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

“Looking for Da and Shamey? Maybe you’re right, Molly,” Bridie said. “I’m that worried about them. I do wish they’d write to me. Just once.”


“I’m sure they will, when they get somewhere they can post a letter,” Mrs. Sullivan said kindly, but she shot me a look telling me to leave this subject alone.

I thought about suggesting to Bridie that we pay a visit to her disreputable relatives in case they had any news, but it didn’t seem the right moment to do so. I was sure Daniel would forbid such an outing at the moment and besides, I hoped to pull off a satisfying little coup. Even as I said this, I felt ashamed of myself. I’d be using Bridie to score a point and prove to Daniel that I was just as good a detective as he. Why must I still see myself in competition with him? I wondered. Shouldn’t I be content to be a wife and mother?

“So Augusta has been analyzing this girl’s dreams, has she?” Daniel asked. “Any luck?”

“No, Mabel wouldn’t tell us much. Just something about a large snake, and its eyes, and how it loomed over her. She was terrified.”

“Do you think there was an element of insanity there? You thought before you saw her that perhaps she’d killed her parents.”

“I wondered how she managed to escape from a fire when they didn’t. Now I’m even more confused. Apparently she showed no signs of ever being in the fire—no blackened face or singed garments, nothing. And the fire escape was right outside her parents’ bedroom. So I have to think that something must have happened to them to make them unable to climb out of their window. But as to Mabel killing her parents—I find that hard to believe. She seems like such a sweet, gentle creature, and she clearly loved them both.”

“During my fifteen years in the department,” Daniel said as he reached out for another slice of bread and began buttering it, “I have found it impossible to tell who looks like a murderer and who doesn’t. Little old ladies who calmly poisoned their siblings or their lodgers. And seemingly sane young people who did away with their parents, then absolutely denied it against irrefutable evidence. What do the police think?”

“Don’t get me started on the police,” I said angrily, as I held my fork poised in midair with a mouthful of fish on it. “An unpleasant young lieutenant is in charge, and he’s convinced that she killed her parents and is only feigning amnesia. But he was such a bully that I’m afraid I took an instant dislike to him.”

“Really? What is his name?”

“Yeats,” I said. “He looks awfully young, and he seems to possess no skills when it comes to dealing with the general public. He was rude to each of us.”

Daniel smiled. “Ah, yes. Yeats. I know about him. His father is a big wheel at Tammany and the boy is destined for politics. I agree. He is an unpleasant little toad, far too keen to make his mark quickly. But then I suppose I was that way myself when I first started. The desire to get that first conviction in a murder case is very strong, as you remember, Mother.”

“I do indeed, both with you and your father. Remember how furious you were whenever one of yours got off on a technicality, or pleaded insanity?”

Daniel nodded. “It’s only when you witness an execution for the first time that you realize what a terrible power you have, and a glimmer of doubt creeps in. Right before they pull the switch to turn on the current, you find yourself wondering if you’ve made a mistake and are killing an innocent person.”

“I’m sure Yeats would have no such qualms,” I said. “He seemed really pleased with himself. He threatened to have Mabel locked up in the Tombs to make her remember. Can you stop him from doing that, Daniel?”

“It’s not my case and he doesn’t report to me,” Daniel said. “But I can have a little chat with him and suggest that he needs to make sure of his facts before he talks about wilful murder. He’d need some kind of proof, not just a hunch.”

“You mean some kind of evidence in the bodies? But they’ll have been buried for a month or more. Will anyone give permission to have the bodies exhumed?”

“If it’s a question of someone being arrested for murder. Yeats would have no case without physical evidence.”

“Can you find evidence in burned and charred bodies?” I asked. “I know you might be able to see a gunshot or a stab wound, but what about poison?”

Daniel considered before speaking, staring out past the kitchen door. “I think a good pathologist could detect something obvious like arsenic in the tissue.”

“But if someone had turned on the gas while they slept? Or if they had been smothered, for example?”