by Rhys Bowen
“I expect she wanted to know she was safe,” I suggested.
“Yes,” he said. “I expect that was it.”
“So you'll tell her?”
“I'll try.”
“I'll visit her later this morning, if you like,” I said. “She seems to like me. And at that age they have little concept of tragedy. I remember my own brother Thomas wanting to know if we could still go to the fair the day my mother died.”
Barney managed a smile. “Lucky for them,” he said. “We seem to carry around tragedy with us all the time.”
He trudged back up the stairs like a man carrying a heavy load. I went back to my room, washed and dressed hurriedly One glance in the mirror and I could see what Daniel meant about my appearance. I looked terrible, drawn and haggard—great hollow circles around my eyes, hair plastered to my forehead. Not exactly desirable. I rinsed my hair in the basin and brushed it back. I even wished I had been daring enough to bring rouge to put on my cheeks; at least that might have made me look more human. As I tied back my straggly hair, a chilling thought struck me. Everyone assumed that Theresa had killed herself, but if someone was trying to poison me, had that same person also succeeded in poisoning her?
The question was why. Had I stumbled upon a secret or a piece of knowledge I didn't even realize I possessed? In which case, had Theresa stumbled upon the same piece of knowledge? And why kill her now? I came up with a chilling reply to that one—the alienist. An outsider had come to the house who was about to probe Theresa’s deepest thoughts and fears. He had suggested hypnotizing her, during which she would have no control over what she revealed. And it was Barney who had been so adamantly against hypnosis. I turned to stare out of the window, watching the peaceful river scene outside as I digested this thought. Could Barney have used the advent of the alienist as an excuse to do away with a wife who was no use to him?
I shook my head. I just couldn't believe that. I had been with Barney and his grief and confusion seemed so genuine. If he had masterminded the whole thing, then the man was a brilliant actor. But 1 had to admit that it did seem logical. He had set the scene beautifully—protesting the arrival of Dr. Bimbaum, claiming that Theresa was worse after his session with her and could easily be driven over the edge, then forbidding the hypnotism. I hugged my arms to myself, shivering in early morning chill.
They were not my family, I reminded myself, and yet in my short time there I had become fond of Theresa, and of Barney, too, in a way. And Theresa had come to rely on me. If she had had any suspicions about anyone in the house, she could have shared them with me when we sat reading poetry together.
I felt a wave of weakness and grabbed at the window ledge, sending pigeons flapping from the gutter above my room. Was that it? Did someone fear that Theresa had divulged a secret to me during the time we were alone together? Certainly my cramps and vomiting started immediately after we had spent the day in Theresa’s room. But if someone wanted me dead, why not do a better job of it? Was this method designed to make it look like a natural death and not arouse suspicion—so that I'd get weaker and weaker until the final dose finished me off?
I shivered again. It was almost beyond belief that someone in this house was plotting my death. And yet I had seen evil and insanity before. I had faced murderers and guns and I knew what desperate men would do if threatened. It was just that this quiet country home was so removed from the back streets of New York.
I pulled out my notebook and sat at my desk, trying to harness my racing thoughts.
Baby kidnapped, I wrote. Margie McAlister killed. Molly slowly poisoned. Theresa dead. Four tragic events, the latter three of which would not be investigated as murders. People would say this was a cursed house, and find comparisons with other families who experienced more than their fair share of tragedy. But my year as an investigator had brought me to believe that not much happens by coincidence. If there were four deaths in one place and three of them within a week, then they had to be linked. Most probably there had to be one person behind them. The most logical assumption was that the circumstances surrounding the first of the events, the baby’s kidnapping, led to the next three. And this came back to my next theory—that there was a master planner, a puppeteer behind the kidnapping, and Albert Morell was the puppet.
I turned at the sound of a tap on my door and Alice the maid came in. Her eyes were red with crying.
“Oh miss, you're up and dressed,” she said. “Miss Clara sent me up to see if you were all right or you needed anything.”
“I'm feeling better, thank you, Alice.”
“Oh, that is good news, miss. The dear knows we need some good news around here. You've heard about the mistress, have you?”
“Yes. I've already spoken with Senator Flynn.”
“Isn't it awful, miss? She was such a sweet lady. Adèle is beside herself. She came in with a jug of hot water, the way she always did, because Mrs. Flynn was an early riser, and there she was sprawled half out of the bed. Adèle went to lift her back into bed and she was cold.” Alice put her hand to her mouth and turned away.
“It must have been a terrible shock for all of you,” I said. “I'm quite upset myself and I had only known her for just over a week.”
“I don't know what will happen now,” Alice said. “The Senator is ranting and raving about the house being cursed and that he’s going to sell up and take the child away from all this.”
“Poor little thing,” I said. “Now she'll grow up with no mother.”
Alice sniffed. “It’s not as if she'll want for anything. That child has always had the best that money can buy. And the Senator dotes on her. I think the two of them will get along just fine.”
She went over to my bedside table. “Oh, you didn't drink your beef tea, miss. They had it made specially for you to build you up.”
“No, I didn't feel like beef tea last night,” I said.
“It would have done you good. There’s nothing more nourishing than beef tea.” She went to pick up the cup. “I'll take it away for you then, shall I?”
I realized that she would be destroying the evidence. “Oh no, don't bother. Ill bring it down myself. I'm just coming.”
“No trouble, miss.”
“I'd rather you took the chamber pot away first,” I said.
“As you wish, miss.” She picked up my chamber pot and nodded with satisfaction. “And a night without sickness too. That is good.”
“Alice?” I asked as she was about to leave the room with the chamber pot.
“Yes, miss?” She turned back.
“Who gave you the beef tea to bring up to me?”
“Gave me, miss? It was on a tray in the kitchen and Cook said, That’s to go up to Miss Gaffney when you've a minute.”
“So you brought it up to me?”
“Well, miss, I was running an errand for Miss Clara and you know how she hates to be kept waiting, so I put it down on the table in the front hall for a minute or two.”
“And was anybody else in the front hall at the time?”
“Just Mr. Soames. He ticked me off for leaving the tray there. Will that be all then, miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Alice. You've been most kind.”
I sank onto my bed, my heart racing. I had never considered Soames before. He had always seemed like the perfect English butler, impeccable, invisible. I remembered mentioning that they had kept him on after the kidnapping when they had sacked all the other servants, and his haughty reply, “Maybe that was because I'm not like an ordinary servant.”
A butler would have had the perfect opportunity to carry out any of the crimes—apart from pushing Margie McAlister off the cliff, maybe. But I remembered that overheard conversation with the man’s voice asking, “What the devil do you think you're doing here?” and telling the other person that he or she had been paid off well. What if the voice I had heard was the butler’s—if he was the one being blackmailed and he found a way to silence Miss McAlister? I tried to remember whethe
r the voice I had heard spoke with an English accent. Soames had caught me snooping on a couple of occasions. I tried to remember the details. Once I had been opening the door to Barney’s study, once to the seance room. What possibly could I have seen in either place that represented a danger to Soames?
Then I thought of something. Maybe he had caught a glimpse of the letter I had written to Daniel and he knew I was in touch with the police. I didn't think that was likely because I had kept the letter between the pages of a book until I posted it, but he could have an accomplice at the post office. I wished Daniel had not gone away again last night. I wanted him here right now. He should know about Theresa immediately and he would also be in a position to check into Mr. Soames’s background. And to be honest, I would have liked someone around to protect me. It’s not an easy feeling, knowing that someone wanted me dead. But Daniel had promised to come back for me, hadn't he? I just hoped I would still be alive.
Twenty-seven
I looked out of my window as I heard feet on the gravel and saw the doctor arriving with the local police constable at his side and Soames leading the way. I wasn't sure how to proceed. I didn't want Theresa’s death to be ruled a suicide without voicing my suspicions, and yet suggesting her death might be murder would make Bamey the obvious suspect. And I didn't want Bamey to be the suspect, even if… I stopped that thoughtrightthere. If only Daniel were here. He'd know what to do. But I couldn't sit by and do nothing. Sitting by just wasn't in my nature.
I opened my door afewinches, watched and waited.
I could hear Barney’s voice from the hallway. “What do you mean by bringing the police into this? No crime has been committed.”
“I'm sorry, sir, but we have to investigate any case of unnatural death,” I heard the constable responding. “We have to determine it really was a suicide.”
“Really was a suicide?” Bamey was yelling now. “My poor wife killed herself while of unbalanced mind. Ask anyone in the house-hold. They'll tell you her mental state. Ask thatridiculousalienist fellow. He’s the one you need to arrest if you want to arrest any-body. He’s the one that drove her over the edge with his probings.”
“Calm down, Mr. Flynn. I can see that you're quite distraught,” I heard the doctor’s deeper, more educated voice saying. “All of this is just a formality. Nobody is suggesting anything other than the obvious. Now, if you'll lead the way to your wife’s room?”
I watched through the crack in my door as the procession came up the stairs. Bamey led the way. I noticed also that Soames followed them as far as the doorway. If Barney was going to insist on staying in the room with the doctor and Soames was going to hang around outside the door, I'd have no chance of speaking to the doctor alone without revealing my hand to the others in the house.
Then it occurred to me that maybe thetimewasrightto reveal that hand. A police constable was within shouting distance, so I'd be quite safe. All the same, my legs were quaking as I came down the stairs, and it wasn't just from my weakness either. Order had broken down in this otherwise clockwork-running house. Servants were standing about in the hallway peering up the stairs or whispering together. Belinda and Clara, both red-eyed, were hovering about the dining room doorway, clutching each other for support. Qara was already wearing black and Belinda’sfloweryhouse robe looked garishly out of place. They looked at me as if I was a ghost coming down the stairs.
“Molly, you're up and around again. That is good news,” Clara whispered. “So you've heard of the terrible tragedy that has taken place. God rest her poor tormented soul.” She crossed herself. This house is cursed. I always said it was from the moment they moved in.”
“My condolences to both of you,” I said as I approached them. “What a terrible shock for all of us. I hardly knew her and yet I had already become fond of her. It must be far worse for you, who had known and loved her for all of your lives.”
Belinda put her handkerchief up to her mouth. “I feel so guilty. I should never have brought Dr. Bimbaum here. I truly thought he'd be able to help her. One hears such wonderful things about alienists these days, but it was obviously too much for her. It’s all my fault.”
“I don't think you should blame yourself, Belinda,” I said. “Who knows the depths of despair that she had lived with for so long?”
“Maybe hearing her son’s voice was enough to convince her she wanted to be with him again,” Clara suggested. “She so wanted to have the spiritualists here, but that might not have been such a good idea either.”
“What the devil is going on?” a large voice echoed through the stairwell. Joseph Rimes stood at the top of the stairs, glaring down at the huddle of servants. “What do you think you're doing? Where are your master and mistress? Where is Mr. Soames? Get back to your tasks immediately.”
“Pardon me, sir, but an awful thing has happened.” Soames stepped out of the alcove where he had been waiting and drew Joe Rimes aside. He muttered into Joe’s ear and we watched Joe spin around, mouth open. “Good God, man. This is terrible. Why didn't somebody wake me? Where is O'Mara? Did anybody think of waking him up?”
Joe disappeared into Theresa’s bedroom and soon afterward a bleary-eyed Desmond O'Mara appeared in a striped dressing gown. We stood below watching the drama unfold above us. My stomach reminded me with a growl that I was in serious need of nourishment. I turned to Clara.
“Might we suggest that Cook makes a big pot of coffee and some simple breakfast—maybe boiled eggs and toast, as befits the occasion? It won't help anyone if we become faint from lack of food.”
Clara looked at me sharply, then nodded. Yes. You're right. I'll go and speak to Cook. I suppose it is up to me to see that the household keeps on running. Barney has no interest in household matters and little skill with servants.” She strode in the direction of the kitchen.
Belinda smiled. You've made her day,” she said. “Clara has been waiting for years to have the chance to boss somebody around.”
“What will you do?” I asked. “Will you stay on?”
She looked horrified. “Good Lord, no. I only stopped for a brief visit on my way home from Europe and to tell you the truth I can't stand this place. Too out of the way and dreary. Not a single real ball since I've been here and the only male within miles is that awful Roland Van Gelder. And having to put up with the uncouth behavior of Cousin Barney and Joe Rimes as well. I can't wait to go home to civilization.” She looked at me as if she realized she might have said too much. “And you, Molly. What will you do?”
“I can't stay on any longer,” I said. “It wouldn't be proper.” “Meaning you couldn't trust Barney’s wandering hands with no Theresa to keep him in check?” she asked.
I blushed. “Really, I didn't mean …”
“Of course you did. We've all been through it. Bamey can't keep himself away from women. That’s just his weakness. Theresa never was the warmest of lovers in thefirstplace and after Brendan she turned completely cold:—” She broke off again. “I shouldn't be talking like this with poor Tessa lying stiff and dead upstairs. She and I were never close but I would never have wished this ending on her, never.”
Clara reemerged from the kitchen, looking smug and satisfied. “I have ordered breakfast and it will be served shortly. Now to get those maids back to work. It will take their minds off things to keep them busy.”
“I rather suspect Clara will want to stay on,” Belinda muttered to me with the ghost of a smile.
Breakfast arrived and Joe Rimes and Desmond O'Mara came to join us. Nobody spoke as we sat at the big, white-clothed table. I don't know about the others, but I felt so much better with some-thing finally in my stomach. Through the open breakfast room door I watched the police constable come downstairs and took the opportunity to invite him to have a cup of coffee.
“Is the doctorfinishedup there?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I've been sent down to use the telephone and call for transportation to the morgue,” he said. “Secondtimein one week. Don'
t seem right, does it?”
“Precisely my thoughts, Constable,” I said. I glanced back at the breakfast room, where the others werefinishingtheir meal in silence. It was now or never. “So does the doctor really believe that she killed herself?”
He frowned. “What are you getting at, miss?”
“I just wondered if he can tell whether she did take an overdose of sleeping powders, or whether she might have been poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Whatever gave you that idea?” He had lowered his voice, but I hoped it carried far enough in the dead silence of the household.
“Because I suspect that somebody has been trying to poison me,” I whispered back, in what I hoped was a stage whisper. “I've been very sick this week, but only at night after I had a cup of hot liquid brought to me. For that very reason I didn't drink last night’s beef tea, but I've kept it in my room so that it can be tested later.”
“I can't believe what you're saying, miss.” The constable shook his head. “Surely you must be imagining things.”
“I only hope I am,” I said, “but I tried to understand why I was only sick at night and I worked out that my nighttime drink was the only thing I didn't take communally with the rest of the household. Anyway, one simple test and then well know. But I mustn't keep you from your work. The telephone is in Mr. Flynn’s office. Let me show you.”
I went across the hallway and ushered him into the room. It was a dark and somber room with its book-lined walls, and even darker at this time in the morning when the early sun was on the other side of the house.
“The telephone is on Senator Flynn’s desk,” I said.
He leaned closer to me. “So do you think I should suggest that we take any cups or glasses from Mrs. Flynn’s room for testing?” he muttered.
“I would think that they had all been carefully washed, but it couldn't hurt to take them for testing, and I would suggest to the doctor that he does a thorough autopsy.”
He shook his head again. “Doesn't seem possible. Who could have done such a thing? There must be a mad person in the house.”
