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

“Just not possible,” Daniel said. “According to his brother’s account, Edward was allowed to walk around the grounds, supervised, of course. Then, without warning, he climbed up on a parapet and threw himself off a footbridge onto the rocks below. The doctor with him managed to climb down instantly, but Edward had suffered massive head injuries and was already dead.”


“Oh, I see,” I said. “And there could be no mistake? The doctor actually saw his body?”

“So did several medical workers who came to help bring him up from the creek bed. And so did his brother when he was lying in his casket.”

“Oh.” I felt like a deflating balloon. “But it all fitted together so perfectly. Edward Deveraux was the one thing that all these people had in common. When did this happen?”

“This spring.”

I moved aside as a pushcart came rattling over the cobbles, its owner shouting out in Italian and the enticing smell of roasting corn on the cob reached my nostrils.

“That must mean that his death propelled someone else to seek revenge on his behalf, Daniel,” I said, formulating the idea in my head as I spoke. “Someone felt he was wrongly accused or shouldn’t have been sent to an institution, and he now wants to punish those who put Edward away. What impression did you get of his brother, Marcus?”

“Exactly the one I had when I interviewed him after his father’s death all those years ago. Pompous. Arrogant. Patronizing, although he couldn’t quite be as rude to a police captain as he was to a young detective.”

“And what were his feelings for his brother, do you think?”

“If you’re speculating that he might have committed the murders on his brother’s behalf, then you would be quite wrong. He clearly despised his brother. He called him a useless piece of flotsam. He said the family trust had been paying for the private institution all these years.… ‘Just to keep that poor excuse for a man alive,’ as he put it.”

Two constables came out of the front door, putting on helmets as they stepped into the rain. They saluted Daniel, murmuring “Good day, sir,” as they passed. Daniel glanced up at the building. “I must get back. I don’t want to annoy the old man further. We’ll discuss this tonight, Molly.” His hand on my shoulder squeezed tightly. “And believe me, I’m grateful for all that you’ve done. We must be getting closer to an answer. As you say, it has to be someone connected to Deveraux in some way.” Then he kissed me on the cheek and ran back up the steps and into the building.

I made my way home.

“Just look at you now. Like a drowned rat,” Mrs. Sullivan commented as I came in the door.

“It was too windy for my brolly to be of any use,” I said, removing a sodden hat from my wet hair.

“Take those wet things off, and I’ve warmed some of that stew for you,” my mother-in-law said in a firm voice. I did as she instructed, then came into a kitchen where a steaming bowl of stew awaited me. I ate, gratefully. Afterward I took her advice again and went up for a rest. On my way, I peeked in at Liam, who was sleeping in his crib, his face angelic and his impossibly long eyelashes sweeping his cheek. I stood there, looking down at him, overwhelmed with love and then feeling guilty that I had spent so little time with him recently. I tiptoed out and lay on my own bed, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my head was too full of disturbing thoughts. Edward Deveraux had been described as a lonely little boy, stuck at home with a tutor rather than being allowed to go to school and play with other boys. His mother, who spoiled him, had died. His brother despised him and was glad he was dead. So who cared enough about him to seek revenge on his behalf? Then a picture came into my mind—a thin, pale face with hollow eyes, not unlike the way Edward Deveraux had been described. Another lonely misfit … Terrence Daughtery.

Had he been closer to Edward than he chose to admit? He had said that Edward did experiments with animals and insects. Had Terrence shown him how to do those things? Had they done them together—two similar lonely young men? Or had he used Edward as an excuse to create a string of murders, all seeming to be tied to Edward himself … to accomplish the one murder he wanted—that of his mother? I toyed with this idea. We had discussed before the possibility that the random string of murders was to hide the one murder that mattered. Terrence seemed desolate and grieving after his mother’s death. But I had been told she was overbearing. What if he had finally had enough of being dominated and planned her demise? Of course he would feel tremendous remorse afterward, or Terrence Daughtery might just be a very good actor, feigning grief so that nobody ever suspected him.