by Rhys Bowen
“Justin, old bean. Here’s a girl from the old country I'd like you to meet. Miss Gaffney from Limerick. The Senator’s cousin. Miss Gaffney, this is Mr. Hartley.”
“I'm afraid I don't dance any more, Miss Gaffney,” Justin said, rising to his feet. “Lack of balance, I'm afraid. Maybe you'd care to join me in a stroll on the terrace.”
Again I couldn't back down without looking rude. I just had to trust my luck a little longer. Maybe I looked so different in my grand ball gown with my hair up that he wouldn't recognize me even close up. He offered his arm. I took it. We strolled out through the French doors into the darkness. The cheerful notes of the Strauss waltz drifted out of the open windows. The lights threw shadows across the lawns to where the dark shape of the river flowed past. It was muggy outside but it was all I could do to pre-vent myself from shivering.
“You are from a good Irish Catholic family, I presume, Miss Gaffney?” Justin asked.
“I am indeed, sir.” I stared out across the lawns, unable to look at him.
“In Limerick, that would be?”
“In Limerick, sir.”
“Where a delightful drive to the south brings one to ancient Bunratty Castle?”
“No, sir, that would be a drive to the northwest.” I had done my homework well and he was quiet for a moment. I wasn't sure where the conversation might be heading. Perhaps it was his way of making small talk. Then he blurted out, “And what would your good Irish Catholic family say if they knew how many of the Ten Commandments you had broken?”
I know I must have started. “What a strange thing to say, sir. Do you make a habit of insulting young women?”
“No, only young women who deserve it. Miss Gaffney from Limerick indeed! You are no more Miss Gaffney than I am the man in the moon!”
At this point I could confess and smooth things over or I could bluff my way out. I've always believed attack was the best form of defense. I stepped away from him, giving him my most haughty stare.
“I don't know what this is all about, Mr. Hartley, but I find you most offensive and your behavior extremely strange.”
“So you deny ever having heard of Molly Murphy of County Mayo, do you?”
“There was a Molly Murphy in my class at the Sacred Heart Convent in Limerick,” I said, still eyeing him coldly, “but I never heard that she moved to County Mayo.”
I saw his expression falter. “I could have sworn …, ” he muttered.
“An easy mistake,” I said, nodding graciously, “since I under-stand that we Irish colleens all look alike to foreigners like your-self. And didn't I just hear you say that your eyesight is poor, following some sort of accident?”
We stood there staring at each other. Who knows where the conversation might have led, had not Captain Cathers come out through the French doors. “Oh there you are, Miss Gaffney.” I thought I heard a snort from Justin. “Mrs. Flynn was wondering where you had disappeared to. She has a headache and is going home.” He glanced from Justin to me. “I say, I hope I didn't interrupt anything.”
“Not at all,” I said, moving past him toward the room. “If Mrs. Flynn is going home, I think I'll accompany her. It has been a tiring day. Please excuse me, gentlemen.”
I left them on the terrace and found Theresa. “I'm ready to come home with you, Cousin dear,” I said, slipping my arm through hers.
Fourteen
By the time the chauffeur had brought the automobile to the front door, it had begun to rain—big fat drops spattering onto the granite steps. The chauffeur leaped out to pull up the canopy over the car and we hustled to its sanctuary. The canopy wasn't very good at keeping off the rain, and we huddled together, wet and cold. I was shaking as violently as Theresa was, although it may have been from shock as much as from the weather. I tried not to think about Justin and what he might be saying at this very moment. Then Theresa gave a little moan and put her hand up to her head. “If only I didn't get these awful headaches,” she sighed. “I know Bamey thinks I'm a poor weak creature for being ill so often, but when they come it’s like having a knife cut through my head.”
“It was the excitement of the seance,” I said, resolving to put my own worries aside.
“I'm sure it was. Hearing my son’s voice like that. I'm still trembling about it. You do think he'll come again, don't you?'
“I'm sure of it,” I said. If the Misses Sorensen wanted to continue to enjoy Adare, that was.
Theresa patted my knee. “It was very sweet of you to accompany me like this, Molly,” she said, “but you make me feel most “guilty. I do hope I didn't force you away from a potential beau.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I was not feeling too well either.”
“Mr. Hartley is good-looking, is he not? And I understand his family has several properties—one of them in Ireland, so I'm told.”
“Mr. Hartley may be good-looking but I found him a bore,” I said. “And we Irish have little love for our English landowners.”
“Of course. How silly of me to have overlooked that fact. He wasn't at all the right man for you, Molly. Too frail-looking and never smiled.”
“So you're saying I need someone jolly and healthy like Bamey,” I said with a smile.
A brief spasm of alarm crossed her face. “I wouldn't recom-mend Bamey as an example of a good husband. Too many outside interests.”
I had clearly distressed her, so I asked quickly, “And what about Mr. Van Gelder? Is he not a good catch? He seems quite smitten with Belinda and he’s young, healthy and amiable.”
“Roland Van Gelder?” She shook her head. “Not a good catch, Molly. As you saw from their household, they have no money to speak of and Roland is a queer fish.”
“How do you mean?” I leaned closer to her.
“He’s never managed to hold a job, in spite of his father’s influence tofindhim a good situation, and I watched him lose his temper with his horse once and hit it most brutally. I've never felt the same about him since then.”
“How terrible. He seemed so amiable to me, if not too bright.”
“Not all men are what they seem, Molly. Choose your husband with care, don't be swept off your feet as I was.”
“But Bamey seems devoted to you and he has certainly provided well for you.”
“Bamey is devoted when it suits him,” she said. “But I shouldn't be speaking like this. You're his cousin, after all.”
“I know nothing about him,” I said. “Only what we've heard in Ireland and that’s all good.”
“He is a good man in many ways, but like Roland Van Gelder, he has his not-so-admirable side. And he’s very ruthless. Hell do anything to get what he wants.”
“I suspect that is true of most powerful men,” I said. “Weaklings don't get into the Senate.”
She laughed and patted my hand again. You are such a realist, Molly. You think almost like a man.” I don't think she meant this as a compliment.
The chauffeur tooted the hom and the gatekeeper came running out of his lodge to open the big iron gates. I heard them clang shut behind us as we drove through. Soames met us with an umbrella and hot milk was brought to my room. It wasn't until I was finally alone that the full impact of my meeting with Justin Hartley hit me. I was cold and wet and shivered so violently that my numb fingers wouldn't unlace the hated corset. I cursed at it and sat on my bed, fighting back the tears that welled up. I was being just the kind of ninny that I despised, but I couldn't help it. Now that I knew he was alive, I could never feel safe again. What if he did some checking to prove whether I really was Molly Gaffney or not? What if he contacted Molly Gaffney’s family in Ireland? If he told the Flynns the truth about me, I'd still have some fancy explaining to do. And even worse, one day I might open my front door to find someone with an extradition order, come to take me back to trial in Ireland.
A flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder overhead startled me. Rain came in a solid downpour. I considered ringing for the maid to undress me, then was
instantly ashamed of my weakness. I wrestled with the dratted corset until I was finally free. Then I climbed into bed and hugged my knees to me. I wanted to be away from this place and back to the safety and anonymity of New York, where I had friends to take care of me. I would have to find a way to free myself from Theresa and get on with the job I came to do.
The storm raged on and sleep wouldn't come. I opened my eyes, suddenly alert, at the small sound of my bedroom door opening. A flash of lightning illuminated a figure creeping toward me, glowing with a pale light. I sat up with a gasp of fear.
“Shhh!” The figure put a finger to his lips. “It’s only me, Molly. Cousin Barney. I thought you might be frightened by the storm.”
I watched him crossing the floor toward me. He was carrying a candle.
“It’s kind of you to be concerned,” I said, “but I'm perfectly fine. We get some prettyfiercestorms in Ireland, you know,”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” He put the candle down on the small table beside my bed and perched on the edge of my bed itself. His speech was slurred and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. I wasn't sure what to do next and just sat there, hugging the bed-clothes around me.
“I'm really all right, Bamey,” I reiterated. 'You can go back to your own bed. I don't think Theresa would be happy if she caught you in here.”
Theresa has no doubt taken one of her sleeping powders and will hear nothing until morning,” he said, “and asformy own bed, it’s awfully lonely, you know. Cold and empty and lonely.” His hand slid toward me and moved up my arm to my shoulder. “I told you be-fore that I'm a normal man with normal needs, Molly. And I get the feeling that you're a hot-blooded woman. We'd go well together.”
I had been frozen with fear and fascination until his hand moved to the neck of my nightgown and hisfingersexplored inside the thin cotton batiste. Then I was out of bed with one great leap.
“Are you out of your mind?” I demanded, half of me still trying to react the way I thought Molly Gaffney might while the other half wanted to hit him over the head with the nearest hard object. “Your own cousin. Have you no shame? Think of my poor mother, lying in her grave.”
“Molly, don't throw me out. A fellow could go mad with desire, you know. Nobody needs to know.”
He reached for me again. Again I bounded out of reach. “Cousin Bamey!” I pushed away his hand. “It’s the drink making you behave like this. You'll regret it in the morning. Now go back to bed before I scream loud enough to wake the entire household.”
Without warning he sat down on my bed and started to sob. “You don't know what it’s like,” he mumbled. “She won't let me near her. Treats me like a stranger. I'm all alone, Molly. All alone.”
I went to put an arm around him, then thought better of it. In-stead, I lifted him to his feet like a child. “You'll befine,” I said. “What you need right now is a good night’s sleep.” I thrust the candlestick into his hand. “Go on, off with you.”
This approach seemed to work. Maybe it kindled memories of his mother.
“I'm sorry,” he muttered. “I don't know what came over me.” And he ambled back down the hallway, leaving me shaken and wide awake. I put a chair under my door handle in case he had any more nocturnal wanderings before I crawled back into bed and lay there listening to the storm. Why did life have to be so full of complications? It was bad enough having Justin Hartley to worry about without having to bar my door against Bamey Flynn. Marrying Jacob and settling down as a housewife didn't seem such a bad option after all. But then I remembered that dear, kind Jacob, who always asked my permission to brush his lips against mine, had been too weak to acknowledge my existence to his cousins. And then there was Daniel—whom I would probably never stop loving, but who was too weak to break off a loveless engagement.
What was the matter with men? I asked myself. Some of them were too weak to control their animal impulses, some too weak to go against society. And they called us the weaker sex! It seemed to me that we were braver and more steadfast than the lot of them. I resolved to steer clear of difficult male entanglements in the future. Having decided this, I fell sound asleep.
Next morning I woke to bright sunlight streaming in through my window. I came down to breakfast tofindthat Theresa was still feeling unwell and would keep to her bed for the day.
“That damned stance,” Barney muttered. “I knew it would only upset her.” He didn't look me in the eye as he came into breakfast.
We learned also that the Misses Sorensen were keeping to their cottage and having their meals sent over to them. Two seances in two nights had apparently taxed their strength and they needed time to rest and recover. This was not good news for me. I was free but unable to do any snooping around the Sorensen Sisters' cottage.
Instead I took a notebook and a folding garden chair onto the lawn by the river, on the pretext of writing letters home. Last night’s storm had cleared the air, producing a clear cool morning. Birds twittered, bees buzzed, dragonflies darted over the water. There were cheery shouts fromriverboatmenas their craft passed in the stream. Tom and Adam were working together, chatting as they cleared away tree limbs that had come down in last night’s storm. All in all a peaceful scene, quite in contrast to the turmoil going on in my head.
Get a grip on yourself and start thinking like an investigator, I reprimanded myself. There was nothing I could do where Justin Hartley was concerned. I could only hope that his friend Captain Cathers would take him off on a westward journey as soon as possible, where, in uncharitable fashion, I hoped he might meet hostile Indians or charging buffalo. In the meantime I had two cases to solve. I picked up my pencil and analyzed what I knew about the Flynn baby’s kidnapping.
Given the nature of the house, the number of servants and the visibility from the windows, it was either the nursemaid, Morell or someone else from the household who took Brendan out in broad daylight. Unless—I paused and chewed on my pencil, a bad habit and one for which I was caned across the knuckles in school, but which always helped me to think. Unless the child had somehow been drugged and carried out in some kind of container. A laundry basket? A grocer’s delivery box? I would have to check what deliveries were made that day. There would be little point in asking Soames, who wouldn't talk to me, but I had yet to interview the cook. She must have been aware of all deliveries from her vantage point in the kitchen.
Speak with Cook, I wrote in my book.
I took my thoughts one stage farther. If it were a stranger who had carried Brendan out of the house, then why hide him on the property? Why not spirit him away in a laundry cart or on a delivery boy’s bicycle and hide him somewhere less dramatic? I took this one stage farther. The very act of hiding the child on the property must have been an extra act of cruelty done to taunt the Flynns. The kidnapping might then have been done as much for revenge or spite as for money.
Look into those who might have a grievance against Bamey Flynn, I wrote.
Another thought—preparing a chamber to conceal the child would have taken time and tools. It wouldn't have been easy for an outsider to find a way onto the property carrying spades and everything else needed to create a subterranean space. I thought of little Brendan, waking up to darkness, crying unheard, and shuddered. It was truly a horrible crime, not a simple act of greed.
I tried to push personal feelings aside. A good investigator never gets personally involved. That’s what Paddy Riley, my mentor, had said. So far I hadn't managed to follow his advice once. The most logical suspect, I wrote in the notebook, would therefore have access to tools on the property. He would not arouse suspicion if seen moving around with tools. That meant Bertie Morell or the gardeners. Both Tom and Adam had been kept on because they had been absent that day, but could they have helped with the preparation?
Again the thought struck me that it was such an audacious, complicated and risky undertaking that it surely came from the mind of more than one person. Adam admitted to enjoying a beer with Bertie at the local salo
on, and Annie Lomax had expressed mistrust for Adam. Had they hatched a plot together? But no, that was a ridiculous thought, because Adam would then know where the child was buried and would have spoken up to save him. No-body would keep silent in such circumstances. Nobody except an unfeeling, inhuman monster. So, in the absence of such a monster, Bertie Morell had done the deed alone.
Still, if I were to help Annie Lomax, I had to keep trying. Joseph Rimes and Desmond O'Mara had both been here when Brendan was taken, although according to all reports, they had been working with Senator Flynn all afternoon. But even people hard at work sometimes look out of windows. I'd try to strike up a friendship with the unappealing Mr. O'Mara and maybe even the self-important Mr. Rimes.
But first things first. There were two gardeners at work within plain sight I got up and made my way over to where Adam was swinging a wood chopper with alarming force at a dead limb that was hanging down from a buckeye tree.
“What a terrible storm last night, wasn't it?” I said.
They both looked up.
“Oh, good morning, miss. Yes, there was a bit of a storm, wasn't there?” old Tom said. “I hope you ladies didn't get too wet on your way home from next door.”
“I survived it well,” I said, “but Mrs. Flynn is still keeping to her bed today.”
“There’s no denying she’s always been delicate and more so since you-know-what happened.”
“You mean the kidnapping?” I asked.
They were both looking away from me, eyes on the ground. “We try not to mention it, miss,” Tom muttered.
“I find it hard not to think about it,” I went on. “I mean, being here and knowing that a poor little helpless child—” I broke off. “Don't you find it impossible to believe that Mr. Morell acted alone? I mean, you two are out on the grounds all the time. Wouldn't you have spotted him digging the hole? Wouldn't he have had to borrow your tools?”