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

Eighteen

I strode out, feeling annoyed and frustrated as we headed for home. If only I had sought out Dr. Birnbaum a few days earlier. Then at least he could have seen Mabel. He could have given us some suggestions. But now we were completely in the dark and going nowhere. And Dr. Birnbaum had indicated that dreaming about monster images was to be expected after a traumatic event, and it didn’t need interpreting after all. What’s more, he’d said that Gus could be doing more harm than good to Mabel. I wondered how she would feel about that, and whether she’d be able to walk away. I wondered if I’d be able to walk away, knowing that Mabel was in danger from the brash lieutenant as well as from her dreams.

I hadn’t realized how fast I was walking until Bridie tugged at my skirt. “I can’t keep up with you,” she said, “and Liam is getting bounced around like a sack of potatoes.”

I smiled and slowed down. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“The girl who wasn’t burned in the fire?” she said. “You thought that doctor would help her, and he’s not going to?”

“Exactly.” Then I remembered Mrs. Sullivan’s stern warning about involving Bridie in this kind of conversation. “But don’t worry.” I tried to sound bright. “I’m sure Miss Walcott will find another doctor who can treat Mabel and make her well again.”

“I hope so,” Bridie said. “I bet she’s feeling scared right now. I would be. It’s hard when bad things happen to people in your family and you can’t do anything to stop them.”

I knew she was thinking of her own father and brother, and again I felt guilty that I might be raising false hopes by taking her to see her cousins.

“Watch out, Molly.” Bridie yanked back the buggy as an automobile came careering toward us at an ungodly speed, making horses neigh in terror in their shafts. It was all that the cabby could do to quieten one of them. I dreaded to think what would happen if automobiles ever became commonplace. Our lives would not be safe crossing the street. But Liam, his father’s son in every way, clapped his hands and made brmm brmm noises, a delighted look on his face.

As we neared the impressive gothic structure of the Jefferson Market building with its rough stone turrets, I realized that this would be a good chance to question the firemen. It was a Sunday morning, there were no fires. They’d be bored and eager to chat.

“Bridie,” I said. “Do you think you can push the buggy back to my house by yourself from here? I just want to pop across the street to the market building.”

“But there’s no market on Sundays,” she said, eyeing the deserted area with its empty pallets and blowing straw.

“No, I don’t need to buy vegetables,” I said. “I need to have a word with a man—at the police station there,” I added, as I was sure the news would go straight back to Mrs. Sullivan. “I’m just sending a message to my husband, to remind him about Liam’s birthday party.”

Even mother-in-laws couldn’t find fault in that, could they?

I watched Bridie pushing the buggy down Patchin Place, then I crossed the street. Two firemen were polishing the bright red engine. Another was grooming one of the horses. I went up to them.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said, “but I’m wondering if your engine was called out to a fire on Eleventh Street about a month ago. Two people were burned to death in their beds.”

“Oh, that one? Pretty bad, wasn’t it?” One of the firemen glanced across at his mate. “You were at Eleventh Street, weren’t you, Abe?”

“The one at the beginning of August?” he said. “I sure was. One of the worst I’ve ever handled. Flames raging out of that place like the fires of hell. And those poor folks burned in their beds. Charred beyond recognition, they were.” He looked across at his fellow fireman. “You feel so bad when you can’t do your job and save them, don’t you?”

The other man shook his head. “I heard there was no way. Those flames weren’t natural.”

He looked at me with interest. “Relatives of yours, were they, ma’am?”

“Good friends,” I said. “And their poor little girl is left an orphan.”

“Oh, yes, the little girl,” the one called Abe said. “Ernie Howes was the one who found her. I remember him shouting out, ‘There’s a kid here. She’s unconscious. I can’t wake her.’ And we thought she’d inhaled smoke. But you know what? There wasn’t a mark on her. No soot. No burns. Nothing. It was the strangest thing. We had to get her out of that garden in a hurry as the bushes were already beginning to catch on fire. And when Ernie was carrying her out, she wakes up suddenly and doesn’t know where she is, and asks for her parents.”

“You didn’t encounter anyone else there, did you?” I asked.