The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries Book 14)

by Rhys Bowen

  “How’s my invalid?” he asked.

  “Not improving through rushing all over the place this morning,” Mother Sullivan said before I could answer, as she brought the pie to the table. “You should have seen her earlier. Pale as death she was, and clearly suffering.”

  “You exaggerate,” I said. “I went out for an hour with Sid and Gus to visit friends. Hardly exhausting, and I’m feeling just fine now.”

  “Take it slowly, Molly,” Daniel said, giving me a long look. “These things can’t be rushed.”

  “I’m fine, really I am,” I said. I spooned food onto a plate and passed it to Daniel, then to Bridie. “How is the case coming along? Have they discovered any clues about the train crash yet?”

  “Nothing at all.” He shook his head, but there was a warning look in his eyes that said we should say nothing more in front of his mother. “I take it your little jaunt with the neighbor ladies today was to visit the young girl you told me about.”

  “Yes, it was. It was rather disturbing, as a matter of fact. The girl claims to remember nothing but is having horrendous dreams, dreams that upset her so much that she was shaking and couldn’t even talk about them. Gus has asked her to write them down as soon as they happen, as that might be less distressing than having to recount them.”

  “And Gus thinks she can analyze the dreams and thus cure the girl?”

  “That’s what she hopes,” I said.

  “What’s all this? Your friend has turned into a fortune-teller now, has she?” Daniel’s mother asked.

  “No, remember I told you that she’s been studying in Vienna with Professor Freud?”

  Mother Sullivan sniffed. “Professor Freud! Smut merchant Freud, if you ask me. Mrs. Hennessy at church was saying that he’s trying to make out we’re all depraved, with unnatural desires. I’m afraid it only goes to confirm my opinion of your friends, Molly.”

  “So you think it’s a better idea to lock mad people away in asylums, rather than try to find out what’s ailing them and try to help them?” I asked. “I’ve been in one of those places. They are the closest thing to hell you could find.”

  “You were in an asylum?” she asked nervously. “For what reason?”

  “I was trying to trace a missing girl, back when I ran my detective agency,” I said. “I discovered her there, quite sane but put there by evil people.”

  “Mercy me,” she said.

  “Anyway, Professor Freud might have some strange ideas, but a lot of good will come from the study of the mind, I feel sure. And lately he’s turned his attention to the study of dreams. He’s written a treatise on dream interpretation. Gus has been telling me about it. It sounds fascinating.”

  Mother Sullivan laughed. “The old Irishwomen were always interpreting dreams when I was a girl. Dream of a black cow and you were going to come into money or get married or something. That kind of rubbish.”

  “They did the same where I come from,” I said. “They reckoned some people could dream the future—and maybe they were right and some people could. We always prized ourselves on our second sight. But this is different. Gus says that we sometimes express what is troubling us in our innermost souls through symbols in our dreams.”

  “I dream that I’m flying,” Bridie chimed in. “I’m flying and I’m looking for water and I’m going really fast because I know it’s a long way, but if I can only spot the water, I’ll be all right.”

  “I think even I can interpret that one,” I said. “You’re looking for the Panama Canal and hoping to see your father and brother.”

  “Looking for Da and Shamey? Maybe you’re right, Molly,” Bridie said. “I’m that worried about them. I do wish they’d write to me. Just once.”

  “I’m sure they will, when they get somewhere they can post a letter,” Mrs. Sullivan said kindly, but she shot me a look telling me to leave this subject alone.

  I thought about suggesting to Bridie that we pay a visit to her disreputable relatives in case they had any news, but it didn’t seem the right moment to do so. I was sure Daniel would forbid such an outing at the moment and besides, I hoped to pull off a satisfying little coup. Even as I said this, I felt ashamed of myself. I’d be using Bridie to score a point and prove to Daniel that I was just as good a detective as he. Why must I still see myself in competition with him? I wondered. Shouldn’t I be content to be a wife and mother?

  “So Augusta has been analyzing this girl’s dreams, has she?” Daniel asked. “Any luck?”

  “No, Mabel wouldn’t tell us much. Just something about a large snake, and its eyes, and how it loomed over her. She was terrified.”

  “Do you think there was an element of insanity there? You thought before you saw her that perhaps she’d killed her parents.”

  “I wondered how she managed to escape from a fire when they didn’t. Now I’m even more confused. Apparently she showed no signs of ever being in the fire—no blackened face or singed garments, nothing. And the fire escape was right outside her parents’ bedroom. So I have to think that something must have happened to them to make them unable to climb out of their window. But as to Mabel killing her parents—I find that hard to believe. She seems like such a sweet, gentle creature, and she clearly loved them both.”

  “During my fifteen years in the department,” Daniel said as he reached out for another slice of bread and began buttering it, “I have found it impossible to tell who looks like a murderer and who doesn’t. Little old ladies who calmly poisoned their siblings or their lodgers. And seemingly sane young people who did away with their parents, then absolutely denied it against irrefutable evidence. What do the police think?”

  “Don’t get me started on the police,” I said angrily, as I held my fork poised in midair with a mouthful of fish on it. “An unpleasant young lieutenant is in charge, and he’s convinced that she killed her parents and is only feigning amnesia. But he was such a bully that I’m afraid I took an instant dislike to him.”

  “Really? What is his name?”

  “Yeats,” I said. “He looks awfully young, and he seems to possess no skills when it comes to dealing with the general public. He was rude to each of us.”

  Daniel smiled. “Ah, yes. Yeats. I know about him. His father is a big wheel at Tammany and the boy is destined for politics. I agree. He is an unpleasant little toad, far too keen to make his mark quickly. But then I suppose I was that way myself when I first started. The desire to get that first conviction in a murder case is very strong, as you remember, Mother.”

  “I do indeed, both with you and your father. Remember how furious you were whenever one of yours got off on a technicality, or pleaded insanity?”

  Daniel nodded. “It’s only when you witness an execution for the first time that you realize what a terrible power you have, and a glimmer of doubt creeps in. Right before they pull the switch to turn on the current, you find yourself wondering if you’ve made a mistake and are killing an innocent person.”

  “I’m sure Yeats would have no such qualms,” I said. “He seemed really pleased with himself. He threatened to have Mabel locked up in the Tombs to make her remember. Can you stop him from doing that, Daniel?”

  “It’s not my case and he doesn’t report to me,” Daniel said. “But I can have a little chat with him and suggest that he needs to make sure of his facts before he talks about wilful murder. He’d need some kind of proof, not just a hunch.”

  “You mean some kind of evidence in the bodies? But they’ll have been buried for a month or more. Will anyone give permission to have the bodies exhumed?”

  “If it’s a question of someone being arrested for murder. Yeats would have no case without physical evidence.”

  “Can you find evidence in burned and charred bodies?” I asked. “I know you might be able to see a gunshot or a stab wound, but what about poison?”

  Daniel considered before speaking, staring out past the kitchen door. “I think a good pathologist could detect something obvious like arsenic i
n the tissue.”

  “But if someone had turned on the gas while they slept? Or if they had been smothered, for example?”

  Daniel gave a half snort, half chuckle. “I can’t answer that one, Molly. We can tell a person has been smothered by the broken blood vessels in the eyes and the flush on the face, but if the face is badly charred?” He shook his head. “I’d think not. But you’re not suggesting that a young girl could smother both her parents? They’d struggle. The other would wake up. You need considerable strength to smother someone.”

  Mrs. Sullivan gave a little grunt of what I took to be disapproval.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you have everything you need? Some more beans?”

  “No, thank you,” she said stiffly. “Sit up straight, Bridie.”

  We sat for a moment in silence. But I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I had to make the most of having Daniel to talk to, for once. “Well, I’m thankful you’re going to put pressure on that obnoxious Yeats person to exhume the bodies. At least then we’ll know more.”

  Daniel drained his beer glass and put it down. “You realize that might not go well for your young girl,” he said. “If it transpires that her parents were killed or drugged first, it will be assumed that she did it. It will be taken as proof that she’s guilty.”

  “Unless the form of death was impossible for a young girl to carry out.”

  Daniel’s eyebrows raised. “You are now talking of killing by person or persons unknown? That has never been mentioned before, has it?”

  “No, it hasn’t,” I said.

  “So you’re now suggesting that a stranger managed to gain access to a house that had servants in it, made his way upstairs, and killed two people in their beds, before setting fire to the house? What would the motive be, Molly, since this possibility has never come up before?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But maybe I should have a talk with Mrs. Hamilton, the girl’s aunt. She might know of a family feud, or another reason that someone might have wanted Mabel’s parents dead.”

  Daniel shook his head. “It would take a significant family feud to cause someone to kill two people before setting fire to their house. That sort of thing doesn’t normally happen to respectable middle-class people.”

  “It happened to us,” I said. “I would never have believed it either, but it did happen to us.”

  “My circumstances are rather different,” Daniel said. “I was dealing with a ruthless gang at the time. They were trying to teach me a lesson. What did Mabel’s father do? What was his profession?”

  “I don’t know, but it was something respectable and middle class, I expect. Mrs. Hamilton didn’t mentioned it. But Mabel’s mother came from a wealthy banking family. Her name was Susan Masters. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Masters?” He paused. “Of Deveraux and Masters? Yes, I’m familiar with that firm. Merchant bankers on Wall Street, I think. But banking is usually only a dangerous profession if one is the clerk behind the counter at the time of a robbery.” He grinned. Then his face became serious again. “I think you should leave well enough alone, Molly,” he said. “And besides, this speculation does not address the primary piece of evidence—how did the girl escape without any signs of having been in a fire?”

  Daniel’s mother put down her fork with a clatter. “Is the dinner table conversation in this family always to be about murders?” she asked. “It’s most unhealthy for young Bridie, and not too good for my digestion either.”

  “I don’t mind,” Bridie said. “I think it’s exciting.”

  “It’s quite unsuitable for a young girl like you,” Mother Sullivan said firmly. “In my day dinner table conversation centered on socially acceptable subjects like balls, and parties, and…”

  “And scandals, Mother,” Daniel said. “Don’t forget I’ve been at enough of your dinner parties to know that the conversation often touched on infidelity and other delicate topics.”

  “Really, Daniel.” Mrs. Sullivan sniffed in indignation. Daniel and I exchanged a knowing grin and went back to our food. Later, when we were alone in the privacy of our bedroom, he said to me, “I really want to warn you about getting involved in your friends’ problem. You have no experience with insanity and the forms it can take. I have seen people who appear to be quite normal one moment and raging demons the next. It is out of your league and your friends’ too. And from what I know of young Yeats, you might well find yourself locked in the Tombs for obstructing justice.”

  “He’s a horrid man, Daniel. I just hate to see that young girl bullied by him,” I replied. “The very least you could do is to suggest the exhumation. Then Mabel couldn’t be arrested until the results are known. And by then, Gus may have found a qualified alienist, who would be taken seriously in court, to treat her.” I pulled my nightgown over my head and slid into bed.

  “Enough about murders and courts,” he said. “I come home to let the cares of the day slip away, not to discuss them into the night.” And he climbed into bed beside me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you know me. I can’t help being interested.”

  “You can’t help wanting to stick your nose into any criminal case.” He laughed. “You are still not prepared to stop being a detective. I know you too well, Molly Murphy.”

  “I only want to see justice done,” I said. I smoothed down the covers and turned to look at Daniel. “And speaking of criminal cases,” I went on, “have you started making a list of your own cases—ones that ended with the death penalty and might have made your note writer seek revenge against you?”

  “I have started, yes, but frankly I don’t see where it’s going to help. Most of the cases I’ve come up with were clear-cut. A man killed his wife with an ax. Found with blood all over his clothes, even admitted his guilt. That sort of thing.” He sat up in bed, propping a pillow behind his head. “But I’ve been giving some thought to what you said about some of the murders being random, to hide the real one for which the killer had a motive. That might make sense, Molly.”

  “It might well,” I agreed. “That first victim, the simple old woman. He could have seen her and decided that she was of no use to society, and therefore her death wouldn’t matter. If he was testing himself, trying out how easy it was to kill someone, then she’d have been a likely target. She was too simple to know she was being followed, and probably not as aware as other people of the approaching streetcar.”

  “So you’re saying that he killed her simply to see how easy it is to kill someone?”

  I nodded. “And the second murder might have been for the same reason. How easy was it to walk through a crowded student café, and drop cyanide into a coffee cup without anyone noticing?”

  “But then your system breaks down,” Daniel said. “The murders after that are no longer opportunistic, or in public places. He had to gain access to private homes. He poisoned. He even entered a bathroom where a woman was taking a bath. Surely her screams must have been heard? And what about the man in the meat safe? Wouldn’t it have taken brute strength to force him in and lock the door? If only one of those killings has a clear motive, then why are the others so unnecessarily complicated? Why flirt with failure like that? Servants could have apprehended him in the judge’s house. The woman’s screams could have been heard when a man entered her bathroom. And he might not have been strong enough to force the butcher into the meat safe.”

  I sat up now too and wagged an excited finger at him. “I’ve just heard one word that might make sense of this. Judge. I asked you about your trials that led to execution or death. What if he’s also taking his revenge against a judge? You can narrow down your search, Daniel. Have you ever brought someone to trial who was then sentenced by that particular judge?”

  “I believe I have, but it would have been early in my career. He’s almost eighty. He retired from the bench some time ago. Let me think about it.…” He paused, frowning. At the end of our quiet little street, I heard the bells of a fir
e truck as it left the Jefferson Market fire station. In the city, there was a constant reminder that danger was never far away.

  Daniel shook his head as he reached to turn down the gaslight. “I do remember a couple of trials, but neither one resulted in the death penalty. And I also remember that this particular judge was known to be soft. A kind-hearted old man who would avoid sentencing someone to death if he could.”

  We both lay back against the pillows.

  “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere, do we?” Daniel said. “And there is still the threat of his last note—he still wants to kill one more time.” He turned to me and kissed me gently. “But it’s not your worry, Molly. Go to sleep, and sweet dreams.”

  But I didn’t have sweet dreams. Instead I was in that dark, confined space again, lying there unable to move, listening to the drip of water and a strange rumbling. And I knew I had to get out before it was too late.

  Fifteen

  The next morning I awoke with a headache. Daniel’s mother appeared at my door with a cup of tea.

  “Daniel said you had a bad night, moaning in your sleep,” she said. “He told me to tell you to stay home and rest. You could be suffering from delayed concussion after your accident, you know. And shock. One can’t be too careful with these things.”

  She insisted I have breakfast in bed. I sat up, eating my boiled egg and looking out of the window at the deserted street. Doing nothing did not come easily to me, especially when there were so many questions to be answered. I was itching to find out whether anyone could have had a motive to kill Mabel’s parents, and how easy it would have been to gain access to their house. But I told myself I could wait until the bodies were exhumed and an autopsy was performed. If it was confirmed that they died as a result of the fire, then there was no more to be done. It could never be proved that Mabel started that fire deliberately and then got out.

  I lay back in bed and thought about the dream that had been troubling me. The dark, confined space. The drip of water. The strange rumbling. And the awful feeling of doom. Were they taking me back to that train crash, when I was trapped in the car, or did they mean something more? In the dream, I definitely felt trapped. I knew I had to escape before something terrible happened. In Ireland we’d take such a dream as a warning, a portent of something bad about to happen. At home we believed very strongly in psychic powers and the sixth sense. I’d often thought that I had it myself, until it let me down and didn’t warn me of the worst thing that had happened in my life. But Gus would say that the symbols in my dream represented deep-seated fears from my own life. The fear of being trapped? Of no escape? I shook my head. But I didn’t feel trapped. I loved my life and my husband and child. Was the dream maybe a flashback to a time when I had been trapped somewhere? I tried to go over my many adventures as a detective. Yes, there were times I had been in danger, but they no longer haunted me. I’d have to ask Gus and see what she could tell me.