In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,51

decay, to put it bluntly, I suppose. I saw Martha visibly recoil.

“It’s all right. You really don’t have to be here with me,” I said. “If you could just show me where to turn on the electric light.”

She did, and harsh yellow light flooded the room.

“I’ll only be a minute,” I said. “I’ll turn the light off again when I’m done.”

I moved quickly, pretending to search around the floor, not sure whether she was watching me or not. When I couldn’t see her I darted into the dressing room and quickly dipped a piece of cotton wool I had brought with me into the stomach mixture. I was just about to drop it into the greaseproof pouch I had made for it when a booming voice demanded.

“What is going on in here?” Mrs. Bradley appeared in the doorway.

“Miss Murphy?” she demanded, her eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. I came back because I thought I had dropped my glove when we came to pay our last respects to Fanny yesterday.” I spoke slowly, trying desperately to come up with a good reason for being in her dressing room. “And Emily felt faint yesterday so I went into the bathroom to wet my handkerchief for her.”

“She doesn’t carry smelling salts like any normal woman?” Mrs. Bradley still didn’t look entirely convinced.

“I don’t know. I just acted on the spur of the moment. I always find that cold water works wonderfully well for me.” I closed my purse and moved quickly toward the door. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you. I must have dropped my glove somewhere else. On the train, perhaps. I’m always losing gloves.”

I came out into the hall. Mrs. Bradley stood with arms folded across an impressive bosom, watching me.

“Martha was telling me that poor Fanny just couldn’t keep any food down toward the end and that you fed her yourself from a spoon.”

She nodded curtly. “I did everything I could to keep her alive. It wasn’t enough.”

“I’m so very sorry,” I muttered again, feeling like an awful fraud and completely out of place in this house of sorrow. “Please excuse me. And if you could please let me know when the funeral will be held, I should certainly like to attend.”

“Of course.” She nodded again.

Then I made a hasty retreat.

Seventeen

On Tuesday morning I received a message notifying me that the funeral was set for Thursday at the Trinity Church Cemetery on Riverside Drive. I was still waiting for news from Daniel. If the doctor was absolutely sure that Fanny died of complications of influenza and that there was no chance of foul play being involved, then I could get on with my life and take the next step in Emily’s case—which would be to go to Massachusetts and the area where her Aunt Lydia was born. She might not have any surviving family members, but surely someone there would have known the family well enough to have heard of cousins who went out to China—or not, as the case may be.

At noon Sid came to my door and literally dragged me across to their house. “Gus insisted. You have to come and see our latest achievements,” she said. I allowed myself to be dragged, then followed her up two flights of stairs to Gus’s studio on the top floor.

“There, what do you think?” Sid demanded with obvious pride in her voice. “Isn’t it a masterpiece?”

As with all of Gus’s paintings I didn’t quite share her enthusiasm.

“It’s interesting,” I said, not wanting to ask what it was depicting. “Very powerful.” It was indeed powerful, with great splashes of red and purple and what looked like a smashed boiled egg in the middle with ants crawling out of it.

“It is womankind, shaking off the shackles of oppression and domination to assume our rightful place in society,” she said. “And has Sid told you about her latest triumph?”

“No.”

Sid shrugged modestly.

“She has been asked by none other than Susan B. Anthony to write for The Revolution.”

“Excellent,” I said, not having a clear idea of either of these. “I congratulate you both.”

“Anything to make society in general more aware of our cause,” Sid said.

I then allowed myself to be persuaded to stay for what they called a “peasant lunch” of crusty bread, smelly cheeses, olives, and onions, washed down with a glass of Chianti, and came home again feeling rather mellow.

A note was waiting for me in my mailbox. Miss Molly Murphy. By Hand.

Inside was Daniel’s bold black scrawl.

Molly. I’m sending this with