Twenty-four

One case closed most satisfactorily, I said to myself as I left Horace Lynch. I like it when the threads all tie up neatly. And if all went well, Emily and Horace might find some companionship. I wanted to go straight to Emily and tell her the truth, but of course she’d be spending the rest of the day with Ned and his mother. How wonderful it would be for them if Horace Lynch did decide to give her some of her mother’s money. Ned would have the funds to start his own company and Emily could work at his side. The perfect match, in fact, rather like Daniel and me.

I had two strands of Dorcas’s hair wrapped in my handkerchief, so I went straight to Daniel’s apartment, hoping he might be there. But he wasn’t.

“Called into work early, he was,” Mrs. O’Shea said. “They never give that poor man a moment’s peace. I tell you, Miss Murphy, if you marry that one you won’t be in for a quiet life.”

“I’d find a quiet life rather boring, I suspect,” I said with a smile. “And how are your children, still sick?”

“If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” she said. “They went through chicken pox and now the doctor says it’s ringworm. Still, he’s given us the medicine to treat it and let’s hope that will be the end of it.”

I went up to his rooms and left the hairs in an envelope on his desk with a note about where they came from. Then I had the whole of an afternoon ahead of me. And a beautiful afternoon it was too—bright, warm, just the right kind of day for a stroll in the park, or even a row on the lake. Of course these activities would be no fun alone. I walked along Twenty-third until I came to Madison Square. The little park was looking lovely and I sat on a bench for a while, enjoying the sun on my face and watching children play.

I should put my work to one side today and just enjoy myself, I thought. I’ve concluded one case and the other—well, perhaps the other was never a crime in the first place. But I found I couldn’t let it go. Too many coincidences, for one thing. Fanny falling sick right after she asked me to snoop on her wandering husband and announced plans to divorce him. Dorcas falling sick after a visit to Fanny. Honoria falling sick after a visit to Dorcas. All three could have been the flu, of course, and I would have been prepared to believe that if someone hadn’t tried to run me down with that carriage, and snooped inside my house.

We could wait and see if Daniel and Ned turned up any arsenic in Dorcas’s hair, or in the bottle of stomach mixture. But I’m not the kind of person who is good at waiting. What else should I be doing, I wondered. Would I learn anything from paying a visit to Mademoiselle Fifi, or to Bella? Probably not, and Daniel would say that I’d only tip off a murderer with my blunderings, but I’ve never been one to take wise advice. I decided that Sunday afternoon would be a perfect time to visit Mademoiselle Fifi. Theaters were dark and she’d most likely be resting.

So I walked to East Twenty-first and knocked on her door. I hadn’t planned in advance what I was going to say, and this was a mistake, because when the maid opened the door I just stood there.

I decided to play it straight. “Is your mistress at home?”

She took in my funereal appearance. “If you are from the church, you waste your time,” she said in her French accent. “She will not see you.”

“I’m not from the church. I have some questions about a friend of Mademoiselle’s.”

“Mademoiselle has many friends,” the maid said.

I bet she has, I thought. “This particular friend is called Mr. Poindexter.” She pretended to look blank. “And don’t try to deny that she knows him. I am a detective and I have been watching the house. I saw him here.”

She shrugged in that wonderfully Gallic way. “I see if Mademoiselle is awake and wishes to speak to you.” And she admitted me to the house.

It was very warm inside and rather untidy, with a hat thrown on a chair in the front hall, a feather boa draped from the hat stand and a pair of high boots lying on the linoleum. Clearly the maid was not known for her housekeeping prowess. I was told to wait, overheard a rapid exchange in French, and then was admitted to what can only be described as a boudoir. Mademoiselle Fifi herself lay on a daybed, looking as if she were about to audition for La Dame aux Camélias.

“I’m sorry to disturb your rest,” I said, “but I would like to ask you a couple of questions regarding your relationship with Mr. Poindexter.”

At this she leaped up, her peignoir flying open to reveal too much flesh for my taste. “That monster! Do not speak his name to me! Never again. Never.”

This was a surprising turn. I took a minute to recover.

“I take it that you and Mr. Poindexter are no longer, shall we say, friendly? And that you didn’t part on good terms?”

“Two years I am with him,” she said, her Gallic eyes still flashing. “Two years of my life. I know he is married, but he say his wife is cold and does not love him and he is only happy when he is with me. But then last week he comes to me and says it is all over. Finished. He never want to see me again.”

“Did he say why?”

She shook her head. “I think another woman, of course. Or that his wife found out about us and makes a big fuss.”

“His wife is dead,” I said. “She died right after he came to see you.”

“Mon dieu.” Her eyes opened wide with surprise, then narrowed again. “Then it is another woman. Someone suitable for him to marry, not someone like me whom he could not take into polite society.”

“It’s possible,” I said.

“Tell me who it is. I will kill her,” she said with great drama. Honestly, I’d had quite enough of actresses in the past months.

“I have no idea who it might be,” I said. “Have you not thought that Mr. Poindexter might be grieving for his wife and overcome with guilt?”

She shrugged again. “Possible,” she said. “These Protestants always have guilt. They have no confession, you see. They have to carry it around with them.”

I thought that was quite a shrewd remark. Mademoiselle Fifi was no fool.

“You are a detective?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“If you find out who the other woman is, I pay you,” she said. “I pay you well.”

“All right,” I said, but in truth I had no intention of telling her.

• • •

I left her and walked home down Fifth Avenue, digesting what I had just learned. So Anson Poindexter broke up with her just before Fanny died. I could see Fifi being the sort of person who could poison Fanny in revenge for being abandoned, but the question was how. Someone like Fifi would never be admitted to an apartment in the Dakota and would most certainly have been noticed.

This made me wonder whether the whole thing was cleverly orchestrated. She was, after all, an actress, and as I had found out from past experience, actresses can be horribly duplicitous. Perhaps the breakup was all part of the plan so that no suspicion would fall on her, should there be an inquiry. When the dust settled, Anson would quietly go back to her.

The other scenario would be that he had decided that a better future lay with Bella. Maybe he and she had arranged the poisoning together—he conveniently out of town, she visiting as the loyal friend and slipping some kind of poison into the water glass or whatever when nobody was looking. Again I realized that this was all a complete waste of my time. Fanny was buried and was not likely to be exhumed without the clearest of proof. The doctor had signed the death certificate. Everyone was satisfied. The police weren’t about to investigate. It looked as if Anson, and possibly Bella, had pulled off the perfect crime.

So what next? Did I let it lie, put it behind me, and look for my next case? I could visit Bella, of course, but to what end? I knew she had gone to see Fanny and Dorcas. I could hardly get her to confess that she had slipped poison into either of their drinks. I probably couldn’t even get her to confess that she was more than friendly with Anson.

I could also look into the death of Honoria Masters, although this would be harder, as I had never met her and had no idea where she lived. And the opera house would be dark tonight. I’d have to wait until tomorrow and see if I could entice the stage-door keeper into divulging Honoria’s address.

Suddenly I felt overwhelmed and tired. I thought of Sid and Gus and their lifestyle: their exotic meals, their poetry readings and art galleries, their circle of interesting if unorthodox friends. It seemed so desirable compared to my life. For once, being Mrs. Daniel Sullivan and having time to hold tea parties and soirees also seemed desirable.

I turned into Patchin Place, my thoughts on a cup of tea, my armchair, and a good book. Maybe even a little nap. But I was just turning the key in my front door when a voice yelled, “There she is. She’s home. See, I told you she’d turn up.” And there was my playwright friend Ryan O’Hare bursting out of Sid and Gus’s house. He was surprisingly not wearing his usual romantic poet garb, but was dressed in what seemed to be yachting attire.

“You arrived home at the perfect moment,” he said. “Sid and Gus told me they hadn’t seen you in days and they suspected you might have gone away, but here you are, so all is well.”

“Are you about to embark on a cruise?” I asked him.

“No, my dear, I am whisking you all away for an evening of fun and debauchery aboard my friend’s yacht. We’re sailing up the Hudson and taking a picnic. So hurry up and change out of that awful black thing. You look like Queen Victoria mourning for Albert.”

I had to laugh. “I’ve been paying respects at the house of a recent death.”

“My dear, if I ever die, I positively forbid you to come to my funeral looking like that. I should turn in my grave, I know I should. Or in my coffin before I’m put into my grave.”

Sid and Gus had now joined him, carrying a large picnic basket between them. Sid was wearing bloomers, Gus a navy outfit with nautical theme.

“You’ll notice that it is Ryan who arranges a picnic and we who have to prepare the darned thing,” Sid said dryly.

“Ah, but it is I who am supplying the yacht.” Ryan beamed at us.

I looked at Gus and Sid.

“His new friend,” Sid mouthed. “Pots of money.”

“And he’s divine,” Ryan added. “You’ll see. You’ll fall madly in love with him.”

“Not that that would do us any good,” Gus remarked.

I laughed and ran inside to change. I felt positively energized. How long since I had laughed or had fun or gone on a picnic? My tiredness was completely forgotten. Soon we were casting off from one of the Hudson piers and sailing languidly up the Hudson on a boat that was sleek, teak, and half the size of the Majestic. I sat on the deck, sipping Champagne, nibbling smoked salmon sandwiches and watching the Palisades slip past me. The last time I had seen them was at Fanny’s funeral. How strange life was, I thought. Someone like Fanny should have had a whole life of fun and ease and luxury to look forward to, just like the other people on this yacht, who were now dancing madly to a syncopated ragtime tune. Such a waste.

I sighed. I hated to walk away from this case without ever knowing the truth. Was it a tragic death or a clever murder? And was the death of three friends within a week no more than an unhappy coincidence? The only person who could tell me the truth was Anson Poindexter. If I had been Daniel, I could have had him brought in and grilled him. It did briefly cross my mind that I could go and interview him on some harmless pretext and see if I could trap him into some kind of confession. Then I told myself not to be so stupid. If he was a clever murderer and had killed more than once, then I’d be signing my own death warrant. Maybe I already had . . . I shivered as I thought of that black carriage coming straight at me. Would he try again if I didn’t abandon this case?

I saw now why Daniel had said that criminal cases should be left to the police. They could ask questions of whomever they pleased. They could barge in, bully, intimidate, snoop around until they came to the truth. I could do none of the above. In fact if the hair samples revealed nothing, then I didn’t see what else I could do.

I wondered if Fanny had told anyone else what she had told me—that she was planning to divorce her husband if her suspicions of infidelity proved to be true. Did she ever suspect she was being poisoned when she fell ill? Her mother had apparently nursed her day and night during that last week. Might Fanny have confided anything to her? If I went to speak with Fanny’s mother would it do more harm than good? If I were Fanny’s mother, would I want to know that my child might have been poisoned when it was now too late to save her? Yes, I would, I decided, if there was any chance of bringing her poisoner to justice. I resolved to go and see Fanny’s mother in the morning, however unpleasant that encounter might prove to be.

“You’re not allowed to look pensive,” Ryan said, interrupting my thoughts. “In fact gloomy faces are simply not allowed on this boat. Gaiety and laughter, my dear. That’s what we want to see.” He held out his hand and jerked me to my feet. “Come and dance. Pierre is going to demonstrate his new phonograph.”

I arrived home very late and a little tipsy to find a note from Daniel stuffed through my letter box. “Picked up hair sample. Will take it into lab tomorrow. Interesting developments to tell you about but you weren’t home.”

Then, of course, I felt guilty that he had been working all day when I had been having such a good time.