In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

The gardener at Adare has been telling me that he used to share a pint with Albert Morell, the chauffeur, from time to time. Would that have been in here or is there another tavern nearby?”


“It was here, allright.”The landlord grimaced. “When I think how I called that scoundrel my friend. In here all the time, he was. Drank more than was good for him sometimes, but there wasn't any harm in him—or so I thought. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard what he'd done. My boy thought he was the cat’s whiskers. Took him fishing on his days off, you know.” He leaned closer to us. “Not that he wasn't what you might call slick. Manys the time I've seen him invite some poor sucker to a game of cards, and walk away with the poor man’s cash in his pocket.”

“Did you ever see him meeting shady characters in here?” I asked.

“Shady characters?” The man threw back his head and laughed. “You've been reading too many novels, miss. Like I told the police, Bertie Morell was an ordinary, likable fellow with no malice in him. From what he told me, I understand he had a way with the ladies. We used to tease him about it. Like master, like servant, that’s what we always said.”

Miss McAlister put down her glass and got to her feet. “I really must go. I thank you again for your kindness. Please excuse me.”

“Miss McAlister, are you sure there’s nothing more I can do for you?” I called after her.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” she called back as she pushed open the saloon door and hurried away.

It was a long, dreary slog back to Adare, wheeling the bicycle be-side me. The climb up to the crest was too hard to undertake on a bicycle, especially with sore and grazed limbs, and once at the summit, I was not about to risk the downhill ride and a repeat performance of my last disaster. I should have to get some lessons in stopping before I took a bicycle out again. Fortunately the bicycle had suffered no apparent damage. That would have been most embarrassing!

The long way home gave me plenty of time to think. Disconnected thoughts and ideas ran through my mind—Bertie Morell, who was universally liked and took the landlord’s son fishing, and Belinda, who had lied about bicycling toward West Point when she had instead used a telephone in the village, and the interesting Miss McAlister, who had once been a nurse and now wore an ex-pensive silk gown and who had come to the mosquito-plagued river instead of the ocean for her health.

By the time I had delivered the bicycle to the carriage house, I had to rush to wash and change for dinner. Theresa once more did not make an appearance but her maid, a severe-looking French-woman called Adele, informed me that Mrs. Flynn would be most happy if I paid her a visit as soon as dinner was over.

I obliged and found her lying amid a mountain of pillows, her face as white as the cotton and lace around her.

“Molly, dearest.” She held out a languid hand to me. “I am so glad you came. I have been so lonely up here.”

“I would have come before if you had summoned me,” I said.

She patted the coverings beside her, indicating where I should sit.

“My husband has no patience with my sufferings,” she said. “In fact, he would have given up on me long ago if I didn't expect to inherit such a vast fortune when my parents die.” She clutched at my hand. “To tell you the truth, dear Molly, I truly believe he only married me for my money in the first place.”

“I'm sure that’s not true,” I said. “You are a beautiful and witty woman, Theresa. Any man would be fortunate to have you as his wife.”

“You are such a sweet child. How could you know what it is like between a man and a woman? We were never suited, Bamey and I. He has such strong—needs—and I have never been able to fulfill them. That has been our problem all along. And since Brendan died, I can't bear him to come near me. Naturally he is hurt and angry, but I can't help it. I live under this perpetual black cloud, Molly.”

I followed her gaze to a dressing table where a large silver-framed photograph stood. It was of a beautiful child with long fair curls and huge bright eyes, sitting sedately in frills and petticoats on a straight-backed chair, holding a stuffed bear in one hand. In spite of the frills one could see he was all boy from the mischievous grin on his lips. It was the first time I had looked at Brendan, apart from the grainy pictures printed in the newspapers. And the first thought that crossed my mind was that looking at that sweet, impish smile every day would break any parent’s heart.

“You have had to endure more than most women could bear,” I said. “But you still have a lot to live for, Theresa. You have a husband who is handsome and successful. You could be the toast of Washington if you put your mind to it. And you have a lovely little daughter who would bring light into your life if you allowed her to. Would you like me to bring her in to see you now?”