by Rhys Bowen
“I wonder what made him do an awful thing like that,” I said. “From what I hear, he liked children, and he was devoted to the Flynn baby.”
“If you ask me, miss, he did it because he had to. I believe he was in the pay of someone or something.”
“Something?”
He lowered his voice and looked around, even though we two were the only people in sight. “I saw the note, miss. There was a black hand on the bottom of it.”
“A black hand?”
He nodded. “So I'm thinking that maybe the Senator wasn't paying protection money where he should be and the Black Hand sent Morell out to put the squeeze on him.”
“Holy Mother of God,” I muttered. This put an entirely different complexion on things. But if the Black Hand had been involved, why hadn't it come out earlier? Unless Barney Flynn had been so frightened of them and what they might do next that he'd kept it a secret. Now I was definitely going to write to Daniel!
I left the policeman, promising to have a cup of coffee sent up to him, and hurried to my room. This explained a lot. If Bertie Morell was really Italian by heritage, then maybe he had become involved with the Black Hand and had no choice but to carry out their commands. Maybe he had family members who would have suffered if he hadn't obeyed orders. I positively ran up the stairs, free, for once, from the encumbrance of my long skirts, and sat at my desk to write.
“There is something strange going on here, Daniel,” I wrote.
I know you wanted me to confine my efforts to two spiritualist ladies, but I noticed an atmosphere of tension in this house the moment I arrived. Since then another tragedy has happened. A young woman who used to work here has fallen to her death. I don't think it was an accident although it would be impossible to prove it. And I have just found out from the local policeman who was at the scene when the kidnap ransom note was delivered that the note was signed with a black hand. Was this known to the police? Did they ever do anything about it?
I signed and sealed the letter and decided to face the long walk into the village immediately after breakfast. Almost on cue the breakfast gong sounded. I tucked my letter into a book, just in case, and had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the front door opened and Desmond O'Mara came in. His hair was untidy and his face looked flushed as if he'd been running.
“Oh Miss Gaffney,” he stammered. “Is the Senator in his office yet?”
“I think he is, Mr. O'Mara.”
“Oh dear, then I'm in for it.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I went across the river last night and I missed the last ferry back.”
Twenty One
I went into the dining room where I found the women in the middle of breakfast.
“Molly, have you been out for a bicycleride?” Theresa looked up from the toast she was spreading with marmalade.
“No, I think bicycles and I are maybe not meant for each other,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you are wearing bloomers, my sweet.” Theresa laughed. I had forgotten all about the bloomers.
“Because they are so wonderfully comfortable,” I said. “I think I shall make a habit of wearing them.”
A gasp from Clara, a giggle from Belinda. Even Theresa looked shocked. “Molly, be careful. No gentleman will marry a woman he perceives to be a suffragist and a bluestocking.”
“I should think not,” Clara said. “Revealing the limb all the way to the knee? What will they think of next?”
“I went outfora walk,” I said. “I'll remove them after breakfast.”
“Do help yourself and sit down,” Theresa said. “And we have wonderful news.”
“News?”
“Yes. Miss Emily had a dream last night in which Ojuweca came to her and said he had someone who wished to speak with me to-night. So we're having another séance.”
“I thought Bamey forbade any more séances until you were well again.” Belinda wagged her finger, giving her sister a wicked smile.
“As if Bamey could forbid her anything, after all she’s been through,” Qara said with a sniff. “After all she’s done for him!”
There was a second of awkward silence during which the only sound was the two Misses Sorensen scraping their plates. Then Theresa smiled. “This has nothing to do with Bamey. He’s so busy with his stupid old campaign strategy that he will never notice anyway. The séance will take place tonight. I am not going to take theriskof missing a communication from my son.”
Immediately after breakfast I went back to my room and reluctantly changed into more conventional garb. Which was a pity, because walking would have been so much easier in bloomers. But I didn't want to draw attention to myself at this moment. I told Theresa I was going for a walk and she was so caught up in the plans for a stance that she hardly heard me.
I slipped away and approached the carriage house with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The latter because I had no wish to look upon that poor woman’s face again. The doors were now wide open and the chauffeur was outside, polishing the car. He looked up when he saw me.
“Morning, miss.” He touched his cap.
“Oh,” I muttered. “What happened to the body, and to the policeman who was here?”
“All taken care of, miss. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“That was quick.” So much for my plan of a private chat with the doctor. “Where have they taken her?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I've no idea, miss. My job’s not to ask questions. My job is to get this automobile ready for the master to go into town in ten minutes. So if you'll excuse me . . .” He went back to polishing.
I continued on my way up the drive. When I reached the gate-house I was tempted to leave my letter with the gatekeeper, rather than face the long and arduous walk to the nearest post office. But I didn't want anyone in the house knowing I was writing letters to anyone in New York, especially that I was sending out a letter at this moment. And I wanted to find out where Margie McAlister had been staying in the village. So I set out bravely up hill and down and it must have taken me a good hour before I reached my destination. On the way I had ample time for thought. Had that poor girl come to meet somebody at the house or just to take another peek at a place where she had once worked? Had she slipped and fallen to her death or was she pushed? In which case, what did she know that was dangerous to somebody at the house? And most of all, where had Mr. Desmond O'Mara rushed off to and been all night?
I mulled over romantic assignations, but couldn't somehow put Desmond O'Mara in the position of ardent suitor. But there were other men on the estate that Miss McAlister could have found at-tractive. There was, after all, a handsome gardener. And if not romance, there was plenty of scope for blackmail. She had only come to Adare after the kidnapping was over, so that couldn't enter into it. I could indulge in endless speculation, most of it wild, and not a single piece of evidence to back it up. I'd just have to hope that Daniel took my letter seriously and did something about it himself.
I entered the village in somewhat less dramatic fashion than last time. It was sobering to think that only two days ago I had knocked that poor girl off her feet and then sat drinking lemonade and chatting with her. Now she was on her way to some morgue. I wondered what grieving relatives she had left behind.
When I went into the post office I wasn't sure whether the news of this latest tragedy had reached the village yet and how to broach the subject. I had underestimated the efficient telegraph system, superior to Morse code, that exists in every small community.
“You're the young lady staying at Adare, aren't you?” the woman behind the counter asked me as she handed me the stamps I had requested. “The one who had the nasty spill off her bicycle?”
“I am,” I said. “And the other young lady I collided with—” I left the sentence hanging.
“Of course you would have heard about it up at the big house,” the woman said, shaking her head sadly. “Poor Constable Palmer. He’s quite cut up about it. They say she lost
her footing on that narrow path along the cliffs. What a horrible end.”
“Did you know her?” I asked.
“I just spoke to her a couple of times when she came in here to buy something.”
“I expect she needed stamps for letters home,” I suggested.
“No. I can't recall her buying stamps. I think it was just candy of some sort, peardrops, I think, and maybe hairpins. But she seemed like a nice, pleasant and sober young woman. Well spoken.”
“Yes, I thought the same,” I said. “I wonder what loved ones she leaves behind.”
“I don't think she was a married lady,” the woman said. “I don't recall noticing a ring on her finger. But there’s always someone to grieve, isn't there—some relative or friend whose heart will be broken. Likely as not there would be a young man. She was a pretty girl, if my memory serves me correctly.”
“Yes, she was. I wonder where she was staying and whether her landlady would like help with packing up her things?”
“As to that, she was staying with Mrs. Brewer, down by the river. She runs a respectable, Christian rooming establishment. You go down past the church and it’s the big redbrick house on the left with a white balcony running all around it. You can't miss it.”
I thanked her and made my way to Mrs. Brewer’s establishment. That good woman was concerned that Miss McAlister had paid two weeks in advance.
“What do you think I should do?” she asked me. “I don't rightly fike to keep what isn't my due. Were you a friend of hers?”
“No, 1 only met her once,” I said. “Did she mention her family at all?”
“I have her home address from our correspondence,” she said. “But she lived alone, she told me that much. She said an aunt had left her a nice little legacy that had enabled her to buy her own little house and not to have to work any more. But I can't say she mentioned any family. No doubt the police will find out those things. I don't like to touch anything in her room until Constable Palmer tells me to. What do you think, miss?”
I dearly wanted to take a look at her room, and was trying to make my brain work quickly enough to come up with a good excuse to do so.
“I can't see any reason why you should not pack up her things, ready to be shipped to her next-of-kin,” I said. “After all, it’s not as if a crime was committed in the room, was it?”
I shouldn't have said that. Her face turned white. “Whatever do you mean? The young lady met with a nasty accident—that was what we heard. You didn't hear to the contrary, did you?”
“No, of course not,” I said rapidly. “She fell from the path. A nasty accident. Would you like some help packing up her things? I know you'll find it a distressing task and it would go quicker with two.”
“Why bless you, my dear. What a sweet, Christian thought.” She gave me such a wonderful smile that I felt guilty about my true motives. “It’s up here, on the left.” She started up the narrow stair. “I gave her the best room with a view of the river like she asked for.”
“She asked for a view of the river?” I said as the woman led the way into a spotless, if Spartan room. The view from the window made up for the room’s lack of adornment, with willows on the bank around a white gazebo and then the magnificent river beyond.
“Why, yes, she did. Requested it specifically in her letter.”
“I can see why she wanted this view,- it’s delightful,” I said.
Mrs. Brewer had opened a dresser drawer, then shut it again hurriedly. “It doesn't seem right for me to go through her things,” she said. “No. I just can't do it.”
“But it would help the constable if you found an address for her next-of-kin, wouldn't it?” I asked. “They'll want to know.”
“I suppose so,” she agreed and gingerly lifted items from the drawers.
There wasn't much. Some good-quality undergarments, neatly folded, a couple of summer dresses and a straw bonnet, some gloves, a novel and a sketch book. In a small brocade jewelry roll there was an enamel brooch in the shape of a bird and a locket on a velvet ribbon. The locket contained one small dark curl. That was about it. Whoever Miss McAlister was, she had left little of herself in that room. No letters from home, no postcards half-written to dear ones, no photographs.
“I hope the police where she lives will be able to trace her relatives,” I said, “because she has no writing paper or address book with her. Did she receive any mail while she was with you?”
Mrs. Brewer thought, then shook her head. “No, I can't say that she did.”
“Are you on the telephone?” I asked.
She looked shocked. “An instrument of the devil,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered if Miss McAlister received any telephone calls while she was staying with you.”
“If she wanted to use a telephone, she'd have had to use the instrument in the police station,” she said. “That’s the only one around here.”
“You know what I've been wondering,” I said, pulling back the lace curtain to stare out of the window, “and that’s, what made her come here? Did she ever tell you why she came here?”
“For her health, that’s what she said.”
“But didn't youfindthat strange?” I asked. “I mean, why would she choose this of all places? The ocean is more bracing and if she wanted arivervacation, I understand there are resorts upstream in the Catskill Mountains.”
“Maybe she wanted peace,” Mrs. Brewer said. “And she wanted a Christian boardinghouse with no rowdiness or drunkenness, not a resort.”
“Did she ever mention whether she had been in this neighbor-hood before?”
She was looking at me suspiciously now. “I thought you said you and Miss McAlister only met once. You seem awfully interested in her.”
“Only because I'm anxious to help you trace her family,” I said. “I can't get over them going about their lives, not knowing.”
“Maybe it’s better that way,” she said. “Everything in God’s good time. Now 111 just put these things in her valise and wait for instructions. Thank you for your help, miss. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay at Adare.”
And that was that. I was not going to find out why Margie McAlister had decided to visit Adare and whether she had concluded a meeting before returning along that cliff path.
The long road home seemed to go on forever. Sweat was running down into my eyes and flies were buzzing about me in the most annoying fashion when I heard the sound of an automobile coming up the hill behind me. Hope rose in me that the chauffeur had been sent out on an errand while I had been in the village. I stepped to the side of the road and waited expectantly. But it wasn't the Flynns' long, sleek car that came up the hill but a some-what boxier, smaller model. I was about to step into the shade and let it pass when it slowed to a stop.
“Miss Gaffney, may we give you a ride, or are you out for an-other of your constitutionals?” Roland Van Gelder called to me.
“This time I'd most appreciate a lift, thank you,” I said and was heading for the automobile when I noticed the occupants of the backseat. Captain Cathers and Justin Hartley were sitting there. I had no choice. I could hardly declare that I had changed my mind and preferred walking. Besides, that would let Justin Hartley know that I was afraid to be with him. I just had to bluff it out again. I climbed into the front seat beside Roland.
“This is most kind of you, Mr. Van Gelder. I must confess that I hadn't realized what a long, hot climb it was from the village.” I took off my straw hat and fanned myself. “I'll never get used to this heat.”
“Quite different from the cold winds of Ireland, isn't it?” Captain Cathers said pleasantly. “I went to visit Hartley at the property he owns in County Mayo. I swear I was never warm once. The wind blows right through one.”
“Ah, but we Irish hardly notice it, Captain Cathers,” I said. “We are bom hardy.”
“Especially those of us from Connemara, wouldn't you say?” Justin Hartley said.
I kept fanning my
self with my hat. “I thought you were English, Mr. Hartley, and I personally have never ventured far from my home in Limerick, so I couldn't pass an opinion about Connemara, although I do understand it is quite lovely there.”
The automobile bounced and lurched up the hill/making loud popping noises. As a comfortable means of transportation, I don't see how they will ever catch on. Give me a good enclosed carriage any day. We reached the crest and were just starting down the other side when we encountered a particularly large pothole. There was a lurch and a hiss.
“Damn,” Roland muttered under his breath. “Not another flat tire. I keep telling the old man that we have to have a more up-to-date model. Everybody out, I'm afraid. Come on, Cathers. Ill need a hand with the jack.”
We all got out. I went to stand in the shade. Captain Cathers rolled up his shirtsleeves in preparation. As the two men knelt be-side the back wheel, Justin moved closer to me. His hand gripped at my forearm.
“It was dark the last time we met,” he whispered. 'I thought I might have been wrong about you. I should have known when you fainted upon seeing me. Then I thought that my eyes must be deceiving me. After all, how could a peasant from a tumbledown shack be dressed in suchfineattire and acting like a lady? But now that I've seen you in daylight and heard your voice again, I don't doubt any more. I know exactly who you are, Molly Murphy.”
“Why do you keep on with this strange notion, Mr. Hartley?” I demanded. I tried to keep my voice even and not let him see even the slightest spark of fear. “Please come with me to the house and ask my cousin Bamey to verify my identity. That should put these flights of fancy to rest forever.”
“Very well, let us go now,” he said. “I don't think your so-called cousin will be too happy about harboring a wanted criminal in his house, and one who has lied to him about her identity to boot.”
“A known criminal?” I said. “So I'm not only a lady with a different identity, but a gangster’s moll on the run, am I?” I looked at him and laughed. “Be warned, Mr. Hartley—my cousin Bamey has a nasty temper and he’s very protective of his family. He may get out the horse whip to anyone insulting his cousin.”
