by Rhys Bowen
“It’s possible,” I said.
“Tell me who it is. I will kill her,” she said with great drama. Honestly, I’d had quite enough of actresses in the past months.
“I have no idea who it might be,” I said. “Have you not thought that Mr. Poindexter might be grieving for his wife and overcome with guilt?”
She shrugged again. “Possible,” she said. “These Protestants always have guilt. They have no confession, you see. They have to carry it around with them.”
I thought that was quite a shrewd remark. Mademoiselle Fifi was no fool.
“You are a detective?” she asked me.
I nodded.
“If you find out who the other woman is, I pay you,” she said. “I pay you well.”
“All right,” I said, but in truth I had no intention of telling her.
• • •
I left her and walked home down Fifth Avenue, digesting what I had just learned. So Anson Poindexter broke up with her just before Fanny died. I could see Fifi being the sort of person who could poison Fanny in revenge for being abandoned, but the question was how. Someone like Fifi would never be admitted to an apartment in the Dakota and would most certainly have been noticed.
This made me wonder whether the whole thing was cleverly orchestrated. She was, after all, an actress, and as I had found out from past experience, actresses can be horribly duplicitous. Perhaps the breakup was all part of the plan so that no suspicion would fall on her, should there be an inquiry. When the dust settled, Anson would quietly go back to her.
The other scenario would be that he had decided that a better future lay with Bella. Maybe he and she had arranged the poisoning together—he conveniently out of town, she visiting as the loyal friend and slipping some kind of poison into the water glass or whatever when nobody was looking. Again I realized that this was all a complete waste of my time. Fanny was buried and was not likely to be exhumed without the clearest of proof. The doctor had signed the death certificate. Everyone was satisfied. The police weren’t about to investigate. It looked as if Anson, and possibly Bella, had pulled off the perfect crime.
So what next? Did I let it lie, put it behind me, and look for my next case? I could visit Bella, of course, but to what end? I knew she had gone to see Fanny and Dorcas. I could hardly get her to confess that she had slipped poison into either of their drinks. I probably couldn’t even get her to confess that she was more than friendly with Anson.
I could also look into the death of Honoria Masters, although this would be harder, as I had never met her and had no idea where she lived. And the opera house would be dark tonight. I’d have to wait until tomorrow and see if I could entice the stage-door keeper into divulging Honoria’s address.
Suddenly I felt overwhelmed and tired. I thought of Sid and Gus and their lifestyle: their exotic meals, their poetry readings and art galleries, their circle of interesting if unorthodox friends. It seemed so desirable compared to my life. For once, being Mrs. Daniel Sullivan and having time to hold tea parties and soirees also seemed desirable.
I turned into Patchin Place, my thoughts on a cup of tea, my armchair, and a good book. Maybe even a little nap. But I was just turning the key in my front door when a voice yelled, “There she is. She’s home. See, I told you she’d turn up.” And there was my playwright friend Ryan O’Hare bursting out of Sid and Gus’s house. He was surprisingly not wearing his usual romantic poet garb, but was dressed in what seemed to be yachting attire.
“You arrived home at the perfect moment,” he said. “Sid and Gus told me they hadn’t seen you in days and they suspected you might have gone away, but here you are, so all is well.”
“Are you about to embark on a cruise?” I asked him.
“No, my dear, I am whisking you all away for an evening of fun and debauchery aboard my friend’s yacht. We’re sailing up the Hudson and taking a picnic. So hurry up and change out of that awful black thing. You look like Queen Victoria mourning for Albert.”
I had to laugh. “I’ve been paying respects at the house of a recent death.”
“My dear, if I ever die, I positively forbid you to come to my funeral looking like that. I should turn in my grave, I know I should. Or in my coffin before I’m put into my grave.”
Sid and Gus had now joined him, carrying a large picnic basket between them. Sid was wearing bloomers, Gus a navy outfit with nautical theme.
“You’ll notice that it is Ryan who arranges a picnic and we who have to prepare the darned thing,” Sid said dryly.
“Ah, but it is I who am supplying the yacht.” Ryan beamed at us.
I looked at Gus and Sid.
“His new friend,” Sid mouthed. “Pots of money.”
“And he’s divine,” Ryan added. “You’ll see. You’ll fall madly in love with him.”
“Not that that would do us any good,” Gus remarked.
I laughed and ran inside to change. I felt positively energized. How long since I had laughed or had fun or gone on a picnic? My tiredness was completely forgotten. Soon we were casting off from one of the Hudson piers and sailing languidly up the Hudson on a boat that was sleek, teak, and half the size of the Majestic. I sat on the deck, sipping Champagne, nibbling smoked salmon sandwiches and watching the Palisades slip past me. The last time I had seen them was at Fanny’s funeral. How strange life was, I thought. Someone like Fanny should have had a whole life of fun and ease and luxury to look forward to, just like the other people on this yacht, who were now dancing madly to a syncopated ragtime tune. Such a waste.
I sighed. I hated to walk away from this case without ever knowing the truth. Was it a tragic death or a clever murder? And was the death of three friends within a week no more than an unhappy coincidence? The only person who could tell me the truth was Anson Poindexter. If I had been Daniel, I could have had him brought in and grilled him. It did briefly cross my mind that I could go and interview him on some harmless pretext and see if I could trap him into some kind of confession. Then I told myself not to be so stupid. If he was a clever murderer and had killed more than once, then I’d be signing my own death warrant. Maybe I already had . . . I shivered as I thought of that black carriage coming straight at me. Would he try again if I didn’t abandon this case?
I saw now why Daniel had said that criminal cases should be left to the police. They could ask questions of whomever they pleased. They could barge in, bully, intimidate, snoop around until they came to the truth. I could do none of the above. In fact if the hair samples revealed nothing, then I didn’t see what else I could do.
I wondered if Fanny had told anyone else what she had told me—that she was planning to divorce her husband if her suspicions of infidelity proved to be true. Did she ever suspect she was being poisoned when she fell ill? Her mother had apparently nursed her day and night during that last week. Might Fanny have confided anything to her? If I went to speak with Fanny’s mother would it do more harm than good? If I were Fanny’s mother, would I want to know that my child might have been poisoned when it was now too late to save her? Yes, I would, I decided, if there was any chance of bringing her poisoner to justice. I resolved to go and see Fanny’s mother in the morning, however unpleasant that encounter might prove to be.
“You’re not allowed to look pensive,” Ryan said, interrupting my thoughts. “In fact gloomy faces are simply not allowed on this boat. Gaiety and laughter, my dear. That’s what we want to see.” He held out his hand and jerked me to my feet. “Come and dance. Pierre is going to demonstrate his new phonograph.”
I arrived home very late and a little tipsy to find a note from Daniel stuffed through my letter box. “Picked up hair sample. Will take it into lab tomorrow. Interesting developments to tell you about but you weren’t home.”
Then, of course, I felt guilty that he had been working all day when I had been having such a good time.
Twenty-five
On Monday morning I really wanted to find Daniel and learn what the new develop
ments were that he had written about. Had the sample of stomach mixture revealed some kind of poison? He would be working, of course. I was tempted to go to police headquarters on Mulberry Street, but I didn’t think he’d take kindly to this. Besides, he’d most likely be off somewhere on a case. I’d just have to wait patiently on that count.
In the meantime I had promised myself to speak with Mrs. Bradley. I was not looking forward to this, I can tell you. Again I questioned whether it was being foolish and wrong to tell a grieving mother that I suspected her daughter might have been poisoned. I decided to tread very carefully and have the sense to know when to shut up. It has never been one of my stronger traits. I realized as I set out that I didn’t know exactly where the Bradleys lived. Mrs. Bradley was hardly likely to be still camped out at her daughter’s apartment, was she? But I went to the Dakota anyway and rang the doorbell at the Poindexters’ apartment.
It was opened by none other than Anson, looking dashing in a maroon silk dressing gown.
“Hello,” he said with a pleasant smile. “May I help you?”
Oh, now this was tempting. Daring Molly Murphy solves case by seducing murderer into giving her a confession. He looked harmless enough.
“I was wondering if your mother-in-law was still in residence here,” I said.
“No, thank God,” he replied. “At last I can breathe again.” Then he pulled a boyish face. “Oh, dear. Not very tactful of me, was it. You’re not a bosom friend of hers, are you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I was a friend of your dear departed wife’s.”
His face fell. “I see. Poor Fanny. Who would have thought it. She may have looked delicate but I always thought she was strong as an ox. It’s quite shaken me up, I can tell you. I haven’t felt like going to work ever since the funeral and I keep thinking I’m coming down with whatever that awful sickness was that took her away so quickly.”
“It was very sad for all of us,” I said. “You have my deepest sympathy.”
He nodded. “Thank you. She was a lovely girl, wasn’t she? So sweet-natured.” He paused to clear his throat.
“And I understand you were away during her last moments. That must have been an awful shock for you.” It was out before I could weigh the wisdom of it. But if he’d already tried to run me down once, then he obviously knew who I was. And if he hadn’t tried to run me down, then who on earth had?
“Yes, I was out of town on business,” he said. “I can’t tell you how badly I feel about that now, but when I left she really did seem to be on the mend.”
I tried desperately to think of other clever things to ask him, ways to bring Bella or Fifi into the conversation, but my brain refused to cooperate.
“Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I said. “Could you possibly give me the Bradleys’ address?” I tried to come up with a plausible reason for this. “I was asked to pass on condolences by an old friend of the family I met while sailing this weekend.”
“It’s One-eighteen East Fifty-ninth, just off the park. And you like to sail, do you?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “I was with a party on the Hudson yesterday. It was such a jolly time that I felt guilty.”
“I say,” he said suddenly. “I’m keeping you here on the doorstep. Where are my manners? Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee?”
Now this really was tempting, but the words “Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly” did flash through my head. And the fact that he had opened his own front door indicated that there might be no servants in the place.
Either way, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “It’s very kind of you, but I should go straight to the Bradleys, then I’m meeting another of Fanny’s old friends for lunch. Emily Boswell, do you remember her?”
“Little Emily? Of course I do. How is she?”
“Very well, thank you. Working for her living, of course, having no family. She’s working for a druggist near here.”
Was I wrong or did a muscle twitch on his face? “Really?” he said. “She was always a bright girl. I’m sure she’ll go far.”
“It would seem so,” I said. “And her young man is also very smart. He’s studying to be a pharmacist.”
“Really?” He stared at me for a moment. “Well, good for her,” he said. “If you see her, tell her I wish her well.”
“I will indeed. Thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“No trouble at all.” He gave me a beaming smile.
I felt rather shaky as I rode the elevator down again. Had I been foolish to have brought up Emily and her drug connection? That news had definitely made him uneasy, I could see from his face. Then another alarming thought came to me: had I exposed her to danger by telling Anson about her?
I was across the park, hardly noticing its leafy beauty today, and found the Bradleys’ house with little difficulty. Actually, house was an understatement. Mansion described it better. It was impressive, even in an area of mansions: red brick, adorned with white columns and white brick around the windows, not unlike the houses in the fancier squares of Dublin. I knocked, told the maid my business, and was admitted to a square hall with a staircase and galleries rising into the gloom. After a while there came a tap of heels on the parquet floor and Mrs. Bradley came toward me, still dressed in black, of course. I realized instantly that I should also have been wearing that color and instead I was wearing my beige business suit. Not very tactful of me.
“Miss Murphy?” She was looking at me doubtfully.
“I was a friend of Fanny’s,” I said. “I came with Emily Boswell to visit her when she was sick.”
“Yes, of course.” She nodded. “How can I help you?”
“I wondered if we could have a talk. It’s of a slightly delicate nature.”
She looked surprised. “Well, let’s go into the music room, shall we? We’re not likely to be disturbed there.”
I followed her across the hall into a pretty room overlooking a back yard that was all cherry blossom and tulips. A harp and a grand piano stood in one corner. She indicated that I should take a seat and I perched myself on one of the gilt and brocade chairs.
“Now, what is this all about?” she asked.
“Mrs. Bradley, I have agonized over whether to tell you any of this, but I feel that I owe it to Fanny,” I said. “Let me ask you—were you close to your daughter?”
“Very close. She was an affectionate girl.”
“Then did she tell you that she was contemplating divorcing her husband?”
“Divorce Anson? Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever gave you that notion, girl?”
I began to suspect this had not been a good idea.
“I should tell you the truth, I suppose. I am a detective. I met Fanny at a gathering and she asked me to call on her. She told me she suspected that Anson was keeping a mistress and if that were true, she planned to divorce him. She hired me to find out the truth.”
“Good God.” Mrs. Bradley had gone very pale. “And when was this?”
“Immediately before she became ill.”
She nodded. “So you never had time to do what you were hired to do?”
“Oh yes, I carried out the investigation. It became obvious that Anson had been friendly with a dancer called Mademoiselle Fifi.”
Mrs. Bradley sighed. “My poor dear Fanny. We thought Anson was such a good match for her. So handsome and from such a good family. And instead we saddled her with a rogue with a wandering eye, just like her father.”
I looked up in surprise. She nodded, the sort of nod of understanding that happens between women. “Oh, yes. I’m afraid Mr. Bradley used to cause me all kinds of grief. Actresses, cigar girls. He thought I never knew about them, but of course I did. Wives always do, don’t they?”
“Yet you decided to stay with him?”
“I was brought up to believe in duty. I had a child and I had made my marriage vows. Besides, apart from that he was a good hus
band. He was generous. He’s treated me well. He adored little Fanny. Of course we were both disappointed that I couldn’t give him a son, but we’ve been a happy enough family in many ways. But Fanny was less realistic than I. A true romantic. I can see that she would not have wanted to stay with a man who didn’t adore her.” She looked up sharply. “You say you found out this before she fell ill?”
I nodded.
“And told Fanny what you had discovered?”
“I was never able to. By the time I had uncovered the truth, she was not allowed visitors.”
She was still staring at me. She put a hand up to her bosom. “My God, you don’t think . . .” I could read the rest of that sentence in her eyes.
“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “All I know is she hired me, then she fell sick and quickly died.”
“So you do think that he might have done away with her?”
I shrugged. “It’s hardly likely, is it? You were with her during her last days. You saw what she ate and drank.”
Mrs. Bradley shook her head violently, releasing a hairpin that went flying onto the parquet floor with a ping. “Everything she ate and drank was prepared by their cook and served by me. And frankly she could keep almost nothing down toward the end. She just sipped water, and a little broth. And there is no way—no way at all—I was with her all the time. I even slept sitting up in a chair beside her in case she needed me.”
“And did her husband come into the room much?”
“He came in from time to time, but like most men he had a horror of illness. He would come over to the bed, kiss her forehead, mutter some words of encouragement, ask if he could get her anything, and then beat a hasty departure.”
“If he could get her anything?” I picked up on this. “And did he get her anything?”
Mrs. Bradley shook her head. “She had lost all interest in food and drink. I had to coax a sip of water down her. And the poor man seemed quite worried. I really can’t believe . . .”
“I’m sure this is a wild supposition,” I said, “but it happened so quickly after she had hired me.”
