Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

“And about the check you were going to send me,” I began, but she dismissed it with a graceful wave of the hand. “Not now, darling. All a-dither. Must fly.” She half-kissed me on the cheek and was gone, leaving a trail of expensive perfume lingering in the air.

Yvette took me through to a dressing room and let me rummage through a drawer full of various types of makeup. Tempted as I was to help myself liberally, I just took the two sticks that Elise had suggested for me, plus the slim red one for my lips. I stopped at a drugstore on the way home to buy face powder, cold cream, and a roll of cotton wool. I didn’t bother about my eyes. They’d be hidden behind glasses anyway.

While I was in the drugstore I also bought a bottle of Dr. Clay-bourne’s Strengthening Tonic, recommended to restore health to the frailest of invalids. I had never tried it myself, never having been what you might call frail, but judging by the testimonials on the bottle, it ought to do some good. I wanted to make time to take it to my girl in the hospital before I had to be at the theater. And somehow I had to squeeze in a visit to Miss Van Woekem first.

It was now lunchtime and I clearly couldn’t spare the time to go home to eat, so I had to lay out all of five cents for a bowl of clam chowder and a roll at a stand-up counter. The clam chowder was a new experience for me, there being no clams in my part of Ireland, or if there were, we didn’t eat them. But it was certainly sustaining enough to hold me until I had time for a proper meal.

Thus fortified, I set off for Miss Van Woekem’s. The venerable old lady lived at one of the most elegant addresses in the city—Gramercy Park. This delightful square reminded me of Dublin and the grand Georgian squares I had seen there, but as most of my memories of that city were painful, I chose not to dwell on the comparison. The garden in the middle of the square still glistened with untrampled snow, probably because a high railing surrounded it and only residents possessed a key to the gate. It presented a pretty Christmas card scene as I approached along Twenty-first Street, with the brownstone and red brick buildings glowing and windows twinkling in the slanted sunlight. I went up the steps of Miss Van Woekem’s house on the south side of the square and rang the doorbell.

The maid who had always been so disapproving of me in the past ushered me in with an almost pleasant “The mistress will be glad to see you. She’s in a proper state.”

This didn’t sound like the lady I knew—from the old school and raised to show no emotion whatsoever. I stepped into the drawing room, which faced the park and was usually bright with sunlight. Today the drapes were drawn and I could scarcely make out the figure who sat, still and straight, in the high-backed chair with a rug over her knees. Her eyes were closed and she looked like an old stone statue.

“Miss Murphy to see you, ma’am,” the maid announced and the eyes shot open, instantly alert.

“Miss Murphy, how good of you to come so quickly. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Do take a seat, and Matilda, bring us coffee if you please. Or would you prefer tea, Miss Murphy?”

“Coffee would be fine, thank you,” I said. “I came as soon as I could. I know you’re not the kind of person to exaggerate or make a fuss, so I presumed it was truly urgent.”

“It is. Of the uttermost urgency,” she said.

“Are you not well? I see you have the drapes closed.”

“The bright light hurts my eyes,” she said. “Tell me, are you engaged to be married to that rascal Daniel Sullivan yet?”

Since she was Arabella Norton’s godmother, I wondered whether Arabella had suddenly decided that she wanted him back. “How can we make any plans when Daniel is still under suspicion?” I asked. “Some charges against him have been dropped, but the police commissioner is not willing to reinstate him with a clean slate.”

“Most annoying for you,” she said. “So what is Captain Sullivan doing with himself?”

“Mostly bothering me,” I said and got a dry laugh from her. “Actually I’ve put him to work for me. It’s not good to have too much time to sit around brooding.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “That is just what I have been doing and it is bringing me down to depths of depression I should not have thought possible.” It was so unlike her to admit to any weakness that I looked at her with concern.

“But I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to discuss my private life,” I said.

“You’re right. I don’t think much of Sullivan myself, but I expect you’ll bring him into line and handle him well enough. I asked about Daniel Sullivan because I rather hoped he might be able to assist us in a delicate matter.”

“Assist us?”

“You and I, Miss Murphy. I wish to engage your services professionally.”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m too busy to take on another case at the moment,” I said. “I take it the matter has to be addressed right away?”

“Immediately. And if you can’t handle it yourself then maybe Sullivan can.”