I know you are no friends of his, I wrote. Nor of his politics. I remember when he was elected you were disgusted that Tammany Hall should wield such power and that yet another man had come to power who was only out to feather his own pocket and had no sense of justice.
I paused, thinking about what I had written. It was funny, but I had forgotten all about that particular conversation until I started writing. Now it came back to me quite clearly. Sid and Gus sitting out in their lovely little conservatory, surrounded by potted palms, drinking their morning coffee while Gus read from The New York Times of the election results. They had hoped a more moderate candidate would win a seat on the city council. But Brian Hannan had used the normal dubious Tammany Hall voting methods to bring himself and Tammany Hall to power. Sid and Gus had been angry.
“If only the laws were not so stupidly archaic, I’d have run for the office myself,” Sid said. “And I would actually have done something for the working men and women of this city. I’d have improved the conditions in the sweatshops. I’d have made sure that newsboys got proper food and an education.”
“And all he will do is to award his own company more contracts, take kickbacks from all and sundry and make sure it’s more jobs for the boys,” Gus said indignantly.
“You’d have been brilliant,” I agreed. “Too bad half of us have no say in the running of this city.”
I went back to my writing, finding that I was unable to speculate in writing as to whether it was a murder or an accident. If they picked up any hint that I might be looking into a suspicious death myself, they’d be down on me like a ton of bricks. They had long being trying to persuade me that I was running unnecessary risks. A full autopsy is being conducted, I wrote, and we should know more soon. In the meantime my time is fully occupied in looking after Daniel. No, he is not demanding that I become the little wife and attend to his every need. But he has come down with a nasty chill or grippe and I’m a little concerned about him. Still, I expect a good night’s sleep will do wonders and he’ll be better in the morning. How is life in the city? I expect—
I broke off as I heard voices coming through the trees. I couldn’t see the speakers but the voice that came to me was male.
“It’s a rum do, and that’s for sure.”
“You know who’d come to mind instantly if circumstances were different, don’t you?” another male voice said softly.
“You mean they are suspiciously similar?”
“Of course. Exact same spot, if you ask me.”
“She’s safely far away, isn’t she? Of course she’d be the most convenient. Tie the whole thing up nicely.”
They drifted away without my ever being able to see them, but they left me wondering—“she”? Which she could they mean? The only family members I knew of who were not present were Joseph’s wife, Mary Flannery’s daughter—the one with the loutish husband and all the children—and the two sisters who had been in the convent for years.
But then I realized that I didn’t know how many years they’d been “safely far away” in a convent. I wondered why the person they only referred to as “she” would have tied the whole thing up nicely. One thing was evident—those two men were not prepared to believe that Brian Hannan’s death was a random accident.
I finished off my letter, blotted it, and sat watching the sky as the sun sank in the west, making the stone at the top of the castle, peeping over the treetops, glow bright red. It was not a pleasant red of warmth but rather of blood. I stared at it, frowning, wondering if this image in my mind was only brought on by my current mood and by Brian Hannan’s untimely death. But I had sensed the negative currents emanating from that house from the moment I first stood outside the gate. It was a place of hostility and of secrets. I glanced up at that turret window again, thinking about the child’s face. But it winked in the setting sunlight and I couldn’t see beyond the glare.
My thoughts turned to the beautiful little girl that nobody mentioned anymore. Her death had obviously affected the family and shrouded them since it happened. Then I remembered the words spoken by the two men who passed my window. “Exactly the same spot.”
I sat up straight, dropping the pen I had been holding on the table. Had Colleen’s death not been a tragic accident? Had there always been a suspicion among family members that it too was murder?
Seventeen
Daniel hardly touched his supper. Right after, I helped him undress, made him a mustard plaster for his chest, and put him to bed.