The funeral morning dawned bright and breezy—that typical April weather with white puffy clouds racing across the sky that makes one want to be outdoors. I found that the Ninth Avenue El went all the way to the northern tip of the island and spent a pleasant half hour looking down on city life as we progressed northward. The Trinity Church cemetery was one of the only cemeteries still operating within the city itself. Only those with powerful connections could be buried there, and it seemed that Poindexters owned an impressive family mausoleum. Aside from the tragic circumstance that brought us there, the cemetery was a delightful spot to be. Tree-lined walk-ways and marble statues made it a pleasant oasis and escape from the hubbub of the city. On one side, vistas of the Hudson River opened up, with great strings of barges and jaunty river steamers sailing past. And on the far Jersey shore the Palisades rose, sheer and forbidding from the river’s edge.
I was glad that my one black hat was an old-fashioned bonnet with a bow that tied under my chin, as the wind whipped fiercely and several hats were sent flying. A large crowd had gathered at the gravesite, all dressed in the height of fashion. Fanny’s mother and other female members of the family were hidden under heavy veils, and I wouldn’t have been able to recognize her had she not been approached and addressed by name. So much for watching expressions.
At least the men’s faces were clearly visible beneath their top hats. Anson Poindexter stood between two men who must have been his father and Mr. Bradley. Both of them fine figures still—carrying themselves with the grace and control expected of people of their station. I noticed Mr. Bradley intercepting well-wishers so that he could spare his wife as much of the ordeal as possible. His face was grave but pleasant as he shook hands just as he would at any party or in any reception line, and one would never have known from his face that this was his daughter’s funeral. He was a handsome man, as dark as his daughter was fair—his black hair and sideburns now tinged with gray.
My attention turned to Anson Poindexter. In contrast to his father and father-in-law, he was clearly ill at ease, and glanced around with jerky head movements. He was clearly distracted as well, having to be nudged by his father when well-wishers tried to speak to him. Did this indicate a guilty conscience, I wondered, or simply that he found the situation so uncomfortable he was looking for a way to escape? He had, after all, found every excuse to escape from his sick wife’s bedside.
Emily arrived and came to stand beside me. “Old McPherson wasn’t going to let me off,” she said, panting as if she had had to run to get here on time, “but Ned talked him into it. Oh, and Ned has run the test on Fanny’s hair. He says there was no trace of arsenic at all. I suppose that’s good news, isn’t it.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “It would be awful to watch her being buried and always wondering if someone had gotten away with murder.”
She looked around. “A good crowd, wouldn’t you say? I don’t see any of Fanny’s other friends—oh, yes I do. There’s Alice, and that must be Minnie with her under that veil. Come on, let’s join them.’
She made her way through the crowd to where the two women were standing.
“Emily!” Alice held out her hands. “I’m so glad you could come. What a terribly sad day, isn’t it?”
Emily nodded.
“I still can’t believe it,” Minnie said, nodding politely to Emily and me. “Was it only less than two weeks ago that we were all together in Fanny’s living room, talking about ball gowns and complexions?”
Emily was still looking around. “I don’t see Bella or Dorcas,” she said.
“Bella was with us a moment ago.” Alice’s eyes scanned the gathering crowd. “But Dorcas won’t be coming. Haven’t you heard? She’s quite ill. They’re worried about her.”
Emily and I exchanged a glance.
“What’s wrong with her?” Emily asked.
“That’s just it. The doctors don’t know. Worrying, isn’t it?”
“Is she up to receiving visitors, do you think?” Emily asked.
“I really couldn’t say,” Alice answered. “And of course now they are worried that her baby will catch whatever she has.”
“Poor Dorcas,” Emily said.
“You know what I’m wondering.” Minnie leaned closer to us. “I’m wondering if Fanny wasn’t coming down with something when we were there and Dorcas caught it from her.”
“Fanny’s doctor says she died of complications of influenza,” I said, joining in this conversation for the first time, “and this strain of flu is supposed to be horribly virulent.”
“Then let’s hope the rest of us don’t follow suit,” Minnie said.
“I’m all right,” I said. “I went through it a month ago and I don’t think you can get it twice.”
As soon as she could, Emily dragged me aside. “We must visit Dorcas,” she whispered. “We must find out if Anson Poindexter came to see her.”
I frowned as I realized what was going through her head. “But even if it’s remotely possible that Anson killed his wife, what motive could he have for wanting to kill Dorcas?”
“Maybe she found out. I know she went to visit Fanny last week. What if she discovered something and came to Anson to share her suspicions?”
“I really think you’re going a little far,” I said. “We’ve heard from Ned that there was no trace of arsenic in Fanny’s hair. The doctor says he is convinced that he correctly diagnosed her illness and we know that her mother and only her mother ministered to her during her last days. What more do you want?”
Emily sighed. “I really don’t know. I guess you’re right and I’m just being silly.”