The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

“As I did myself,” he said. “Luck of the devil, I call it.” And he smiled, making him look suddenly younger. I realized then that he must be under forty. Not much older than Daniel. “And you yourself?” he continued. “I hope that you were also unharmed?”


“I came away relatively unscathed,” I said. “Bruised ribs and a bump on the head. But compared to some poor people, I count myself blessed.”

“It was an unmitigated outrage,” he went on. “I take that train to work every morning and nothing has ever happened before. Someone should be held accountable—either the engineer or the signalman, and of course they are each blaming the other. But someone routed that train on the wrong track. We were just fortunate that the whole thing didn’t plunge down to destruction, weren’t we?”

I stood there, staring at him, because I had just realized something. “It wasn’t me,” I blurted out. “It was you.”

“I beg your pardon?” he looked confused.

“Mr. Deveraux,” I began tentatively. “It’s just possible that someone planned that train crash to kill you.”

“To kill me?” He laughed, a little nervously. “What are you talking about?”

“I believe my husband came to see you yesterday. Captain Sullivan?”

“He asked me about my brother. I told him Edward was dead. He seemed surprised.”

“There is no doubt that your brother died, I suppose?”

“None at all. I saw his body. Not a pretty sight. He’d thrown himself onto rocks, you know—face first. But it was Ed all right. No question about it. Besides, one of the medical staff was with him and witnessed the whole thing. He was horribly shaken by it and felt guilty that he hadn’t seen it coming. I must say I was rather of the same opinion. I pointed out that I paid them a considerable sum of money to keep my brother safe.” He toyed with the fountain pen on his desk, spinning it around on the polished surface, then he looked up suddenly. “So what exactly is this all about?”

“I don’t know how much more Captain Sullivan told you,” I went on, “but there have been several murders in the city this summer, all of them somehow linked to your brother and his trial.”

“But that’s absurd. Linked to my brother? How?”

“It appears that someone has wanted to punish those who helped put your brother into the asylum. All of those killed had a dear one who had testified at the trial, or in some way betrayed your brother. Someone might have felt he had been treated unjustly.”

“Treated unjustly?” His voice rose angrily. “The boy was a poor, twisted specimen. He’d never have made anything of himself. Always a liability to the family. The institution was the best possible place for him.” He paused, frowning. “Who could possibly want to avenge my brother?”

“I wondered if you might have any idea about that.”

“He had no friends. Other boys found him strange and repulsive, as I did.”

“What about his tutor? Were they ever close?”

This clearly surprised him. “I was away at school and then college, of course.” He paused, considering. “Close? Are you implying unnaturally close?” He was scowling now. “I remember the tutor—another weakling, wasn’t he? Strange feminine sort of individual. Liked poetry. I suppose it might have been possible that he and Ed … but passionate enough about him to want to kill people who had harmed Ed? That would imply insanity of the worst kind.”

“Possibly,” I said.

He tipped his chair back, eyeing me. I noticed then that he had not invited me to sit. “You said that the train wreck might have been orchestrated with the intention of killing me?”

“It’s possible. The murderer has been sending notes to my husband, gloating over the deaths. He seemed to take responsibility for the train crash.”

“But that’s absurd,” he said again. “Was he driving the train?”

“No, but somebody changed the disk on the front of the locomotive, indicating it was a Sixth Avenue train, not a Ninth. That could have been done at a station when no one was looking.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He shot me a half-apologetic look for using the word. “But that’s ridiculous. Who would plan the destruction of a whole train full of people in the hope of killing one man? It’s insane.”

“We have to assume this individual is not quite sane,” I said. “I wouldn’t have believed it except that he sent a note, boasting, before it happened, then another after it had apparently not succeeded to his liking.”

He was rubbing his chin now, clearly upset. “I just can’t believe what you’re saying. Surely anyone who wanted to kill me could wait around a dark corner and stab me. More certain than hoping a train crashes.”