Seven

Emily’s note arrived for me in the mail the next morning. The hotel was on Broadway, not too far from McPherson’s. I took the El again, noting as the train made its way north that spring had indeed finally come to New York City. Windows on the second floor, beside the track, were open, and bedding was laid out to air. Some windows even sported window boxes with a bright splash of daffodils or tulips. Women below were beating rugs, scrubbing steps. It was spring cleaning time. Which reminded me that I should be doing a little of the same myself. I put that thought aside. I had done enough housekeeping during my formative years to cure me of any desire for extra tasks. My mother had died when I was fourteen and I had taken care of three untidy brothers and an equally untidy, ungrateful father. I resolved to ask Sid about her Italian window washer.

The train stopped at Seventy-third and I alighted. The hotel was a block to the north on Broadway. As I reached the corner, I paused to admire the imposing new building called the Ansonia, now almost complete. In fact, I stood like the little country bumpkin that I still was, staring up as its amazing seventeen floors rose up into the sky, all richly decorated in carved stone and tipped with turrets like a French chateau. I understood that it was to be an apartment hotel, a temporary home for the very well-to-do. If all the hotels around here were of that class, then my missionary couple were not the humble Christian folk I had taken them for.

Of course, when I located the Park View hotel, not a stone’s throw from the glorious Ansonia building, I had to take back my uncharitable thoughts. It was a severely simple establishment with a plain brick façade and only a sign over the front door advertising its presence. And “Park View” was definitely a misnomer. It was, at most, five stories high, and could only have a glimpse of the park from its roof.

I opened the door and found myself in a dreary lounge with a couple of faded armchairs, a brass spittoon, and a tired aspidistra. The woman who appeared at the sound of my feet was the sort of harridan who seems to flourish as a landlady.

“Yes?” she said, with little warmth in her voice. “Can I help you?”

“You had a couple to stay here a few weeks ago. A Mr. and Mrs. Hinchley. They were missionaries from China.”

Her face softened just a little. “Ah, yes. Lovely, refined Christian people they were, too. They held a prayer service after dinner one night.”

“I need to contact them rather urgently,” I said. “I wondered if they gave you their home address.”

“And what would this be about, miss?” she asked.

“I’m here on behalf of a dear friend,” I said. “Her parents were missionaries in China at the same time as the Hinchleys. She has questions she needs to ask them.”

“Fellow missionaries from China, were they?” I had clearly won her over. “I’d really like to help you, miss, but I’m afraid I can’t. When they left this establishment they were going to take the train clear across the country, prior to sailing for China again out of Vancouver.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I’m sorry, miss. And sorry for your friend, too.”

“Would you happen to know which of the missionary societies they were with?”

“I’m afraid not. In this line of work you don’t get a lot of time for idle chatter. They were honest, sober folks and they paid their bill. That’s usually good enough for me.”

I bade her good day and came out of the hotel feeling distinctly annoyed. Back to square one. I had hoped to show up on Emily’s doorstep on Sunday with her whole case solved. She had been so impressed with my profession that I wanted to live up to her expectations. I had to admit now that I was being unrealistic. My experience as a detective has always been one step forward and two back, mostly paths that lead nowhere, and failure always a possibility.

So what was my next line of inquiry? Find out the names of all the missionary societies and get in touch with them. I wasn’t sure how to do this, having never been inside a Protestant church in my life. Would their pastors know of such things? At least it would be a place to start. I walked down Broadway looking for a church. It had always struck me that there was a church on every street corner in New York, but of course when I wanted one, I walked several blocks without seeing a spire.

I was becoming increasingly irritable when I passed a bookshop and paused to look in its window. I have always had a love of books. In fact if I ever came into money, the first thing I’d buy would be a grand library for myself. I gazed with envy at the rich leather covers and wondered if I dared go inside and treat myself. Then I decided that maybe those serving as missionaries in China might sometimes write their memoirs. At least it would be a start. I went inside, savoring that wonderful dusty, leathery smell that lingers around good books.

“May I help you, miss?” an elderly gentleman asked, appearing from behind a counter at the back of the store.

“I was wondering about missionaries in China,” I said. “Do you know if any accounts have been written of their lives there?”

“Of course there is the new book about the massacre,” he said. “We received the first copies only a few weeks ago and it’s been flying off the shelves ever since.”

“Massacre?”

“The Boxer Rebellion. You didn’t hear about it? Shocking it was. They were all killed. Every one of them. Men, women, children. The whole city was abuzz about it. It can’t have been much more than two years ago.”

“I’m afraid I was in Ireland two years ago and the only shocking events I heard about were the battles in the Boer War in South Africa where our own boys were fighting,” I said.

“Well, it was a terrible tragedy and it’s all documented here in this little book.” He went to a shelf and brought down a slim volume with a red paper cover. “I only hope the brutal events described therein won’t be too much for your delicate sensibilities.”

I was tempted to say that I didn’t possess any delicate sensibilities that I knew of. Instead I thanked him kindly, parted with twenty cents, and refused his offer to wrap the book in brown paper. I carried it out into the light and studied the cover. The Tragedy of Paotingfu,by Isaac C. Ketler. An authentic story of the Life, Services and Sacrifices of the Presbyterian, Congregational and China Inland Missionaries who Suffered Martyrdom at Paotingfu, China, June 30 and July 1, 1900. So now I knew that these particular missionaries were Presbyterian and I had an author’s name—presumably one of the party had survived to write the tale. What’s more, the publisher was one Fleming H. Revell, of New York, Chicago, and Toronto. After an hour or so’s diligent sleuthing, I had located their New York office and came away with an address in Pennsylvania for the author. I wrote to him and explained my plight—not mentioning I was a detective, of course. In fact my letter leaned toward the sentimental—my poor dear friend, orphaned at birth, raised knowing nothing of her parents, no mementos, no photographs, etcetera. Any help he could give me would be greatly appreciated—headquarters of missionary societies, other missionaries who might have been in China twenty-five years ago. I sealed the envelope and mailed the letter, feeling rather proud of myself.

My next task should be to find her Aunt Lydia’s maiden name. I was tempted to pay a visit to the mansion on East Seventy-ninth where Horace Lynch still lived and see if the direct approach might work. Perhaps one simple question and answer would reveal the truth about Emily’s background. But then I dismissed this idea. If there were any kind of underhand business, if he had indeed stolen her inheritance, then I should tread very carefully. Best to thoroughly check the Chinese connection first. It was just possible that everything Emily had been told was true but not completely accurate—maybe her parents had been in another Asian country rather than China. Maybe they had died before the Hinchleys arrived. And maybe Horace Lynch was so unpleasant to her simply because he objected to spending his precious money on someone who wasn’t a close relative, or on the education of a female.

Lots of things to think about, then. I went to City Hall, where they produced Lydia Lynch’s death certificate. From this I found that her maiden name was Johnson and that she had been born in Williamstown, Massachusetts. So a train ride to New England might be in my future. For the present, all I could do was wait for an answer to my letter from Isaac C. Ketler.

Unfortunately it is not within my temperament to wait patiently; nor can I sit idly. I had mailed the letter on Wednesday, and it should have arrived in Pennsylvania the next morning, and if Mr. Ketler had been at all diligent, I should have expected a response by Friday. When none had come with the morning post, I decided I should at least let Emily know that I had been working on her behalf. So I presented myself at the pharmacy and waited for Emily to emerge for her lunch hour. When she hadn’t appeared by ten minutes past one, I dared to enter that establishment to find out what was keeping her. At the sound of the bell jangling she appeared in person from the back room, tying the ribbons on a severe black bonnet of the type often worn by the women in the Salvation Army.

“Holy mother of God, you’re not thinking of following your parents into good works, are you?” I said jovially. “You look like a Salvation Army lass.”

She didn’t smile, making me realize that I had spoken rather too hastily to someone with whom I had such recent acquaintanceship.

“Oh, Molly.” She sounded flustered. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad moment. We’re just about to shut up shop and go to a funeral.”

“A funeral. I’m sorry. Was it a friend who passed away?”

“My fellow employee, Mrs. Hartmann. You remember, I had just visited her when you came to the store the other day.”

I nodded. “You said she was suffering from some kind of grippe, but she was improving.”

“She was. At least, she seemed to be.” Emily’s voice cracked. “But she must have had a relapse. Or perhaps she put on a good front for me, because she died the very next day. Such a nice woman too. A widow from Germany. Kind. Highly educated and had worked for Mr. McPherson for years.” She lowered her voice and glanced into the back room. “He’s very cut up about it. Ned’s with him now, helping him get ready.”

So Mr. McPherson did have a heart after all.

“I’ll leave you then,” I said. “My condolences. Should I stop by on Sunday to give you my report, do you think?”

“Yes, yes. By all means,” she said, but I could tell she was still distracted. At that moment Mr. McPherson emerged from the back of the shop, with Ned following at a respectful distance.

“Are you ready to shut up shop, Miss Boswell?” Mr. McPherson called. He looked positively hollow-eyed and his face was a mask of distress.

“Very good, sir,” Emily said.

“This way, Mr. McPherson, sir,” Ned led him forward. “Shall I go and find us a cab?”

I beat a hasty retreat.