In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

“Oh, good morning, miss. Yes, there was a bit of a storm, wasn't there?” old Tom said. “I hope you ladies didn't get too wet on your way home from next door.”


“I survived it well,” I said, “but Mrs. Flynn is still keeping to her bed today.”

“There’s no denying she’s always been delicate and more so since you-know-what happened.”

“You mean the kidnapping?” I asked.

They were both looking away from me, eyes on the ground. “We try not to mention it, miss,” Tom muttered.

“I find it hard not to think about it,” I went on. “I mean, being here and knowing that a poor little helpless child—” I broke off. “Don't you find it impossible to believe that Mr. Morell acted alone? I mean, you two are out on the grounds all the time. Wouldn't you have spotted him digging the hole? Wouldn't he have had to borrow your tools?”

They looked perplexed about this, as if the idea had only just come to them.

The policeman asked if we'd seen anyone digging on the es-tate and we told him no, we hadn't. But of course he could have done his evil work at night, couldn't he?” Adam said. “Living so far from the main house, he could come and go as he pleased.”

“I told you before about idle gossip, boy,” Tom reprimanded. “No good can come of speculating now. It’s over, finished, and no amount of talking will bring the boy back. So you get back to your work, Adam. And you, miss, have been warned before about resurrecting the past.”

“Thomas!” A shrill voice interrupted us.

Cousin Qara came striding across the lawns, waving a trowel. She was dressed in a gardening smock, sunbonnet and rubber boots, and carried a flat basket over one arm.

“Have you turned over that bed as I asked you?”

“What bed was that, Miss Tompkins?”

“I told you, stupid man!” Clara’s face was as red as the cherry-colored smock she wore. “I said that Miss Henderson in the village had given me all these geranium cuttings and that they would be ready to plant out in a couple of weeks. They are now ready and I expected you to have prepared a bed for them.”

“Sorry, miss. I didn't get no orders from the mistress.” Tom faced her with an impassive stare. “But I expect Adam and me can find you a patch of ground, if you're set on putting them cuttings somewhere.”

“A patch of ground? You speak me to as if I'm some child to be appeased. When I wanted to grow tomatoes last year you made all kinds of difficulties and found me a bed with no sun.”

Taking care of the grounds is our work, begging your pardon, miss. It’s not something ladies should be doing.”

Clara’s face flushed even redder. “I happen to find gardening very healthful and growing things very satisfying. One of you will come with me immediately and help me find a suitable spot for these plants, or I'll have to report you to Mrs. Flynn.”

Tom cast a quick glance at Adam. “Go with her, boy. There’s room up against the back of the kitchen where that wisteria’s past its prime. Geraniums can take a lot of sun. Off you go then.”

Clara stomped off with Adam. Tom ventured to give me a grin. “Spinsters,” he said. “I reckon something happens to them when they turn thirty with no man in their lives. Something goes wrong in their heads. Still, she’s been company for the mistress all these years, poor soul. Now, if you'll excuse me, miss, I must get back to clearing this brush away.”

I went back to my seat on the lawn, watching the two figures of Clara and Adam stomping side by side through the grass. Another person who had access to garden tools and who was, according to Tom, not quiterightin the head.

Ridiculous, I muttered to myself. I was desperately searching for a suspect when everything still pointed to Bertie Morell. But I did write her name in the book.





Fifteen

Ispent a few minutes writing a note to Daniel to report on my progress.

Dear Daniel,

I have been in the house two days now and attended two seances. While I don't believe in spirits, I have to admit that both were most impressive, with walking hands, talking heads and voices that seemed to come from different parts of the room. I am sure the sisters are fakes, however, as they conjured up Molly Gaffney’s mother, not mine!

They are staying in a guest cottage and keep themselves to themselves most of the time. I haven't yet found a chance to snoop in the cottage but will take thefirstchance I get.



I signed it “Yours, Molly,” before I remembered that I wasn't his, and probably would never be. So I added the word “Sincerely” and shoved the letter into an envelope, carefully addressing it to D. Sullivan at his home and giving no mention of his profession.

Then I decided that I had given Clara enough time to be fully engrossed in her plantings and made my way up to the house. I found her kneeling at a narrow bed beside the kitchen wall. A rather straggly wisteria was now showing the last of its purple blooms, but the bed below it had been empty except for some forget-me-nots.