I had heard that the police had now come up with a way to re-move fingerprints left on surfaces and to identify them. If only I could get Daniel up here, maybe he had that skill and he could find Bertie Morell’s fingerprints, or not. Even if Brendan had only been held here briefly after having been spirited from the house, it would be one step in a puzzle that had never been solved. As I stood in the dusty twilight of the attic, an eerie feeling came over me. I could feel a little voice whispering, “Find me.” We Irish are known for the second sight—not the hocus-pocus of Miss Emily and Miss Ella, but the real thing. Not that I professed to have it myself, but there had been occasions when I had sensed danger. I felt that same prickling at the back of my neck now, not danger this time, but urgency. Why urgency? I asked myself. Why should it matter when the child’s body was found—unless? A thought that must have been lurking at the back of my mind took shape. Was there any possibility that the child was still alive?
I was so lost in thought that I had forgotten about the Misses Sorensen and why I had come up here in the first place. I jumped at the sound of voices and a front door closing. The ladder was still hanging down from the attic, clearly visible to anyone who came this way. I crept across to the trap door, wondering how I could haul the ladder up without being heard, or, failing that, what I could say when I was discovered. Could I pull it off if I claimed to be searching for an old book that Theresa thought might be stored in the attic here? Hardly, since I had pretended to be too sick to eat lunch. I could hide under one of the dust sheets and wait for them to leave the cottage again, but the whole place was now in disarray. They'd know that somebody had been here.
I crept across the floor and closed the lid of their trunk, pulling the dust sheet back over it. Then I decided that I didn't want to be caught up here with no way of escape. They might be middle-aged ladies, but there were two of them to one of me, and they were very good at sleight of hand. I had no wish to be stabbed with those scissors and to wind up under one of those dust sheets. I've often found that attack is the best form of defense. I brushed myself off, slipped the camel into my pocket and came down the stairs.
“Miss Emily. Miss Ella.” I smiled and nodded as I saw their astonished faces. I made my way to the front door.
“Would you mind telling us what in heaven’s name you were doing in our cottage?” Miss Emily demanded. “I thought that sickness was feigned. Does Mrs. Flynn know that her cousin is really a common thief?”
The front door was comfortingly within reach. “As to that, I'm happy to turn out my pockets and you're welcome to check your things. The question I'm asking myself is should I tell Mrs. Flynn that you two are a couple of frauds and tricksters?”
“So that’s why you came here—to try and catch us out? Ill wager you found nothing.” Miss Ella glanced first at her sister and then at me.
“Oh, but I did, Miss Ella. I found all kinds of incriminating evidence, including the magazine from which you cut your ectoplasm picture, the disks you use to make your impressive claps with your knees and the wispy spirit that turned out to be nothing more than a piece of underwear.”
Miss Emily was still smiling at me. “We often cut pictures from magazines for our scrapbooks, Miss Gaffney. And, being of a thrifty nature, we keep spare pieces of cloth for patching worn undergarments.”
“And the wooden disks?”
“For pressing flowers. One places flowers between sheets of blotting paper, then straps the wooden disks tightly together. It works very well, I can assure you.”
“You may be able to take in poor suffering creatures like Mrs. Flynn,” I said, “but I was asked to watch you by a captain of the New York Police and he'll be most interested to hear what I have found out.”
Miss Emily’s smile didn't waver. “Go ahead, my dear. It won't be the first attempt to prevent us from carrying on our wonderful work. If it comes to a trial, there’s not a jury in the land that would convict us. For every person like yourself who claims we are frauds, we can produce a hundred people who will attest that our communication with the spirits is real.”
“We have satisfied customers all over the country, my dear,” Miss Ella said. “We bring comfort to the broken-hearted and you want to stop us from doing that? Are you saying that Mrs. Flynn is less content now that she has spoken to her son?”
“Only you know and I know that it wasn't really her son at all. How can you ladies live with yourselves, deceiving the most vulnerable of people to make money?”
“You say that we deceive, but then we always knew you were a non-believer,” Miss Emily said. “One day you mightfindthat you have a change of heart.”
“And as for making money,” Miss Ella said, “we never charge a penny for our services. If satisfied clients wish to give us a small donation, we take it, but we have never asked for money.”
Miss Emily opened the front door for me. “So go ahead, my dear. Do tell your policeman friend everything you've discovered. Tell Mrs. Flynn too if you wish to plunge her into her abyss of grief again.”
I knew, as I walked back along the driveway, that they had won. They wereright. There was no way I wouldriskhurting Theresa by telling her the truth. And with a hundred Theresas testifying on the witness stand, there was no way a jury would convict the Sorensen Sisters.
I made it safely back to my room, very fortunately, because Alice the maid appeared with beef tea soon after I had returned.
In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)
Rhys Bowen's books
- Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
- Bless the Bride (Molly Murphy, #10)
- City of Darkness and Light (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #13)
- Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)
- For the Love of Mike (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #3)
- Hush Now, Don't You Cry (Molly Murphy, #11)
- In a Gilded Cage (Molly Murphy, #8)
- In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)