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

I could have told her it was none of her business, but there was no sense in antagonizing her. Besides, she was being good to us, doing virtually all the cleaning and cooking, when at home she had a maid who did such things for her.

“I went to visit an old woman I’d promised to see,” I said. “She lives all alone since her sister died.” I’d found it was always best to stay as close to the truth as possible.

She followed me down the hall after I had hung up my hat and put my gloves on the hallstand. “If it was a social call you could have taken Bridie with you. Old people are often cheered by the sight of a young face.”

I turned then to look at her, forcing myself to bite my tongue. “It was a call I’d told Daniel I’d make,” I said.

She stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. “From my experience it doesn’t pay to try to get involved in your husband’s work,” she said. “It’s not a job for a woman, especially not for a young mother like yourself.”

“I’m not getting involved in his work,” I replied testily. My feet were hurting me, my side was aching, and my head was starting to throb again. “Chatting with a lonely old lady is something a woman can do better than a man.”

“I see.” She said no more but went back to peeling potatoes. I had no doubt she’d have something to say to Daniel about my expedition. I just hoped that wouldn’t make him decide to forbid me any future visits. Not that I’d probably make any difference to his investigation. Miss Willis had not told me anything that gave new insight into what had happened to Dolly—except that the new master of the household where she’d worked had dismissed her after his father died. But what that had to do with a simple old lady being pushed under a trolley car, I failed to see.

When Daniel came home that evening, I waited until we had eaten dinner and were alone in the back parlor before I gave him a full report.

“If she had been unjustly fired from her job, then surely she would have been the one pushing someone under a trolley,” he said, half joking. “Besides, she wasn’t unjustly fired. She inherited a legacy. I suspect her new employer was just being kind—giving her a little nudge, knowing that she didn’t need to work anymore and suspecting she was only staying on out of loyalty.”

“You could be right,” I said, having not considered this.

“Old ladies always like something to complain about,” he said.

“You’re right about that too,” I said, thinking that his mother would no doubt tell him I should not go running around. He smiled, reading my thoughts.

“And I’ve something to report to you and your friends. They exhumed the bodies today. They were badly charred. I don’t know if a pathologist can glean anything from such a body, but I will tell you one thing. Photographs were taken at the scene, and also when the bodies were removed to the morgue. They were both lying on their backs with their arms crossed over their chests, as if laid out for a burial. They were definitely either dead or heavily drugged before that fire started.”

“And there was no obvious sign of how they died?” I asked. “No stab wound or bullet?”

“It wouldn’t be easy to tell that definitely just from observation,” he said. “Maybe when the autopsy is conducted we might find evidence of stabbing or a bullet, but I think not.”

“And suffocation?” I asked. “If someone had put a pillow over their heads as they slept?”

He looked at me again with amusement. “I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to suffocate somebody, but you have to be strong. They would wake up and struggle.”

“So a young girl like Mabel would definitely not have been strong enough to do that.”

“I think it’s unlikely. But she could have administered some kind of poison—although I can’t surmise what that would have been, when the bodies showed no signs of distress. Something quick-acting like cyanide, and the body convulses in agony. Something like arsenic and there would have been prior distress, vomiting…” He paused again. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with my wife. It’s not exactly normal drawing room talk, is it?”

“You know that not many wives can help their husbands with insights into a difficult case,” I said. “And you’d be bored if I related everything Liam had done all day and my annoyance with the dressmaker.”

He laughed, and I noticed how much I liked the way his eyes crinkled at the sides when the lines of worry were removed from his face.

“A sleeping draft would be the most obvious,” I said, as this new thought struck me. “If her parents had such a preparation on hand, she could have mixed it into their evening hot milk.”