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

“The man certainly did like taking incredible risks,” Sid said. “How could he possibly think he could pass himself off for the doctor? Did they look that similar?”


“In age, build, and coloring, yes. And if the facial features differed, it didn’t matter. He made sure he smashed the doctor’s face before he threw him down into the chasm, and he smeared his own face with blood and mud, claiming to be in distress from the strangulation attempt. It was mentioned that he could hardly talk. That way it wouldn’t be noticed that his speech was different. And he claimed to be so upset by the whole thing that he refused to stay the night and departed immediately after giving his statement to the police. And the doctor wore a monocle. People are funny. They notice the little details, like the monocle and the beard. And if someone is clearly in distress, you don’t look at him too hard. Edward knew his psychology, all right.”

“I suppose he must have been brooding and plotting for years,” Gus said. “And all that time dreaming about punishing those who had contributed to his wrongful conviction.” She looked up from her coffee cup. “I blame his brother. How could one live with oneself, knowing that he had condemned an innocent man to a life in a mental institution?”

“I suppose one can understand,” Sid said. “Marcus had a promising future. His brother didn’t. Many young men might have done the same.”

“And condemned his brother to a life that was no life?” Gus retorted. “I could never have lived with my conscience.”

“Ah, but you are altruistic and tenderhearted,” Sid replied. “Marcus was self-centered.”

Gus handed me a plate of macaroons. “And I am fascinated to know that Mabel’s dream all made sense,” she said. “The snake. The long sharp fingers were the needle. I must write to Professor Freud. He’ll be interested.”

“And you can also tell him that there is such a thing as prophetic dreams,” I said. “Dreams that come to us as warnings. I dreamed of the basement room where Edward put me, and I dreamed of being paralyzed, so that I was forewarned when he came in with that syringe of curare.”

“Ah, but Molly, you’re Irish. It’s only Celts who can do things like that,” Gus said. “I don’t think that an Austrian professor will change his thinking to include you.”

And we laughed. Liam, not understanding the joke, looked up from the floor and laughed too.