I came out into the hall. Mrs. Bradley stood with arms folded across an impressive bosom, watching me.
“Martha was telling me that poor Fanny just couldn’t keep any food down toward the end and that you fed her yourself from a spoon.”
She nodded curtly. “I did everything I could to keep her alive. It wasn’t enough.”
“I’m so very sorry,” I muttered again, feeling like an awful fraud and completely out of place in this house of sorrow. “Please excuse me. And if you could please let me know when the funeral will be held, I should certainly like to attend.”
“Of course.” She nodded again.
Then I made a hasty retreat.
Seventeen
On Tuesday morning I received a message notifying me that the funeral was set for Thursday at the Trinity Church Cemetery on Riverside Drive. I was still waiting for news from Daniel. If the doctor was absolutely sure that Fanny died of complications of influenza and that there was no chance of foul play being involved, then I could get on with my life and take the next step in Emily’s case—which would be to go to Massachusetts and the area where her Aunt Lydia was born. She might not have any surviving family members, but surely someone there would have known the family well enough to have heard of cousins who went out to China—or not, as the case may be.
At noon Sid came to my door and literally dragged me across to their house. “Gus insisted. You have to come and see our latest achievements,” she said. I allowed myself to be dragged, then followed her up two flights of stairs to Gus’s studio on the top floor.
“There, what do you think?” Sid demanded with obvious pride in her voice. “Isn’t it a masterpiece?”
As with all of Gus’s paintings I didn’t quite share her enthusiasm.
“It’s interesting,” I said, not wanting to ask what it was depicting. “Very powerful.” It was indeed powerful, with great splashes of red and purple and what looked like a smashed boiled egg in the middle with ants crawling out of it.
“It is womankind, shaking off the shackles of oppression and domination to assume our rightful place in society,” she said. “And has Sid told you about her latest triumph?”
“No.”
Sid shrugged modestly.
“She has been asked by none other than Susan B. Anthony to write for The Revolution.”
“Excellent,” I said, not having a clear idea of either of these. “I congratulate you both.”
“Anything to make society in general more aware of our cause,” Sid said.
I then allowed myself to be persuaded to stay for what they called a “peasant lunch” of crusty bread, smelly cheeses, olives, and onions, washed down with a glass of Chianti, and came home again feeling rather mellow.
A note was waiting for me in my mailbox. Miss Molly Murphy. By Hand.
Inside was Daniel’s bold black scrawl.
Molly. I’m sending this with a constable. Saw Dr. Larson today. He says he’s sure cause of death was pneumonia. Vomiting caused by high fever. Absolutely no cause for autopsy. He was furious at the suggestion and told me he’d been the family physician for thirty years. He went on to say that Mrs. Poindexter had been ministered to most diligently by her mother who had overseen every aspect of her care. I hope this allays your suspicions. Daniel.
So that was that. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. Maybe Emily did suffer from an overactive imagination. She was obviously extremely fond of Fanny, and devastated by her death. She also suffered from the kind of constitution that laid her low with sick headaches when she got upset. All in all it seemed she was an emotional young woman who could well be prone to hysteria. I decided to see if she had returned to work and, if she had, to risk the wrath of Mr. McPherson by delivering Daniel’s message to her at the shop later that afternoon. There was no answer at her apartment, so I proceeded around the corner to the shop. Emily was behind the counter, busy serving an elderly man. She looked pale but seemed in good spirits as she chatted with him. “These are to be taken twice a day with water,” I heard her say as I opened the door. “And no more port until the gout subsides.”
The old man chuckled and said something that made her smile. Then he raised his hat to me as he passed me.
“Molly.” She glanced around warily.
“Sorry to disturb you at work, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“You have news?” she whispered. “From your policeman friend?”
I nodded.
“And?”
“The doctor is sure the cause of death was pneumonia.”
“But what about the gastric problems?”
“Brought on by extremely high fever.”
“So they’re not going to do any testing?”
“No.”
Emily chewed at her lip. “She’s going to be buried on Thursday, and then it will be too late.”
“I went to Fanny’s place yesterday,” I said. “And I did manage to take a sample of the stomach mixture.”