In a Gilded Cage Page 13

  “I understand,” I said. “Should I make you a cup of tea or coffee before I go?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing, thank you. I can’t keep anything down at this stage, so it’s a waste. Sleep is the only thing.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to sleep,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “Not at all. Thank you for coming.” She made her way back to bed while I went to the Dakota.

  Fanny’s maid looked surprised to see me.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” I said, “but I rather fear I dropped my glove while I was here with Miss Boswell yesterday, paying our last respects to your mistress. Have you found a glove, by any chance?” I held up the black leather glove I had brought with me for the purpose.

  “Oh no, miss.” She let me in and closed the door behind me. “But I don’t think anybody’s been in to the mistress’s room since you were here.”

  “Are you home alone?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, miss. The master is off making funeral arrangements with Mr. Bradley, but Mrs Bradley is still here.”

  “No need to disturb her,” I said. “If you could just come into Mrs. Poindexter’s room with me and help me look for my glove.”

  “Go into the mistress’s room?” She looked quite alarmed.

  “Is her body still here?”

  “Yes, miss. The gentlemen should be coming back with the undertaker any moment to have her removed.”

  “I can see that it must be very distressing for you. I can do it alone. No matter,” I said. “What is your name?”

  “Martha, miss, and yes, I’m finding it awful hard to realize that she’s gone.”

  “Well, Martha, I’m sure it’s a consolation to you that you did everything you could to ease her suffering.”

  “I did, miss. I really did. I’d have sat with her night and day but her mother wanted to be with her toward the end.”

  “Martha, I wondered,” I began. “Maybe you could tell me, did she eat anything during the last day or so that might have made her sicker?”

  She frowned at this. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you bring her her food?”

  “Not for the last few days, miss. Like I said, her mother took over everything toward the end—fed her like a baby, she did. Not that she was eating much. She couldn’t keep anything down, you see. But her mother had cook make her a good oxtail broth, and some barley water and calves’ foot jelly, and she fed her a little of those. Not that they did any good—” she pressed her hand to her mouth. “She just slipped away from us, miss. No matter what we did, she just got worse and worse and slipped away.”

  “And no medications helped at all?”

  She shook her head. “The doctor said it was no good prescribing anything while she couldn’t keep it down. Just sponge baths for the fever and liquids. That’s what he said.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know her that well, but she was a sweet and lovely woman.”

  “That she was, miss.”

  “So Mr. Poindexter was away when she died, then?”

  “No, miss. He came back just before the end. Awful cut up about it, he was. ‘Why didn’t somebody tell me how bad she was? Why didn’t you send someone to find me?’ he shouted. ‘I’d never have taken that stupid trip if I’d known.’”

  I moved toward the bedroom door. “In here, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” I said. “I must have dropped my glove when I went to open the drapes to take a last look at her.”

  Martha opened the door and we stepped into the gloom. The odor of death was now more pronounced. I couldn’t exactly describe it, but once you’ve smelled it, you recognize it forever more. The sweet, sickly scent of decay, to put it bluntly, I suppose. I saw Martha visibly recoil.

  “It’s all right. You really don’t have to be here with me,” I said. “If you could just show me where to turn on the electric light.”

  She did, and harsh yellow light flooded the room.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” I said. “I’ll turn the light off again when I’m done.”

  I moved quickly, pretending to search around the floor, not sure whether she was watching me or not. When I couldn’t see her I darted into the dressing room and quickly dipped a piece of cotton wool I had brought with me into the stomach mixture. I was just about to drop it into the greaseproof pouch I had made for it when a booming voice demanded.

  “What is going on in here?” Mrs. Bradley appeared in the doorway.

  “Miss Murphy?” she demanded, her eyebrows raised.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. I came back because I thought I had dropped my glove when we came to pay our last respects to Fanny yesterday.” I spoke slowly, trying desperately to come up with a good reason for being in her dressing room. “And Emily felt faint yesterday so I went into the bathroom to wet my handkerchief for her.”

  “She doesn’t carry smelling salts like any normal woman?” Mrs. Bradley still didn’t look entirely convinced.

  “I don’t know. I just acted on the spur of the moment. I always find that cold water works wonderfully well for me.” I closed my purse and moved quickly toward the door. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you. I must have dropped my glove somewhere else. On the train, perhaps. I’m always losing gloves.”

  I came out into the hall. Mrs. Bradley stood with arms folded across an impressive bosom, watching me.

  “Martha was telling me that poor Fanny just couldn’t keep any food down toward the end and that you fed her yourself from a spoon.”

  She nodded curtly. “I did everything I could to keep her alive. It wasn’t enough.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” I muttered again, feeling like an awful fraud and completely out of place in this house of sorrow. “Please excuse me. And if you could please let me know when the funeral will be held, I should certainly like to attend.”

  “Of course.” She nodded again.

  Then I made a hasty retreat.

  Seventeen

  On Tuesday morning I received a message notifying me that the funeral was set for Thursday at the Trinity Church Cemetery on Riverside Drive. I was still waiting for news from Daniel. If the doctor was absolutely sure that Fanny died of complications of influenza and that there was no chance of foul play being involved, then I could get on with my life and take the next step in Emily’s case—which would be to go to Massachusetts and the area where her Aunt Lydia was born. She might not have any surviving family members, but surely someone there would have known the family well enough to have heard of cousins who went out to China—or not, as the case may be.

  At noon Sid came to my door and literally dragged me across to their house. “Gus insisted. You have to come and see our latest achievements,” she said. I allowed myself to be dragged, then followed her up two flights of stairs to Gus’s studio on the top floor.

  “There, what do you think?” Sid demanded with obvious pride in her voice. “Isn’t it a masterpiece?”

  As with all of Gus’s paintings I didn’t quite share her enthusiasm.

  “It’s interesting,” I said, not wanting to ask what it was depicting. “Very powerful.” It was indeed powerful, with great splashes of red and purple and what looked like a smashed boiled egg in the middle with ants crawling out of it.

  “It is womankind, shaking off the shackles of oppression and domination to assume our rightful place in society,” she said. “And has Sid told you about her latest triumph?”

  “No.”

  Sid shrugged modestly.

  “She has been asked by none other than Susan B. Anthony to write for The Revolution.”

  “Excellent,” I said, not having a clear idea of either of these. “I congratulate you both.”

  “Anything to make society in general more aware of our cause,” Sid said.

  I then allowed myself to be persuaded to stay for what they called a “peasant lunch” of crusty bread, smelly c
heeses, olives, and onions, washed down with a glass of Chianti, and came home again feeling rather mellow.

  A note was waiting for me in my mailbox. Miss Molly Murphy. By Hand.

  Inside was Daniel’s bold black scrawl.

  Molly. I’m sending this with a constable. Saw Dr. Larson today. He says he’s sure cause of death was pneumonia. Vomiting caused by high fever. Absolutely no cause for autopsy. He was furious at the suggestion and told me he’d been the family physician for thirty years. He went on to say that Mrs. Poindexter had been ministered to most diligently by her mother who had overseen every aspect of her care. I hope this allays your suspicions. Daniel.

  So that was that. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. Maybe Emily did suffer from an overactive imagination. She was obviously extremely fond of Fanny, and devastated by her death. She also suffered from the kind of constitution that laid her low with sick headaches when she got upset. All in all it seemed she was an emotional young woman who could well be prone to hysteria. I decided to see if she had returned to work and, if she had, to risk the wrath of Mr. McPherson by delivering Daniel’s message to her at the shop later that afternoon. There was no answer at her apartment, so I proceeded around the corner to the shop. Emily was behind the counter, busy serving an elderly man. She looked pale but seemed in good spirits as she chatted with him. “These are to be taken twice a day with water,” I heard her say as I opened the door. “And no more port until the gout subsides.”

  The old man chuckled and said something that made her smile. Then he raised his hat to me as he passed me.

  “Molly.” She glanced around warily.

  “Sorry to disturb you at work, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “You have news?” she whispered. “From your policeman friend?”

  I nodded.

  “And?”

  “The doctor is sure the cause of death was pneumonia.”

  “But what about the gastric problems?”

  “Brought on by extremely high fever.”

  “So they’re not going to do any testing?”

  “No.”

  Emily chewed at her lip. “She’s going to be buried on Thursday, and then it will be too late.”

  “I went to Fanny’s place yesterday,” I said. “And I did manage to take a sample of the stomach mixture.”

  “Stomach mixture?” She looked aghast. “You don’t suspect us, do you?”

  “Of course not. But someone could have added a poison to it. It was the only thing in her bathroom that could easily have been tampered with.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “So we can have that tested. And you know what?” Another brilliant idea hit me. “You have some of her hair. I’m sure doctors can test hair for traces of arsenic.”

  “What’s this?” Ned appeared at Emily’s side. “Who wants something tested for arsenic?”

  “We do,” Emily said. “We have hair that we’d like tested for arsenic. Is that something you could do, Ned?”

  Ned frowned. “You suspect someone of arsenic poisoning?”

  “Probably not, but we’d just like to make sure. Is that the kind of test that you could conduct for us?”

  “I think so,” Ned said. “It’s a simple enough test, I gather. Not that I’ve ever been called upon to run it, but I have to warn you that traces of arsenic often show up in a person for the most innocent of reasons. For example, wallpaper often contains arsenic, especially the new green floral papers that are so popular.”

  “But you mean someone would have to soak wallpapers and make a person drink the liquid?” I asked.

  Ned shook his head. “No, they give off fumes.”

  “Mercy me,” Emily said, looking quite alarmed. “So you’re saying that most people will show some trace of arsenic in their systems?”

  “Probably,” Ned said. “And don’t forget that many tonics and medications contain a small amount. It’s used to treat plenty of diseases, too—including syphilis.”

  Emily blushed. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any question of . . .”

  “Of course not.” Ned grinned. “But all I was suggesting was that a trace of arsenic in hair would not necessarily mean a person was being poisoned.”

  “I see,” I said. “But more than a trace?”

  He grinned. “Ah, then that’s a different matter altogether. So bring me the hair, Emily, and I’ll see what I can do, all right?”

  “Thank you, Ned,” she said, gazing at him adoringly.

  I left them and went home, content that I had done everything I could. If arsenic showed up in the hair sample, then we’d have to test the stomach mixture. Again, all we had to do was wait. By now I had received replies in the negative from all of the missionary societies, although the Baptists had shown a couple called Bosman on their books some thirty years ago. Was it possible that Emily’s kin had somehow got the name wrong? It seemed unlikely. One thing I was sure of was that Horace Lynch had known more than he was willing to tell me. There was something about Emily’s background that needed to be kept from her. And then, of course, I couldn’t help thinking about her complete collapse with a sick headache yesterday. Was there some kind of mental instability in the family—a parent in a mental institution, perhaps? I was keen to take that journey to Aunt Lydia’s hometown to find out the truth for myself, but I realized that it wasn’t a trip I could make there and back in one day. And attending the funeral was important. Perhaps I would learn something from the demeanor of those who came to it.

  So I spent my free day finding out how to get to Williamstown, Massachusetts. I was surprised to find that it was not at all in the direction I had expected it to be. I had thought of Massachusetts in terms of Boston and a train ride up the coast, but it seemed that Williamstown was in the far northwest of the state and would be reached by traveling due north from New York—nowhere near Boston. It seemed as if it would be a long journey, with a change of trains in Springfield, and then I would have to find a cheap place to stay. I reminded myself that Emily was not able to pay me much—unless I could prove that she was the rightful heiress to a fortune, in which case I’d ask for more. I also reminded myself that my last client had just died without paying me a cent.

  The funeral morning dawned bright and breezy—that typical April weather with white puffy clouds racing across the sky that makes one want to be outdoors. I found that the Ninth Avenue El went all the way to the northern tip of the island and spent a pleasant half hour looking down on city life as we progressed northward. The Trinity Church cemetery was one of the only cemeteries still operating within the city itself. Only those with powerful connections could be buried there, and it seemed that Poindexters owned an impressive family mausoleum. Aside from the tragic circumstance that brought us there, the cemetery was a delightful spot to be. Tree-lined walk-ways and marble statues made it a pleasant oasis and escape from the hubbub of the city. On one side, vistas of the Hudson River opened up, with great strings of barges and jaunty river steamers sailing past. And on the far Jersey shore the Palisades rose, sheer and forbidding from the river’s edge.

  I was glad that my one black hat was an old-fashioned bonnet with a bow that tied under my chin, as the wind whipped fiercely and several hats were sent flying. A large crowd had gathered at the gravesite, all dressed in the height of fashion. Fanny’s mother and other female members of the family were hidden under heavy veils, and I wouldn’t have been able to recognize her had she not been approached and addressed by name. So much for watching expressions.

  At least the men’s faces were clearly visible beneath their top hats. Anson Poindexter stood between two men who must have been his father and Mr. Bradley. Both of them fine figures still—carrying themselves with the grace and control expected of people of their station. I noticed Mr. Bradley intercepting well-wishers so that he could spare his wife as much of the ordeal as possible. His face was grave but pleasant as he shook hands just as he would at any party or in any reception line,
and one would never have known from his face that this was his daughter’s funeral. He was a handsome man, as dark as his daughter was fair—his black hair and sideburns now tinged with gray.

  My attention turned to Anson Poindexter. In contrast to his father and father-in-law, he was clearly ill at ease, and glanced around with jerky head movements. He was clearly distracted as well, having to be nudged by his father when well-wishers tried to speak to him. Did this indicate a guilty conscience, I wondered, or simply that he found the situation so uncomfortable he was looking for a way to escape? He had, after all, found every excuse to escape from his sick wife’s bedside.

  Emily arrived and came to stand beside me. “Old McPherson wasn’t going to let me off,” she said, panting as if she had had to run to get here on time, “but Ned talked him into it. Oh, and Ned has run the test on Fanny’s hair. He says there was no trace of arsenic at all. I suppose that’s good news, isn’t it.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “It would be awful to watch her being buried and always wondering if someone had gotten away with murder.”

  She looked around. “A good crowd, wouldn’t you say? I don’t see any of Fanny’s other friends—oh, yes I do. There’s Alice, and that must be Minnie with her under that veil. Come on, let’s join them.’

  She made her way through the crowd to where the two women were standing.

  “Emily!” Alice held out her hands. “I’m so glad you could come. What a terribly sad day, isn’t it?”

  Emily nodded.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Minnie said, nodding politely to Emily and me. “Was it only less than two weeks ago that we were all together in Fanny’s living room, talking about ball gowns and complexions?”

  Emily was still looking around. “I don’t see Bella or Dorcas,” she said.

  “Bella was with us a moment ago.” Alice’s eyes scanned the gathering crowd. “But Dorcas won’t be coming. Haven’t you heard? She’s quite ill. They’re worried about her.”