by Rhys Bowen
“Have you been to see Mrs. Goodwin?” I asked. “Is there any news on her condition?”
“You know Mrs. Goodwin, do you?”
“I do. She’s a friend.”
“And a fine woman,” he said, his big face a mask of grief. “Her late husband Whitey and I started on the force at the same time. What a tragic accident.”
I nodded and thought it wiser to feign ignorance of the true circumstances.
“And how is her condition?” I asked.
“I’m told she’s holding her own but still hasn’t regained consciousness, I’m afraid.”
“I’m on my way to visit her now,” I said. “Do you think they’ll let me in?”
“You can tell them that Sergeant O’Hallaran gave you permission, if you think it will help,” he said. “There’s a constable stationed at her door.”
“I appreciate it. I tried to see her this morning, but they wouldn’t let me.”
“They want her to have complete peace and quiet,” he said, “so they’re forbidding most visitors. Now tell me, is there any news on Captain Sullivan?”
“Nothing good,” I said, conscious of the other policeman standing beside him and not wanting any snippets of gossip to get back to headquarters. “I’m still praying.”
“You wanted to know who was assigned to take over the cases Captain Sullivan was working on,” he said.
“I’ve found out some of it for myself,” I said. “Detectives Quigley and McIver are in charge of the East Side Ripper case. They were in charge of it before Captain Sullivan was ordered to take over, so I gather. And about the other case—the racehorse-doping—”
“The same pair,” he said. “They were Sullivan’s protégés. He thought highly of them. Young officers with a bright future. I’ve no doubt they’ll do a fine job on both cases—as good as the captain himself could have done.”
“And the men assigned to escort the police commissioner that day he saw Daniel?”
“Officers whose normal beats were in that area. McCaffrey, Doyle were with him for the first part and then Jones and Honeywell took over.”
“And who designed the route?”
“I understand the commissioner just wandered where he wanted. He asked to see the Eastman headquarters and Walhalla Hall and where the bodies of the murdered girls had been found. That’s about it.”
And somehow he knew when Bugsy was going to meet Daniel, I thought. Or somebody knew. Or somebody had bribed one of those four men. At least I had four new names to check out now, something new to work on.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. “I’d better get in to see Mrs. Goodwin now.”
“If she comes to, tell her we were here. O’Hallaran and Hendricks and we’re wishing her all the best,” he said.
“I will.”
The other officer nodded to me. O’Hallaran waved and they continued on their way, while I went into the hospital.
“Visiting hours are not for another twenty minutes,” said the same woman at the reception desk, “and if you’ve come to see Mrs. Goodwin, I’m afraid…”
“Sergeant O’Hallaran said that he has given me permission to be with her,” I said, trying not to look triumphant.
“I see.” She sniffed her disapproval. “She’s in Mercy Ward. That’s up the stairs and along to the end of the hallway.”
I climbed the stairs and made my way past one ward after another until I came to the end. I saw immediately which room Mrs. Goodwin was in. A young constable stood outside the door. I repeated the message from Sergeant O’Hallaran and added that I was her sister for emphasis. I wasn’t going to risk being turned away this time.
“She has someone with her right now,” he said, “but I suppose it’s all right for you to go in if you’re her sister.”
He opened the door for me. It was a big ward, but the area close to the door had been curtained off with screens so that Mrs. Goodwin was in a private tent. As I came in a man was standing by the bed, leaning over the patient. He straightened up as he heard me approaching and turned around. It was Detective Quigley.
“What are you doing in here? They were told no visitors.” He frowned as he tried to place me and couldn’t right away.
“I’m a particular friend of Mrs. Goodwin’s,” I said, not daring to use the sister lie with him, “and Sergeant O’Hallaran said he was sure it would be all right and might do her good to see me.”
“Very well.” He was not looking pleased. “Although as you can see, she’s still unconscious. I’ve been with her most of the morning, hoping she’d regain consciousness and be able to tell us something. When you came in, she groaned in her sleep, and I thought she was trying to mutter a word.”
“It’s really tragic,” I said. “I admire her greatly.”
I moved past him until I was standing beside the bed. Sabella Goodwin lay, pale and white as the sheets around her. There was a bandage around her head and ugly bruises along one side of her face. It was hard to tell if she was alive or dead.
I perched on the edge of her bed and took her hand. “Sabella—Mrs. Goodwin? It’s Molly. Molly Murphy, your partner in crime. I need you to get well quickly.” I said it brightly although her hand felt cold and limp, as if she was already dead.
“Just a minute,” Quigley said sharply. “I remember now. Last time I saw you was with that German doctor. He introduced you as fraulein something. You’re not German. What’s the big idea?”
I tried to do some pretty fast thinking, wondering how much he should be told, seeing that we were essentially on the same team. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I attached myself to Dr. Birnbaum that morning against his will, because I was—interested in this particular case. My friend Mrs. Goodwin told me about it, and I was trying to do what I could to help.”
“Why?” He eyed me coldly. “Mere curiosity?”
Should I tell him the truth about Daniel? After all, Daniel had been his mentor until recently. I decided against it, not knowing what unfriendly ears were waiting back at police headquarters, or even whether Quigley himself was secretly glad that Daniel was out of the way.
I decided on another lie. “I’m—something of a student of psychology myself. I was trying to give Mrs. Goodwin some insights that might help her with the case. I had discussed it with Dr. Birnbaum.”
“Mrs. Goodwin’s assignment was limited to patrolling the streets and keeping an eye open for suspicious activity,” he said. “She is not a detective. Neither are you. Whatever she has been doing has already almost cost her her life. And who knows if your bumbling amateurism has already hindered the investigation? I suggest you both stay out of our way and leave the work to trained professionals.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that but was spared by the arrival of a sister.
“What’s going on in here?” she demanded. “I thought I heard raised voices. My orders were that this patient was to be kept absolutely quiet. No visitors at all. I’m not sure who you are, but be off with you.”
“I am the police officer in charge of the case Mrs. Goodwin was working on,” Quigley said frostily. “It is important that I speak with her as soon as she wakes.”
“She’s not likely to wake for some time,” the sister said. “She was in a lot of pain last night and is heavily sedated with morphine.”
“Was she badly injured?” I asked.
“And who might you be?”
“A close friend,” I said. I couldn’t go back to the sister lie with Quigley standing there. “One who was supposed to meet her last night and came upon her too late.”
“Well, she’s not out of the woods yet,” the sister said, looking more kindly at me than she had at Quigley, “but she’s been extremely lucky. Apart from the head wound, which was fortunately only superficial, she’s got a couple of cracked ribs, some horrible bruising, but it seems she managed to avoid the horse’s hooves, which would surely have been fatal. With any luck she’ll be up and walking in a few days, praise the good Lord.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, that is good news,” I said.
“But only if she gets her rest. Now out, both of you.”
“You’ll let me know when she regains consciousness?” Quigley asked. “It is very important to the case we’re working on.”
“I’ll let you know when she’s well enough to talk,” the sister said. She attempted to drive us out before her as if we were a flock of ducks.
I hesitated. “I brought her some flowers,” I said. “Would there be some kind of vase somewhere to put them in?”
“How lovely.” She leaned toward the roses and sniffed. “Reminds me of my girlhood. My father always grew yellow roses. Yes, there should be some jam jars in a cupboard. Go to the next ward and ask one of the sisters. Tell her Sister Mercy sent you.”
I thanked her and soon had my jam jar filled with water. Not the most attractive vase in the world, but it suited quite fine. It also gave me an excuse to go back into the room to put them on the bedside table. There was no sign of Sister Mercy, and I was just putting the jar down when Mrs. Goodwin gave a little sigh. I turned to her, and her eyes were open.
“You’re awake, that’s wonderful,” I said.
She stared at me, trying to place me, and I feared she might have lost all memory of who I was.
Then she gave a faint smile. “Molly Murphy. What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Just fine until the morphine wears off,” she said. “Before that I felt as if a herd of elephants had been dancing all over me. I was almost run over, wasn’t I?”
“You certainly were. The nurse says you were very lucky. You’ve got away with a couple of cracked ribs. The horse’s hooves must have missed you entirely.”
“Luckily I heard it coming, and I was able to fling myself aside at the last moment,” she said. “I think some part of the carriage or the shafts must have struck me in the side.”
“Were you able to see what kind of carriage it was?”
“It all happened so fast,” she said, “and it was dark and raining. And the vehicle itself was dark. That’s all I remember.”
“Was someone deliberately trying to run you down, do you think?”
“Oh, absolutely. The horse was at a full gallop and coming straight for me. The funny thing was that just before it happened one of the local urchins came and told me there was something odd in the gutter on the corner of Elizabeth Street, and that I should come and take a look at it. I found it where he said. It looked like a piece of red satin, halfway down a drain. I was just bending down to examine it when the horse came flying at me.”
“So you were lured there, and the man was waiting for you?”
“It seems that way.”
“Why? What had you discovered since we parted?”
“I’m darned if I know,” she said. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Maybe it will come to me, but as of now, I can’t think of anything. Of course my head’s still fuzzy with that morphine.”
“Do you think you could find the child again, and we could discover who sent him?”
Sister Mercy appeared in the doorway. “I thought I sent you home,” she said severely to me.
“I was just putting the flowers on her bedside table when she woke up,” I said. “Isn’t that wonderful news?”
“It certainly is. However, if you want her to make a speedy recovery, you’ll leave her to rest in peace.”
“I will,” I said. “I’m just going. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You could fetch my mail for me,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “We may have had a reply to my advertisement by now.”
“I’ll do that right away,” I said. “What is your address?”
“It’s 429 East Seventh, just past Tompkins Square. It’s a brownstone with two bay trees in pots outside.”
“That’s easy enough,” I said. “Do you have the key?”
“There’s one in my purse, wherever that is.” She tried to look around, then sank back with a sigh of pain. “Why don’t you ask my neighbor for the spare? Mrs. Oliver. At 431. She keeps a spare, just in case.”
“All right. And what else can I do for you? Are there any family members you’d like me to contact—anyone who should know you’re in the hospital?”
She shook her head sadly. “No one at all, my dear. I have a sister in Ohio, but apart from that, nobody anymore. My husband was killed, as you know, and I lost my only child to diphtheria.”
She gave me a questioning glance and I could tell what she was asking. Was I still pregnant?
“I did visit your friend Mrs. Butler last night,” I said, “but I changed my mind.”
“Ah.” She closed her eyes and grimaced. “The painkiller is wearing off, I see. I feel literally as if I was kicked by a mule.”
“I’ll send for the doctor,” Sister Mercy said. “He’ll give you another dose, and I know he plans to strap your ribs today, which will help with the breathing.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow then,” I said, touching her hand gently. “Is there anything I can bring you? Some grapes? Oranges?”
She patted my hand. “You just take care of yourself,” she said. “Stay away from the Lower East Side.”
“I will.”
“Promise me you won’t go there alone.”
“Very well. I promise.”
As I left I heard Sister Mercy saying, “A nice young friend you’ve got there, Mrs. Goodwin. A real saintly girl.”
If she only knew, I thought, with a grim smile.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I decided to wait until the afternoon mail delivery before I went to Mrs. Goodwin’s house. I’d have liked to question the constables who escorted Mr. Partridge on that fateful day, but I had promised Mrs. Goodwin I wouldn’t go to that part of town alone. Given her current precarious condition, I couldn’t break a promise right now. Besides, I suspected that Mr. Partridge had chosen the route with one purpose in mind. And now he was planning a visit to The Tombs—was that just to gloat over Daniel, or did he have a more sinister purpose in mind there, too?
I looked up at the clock on the mantel. I didn’t really have time to visit Mr. Atkinson and convince him to take me to The Tombs today if I wanted to be at Mrs. Goodwin’s house in time for the afternoon mail. I’d have to leave that for tomorrow morning. A stiff breeze was blowing off the Hudson, and I retrieved my line of dry laundry before starting the long walk across town, past Cooper Union to Tompkins Square. The rain, followed by the breeze, had brought the temperature down and the walk was not at all unpleasant. It gave me time to think. I’ve always found walking was great for putting my thoughts in order.
I was anxious to see if any answers to the advertisement had come in the mail yet. If the dead girl we saw yesterday was not a prostitute, then it was possible that some of the others weren’t, either. If so, where did this monstrous killer meet the girls and persuade them to go with him? I decided Detective Quigley’s theory was a good one—he trolled the streets in his carriage, looking for likely victims. Maybe he offered them a ride; maybe he simply grabbed them off the street. If we received letters from one particular part of the city, we’d be able to start hunting him down in earnest.
Mrs. Goodwin’s house was in a pleasant, established neighborhood, just beyond a square with a green and leafy park in it. The front steps were well scrubbed, the brass door knockers well polished. The children who played hopscotch or whipped their tops on the sidewalks were well cared for. I got the key from the neighbor, who was most upset to hear about Mrs. Goodwin’s accident.
“That poor dear woman has devoted her life to the service of others, and look where it’s gotten her,” she said. “And her man before her, too. He was one of the best, and he was struck down in his prime.”
She handed over the key with no difficulty, and I was about to put it into the lock when the door swung open. This was strange, and I hesitated for a moment. There was no sign of forced entry around the lo
ck, however, so I decided there had to be a reasonable explanation. Either Mrs. Goodwin herself had left in such a hurry that she hadn’t quite closed the door and today’s strong wind had blown it open again, or she had another friend or neighbor who had been entrusted with the key.
“Hello?” I called, standing in the narrow front hall. “Is anyone there?”
I stood listening but heard no kind of movement. I went on into the house, leaving the front door open, just in case. There was no mail of any kind on the front door mat, which was disappointing. I suppose I should have left again straightaway, but my curiosity got the better of me. I went down the hall into a meticulously scrubbed kitchen, complete with a row of gleaming copper pans hanging over the stove. I then conducted a brief tour of the front parlor, with its furniture covered in dust sheets, then the back parlor, which she obviously used for day-to-day living. The furniture in here was well-worn, and over the mantelpiece there was a framed photograph of a man in police uniform. I stood looking at it for a moment. Her husband had been taken from her, but she still carried on his work. That was noble enough. What was even more noble was that she had become my friend. She had every reason to hate Daniel as the man supposedly responsible for her husband’s death, and thus to hate me, working to secure Daniel’s release; but somehow she had believed me enough to trust me. Not only that—she had gone out of her way to help me.
I glanced around the room, and my gaze alighted on a piece of paper, sticking out from under the armchair. It was so unlike Mrs. Goodwin to leave anything untidily that I bent to pick it up. It was a new envelope. I decided to return it to the oak secretary nearby. When I opened the front of the secretary I gasped. The papers inside it were in complete disarray. Somebody had gone through her papers and then stuffed them back anyhow.
I froze, suddenly realizing the implication of this. He or she could be in the house at this minute, going through the rooms upstairs. I crept back to the front door.