The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries Book 14) Page 27

  “Luckily he came away without a scratch, thanks to you,” I said.

  “As I did myself,” he said. “Luck of the devil, I call it.” And he smiled, making him look suddenly younger. I realized then that he must be under forty. Not much older than Daniel. “And you yourself?” he continued. “I hope that you were also unharmed?”

  “I came away relatively unscathed,” I said. “Bruised ribs and a bump on the head. But compared to some poor people, I count myself blessed.”

  “It was an unmitigated outrage,” he went on. “I take that train to work every morning and nothing has ever happened before. Someone should be held accountable—either the engineer or the signalman, and of course they are each blaming the other. But someone routed that train on the wrong track. We were just fortunate that the whole thing didn’t plunge down to destruction, weren’t we?”

  I stood there, staring at him, because I had just realized something. “It wasn’t me,” I blurted out. “It was you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” he looked confused.

  “Mr. Deveraux,” I began tentatively. “It’s just possible that someone planned that train crash to kill you.”

  “To kill me?” He laughed, a little nervously. “What are you talking about?”

  “I believe my husband came to see you yesterday. Captain Sullivan?”

  “He asked me about my brother. I told him Edward was dead. He seemed surprised.”

  “There is no doubt that your brother died, I suppose?”

  “None at all. I saw his body. Not a pretty sight. He’d thrown himself onto rocks, you know—face first. But it was Ed all right. No question about it. Besides, one of the medical staff was with him and witnessed the whole thing. He was horribly shaken by it and felt guilty that he hadn’t seen it coming. I must say I was rather of the same opinion. I pointed out that I paid them a considerable sum of money to keep my brother safe.” He toyed with the fountain pen on his desk, spinning it around on the polished surface, then he looked up suddenly. “So what exactly is this all about?”

  “I don’t know how much more Captain Sullivan told you,” I went on, “but there have been several murders in the city this summer, all of them somehow linked to your brother and his trial.”

  “But that’s absurd. Linked to my brother? How?”

  “It appears that someone has wanted to punish those who helped put your brother into the asylum. All of those killed had a dear one who had testified at the trial, or in some way betrayed your brother. Someone might have felt he had been treated unjustly.”

  “Treated unjustly?” His voice rose angrily. “The boy was a poor, twisted specimen. He’d never have made anything of himself. Always a liability to the family. The institution was the best possible place for him.” He paused, frowning. “Who could possibly want to avenge my brother?”

  “I wondered if you might have any idea about that.”

  “He had no friends. Other boys found him strange and repulsive, as I did.”

  “What about his tutor? Were they ever close?”

  This clearly surprised him. “I was away at school and then college, of course.” He paused, considering. “Close? Are you implying unnaturally close?” He was scowling now. “I remember the tutor—another weakling, wasn’t he? Strange feminine sort of individual. Liked poetry. I suppose it might have been possible that he and Ed … but passionate enough about him to want to kill people who had harmed Ed? That would imply insanity of the worst kind.”

  “Possibly,” I said.

  He tipped his chair back, eyeing me. I noticed then that he had not invited me to sit. “You said that the train wreck might have been orchestrated with the intention of killing me?”

  “It’s possible. The murderer has been sending notes to my husband, gloating over the deaths. He seemed to take responsibility for the train crash.”

  “But that’s absurd,” he said again. “Was he driving the train?”

  “No, but somebody changed the disk on the front of the locomotive, indicating it was a Sixth Avenue train, not a Ninth. That could have been done at a station when no one was looking.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” He shot me a half-apologetic look for using the word. “But that’s ridiculous. Who would plan the destruction of a whole train full of people in the hope of killing one man? It’s insane.”

  “We have to assume this individual is not quite sane,” I said. “I wouldn’t have believed it except that he sent a note, boasting, before it happened, then another after it had apparently not succeeded to his liking.”

  He was rubbing his chin now, clearly upset. “I just can’t believe what you’re saying. Surely anyone who wanted to kill me could wait around a dark corner and stab me. More certain than hoping a train crashes.”

  We stared at each other. Outside his window I heard the mournful toot of a tugboat on the East River. Then I asked, “Mr. Deveraux, is it possible that any other attempts have been made on your life?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” He frowned suddenly. “Wait. Now that I think of it, there was one horrible incident. Not my life, but my dogs’. Earlier this year someone killed my dogs. Threw them poisoned meat. I complained to the police but nothing was ever done. You talked about this person wanting to punish. To inflict pain. I was dashed fond of those dogs.”

  “When was this?”

  “Beginning of May.”

  “Then he started small and moved up to killing people,” I said.

  “And this man is still at large?” He was scowling again now. “What is your husband doing about it? If it’s the tutor, arrest the blighter, for God’s sake. Make him talk. I hear that the police have their ways of getting a confession.”

  “I believe my husband will be bringing him in for questioning today, so we may soon know the truth. But in the meantime, you might still be in danger. I’d advise you to be wary, Mr. Deveraux.”

  “Thank you for the warning, Mrs. Sullivan. I appreciate your taking the time to come and see me. Although how one can protect oneself from a monster who wrecks trains, I don’t know.”

  * * *

  I felt relieved, almost elated, as I came out of the building. I hadn’t been the one targeted after all. It had been Marcus Deveraux. And Daniel would have arrested the tutor by now, and we could all breathe easier. I went home and resumed my wifely duties, ironing my husband’s shirts and feeding my son his midday meal.

  We had only just begun to eat when Daniel himself came in.

  “This is a nice surprise,” I said, getting up to greet him. “What are you doing home at this hour?” The question ended warily, because I had just remembered that his job was in jeopardy.

  “I came to see if you’d like to go on a little trip with me tomorrow,” he said.

  “A trip—where?”

  “Up to a place called Woodstock.”

  “What for? What’s at Woodstock?”

  “Not exactly in Woodstock. A couple of miles outside it, apparently. It’s a private institution for the insane, where Edward Deveraux was locked away. I thought I should take a look for myself, and I’d appreciate another pair of sharp eyes.”

  “Of course, I’d love to come,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “In the Catskill Mountains, halfway up the Hudson River. We’ll get off the train at Kingston, and I’ve telegraphed the local police to have some form of transportation waiting for us.” He turned to his mother. “You can handle the boy for a day, can’t you, Mother?”

  Daniel’s mother had already risen to her feet when he came in and was busy loading food onto a plate for him. She put it onto the table and indicated that he should sit and eat. As usual he complied, pulling out a chair and sinking onto it.

  “She’s been handling him ever since she arrived,” I answered for her. “An absolute godsend. And Bridie’s a big help.”

  “I expect we’ll manage all right,” Mrs. Sullivan said evenly as she put a glass of water next to her son’s place. “Only I’m not sure it’s wise
taking Molly on a jolting train ride after what she’s been through.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Almost healed.” Of course I really wanted to go and would never have admitted to the ache that still nagged at my side. I sat down again opposite Daniel as he took a bite of his meat pie. “But why now? Has something new transpired?”

  “Remember you asked about the butcher?” His face was alight as he looked up at me. “And we couldn’t think what connection he could possibly have to Edward Deveraux?”

  I nodded.

  “I told you he only came to the city a year ago? And that he married a new wife recently? He ran a butcher’s shop in Kingston. And the woman he married so recently had been employed at the asylum near Woodstock as a nurse. She and Edward Deveraux had not exactly seen eye to eye. Apparently she had ruined one of his experiments and made him keep his room tidy. He told her once that she’d be sorry.”

  “I see. And what can be gained from going to the asylum in person?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think we should speak with the doctor in charge and verify the facts of Deveraux’s death for ourselves, don’t you?”

  “More importantly, did you bring in the tutor?” I asked. “Were you able to establish a connection between him and Edward Deveraux? Had he visited the asylum?”

  Daniel gave me an apologetic grin. “The tutor, I fear, is no longer our prime suspect. At the exact time that several of the murders took place, he was sitting with two little girls on the other side of the city, instructing them in their ABCs. Their mother confirmed it.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Then who the deuce are we looking for?”

  Daniel shrugged. “The only other person with a close connection to Edward Deveraux was his brother, Marcus, and there was certainly no love between them. He doesn’t seem the type to avenge anyone’s death.”

  I took a deep breath, because I wasn’t sure I should be telling him. “I went to see Marcus Deveraux this morning,” I said.

  A spasm of surprise and annoyance crossed his face. “What made you do that?”

  “I had to meet him for myself. To get an impression of him and of his brother.”

  “Molly, that was highly irregular. I hope you didn’t say you were working with the police?”

  “Hold your horses, Daniel, and don’t scowl like that,” I said. “As it happened I had a perfect excuse. Remember that I told you a man on my train carriage had saved Liam when we fell from the tracks? It was him, Daniel. Marcus Deveraux. He recognized me instantly, and of course I made it appear that I had come to thank him in person.”

  “Smart of you.” He nodded approval.

  I was about to go on that I had warned him he might be in danger, and that the train crash might have been aimed at killing him, but I thought that might be overstepping things. “And he certainly had no love for his dead brother. I think he actually said that the world was better off without him. He couldn’t think of anybody who might have been close enough to his brother to want to avenge him. According to Marcus he had no friends.”

  “Then the answer must lie at the insane asylum,” Daniel said. “It’s possible that he formed a close attachment to another inmate there … maybe one who was due to be released.”

  I nodded. “Yes, that would make sense. But are people released from places like that?”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we? It could even be one of his minders, I suppose, but I find that hard to believe. In my experience, people who work in places like that are heartless sort of individuals who don’t want to get close to their charges. And that butcher’s wife certainly fit the bill. Hard as nails, I’d say. I wouldn’t have wanted to be married to her.”

  I stared past Daniel and down the hall, thinking. “If someone decided to avenge Edward Deveraux’s death by punishing those who had found him guilty, then they must have believed he was wrongly accused.”

  “He may have convinced some unbalanced person of that,” Daniel said, “but there was no question of his guilt. He was alone in the house with his father at that moment, apart from old and reliable servants. If I remember correctly, the servants heard an argument going on, and the father said Edward was a disgrace to the family, or something similar. Then Edward came out of the study with blood all over him and laughed when he said his father was dead. How could he have been innocent?”

  I nodded. “Maybe he felt he was justified, if his father had insulted him, or even was planning to send him away somewhere, if he felt Edward was an embarrassment to the family.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know now. But it was one of my first cases, and I was keen and determined to do the right thing, and I was in no doubt that he was guilty.” Daniel took another bite of the pie and nodded approval at his mother. “This is good,” he added.

  Thirty-one

  So we were going to take a trip up the Hudson to a place called Woodstock. Personally I couldn’t see what good it would do. Edward Deveraux had thrown himself from a bridge there many months ago. But the chance to have a day out with my husband was not to be missed. And just possibly, we might learn something that would fill in a still-missing piece of the puzzle. We were in luck. The day dawned bright and clear. Liam waved bye-bye quite happily as we set off. I had expected to depart from Grand Central Terminal, as the Hudson River trains I had taken before left from that station. Instead, Daniel said that we were to take the West Shore Line. The trains were less frequent, but at least we’d be on the right side of the river and not have to take a ferry, which would be dependent on the weather and the whims of the boatman.

  So we started with a ferry instead, and took it across from the Hudson piers to the terminus of the West Shore Railroad in Jersey City. Actually it was more pleasant to leave from this station, as trains from Grand Central went through a long tunnel under Manhattan, and no matter how tightly the windows were closed, the carriage always ended up smelling of smoke. On our right the great river gleamed, moving lazily toward the Atlantic. A string of barges loaded with coal made their way downstream. A pleasure steamer with paddles turning and flags flying moved against the current. It was a jolly scene and it felt almost like a holiday outing, until I reminded myself that in New York City there was still a man who had promised to kill at least once more … and it was possible that his target was Marcus Deveraux.

  We halted at unfamiliar stations—Teaneck, West Nyack—while across on the east bank I caught glimpses of places I did recognize. Irvington, Tarrytown … many of them carried memories for me of an unpleasant episode during my pregnancy—I’d been working on a case, which took me to a mansion on the hill and a convent where girls were treated so badly. The river narrowed, rushing wildly between steep banks. We passed West Point and the military academy perched on the bluff above the river. The country was wild now on our side as we continued northward. At last we came to Kingston. It looked like a prosperous riverside town, with a long main street of whitewashed and painted shops and the obligatory white church with a tall steeple. The young police officer sent to meet the train seemed so overawed at the visit of a New York City police captain that he could only answer Daniel’s questions in monosyllables. He had come with a police wagon and driver, and after a courtesy call at the Kingston police department, we set off in the direction of Woodstock.

  “Do the police not yet have any automobiles?” Daniel asked as we bumped and lurched along a muddy road, shaded by trees already starting to display their autumn foliage.

  “Wouldn’t be much point, sir,” our young guide replied. “Always getting stuck in the mud. No paved roads around here yet, though I hear they have them around New York City now.”

  It was lovely wooded countryside, and we crossed over one rushing stream after another, sometimes on stone bridges, sometimes wooden. When the land opened up we had fleeting glimpses of the mountain range beyond. The air smelled fresh and sweet, tinged with wood smoke. After living in the city it was delightful, making me forget for a moment the serious import of our visit.
I was jerked back to reality when we came into Woodstock and arrived at the little police station there. They had been warned of our coming, and Daniel went inside to speak with the officer who had been called out to Edward Deveraux’s death. I, of course, was not invited to join him, so I went for a stroll up the main street and treated myself to a cup of coffee and a cake at the Copper Kettle café.

  Daniel appeared again, helped me up onto the wagon, and off we went.

  “Waste of time there,” he said. “The man found nothing to contradict what we’ve already been told. Clear case of suicide while of unsound mind. The doctor had already signed the death certificate when the policeman arrived at the scene.”

  We continued on in silence, the horse’s hoofs muffled where leaves had already fallen on the wet earth. A mile out of town the road started to climb. We were moving into the Catskill Mountains now, and the road snaked up the side of a hill with a rock wall on one side of us. Then at the top of the climb, we came to tall iron gates in the middle of a brick wall. The wall itself must have been ten feet high and was topped with shards of broken glass. The gates looked faceless and formidable. We rang a bell and waited. I noted there was no plaque or sign of any kind to indicate what lay behind that wall. At last one of the gates swung open, and we were admitted by a gatekeeper. The house itself stood among lawns, built of solid gray stone and looking surprisingly elegant, like a manor house I might have seen in Ireland. Then I noticed the bars on the windows. They were ornamental bars, quite attractive, but bars nonetheless. So it was a prison, even if it was in pleasant surroundings.

  As we pulled up outside the front door, an elderly man with a shock of white hair came down the steps to greet us. “Captain Sullivan.” He held out his hand. “I am Dr. Piper, head of this facility. Good of you to come in person, although I don’t know what we can do to help you.”

  He looked at me with interest until Daniel introduced me.

  “Ah, you make an excuse to give the little lady a trip into the country,” he said, smiling as he took my hand. “That’s nice.”