The Face in the Mirror Page 2

  “Please, come in,” I said, and ushered her into my front hall. “I’m afraid there is no fire in the front parlor at the moment, so it’s a little chilly in there. Would you rather come through to the kitchen? I’ve a kettle on for tea.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “That would be perfect.” She took off her hat and I could see that she was younger than I first thought, probably in her early forties, and quite an attractive woman. I helped her remove her overcoat and saw that she had a smart two-piece costume beneath it. Money and style there. She followed me to the kitchen and sat in the chair I pulled out for her.

  “You’ve come to recruit me for the suffrage cause, have you?” I asked as I poured boiling water into the teapot. “I understand from Sid and Gus that you are one of the local leaders.”

  She looked down. “No, actually, I’ve come on a more personal matter, Mrs. Sullivan. One that I would prefer was not spoken of outside this room. When I heard that you were a detective, I wondered if you might be able to help me.”

  “I should tell you that I gave up my business when I married,” I said, thinking that it might be a matter of something like divorce proceedings.

  “But not your skills,” she answered. “It is your detective skills I need.” She looked up now. “I am very worried, Mrs. Sullivan. I used to be a strong and confident woman. Now I have become fearful and jumpy. I am afraid I am losing my mind, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “What makes you think that, Mrs. Clements?” I asked.

  “I see things that aren’t there,” she blurted out. “I have strange dreams and can’t sleep. I have begun sleepwalking. I’m afraid I’m going mad.”

  “What brought this on?” I asked. “Have you had a recent shock or tragedy?”

  “Not at all. My life is unchanged and perfectly pleasant. My husband’s business is flourishing. I have inherited a trust fund from my father that enables us to live most agreeably. Nothing should be wrong.”

  “Your husband treats you well?” I asked.

  “My husband has always been dedicated to his business,” she said. “He leaves me to my own devices. We have always gotten along amiably enough until now, but he is a hale and hearty fellow himself and does not tolerate weakness or sickness well. His response to my current condition is to admonish me to snap out of it and get a grip.”

  I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Clements, I’m really sorry that you are going through this, but I am not a doctor, nor an alienist. I can’t think what I could do to help you.”

  She looked up sharply from her teacup. “You are a trained observer,” she said. “I want you to come to my house and see for yourself, because either my house is haunted or I am going mad. And I want to know the truth.”

  “Haunted?” I said.

  “I’ve seen a face in my dressing table mirror,” she said in a low voice, looking around as if someone might be standing behind her even here in my kitchen. “A strange, hollow-eyed face staring at me. And when I looked around, there was nothing there. What’s more, Noreen didn’t see anything.”

  “Noreen?”

  “She’s my young cousin, recently arrived from Ireland to stay with us.”

  “Oh, you’re from Ireland, are you?” I asked, because I detected no sign of an Irish brogue.

  “My mother was. She came over in the famine, worked in domestic service, and married the master of the house. A most fortuitous outcome, as you can imagine. I grew up in comfortable circumstances, only child of an older father. The family fortune passed on to me. I had no contact with relatives in Ireland until recently, when I received a message from a cousin stating that her daughter wanted to come to America to make a better life for herself. She asked if I would be good enough to take her in until she had found her feet in a strange land, and of course, I was delighted to do so. Having grown up with no relatives, it is reassuring to know that I have cousins back in the old country. So young Noreen arrived, and I have to say she is a sweet child, a joy to have around the place.”

  “But your problems started with her arrival?”

  “About the same time,” she said.

  “We Irish are known for our sixth sense,” I said. “Is it possible that her arrival might have awoken an unfriendly spirit in the house?”

  She looked at me, wide eyed. “Oh, do you think so? Surely not.”

  “I believe it’s possible,” I said. “I can’t entirely discount ghosts and spirits myself.”

  “I would have laughed at the notion until now,” she said. “I am an educated woman, Mrs. Sullivan, not prone to superstitions or fancies. But I know what I saw—what I felt. Cold drafts when no window was open. The drapes twitching. I told Joshua that I wanted to move, but he likes the house we are in and refuses. He says it’s all in my head. And maybe it is.” She reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it fervently. “You will come, won’t you, dear Mrs. Sullivan? See for yourself. Tell me whether you think it’s in my head or not.”

  Chapter 3

  I could hardly turn her down, the way she gripped my hand and her eyes pleaded so earnestly. I sensed this was a woman at the end of her rope.

  “But how will you explain my presence in the house?” I asked. “I can’t just come for luncheon one day and observe in a few minutes.”

  “I agree,” she said. “The very best would be if you could come and stay.”

  “I don’t think I could do that. My husband needs me.”

  “But you could come for extended periods, couldn’t you? Be with us all day. Dine with us sometimes.”

  “How would you explain this to your husband?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said slowly. “You are from Ireland, are you not? I could say that a fellow Irishwoman would make Noreen feel more at home in a strange country. And since you are a respected member of New York society and a good friend, what better person to introduce her into society here.”

  “I’m hardly a member of society,” I said. “My husband is certainly a respected officer of the police department, but we don’t move in exalted circles, as you see from this house.”

  “Joshua won’t know that,” she said. “He runs an import–export business. His one interest is in commerce and moneymaking. He will be glad of anyone to take the girl off our hands.”

  “Does he not welcome her to your house?”

  She frowned. “He hardly acknowledges her existence. A mere grunt and nod when he passes her and the occasional curt question as to whether she has had a good day. But he is gone before she can get out an answer. She is rather shy, you see, and he can be rather formidable.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Not far from you. We have a house on Fifth Avenue, below Fourteenth Street. When we bought it twenty years ago, it was still in a fashionable part of the city. Now, I’m afraid, fashion has passed us by. Here—” She rummaged in her purse. “—here is my card. Feel free to visit me any day. I hardly go out anymore. I shall await you eagerly. I want to put an end to all this, to be myself again.”

  She took a halfhearted sip of tea, then stood up. “I’ve taken too much of your time. What a poor specimen you must think me. Indeed, I think it of myself. But you will come soon, won’t you?”

  “I will come,” I said as I escorted her to the door.

  Not wanting to go behind Daniel’s back, I mentioned to him that I’d be spending time in a house on Fifth Avenue, helping to make a newly arrived Irish girl feel at home. He was delighted. “Splendid idea,” he said. “Fifth Avenue, eh? The more you move in society, the better.”

  So it was with his blessing that I put on my smartest two-piece suit, a jaunty hat, and my woolen cape and set off for the Clements house. Overnight there had been a frost, and the sidewalks were slippery and treacherous. Yellow clouds hung low over the tall buildings, heavy with the promise of snow. The address I had been given was a solid redbrick house, four stories high. I went up a flight of steps to the front door, and it was opened by a maid.

  “Mrs. Clem
ents said to expect you,” she said as she led me into a well-furnished front parlor. There were radiators along the walls and electric light showing that the house had been modernized. On one wall was a fine piano, and there was good art on the walls. Mrs. Clements came to join me almost immediately. “My dear Mrs. Sullivan.” She took both my hands in hers. “Ada, some coffee, please, and Mrs. Sullivan will be joining us for luncheon.”

  The girl curtsied and went away. My impression was of a comfortable and well-run house, and I detected no feeling of uneasiness as one might in a place that was haunted. A tray of coffee was brought and we sat chatting as one would on any social call when Mrs. Clements looked up and said, “Noreen, my dear, come and meet my friend Mrs. Sullivan.”

  A pretty young girl came into the room. She had hair as red as mine piled on her head and looked fetching in dark green pinwale. She smiled at me shyly, bobbed her head, and said, “How do you do, Mrs. Sullivan,” in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper. She perched on the edge of a Chippendale chair.

  “So you’re from Ireland, are you?” I asked. “It’s a pleasure to meet a fellow countrywoman. What part of Ireland are you from?”

  “County Cork. Not far from Queenstown. You’re not from County Cork yourself, are you?” she asked.

  “County Mayo. Near Westport.”

  “Ah, well, then—to be sure, that’s a good long way away from where I come from.” She spoke with a strong and pronounced Irish brogue, but in such a quiet little voice that it was hard to hear her.

  “You must find New York bewildering after Ireland. I know I did.” I smiled at her.

  “Faith, but I did,” she said. “All those skyscrapers and so many people, you can hardly walk on the sidewalks.”

  “How long have you been here now?” I asked.

  “I came this fall. Almost two months. I’m finally daring to go out on my own, aren’t I, Cousin Carrie?”

  “You are, my dear. I should take you out more myself.”

  “No, I have to learn to be independent and to use the buses and trains. Think of it, Mrs. Sullivan, I had never been on a train before I came here. Hardly ever seen one. It’s all so new and exciting.”

  “What do you hope to do with yourself, now that you’re here?” I asked.

  She looked down at her hands. “I’m not entirely sure yet. We’ll have to see how things work out. What about you, Mrs. Sullivan? Are you a good friend of my cousin?”

  I was about to deny this, but then I said, “I certainly am.”

  “And you live nearby?”

  “Quite close. My husband is a captain in the New York police.”

  “A policeman indeed? Holy Mother of God.” She gave a little laugh. “I was sweet on a young man in the police at home. They always look so handsome in their uniform.”

  “My husband is a senior detective and doesn’t always wear a uniform,” I said, “but he is handsome, I’ll grant you that.”

  “How lucky for you to have found such a man.” She looked down wistfully.

  Mrs. Clements took a drink of coffee, then spit it out, dashing the rest of the cup into the fireplace, where it hissed and spluttered. “It tastes bitter again!” she exclaimed.

  I took a drink of mine and it tasted fine. We both had taken milk and sugar, and the coffee came from the same pot. I had watched the maid pour it.

  “Does your coffee often taste bitter?” I asked.

  “Recently,” she said. “And not just coffee. I never know when something will taste strange.”

  I looked at her cautiously. “Have you seen a physician?” I asked. “I understand that sometimes physical ailments can produce a strange sense of taste.”

  “There is nothing wrong with me physically,” she said angrily.

  Later, Mrs. Clements left the room and Noreen came over to me. “That’s not the first time she’s complained of food or drink tasting bitter, Mrs. Sullivan. She’s a bundle of nerves, she is. Was she always this way?”

  “No, this is very recent,” I said.

  “There was nothing wrong with the coffee, was there?”

  “Not that I could taste, and I saw it poured from the same pot.”

  “There you are, then.” She moved closer to me. “I hardly like to mention it, but I’m told there has been insanity in our family before now. I wish I could help her, but she refuses to see a doctor.”

  “So you don’t think the house is haunted?” I asked.

  She shook her head vehemently. “I do not. I’ve been sitting near her in a room when she has seen the drapes move or felt a draft and I’ve felt nothing. And then there was that face she saw in the mirror. You heard about that, did you? I came running in when she cried out, but there was nobody there.” She glanced up as we heard Mrs. Clements’s footsteps coming down the stairs. “I’m worried, Mrs. Sullivan. If my cousin is taken ill, I’ll be sent back to Ireland, I know I will. He doesn’t want me here, I can tell that. He’d be only too glad to get rid of me.”

  I spent an awkward afternoon with them, trying to make polite chatter, trying to think what I might do to help, but nothing else strange occurred. I was just leaving to make Daniel’s dinner when the front door opened and the master of the house came in.

  “Oh, we have company?” He handed his hat and scarf absentmindedly to the maid. He was a big man, not fat but tall and thickset with heavy jowls and bristling eyebrows, and he was frowning at us.

  “A friend from my discussion group,” she said. “Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Clements,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m just leaving, but I’ve volunteered to help your young cousin settle in and show her around the city a bit, since I’m a fellow Irishwoman.”

  He looked me over quickly in a way I found a little unnerving. “How kind. And how nice for you, my dear, to have a friend come to visit. I keep telling you you need more company.”

  “Will you come back tomorrow?” Mrs. Clements asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And maybe stay to dinner? Joshua is seldom home to dinner, and it seems so wrong to dine alone.”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “It depends on my husband. I like to be there to serve his meal after a long day at work.”

  “What sort of business is your husband in, Mrs. Sullivan?” Joshua asked.

  “He’s in the police,” Noreen said quickly. “A captain, no less.”

  “Ah yes. Sullivan, you say? Yes. I’ve heard of him. Well, don’t let us keep you from your good man, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “Like you, he is seldom home to dine with me, Mr. Clements,” I said. “I’d love to dine with your wife tomorrow.”

  As I walked home, I tried to sort out my feelings from the day. Because something was definitely wrong. The house might not be haunted, but there was a definite air of tension and something else I couldn’t put my finger on yet. The only strange thing I had witnessed was the bitter coffee. Was it possible that Mrs. Clements was being poisoned? I wished now that I had managed to rescue that cup for testing, but of course, she had dashed the contents into the fire. Was it also possible that Mrs. Clements was the good actor here, trying to hint that she was being poisoned or that the house was haunted for reasons I couldn’t yet fathom? Either way, it was an intriguing problem and I noticed there was a spring in my step as I hurried home. I was working again, and I felt fully alive for the first time in weeks.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, I informed Daniel that I had been invited to dine with the Clementses. Mrs. Clements was often alone and welcomed company.

  “Of course,” Daniel said. “I’m glad you’re making new friends, especially among older and established women. And ones who live on Fifth Avenue, no less. You’re moving up in the world, Molly.”

  Mrs. Clements greeted me warmly enough, but when Noreen wasn’t in the room, she whispered, “My husband does not wish you to waste your time on my young cousin. He blames her for my current condition and talks of sending her back to Ireland.”

&n
bsp; “Oh, surely not,” I said. “How can she be to blame?”

  “Because all this started about the time she arrived,” she said.

  “That’s absurd. What would she gain from frightening you? She’d only be sent home anyway if you were incapacitated.”

  “I know. It makes no sense.”

  I examined her face. “From what my friends tell me, you have always been a strong woman who acted as you pleased. You’re not easily bullied by your husband.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “Over the years, Joshua has tried to bully me, but he has never succeeded, since it was my money that set him up in business and provides a nice monthly income for us.”

  “So tell me,” I asked cautiously, “who would inherit this money if you died?”

  “Nobody,” she said. “My father was a cautious man. He set up a trust for me with a generous dowry when I married, then a monthly allowance for the rest of my life. If I had been fortunate enough to have children, the trust would have passed on to them. Since I have not, the money will go to charity when I die.”

  “Your husband will get nothing?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  I thought before I phrased the next question. “You say your mother originally worked for your father as a servant. Were there other family members who might have disputed the money left to you? Who felt perhaps that they had a better claim on it?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “My father had no family that we knew of. He too was an only child and had no living relatives.”

  “So nobody would benefit from your death,” I said, and watched her face turn pale.

  “What are you suggesting, Mrs. Sullivan? That someone is trying to kill me?”

  “It crossed my mind that someone might be trying to poison you.”

  “It has crossed my mind too,” she said, turning away from me to stare out of the window.

  “The next thing that tastes strange, please save the vessel and I’ll take it away to be tested.”

  She reached out a hand to me. “Would you? Bless you. I’d really like to know whether I’m going out of my mind or not.”