by Rhys Bowen
I stood, breathing in the dusty air and wondering if this investigation was a waste of time. Surely the stout and aging Misses Sorensen would have had no reason to come up here. Then I noticed something. Neat footprints across the dusty floor. Someone had been up here recently. I followed the footprints and lifted the dust sheet from one of the objects. It was a trunk.
I held my breath as I lifted the lid, half afraid of what I might find, even though I fully believed that the sisters were fakes. The first thing I came across was black fabric, neatly folded, then a magazine with a hole cut from a page with a pair of scissors. There was nothing suspicious about cutting out a favorite article or recipe, so I put it aside and pulled out a cloth bag. The objects inside it were most intriguing: two round wooden disks with straps attached to diem. As I held them up, they reminded me of cymbals and on im-pulse I clapped them together. The noise was so loud that I started and almostfellinto the open trunk.
I stared down at the disks and smiled. I had heard that sonorous clap before, when Chief Ojuweca arrived. But the two sisters were sitting in a circle, holding hands with the participants. Unless—I perched on one of the dust sheets, pulled up my skirts, and strapped the disk to the inside of my knee. Then I did the same with the other one. Then I lowered my skirts and clapped my legs together. I wasn't as skilled at it as they obviously were, but it still sounded quite convincing.
Now that I had unmasked one trick, I felt a lot better. I lifted out the magazine with the hole in it and the damaged page turned to reveal what was on the other side—it had been a full-page picture of a young woman, only the face was now missing. I could guess what that face looked like—it had appeared from the side of Miss Emily’s head, seemingly coming as ectoplasm from her ear. I had no idea how the ectoplasm was produced, but knowing that the face had an earthly origin made mefeelmuch better.
Next to the magazine was a scrap offlimsywhite fabric, which looked as if it had once been part of a petticoat or nightgown. I threw it up into the air and itfloateddown quite nicely. So that was the spirit that Miss Emily had quickly pocketed from behind the chair last night. I was dying to find out how the chief’s face and the walking hand worked, but I had to be aware of time too. I went across to the window and peeked out. No sign of them yet.
Then I wondered if any of the other items in the attic were theirs as well. I turned back the sheets only to find a broken washstand and a hatbox full of outmoded hats. These had obviously been stored in the attic for some time. I covered them in their dust sheets once more and, glancing back across the room, I realized that my footprints were now all too visible. The Misses Sorensen would know I had been up here unless I found a way to wipe out my prints. The only thing I could think of doing was to give the floor a good sweep. But that would mean going down to the kitchen and finding the broom. Maybe if I dragged one of those cloths over the floor I could spread the dust around and make the prints less obvious. I went to the far comer to take the cloth from the most unobtrusive object and my foot kicked against something small.
I bent to pick it up. It was a toy wooden camel.
Twenty-three
Istared at the little camel, trying to come up with the implications of what I had found. Its mate was still living in the Noah’s ark in the nursery. It had been Brendan’s favorite toy. But he was a toddler. He could never have come up here on his own to drop the camel, unless … unless he had been brought up by someone else. My heart was racing so fast now that I could hardly breathe. Was it possible that he had been hidden up here instead of being buried on the estate, as the kidnapper said? In which case … I stood looking at the various humps and bumps around the room. Was it possible that he was still up here?
I shook my head against the absurdity of this idea. Surely they would have searched this place. Surely they would have heard him crying. Surely dogs would have smelled him out. But I had to know. I started pulling off one cloth after another, opening one box and trunk after another until I had gone through the whole attic and found nothing. He wasn't here. But I had an overwhelming feeling that Brendan had been kept here at some moment during the kidnapping and that might be important.
I had heard that the police had now come up with a way to re-move fingerprints left on surfaces and to identify them. If only I could get Daniel up here, maybe he had that skill and he could find Bertie Morell’s fingerprints, or not. Even if Brendan had only been held here briefly after having been spirited from the house, it would be one step in a puzzle that had never been solved. As I stood in the dusty twilight of the attic, an eerie feeling came over me. I could feel a little voice whispering, “Find me.” We Irish are known for the second sight—not the hocus-pocus of Miss Emily and Miss Ella, but the real thing. Not that I professed to have it myself, but there had been occasions when I had sensed danger. I felt that same prickling at the back of my neck now, not danger this time, but urgency. Why urgency? I asked myself. Why should it matter when the child’s body was found—unless? A thought that must have been lurking at the back of my mind took shape. Was there any possibility that the child was still alive?
I was so lost in thought that I had forgotten about the Misses Sorensen and why I had come up here in the first place. I jumped at the sound of voices and a front door closing. The ladder was still hanging down from the attic, clearly visible to anyone who came this way. I crept across to the trap door, wondering how I could haul the ladder up without being heard, or, failing that, what I could say when I was discovered. Could I pull it off if I claimed to be searching for an old book that Theresa thought might be stored in the attic here? Hardly, since I had pretended to be too sick to eat lunch. I could hide under one of the dust sheets and wait for them to leave the cottage again, but the whole place was now in disarray. They'd know that somebody had been here.
I crept across the floor and closed the lid of their trunk, pulling the dust sheet back over it. Then I decided that I didn't want to be caught up here with no way of escape. They might be middle-aged ladies, but there were two of them to one of me, and they were very good at sleight of hand. I had no wish to be stabbed with those scissors and to wind up under one of those dust sheets. I've often found that attack is the best form of defense. I brushed myself off, slipped the camel into my pocket and came down the stairs.
“Miss Emily. Miss Ella.” I smiled and nodded as I saw their astonished faces. I made my way to the front door.
“Would you mind telling us what in heaven’s name you were doing in our cottage?” Miss Emily demanded. “I thought that sickness was feigned. Does Mrs. Flynn know that her cousin is really a common thief?”
The front door was comfortingly within reach. “As to that, I'm happy to turn out my pockets and you're welcome to check your things. The question I'm asking myself is should I tell Mrs. Flynn that you two are a couple of frauds and tricksters?”
“So that’s why you came here—to try and catch us out? Ill wager you found nothing.” Miss Ella glanced first at her sister and then at me.
“Oh, but I did, Miss Ella. I found all kinds of incriminating evidence, including the magazine from which you cut your ectoplasm picture, the disks you use to make your impressive claps with your knees and the wispy spirit that turned out to be nothing more than a piece of underwear.”
Miss Emily was still smiling at me. “We often cut pictures from magazines for our scrapbooks, Miss Gaffney. And, being of a thrifty nature, we keep spare pieces of cloth for patching worn undergarments.”
“And the wooden disks?”
“For pressing flowers. One places flowers between sheets of blotting paper, then straps the wooden disks tightly together. It works very well, I can assure you.”
“You may be able to take in poor suffering creatures like Mrs. Flynn,” I said, “but I was asked to watch you by a captain of the New York Police and he'll be most interested to hear what I have found out.”
Miss Emily’s smile didn't waver. “Go ahead, my dear. It won't be the first attempt to prevent
us from carrying on our wonderful work. If it comes to a trial, there’s not a jury in the land that would convict us. For every person like yourself who claims we are frauds, we can produce a hundred people who will attest that our communication with the spirits is real.”
“We have satisfied customers all over the country, my dear,” Miss Ella said. “We bring comfort to the broken-hearted and you want to stop us from doing that? Are you saying that Mrs. Flynn is less content now that she has spoken to her son?”
“Only you know and I know that it wasn't really her son at all. How can you ladies live with yourselves, deceiving the most vulnerable of people to make money?”
“You say that we deceive, but then we always knew you were a non-believer,” Miss Emily said. “One day you mightfindthat you have a change of heart.”
“And as for making money,” Miss Ella said, “we never charge a penny for our services. If satisfied clients wish to give us a small donation, we take it, but we have never asked for money.”
Miss Emily opened the front door for me. “So go ahead, my dear. Do tell your policeman friend everything you've discovered. Tell Mrs. Flynn too if you wish to plunge her into her abyss of grief again.”
I knew, as I walked back along the driveway, that they had won. They wereright. There was no way I wouldriskhurting Theresa by telling her the truth. And with a hundred Theresas testifying on the witness stand, there was no way a jury would convict the Sorensen Sisters.
I made it safely back to my room, very fortunately, because Alice the maid appeared with beef tea soon after I had returned.
“The mistress’s instructions are that you should stay in bed today and make sure you're not running around too soon,” she said, talking to me as if I was a naughty five-year-old.
So I had to sit, fuming, by my open window, wondering what might be going on downstairs and up at the Misses Sorensens' cottage. I heard snatches of conversation as tea was taken on the porch. I heard Eileen’s little voice as she came to make her daily visit. Then shortly afterward Theresa herself came to see me, bringing wafer-thin slices of brown bread and honey while the maid carried a cup of weak tea.
“Do get well again soon, Molly dearest,” she said. “It won't do to have two wretched invalids on the premises and I am so relying on you.”
I promised I'd feel as right as rain in the morning and even suggested that I might even feel well enough to come down to dinner, but was met with stern instructions to stay where I was. I felt like a complete fraud, seeing her so concerned about me. The evening dragged on until Alice appeared with hot milk just as it was getting dark. Then there was nothing to do but go to sleep.
I woke to complete darkness and to the most awful cramps in my stomach. I scarcely had time to find the chamber pot under my bed before I was horribly and violently sick. The bouts of sickness went on all night, leaving me weak and sweating. How my mother must be enjoying this, I thought grimly. She'd always told me about the dire punishments for lying. Well, I'd claimed to be stricken with a mysterious illness and now it had come true.
By morning I was just strong enough to stagger across my room and ring the bell for a servant. She must have given a vivid description of my condition because it brought Theresa herself, still in her dressing gown, in to see me. She stood in the doorway and eyed me with grave concern.
“Molly, my dear lamb, you look terrible. Let me call Dr. Chambers for you.”
“I'm sure it’s nothing more than something I ate,” I said.
“But there are all kinds of dreadful illnesses going around at the moment,” she said. “There’s typhoid in the city. We can't be too careful, can we?”
Dr. Chambers arrived in due course, listened to my heart and breathing and came to the same conclusion as myself—that it must have been something I had eaten. I was put on a strict invalid diet of slops and ordered to stay in bed for a few days. Strangely enough I felt much better the moment he left and managed to eat some gruel and a soft-boiled egg.
Theresa came to visit me again, looking most agitated. “Molly, you'll never imagine what terrible thing has happened,” she whispered. “Miss Emily and Miss Ella—they have gone. Apparently they asked the chauffeur to drive them to the ferry early this morning and they have left us without even saying good-bye.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Now 111 never get a chance to hear Brendan’s voice again. I am so angry with Bamey. It’s all his fault.”
“I'm so sorry,” I said, feeling doubly guilty because I was sure the fault was mine and not Barney’s that the Misses Sorensen had done a bunk. The day dragged on. I had always made a terrible patient. I got up and walked around my room, wondering what I should be doing. I had to admit that I felt shaky on my feet and soon had to lie down again. In fact I must have drifted off to sleep because I woke to find Alice shaking me.
“Sorry to disturb you, miss, but the mail has just arrived and Mrs. Flynn thought you might like to be cheered up.” She handed me a letter.
It was addressed to Miss Molly Gaffney from Mrs. Priscilla O’Sullivan. The address, of course, was Daniel’s.
“Oh, how nice,” I said. “An old family friend in New York has written to me. I stayed with her briefly when I first arrived.”
I waited until Alice had departed before I opened the envelope. I had recognized the handwriting. Inside was Daniel’s black and angry script.
Molly,
Do not get yourself involved in anything other than the task you were asked to complete. For your information, there was no indication at the inquiry to suggest that Albert Morell had any connections to the Black Hand. That isn't to say that he wasn't working for them. Their squealers tend to wind up in the Hudson, so it’s possible that they were be-hind the kidnapping. It is certainly the kind of brutal and heartless thing they would do. Which makes it all the more imperative—do not ask any more questions or poke your nose into this any further. Find out all you can about the Sorensen Sisters and then come straight home. And that is an order.
As to the other matter you mention. There could be something irregular with the woman’s death you describe, but you are not going to investigate it, and neither am I. It is beyond my jurisdiction and if the local police decide not to pursue it, there is nothing I can do.
Destroy this letter as soon as you have read it. If there is an informant in the house you may be putting yourself in the gravest jeopardy.
Daniel
So that was that. I was being ordered home. In one way I was relieved, in another I was frustrated that I had managed to accomplish so little. I had caused Miss Emily and Miss Ella to bolt, and I had uncovered some of their tricks, but that was a long way from being able to stop their little game. And I was no nearer at all to finding out the true story behind the Flynn baby’s kidnapping. It now seemed that Albert Morell was in the pay of the Black Hand, or that they somehow had a hold over him, and he had carried out their instructions. Why else would the note have been signed with a black hand on it? And I had not been able to prove that Annie Lomax hadn't played her part in it, bringing the child to the cottage. All in all, a dismal failure.
I lay feeling annoyed, frustrated and sorry for myself until the maid came up with a supper tray, containing a cup of beef tea and some thinly sliced bread and butter. I cleared my plate and fell asleep.
Twenty-four
That night I woke again to cramps and vomiting. I lay there suffering, rather than wake one of the servants, but this time it was even more severe and I became quite frightened. In my weakened state hallucinations danced in front of my eyes and it suddenly came to me that this was a curse, put upon me by Miss Emily and Miss Ella for standing in their way. I didn't believe in curses any more than I believed in spirits, but lying all alone in a dark room, listening to the owl hoot outside my window while my body was wracked with cramps, I was not at my most logical.
Theresa came to minister to me in the morning and again by midday I was feeling stronger. I kept down a little lunch, and that afternoon Theresa s
uggested I might feel up to joining everybody on the porch to enjoy the cool breeze from the river. A strapping footman carried me downstairs and deposited me on the wicker chaise. Theresa, Belinda and Clara were all sitting around the tea table and little Eileen was being grilled on her daily activities as I was carried out.
I noticed the others stayed well clear of me, probably not fully believing the doctor’s diagnosis that I didn't have typhoid. I noticed Clara eyeing me suspiciously as she poured my tea. “Are you sure Cousin Molly would not be better off staying in her bed as the doctor ordered?” she asked.
“Oh, but Qara, it’s so terribly lonely to be up there all alone all day,” Theresa said. “I should know. I've spent enough lonely days myself in recent years. Molly needs cheering up.”
“If you're sure it’s nothing contagious,” Clara said. The child is with us, remember.”
Eileen wanted to go up to me, but was restrained by her nanny. “Miss Gaffney isn't well,” she said. “She won't want you disturbing her.” And the child was hurriedly taken back upstairs.
I took a thin slice of bread and some tea with the others but felt as weak as a kitten. If this continued, when would I ever be strong enough to travel, and what excuse could I use to make my exit?
We were in the middle of tea when we heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the gravel drive. Soon a horse-drawn cab came into sight and stopped at the front door. Teacups were put down and everyone watched with great interest as a slim, bearded gentleman got out of the cab. He was pale and light-haired, with round, wire spectacles like the kind that Jacob wore. His tweedy travel clothes were well worn and clearly designedfora cooler cli-mate. In his hand he carried a black leather travel bag and he stood looking around nervously before marching up to the front steps.
