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

“Oh, yes. An influential family in Manhattan. She was head parlor maid there. Then she came into some money, and left the job to look after her mother and sister.”


I might have stayed longer, but several customers entered at once, so I thanked the shopkeeper and left. Not that I had learned anything from our little chat, I thought. Maybe I was rusty and needed to ask better questions.

I paused outside Miss Willis’s house and took a deep breath. It had been a while since I’d been a detective, prying into other people’s secrets, and it’s amazing how soon one gets out of practice. I repeated my opening remarks to myself in my head before I knocked on the door.

It was opened by a middle-aged woman with a colorless face, her hair, streaked with gray, was drawn back in a severe bun. She was dressed in black and she looked warily at me.

“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Willis,” I said, and saw her react to my knowledge of her name, “but I’m a reporter with a ladies’ magazine in Manhattan and I’m doing an article on how to keep the family safe in the modern city. I was in the corner shop and I happened to hear that your own poor sister was knocked down by a trolley car. So I wondered if I could take a moment of your time. It’s just the sort of danger we want to warn mothers about. Next time it could be their child, couldn’t it?”

“It could indeed.” She peered out past me as we heard an approaching bell. “You’ve seen the speed they go at. It’s not normal. It’s not Christian. If you ask me, I believe the electricity was sent from the devil himself. I was so glad when old Mr. Cornelius refused to have it put into his own house. I expect Mr. Marcus had it done before his father’s corpse was cold. Always one for change was Mr. Marcus.”

“They were your employers?” I asked.

“They were indeed. And I couldn’t have had a better master than old Mr. Cornelius. A proper gentleman in every sense of the word.” She suddenly seemed to come to her senses and said, “Dear me, what must you be thinking, with me leaving you standing on the doorstep. Come in, do. I’ve just made a pot of coffee and it’s warm on the hob.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.” I followed her down a little hallway smelling of furniture polish and into a spotlessly neat little back parlor. It was a product of the Victorian era, what we’d now consider old-fashioned—every inch decorated with china ornaments, potted ferns, even a wax flower arrangement under glass. The chairs were red velvet, now faded to a dull brown. I sat on one side of the fireplace while she went to fetch the coffee. On the mantel I noticed there was a photograph of the two sisters—a younger Miss Willis looking at the camera with haughty defiance, and beside her a softer, rounder-faced sister, slightly Oriental in appearance, giving the photographer a big, friendly grin.

“Here we are.” Miss Willis returned. “I baked some gingerbread this morning. It used to be Dolly’s favorite.”

“How kind. And I’m most fond of gingerbread too,” I said. “I take it that’s your sister in the photograph on the mantelpiece?”

“That’s right. When we were twenty-one.”

“Oh. You were twins,” I said.

“We were. Always did everything together. Made it my life’s mission to take care of Dolly. But I couldn’t protect her when she needed it.” She didn’t meet my eye as she handed me my coffee cup.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “What a senseless thing to have happened.”

She nodded, lips pressed together. “She was always so careful crossing the street too. She did just like we told her. At the curb halt. Eyes left. Eyes right. Eyes left again. If all clear, quick march. She used to repeat that every time she stood at the curb.”

“Maybe someone pushed her,” I said, then added quickly, “by mistake, you know. Too eager to cross the road. And she lost her balance. I remember that someone nearly knocked me over on the train platform recently. He was in such a hurry to get to the first carriage.”

“People have no manners these days,” she said.

I realized that I couldn’t ask her whether she suspected Dolly had been pushed deliberately, or whether she could think of anyone who wanted to do Dolly harm. It would be too cruel to put that thought into her head if it wasn’t already there.

“What did the tram driver say?” I asked. “Did he see Dolly step out in front of him and try to stop?”

“He says he saw nothing. A crowd of people waiting to cross the street, and suddenly someone sprawling right under his wheels. He was quite shaken up about it—probably feeling guilty because he was going too fast, if you ask me.”

“‘Sprawling’? That really does sound as if she lost her balance and fell forward, doesn’t it?” I said.