“Information, huh? Of what nature?”
“I am writing a book on the history of the Christian missions in China. I am especially focusing on those missionaries who made the supreme sacrifice of giving their lives for the faith over there.” I detected an instant change in his demeanor. His gaze was suddenly sharp, almost wary. I continued with my rehearsed piece. “One of my classmates at Vassar was your niece, Emily, and I recall she told me that her parents had died in a cholera epidemic while serving as missionaries in that country.”
“That is correct,” he said.
“How very tragic for your family. I wondered if you could give me details of their lives in China, or if you have any photographs I could include in my book.”
He rose to his feet now, his paunch extending over the desktop. “I’d like to help you, Miss Murphy, but I’m afraid this couple were only distant relatives of my wife. I never even met them, or had any kind of contact with them.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. “Maybe you could let me know where I might locate relatives of your wife who could supply me with more information.”
“I’d like to help you, but my wife’s parents died when she was a child. She was raised by a great-aunt who has since died and I understood that she has no other living relatives—which was why we had to take in the child, of course. My wife was of a very tender nature and wouldn’t hear of it going to an orphanage.” A spasm of pain crossed his face as he said this.
“It was very noble of you,” I said.
“It was indeed,” he said. “Now if you will excuse me, Miss Murphy. I am due to meet a man at my club within the hour. My butler will show you out.”
“If you could just supply me with the basic facts about them, then I could pursue my inquiries through the appropriate missionary society,” I went on, maybe unwisely. “Their full names, where they came from. You must know that much from Emily’s birth certificate, surely?”
His face was now decidedly red. “She had no birth certificate, damn it. The child was the only survivor of a cholera epidemic, so we understood. Whisked to safety by a devoted Chinese servant. I’m sorry, but I can be of no further use to you. I suggest you focus your story on other missionaries who will prove easier to trace. Good day to you. Jenkins!” He bellowed this last word. “This young woman is leaving.”
I had no choice but to be escorted out. So I was none the wiser, or was I? One thing I was now sure of was that Mr. Horace Lynch did know more about Emily’s parents. He just wasn’t willing to share that information with me. So far my investigation into Emily’s past was getting me nowhere. I hoped for more rapid success in my assignment for Fanny Poindexter, or I wouldn’t be making enough money to pay the rent.
As far as Emily’s family history was concerned, I wasn’t sure where to go from here. Wait until I got a reply from all the missionary societies, of course. But then? I knew where her Aunt Lydia had been born. I would have to find the time to pay a visit to Massachusetts, but I couldn’t do that until I had fulfilled my obligation to Fanny. I made my way back to Pearl Street and located my cabby. He had nothing to report. Mr. Poindexter had not left his office all day, as far as he could tell. It seemed that he had roped in some of his fellow cab drivers to keep watch when he had a fare, so I felt confident that the building was being well covered. I suggested he pay particular attention to listening for the name of a particular theater.
I was on my way to do the rounds of the theaters when it suddenly struck me that I had sources within the theater who might be able to supply me with information. The first of these was Oona Sheehan, who had rooms in the Hoffman House, a swank hotel on Broadway and Twenty-fourth. Miss Sheehan’s maid informed me that her mistress was resting prior to the evening performance and was not to be disturbed. I decided that Miss Sheehan owed me a favor or two after what she had put me through on the way to Dublin, and sent the maid to tell her that Molly Murphy needed to see her.
This produced results. I was shown into Miss Sheehan’s boudoir and found her draped in a delightful green silk robe, trimmed with feathers.
“Molly, my dear—” She held out a languid hand to me. I wondered if she was playing Camille. She patted the bed beside her. I sat and explained briefly what I wanted. She frowned prettily. “Poindexter? The name does ring a bell. I believe he sent me flowers, years ago. A good-looking boy, I seem to remember.”
I produced the photograph. She nodded. “Yes, I do remember him.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard any rumor about who might be the current object of his affection?”
“My dear child, I haven’t the least interest in who is bedding whom if it doesn’t concern me.”
“She was described as exotic looking,” I prompted.