she and Lydia were tight. And Lydia and Hannah Pike, of course.”
“Would you know how I could locate Rose Brinkey?”
“He’s a professor of history here at the college, so the history department should be able to give you that information. And Doctor Waggoner has his practice on South Street, if you wish to speak to Jennie, his wife.”
“Thank you for your time.” I stood up and shook hands. “This should give me something to go on. If I learn nothing from the women here in Williamstown, then maybe I can write to the professor at Mount Holyoke.”
We shook hands and she looked at me with that piercing gaze. “A woman in business for herself. I like that. Maybe I can persuade you to come and address our students one day. They tend to accept the role of wife and mother all too compliantly.”
“I will certainly come if I am able,” I said and walked out, tickled pink at the thought of myself as a role model for young ladies at a seminary.
I went to the history department at the college first and came away with Professor Sutton’s address. As I opened the gate to their front yard the door opened and a woman of about the right age came out, followed by several boys ranging in age from teens to six or seven.
“Come along, Wilfred. Don’t dawdle,” the woman looked back and called.
I introduced myself and stated my purpose.
“I’m afraid I haven’t the time to talk at the moment, as you can see,” she said, separating two boys who had started to scuffle. “We’re off to buy new boots for the boys. They get through them in no time at all. But you can walk with us, if you’ve a mind to.”
We started down the street, the boys running ahead, kicking rocks and generally behaving like boys anywhere.
She turned to me with a tired smile. “I never thought I’d be the mother of seven sons. Not a daughter in sight. And they eat us out of house and home.”
I turned the conversation back to Lydia.
“Yes, I remember her well,” she said. “We were good friends in school. Everyone was friends with Lydia. She was just that sort of person. She loved to laugh and dance and have fun. Of course her parents forbade that sort of thing so we’d have to sneak her to our parties under false pretenses.” Her face became quite young again and she giggled.
“Miss Addison says she was a good student, too.”
“Very bright. She and I talked about going to Vassar—we thought that would be so glamorous to be near New York and on the Hudson—but her father said no and mine couldn’t afford it. I did the next best thing and married a professor. I thought we’d have long, intellectual discussions, but most of our time seems to be spent separating fighting boys. William, Henry, stop that at once,” she yelled.
“When she moved away, did you keep in touch with her?”
“I didn’t, and I’ve since regretted it,” she said. “Of course it was all done rather suddenly. One minute they were here, the next packed up and gone.”
“Any idea why that was?”
“I heard a rumor that she became sick. From what I gathered she developed consumption and her husband was sending her out west to a hot, dry climate to try to cure her,” she said. “But then later I heard that she had died anyway, poor thing.”
“Consumption? Do you know where he sent her?”
“They usually send them to Pasadena, don’t they? Or to the Arizona desert. But, no, I was busy with a baby at the time and you know how it is—you intend to stay in touch but you don’t.”
So that was why Lydia had turned from a fun-loving, vibrant young person into the invalid that Emily remembered. She had never fully recovered from her illness.
I left Mrs. Sutton shepherding her brood down the street. I wondered if I should also contact the doctor’s wife to see what she had heard about Lydia’s disappearance. It was easy enough to locate the offices of Drs. Waggoner and Waggoner, in a solid square brick house, just off Main Street. There I learned that Mrs. Waggoner was not home but that the doctor could maybe see me between patients. I was shown in. Dr. Waggoner was a tall, rangy man with a shock of graying hair. We shook hands and I explained my mission. He nodded seriously.
“Yes, I remember Lydia Johnson well. An attractive young person. My father used to be physician to her family. I was surprised when she married that Lynch fellow, and even
more surprised when I heard that she’d been sent out west, apparently diagnosed with consumption.”
“So your father wasn’t the one who made the diagnosis?”
“No. I’m trying to remember if Lynch used the services of another doctor in town. I don’t believe we ever treated him, or her after her marriage. But maybe they were never sick until that moment. She certainly always seemed full of life when I saw her. And I understand that the stay out west didn’t cure her, either.”
I shook my head. “She died a few years later.”
“Such a terrible wasting disease,” he said. “As a physician one feels so powerless. Essentially we can only let it take its course.” He looked up as his nurse indicated the next patient was waiting. I got to my feet and shook his hand again.
“I’ll let my wife know that you stopped by to visit.”
I wasn’t sure what to do next. It all seemed rather cut-and-dried here. Lydia had married Horace, contracted consumption, and moved away. But the thought did cross my mind that it was rather a risky undertaking to bring a baby into a home with consumption, because she obviously hadn’t been cured by her stay out west.
I debated as I walked down the street and decided that the next thing to do would be to visit the county seat and see if any Boswells might have lived in the area within living memory. If Lydia had never been to Scotland, she was hardly likely to take on the child of relatives she had never met.
I was on my way to the courthouse, thinking gloomily that Boswell was a common enough name, as was Johnson, when it suddenly hit me. I stood stock-still on the sidewalk, oblivious to the pedestrians who had to walk around me. How could I have been so completely blind? When I started to put together the facts, suddenly they all added up. Lydia Lynch, née Johnson—the fun-loving girl who loved to dance and go to parties but was overprotected by her strict parents. The girl who was described by her school principal as a gifted student, always with a book in her hands. And the handsome Italian gardener who had pushed her on a swing and then had so conveniently fallen off a bridge and died. And she had been sent out west in a hurry. And I knew that I probably wouldn’t find any Boswells at the courthouse. As I had suspected all along, the only person who could clear up this matter for me would be Horace Lynch. I didn’t look forward to facing him again, but I had to try out my hunch on him.
I marched straight back to the station and caught the next train home, having bought a copy of the New York Herald to keep me occupied during the long journey. I sat impatiently as the train steamed southward and tried to read. Then suddenly I saw an article that caught my eye:
YOUNG OPERA STAR’S TRAGIC DEATH.
THE NEW YORK MUSIC WORLD IS MOURNING THE LOSS OF ONE OF ITS BRIGHTEST YOUNG HOPES, THE SOPRANO HONORIA MASTERS. MISS MASTERS, SCION OF A SOCIETY FAMILY WHO LEFT THE GLITTERING LIFE OF THE FOUR HUNDRED TO PURSUE AN EXACTING CAREER ON THE OPERA STAGE, DIED YESTERDAY OF A BRIEF, UNEXPLAINED ILLNESS. THE TWENTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD MISS MASTERS MADE HER DEBUT AT THE METROPOLITAN OPERA A YEAR AGO AND WAS SCHEDULED TO SING WITH THE GREAT ITALIAN TENOR ENRICO CARUSO WHEN HE COMES TO AMERICA LATER THIS YEAR.
There was something about the article that bothered me and at first I couldn’t think what it was. Then I realized it was the name Honoria. Not the most common of names, and it had come up in conversation recently. Of course. Dorcas had said that Honoria had been to visit her and Emily had said that she hadn’t been in touch with Honoria since she became famous. It had to be the same person. And she had visited Dorcas and she had died.
Twenty-one
When I got home the first thing I found was a note in my mail slot. It was from Emily.
I must see you at once. Dorcas died suddenly today.
I paused only to wash the grime of the trip from my face, then I went out again, straight to Emily’s drugstore. It was by now half past five. I didn’t know how late she had to work on Saturdays, but most stores had closed by this time. McPherson’s hadn’t. I glanced at the globes in the window and then went inside. Emily was at the counter, her face looking pale and strained.
“Oh, Molly, you came. Thank heavens.” She came around the counter to greet me and grabbed both my hands. “I went to see you yesterday evening but you weren’t home.”
“No, I was up in Massachusetts, working on your family background.”
“And did you find—” She looked up expectantly then shook her head. “No matter about that now. It’s not important. Not when my friends are dying. First Fanny and now Dorcas. There has to be something to it, Molly.”
“Unless it’s a very powerful disease.”
“But Dorcas was getting better. You saw for yourself. She didn’t seem to be at death’s door.”
“No,” I agreed, “she seemed like anyone else with influenza—under the weather, but not dying. But I don’t see why Anson Poindexter or anyone else would want to kill her.”
“She went to see Fanny the week before, that’s why.” Emily had been keeping her voice down. Now she raised it without thinking, looked around at the men still occupied in the back room, and lowered it again. “Fanny may have been suspicious. She may have told Dorcas something damning.”
“Well, even if she had, that wouldn’t explain Honoria, would it?”
“Honoria? What has she to do with this?”
“Honoria Masters—is that the woman you were speaking about the other day? Comes from a good family and now sings opera?”
“Yes, that’s her.” Emily smiled. “She was one of our Vassar classmates, you know. She had a lovely voice, even in those days. Then she went to study in Italy and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“She’s dead. I read it in the paper today. ‘Brief, unexplained illness,’ it said.”
Emily put her hand to her throat as she gasped. “And she went to visit Dorcas last week. I suppose she could have caught whatever microbe it was that killed Fanny and Dorcas, but . . .”
“She had no connection to Fanny Poindexter, did she?”
She shook her head at this, puzzled. “Only that we used to be students together. I don’t think she was part of Fanny’s current circle. They are mostly young married women like Fanny herself. Honoria was too busy with her career.”
“Well, then. We have to put the deaths down to a nasty sickness and nothing more.”
She nodded. “I suppose so. But I can’t rest until I’m absolutely sure. Maybe I’m being an hysterical female. Maybe I cared about Fanny too much, but . . .” She paused and looked at me strangely. She had obviously read from my face what I was thinking.
Because I had just remembered something I had not taken into account until now. Somebody had deliberately tried to run me down the other day—somebody in a big black carriage. There could be no other explanation for this except that someone didn’t wish me to arrive at the truth.
“I don’t think you are the hysterical type, Emily,” I said. “What time do you get off work? Maybe we could visit Dorcas’s family to offer our condolences this evening.”
At this she blushed bright red. “I’m afraid. You see, Ned and I—well, he asked me to go with him to a show and . . .”
I smiled. “Of course you must go on your outing with your young man. We can visit Dorcas’s family in the morning. It would probably be more seemly, in any case.”
We arranged to meet in the morning. I took the El train home and was just walking up Patchin Place when I heard my name called and turned to see Daniel behind me. “Ah, there you are,” he said, quickening his pace to catch up with me. “I was just coming to call on you. I’m glad to find you home for once. I had a free evening yesterday and I came over, all prepared to take you out for the evening, and you weren’t there.”
“No,” I said. “I was in Massachusetts.”
“Massachusetts? My, you do get around these days. Quite the globe-trotter.” He sounded a trifle annoyed.
“Just checking some details for a case I’m working on.”
I opened the front door and he followed
me inside. The setting sun was shining in through the front windows, giving the whole place a pleasant rosy glow.
“And how is this case progressing?” he asked.
“Well, thank you. I think I’ve pretty much got it solved.”
“Good for you. You’re turning into quite the detective, aren’t you?”
I looked up at him to see if he was being sarcastic. He read my look and laughed. “No, I mean it. You’ll be an asset to me in my profession, I can see that.”
“Not if you won’t share your cases with me.”
“Ah, well, when we’re married it will be different.” He came over to me and slipped his arms around my waist, drawing me close to him. “In many ways,” he added. “I can’t wait until we can be together, Molly.”
“You haven’t asked me yet,” I said. “I may be so successful that I’ll turn you down.”
“Don’t tease me like that,” he murmured, his lips nuzzling into my hair. “You know I’m waiting until I can do it properly.”
I pushed him away. “Then we should wait until you can do it properly,” I said, giving him a meaningful glance.
He laughed at my double meaning. I put my hand up to his cheek. Why did his closeness still have this effect on me? I could feel the roughness of his skin and the warmth of his breath on my face and hand.
“So what brings you here?” I asked, attempting lightness as I moved away and sat at the kitchen table. “Don’t tell me you’ve two free evenings in a row?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” he said. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite me.
“You’ve solved all of those complicated cases?”
“Not solved. Put new men on them. We weren’t getting anywhere. And with the Chinese tong murders I suspect we’ll never get anywhere. They’ll not betray their own. Frankly I don’t really care if they go around killing each other, but I’d surely like to know who is their opium kingpin. Someone’s bringing it into the country in large quantities and not for medicinal purposes but to keep the opium parlors supplied.”
