In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

Our first stop was the police headquarters, where Daniel was obviously well known and well received. We learned that Morell now had no family living in the area, no family at all in the States except for a sister in Ohio. But we came away with the address of the carriage builder where Morell had learned about automobiles and worked until he became Senator Flynn’s chauffeur. We took a cab there right away and from that grumpy, taciturn individual we learned where Albert Morell had boarded.

Bertie’s landlady had clearly fallen under his spell. “He was a dear boy, if a bit of a rogue, if you get my meaning,” she said, “But why are you asking now? He’s been dead a long while, God rest his soul.”

But she clearly loved a good gossip and mentioned that Bertie had been sweet on a girl who worked, of all places, in a hat shop. He had once bought her a locket and had it inscribed with her name: Johanna. “I don't know why that fell through,” she said.

“He was married, you know,” Daniel said.

“Married? I never knew that about him.” She put her hand to her ample bosom. “Well, mercy me. Who'd have thought it?”

Obviously the charming Mr. Morell had kept his secrets well. She could give us no more details. We noticed the lace curtain of the parlor window tweak back as we departed.

Daniel muttered about foolish women and wild-goose chases as our cab clattered around the millinery establishments of Albany. It was close to five o'clock when we entered a little shop beside a park. The shop itself was cool and dark and smelled of perfume. Madame was a distinguished-looking Frenchwoman with hair pulled back into a severe bun, a beaky nose and lorgnettes.

“Johanna Foreman?” she asked. “Oui. She once worked here, but she is now gone, many years.”

“She left you to go where?”

To get married, mademoiselle. She left me to marry a great brute of a farmer. Amos Clegg, he was called. She was a delicate little thing and I did not think she would make a good farmer’s wife, but beggars can't be choosers.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. “She was an attractive girl, I understand. She could presumably have chosen from a selection of beaux.”

She leaned closer to me. “She was unwise, mademoiselle. She got herself into trouble and the man who trifled with her affections could not marry her. So this Clegg person was willing to overlook the circumstances and she went off to live on afarmin the middle of nowhere.”

“In the middle of nowhere? Far from here?”

She shrugged in that remarkably Gallic way. “Me, I do not con-cern myself with the geography of tlW New York countryside.“

“So she hasn't been back to visit then?”

“On one occasion, but it is again several years ago now. I'm afraid I can be of no more help to you.”

Our next dash was to the county courthouse where Daniel had to do some fast talking to get us inside as they were about to close. But once in the department of records we unearthed a helpful clerk and within half an hour we knew that Amos Qegg’s farm was outside a place called Rhinebeck, back along the train route to New York City.

We grabbed another quick bite to eat as we waited for the down train. “We'll have time to go there tonight, won't we?” I asked. “At this time of year it shouldn't become dark until almost nine, which gives us at least two more hours of daylight.”

Daniel shrugged. “Anything to get this over with and get you out of my hair.”

I tossed back my head. “Fine, if you want to get me out of your hair,” I said. “After today I won't be bothering you any further.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” he said, went to ruffle my hair and thought better of it. “And how is the earnest Jewish photographer bearing his separation from you? Have you received ten letters a day, full of yearning?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I've told Mr. Singer that I need time to consider what is best for my future,” I said. “I thought I'd have time to mull things over on this assignment, but I hadn't banked on people getting killed and me being poisoned.”

“One never does,” Daniel said, making me laugh.

It was just under an hour by train back to Rhinebeck, one of those pleasant, sleepy towns on the banks of the Hudson. We at-tempted to secure a cab at the station, upon being told that the only hack was out on a job, we were able to rent a horse and buggy from the local livery stables. Then we set out through rolling countryside, along leafy lanes, up hill and down dale. It felt about as remote as my part of Ireland and it was hard to believe that it was within a train ride of bustling New York City. Moments after we set out, the first raindrops spattered onto the buggy. The promised thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance and the sky became heavy.

“Our timing couldn't be better,” Daniel said dryly. “It looks like youll have the chance of getting yourself soaked twice in one day.”