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

So we started with a ferry instead, and took it across from the Hudson piers to the terminus of the West Shore Railroad in Jersey City. Actually it was more pleasant to leave from this station, as trains from Grand Central went through a long tunnel under Manhattan, and no matter how tightly the windows were closed, the carriage always ended up smelling of smoke. On our right the great river gleamed, moving lazily toward the Atlantic. A string of barges loaded with coal made their way downstream. A pleasure steamer with paddles turning and flags flying moved against the current. It was a jolly scene and it felt almost like a holiday outing, until I reminded myself that in New York City there was still a man who had promised to kill at least once more … and it was possible that his target was Marcus Deveraux.

We halted at unfamiliar stations—Teaneck, West Nyack—while across on the east bank I caught glimpses of places I did recognize. Irvington, Tarrytown … many of them carried memories for me of an unpleasant episode during my pregnancy—I’d been working on a case, which took me to a mansion on the hill and a convent where girls were treated so badly. The river narrowed, rushing wildly between steep banks. We passed West Point and the military academy perched on the bluff above the river. The country was wild now on our side as we continued northward. At last we came to Kingston. It looked like a prosperous riverside town, with a long main street of whitewashed and painted shops and the obligatory white church with a tall steeple. The young police officer sent to meet the train seemed so overawed at the visit of a New York City police captain that he could only answer Daniel’s questions in monosyllables. He had come with a police wagon and driver, and after a courtesy call at the Kingston police department, we set off in the direction of Woodstock.

“Do the police not yet have any automobiles?” Daniel asked as we bumped and lurched along a muddy road, shaded by trees already starting to display their autumn foliage.

“Wouldn’t be much point, sir,” our young guide replied. “Always getting stuck in the mud. No paved roads around here yet, though I hear they have them around New York City now.”

It was lovely wooded countryside, and we crossed over one rushing stream after another, sometimes on stone bridges, sometimes wooden. When the land opened up we had fleeting glimpses of the mountain range beyond. The air smelled fresh and sweet, tinged with wood smoke. After living in the city it was delightful, making me forget for a moment the serious import of our visit. I was jerked back to reality when we came into Woodstock and arrived at the little police station there. They had been warned of our coming, and Daniel went inside to speak with the officer who had been called out to Edward Deveraux’s death. I, of course, was not invited to join him, so I went for a stroll up the main street and treated myself to a cup of coffee and a cake at the Copper Kettle café.

Daniel appeared again, helped me up onto the wagon, and off we went.

“Waste of time there,” he said. “The man found nothing to contradict what we’ve already been told. Clear case of suicide while of unsound mind. The doctor had already signed the death certificate when the policeman arrived at the scene.”

We continued on in silence, the horse’s hoofs muffled where leaves had already fallen on the wet earth. A mile out of town the road started to climb. We were moving into the Catskill Mountains now, and the road snaked up the side of a hill with a rock wall on one side of us. Then at the top of the climb, we came to tall iron gates in the middle of a brick wall. The wall itself must have been ten feet high and was topped with shards of broken glass. The gates looked faceless and formidable. We rang a bell and waited. I noted there was no plaque or sign of any kind to indicate what lay behind that wall. At last one of the gates swung open, and we were admitted by a gatekeeper. The house itself stood among lawns, built of solid gray stone and looking surprisingly elegant, like a manor house I might have seen in Ireland. Then I noticed the bars on the windows. They were ornamental bars, quite attractive, but bars nonetheless. So it was a prison, even if it was in pleasant surroundings.

As we pulled up outside the front door, an elderly man with a shock of white hair came down the steps to greet us. “Captain Sullivan.” He held out his hand. “I am Dr. Piper, head of this facility. Good of you to come in person, although I don’t know what we can do to help you.”

He looked at me with interest until Daniel introduced me.

“Ah, you make an excuse to give the little lady a trip into the country,” he said, smiling as he took my hand. “That’s nice.”

Daniel glanced at me as I went to open my mouth, then said hastily, “On the contrary. My wife is a former detective and I value her powers of observation.” I could have kissed him.

“A former detective. Well, I never.” Dr. Piper raised an eyebrow. “Although I am not sure that there are any clues for you to follow here, Madam Sherlock Holmes.” And he chuckled. “Please come in.” He led us across a marble entrance hall with a wide flight of polished steps leading up to the floor above. From somewhere at the back of the building I could hear a piano being played.

“That’s Alice Gorman,” he said. “She was studying to be a concert pianist until she drowned her children in their bathtub. She practices every day and occasionally gives us a concert.”

“So the inmates are allowed to intermingle?” Daniel asked.