by Rhys Bowen
I have to admit it was with some trepidation that I pushed open the door of McPherson’s and heard the bell jangle. It came to me, a little too late, that maybe Mr. McPherson might also be in on the whole scheme and that I might be walking into a trap. Before I could pursue these thoughts, Ned himself came around the counter, looking dapper and chirpy as always.
“Miss Murphy. My, we are seeing a lot of you recently, aren’t we? What can I do for you today?”
“It’s about Emily,” I said, loudly enough for Mr. McPherson, in the back room, to look up. “I’ve just visited her. She’s very sick. It’s a lot more than a mere headache. I think she has contracted that awful flu. I wondered if Mr. McPherson could recommend a doctor around here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ned said. “If it’s the flu, there isn’t much anyone can do for her. Believe me, we’ve had people pestering us all spring, asking for something to cure the influenza, and of course we can’t give them anything. Just liquids and keeping down the fever. We can make up a powder for that. Mr. McPherson has quite a good one, don’t you, sir.”
The druggist himself now came out through the swing door. “Emily’s got the flu, you say?”
“I can’t think what else it could be,” I went on, trying not to look too obviously at Ned. “She’s running a high fever, she’s vomiting, and can’t keep any food or drink down, and her breathing sounds terrible.”
“Sounds like she might have contracted pneumonia, too,” Mr. McPherson said. “I could make up my preparation to bring down the fever and send young Ned round with it—”
I almost squeaked out the word “No!” but I bit my tongue.
“But, frankly, if she’s not keeping anything down, it will only irritate the stomach even more,” he finished.
“I really think a doctor should take a look at her,” I said. “I believe she should be in a hospital where they can give her constant care.”
“There’s not much a doctor could do, except charge her a hefty bill,” Ned said quickly. “Like Mr. McPherson says, it’s only a question of fluids, sleep, and the body fighting it off. It’s almost my lunchtime. Why don’t I go and visit her? That would cheer her up.”
“No!” This time I almost shouted it. “She wouldn’t want you to see her looking the way she does,” I added hastily. “Women have their pride, you know, and she looks terrible.”
“Yes, my boy. You stay away,” Mr. McPherson said. I wondered why he was being so considerate for once until he added, “I don’t want you coming down with it. I’ve already lost two assistants.”
“I’m going to be staying with her and nursing her,” I said, “but I would like a doctor to see her, just to make sure I’m doing everything right. I’m happy to pay for the doctor myself if need be.”
“You can call on Doctor Hoffman if you’ve a mind to,” Mr. McPherson said. “His office is on the corner of Amsterdam and Seventy-fourth. He’s a good man and won’t charge an arm and a leg.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“And now let us get back to our work,” McPherson snapped, reverting to his usual unpleasant personality. Then he added as an afterthought, “Give our best to Miss Boswell.”
“Yes, please do,” Ned said. He gave me a syrupy smile.
I was glad to be outside in the fresh air again, safely away from Ned. What I had interpreted as charm before now seemed to have sinister undertones. I went straight to Dr. Hoffman’s and was told that the doctor would not be able to make a house call until he had finished his afternoon consultations. I left the address and went back to Emily’s room. She was sleeping as I let myself in but she stirred as she heard me and regarded me with a hollow-eyed stare.
“Molly, you’re back,” she whispered.
“I am,” I said. “Here, let me get you some more to drink.”
I held the glass to her cracked lips for her to take some sips and then I sponged her face and neck with a cool washcloth. “I’ve a Doctor Hoffman coming to see you later,” I said. “And I hope that by then Daniel will have had that cream analyzed.”
“Doctor Hoffman,” she repeated.
“And I have to leave you now for a little while,” I said. “I need Ned’s mother’s address.”
“Ned’s mother?”
I nodded. “I have to pay a call on her.”
She frowned. “I know it’s Hicks Street in Brooklyn, but I’m not sure of the number. It’s a white frame house, just down the block from a laundry. It looks rather rundown and she has the ground-floor flat at the back.”
I tucked her in, made sure she had everything she needed, and then prepared to leave again. “If I were you, I wouldn’t open the door to anyone until I come back,” I said. “I should have enough time to get to Brooklyn and back before the doctor arrives.”
I didn’t tell her that Ned had been awfully keen to come to visit her and luckily had not been allowed to do so. I’d make sure I was here when his workday was over.
It took what seemed like an eternity to ride the train all the way down the length of Manhattan and then the trolley across the bridge, but at last I was standing outside the dilapidated wooden house. I opened the front door and went down a long, dark passage to the door at the back. I tapped and a face peered out. “Yes?” she demanded in the darkness. “I don’t know you. What do you want?”
“Are you Ned Tate’s mother?”
“What if I am?’
“I’m a friend of his and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions,” I said.
“All right, come in then.” She gave me a half smile. “He was here on Sunday with his lady friend, you know. Always comes to visit me on Sundays, like clockwork. Such a good boy, he is. So faithful to his poor mother.”
We had entered a dreadful, dingy apartment. It was dark, it smelled of drains and boiled cabbage, and it was furnished in the most threadbare manner. It was hard to picture the fastidious Ned growing up here. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness I was able to study Ned’s mother. She looked like an old, old woman. Her front teeth were missing, her face was sunken, her hair was gray, and yet she couldn’t have been more than fifty at the most.
“Would you like a cup of coffee, honey?” she asked.
“No, thank you, I can’t stay long,” I said. “I came to see you because I need to set something straight. It’s about Ned’s father.”
“What about him?”
As I looked around the room my eyes fastened on a photograph on the mantelpiece—a lovely young woman in a scanty costume. She was holding a tray of cigars and smiling coyly. And beside it a picture of a handsome, dark-eyed child, looking angelic in lace petticoats and holding a dove.
“Did you tell Ned who his father was?” I asked.
“Not in so many words,” she said, then she winked. “Between us women, I was never rightly sure which one his father was, if you get my meaning.”
“So you never told Ned that his father’s name was Bradley?”
“Oh, that’s what he’s been telling you, has he?” She gave me the coy look that I recognized from the photograph. “Well, I might have hinted. He was a strange child, you know. Born with big ideas. He kept pestering me to tell him about his father and the longer I kept quiet the grander his ideas became. Then one day I took him to Central Park for a treat and this open carriage passed us. What’s more, the toff in the carriage was looking straight at us and I could tell that he recognized me. Well, I recognized him too, right enough. He’d been one of my customers and I’d sold him more than cigars, if you get my meaning. Well, like I said, my Ned always was a sharp little thing. He noticed that Mr. Bradley looking at us, so he got it into his head that that was his father. I didn’t want to disillusion him. Could have been, of course.” She gave me a knowing, toothless grin. “Has he been spouting off about his father, then? Always did like to talk big, my Ned. I said to him, you want to watch that. Pride comes before a fall.”
“Did the Bradleys have a little girl in the carriage with them?
”
“They did. A lovely little thing she was. Like a little angel. I think Ned was smitten with her too.”
I pictured the little boy, watching that passing carriage in Central Park and then coming back to this hellhole, and felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Ned Tate. Then of course I remembered Emily, who lay dying, and any scrap of sympathy vanished.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tate, you’ve been very helpful,” I said. I reached into my purse to give her money, but her defiant, proud stare stopped me.
“Nothing to thank me for, honey,” she said in her scratchy voice. “What did you want to know all this for?”
“For his sweetheart, Emily,” I said, not wanting to hurt her with the truth. “She was curious about Ned’s father and he would never speak of him.”
“Oh, I see. Well, she would be, wouldn’t she, if she’s thinking of marrying him. I told him, boy, you could do a lot worse than this one. Got a good head on her shoulders, she has, and anyone can see she’s a lady.”
I thought of Ned, bringing Emily home as his sweetheart when he had already given her the preparation that was going to kill her. And I looked at this broken wreck of a woman who had obviously done everything she could to make sure her son was raised with an education and prospects. It would break her heart when she learned the truth.
Thirty-one
I fussed and fumed as my transportation crawled back to the Upper East Side, driven by my anger and a sense of urgency. Was there a cure for thallium poisoning? Would the doctor believe me and would he know how to treat her if he did? And would Daniel have received my message yet? I now realized we were dealing with a cold-blooded and ruthless killer who was even prepared to kill the girl he professed to love. I hoped that Emily’s door had a strong lock on it and that we could hold out until Daniel got there. I ran all the way from the El station. I was gasping for breath by the time I had climbed all those flights of stairs. I went to tap on Emily’s door and it swung silently open. The room was in complete darkness with the heavy drapes drawn. I could make out the figure of a man bending low over the bed.
“Oh, Doctor,” I said breathlessly, “I’m sorry, I wanted to be here when you arrived but—”
The man started at the sound of my voice and straightened up. Then I saw that it wasn’t a strange doctor at all. It was Ned. In a flash I also saw the pillow he had been holding over Emily’s face. I rushed at the bed, and the pillow fell to the floor. Emily gave a mighty gasp and started coughing.
“You—you animal!” I screamed at him. “You pretended to love her and you do this? You couldn’t even wait for her to die slowly.” I lifted Emily’s head and gave her a sip of water. “You’re going to be all right,” I said. “Lie still.”
“Molly, he—he,” she started to say.
“I know. I know everything.”
Ned had backed away from me and was now standing by the door. At first I thought he was going to make a run for it, but then I watched him turn the key in the lock and give me a triumphant smile. “You’re right,” he said. “I couldn’t believe it when I found out that her best friend was my own half sister. How perfect a chance. But Emily was too smart for her own good. No good ever comes of educating women. She should have kept her nose out of my business. And so should you. Now you’ve sealed your own fate.”
I actually laughed. “Don’t be stupid,” I said. “Emily might be lying sick in bed and easy to smother, but in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a strong, healthy woman. And what’s more, a doctor is due here any second, and my young man, Captain Sullivan of the New York police, has been testing that face cream and will be here any moment as well.”
“No problem,” Ned said, reaching into his pocket. “It will only take me a moment to get rid of you.” I was half expecting a gun, and I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw instead that he had brought out a small glass bottle. He opened it and a sweet, sickly smell filled the room. Suddenly I knew what that smell was. It was chloroform. As I watched, fascinated like a rabbit confronted by a snake, he reached into the other pocket and produced a gauze pad.
“And where do you think you’d go if you kill us?” I demanded. “They’re going to find you soon enough. They already know you put the poison in the cream and that you killed Fanny Poindexter. You can’t get away, you know.”
“Yes, I can. I will.” But there was a hint of desperation in his voice. “There are ships leaving New York every hour. With my knowledge and experience they’d take me on as a ship’s doctor, no questions asked. And I’ll spend a few years in the Orient, or even on the West Coast, then come back with a new name and a new look when the hue and cry has died down.”
“You’d leave your mother to face the music?” I said, trying to appear calm and in control. “Hasn’t she suffered enough for you?”
“I did this for her,” he said angrily. “In revenge for what that brute made her go through. I went to my father. I thought he might see how well I’d turned out and recognize me as his son. But he chased me away. He told me if I ever came near him again he’d call the police. So I paid him back.”
“Only he wasn’t your father,” I said.
“What do you mean?” His dark eyes flashed with anger. “Of course he was.”
“I’ve just been to see your mother. She said you’d latched on to the idea of Mr. Bradley as your father and she hadn’t had the heart to disillusion you.”
“No,” he said. “That’s rubbish.” But I heard the hesitancy in his voice.
“It’s true. She never really knew who your father was. It could have been any of the men who paid her for the pleasure.”
His face twisted into a snarling rage. “You dirty vile little—”
He flung himself at me. I brought up my arm suddenly to defend myself and the bottle went flying. Drops of chloroform splashed over both of us. My head started singing as the vapors got to me. Ned was now trying to get his hands around my throat, but the vapors must have been affecting him too because he staggered. We went down together. He was now panting like a wild beast as he tried to pin me down. I fought him off with all my strength even as the world around me started fading to blackness. Then a figure loomed over us, there was a loud thump, a groan, and Ned slumped across me.
Emily stood there, breathing heavily, holding a cast-iron frying pan. “I didn’t know whether I’d have the strength to do it,” she said, gasping. Then she sank to her knees beside us.
At that moment there came a loud knocking at the door. I crawled across to open it. The doctor had arrived with Daniel, two police constables, and hospital workers hot on his heels.
“What the deuce?” the doctor demanded as Daniel pushed past him into the room.
“Are you all right?” he demanded.
I nodded as he helped me to my feet. “That’s the man you want,” I said. “He admitted to killing Fanny Poindexter. He was trying to kill us too.”
“And obviously was no match for you,” Daniel said dryly, kicking at the prostrate form on the carpet.
“That was Emily. She hit him with the frying pan,” I said.
The hospital workers were already lifting her up to the nearest chair. “We’ve come to take you to the hospital, miss,” one of them said.
“Would somebody explain to me what is going on here?” the doctor asked.
An hour or so later Emily was safely in a hospital bed, being treated with Prussian blue and charcoal, which we were told were the only effective countermeasures against thallium. Since she had had the thallium in her system for three days now, her chances were not good, but at least she was getting the best care possible.
Daniel and I left her sleeping quietly. On the way home I insisted on stopping at Mr. Horace Lynch’s house and telling him that Emily was in the hospital and might not survive. After that it was up to him to decide whether to visit her or not.
“Another case concluded,” I said. We were sitting side by side in the darkness of a hansom cab. For some reason I had just begun to feel shaky, as
one often does after the danger is safely past, and I nestled close to Daniel, feeling the comforting warmth of his presence.
“The same for me,” Daniel said. “Another case concluded, thanks, in part, to you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“You gave me the names of the missionary societies. We apprehended a certain Mr. Hatcher as he was about to sail for Shanghai. He was carrying trunks full of Bibles, but the trunks contained traces of the opium he had brought back in them. A nice little trade, don’t you think? Under the umbrella of the missionary society, he was making himself rich supplying the Chinese opium dens of New York City.”
“Mr. Hatcher,” I said. “But I met him. I gave you his name.”
“You did indeed.” He slipped an arm around my shoulders. “And you know what else? Our Mr. Hatcher was quite aware who you were. He knew someone was asking questions around the missionary societies, and he discovered your connection to me and was convinced that I had sent you to spy on him. He decided to frighten you off.”
“By trying to run me down with his carriage?”
“Precisely. Nasty piece of work, if you ask me.”
“And he must also have broken into my house.”
“He or one of his Chinese henchmen, if he had one who could read English.”
I shuddered.
“Don’t worry. He’s now safely behind bars and the opium trade will have to find another way to smuggle in the goods.”
“How about that,” I said. “I never took to him from the start. Too annoyingly effusive and much too nosy.”
