In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,53

Was it possible that Emily’s kin had somehow got the name wrong? It seemed unlikely. One thing I was sure of was that Horace Lynch had known more than he was willing to tell me. There was something about Emily’s background that needed to be kept from her. And then, of course, I couldn’t help thinking about her complete collapse with a sick headache yesterday. Was there some kind of mental instability in the family—a parent in a mental institution, perhaps? I was keen to take that journey to Aunt Lydia’s hometown to find out the truth for myself, but I realized that it wasn’t a trip I could make there and back in one day. And attending the funeral was important. Perhaps I would learn something from the demeanor of those who came to it.

So I spent my free day finding out how to get to Williamstown, Massachusetts. I was surprised to find that it was not at all in the direction I had expected it to be. I had thought of Massachusetts in terms of Boston and a train ride up the coast, but it seemed that Williamstown was in the far northwest of the state and would be reached by traveling due north from New York—nowhere near Boston. It seemed as if it would be a long journey, with a change of trains in Springfield, and then I would have to find a cheap place to stay. I reminded myself that Emily was not able to pay me much—unless I could prove that she was the rightful heiress to a fortune, in which case I’d ask for more. I also reminded myself that my last client had just died without paying me a cent.

The funeral morning dawned bright and breezy—that typical April weather with white puffy clouds racing across the sky that makes one want to be outdoors. I found that the Ninth Avenue El went all the way to the northern tip of the island and spent a pleasant half hour looking down on city life as we progressed northward. The Trinity Church cemetery was one of the only cemeteries still operating within the city itself. Only those with powerful connections could be buried there, and it seemed that Poindexters owned an impressive family mausoleum. Aside from the tragic circumstance that brought us there, the cemetery was a delightful spot to be. Tree-lined walk-ways and marble statues made it a pleasant oasis and escape from the hubbub of the city. On one side, vistas of the Hudson River opened up, with great strings of barges and jaunty river steamers sailing past. And on the far Jersey shore the Palisades rose, sheer and forbidding from the river’s edge.

I was glad that my one black hat was an old-fashioned bonnet with a bow that tied under my chin, as the wind whipped fiercely and several hats were sent flying. A large crowd had gathered at the gravesite, all dressed in the height of fashion. Fanny’s mother and other female members of the family were hidden under heavy veils, and I wouldn’t have been able to recognize her had she not been approached and addressed by name. So much for watching expressions.

At least the men’s faces were clearly visible beneath their top hats. Anson Poindexter stood between two men who must have been his father and Mr. Bradley. Both of them fine figures still—carrying themselves with the grace and control expected of people of their station. I noticed Mr. Bradley intercepting well-wishers so that he could spare his wife as much of the ordeal as possible. His face was grave but pleasant as he shook hands just as he would at any party or in any reception line, and one would never have known from his face that this was his daughter’s funeral. He was a handsome man, as dark as his daughter was fair—his black hair and sideburns now tinged with gray.

My attention turned to Anson Poindexter. In contrast to his father and father-in-law, he was clearly ill at ease, and glanced around with jerky head movements. He was clearly distracted as well, having to be nudged by his father when well-wishers tried to speak to him. Did this indicate a guilty conscience, I wondered, or simply that he found the situation so uncomfortable he was looking for a way to escape? He had, after all, found every excuse to escape from his sick wife’s bedside.

Emily arrived and came to stand beside me. “Old McPherson wasn’t going to