by Rhys Bowen
He nodded, lay back, and closed his eyes. Then as I was leaving the room he said, “Molly, what made you say that about changing his will?”
“I don’t know. I was trying to think of a reason he’d want his family assembled in a remote place.”
“You might have hit close to the mark,” Daniel said. “Remember I said I surmised it was something financial. We’ll have to find out from his attorney whether any such change had been planned.”
“Or implemented already,” I said.
Daniel nodded. “If he was poisoned then one has to think that the most likely suspect would be a family member. Who else would know the alderman might have a quiet drink away from the house? And he was a wily old fox. He’d not have let a stranger get near enough to slip something into his glass.”
“We’ll know more when the doctors in Providence have examined the evidence,” I said.
“I hope they are more competent than that Prescott fellow,” Daniel grunted. “The problem is that most police forces outside of New York are hopelessly antiquated in their methods. No scientific approach to speak of. They rather try the witch trial approach—set fire to the suspect and if he doesn’t burn he’s a witch.” He lay back and closed his eyes. “You could see that the idea of fingerprints was a novelty to Prescott. He probably will have no idea how to lift them from a surface and to preserve them as evidence. Of course, most of the judges in this country are no better. They’ve never yet been admissible in court. But that will have to change.” He coughed again—a rasping, rattling cough that shook his body.
“Stop talking and rest now,” I said. “You heard Chief Prescott. He made it quite clear that he doesn’t want your help with his case. You get better and then we’ll go home.”
“He’ll just bungle everything and a murderer will walk away a free man.”
“Or woman,” I said.
He opened his eyes in surprise. “You yourself said that poisoning was a woman’s crime,” I pointed out. Then I tiptoed out of the room.
A little later the stew was warming on the stove and I finally had time to write my letter to Sid and Gus. The wind had dropped and the sky was bathed in pink light. I sat at the open window of the sitting room, enjoying the tangy ocean breeze and the gentle thump and hiss of waves. Birds were calling from the treetops. It was a peaceful scene and I tried to blot out the disturbing events of the day. I started my letter by telling my friends of the alderman’s death.
I know you are no friends of his, I wrote. Nor of his politics. I remember when he was elected you were disgusted that Tammany Hall should wield such power and that yet another man had come to power who was only out to feather his own pocket and had no sense of justice.
I paused, thinking about what I had written. It was funny, but I had forgotten all about that particular conversation until I started writing. Now it came back to me quite clearly. Sid and Gus sitting out in their lovely little conservatory, surrounded by potted palms, drinking their morning coffee while Gus read from The New York Times of the election results. They had hoped a more moderate candidate would win a seat on the city council. But Brian Hannan had used the normal dubious Tammany Hall voting methods to bring himself and Tammany Hall to power. Sid and Gus had been angry.
“If only the laws were not so stupidly archaic, I’d have run for the office myself,” Sid said. “And I would actually have done something for the working men and women of this city. I’d have improved the conditions in the sweatshops. I’d have made sure that newsboys got proper food and an education.”
“And all he will do is to award his own company more contracts, take kickbacks from all and sundry and make sure it’s more jobs for the boys,” Gus said indignantly.
“You’d have been brilliant,” I agreed. “Too bad half of us have no say in the running of this city.”
I went back to my writing, finding that I was unable to speculate in writing as to whether it was a murder or an accident. If they picked up any hint that I might be looking into a suspicious death myself, they’d be down on me like a ton of bricks. They had long being trying to persuade me that I was running unnecessary risks. A full autopsy is being conducted, I wrote, and we should know more soon. In the meantime my time is fully occupied in looking after Daniel. No, he is not demanding that I become the little wife and attend to his every need. But he has come down with a nasty chill or grippe and I’m a little concerned about him. Still, I expect a good night’s sleep will do wonders and he’ll be better in the morning. How is life in the city? I expect—
I broke off as I heard voices coming through the trees. I couldn’t see the speakers but the voice that came to me was male.
“It’s a rum do, and that’s for sure.”
“You know who’d come to mind instantly if circumstances were different, don’t you?” another male voice said softly.
“You mean they are suspiciously similar?”
“Of course. Exact same spot, if you ask me.”
“She’s safely far away, isn’t she? Of course she’d be the most convenient. Tie the whole thing up nicely.”
They drifted away without my ever being able to see them, but they left me wondering—“she”? Which she could they mean? The only family members I knew of who were not present were Joseph’s wife, Mary Flannery’s daughter—the one with the loutish husband and all the children—and the two sisters who had been in the convent for years.
But then I realized that I didn’t know how many years they’d been “safely far away” in a convent. I wondered why the person they only referred to as “she” would have tied the whole thing up nicely. One thing was evident—those two men were not prepared to believe that Brian Hannan’s death was a random accident.
I finished off my letter, blotted it, and sat watching the sky as the sun sank in the west, making the stone at the top of the castle, peeping over the treetops, glow bright red. It was not a pleasant red of warmth but rather of blood. I stared at it, frowning, wondering if this image in my mind was only brought on by my current mood and by Brian Hannan’s untimely death. But I had sensed the negative currents emanating from that house from the moment I first stood outside the gate. It was a place of hostility and of secrets. I glanced up at that turret window again, thinking about the child’s face. But it winked in the setting sunlight and I couldn’t see beyond the glare.
My thoughts turned to the beautiful little girl that nobody mentioned anymore. Her death had obviously affected the family and shrouded them since it happened. Then I remembered the words spoken by the two men who passed my window. “Exactly the same spot.”
I sat up straight, dropping the pen I had been holding on the table. Had Colleen’s death not been a tragic accident? Had there always been a suspicion among family members that it too was murder?
Seventeen
Daniel hardly touched his supper. Right after, I helped him undress, made him a mustard plaster for his chest, and put him to bed.
“I’ll be fine by the morning,” were his last words before he fell asleep.
I cleaned up, sat and read and waited for the time when I too could go to sleep. I felt lonely and uneasy. Outside an owl hooted and the wind made tree branches around the cottage creak and crack, while the crash of waves on rocks echoed up from the shore. I suppose I have inherited that Irish sense of the fey, of portends, of the thin veil between the natural and supernatural worlds, but I can tell you that I felt very uneasy that night. The weight of something about to happen hung over me. I thought about Colleen and Brian Hannan. I worried about those two little boys whom I hadn’t seen for the whole day.
At last I gave myself permission to go to bed. Daniel was still coughing and tossing in his sleep so I elected to curl up with a rug on the couch again. I drifted off to sleep and was awoken by a loud bump. I was on my feet instantly, heart thumping. My first thought was that Daniel had fallen out of bed. I ran up the stairs and was relieved to see his shape still lying in the bed. Then, of course I wondered if the noise
had been someone trying to break into the cottage. I lit a lamp, then went around cautiously from room to room, but everything seemed safe and secure. I was just about to go back to bed, because the night was cold and my bare feet were freezing, when I decided to check on Daniel once more.
The moment I stood over him I knew that something was wrong. His breath was coming in ragged, rasping gasps. I reached for his forehead and he was burning hot. Even as my hand touched him he threw out his arm, making it thump against the wall and he muttered unintelligible words. I ran downstairs to bring up a wet flannel to sponge his face. He knocked me away.
“Keep it away from me,” he moaned. “It’s coming closer.”
“It’s all right, my love,” I said. “You’re just having a bad dream.”
But even as I said it I knew it was more than that. He was hallucinating in his fever. I tried to lift up his head and give him a sip of water, but it was impossible. He fought off my touch. I began to feel frightened. This wasn’t just an ordinary fever such as one might have with a cold or a grippe. It was more serious than that. I felt horribly cut off and alone. I dressed hurriedly and ran across the grounds to the castle. The moon was out, throwing crazy tree shadows across the lawns like long bony fingers reaching out to grab me. I ran up the front steps and hammered on the door.
Nobody came.
I hammered again, louder this time, pounding with my fists. The house had electricity—was there no electric bell? I searched but couldn’t find one in the darkness of the porch. A window, I thought. There must be a window open somewhere. I started to walk around the castle, peering up at the walls in the moonlight. No window that I could see was open. Stark blank walls frowned down at me. I came to the side of the house with the French doors. I tried them, one by one, rattling each door with growing frustration. I reached the back of the house and the back door too was locked. It seemed I had only two options—one was to run all the way into town myself to try and find a doctor, the other was to break a window and wake someone to help me. I remembered how deserted the town had felt when we arrived that wet and windy night. How would I ever find help there?
So instead I went to the nearest flower bed, prized up one of the rocks that bordered it and, after a second’s hesitation, hurled it through a kitchen window. The crash of breaking glass should have been loud enough to wake the dead, but no lights came on upstairs. I punched out enough of the broken glass to reach through and undo the catch. Then I hauled myself inside.
The house was completely dark and still and I groped around the walls for a light switch, eventually locating one. I flipped it down and the room was instantly bathed in harsh light from a naked bulb overhead. I came out of the kitchen, wondering whom to wake. The family slept upstairs and I had no idea where the servants’ bedrooms were. Probably up in the attics. I couldn’t find a light anywhere in the passage and made my way along it by feel until I sensed, rather than saw, the vast emptiness of that front foyer. The telephone, I thought. The telephone must be somewhere around here. Moonlight made narrow stripes on the tiled floor as it came in through thin arched windows over the staircase. It did little to illuminate, rather added to the unreal atmosphere of the place.
Suddenly I couldn’t stand it any longer. There are times when decorum has to go out of the window. “Help!” I shouted. “Wake up! Somebody help me!”
My voice echoed as if in some vast church. For a moment nothing happened, then there was the sound of feet above me and an electric light was turned on in the corridor above.
“What’s going on?” a male voice asked.
“Down here!” I shouted.
Then Mrs. Flannery and Father Patrick appeared at the top of the staircase,
“What is it? What’s happening?” Mrs. Flannery asked.
“Is that you, Mrs. Sullivan?” Father Patrick’s calm voice called to me.
“It’s my husband. He’s dangerously ill,” I called up to them as they made their way cautiously down the stone stairs. “He needs a doctor right away. I know there’s a telephone somewhere here.”
They reached me. Father Patrick put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m sure it will be all right. Now where is that telephone? I know I’ve seen it somewhere.”
“Don’t ask me,” Mary Flannery said. She had taken longer to reach me and was puffing with the exertion. “I agree with Mrs. McCreedy. I don’t hold with such contraptions myself.”
“Mrs. McCreedy would know,” I said. “Do you know where she sleeps? Or does she still go home for the night?”
“Go home for the night?” Mrs. Flannery sounded surprised. “As far as I know she stays on the property year round. I think her room must be up with the rest of the servants.”
“I have a feeling the telephone is in Brian’s study,” Father Patrick said. “Let’s go and look, shall we?” He led me down one of the halls and finally opened a door. “Ah, yes, I was right. Do you know how to use it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve tried a telephone before. You just wind the crank, don’t you?”
“Go on then. Give it a try,” he said.
I had just picked up the receiver when a voice behind us demanded, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what is going on here?”
And there was Mrs. McCreedy herself, breathing heavily as if she’d just been running.
“Mrs. Sullivan’s husband has taken a turn for the worse,” Father Patrick said quietly. “She needs to telephone for a doctor.”
“That won’t do much good,” Mrs. McCreedy said. “Dr. Wilkins is the old-fashioned kind. Hasn’t taken to the electricity yet, nor the telephone.”
“Then what am I going to do?” I demanded. “Daniel is running a dangerously high fever. He’s delirious.”
“We’ll have to send somebody for the doctor,” Mrs. McCreedy said. “Too bad the master didn’t bring his chauffeur this time. Can that footman boy drive the automobile?”
“I’ve no idea,” Father Patrick said. “But I have driven a vehicle a couple of times in my life. I expect I can manage it. Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll go and fetch the doctor myself.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” I was on the verge of tears.
“You’ll find him on Spring Street,” Mrs. McCreedy said. “White clapboard house just up from Narragansett Street. You’ll see his brass plate outside.”
I watched him go back upstairs. “I must get back to Daniel,” I said. “But I don’t know what to do.”
Mrs. McCreedy patted my shoulder tentatively. “Don’t you worry, my dear,” she said. “I’ll come over to the cottage and stay with you until the doctor arrives.”
“Thank you.” I muttered again, feeling a tear now trickling down my cheek. Their kindness was almost too much to bear.
We helped open the gates, then went to the cottage. I heard the sound of cranking, then the pop-popping sound as the engine came to life The big vehicle jerked forward in a rather hesitant manner as if its driver was not the most skilled, but at this stage I didn’t care. Mrs. McCreedy followed me in through the cottage door. I picked up the lamp and carried it up the stairs. I could hear Daniel’s ragged breathing a mile away. So could Mrs. McCreedy.
“He sounds terrible,” she said. “I reckon it’s turned to pneumonia. That’s how my poor husband went, God rest his soul.” And she crossed herself.
I went over to Daniel and touched his burning forehead. He moaned again. All I could think was that I had made light of his illness when he had probably been rather sick for the past two days. It felt as if I had somehow brought this on myself.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” Mrs. McCreedy said, going down the stairs and leaving us alone.
It seemed an eternity before I heard the sounds of a motor again and the scrunch of tires on the gravel. Then I heard the front door open.
“Hello?” a voice called.
“Up here, doctor,” I called and heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Now what have we got h
ere?” he asked. “I hope it’s serious. I’m getting too old to be dragged from my bed at three in the morning.”
Before I could answer he looked at Daniel and shook his head. “My, my. That doesn’t sound good, does it?”
His manner changed and he was all business. He undid Daniel’s nightshirt, brought out his stethoscope, and listened to Daniel’s chest. He took Daniel’s temperature, making little tut-tutting noises. Then he looked up at me. “I’m afraid I’ve no good news,” he said. “As you may have gathered, your husband has developed an inflammation on the chest. To put it shortly, pneumonia. There’s not much we can do for him but make him comfortable and hope for the best. In my early days in medicine we’d have tried a purge or even a bloodletting, but both those are pooh-poohed in these days of modern medicine. All I can suggest is to keep the windows closed. Keep him bundled up and try to sweat it out of him. If he can drink give him water.”
“That’s all? Would something like aspirin help?”
He gave me a cold stare. “I’m still suspicious of these newfangled medicines, young lady. From all I’ve heard, aspirin is helpful for headaches,” he said. “I’ve no doubt he’s got a whale of a headache at this moment but it’s the least of his problems. No, I’m afraid all you can do is make him comfortable, let him ride it out, and pray.”
He gathered up his things and stuffed the stethoscope into the black bag. “I’ll return in the morning,” he said. “And in the meantime—” he put a hand on my arm. “I’m afraid you should prepare yourself for the worst. The chances of survival are not ever the best with pneumonia.”
“Would he be better off in a hospital?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “Would they be able to do more for him there?”
“There’s nothing they could do for him in our small hospital,” he said, “and the ride to Providence over bumpy roads could well finish him off. But he looks like a fit and active fellow. So we won’t give up hope, will we?” He attempted a positive nod that didn’t exactly come off as sincere. Then he patted my arm and left.
