In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

“I understand there is to be a séance tonight. I am most excited, having never seen one before. I thought I might just take a peek at the room to see where it will be held.”


“The spiritualist ladies have prepared the room and made it clear that they do not wish anyone to enter it,” he said. “Now, may I escort you out to the mistress, who is still on the veranda?”

“No, thank you, Soames,” I said. “I think I may go and write some letters home before dinner. There is a pretty writing desk in my room with a view of the river.” I nodded gravely and felt his eyes watching me as I made my way back up the stairs. Clearly, snooping in this house was not going to be an easy matter.





Nine

I kept to my room until I heard the dinner gong. Sitting at that elegant little writing desk with its view down the Hudson, I jotted down my impressions so far.

Members of the household to be questioned about Albert Morell—Tom and Adam who had rowed me across. Of the two, Adam might be the more inclined to talk, if suitably encouraged with mild flirtation.

The same cook has apparently been working here since the time when Albert was employed. Ditto Soames the butler, although not likely to get anything out of him.

I wondered if Cousin Clara had been around in those days. Mr. Rimes and Desmond O'Mara had been working with Bamey Flynn in his study on the afternoon of the kidnapping, but three men at work were not likely to notice a baby being carried past their window.

And then what? I asked myself. What was I hoping to get from any of these people? If they had had any suspicions, they would have shared them with the police years ago. If Bertie Morell hadn't been the kidnapper, then I would have to find out who was. And that was probably beyond my ability. The police had access to files and therightto question whomever they chose. I was just one very amateur investigator, staying at a private house. I rather feared that Annie Lomax had put too much faith in me.

But at least I would carry out my commission from Daniel. At the séance tonight I would be a keen observer.

I rose to my feet as I heard the gong echoing up from the tiled foyer and paused to examine my appearance in the glass. Not bad for someone who had been a resident of a peasant cottage in County Mayo until recently I'd surely come a long way in the world. I smirked to myself and almost heard my mother’s voice muttering that pride always comes before a fall.

The party was assembled in an oak-paneled room across the hall from the grand drawing room and master’s study. It appeared to be a smaller sitting room, with several chairs and tables dotted around and a large marble fireplace, unlit at this time of year. A sideboard ran along one wall and apparently sherry was being served. I was about to slip in unnoticed when Soames stepped forward to usher me in.

“Miss Gaffney,” he announced in sonorous tones, making everyone stop and look up at me.

I felt myself blushing, which is always unfortunate for one with such pale skin as mine. Theresa was seated in a dainty Chippendale-style chair. She held out her hand to me.

“Molly, my dear. We'd been wondering where you'd disappeared to. Barney wanted to send for you, but I didn't want you disturbed in case you were sleeping. Did you manage to take a nap?”

“I'm well rested now, thank you, Cousin Theresa,” I said, taking the hand she held out to me. It was still very cold.

“How pretty you look,” she said. “Don't you think she looks delightfully pretty, Belinda?”

The latter cast a critical eye over me. “I'm sure she does,” Belinda said. “Are the leg of mutton sleeves still in fashion in Ireland? I suppose it does take a while for new fashions to travel so far.”

I managed to keep my sweet smile. “Well, you know, in Ireland we're only allowed to change our fashions with the blessing of the Pope,” I said. “And we don't like to disturb his praying too often.”

The rest of the company laughed. 'You've met your match there, Belinda,” Bamey said, eyeing me from across the room, where he stood with Rimes at the drinks table. The fishy Mr. O'Mara was not in evidence. Maybe he had to dine with the servants.

Belinda’s sweet smile wavered for a moment, but I said hastily, “In truth, Miss Butler, I possessed no such fine clothes in Ireland. These have been loaned to me by a kind friend in New York so that I shouldn't disgrace myself at this great house.”

“As if you could disgrace yourself, Molly,” Theresa said. “Your youth and vitality are like a breath of fresh air. I suppose it is all that good Irish fresh air that does wonders for the complexion.”

“That Irish fresh air is more like a gale, half the time.” I smiled at her. “Especially if the wind comes right off the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Oh, is Limerick on the ocean?” Theresa asked. “I always imagined…”

“No, it’s well inland,” I said rapidly. “But the wind sweeps up the river from the ocean and we get our fair share of gales.”