Tell Me Pretty Maiden

by Rhys Bowen

  I struggled to stand up. “Wait. No. Listen to me. I am not insane. Ask Nelly Bly. She’s coming to get me out today—”

  Then I heard the words, “Gott im Himmel. Miss Murphy?”

  The first doctor stepped aside and Dr. Birnbaum was standing behind him, staring at me in disbelief.

  “Miss Murphy. What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I was trying to rescue Jessie,” I said, still gasping for air. “They said you’d gone away. They wouldn’t let me see her, so this was the only way.”

  “My dear Fraulein.” Dr. Birnbaum came over to me.

  “Watch her, doctor. She’s a lively one,” the orderly said.

  “I believe I can handle her, thank you,” the doctor said. “My dear colleague, this young lady is as sane as you or I. I can personally vouch for her.”

  Hands released me. Soon I was sitting in Dr. Meyer’s office, explaining my presence. Even as I said the words I realized how ridiculous and impatient I had been. “I didn’t know how long you’d be away,” I concluded lamely.

  “So you took matters into your own hands.”

  “With the help of Nelly Bly.”

  “Nelly Bly?”

  “The famous reporter. She went undercover in an insane asylum once. She was my co-conspirator. She was supposed to come and release me by now, but everything went wrong. I found Jessie and one of the men started fondling her. I tried to pull him off her. They gave me some kind of injection and that’s the last thing I remember.”

  “So our girl is here?” He looked pleased. “How is her condition? Any improvement?”

  “She can speak,” I said. “And understand. I didn’t have a chance to talk with her, of course, but she came to my defense so she might now be in a cell like the one I was in.”

  “Which girl is this?” the other doctor asked.

  Dr. Birnbaum explained and someone was sent to fetch her.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” I said to Dr. Birnbaum as the other doctor left the room. “I thought you’d gone away, maybe back to Europe.”

  “Europe? I told the hotel I had been called away for a few days, that’s all. Dr. Meyer invited me to come and stay with him and witness his latest experiments.”

  “You’ve been staying here all the time?” I looked at him and started to laugh.

  Soon after that Jessie was brought to us in a pleasant sitting room. She came in looking terrified, and the look in her eyes when she recognized me and Dr. Birnbaum was wonderful. I embraced her and she started to cry. We stood there clinging to each other and crying. I believe even Dr. Birnbaum wiped away a tear.

  “You’re safe with us now,” I said. “We’re going to take you home.”

  We were treated very differently on the return voyage to Manhattan and helped ashore into the arms of a very worried Elizabeth.

  “Molly, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” she said. “They told me you had been taken to the wing for violent patients and there was no way they were going to release you to me. I was just on my way back to round up some reporters and a police escort. I thought we might have to storm the place.”

  “All is well,” I said. “And this is Jessie.”

  “The girl in the snowdrift?” Elizabeth beamed at her.

  “I remember now,” Jessie said slowly to me. “There was snow. Lots of snow. The whole world was white. You carried me out of the snow.”

  “What else do you remember?” I asked.

  “Not very much. Bad men. Horrible things, but all a blur, like a nightmare. I know that I was very afraid.”

  “Those men are now locked up in jail,” I said.

  “When did your power of speech return?” Dr. Birnbaum asked.

  “When I saw those men again, suddenly things started to come back to me. I knew they were bad and I was afraid of them,” Jessie answered in no more than a whisper, like one who is surprised to discover she has a voice. “But I knew I had to pretend to be witless if I wanted to stay alive. My plan was to get strong enough to run away. But then they lost patience and decided to send me to the asylum until my wits returned. Then I truly despaired, until this lady came for me.”

  “Molly,” I said. “My name is Molly.”

  A cab took us back to my house. Dr. Birnbaum sat and talked with Jessie while I made us all a good meal.

  “What I don’t understand,” I said, “is why they wanted to keep you alive and wait for your memory to come back.”

  She frowned for a moment and then she said slowly, “Because I am the only one who knows where the loot is buried.”

  By the next day we were able to piece it together.

  “You left the theater with Annie and John Jacob Halsted to go out to a late dinner,” I prompted as Dr. Birnbaum and Elizabeth sat beside us in my living room.

  “Annie?” She closed her eyes and a great shudder went through her. “They killed Annie,” she said at last.

  “I know.”

  “They would have killed me, too.”

  “I’m sure they would. So what happened when you reached the Silverton Mansion? Did Mr. Halsted rob the place? Did Annie help him?”

  Her pretty eyes opened wide. “It wasn’t JJ,” she said. “We got there and JJ stopped the automobile to open the gates and suddenly this man jumped into the front seat and he held a gun up to Annie’s head. He shouted at JJ to drive as fast as he could or he’d kill us. He had a great sack with him. JJ did what he said and drove away. When we came to a wooded area the man made us stop. He made us get out and clear away the snow and hide the sack with branches over it and then pile snow on top. And when we had finished, he turned to JJ and he said, ‘We don’t need you anymore,’ and he shot him. Just like that.” Her voice trembled and tears started to run down her cheeks. “Then he made Annie and me cover his body up with branches and snow until it was hidden. Then he made us get into the car again. He had that gun beside him in the front seat all the time.” She looked up at us hopelessly, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  Elizabeth put a hand onto Jessie’s arm. “You don’t have to go on right now. It’s not wise to distress yourself so much after what you’ve been through.”

  “No, I want to tell you,” Jessie said. “When we came to a town he found a telephone at a tavern. He took us in with him and he had the gun pointed at Annie’s side. He said if we made one sound, we’d both be shot. We knew he meant it. He made a telephone call to someone.”

  “In what language?” I asked. “Did he speak English?”

  “His English was not too good,” she said. “He was speaking Italian, I believe. Then he made us get back in the auto and he drove really fast toward New York. We came around an icy bend and he lost control. We skidded into this big tree. I was thrown out and I don’t remember anymore.”

  She paused. I handed her a glass of water and she took a sip. “Now comes the hard part,” she said. “When I came to, I was lying on the ground in the darkness. I crawled around and I found Annie. She was badly hurt and in a lot of pain. I saw that the man was still in the front seat of the car, but he looked as if he was dead. I wanted to go and get help, but Annie didn’t want me to leave her, so I stayed with her. We were sure that help would come eventually.

  “Then after a long time we heard a sound and a motor vehicle of some sort was coming toward us. I jumped up and waved my arms. It stopped. Three men got out. They saw our wreck and they started speaking fast in Italian. One asked me what happened and I told him. Then they talked fast again. They took the dead man and put him into the trunk of their auto. Then they saw Annie. She was lying there and couldn’t move.

  “I said, ‘Please help my friend. We must get her to a hospital.’ And do you know what they did? One of them took out a gun and fired it at her. Bang. She was dead. I tried to run away. They fired after me and I thought they’d kill me, too, but they ran after me and grabbed me and shoved me into the automobile. They put Annie’s body in the seat as well, beside me. When we came to a
creek, they stopped and threw her body into the water. Then they drove on.” She looked up with despair written on her face. I took her hand. “That’s when it all becomes hazy,” she said. “I know we crossed a bridge and I knew I had to escape. I remember jumping out and then I just ran and ran. That’s all I know.”

  After I had settled Jessie, I sent a note to Mrs. Goodwin and asked Mrs. Tucker to resume her role as nurse. After all I had been through, I didn’t feel up to facing Miss Van Woekem with the news just yet. Mrs. Tucker arrived and proposed that Jessie go back to her house to recuperate. “I’ve all my own cooking utensils there,” she said, “and this young one needs good nourishing food.” I thought that was a splendid idea, just in case any of those gang members ever came looking for her at my place.

  “I don’t know where I’ll go after that,” Jessie said. “I don’t think I can go back to New Haven. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Let’s not worry about the future,” Mrs. Tucker said. “All we have to do right now is fatten you up.”

  “Not fatten me up or I’ll never be able to dance again.” Jessie actually smiled.

  “If you want to dance again,” I said, “I know the very person. Blanche Lovejoy owes me a favor.” As I said this I realized that Blanche’s maid had killed somebody. Now that I was home again, I should find out if she had confessed to the police. She ought not to be allowed to get away with murder.

  The afternoon post arrived as I was getting Jessie ready to leave with Mrs. Tucker. One of the letters was from Blanche Lovejoy, the other from Daniel. At last he bothers to write, I thought angrily, and read the other one first. It contained a check and a note thanking me for my services. And at the bottom an extra sentence in small letters. “Martha took her own life last night.”

  So Martha had made the final sacrifice for the woman she loved so much.

  I glanced at Daniel’s letter and almost decided not to read it. But curiosity got the better of me. I never could resist an unopened letter.

  My dear Molly,

  Please forgive my long silence. My decision to go home last weekend was a good one. I arrived to find my father’s condition had deteriorated. He continued to grow steadily worse and finally slipped away from us last night. He went peacefully. I was beside him when he died, for which I am truly thankful. The funeral has been arranged for Saturday.

  Now I have a request of you. I know how busy you are, but I would like you to come for the funeral. It is my regret that I never introduced you to my father. I would like you at my side for the funeral.

  Please let me know which train you intend to take and I will meet you at the station.

  My love forever,

  Daniel

  I sat and stared at that letter for a long time while conflicting emotions went through me. The first, of course, was guilt. I had taken Daniel’s desire to see his parents as an excuse to miss a party, when all the time he had known how serious his father’s condition had been. And now he needed me beside him. If I went I would be cementing my position as his intended. I would, in effect, be saying yes to marriage.

  Then suddenly I realized that I was only thinking of myself. Daniel was grieving. I remembered the hollow feeling I experienced when my brother was killed and the terrible realization that I would never see him, or my other brothers, again. The least I could do was go to Daniel’s side. And I realized that I wanted to be with him. I wanted to share his grief and joy, just as I wanted him to share mine. As to what that might mean for our future, we’d just have to let things take their course.

  I went back to Jessie and Mrs. Tucker. “You’re sure Jessie will be all right with you?” I asked. “Because I have been called away for a while.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Tucker said. “Jessie and I will do just fine, won’t we, my pet?”

  At least one thing had ended satisfactorily, I thought, as I watched them go.

  POSTSCRIPT

  New Year’s Day, 1903

  JJ Halsted’s body was located in a remote woodland. The stolen items from the Silverton mansion were found buried nearby, a few pieces of silver and some jewels. Three lives, almost four, had been squandered for such useless trifles. But at least Miss Van Woekem could now have the consolation of knowing that her nephew died with no stain to the family honor.

  Later I introduced Jessie to Blanche. I saw Blanche’s eyes flash with interest when she heard that Jessie was an orphan from Massachusetts. It was too much to hope that I had produced her long-lost daughter, although stranger things had happened, but I could see that Blanche wanted to believe this and thus took Jessie under her wing. So something else ended happily.

  And Daniel and I—well, we have been spending Christmas with his family in Westchester. His mother has taken to me quite well, almost leaning on me as a daughter in her time of grief. And I, deprived of a mother at the age of fourteen, have been enjoying the closeness and warmth of family life. With the New Year has come new hope. A new police commissioner will be sworn in this week and we are hoping that he will take speedy action to reinstate Daniel as a captain of police. After that, who knows. I have to think that our story will also end happily one day.

  Read on for a sneak peek at Rhys Bowen’s

  next Molly Murphy Mystery

  In a Gilded Cage

  Available soon in hardcover from Minotaur Books

  ONE

  It is a well-known fact that we Irish are prone to bouts of melancholy, even without the help of the bottle. I suppose it goes along with the Celtic temperament and long, wet winters. Anyway, I was experiencing such a bout myself as I trudged home through a rainstorm that was wetter and colder than anything I had experienced at home in Ireland. March winds and April showers bring forth May flowers—that was how I learned it at school in Ballykillin. Well, it was now the middle of April and the gale that was accompanying the rain was worse than anything we’d experienced in March. I would never understand the New York weather! One minute it could be sunny and springlike and suddenly the temperature would plunge thirty degrees and we’d be back in winter again.

  We had endured a particularly long, cold winter, with snow well into March. The bleak conditions had produced all kinds of sicknesses and people had been dropping like flies as influenza of the nastiest kind had turned to pneumonia. Even I, usually known for my robust constitution, had succumbed and spent over a week with a raging fever that finally subsided, leaving me feeling weak and drained. It had been almost three weeks now and I had hardly left the house until my small detective agency, X. P. Riley and Associates (I now being sole proprietor and associate rolled into one), received a job offer I simply couldn’t turn down. It was from Macy’s new department store, at Thirty-fourth Street and Herald Square. They wanted me to look into a case of shoplifting that even their own store detectives had not managed to stop. Naturally I was thrilled and flattered, and I accepted immediately. I would have crawled from my deathbed for such an assignment. If I was successful, who knew where it might lead?

  The weather had finally been springlike when I set off for work that morning, which was why I’d worn my light business two-piece and not thought to take a top-coat or a brolly. Both of which I was now regretting as I came out of Macy’s to find that the temperature had plunged again and it was blowing a gale. Within seconds I was soaked to the skin, freezing cold, and thoroughly miserable.

  I should have been feeling on top of the world. I’d just concluded another successful case. In the guise of a new counter assistant I had spotted the pilfered goods being smuggled out in the trash by one of Macy’s own employees and then retrieved from the big trash bins by an accomplice. I had been handsomely rewarded for my services and was glowing with pride, dying to share my news with somebody when I stepped out of Macy’s back door and into the gale.

  I had hopped on a passing Broadway trolley and later regretted this move as well, as I had to walk home from Broadway with the rain driving straight into my face and one hand jamming my charming spring hat
onto my head. By the time I was halfway home I was well and truly sorry for myself. I was still weak, of course. I was not usually the kind of person who wallowed in self-pity or thought of herself as a helpless female. But as I trudged onward I was overwhelmed with gloomy thoughts. I longed for home and family and someone to take care of me.

  I suppose this wave of blackness and insecurity had something to do with my intended, Daniel Sullivan. We weren’t officially betrothed yet, but we had definitely reached the stage of an understanding. And it was this that was making me unsettled and jittery.

  Had my mother still been alive, she would have relished telling me that I was never satisfied. I suppose she was right—when Daniel had been in disgrace and on suspension from his position as captain of police, he had shown up on my doorstep every single day, and I had found myself wishing he’d be reinstated quickly, not just for his sake but for mine too. I found myself seriously wondering whether marriage and domestic bliss were what I wanted for myself.

  But recently he had been reinstated under the new commissioner of police and since then I had scarcely seen him. He had popped in once while I was at the height of my sickness, expressed concern, and then fled, not to be seen again. So now I was filled with doubts: did this lack of attention mean that he had tired of me, or was he merely taking me for granted now that he had more interesting ways to spend his time? If I married him I’d have to come to terms with the fact that this was what life as a policeman’s wife would be like. And how would I take to being the good little woman, sitting at home with my darning, waiting for him and worrying about him? Plenty of food for thought there. Never satisfied, I chided myself. Wants security but doesn’t want to be tied down. Wants love but wants freedom. Wants . . .

  I never did get to the third want, as a great gust of wind swept off the Hudson and snatched my hat from my head. I gave a scream of despair and leaped after it. It was a new hat, my first extravagant purchase since my detective agency started to make money, and I wasn’t about to see it disappear under the wheels of a passing wagon or hansom cab. I lifted my skirts and chased it in most undignified fashion to Fifth Avenue. Then a particularly violent gust caught it again and swept it out into the street just as I was about to pick it up. I didn’t think twice as I ran after it. There was an angry honking and I was conscious of a low black shape hurtling toward me.