In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,79

dressed in black, of course. I realized instantly that I should also have been wearing that color and instead I was wearing my beige business suit. Not very tactful of me.

“Miss Murphy?” She was looking at me doubtfully.

“I was a friend of Fanny’s,” I said. “I came with Emily Boswell to visit her when she was sick.”

“Yes, of course.” She nodded. “How can I help you?”

“I wondered if we could have a talk. It’s of a slightly delicate nature.”

She looked surprised. “Well, let’s go into the music room, shall we? We’re not likely to be disturbed there.”

I followed her across the hall into a pretty room overlooking a back yard that was all cherry blossom and tulips. A harp and a grand piano stood in one corner. She indicated that I should take a seat and I perched myself on one of the gilt and brocade chairs.

“Now, what is this all about?” she asked.

“Mrs. Bradley, I have agonized over whether to tell you any of this, but I feel that I owe it to Fanny,” I said. “Let me ask you—were you close to your daughter?”

“Very close. She was an affectionate girl.”

“Then did she tell you that she was contemplating divorcing her husband?”

“Divorce Anson? Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever gave you that notion, girl?”

I began to suspect this had not been a good idea.

“I should tell you the truth, I suppose. I am a detective. I met Fanny at a gathering and she asked me to call on her. She told me she suspected that Anson was keeping a mistress and if that were true, she planned to divorce him. She hired me to find out the truth.”

“Good God.” Mrs. Bradley had gone very pale. “And when was this?”

“Immediately before she became ill.”

She nodded. “So you never had time to do what you were hired to do?”

“Oh yes, I carried out the investigation. It became obvious that Anson had been friendly with a dancer called Mademoiselle Fifi.”

Mrs. Bradley sighed. “My poor dear Fanny. We thought Anson was such a good match for her. So handsome and from such a good family. And instead we saddled her with a rogue with a wandering eye, just like her father.”

I looked up in surprise. She nodded, the sort of nod of understanding that happens between women. “Oh, yes. I’m afraid Mr. Bradley used to cause me all kinds of grief. Actresses, cigar girls. He thought I never knew about them, but of course I did. Wives always do, don’t they?”

“Yet you decided to stay with him?”

“I was brought up to believe in duty. I had a child and I had made my marriage vows. Besides, apart from that he was a good husband. He was generous. He’s treated me well. He adored little Fanny. Of course we were both disappointed that I couldn’t give him a son, but we’ve been a happy enough family in many ways. But Fanny was less realistic than I. A true romantic. I can see that she would not have wanted to stay with a man who didn’t adore her.” She looked up sharply. “You say you found out this before she fell ill?”

I nodded.

“And told Fanny what you had discovered?”

“I was never able to. By the time I had uncovered the truth, she was not allowed visitors.”

She was still staring at me. She put a hand up to her bosom. “My God, you don’t think . . .” I could read the rest of that sentence in her eyes.

“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “All I know is she hired me, then she fell sick and quickly died.”

“So you do think that he might have done away with her?”

I shrugged. “It’s hardly likely, is it? You were with her during her last days. You saw what she ate and drank.”

Mrs. Bradley shook her head violently, releasing a hairpin that went flying onto the parquet floor with a ping. “Everything she ate and drank was prepared by their cook and served by me. And frankly she could keep almost nothing down toward the end. She just sipped water, and a little broth. And there is no way—no way at all—I was with her all the time. I even slept sitting up in a chair beside her in case she needed me.”

“And did her husband come into the room much?”

“He came in from time to time, but like most men he had a horror of illness. He would come over to the bed, kiss her forehead, mutter some