In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,31

as they had a surfeit of priests and nuns and wouldn’t need the help of lay couples.

As I worked down the list I was pleased to note that some of these societies had their headquarters in New York—two of them were even on Fifth Avenue, practically around the corner from my own house. Those I could visit in person. It took me most of the morning, including several sheets ruined by inkblots and words that couldn’t be repeated in public, before I had my stack of letters to take to the mail.

Now all I had to do was wait. I was itching to do something else, still tempted in fact to visit Emily’s disagreeable uncle. I might well have given in to my impulse and done so, but just as I was setting out to visit the two missionary headquarters on Fifth Avenue I received another letter—this one hand-delivered by a messenger.

My dear Miss Murphy:

It was delightful to make your acquaintance yesterday. I wonder if I could prevail upon you to call on me at your earliest convenience on a matter of great urgency.

Yours sincerely,

Fanny Poindexter

P.S. Please call between the hours of ten and four.

Now this was really intriguing. I had seen Fanny’s eyes light up when she heard that I was a detective. The missionary headquarters could wait. I went straight upstairs to put on my most respectable outfit and the one good hat I had rescued from the mud, then I headed uptown to the Dakota.

Fanny was dressed in somber dove-gray this morning, which somehow accentuated the pink of her cheeks and the clear blue of her eyes.

“Miss Murphy!” She sounded breathless. “How good of you to come so quickly. Please take a seat.” I noticed I had become Miss Murphy again now that we were discussing business. I followed suit.

“Thank you, Mrs. Poindexter.”

I sat. Coffee was served.

I waited. We discussed the weather.

“You have a problem, Mrs. Poindexter?” I said at last. “Something you think I could help you with professionally?”

She was twisting a curl around her finger like a little girl. “I believe that my husband keeps a mistress, Miss Murphy,” she blurted out.

“What makes you think this?”

“Silly lies that he has told me. Once he claimed that he was dining with Bella’s husband on a business matter, and later I found out from Bella that she and her husband had been out of town that night. And all those trips to oversee the building of our new home . . . surely no building needs to be overseen that frequently. And the crowning piece of damning evidence. I saw a piece of jewelry in Cartier’s and asked about it and found that such a piece was already purchased by my husband. But I never received it, Miss Murphy.”

“Maybe he is saving it for a special occasion and plans to surprise you with it?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m ashamed to say that I searched the places he’d be likely to hide it and it wasn’t there.”

“At the bank, maybe?”

She shook her head again, violently this time. “No, I’m sure, absolutely sure it wasn’t meant for me. Anson isn’t the sort of person who would buy a piece of jewelry to surprise me with later. He buys me presents for my birthday but apart from that he has never surprised me with flowers even. He does his duty but no more.”

“How does he treat you? Is he not affectionate?”

“At the beginning of our marriage he was—well, to put it bluntly, rather keen in bedroom matters. But I believe that had more to do with wanting an heir than with me. And now over two years have gone by and I have failed to produce that heir, and I noticed his interest waning. Recently he scarcely notices my presence and only comes to my bedroom when he is drunk.”

“Dear me,” I said. “Have you confronted him with any of this?”

“Oh no,” she said. “I don’t want him to have any inkling that I suspect him. I want you to provide the evidence, and if it’s true, I plan to divorce him.”

“Divorce him? Give up all this?”

“Miss Murphy, the money is from my family. Without me Anson would be living in a dreary side street with no hope of a home on Long Island.” She leaned closer to me. “To be honest with you, this match was arranged by our families when we were still children. Anson is—well, a very attractive man. What sixteen-year-old would not be excited at