In a gilded cage by Rhys Bowen

Author:Rhys Bowen [Rhys Bowen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Policier
ISBN: 9780312381707
Published: 2010-03-02T06:10:06+00:00

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 a constable. Saw Dr. Larson today. He says he’s sure cause of death was pneumonia. Vomiting caused by high fever. Absolutely no cause for autopsy. He was furious at the suggestion and told me he’d been the family physician for thirty years. He went on to say that Mrs. Poindexter had been ministered to most diligently by her mother who had overseen every aspect of her care. I hope this allays your suspicions. Daniel.

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