by Rhys Bowen
“Why didn’t you?” one of the older women asked.
“We decided we missed New York too much, and there was considerable resistance to a woman wanting to be part of such a man’s world. Several of the men there still believe that women are prone to hysteria and are incapable of serious discussion. Professor Freud himself was upset when I questioned his theory that lucid dreams are produced mainly by sexual impulses. It seemed like a good time to leave Vienna.” Gus looked across at Sid and smiled.
“You had the most marvelous insights, Gus,” Sid said. “Even some of the professors were impressed. They realized you brought a fresh new perspective to their research—an American woman’s perspective.”
Gus looked highly embarrassed about all this praise. “That’s kind of you to say, but shouldn’t we be concentrating on the reason for which we are here?”
“We should,” Mrs. Mitchum said. “You have heard, I take it, that the suffragist movement has a new leader. Mrs. Catt has had to step down, or has been forcibly replaced, I’m not sure which, by Mrs. Anna Howard Shaw. Although I can’t say I’m overjoyed by this choice. I think her approach will be too cautious, and the time for caution is past.”
“That’s just what I’ve been saying,” Sid said. “We have tried to persuade gently and it is not working. We have to shake up society and make people listen to us.”
“Quite right,” Mrs. Hamilton said.
But that was about as far as the group could agree. One person’s idea of forceful behavior was another’s idea of militancy. I sat there while the arguments raged across me and was suddenly overcome with weariness. I stood up and begged to be excused.
“Of course, Molly dear,” Gus said. “I think it’s very courageous of you to be with us at all after your ordeal.” She turned to the others. “Mrs. Sullivan was in that terrible train wreck yesterday, can you believe.”
There was instant sympathy. “Not in that carriage that plunged to the ground, surely?” Mrs. Mitchum said.
“No, luckily I was in the one behind it. We came off the rails but were left hanging over the side, lodged against an adjacent building.”
“Even so she was taken to hospital with cracked ribs and a bump on her head the size of an onion,” Sid said.
“My poor dear young woman, then off to bed at once with you,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “You should not be up and around at all. It’s important to rest after an ordeal like yours. It’s not just the physical injury; it’s the matter of shock. The damage from shock can be quite profound, as I’ve just found out. We have our niece with us who has been through a trauma of her own and is still not fully recovered.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Mitchum said. “What sort of trauma was it?”
“A house fire. Her parents were burned to death. She was lucky to get out alive.” She shook her head. “But she is young, she is resilient. She will recover with time and loving care.”
I left them and dragged my aching body up the stairs. I found myself feeling overwhelmed with tonight’s chatter, with the imminent arrival of my mother-in-law, and with what had happened to me. I lay there, listening to the animated voices floating up from the open windows of the conservatory. Much as I agreed with their cause, I found it hard to be an active participant when I had more serious things occupying me. I wouldn’t be able to rest properly until the man who was sending notes to Daniel was finally apprehended.
I lay back and tried to sleep, but Gus’s words on dreams kept buzzing around my head. Were my dreams of a dark and confined space only reflecting what I had experienced in the train crash yesterday, or did they mean something deeper? Could they mean that I felt confined by my marriage? On such disturbing thoughts I finally drifted off to sleep.
Ten
The next day when I awoke, my first thought was that it was Liam’s birthday. My son was now a one-year-old. Then I realized I had no present, no cake, nothing to celebrate with. I told myself that Liam didn’t know when his birthday was, so it would make more sense to wait until we were safely moved back into our house and … “Holy Mother of God,” I muttered, sitting up so rapidly that I felt a shot of pain from those ribs. Today my mother-in-law arrives. I’d have no time for birthday plans, even if I felt well enough to bake a cake. I knew she was coming to look after me, but there was still so much to be done to make the house fit for a guest. I washed and dressed with rapidity and went across the street to my house. The beds had been delivered from Sloane’s, and Sid and Gus brought over armloads of sheets, pillows, and counterpanes to make up beds for Daniel’s mother as well as for Daniel and me. Liam’s crib was being brought down from the apartment, along with the other items we’d been using, but I was leaving that to Daniel.
“Poor old Liam,” I said, watching him sitting and playing with Sid’s stuffed bear. “It’s his birthday and we’ve nothing for him.”
“I thought you agreed we’d have a proper celebration when you were feeling better and installed properly in your house,” Gus said. “And we haven’t had time to buy presents yet either.”
“I know. I’m just being silly,” I said. “It’s just that every setback reminds me of what we’ve lost, and that we’re not quite back to being a normal family yet.”
Gus put her hand on mine. “It will come, Molly. Just be patient. You’ve got Daniel and you have us too. And we’re going to give Liam the best birthday ever soon. You’ll see.”
I felt tears coming to my eyes again. Really I was turning into a dreadfully weepy woman these days. I blinked them away and gave Gus a bright smile. “Right. Let’s finish that list of things I’ll be needing.”
Sid and Gus then disappeared back to their own house, only to return with an amazing assortment of sundry dishes, knives and forks, kitchen utensils, and dishcloths.
“I really don’t need all this,” I said, eyeing items that I could hardly identify—a garlic press, a French coffeemaker, and some kind of slicing machine. “And I couldn’t deprive you of so much.”
“We hardly ever use these things, Molly,” Gus said when I tried to protest. “It will be good to give them the light of day.”
“And you’ll need a bedside lamp,” Sid said, as she came down from the second floor. “We could bring down the one in the guest room. I’ll go and get it.”
She went to the front door, then stopped and called out, “There’s someone at our door, Gus.”
“Can I help you?” she called out. We then heard her say, “Mrs. Hamilton. I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon.”
The tall, severe-looking woman spun around at the sound of Sid’s voice coming from across the street. “Oh, Miss Goldfarb. You startled me. I’m so sorry to disturb you.”
“We were just helping Molly move back into her newly renovated house,” Sid said.
“I’ve obviously come at an inconvenient time.” Mrs. Hamilton turned to leave. “It was a foolish impulse on my part to call without an invitation. Please excuse me.”
Sid went over to her. “Not at all. We were about to stop for a cup of coffee or tea. Won’t you join us?”
“No, it wouldn’t be right when you’re obviously so busy.” She sounded flustered, and I was surprised. At last night’s meeting she had seemed like a woman who is always in command of herself.
“But we insist, don’t we, Gus?” Sid took Mrs. Hamilton’s arm and steered her toward their front door. “Come along, Molly. You’ve been working too hard and need a break too, and Liam should be waking up from his nap by now.”
We followed her back across the alley, and Mrs. Hamilton was shown into the conservatory while Sid put on a kettle. I went to retrieve Liam and brought him down to join us. Mrs. Hamilton made a great fuss of him.
“Enjoy him while he’s this age, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “Soon it will be ripped trousers and skinned knees and all kinds of trouble, I promise you. I find myself wishing that I’d had girls. So much easier.”
“I took care of three young brothers, so I know a bit about lit
tle boys and what I’m in for,” I said.
“And where are your brothers now? Still in Ireland?”
“Two of them are dead, I’m afraid. The youngest is still in Ireland.” I turned away, not wanting her to see my expression at the mention of this painful subject.
“It seems we all have our personal crosses to bear, doesn’t it?” she said. “Life was not meant to be easy.”
“Coffee, Earl Grey, or Japanese tea?” Sid poked her head through the doorway.
Life is easy for them, I thought, and then I remembered that life had not been so easy this summer. Mrs. Hamilton was right. We all have our personal crosses to bear.
When the tea tray was brought in, Sid and Gus handed around cups and then seated themselves facing us. Liam was given his favorite kind of hard gingersnap and lay back on my knee, sucking it contentedly.
“So what brings you back again so soon, Mrs. Hamilton?” Gus asked. “Did you perhaps want to reminisce over old times at Vassar when there weren’t so many strangers present?”
Mrs. Hamilton shook her head. “Nothing like that, Miss Walcott, although recalling old times is always pleasant. I came to ask you a favor. I tried to pluck up the courage to talk about it last night, but the moment never seemed right.” She paused and looked from one face to the next. I don’t think any of us had an idea what might be coming next. Mrs. Hamilton had appeared to me to be the kind of woman who is completely in command of her life and not prone to asking favors. “It’s my niece, you see. Young Mabel Hamilton.”
A spasm of pain crossed her face and she closed her eyes as if trying to blink it away.
“You said she was in a house fire that killed her parents?” Sid said gently. “How very sad for her and for you. I presume you lost a sister or a brother?”
“It was my husband’s brother who was killed, so no blood relation of mine, but he was very dear to us—a jovial, likable sort with a big laugh. He and Joseph came from a close family.”
“And Mabel’s mother?” Sid asked.
Mrs. Hamilton spooned sugar into her teacup and stirred it before she answered. “I developed a true affection for her over the years,” she said. “When she first married my husband’s brother, Albert, she was a shy and withdrawn little thing. She’d come from a very sheltered background, you see. Sheltered, and pampered to the point of being spoiled. Only child of a rich banking family—Susan Masters, she was.” She looked around for signs of recognition. “You’ve presumably heard of Deveraux and Masters, the merchant bankers?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Gus said. I couldn’t tell whether she really had or was just being polite. I certainly hadn’t, but then I’d never moved in such elevated circles.
“As I said,” Mrs. Hamilton went on, “she had come from a privileged and sheltered background, and it was quite a step down for her to have married our Bertie. She was only eighteen years old when she married him. He’d seen her at a dance and been quite smitten but never thought he stood a chance. But he proposed and she said yes, and I think they’ve been happy enough, although quite different in their tastes. She’s all for reading and music and quiet pursuits, and he’s all for company and the outdoors and sports.” She paused, again closing her eyes. “I meant ‘was.’ I must now refer to them in the past tense.”
“A great tragedy,” Gus said.
“Susan became quite attached to me over the years,” Mrs. Hamilton continued. “I believe she saw me as the big sister she never had. And now they are gone, burned to death in their beds.”
“But their daughter managed to escape,” Gus said. “That was a small miracle, I suppose. Was she an only child?”
“She was.”
“And you said that Susan was an only child of a rich banking family,” I interjected, without really thinking whether it was wise. It’s often been a fault of mine. I say something when it comes into my head, without thinking of the consequences. “Does that mean that Mabel is now a rich heiress?”
Mrs. Hamilton looked startled. “Well, yes. I presume that she is. We have been so engulfed in our mourning that the question of money has not arisen.”
I could tell immediately what she was thinking—that I had been implying they only took in their niece in the hope of financial gain, because she was an heiress—but that wasn’t what I’d meant at all.
“You said you brought Mabel to live with you,” Sid said. “That was a kind gesture.”
“It was either us or her grandfather, and he keeps a bachelor establishment after the death of his wife,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “And Mabel was such a poor, devastated little thing that we couldn’t say no. I must say she’s no trouble at all, compared to the boys. She’s quiet and retiring like her mother was. Hardly says a word unless spoken to. But then after what she has been through, it’s little wonder.”
She broke off and there was a moment of silence in the room. The day was cooler than yesterday, with a brisk breeze that came in now though the open window, making the leaves on the potted palm rattle.
“So how do you think that we can be of help to you, Mrs. Hamilton?” Sid asked cautiously. “You said you came about your niece.”
Mrs. Hamilton nodded. “She was found sometime after the fire, curled up in the back garden, apparently asleep, but unharmed. When she came to herself she had no memory of what had happened. Didn’t know there had been a fire. Asked about her mother and father.”
“It must have been the shock of what she went through trying to get out,” I said.
“That was another strange thing,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “She showed no signs of having been in a fire. Two of the servants also made it out safely, but they were blackened, with minor burns and singed hair. The third servant was not so lucky. Her room was in the attic, above Susan and Bertie’s room. They found her charred body later.”
“Very sad,” I said. “We also lost a servant girl in a house fire earlier this year.”
“But to get back to Mabel,” Sid said. “She was found unharmed in the back garden with no memory of what had happened.”
“That’s correct. The police have been investigating the fire, naturally, and they find it suspicious that she came out of it quite unscathed.”
“Do they suspect that she might have started it?” I asked.
She took a deep breath, then nodded. “That is certainly what the lieutenant has been hinting. An odious young man, keen on promotion, if you ask me.”
“Did Mabel dislike her parents? Had she any reason for wanting to do away with them?” I asked.
Mrs. Hamilton shook her head again. “She is a sweet child. There is no guile about her and she adored her parents. It makes no sense at all.”
“Had she shown any signs of mental instability before the fire?” Gus asked carefully. “It has been noticed that puberty can bring on such things.”
“Again I have to reiterate what I said. She is a sweet child, a little shy, but completely lovable.”
“Mrs. Hamilton,” I said, the detective in me now taking over. “You said she remembers nothing of the fire. Would you say that is true, or is that just what she is claiming? Has she ever tried to bluff or cover up something she has done in the past?”
“No, no.” She was animated and sounded distressed now. “I told you. There is no guile in her. Now, one of my boys—Winslow—he is a master at coming up with excuses and tall tales to cover up his transgressions. You know—the dog managed to open the cookie jar and stole the cookies. That kind of thing. But I can see through them right away. I’m sure I’d be able to tell if Mabel was lying. But her grief on finding out that her parents were dead and her home burned was real, I’d swear to that.”
“So why did you come to us, Mrs. Hamilton?” Sid asked. She was never one for preamble and liked to get to the point.
“It was what Miss Walcott said yesterday, about her study into the interpretation of dreams,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “You see, since the fire Mabel has been plagued with the most awful nightmares. She wakes screaming. I o
nce found her cowering in the corner of her room shouting, ‘Keep away from me. Don’t touch me.’”
“I see,” Gus said. “So you believe that in her subconscious mind she remembers what happened that night, and it expresses itself in her dreams?”
“That’s exactly what I believe,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “The possibility only occurred to me when you were speaking last night, but it must be true. So I wondered if you’d come and see her. Let her tell you the content of these nightmares, and then see if we can come to the truth.”
Gus glanced at Sid before she spoke. “Mrs. Hamilton, I should tell you that I’m not a qualified alienist. I have only touched the surface of the study of dreams. Maybe you should look for a true specialist.”
“But, Gus,” Sid interrupted. “You have said yourself that America is far behind in the study of mental illness. I am sure there is nobody over here who has made a study of dream interpretation. You told me that American doctors scorned Professor Freud’s theories.”
“That’s true,” Gus agreed. “Very well, Mrs. Hamilton. I will come and see Mabel. I will do what I can.”
Mrs. Hamilton reached out and took Gus’s hand. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough. The thought of that sweet child locked away in a prison or mental institution by an overzealous policeman is breaking my heart.”
“I presume a thorough investigation of the fire has been carried out,” I said. “Do they know how and where it started? Because there is something that strikes me as odd.”
“And what is that, Mrs. Sullivan?” Mrs. Hamilton asked.
“That the parents were burned to death in their beds. Why did they not at least try to escape?”
The other three women around the table stared at me suspiciously.
“What are you suggesting, Mrs. Sullivan?” Mrs. Hamilton said. “The fire started in their bedroom. They did not have electricity in their house. The windows were open, and it is thought that a breeze blew over an oil lamp on the bedside table.”
“They slept with the lamp still burning?”
