The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

“Mrs. Daniel Sullivan from New York, Mrs. Mainwaring,” I called up the stairs. “I received an urgent letter from a family in Ireland, who are trying to trace their niece. In her last letter home she wrote that she had found employment in your household.”


Mrs. Mainwaring came slowly down the stairs, taking in the cut of my clothing and the quality of my hat, I’ve no doubt. She was working out whether I was somebody of sufficient importance to talk to. In the brighter light of the foyer I could see that she was not as young as I had expected and her face was rather gaunt. Not a great beauty and with a hard look to her eyes.

“Maureen left our employ several months ago,” she said.

“Could you possibly tell me where she went?”

“I have no idea.”

I decided I had better stretch the truth a little if I wanted to learn anything more. “I should have mentioned that I am currently visiting my mother-in-law—Mrs. Sullivan of Elmsford—who is a friend of your mother’s.”

“Oh, I see.” The gaunt look softened a little. “And what connection does Maureen have to you?” Again her eyes traveled over my outfit. Not the best quality, she was thinking, but not entirely shabby either. “Is your mother-in-law with you?”

“She found the heat too oppressive to undertake the trip,” I said, not mentioning that she was currently eating ice cream at the bottom of the hill.

“Well, you’d better come in and sit down, I suppose,” she said. She turned to the girl who was hovering in the background. “Bring some iced tea through to the Blue Room, Harriet.”

“You’re most kind,” I said and followed her through to a small sitting room at the back of the house. It had a fine view of the river and was decorated with blue Chinese plates. The sofa was upholstered in blue silk and the walls painted white with blue panels inset. A pretty room, one of good taste. She indicated I should sit and I did.

“I’m sorry, you asked what connection I had to the girl,” I went on, thinking that for once the truth might be the best plan of action. “At one time I used to own a small detective agency in New York City. Naturally I gave it up when I married. However this letter arrived out of the blue a week ago. I intended to pass it on, but when I was at a gathering of one of my mother-in-law’s friends—Letitia Blackstone? You probably know her—”

She nodded. “Yes, I’ve met Mrs. Blackstone.”

“—and your name was mentioned, it seemed too fortuitous to ignore. I’d like to be able to put these peoples’ mind at rest. I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.”

“Of course,” she said, none too graciously. “And I wish I could help you more. Maureen was indeed in our employ. She was a pleasant enough girl, good looking, nice personality, hard worker, but with too much of an eye for the young men, I’m afraid. She got herself…” She paused and coughed as if the words offended her sensibilities too much to utter. “… in the family way.” And she blushed bright red, picking up the fan that hung at her belt and fanning herself. Harriet reappeared carrying a crystal jug and glasses on a tray. She put it on a Chinese lacquered side table. We watched in silence as she poured and handed each of us a glass.

“So you dismissed her,” I said as Harriet departed.

“I am not a monster, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “We sent her to the nuns. There is a convent not far away who make it their mission to take in fallen girls, such as Maureen. They allow them to stay until they have had their babies and then try to find good homes for the children. They do wonderful work and have saved many a poor girl from complete ruin.”

“What is the name of this convent?”

“The convent of the Holy Innocents, very appropriately,” she said. “I believe the sisters are of a French order. They came down from Quebec originally. I’m not Catholic myself so these things are somewhat of a mystery to me.”

“And that was the last you saw of her, when you sent her off to the nuns?”

“It was,” she said. “And I’m surprised. She was a good worker and we offered to take her back when she had fully recovered. But she never came.”

“She might have felt too ashamed,” I suggested.

Mrs. Mainwaring shook her head, “I very much doubt it. I got the impression the young woman thought a lot of herself. Ideas above her station, you know.”

“Then she might have gone off in search of a better position.”

She gave me what can only be described as a withering stare. “What better position would be open to a girl from the bogs of Ireland with no education, background, or family? Girls like that wind up with the only job open to them—and we all know what that is.” She paused to let this sink in.

“Is it not possible that she has married the young man who is the father and kept her child?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “She would not name the father, but I got the distinct impression that he was not in a position to marry her.”

“It wasn’t one of your staff then?”

“No,” she said curtly. “It was definitely not one of my staff. I would have found out and forced him to marry her.”