In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

“As if Bamey could forbid her anything, after all she’s been through,” Qara said with a sniff. “After all she’s done for him!”


There was a second of awkward silence during which the only sound was the two Misses Sorensen scraping their plates. Then Theresa smiled. “This has nothing to do with Bamey. He’s so busy with his stupid old campaign strategy that he will never notice anyway. The séance will take place tonight. I am not going to take theriskof missing a communication from my son.”

Immediately after breakfast I went back to my room and reluctantly changed into more conventional garb. Which was a pity, because walking would have been so much easier in bloomers. But I didn't want to draw attention to myself at this moment. I told Theresa I was going for a walk and she was so caught up in the plans for a stance that she hardly heard me.

I slipped away and approached the carriage house with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The latter because I had no wish to look upon that poor woman’s face again. The doors were now wide open and the chauffeur was outside, polishing the car. He looked up when he saw me.

“Morning, miss.” He touched his cap.

“Oh,” I muttered. “What happened to the body, and to the policeman who was here?”

“All taken care of, miss. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“That was quick.” So much for my plan of a private chat with the doctor. “Where have they taken her?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I've no idea, miss. My job’s not to ask questions. My job is to get this automobile ready for the master to go into town in ten minutes. So if you'll excuse me . . .” He went back to polishing.

I continued on my way up the drive. When I reached the gate-house I was tempted to leave my letter with the gatekeeper, rather than face the long and arduous walk to the nearest post office. But I didn't want anyone in the house knowing I was writing letters to anyone in New York, especially that I was sending out a letter at this moment. And I wanted to find out where Margie McAlister had been staying in the village. So I set out bravely up hill and down and it must have taken me a good hour before I reached my destination. On the way I had ample time for thought. Had that poor girl come to meet somebody at the house or just to take another peek at a place where she had once worked? Had she slipped and fallen to her death or was she pushed? In which case, what did she know that was dangerous to somebody at the house? And most of all, where had Mr. Desmond O'Mara rushed off to and been all night?

I mulled over romantic assignations, but couldn't somehow put Desmond O'Mara in the position of ardent suitor. But there were other men on the estate that Miss McAlister could have found at-tractive. There was, after all, a handsome gardener. And if not romance, there was plenty of scope for blackmail. She had only come to Adare after the kidnapping was over, so that couldn't enter into it. I could indulge in endless speculation, most of it wild, and not a single piece of evidence to back it up. I'd just have to hope that Daniel took my letter seriously and did something about it himself.

I entered the village in somewhat less dramatic fashion than last time. It was sobering to think that only two days ago I had knocked that poor girl off her feet and then sat drinking lemonade and chatting with her. Now she was on her way to some morgue. I wondered what grieving relatives she had left behind.

When I went into the post office I wasn't sure whether the news of this latest tragedy had reached the village yet and how to broach the subject. I had underestimated the efficient telegraph system, superior to Morse code, that exists in every small community.

“You're the young lady staying at Adare, aren't you?” the woman behind the counter asked me as she handed me the stamps I had requested. “The one who had the nasty spill off her bicycle?”

“I am,” I said. “And the other young lady I collided with—” I left the sentence hanging.

“Of course you would have heard about it up at the big house,” the woman said, shaking her head sadly. “Poor Constable Palmer. He’s quite cut up about it. They say she lost her footing on that narrow path along the cliffs. What a horrible end.”

“Did you know her?” I asked.

“I just spoke to her a couple of times when she came in here to buy something.”

“I expect she needed stamps for letters home,” I suggested.

“No. I can't recall her buying stamps. I think it was just candy of some sort, peardrops, I think, and maybe hairpins. But she seemed like a nice, pleasant and sober young woman. Well spoken.”

“Yes, I thought the same,” I said. “I wonder what loved ones she leaves behind.”