In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,38

I’ll have you know that I have been in correspondence with none other than the great Susan B. Anthony.”

I wasn’t quite sure who this person was but I nodded as if impressed. Sid went on, “And Gus is painting up a storm. Now she’s inspired to do a mural. She wants to portray oppressed people, starting with the children of Israel in Egypt and ending with the women of America seeking the vote.”

I tried not to smile. “And where would she do this mural?”

“That’s the problem. We need a large white wall and ours are all papered and full of knickknacks. So now we have to find a friendly white wall somewhere in New York.”

“I have one in my bedroom,” I said, “but I don’t think I’d like to wake up to the struggles of oppressed people.”

She laughed merrily. “Molly, you are so amusing. Come and have some dinner, do.”

I was tempted. My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten for quite a while. “But this is serious, Sid. I think someone has entered my house while I was away.”

“Broke in, you mean?”

“There is no sign of a break-in, but my papers have been moved.”

Sid smiled. “I’m sure you’re imagining things, my sweet. It is easy to move a few papers while our thoughts are on something else.”

I shook my head. “But the papers I had just been dealing with were no longer on top of the pile.”

“Was anything taken?” She looked concerned now.

“Not that I could see.”

“So someone entered your house without breaking any locks, disturbed your papers, and then vanished again?”

“It does sound improbable. Maybe it was only Daniel, who had a few minutes to kill and . . .” I broke off, not wanting to say this out loud.

“Amused himself by rifling through your desk? Surely not.”

“I sincerely hope not,” I said. Then I remembered Fanny telling me that she had searched through her husband’s drawers looking for the necklace he had bought. Did husbands and wives do this regularly?

Sid took my sleeve and pulled me into the house. “We can ask Gus if she spotted anybody from her studio window, but I’m sure she was too absorbed in her painting to notice a thunderbolt descending on New York. Now, for heaven’s sake, come and eat.”

This time I allowed myself to be led into the kitchen.

Thirteen

When I got home I conducted a thorough inspection of the house and found nothing missing or in any way disturbed. I now concluded that it was just possible I had sent papers flying in my hurry to leave and that my overactive imagination had done the rest. But just to make sure I penned Daniel a note, asking if he had visited my house while I was out that evening.

The next morning’s mail delivery brought the first replies from various missionary headquarters. Not one had ever employed a couple called Boswell. I decided it was time for a little more subterfuge. I put on my business two-piece, twisted my hair into a severe bun, placed a pair of spectacles on my nose to complete the bluestocking effect, and set off for the mansion of Mr. Horace Lynch, a notebook clutched in one hand. I was told by the butler that Mr. Lynch was in his study, and after a brief consultation he returned to say that he would see me.

I was taken down a hallway decorated with Greek and Roman statues and shown into an impressive wood-paneled study. Mr. Horace Lynch was sitting at a splendid mahogany desk. He was older than I had expected. I had known that he was older than Emily’s Aunt Lydia, but this man must have been well into his sixties. He was almost bald, with unattractive strands of hair combed across his pate. A gold watch-chain was stretched across an impressive paunch, and he had a face like a British bulldog, with large, sagging jowls. He did not rise as I was shown into the room.

“Well, what’s this about?” he demanded. “I’m a busy man. And if you’re angling for a subscription to some charitable organization you’re wasting your time. I never give to charities.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir. I will not waste your valuable time. I am just seeking some information for a book I’m writing.” I tried to eliminate my Irish accent and speak in a most refined manner.

“Information, huh? Of what nature?”

“I am writing a book on the history of the Christian missions in China. I am especially focusing on those missionaries