The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries Book 14)

by Rhys Bowen

  Gus laughed. “Yes, well, I wouldn’t class you as the average housewife. You’ve run your own business. You’ve moved in a man’s world. You’ve faced danger many times. Most women are content to stay home. They want to be protected and cossetted.”

  “Do you think that’s really true?” Sid asked. “Is it perhaps that nobody has offered them alternatives?”

  “Look at the other girls who were at Vassar with us,” Gus said. “They were receiving a first-class education, but most of them couldn’t wait to be married and become mistress of their own homes.”

  “Not all of them have given up the cause, Gus,” Sid said. “I’ve been mining the Vassar alumnae list and have rounded up four of them for our meeting tomorrow night. Two were before our time, one after, but one of them will be familiar to you. Does the name Minnie Bryce ring a bell?”

  Gus looked up, frowning. “Minnie Bryce. Wasn’t she a senior in our dorm when we were freshmen? Tall, and rather imposing-looking.” Gus’s eyes lit up as a memory came to her. “I remember now. She was the one who gave us a talking-to after we climbed the ivy to get in that open window one night.”

  “Of course. I’d forgotten that.” Sid chuckled. “She threatened to report us to the house mother, but she never did. Must have been a good sort at heart.” She took a swig from her wineglass. “Well, she’s now Minnie Hamilton, married with four sons. She’s just the sort of person we need in our sisterhood. She can influence the next generation of young men.”

  I must have yawned. Gus glanced across at me. “Molly, you’re looking tired. You’ve been sitting up too long and we’ve been boring you with our diatribes. Off to bed with you.”

  I stood up. “I’m not at all bored, but I really am feeling like a limp rag at the moment, so please excuse me. I must accept that it will take a while to get over what happened yesterday.”

  “Of course it will,” Gus said. “There is the matter of delayed shock, as well as the bump on your head and your poor ribs. Do you need me to bind them for you again before you sleep?”

  “I’ll be just fine, thank you,” I said. “I’m leaving the doctor’s binding in place as long as possible. But perhaps I will take another of the sleeping powders you offered me. It helped me to sleep well last night, and I am aching all over at the moment.”

  Soon I was lying in the comfortable bed and fell asleep. But this second night was not as successful. In my dreams I was back in that confined, dark space, trying to get out, searching for my baby, and when I awoke my head was throbbing. I lay there in the dark, listening to the night noises of the city—cats yowling on some distant rooftop, the revving of an automobile engine, a police whistle. They were unsettling noises, reminding me that I was in a city of danger, that even in my friends’ house I could never feel truly safe.

  Nine

  In the morning I felt hollow-eyed and groggy as Sid brought Liam in to see me. He, in contrast, seemed remarkably healthy and happy, giggling when Sid pretended to bite his toes.

  I forced myself to get up and dress in preparation for the visit from the representatives of Wanamaker’s. They came around noon—two of them, a very superior-looking young man in a black frock coat and a harried young woman, who was carrying the parcels. Actually I was not enthralled with anything they had brought, and I told them that I’d come to the store with my husband as soon as I felt better.

  I had a nap in the afternoon, in preparation for the evening meeting, and heaved a sigh of relief when Daniel came to visit me around five o’clock, before the suffragists arrived. I could only imagine his feelings if he’d found me surrounded by militant women making inflammatory banners.

  “Well, that’s settled then,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “I received a telegram from my mother. She will be with us tomorrow. It’s very good of her, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes. Very good,” I tried to say with all sincerity.

  “And no doubt you’ve ordered enough linens to furnish the most splendid beds?”

  I shook my head. “There was nothing that really took my fancy. The quilts and eiderdowns were rather too ornate for my taste. So let’s hope your mother arrives with enough sheets and blankets for both beds.”

  Daniel shot me a questioning look. I could tell he was wondering whether I was trying to play games—to make sure we had nothing to sleep on, because he had expressed his disapproval of Wanamaker’s coming to the house. Now that I thought about it, I was rather pleased with this unplanned outcome. But I maintained a serene expression.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Sid and Gus have already kindly offered to lend us anything we need until we have time to go shopping together. We’ll be fine.”

  He managed a smile and reached out to squeeze my arm. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “A little hollow-eyed,” I said. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Bad dreams.”

  “That’s to be expected, isn’t it?” Daniel said. “You were in a severe accident. You’ve probably had a concussion.”

  “It’s also the underlying worry,” I said. “When you tell me that it’s possible a train crash was orchestrated to kill me, it’s hardly reassuring, is it? It means that I could be in danger at any moment, anywhere in this city.”

  “Perhaps I exaggerated the danger, Molly. I went too far,” he said. “You were the one who pointed out that the only thing linking all the murders together was me. And then you were on the train that crashed, and I got the note saying it was too bad he hadn’t succeeded. I’m afraid I thought the worst.”

  “There could have been any number of people he wanted to kill on that train,” I said. “My own belief is that he’s enjoying claiming responsibility just to upset you. It will probably turn out to be a simple accident after all—a disk that flew off in the breeze, or a signalman who was not paying proper attention and misread.” Then I held up my hand, excited. “I’ve got it, Daniel. If the disk wasn’t attached properly, and it somehow slipped or twisted, a nine upside down is a six.”

  “You may have hit on something there,” he said. “I’ll have to see how these disks are attached, and if that’s a possibility. But then why wasn’t the disk found?”

  “It could have blown off and landed in somebody’s window for all we know. Or maybe a child took it as a souvenir after the train crashed.”

  “You’re right.” He leaned across and took my hand. “I can’t wait until we’re back in our own house living a normal life again, can you? It’s been hard going home at night to that narrow, dingy apartment and wishing you were there to hold in my arms.”

  “You’ll be able to hold me in your arms tomorrow night,” I said. “But carefully. I’m fragile. I might break.”

  He laughed. “I tell you what, I’m devilishly hungry, Molly. Do you think there’s a chance your friends would invite me to dinner tonight?”

  “They would, but you wouldn’t want to come,” I said. “They’ve a whole band of women coming for a meeting.”

  “Oh, God. No thanks. Well, it better be the pie shop again.” He got up, squeezing my hand before he let it go. “Until tomorrow then. I’m meeting Mother at the station, if my work allows me to escape for that long. If not, she’ll have to take a cab. You’ll make her welcome, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “What time is she expected?”

  “Not until about four thirty.”

  “I’ll be in the drawing room and keep an eye out for her.”

  “Splendid. Well, good-bye then, my darling.”

  “Good-bye.” I blew him a kiss.

  As soon as I heard his footsteps going down the stairs, I felt bad that I had turned him away the one time he had wanted to have dinner with us. But truly I was doing him a kindness. Women suffragists would not have helped his appetite!

  * * *

  I sat in the kitchen while Sid and Gus made sandwiches and pitchers of lemonade.

  “One has to be careful about offering wine,” Sid said. “Sometimes these women are also ardent
followers of the temperance movement.”

  “It’s a warm evening,” Gus said, as she wrapped a stack of dainty sandwiches in a damp serviette. “We were thinking it might be more pleasant to sit in the conservatory, rather than the more formal atmosphere of the drawing room.”

  “Good idea.” I nodded agreement.

  “And since we won’t have time for a proper meal, Sid has made a cold soup,” Gus went on. “And there is salad left from luncheon. Help yourself whenever you feel like it, Molly.”

  I took some cold cucumber soup, fed Liam, and by the time I had put him to bed I heard a knock at the front door, followed by women’s voices in animated conversation. The first of the ladies had arrived. I spruced myself up and came downstairs to find four women seated in the wicker chairs in the conservatory. Two of them were earnest young women I had met before on a similar occasion. The other two were older women and unfamiliar to me. They both looked like solid and affluent matrons, and it was quite a surprise to find them at such a subversive meeting. While we were exchanging pleasantries, more women kept arriving, until there were ten of us.

  “That’s all, I think,” Sid said, looking around with satisfaction. “A good number at such short notice, don’t you think?”

  “It’s hard for so many of the sisters to get away,” one of the older women said. She had an air of authority to her, as if she had once been a schoolmistress, and I thought that I wouldn’t like to cross her. “If they are married, their evenings are devoted to serving dinner to their husbands and putting the children to bed. You might have better luck if you schedule the next meeting for the morning or afternoon. No husband objects to his wife attending a coffee morning with friends, but they are highly suspicious of a woman who wants to go out at night alone.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Sid said, “but I was thinking of our young unmarried women who work during the day. At least five of us are gainfully employed.”

  “Really?” the older woman asked. “As what?”

  “I work in a bank,” one of them said.

  “And I in a flower shop.”

  “I’m a teacher,” the little redhead I had met before added.

  “And I am a typewriter for a firm of lawyers.”

  “Mercy me,” the older woman said. “I had heard that those typewriting machines were simply too strenuous for young women to handle.”

  The girl laughed. “That falsehood was spread by men who fear that women are encroaching on their jobs and don’t want us in the workplace.”

  “Well, good for you, I say,” the other older woman said loudly. She was rounder and jollier looking, like a friendly grandmother. “It warms my heart to see young women taking up such varied positions. When we can add lawyer and senator to that list, I’ll be well satisfied.”

  “Not in your lifetime, I fear, Mrs. Mitchum,” Sid said.

  “Mrs. Sullivan was a detective, if I remember correctly,” the earnest, dark-haired young woman said. I tried to remember her name.

  They all looked at me in astonishment, making my cheeks turn red. “That’s right,” I said. “I ran my own detective agency until I married.”

  “And her husband forced her to give it up,” Sid added, with a sideways glance at me.

  “Isn’t that always the way,” one of them muttered. “Men can’t abide the thought of a woman with a career, especially a successful one.”

  “To be fair to Daniel,” I answered, “he is a captain in the police department, and a wife who worked as a private investigator would not be tolerated. Besides, he wants to protect me and keep me safe. It’s a natural male instinct.”

  “Not all of us want to be protected,” the dark-haired girl said. “I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Hamilton?” Gus asked as she came in with a tray of sandwiches. “Sid and I remember you as a rather terrifying senior in our dorm. We always tiptoed past your room.”

  “You were at school together?” Mrs. Mitchum asked.

  “At Vassar. We have several alumnae in this group.” Gus indicated the redhead and two others.

  “Yes, I was a senior when these two were obnoxious little freshmen,” Mrs. Hamilton laughed. “Always trying to sneak out of the dorm at night, I remember. How wonderful that your friendship has lasted all this time.”

  “Yes, it is wonderful,” Gus said, glancing across at Sid.

  “And neither of you has married?”

  “No. Neither of us has married,” Gus replied evenly. “Another cucumber sandwich, Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Sometimes I think we all would have been wiser not to,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “I find the raising of four sons quite taxing, and I have almost no time for my own pursuits. And now I have the care of my young niece as well, which is not easy. But it is the path I have chosen, I suppose.” She pushed back an imaginary strand of hair from her face, as if in annoyance. Then she turned back to Gus. “Did I not hear that you spent the summer in Paris?”

  “We did,” Sid said. “Miss Walcott pursued her art. Her painting was much admired.”

  This was a slight exaggeration, and Gus had the grace to blush, muttering, “Oh, no, not really.”

  “I hope your painting was of pleasant subjects, and not this dreadful rubbish that is being produced in Paris these days,” Mrs. Mitchum said. “How they have the nerve to call it art. Flying cats and blue faces, indeed. Whatever next?”

  “I envy you being able to spend a whole summer in Paris.” Mrs. Hamilton sighed. “It was always my dream to travel. But I said yes to Joseph and next thing I knew I was the mother of four boys.” She laughed.

  “We were also in Vienna,” Sid said. “Miss Walcott was studying with Professor Freud.”

  “Freud?” Mrs. Mitchum exclaimed. “Isn’t he that dreadful man who claims that we are entirely driven by sexual impulses?” And she fanned herself with her gloves.

  “I’m afraid he does,” Gus admitted. “But he has done wonderful work in unlocking the subconscious of the human mind and in treating mental illness. And he has written a brilliant treatise on the interpretation of dreams.”

  “Dreams?” one of the women asked. “Can dreams be interpreted? Surely dreams are just our minds wandering aimlessly when we are not present to direct our thoughts.”

  “Some dreams are just that,” Gus said, “but Dr. Freud and his colleagues have discovered that dreams are also a conduit through which our deepest fears and angers and longings can be expressed. Sometimes these feelings are so strong, or so traumatic, or so deeply suppressed, that we don’t even want to name them, so our subconscious self expresses them as symbols or metaphors.”

  “I remember going to a carnival when I was a girl, and there was a fortune-teller who told us what our dreams meant,” one of the women said. “But I thought it quite silly even then. I was going to marry an important man and travel the world, if you please. So far I have only been to Boston.”

  “So your mentors in Vienna dismiss the notion of prophetic dreams, like Joseph in the Bible?” someone asked. “Dreams sent to warn us? Surely there are documented cases?”

  “I don’t think they’d want to believe in them,” Gus replied with a smile. “Because it would be hard to offer a scientific explanation.”

  “When I was growing up in Ireland folks were hot on interpreting dream symbols,” I chimed in. “If you dreamed of a white cow you were going to come into money. If you dreamed of a black bird it meant an impending death … that sort of thing. I never put much store by it myself, but the older women swore by it.”

  “I’m not talking about the sort of dream interpretation that fortune-tellers use,” Gus said. “This research has a serious scientific basis. I didn’t completely agree with Professor Freud’s interpretation. To him most dream symbols are related to sex. If you dream of a tower it’s a male symbol, and a gaping cave might relate to a female.”

  “Mercy me.” The older women exchanged horrified looks.

  “I di
dn’t go along with that,” Gus said hurriedly.

  “I should think not. Most decent people are not preoccupied with sexual function,” Mrs. Mitchum said. “And talk of it should not go beyond the confines of the married bedroom.”

  “I agreed with the opinion of some other researchers, that there are dream symbols that seem to be common to all dreamers throughout the world,” Gus went on, warming to her subject now. “For example, if you dream of a house, it’s usually a symbol for how you see yourself. If you dream of a fine, solid house, then you have a good self-image. If you dream of a house with dark, gloomy rooms you don’t want to enter, then there are parts of yourself you are afraid to face.”

  “Interesting,” the red-haired girl from Vassar said. “I often dream that I’m in a large house, and I’m surprised to find I own it.”

  “You see!” Gus pointed at her excitedly. “You are just realizing your full potential.”

  The girl beamed. “How exciting. I must tell Mama. She claimed I’d never amount to much.”

  “What other symbols are there?” one of the women asked.

  “A runaway horse, for example. If you’re in a buggy with a runaway horse, it signifies an aspect of your life you can’t control.”

  “I’ve dreamed that, many times,” Sid said.

  “And another fascinating revelation of this research is that we are sometimes so afraid to admit to a fear that we skirt around it even in our dreams, and create puns or rhyming words to express it. If we think our child is too pale and we are secretly worried he is sick, we might dream of him carrying a pail.” She looked around the group. “But a trained alienist has ways to unlock the most enigmatic of symbols to get to their real meaning. You should see the wonderful cures that Professor Freud and his colleagues have achieved for those with severe mental problems or those who have experienced traumatic shocks. I really wished that I could have stayed longer and become an expert myself.”