In a Gilded Cage (18 page)

“Are you all right, miss?” a woman asked.

“Should be locked up,” a man beside me muttered, and waved his cane at the rapidly disappearing carriage.

“I’m fine. No harm done, thanks to you.” I looked at their concerned faces. “If you hadn’t grabbed me, I’d have been under those hooves.”

“It’s happening more and more these days,” another woman said. “Reckless drivers all over the place, electric trolley cars, and now these new automobiles. A person isn’t safe crossing the street any longer.”

The crowd began to melt away, the hope of a spectacle now over. I also went on my way and turned into Patchin Place. I found my hand was shaking as I put my key in the lock. As I put on the kettle for a cup of tea, that scene insisted on playing itself over and over in my mind. And as I replayed it an alarming thought surfaced. That carriage had headed straight for me—accelerating, not slowing. I was the target, not a random victim.

Which made me wonder who could possibly want me out of the way badly enough to risk running me down in broad daylight on a busy street. I found myself wondering if Anson Poindexter was still at the funeral banquet. Maybe I couldn’t put Fanny Poindexter’s death behind me just yet.

When I went to bed that night I tried to reason with myself that recklessly driven carriages cause accidents every day in the city. It must just have appeared that the carriage was headed for me. It had been unlucky timing, nothing more. But I couldn’t shake off the nagging doubt and was rather glad that I would be out of town for the next couple of days.

Nineteen

I
set off for Williamstown on a blustery morning with clouds that promised the chance of rain. We passed green fields and apple trees in blossom. We stopped in Hartford and then I had to change trains in Springfield. From now on the terrain became hilly and I found my enjoyment in being in the leafy green of the countryside turning to nostalgia. These sweeping green hills and racing brooks reminded me of home. When an April shower peppered the train window the picture was complete. Then I told myself that I really didn’t want to go home again, even if I could. My life was here and there was nothing much wrong with it.

I alighted in Williamstown and stood on the platform taking in the crisp air. I was so used to the sooty, city air of New York that it was delightful just to breathe here. The town was surrounded by green hills. During my hours in the train I had tried to formulate a plan. I hadn’t expected the town to be quite so large. I had rather pictured it like Westport at home in Ireland—a little country town set amid green fields. This looked to be quite a large, bustling metropolis, and, as I soon discovered, it was a college town to boot. Students walked past me, deep in earnest discussion. Others rode past on bicycles. I had decided to start at the church with the baptismal records. Surely a woman who married such an important man as Horace Lynch would have been from a prominent family in the area. But then I saw the mill, with the tall chimneys rising against the hills. And then of course I remembered Emily saying that her Uncle Horace owned mills in Massachusetts. Was it possible that he owned this very mill? I made my way there through back streets and went in the front entrance to a central courtyard. Around me was the clank and groan of heavy machinery. Mill girls hurried past, chattering away, their shawls around their shoulders against the chill wind as they crossed the courtyard and disappeared into a building at the rear. I found an office and asked my question. No, I was told. This mill belonged to a Mr. Greeley, but the mill in North Adams was owned by Mr. Lynch.

This was an annoying discovery as I had just come through North Adams on the train. It had been the stop before Williamstown, some six miles away. So it was back to the station and another train ride. I’m sure those who do not make their living as detectives have no appreciation for the amount of time we take coming and going. The job turns out to be hours of travel, hours of nothing happening, coupled with the odd minute of excitement every now and then.

North Adams was less prosperous-looking, and terraces rose up the slopes of an impressive mountain. The mill itself dominated the town, a square red brick building, with white-framed windows and tall chimneys. I made for it and was shown into the office of the mill manager.

He was a large, florid man with a perpetually worried expression but he greeted me cordially enough.

“Now, what can I do for you, miss?” he asked.

I told him I was sorry to trouble him but I’d been asked to track down any surviving relatives of Lydia Lynch, née Johnson. I understood that Mr. Lynch owned the mill.

“He does,” the man said, “but he doesn’t come near the place often these days. Leaves all the running of the business to me.”

“So have you been here long enough to remember Mrs. Lynch?” I asked.

“Aye, I’ve been here twenty-two years, man and boy,” he said, staring out past me with a wistful look. “I started here as an apprentice and I’ve worked my way up. Haven’t done at all badly for myself, have I?”

“I’d say you’ve done very well.” I gave him an encouraging smile. “So what can you tell me about Mrs. Lynch? Did the family come from around here?”

He nodded. “From Williamstown,” he said. I tried not to let my annoyance show. As usual my impetuous nature had driven me to leave that town before I’d asked the right questions. I probably could have saved myself a journey.

“Williamstown. I see. I don’t suppose any Johnson relatives are still living in these parts?”

“No relatives that I know of,” he said. “There was only her parents, and I believe they’d come over from Scotland when her father was a young man. He made quite a fortune for himself with this mill—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “He owned this mill?”

“He did. He and his missus were killed in a buggy wreck when Miss Lydia was a young woman. She married Horace Lynch soon after. He took over the mill and they moved into the old Johnson mansion.”

“And when did they move away from this area?”

“Ah, well.” He sucked through his teeth. “That would have been more than twenty years ago. They hadn’t been married long. Mr. Lynch had done very well for himself. He’d got other business interests down south and he wanted to be closer to them. At least, that’s what I heard. So they upped and moved to a swank part of New York City. I expect it was Mrs. Lynch’s doing—she always was one for parties and dances and smart society. There wasn’t much for her in Williamstown or North Adams, that’s for sure.”

“They must have moved away when they took on the baby,” I said.

“Baby? I never heard of no baby,” he said. “That was one of Mr. Lynch’s disappointments, that he had no heir.”

“Not hers,” I said. “A cousin’s orphan. She took over the rearing of a cousin’s baby. Its parents were missionaries in China, so I’ve been given to understand. They died in a cholera epidemic and Mrs. Lynch took on the baby.”

He frowned. “Maybe I did hear something about that, but Mr. Lynch isn’t one for conversation when he comes here. And since she died, he never mentions her. He’s not one to show his feelings, you know. All business and then he’s off again. And he’s not the easiest man in the world to work for, but by and large he’s fair. He pays a decent wage.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I stood up. “Thank you for your time,” I said, and we shook hands.

So it was back to Williamstown and the old Johnson mansion. By now it was obvious that I’d need to stay the night somewhere in the area, so I booked myself at an inn on Main Street near the college. The landlady looked at me suspiciously to begin with as she showed me up to a clean but spartan room.

“Are you visiting a sweetheart at the college?” she asked.

“No, I’m a businesswoman from New York City,” I said. “I’m here checking for relatives of the Johnson family.”

“Johnsons? You mean the old Johnson mansion?”

I nodded.

“There’s nobody here now,” she said. “The old couple died, of course. Tragic accident.”

“What happened?” I asked.

She sucked in air through her teeth. “Their buggy went off the road in a storm. They were both swept into the creek and drowned. And then their daughter married and moved away.”

“What about the house? Who owns it now?”

She shrugged. “As far as I know Miss Lydia’s husband still owns it. I never heard of its being sold and it just sits there, going to ruin. I can’t see why. He’d have got a tidy sum for that when it was in good condition, years ago.”

This didn’t tally with the picture of Horace Lynch that I’d been given—a man who was keen on money would surely have sold a vacant property, wouldn’t he?

“So where is this house?” I asked. “Is it in town?”

“On the edge of town on the Petersburg Road. You just follow Main Street and you’ll get there. About a mile’s walk, I’d say.”

“So I’d have time to go there today?”

“If you’re not afraid of a good walk.”

I smiled. “I’m from Ireland and we thought nothing of walking five miles into the nearest town.”

“Ah well, then. Off you go, but you’ll find nothing there but weeds and a ruin. Supper’s at six o’clock sharp.”

I set off, quite enjoying the pace of a small town, the passing buggies, the men chewing the fat outside the barber’s shop, a group of Williams College young men in earnest discussion as they crossed the road. I thought they might be debating Plato or Shakespeare until I heard one of them say, “Of course the beer isn’t better there, but the barmaids do make up for it, don’t they?”

I smiled to myself as I walked on. At first there were college buildings on either side of me, then shops and businesses until Main Street became Petersburg Road and meandered out of town. At last I came to a high brick wall. I continued along it until it was broken by a wrought-iron gate. Ivy grew up the wall and spilled over the top of the gate. I pushed the rusty latch and the gate swung open with much creaking and groaning. Cautiously I stepped inside. A gravel driveway led to a tall mansion in the neo-Gothic style. Tall Scotch pine trees surrounded it and creepers covered much of the walls. It looked like the house from one of those dreadful Gothic novels and I half expected to see the heroine, clad only in her nightgown, run screaming from the front door, pursued by a man with an axe. I could see why Lydia Lynch had been keen to leave Williamstown for the elegance and bright lights of New York City.

I tiptoed up to the house itself and peered in the windows. The rooms were almost empty, apart from an occasional piece of furniture, hidden under a dust sheet.

As I walked around I was overtaken by the stillness and the melancholy. Sounds from the lively world outside did not penetrate this forgotten estate. I could tell that there had been lovely gardens here once, but the flower beds were an overgrown tangle of brambles, the lawns were full of weeds, and shrubs had grown rampant to form an impenetrable barrier across the back part of the yard. Why had Mr. Lynch let the place go to rack and ruin, I wondered. If he no longer wanted it, then why not sell it? And surely he must come here occasionally to check on his mill, so why not keep a suite of rooms open in readiness? I knew he had a reputation for being a skinflint, so perhaps he would regard the latter as an extravagance, but letting a valuable asset go to waste did not ring true to his character as described to me.

As I peeped through an arbor that was now a tangle of wild roses, I glimpsed a pretty little lawn area beyond, with a swing hanging from the branch of an old oak tree. And I imagined young Lydia Johnson sitting on that swing, dreaming about the world that she longed to see.

I let myself out of the gate and closed it behind me again with a final sort of clang. The melancholy of the place was overpowering and I walked quickly to get away. Was it the tragedy of Lydia’s parents’ untimely death that still lingered here? I crossed the street to distance myself from it and came upon an old man, digging in his yard. On impulse I went up to him.

“That house over there,” I said. “I take it that nobody lives there anymore.”

He looked up, squinted at me, then grunted. “That’s right. Don’t take a genius to see that.”

“But it used to be owned by the Johnson family? Have you lived here long enough to remember them?”

“I was born in this very house, miss,” he said. “And I remember that house when it was newly built. William and Mary Johnson—foreigners they were, from Scotland. He spoke with such a thick accent you could hardly understand him. But it seemed he’d made a killing in timber up in Vermont and he bought the mill over in North Adams, and had himself this fine house built.”

“And they had a daughter?”

His grim face softened. “Pretty little thing, and the sweetest, gentlest nature you could imagine. I did some gardening and heavy work for them over there and she used to come out and talk to me. She’d swing on her swing and chatter away.” A smile crossed his face. “I don’t suppose there was much lively conversation with those parents. Dour, that’s what would describe them. They belonged to one of these religions that thought that dancing, singing, merrymaking were a sin. I don’t believe they even celebrated birthdays. And Miss Lydia—well, she was a friendly little soul. She just loved to dance and sing. I don’t understand why she married that Lynch fella. He was a good deal older than her and about as unpleasant and dour as her father was. Well, maybe I do understand it—her pa had just died and she was looking for another father figure, I suppose. There’s no accounting for taste, is there?” He chuckled.

“So you were closely connected with the place,” I said. “Did you happen to meet any of the Johnsons’ relatives ever? I’m trying to trace a couple called Boswell, who were missionaries in China. I’m just wondering if they ever came to visit or you heard anyone speak of them.”