In Like Flynn (31 page)

Thirty-five

I
t was a long train ride back to the city. I felt like a coward for running out without saying good-bye to anyone at Adare, but truly my nerves had been stretched to breaking point. If I had had to be around Daniel and Arabella Norton for one more second, I would have cracked. Let Daniel finish sorting out matters with Bamey Flynn. As far as I was concerned, I had done what I came to do—more than I came to do, in fact. Hopefully I had given Bamey Flynn back his son. And Annie Lomax her good name, I realized. Joe Rimes had confessed to removing the child from the house and delivering him to Albert Morell. I would make sure the newspapers published this fact. Being able to tell her the good news was another reason I couldn't wait for the long train ride to end.

I thought of going straight to Broadway and seeing if I could locate her, but the draw of home was too strong. Patchin Place had never looked more inviting when I stepped out of the hansom cab. The cabby carried my heavy case to the front door of number nine, then I opened it and walked in. Nobody was home. The place was quiet and orderly No half-eaten jam sandwiches or toys on the floor. I put down my case and went across the street to Sid and Gus.

Their front door was opened immediately by Sid, wearing a Japanese kimono.

“Molly!” she exclaimed and I fell into her arms, fighting back tears.

“It’s so good to be home,” I managed to say.

“My dear girl, what have you been doing with yourself? You look as if you've been dragged through a hedge backward.”

“I have, and more.”

“Come on, into the garden where it’s pleasant today.” She took me by the hand and led me like a child. “Gus has made lemonade.”

Gus was sitting in a deck chair, fanning herself with a large Oriental fan, and she jumped up as she spotted me.

“She’s come home at last,” she exclaimed, flinging her arms around me. “I can't tell you how much we missed you. Not so much as a postcard, Molly. Shame on you.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't exactly in a position to write postcards.”

“But we thought you were staying at a mansion on the Hudson,” Gus said, pouring lemonade as she spoke. “We used our spies to try to find which one, but nobody seemed to have heard of you.”

That’s because I was under an assumed name.”

“Ah. Clandestine, of course.” Sid and Gus nodded to each other. “So did it go well? Did you return bathed in glory?”

I shook my head and felt again that I might cry at any moment. “I suppose I did what I set out to do, but—”

“She’s tired, Sid. Let her sit and rest before we grill her,” Gus said, patting my hand.

I sat in the shade of their plane tree and sipped lemonade.

“Where is everyone at number nine?” I asked. “Don't tell me that Seamus finally has a job?”

Then I saw their faces. “What? What’s wrong?”

They tried to contact you, Molly, but nobody knew where you were. Bridie caught typhoid. They took her to the fever ward at St. Vincent’s Hospital.”

“Oh, no—is she going to be all right?”

They looked at each other.

“It’s a terrible disease. People have been dropping like flies.”

I jumped up. “I must go to her right away.”

They tried to dissuade me but I ran past them like a madwoman. If I had been here, this wouldn't have happened, I kept telling myself—although I knew that she wasn't my child and not even my responsibility. As I came out of Patchin Place and turned past the Jefferson Market, I opened my mouth in horror as I realized some-thing. The Sorensen Sisters were not fakes after all. That child in the veil at the seance—it wasn't somebody’s niece at first communion. It was a little girl dressed as a bride so that I would recognize her. The message had been for me. Bridie was now with her mother in heaven and she had come to tell me she was all right.

I fought back tears all the way up Seventh Avenue to the hospital. It was a futile mission. If she had really been dead since the stance, then she would no longer be lying in a hospital bed. She'd have been buried days ago. But I kept on running, pushing my way past crowds of people, out shopping for their evening meal.

Stories don't really have happy endings, I told myself. I had gone from the heights of elation to the depths of despair in one day. To have been betrayed by Daniel the coward and then to have lost this precious child was almost more than I could bear. I forced my way in through the front door of St. Vincent’s Hospital and heard a crisply starched nurse shouting at me as I ran down a tiled hallway. She grabbed me and shook me to my senses.

“Where in heaven’s name do you think you are going?”

“I've got to see her,” I babbled. “She wouldn't have died if I'd been there. I have to see her.”

“See who?”

“Bridie O'Connor. She had typhoid.” 'You'll most certainly not be allowed anywhere near the typhoid ward,” the nurse said. “Go back to the waiting room. Someone will deal with you.”

She forced me around and shoved me back down the hallway. As I entered the waiting room, I heard someone calling my name. Young Shamey came running down the hall toward me.

“Molly, you're back!” He flung himself at me with uncharacteristic affection.

“I came as soon as I heard,” I said. “Where is she? They haven't buried her yet, have they? I do want to see her.”

They won't let you see her,” Shamey said. “Nobody’s allowed in the contagious ward. But she’s doing better. They say she’s sitting up and eating broth.”

“Sitting up?” I stammered. “You mean she’s not dead?”

“No. She’s doing fine. Getting better every day,”

Seamus came running to meet me. “You've heard the grand news then, have you? Sitting up and sipping broth.” He wiped a big hand across hisface.1 tell you, Molly. I thought we'd lost her fora while there. She hung between life and death for a couple of days. We tried to contact you, but nobody knew where you'd gone.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't here, Seamus,” I said, “but it is indeed grand news.”

“We certainly needed something cheer us up,” he said. “We got another piece of news while you were away. My dear Kathleen died last week.”

I crossed myself. “Out of her suffering at last, God rest her soul.”

So die Sorensen Sisters might just have been right after all— maybe Bridie did meet her mother during those days when she hung between life and death. The important thing was that she had come back. There was still hope. Life seemed to be one succession of good news and then bad. Ups followed by downs. But there was always enough hope to keep on going. I'd survived a lot before. I'd live through this latest setback. I'd get by without Daniel Sullivan. After all, I had a little family who needed me, friends who loved me, and an ex-nanny who was going to be very pleased to see me. I resolved to take the trolley to her patch on Broadway this very minute and give her the good news.

“Molly, where are you going?” Shamey asked, grabbing my hand. “I just have to go and see a lady and tell her some news,” I said. “Ill be back right away.”

“But Molly,” he said, clutching my hand more tightly, “I'm starving. Couldn't we go home first and you make me some bread and dripping?”

I smiled down at him. “Come on, then,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

Historical Note

The mansion, Adare, does not exist. I decided to create a fictitious house for Senator Flynn as I didn't want any real history attached to it. I also needed it to be on the side of the Hudson where there is no railway line!

The spiritualist movement in the late nineteenth century was extremely popular and produced some incredibly slick mediums. I read every book I could find on the subject and was disappointed that many of their most spectacular stunts were never explained. These included disembodied hands writing messages, talking heads, violins playing by themselves—all at a time when the most primitive phonograph had only just been invented.

Keep reading for an excerpt from Rhys Bowen’s next

Molly Murphy Mystery

Oh Danny Boy

Coming soon in hardcover from St. Martin’s Minotaur

New York, August 1902

T
here was that maniacal laughter again. I looked around but I couldn't detect where it was coming from. It seemed to be part of the very darkness itself. Black water lapped up at me as I stepped onto the iron lace of a walkway. I thought Icould hear a child’s voice calling, “Save me, save me,” and I started toward it. But beneath me were other faceless forms and they held up white arms to me, calling out, “Help us first.”

The laughter grew louder until it was overwhelming. I started to run. Water splashed up at my feet and when I looked down at my shoes they were black. That’s when I noticed it wasn't water at all. It was blood.

I woke with my heart pounding and sat up, my hands grasping the cool reality of the sheet before I realized I was in my ownroom. I sat still for a while, conscious of the empty quiet of the house around me, wondering what the dream might mean. It was the third time I had dreamed it this week. The first time I put it down to an exotic Mongolian meal at my friends' house across Patchin Place (they were into a nomad phase at the moment). But dreaming the same thing three times must mean more than just plain indigestion.

Back in Ireland dreams were always taken seriously. My mother would have been able to interpret mine for me in a wink, although I rather think her interpretation would be influenced by the fact that I was rude, didn't mind my elders, and was heading for a bad end. But I recall the women sitting around in our cottage over a cup of tea, debating whether dreaming of a black cow meant future wealth or a death in the family. What would they say about an ocean of blood? I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself.

My life had certainly been in turmoil since I had returned from my assignment on the Hudson, but I couldn't think what could have sparked such a terrifying nightmare. There Was my frightening ordeal in the river, of course. That might have prompted me to dream of water. And I had almost lost little Bridie O'Connor to typhoid. She was still far from well and had been sent to a camp for sickly city children in Connecticut, run by the ladies at the settlement house on Sixth Avenue. Was it her voice I had heard in the dream? Had she been calling for me to come to her? Should I havegone to the country to be with her?

I got up and walked across the landing feeling the cold of the linoleum under my bare feet. I paused at what had been Bridie and Shamey’s door, almost expecting to hear the children’s regular breathing. But the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantel downstairs. I shivered suddenly, although it was still midsummer and the night was warm. I went back to bed, but I was afraid to sleep again. It occurred to me that this was the first time in my life that I'd been alone in a building. Normally I would have been proud to be mistress of my own establishment, but at this moment all I felt was overwhelming loneliness. I sat hugging my knees to my chest, staring out of the window at the shadows dancing on the houses across the alleyway. When the first streaks of dawn showed inthe sky, I got up and made myself a cup of tea, drinking it with one eye on the front window until I saw my neighbor Gus, go out to buy their breakfast rolls from the Clement Family Bakery around the comer on Sixth Avenue.

I dearly wanted company at the moment. I knew I was always welcome at their house, but my pride and disgust with my own weakness wouldn't let me barge in on them uninvited at this early hour, or tell them about the dream. So I waited until Gus returned, opened my front door with the pretense of shaking out crumbs, then feigned delighted surprise at bumping into her. Of course she invited me in for breakfast and of course I accepted.

“Look who I just found, Sid dear,” Gus called as we came down the hall to their bright and airy kitchen. At this hour it was stillcool. The French doors were open and the sweet scent of honey-suckle competed with the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Sid was standing at the stove, dressed this morning in an emerald green silk gentleman’s smoking jacket and baggy black pants that looked as if they had come from a harem. The striking effect was completed with her black hair that she wore straight and chin-length, like a child’s pageboy bob.

“Molly, my sweet. How good to see you. You're looking pale. Sit down and have some coffee and a hot roll.” Sid gave me a beaming smile and started pouring thick, murky liquid into a smallcup, then handed it to me. I took a sip, pretending, as always, that I liked my coffee to look and taste like East River sludge. Sid always insisted on Turkish coffee and French croissants in the morning. I'd no objections to the croissants, but I'd never learned to appreciate the coffee.

I sat in the chair that Gus had pulled out for me and accepted the still warm roll from her basket.

“And what were you doing up and about so bright and early this morning?” Gus asked.

“I didn't sleep so well last night.” I was willing to confess to that much. “I just needed to get out of the house and breathe good fresh air.”

“You're missing those O'Connors, that what’s the matter with you,” Gus said.

“I most certainly am not,” I replied indignantly. “I've spent most of my life looking after someone else’s children. I'm glad to be taking a break from them.”

The knowing look that passed between Sid and Gus didn't escape me.

“And anyway, they'll be back soon enough when Bridie is quite recovered and healthy again,” I went on. “She’s making splendid progress, you know. And in the meantime, I'm doing some seriousthinking about my future.”

They looked at each other again, this time with amusement.

“Did you hear that, Gus? Serious thinking about her future. Will she be reconsidering the earnest Mr. Singer’s proposal, do you think?”

I picked up
The New York Times,
which had been lying on the table. “Would you be quiet, you two? Why should you of all people think that any young woman’s future would automatically have to be linked to a marriage proposal? I have no intention in accepting any proposals, decent or indecent.”

Then I opened the paper and buried myself in the advertisements page, ignoring their chuckles.

“How about Nebraska?” I looked up expectantly from
The Times
and saw two bewildered faces staring at me.

“Nebraska?” Gus asked.

“Yes, listen to this. ’Schoolteacher needed for one room school-house. Start August. Must be unmarried, unencumbered, Christian, and of impeccable character. References required. Accommodation provided. Apply to the school board, Spalding, Nebraska.” I paused and looked up again. My friends were still smiling.

“Dearest Molly, are you suggesting that you should become a schoolmarm in Nebraska?” Sid asked, pushing her bobbed hair back from her face.

“Why not?” I demanded. “Do you not think I'm up to life on the frontier? And where is Nebraska anyway?”

At this they both broke into merry laughter. Gus reached across to me and patted my hand. “You are priceless, my sweet,” she said. “Who would make us laugh if we let you escape from our clutches?”

“And why this sudden desire for the frontier, anyway?” Sid looked up from spreading more apricot jam on a croissant.

“Because I've had enough of New York City. Life has become too complicated.”

“And you think it would be less complicated having to kill grizzly bears with your bible, on the way to school each morning, or having to fight off amorous pioneers in need of a wife?” Sid asked.

I put down the newspaper and sighed. “I don't know. I just want to make a new start somewhere far away. Never have to see Daniel Sullivan’s odious face again. Never have to convince myself that I don't want to marry Jacob Singer, however well behaved and earnest he is.”

“One can accomplish both these things without going to Nebraska, I should have thought,” Gus said. “If you've finally decided to give up this crazy notion of being a lady investigator, I'm sure we could help you make a new start in the city here. But if you insist on escaping, I'm sure I can come up with some connections in Boston foryou, even if my own people don't want to know me anymore.”

I looked at Gus’s sweet, elfish face, framed in its pile of soft light brown curls and finally smiled. “You're really too good to me by half. I don't deserve your friendship. I do nothing but interrupt your breakfast with my whining and complaining.”

“Nonsense,” Sid said. “Just think how dull and ordinary our lives would be without you.”

Since Sid and Gus lead the least ordinary lives I had ever encountered, I had to smile at this. I suppose I should mention that the irreal names are Elena Goldfarb and Augusta Mary Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts. Both families had cut them off without a penny, but thanks to a generous inheritance from Gus’s suffragist great aunt, they lived a blissfully unconventional existence in Greenwich Village. Gus was attempting to make her mark as a painter, while Sid wrote the occasional left-wing article. Mostly they just had fun, hosting the literary and bohemian set to wild and extravagant parties. They had taken me under their wing when I had been new to the city, and treated me as a spoiled younger sister ever since. As I looked at them I realized how I would hate to move away from their company.

“Allright,” I conceded grouchily, “Maybe not Nebraska.”

Sid went over to the stove and picked up the coffee pot. “Have another cup of coffee. You'll feel better,” she said.

“I haven't finished this one yet,” I said hastily.

“So let’s see.” Gus put down her own cup and stared across at Sid. “What sort of job should we find for her? Bookshop, do you think?”

“Too dreary. Not enough life.”

“Ryan could help her get something to do with the theater. She'd like that.”

“Ryan is unemployed and seriously short of funds himself at the moment.”

“Well, if he will write plays that mock the American theatergoing public, what can he expect?”

I looked from one to the other, amused that I was not being consulted in this discussion.

“You don't understand,” I finally cut in. “It’s not the change of profession I'm anxious about. It’s worrying about whether I'm going to find Daniel Sullivan lurking outside my front door everytime I come out. Or Jacob for that matter.”

“Jacob doesn't lurk, does he? He doesn't seem the type,” Sid said.

“No,” I conceded. “He’s very well behaved as usual. Waiting patiently for my decision.”

“And I don't think we've spotted Daniel lurking recently, have we?” Sid turned to Gus. “Not for the last few days anyway. Maybe he’s given up in despair.”

“He’s still writing to me,” I said. “At least a letter a day. I throw them all in the rubbish bin without opening them.”

“I call that rather devoted,” Gus said.

“Gus! We're talking about Daniel the Deceiver! The man possesses all the worst qualities of the male sex—untrustworthy, flirtatious and an all-around bounder,” Sid saidfiercely. “He promises Molly he’s broken off his engagement one day and the next he goes running back to that spoiled Arabella creature as soon as she snaps her fingers. Molly is quite right to ignore him. And Jacob Singer too. He may profess that he’s no longer under the thumb of his family, but I know Jewish families, trust me.”

Since she came from one, I did trust her.

“It’s not only that,” I said. “I don't want to marry just for convenience or security. There is just no spark with Jacob. He’s a goodman. Hell make some girl a good husband, only not me.”

“Quite right,”Sid said. “At least we're all in agreement that women don't need to attach themselves to a man to make themhappy.” She glanced up at Gus with a smile.

I got up and walked across to the French windows. The first fierce rays of summer sun were painting the brick wall behind the tiny square of garden. “I just wish I knew what I wanted,” I said at last. “Part of the time I think I must be crazy to try and carry on the detective agency. But at least when I'm on a case I know I'm alive and it’s exciting.”

“When you're not fighting for your life, getting yourself shot or drowned or pushed off bridges,” Gus said dryly.

I grinned. “So it’s a little too exciting sometimes. But I can't see myself sitting behind a desk all day. Or being a governess to spoiled children, or a companion, for that matter. I can't think of what other job would give me pleasure, or prevent me from bumping into Daniel.”

“I don't see why you are so worried about bumping into Captain Sullivan,” Sid said. “You're not usually a shrinking violet who avoids confrontation or hesitates to speak her mind, Molly. You've faced anarchists and gang members without flinching. Surely you're not afraid of a mere police captain?”

“Not afraid, no.” I looked away to avoid meeting her eye. “I just lose all common sense when he’s around. I know he'll try to sweet talk me into forgiving him and I'm afraid I'll be weak enough to listen to him.”

“You're a strong, independent woman, Molly Murphy,” Sid said firmly. “Face him, tell him what you think of him and get it overwith.”

“You don't know Daniel. He has too much Irish blarney in him. This time I have resolved to be strong. Never seeing him again is the only way of accomplishing this. And I fear that involves leaving the city.” I touched Gus’s shoulder as I walked across the kitchen. “Thank you for the breakfast. I am quite revived and restored, and I'm off to look up Nebraska on the map.”

I let myself out of their front door to the sounds of their renewed laughter. Then I paused, glanced down Patchin Place tomake sure that it was devoid of life before I sprinted across to myown front door opposite. This was no way to live, to be sure.

Silence engulfed me as I closed my front door behind me. No little high voice singing, no Shamey leaping down the stairs yelling, “Molly, I'm starving. Can I have some bread and dripping?”

My friends were right. I was missing the O'Connor children. I had felt myself encumbered by the O'Connors since I arrived in New York, but also responsible for them, since they had essentially saved my life. I had posed as their mother to bring them across from Ireland, when their own mother found that she was dying of consumption and not allowed to travel. Thus I had been able to escape Ireland with the police on my tail. So I could hardly abandon them. And the poor little mites with no mother, too. Seamus and young Shamey had gone to the country to be with Bridie during her recovery, Seamus hoping to find some kind of farm work to support them.