In a Gilded Cage (Molly Murphy, #8)

I wondered whether I should go and see if Fanny had recovered enough to receive visitors. At least now I had seen her husband at Fifi’s house for myself, although his stay was certainly not long enough for a lover’s tryst. Maybe he was there for the purpose of arranging such a tryst, although from what I saw during my brief glimpse of him, he had not looked happy or excited. In fact, grim would have been the word to describe his face.

As I left Twenty-first Street to go home, I glanced back once more and saw Mademoiselle Fifi’s maid emerge from the house and come running toward me. It was still raining and she was in her maid’s uniform, with no hat or coat. I lowered my umbrella to conceal my face and she ran past. On the corner she hailed a cab and rode in it back to the house. A few minutes later I was treated to the sight of Mademoiselle Fifi herself, emerging, draped in a glorious sable coat. I snapped a picture of her, though I’m not sure exactly why. I tried to move close enough to hear the directions she gave the cabby as he assisted her into the cab, but the street noise was considerable and I heard nothing. I watched them drive away, wondering if I should try to find a cab of my own to follow them, or whether she was going on some simple errand, or even to a matinee at her theater. In any case, by the time I had reached the end of the street and spotted an empty cab, they were gone.

I went home, feeling somewhat satisfied. I had seen Poindexter for myself at Mademoiselle Fifi’s house. That would be enough for Fanny to have ammunition to confront her husband. Of course, I had no way of knowing whether the news would be welcome or not. Did she want to get out of a confining marriage in which she saw herself as a prisoner, or did she want her husband to start paying her more attention? One never knew with women. We don’t always fall in love with the right men. I can attest to that. Either way, I decided I should probably wait until Monday to visit Fanny, as her husband would most likely be spending his Sunday at home.

I spent a quiet evening alone. No sign of Daniel, and Sid and Gus were off to the theater. On Sunday morning I slept in late and was just fixing myself a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast when there came a thunderous knocking at my front door. I was still in my robe, so I paused to make myself respectable before opening it. Emily Boswell stood there, a look of absolute distress on her face.

“Emily, my dear. What is it?” I asked.

She staggered into the hallway. “She’s dead. Fanny is dead,” she said, gasping.

“Fanny’s dead?”

She nodded, then drew out a handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth.

I put a tentative arm around her shoulder and steered her into my kitchen. “My dear Emily, I am so sorry,” I said. “I knew she was sick, but this is such a shock. When did it happen?”

“During the night,” she said. “I went to visit her yesterday, as I knew she had been sick. Her servant came to our shop earlier in the week and asked for some of our stomach mixture that she liked. I gathered that she was suffering from influenza, so I took the medicine over myself, as well as some aspirin, as it is so effective at bringing down fever.” She looked up at me for confirmation. I nodded and eased her onto one of my kitchen chairs.

“And how did she seem then?”

“She was looking flushed and seemed weak but only what was to be expected with the flu. I tried to cheer her up and mixed some of the aspirin for her. She made a fuss about taking it and we laughed at what a baby she was about medicines and sickness.

“I had no time to visit her until yesterday. I went to visit her after I finished work and was told she was sleeping, and this morning I got a message that she had died during the night.”

“How very sad,” I said. Although I was no longer the best Catholic in the world, I had an overwhelming urge to cross myself. “This influenza seems to be particularly virulent, doesn’t it?”

She looked down at her hands for a long moment before she said, “I can’t get this awful thought out of my head, Molly. I can’t stop thinking that he killed her.”

“Who? Who killed her?”

She looked up now. “Her husband, Anson.”

“Anson? Surely not.” I gave an uneasy laugh. “She had the flu, Emily. You know yourself that healthy people have been succumbing to complications of the flu. Even the woman who worked with you at the drugstore, remember?”

She frowned.

“I know it sounds awful to say this, but he never really loved her, Molly. I’ve always known that. I’ve always been convinced that he married her for her money.”

“But if he killed her, surely that would be a good way of cutting off the supply of money from her family?”

She shook her head. “Her father settled a large sum on her at her marriage. Anson will be a wealthy man whatever happens now.”

I was in a quandary. Should I tell her what I knew? Did she know that Fanny was planning to divorce him? I decided that Fanny was my client, even if she was now dead. I decided to tread cautiously. “Emily, are you sure the marriage was unhappy? Weren’t they looking forward to moving to their new house on Long Island together?”