In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

“The mistress’s instructions are that you should stay in bed today and make sure you're not running around too soon,” she said, talking to me as if I was a naughty five-year-old.

So I had to sit, fuming, by my open window, wondering what might be going on downstairs and up at the Misses Sorensens' cottage. I heard snatches of conversation as tea was taken on the porch. I heard Eileen’s little voice as she came to make her daily visit. Then shortly afterward Theresa herself came to see me, bringing wafer-thin slices of brown bread and honey while the maid carried a cup of weak tea.

“Do get well again soon, Molly dearest,” she said. “It won't do to have two wretched invalids on the premises and I am so relying on you.”

I promised I'd feel as right as rain in the morning and even suggested that I might even feel well enough to come down to dinner, but was met with stern instructions to stay where I was. I felt like a complete fraud, seeing her so concerned about me. The evening dragged on until Alice appeared with hot milk just as it was getting dark. Then there was nothing to do but go to sleep.

I woke to complete darkness and to the most awful cramps in my stomach. I scarcely had time to find the chamber pot under my bed before I was horribly and violently sick. The bouts of sickness went on all night, leaving me weak and sweating. How my mother must be enjoying this, I thought grimly. She'd always told me about the dire punishments for lying. Well, I'd claimed to be stricken with a mysterious illness and now it had come true.

By morning I was just strong enough to stagger across my room and ring the bell for a servant. She must have given a vivid description of my condition because it brought Theresa herself, still in her dressing gown, in to see me. She stood in the doorway and eyed me with grave concern.

“Molly, my dear lamb, you look terrible. Let me call Dr. Chambers for you.”

“I'm sure it’s nothing more than something I ate,” I said.

“But there are all kinds of dreadful illnesses going around at the moment,” she said. “There’s typhoid in the city. We can't be too careful, can we?”

Dr. Chambers arrived in due course, listened to my heart and breathing and came to the same conclusion as myself—that it must have been something I had eaten. I was put on a strict invalid diet of slops and ordered to stay in bed for a few days. Strangely enough I felt much better the moment he left and managed to eat some gruel and a soft-boiled egg.

Theresa came to visit me again, looking most agitated. “Molly, you'll never imagine what terrible thing has happened,” she whispered. “Miss Emily and Miss Ella—they have gone. Apparently they asked the chauffeur to drive them to the ferry early this morning and they have left us without even saying good-bye.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Now 111 never get a chance to hear Brendan’s voice again. I am so angry with Bamey. It’s all his fault.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said, feeling doubly guilty because I was sure the fault was mine and not Barney’s that the Misses Sorensen had done a bunk. The day dragged on. I had always made a terrible patient. I got up and walked around my room, wondering what I should be doing. I had to admit that I felt shaky on my feet and soon had to lie down again. In fact I must have drifted off to sleep because I woke to find Alice shaking me.

“Sorry to disturb you, miss, but the mail has just arrived and Mrs. Flynn thought you might like to be cheered up.” She handed me a letter.

It was addressed to Miss Molly Gaffney from Mrs. Priscilla O’Sullivan. The address, of course, was Daniel’s.

“Oh, how nice,” I said. “An old family friend in New York has written to me. I stayed with her briefly when I first arrived.”

I waited until Alice had departed before I opened the envelope. I had recognized the handwriting. Inside was Daniel’s black and angry script.

Molly,

Do not get yourself involved in anything other than the task you were asked to complete. For your information, there was no indication at the inquiry to suggest that Albert Morell had any connections to the Black Hand. That isn't to say that he wasn't working for them. Their squealers tend to wind up in the Hudson, so it’s possible that they were be-hind the kidnapping. It is certainly the kind of brutal and heartless thing they would do. Which makes it all the more imperative—do not ask any more questions or poke your nose into this any further. Find out all you can about the Sorensen Sisters and then come straight home. And that is an order.

As to the other matter you mention. There could be something irregular with the woman’s death you describe, but you are not going to investigate it, and neither am I. It is beyond my jurisdiction and if the local police decide not to pursue it, there is nothing I can do.

Destroy this letter as soon as you have read it. If there is an informant in the house you may be putting yourself in the gravest jeopardy.