by Rhys Bowen
Then if Bertie didn't do the kidnapping, who did?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. That’s what I want you to find out for me.”
“It’s been many years and the police investigated it thoroughly,” I said. They must have proved beyond doubt that Bertie carried it off alone.”
“They proved it to their own satisfaction,” she said. The public was clamoring for justice. A dead body solved it very neatly for them, wouldn't you say?”
“So you believe that someone else was involved and let Bertie take the rap?”
She nodded. “If Bertie had thought up any scheme to extort money, it would never have involved putting a child in danger.”
“And if anyone else had thought up the scheme and paid Bertie to help carry it out? What then?”
She thought for a moment, staring across my kitchen to where the sunlight came in dappled past the spindly ash tree in the back-yard. “I still don't think he'd have done anything that might risk little Brendan’s life. He wasn't that kind, miss.”
“Do you have any suspicions of your own as to who might have done it?”
She shook her head. “I've been over and over that day in my head. Mrs. Flynn had taken the train to New Yorkforthe day. The house was quiet. I put Brendan down for his nap as usual at one o'clock. I went to darn socks in my own room next door. When I checked on him at three, his crib was empty. He had just learned to climb out over the side, the little monkey that he was, so I went lookingforhim. But he wasn't anywhere to be found. I alerted the master, who was in the middle of a meeting in his study. He summoned all the servants and we searched everywhere—right down to the riverbank. Then that evening we found the ransom note at he front gate.”
“If the child could climb out of his own crib and wander away, then anyone could have taken a chance and snatched him.”
She shook her head violently. “He'd never have been able to wander off the estate by himself. It’s a good half-mile to the gate, and that was kept locked and there’s a gatekeeper at die lodge. It’s always possible that the kidnapper came by river, I suppose. There are places along the shoreline where a small boat could land without being observed, but”—she paused as if weighing the options, then hook her head again—”it was broad daylight. There are lawns ground the house, and there’s never a time you don't run into a servant or a gardener. And how would the kidnapper know that little Brendan would choose that very moment to climb out of his crib?”
I had to agree with her. If I were going to kidnap a child, I'd hardly have chosen broad daylight in the middle of the afternoon at the child’s own home, unless I were very sure of myself—which brecluded, in my mind, an outsider.
I extracted my notepad and pencil from a drawer in the kitchen Iresser.
“So who was in the house at the time?” I asked.
She frowned in concentration. “The Senator, of course, and Mr. Rimes?”
Mr. Rimes? Who’s he?”
“The master’s good friend and adviser. He started off by running Mr. Flynn’s first campaign, for the State Senate, and then he was asked to stay on and keep giving advice when Mr. Flynn went to Washington. The master thought a lot of him. Can't say that I did. He was rather rude and blustering for my taste. Not from the top drawer, if you get my meaning.”
“So they were in Mr. Flynn’s study together, is that right?”
“And both talking away nineteen to the dozen, if I know them, Both liked the sound of their own voices.”
“So they wouldn't have heard anything.”
She nodded agreement.
“Who else?”
“Oh, the Senator’s secretary would have been with them, taking notes.”
“And her name?”
“The secretary was a he,” she said. “A coldfishby the name of O'Mara. Desmond O'Mara.”
I scribbled it down, then looked up expectantly
“That’s all,” she said. “Like I said, the mistress had gone to town shopping, which meant that her cousin would have gone with her. This cousin, a spinster older lady called Miss Tompkins, lived with them, as a kind of companion for Mrs. Ffynn. Mrs. Flynn took her everywhere with her.”
“So no one else was in the house that afternoon except for the master in his study with his cronies?”
“That’s correct,” she said. “Except for the servants, of course.”
I was interested that she had hardly thought the servants worth mentioning, even though she had been one herself.
“And how many of them would there have been?”
She pushed her hair back from her face, resting her fingerson a grubbyforehead.”Let me see—the butler, of course—Mr. Soames. English. Very proper. Then there was a footman and the master’s valet, and the mistress’s lady’s maid, then just housemaids and parlor maids and cook and the scullery maid.”
“What about their names and anything you can tell me about them?”
“No point,” she said. “After the kidnapping, the mistress dis-missed everyone. She said she'd never be able to trust them again, so they went. They'd all be new now.”
“But did you suspect any of them at the time?”
There was one gardener, called Adam. A local man employed for the summer. I never liked the look of him—” She dared to look up expectantly. “Does this mean you're going to do it? You'll try and prove my innocence?”
“I'm going to be there anyway,” I said. “What harm can it do to ask ask a few questions?”
Her face lit up and I saw that she might have once been a very handsome young woman. “I've nothing to pay you with,” she said. “Of course, you can see that, can't you? But youll have my devotion and gratitude to my dying day if you can show them I had nothing to do with it. Youll have given me back my life.”
“I really can't promise anything, so please don't get your hopes up too high,” I said cautiously.
“If anyone can do it, I know you can.” She was still beaming at me as if I was some kind of celestial being, which made me un-comfortable. “You've got that look about you.”
“Where do you come from, Miss Lomax?” I asked.
“New York, miss. I was born in Yonkers.”
“To Irish parents?”
She shook her head. “No, miss. Scottish Presbyterians.”
I grinned. “Then for somebody without Irish blood, you've a good command of blarney.”
She looked puzzled. I reached across and patted her hand. “No matter,” I said. “But I will try my best for you.”
She drained the last of her mug of tea, then got to her feet. My conscience was wrestling with me. Could I, should I just let her go back onto the streets?
'Thank you again, with all my heart,” she said and opened the Front door.
“Just a minute, Miss Lomax,” I called after her. “How will I know where tofindyou if I have news? Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“You'll find on my patch of Broadway, miss. Right where you got out of the cab is where I sell myflowersevery evening.”
“But where do you live? Do you sleep on the streets?”
“Oh no, miss. A group of us girls shares a room down by the docks, in an alley off Water Street. Not exactly what you'd call a respectable neighborhood. I wouldn't want you contacting me there.” She looked up shyly. “I'll stop by your house from time to time, with your permission?”
The struggle with my conscience was still going on. I could take her in here, couldn't I? I'd be gone to the Flynns' mansion and she could maybe help look after the little ones. I knew it was a risk. She could, after all, be a complete crook. She could bring gangster cronies to take over my house. “Look, Annie,” I began. “May I call you Annie?”
She grinned. “A darned sight better than what most people call me these days.”
“Annie—I'11 be gone to Senator Flynn’s house in a while. You could stay here—”
She shook her head violently. “Oh no, miss. That wouldn't be right. You don't even know me, and besides, thi
s fellow who supplies us with the flowers and lets us sleep in the room, he wouldn't take kindly to me sleeping somewhere else. He likes to keep us where he can see us, in case we do a bunk with more than our share of the profits. You're already doing more than enough for me. And if you can clear my name—well, I'll just tell that fellow what he can do with hisflowers, right?”
And she laughed.
I watched her walk down Patchin Place with a lump in my throat. Why had I agreed to do something that might be beyond my capabilities? And of course I knew the answer. Because that pitiful figure might have been me. I too had arrived in New York with nothing but the clothes on my back. I too had faced starvation and it was only by luck that I was not selling flowers or worse on the streets of the city. I'd had more than my share of luck. Maybe it was Annie Lomax’s turn.
Six
As the train pulled out of Grand Central Terminal with much huffing and puffing on a sticky June afternoon, I rested my head against the velveteen upholstery and heaved a sigh of relief. I was finally on my way!
It had been an emotional scene as I left Patchin Place, with Bridie clinging to my skirt and Seamus gruff and teary-eyed as if I was setting out for the North Pole and not the Hudson.
“You will come back, won't you, Molly?” Bridie had asked. “You won't forget about us?”
“Ill be away for a week or two, you goose,” I said, laughing as I ruffled her hair. “Who knows, in that time your father might have found a fine new job and have taken you all to live on Park Avenue.” I glanced at Shamey, who held a half-eaten piece of bread and drip-ping in one hand. “But in the meantime, I've left a stocked larder for you and a little money for emergencies.” Thanks to the retainer, I thought, as I prized Bridie’s hands from my skirt. “And no swimming in the East River, remember?”
I had been itching to get going for three long weeks. I never was good at waiting. I had always been the one who stayed up on Christmas Eve to peek in my stocking the moment my mother had hung it at the foot of my bed, even though I knew it wasn't likely to contain much more than a sugar mouse and an orange wrapped in silver paper. I had found the waiting for this assignment particularly trying, forseveral reasons. First, because the city was engulfed in a most unpleasant heat wave and arisingtyphoid epidemic, making a mansion on the Hudson River sound most appealing. And second, because I wanted to put enough distance between myself and Jacob. I had received a most polite letter from him, apologizingforacting hastily and askingfora chance to make thingsrightbetween us. I sent an equally polite reply, indicating that I'd be out of the city for a while with plenty of opportunity to think over what I wanted for my future and whether it might include Jacob Singer.
Oh, and then there was the little matter of the Hudson Dusters. I had heard rumors that a certain notorious gang member, whom I had caused to be arrested for pickpocketing, had been inquiring about me.
I hadfoundthis out when I returned to Mr. Giacomini’s store to buy groceries afewdays later. When he saw me, he shook his head.
“That man was here again,” he muttered in a voice so low that I could barely catch the words, “asking about you.” He looked around the store as if a spy might have been lurking in a dark corner. “Of course I tell him I have no idea who you are. I never saw you be-fore in my life.”
Thank you, Mr. Giacomini. I'm grateful, but I'm sure you're worryingfornothing.”
He shook his head violently. “No, you don't understand, Signorina. He’s a bad man. His kind make the Black Hand look like pussycats.”
“The Black Hand?” I had never heard the term before.
Again he glanced around the store before whispering, “Italian gangsters. They collect protection money from businesses. If you don't pay up, something bad happens—business onfire, legs broken, child kidnapped, wife killed. Very bad. But this man, he’s also a gangster. So please, Signorina, for your own sake, do your shop-ping somewhere far away from here, okay?”
I could tell that his concern was as much for himself and his business as ft wasformy safety, so I smiled and thanked him, even though it went against my principles to be scared off in this fashion. But it was another good reason to be out of the city.
The days seemed to drag on while Daniel wrote letters to Ireland and Ifinallyreceived my invitation from dear Cousin Barney Flynn. During that time I tried to lie low, did my shopping, as instructed, over on the East Side, where at least I knew another gang held sway, and read about the Flynn baby kidnapping in back issues of The New York Times. I didn't learn much that I didn't already know. The paper, like the police, had decided that Albert Morell acted alone. But in one paper I saw a photograph of Annie Lomax. She had round cheeks and a fine plait of dark hair over her shoulder—not at all like the skinny wretch who had sat at my kitchen table.
When the day finally came that I could pack my clothes and head for the station, I could hardly wait for the arrival of the cab. I was finally about to fly away from my responsibilities for unemployed Seamus and his two wild children, away from the male complications in my life, and toward earning an honest penny again.
Of course I have to admit I was just a little anxious about what lay ahead of me. I'd been told often enough by my mother and folks at home in Ballykillin that I had the cheek of the devil and ideas above my station. I was about to put both to the test. I had to pose as Molly Gaffney, from Limerick, cousin of Senator Flynn. Fortunately for me, it turned out that the Senator did have a second cousin Molly, of about the right age, among the hundred and some-thing relatives still living in the old country. It was a relief that I could answer to my own name. There was arisk, however, given the Senator’s generosity toward his many Irish relatives, that someone would show up on the doorstep who knew the real Molly and I would be unmasked. Hopefully this time I wouldn't find myself in any personal danger when I explained my assignment—unless the Sorensen Sisters set their spirits on me!
Then, on that hot June afternoon, I was finally on my way. No-body had come to the depot to see me off.
“Youll understand if I don't accompany you to the train station, won't you?” Daniel had said when he came to deliverfinalinstructions the night before. “One never knows who might be traveling by train and it wouldn't do for us to be seen together.”
I assumed this meant that he didn't want word to reach the ears of Arabella Norton, who lived out in Westchester County and thus might have friends traveling from this very station.
“Thus speaks the brave and fearless Daniel Sullivan who assures me his fiancee grows tired of him,” I said, giving him my most withering stare.
He smiled. That wasn't what I meant at all. It was your upcoming assignment that concerned me. If you are supposed to be the cousin newly arrived from Ireland, then there would be no reason why you should be accompanied by a New York policeman, especially one who is known to the Flynns and their neighbors.”
“Oh,” I said, and was annoyed at myself that I had exposed femi-nine weakness. “You're absolutelyright, of course,” I addedforgood measure.
“You'll be allright, won't you?” Daniel asked. “Able to manage your own luggage and all that?”
“Do I look like a weakling?” I asked. “Don't worry. I won't dis-grace you by trying to carry my own luggage. Illfinda porter to manage my valise.”
I glanced up at the valise now sitting comfortably on the rack above my head. Had I only been carrying my own possessions they would havefittedinside the hatbox,- however, Gus had been her usual generous self and loaned me some delicious dresses suitablefora stay at a country house, as well as the valise in which to transport them.
When I protested that I couldn't take anything so fine, and would probably wreck them, she laughed. “Molly, my sweet. You know 111 never wear dresses like that again in my present style of living. They belonged to a time when I was still Augusta Mary Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts, and thus expected to marry well. I fear they are a trifle old-fashioned as they've been hanging in a closet for the past three years.”
They're lovely,” I said, fingeringthe silk of the ball gown. “I've never worn anything sofinein my whole life. But maybe they are a trifle too lovely for a simple girl newly arrived from Ireland?”
“Then say they were lent to you by a well-meaning friend of good family, and that’s the truth,” Gus said. The fewer lies you have to tell, the better, I've always found.”
I had to agree with her on that point. I was going to have to keep my wits about me every moment I was at Adare, which was the name of the Flynns' mansion and also the name of the village in Ire-land that Barney Flynn’s parents had come from. It wasfifteenmiles outside of Limerick, where his cousin Molly, and about a hundred other cousins, still lived. I had never been to Limerick in my life, but I had done my homework well, reading the guidebooks that Daniel had brought for me and studying picture postcards until I felt I could give a pretty convincing tour of that part of Ireland
The train picked up steam as we came out into the open, hurtling along between tall brick buildings that shut out the sun-light and prevented the smoke from escaping. It was stiflingfy hot and stuffy in the carriage. I looked longingly at the closed window, but I couldn'triskgetting a face full of soot. When the railway left the confines of the city behind, then I'd open the window. At present I was in the carriage alone, which was a blessing as I wanted to collect my thoughts. I opened my notebook and studied the family tree one more time. It was so broad and convoluted that I surely wouldn't be expected to know it all.
Then I opened and reread the letter from Senator Flynn. He welcomed me to stay at his home. He hoped I'd be like a breath of good Irish air and a tonic for poor Theresa, who hadn't been too well lately. It was only when I studied the signature at the bottom that I realized it hadn't been written by him at all, but by D. O'-Mara, secretary to Senator Flynn. So at least the odious secretary was one person who had remained in the household—one person I could pump for information.
To tell the truth, I was feeling more and more reluctant about taking on Annie Lomax’s assignment. I should have liked to view the policefileson the case, but I couldn'triskmaking Daniel suspicious about my intentions. If he knew I was going to be delving into a past crime, he'd have withdrawn his commission immediately. Poor Daniel—I must say he tries valiantly to keep me away from trouble.
