In a Gilded Cage (6 page)

She nodded. “I know, isn’t it?”

“So where did your parents come from?”

“Massachusetts, I believe. As I said, Aunt Lydia, who could have told me these things, died when I was too young to ask the right questions, and Uncle Horace showed no interest in me whatever.”

“Your parents were your aunt’s relatives, then?”

“I believe my mother and Aunt Lydia were second cousins, or second cousins once removed. Not close relatives, at any rate.”

“And what was your aunt’s maiden name?”

“I’m afraid I don’t even know that.”

“That should be easy enough to discover. She died when you were five. There will be a death certificate.”

“Of course.”

“So I could go to her birthplace and check for other relatives.”

“I understood that there were none. They took me in because they were my only surviving kin. At least that’s what Uncle Horace said once.” She saw my look and gave me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry. I knew this was not going to be easy.”

“I love a good challenge,” I said. “And it can’t be that hard. After all, how many missionaries could there be in China at one time? Maybe twenty or thirty at the most. I know,” I perked up as a bright idea hit me, “we could start with that couple who came into your shop. You said they didn’t know your parents, but you also mentioned that they had been in China for twenty years. I presume you are older than twenty—”

“Yes, I’m twenty-five.”

“So it’s quite possible that they didn’t arrive until after your parents had died.”

“That’s quite possible,” Emily bucked up at this.

“At any rate, they could give us details of the various denominations of missionaries who were working in China twenty years ago, then all I’d have to do is contact their headquarters.”

“Molly, you’re a genius.” Emily beamed at me. “I’m so glad I came to you. But as to your fees . . .”

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to say that I’d work for nothing, but the other, more practical part reminded me that I had to eat and that this case would be occupying my time as well as costing me money in transportation and stamps. “How about we start with twenty dollars,” I said, “and if I find that I need to travel or take considerably more time, then we can decide how far you wish to proceed.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Emily said. “But twenty dollars—I’m sure you usually charge much more.”

“We working women have to stick together.” I smiled at her. “So what information do you have on the couple who came into your shop?”

“It was about three weeks ago. They were called Hinchley and they were only passing through New York. They were staying at a hotel.”

“Do you know which one?”

“We filled out a prescription for them, so it will be on file at the shop.”

“Then we can look it up after lunch.”

“It will have to be surreptitiously,” Emily said. “Mr. McPherson is sure to make a fuss if he sees me nosing through his prescription files.”

“Then I had better not accompany you. He was clearly annoyed by my presence the first time,” I said. “Drop me a note with the name of the hotel and then I can go to work.”

“Of course. I’ll send it out in the afternoon post, with Old McPherson’s stamp on it too.” She laughed. “Dear me, that doesn’t sound like the child of dead missionaries, does it? But he really doesn’t have to be so unpleasant.”

“Is he equally nasty to Ned?”

“Marginally less so, I’d say. But Ned sticks it out because he is learning a lot. Whatever his temperament, Mr. McPherson certainly knows his stuff. He is a whiz at compounding.”

“Compounding?”

“Mixing the various remedies to exactly the right proportions. It’s a delicate business, as you can well imagine. Some of our cures contain deadly elements that can kill in larger doses. A druggist has to be extremely precise.”

The waitress came to take our plates and I insisted on paying the bill.

“But I’m the one who is hiring you,” Emily protested.

“You’ve already hired me and now we’re on my time.” I laughed. “So when should we arrange to meet again? Do you have free time at the weekend? I should have something to report by then.”

“Usually I have alternate Saturday afternoons free,” Emily said. “But Mrs. Hartmann, the other counter assistant, who has been with the firm for years, is out sick with some kind of grippe, so I will be doing her Saturday duty. But Sunday afternoon I’ll be free.”

“What about Ned? Doesn’t he have priority over your free time?”

“He goes to see his mother on Sundays. She lives in Brooklyn and is not in the best of health. He’s a most devoted son. He gives her a generous portion of his earnings.”

“So will you be required to have her in your home when you marry?” I asked.

She blushed again. “He hasn’t yet officially proposed to me. He wants to establish himself in his career first, so I know we may have a long wait. Oh, but he is worth it, Molly. I know he’s bound for great things.”

“And in the meantime,” I said, “what about you? I understand from Gus that you were one of the most gifted students in your class. Can you also not further your education in some way like Ned?”

“There is little point if Mr. McPherson won’t even let me into the dispensatory room. One cannot learn pharmacy skills by reading and observing. Ned provides me with books to read and notes from his lectures, so I am quite well informed, but there it must probably rest.”

“That’s a shame,” I said.

“Life is unfair. I’ve come to accept it,” she said.

With that we parted company.

Seven

E
mily’s note arrived for me in the mail the next morning. The hotel was on Broadway, not too far from McPherson’s. I took the El again, noting as the train made its way north that spring had indeed finally come to New York City. Windows on the second floor, beside the track, were open, and bedding was laid out to air. Some windows even sported window boxes with a bright splash of daffodils or tulips. Women below were beating rugs, scrubbing steps. It was spring cleaning time. Which reminded me that I should be doing a little of the same myself. I put that thought aside. I had done enough housekeeping during my formative years to cure me of any desire for extra tasks. My mother had died when I was fourteen and I had taken care of three untidy brothers and an equally untidy, ungrateful father. I resolved to ask Sid about her Italian window washer.

The train stopped at Seventy-third and I alighted. The hotel was a block to the north on Broadway. As I reached the corner, I paused to admire the imposing new building called the Ansonia, now almost complete. In fact, I stood like the little country bumpkin that I still was, staring up as its amazing seventeen floors rose up into the sky, all richly decorated in carved stone and tipped with turrets like a French chateau. I understood that it was to be an apartment hotel, a temporary home for the very well-to-do. If all the hotels around here were of that class, then my missionary couple were not the humble Christian folk I had taken them for.

Of course, when I located the Park View hotel, not a stone’s throw from the glorious Ansonia building, I had to take back my uncharitable thoughts. It was a severely simple establishment with a plain brick façade and only a sign over the front door advertising its presence. And “Park View” was definitely a misnomer. It was, at most, five stories high, and could only have a glimpse of the park from its roof.

I opened the door and found myself in a dreary lounge with a couple of faded armchairs, a brass spittoon, and a tired aspidistra. The woman who appeared at the sound of my feet was the sort of harridan who seems to flourish as a landlady.

“Yes?” she said, with little warmth in her voice. “Can I help you?”

“You had a couple to stay here a few weeks ago. A Mr. and Mrs. Hinchley. They were missionaries from China.”

Her face softened just a little. “Ah, yes. Lovely, refined Christian people they were, too. They held a prayer service after dinner one night.”

“I need to contact them rather urgently,” I said. “I wondered if they gave you their home address.”

“And what would this be about, miss?” she asked.

“I’m here on behalf of a dear friend,” I said. “Her parents were missionaries in China at the same time as the Hinchleys. She has questions she needs to ask them.”

“Fellow missionaries from China, were they?” I had clearly won her over. “I’d really like to help you, miss, but I’m afraid I can’t. When they left this establishment they were going to take the train clear across the country, prior to sailing for China again out of Vancouver.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I’m sorry, miss. And sorry for your friend, too.”

“Would you happen to know which of the missionary societies they were with?”

“I’m afraid not. In this line of work you don’t get a lot of time for idle chatter. They were honest, sober folks and they paid their bill. That’s usually good enough for me.”

I bade her good day and came out of the hotel feeling distinctly annoyed. Back to square one. I had hoped to show up on Emily’s doorstep on Sunday with her whole case solved. She had been so impressed with my profession that I wanted to live up to her expectations. I had to admit now that I was being unrealistic. My experience as a detective has always been one step forward and two back, mostly paths that lead nowhere, and failure always a possibility.

So what was my next line of inquiry? Find out the names of all the missionary societies and get in touch with them. I wasn’t sure how to do this, having never been inside a Protestant church in my life. Would their pastors know of such things? At least it would be a place to start. I walked down Broadway looking for a church. It had always struck me that there was a church on every street corner in New York, but of course when I wanted one, I walked several blocks without seeing a spire.

I was becoming increasingly irritable when I passed a bookshop and paused to look in its window. I have always had a love of books. In fact if I ever came into money, the first thing I’d buy would be a grand library for myself. I gazed with envy at the rich leather covers and wondered if I dared go inside and treat myself. Then I decided that maybe those serving as missionaries in China might sometimes write their memoirs. At least it would be a start. I went inside, savoring that wonderful dusty, leathery smell that lingers around good books.

“May I help you, miss?” an elderly gentleman asked, appearing from behind a counter at the back of the store.

“I was wondering about missionaries in China,” I said. “Do you know if any accounts have been written of their lives there?”

“Of course there is the new book about the massacre,” he said. “We received the first copies only a few weeks ago and it’s been flying off the shelves ever since.”

“Massacre?”

“The Boxer Rebellion. You didn’t hear about it? Shocking it was. They were all killed. Every one of them. Men, women, children. The whole city was abuzz about it. It can’t have been much more than two years ago.”

“I’m afraid I was in Ireland two years ago and the only shocking events I heard about were the battles in the Boer War in South Africa where our own boys were fighting,” I said.

“Well, it was a terrible tragedy and it’s all documented here in this little book.” He went to a shelf and brought down a slim volume with a red paper cover. “I only hope the brutal events described therein won’t be too much for your delicate sensibilities.”

I was tempted to say that I didn’t possess any delicate sensibilities that I knew of. Instead I thanked him kindly, parted with twenty cents, and refused his offer to wrap the book in brown paper. I carried it out into the light and studied the cover.
The Tragedy of Paotingfu,
by Isaac C. Ketler.
An authentic story of the Life, Services and Sacrifices of the Presbyterian, Congregational and China Inland Missionaries who Suffered Martyrdom at Paotingfu, China, June 30 and July 1, 1900.
So now I knew that these particular missionaries were Presbyterian and I had an author’s name—presumably one of the party had survived to write the tale. What’s more, the publisher was one Fleming H. Revell, of New York, Chicago, and Toronto. After an hour or so’s diligent sleuthing, I had located their New York office and came away with an address in Pennsylvania for the author. I wrote to him and explained my plight—not mentioning I was a detective, of course. In fact my letter leaned toward the sentimental—my poor dear friend, orphaned at birth, raised knowing nothing of her parents, no mementos, no photographs, etcetera. Any help he could give me would be greatly appreciated—headquarters of missionary societies, other missionaries who might have been in China twenty-five years ago. I sealed the envelope and mailed the letter, feeling rather proud of myself.

My next task should be to find her Aunt Lydia’s maiden name. I was tempted to pay a visit to the mansion on East Seventy-ninth where Horace Lynch still lived and see if the direct approach might work. Perhaps one simple question and answer would reveal the truth about Emily’s background. But then I dismissed this idea. If there were any kind of underhand business, if he had indeed stolen her inheritance, then I should tread very carefully. Best to thoroughly check the Chinese connection first. It was just possible that everything Emily had been told was true but not completely accurate—maybe her parents had been in another Asian country rather than China. Maybe they had died before the Hinchleys arrived. And maybe Horace Lynch was so unpleasant to her simply because he objected to spending his precious money on someone who wasn’t a close relative, or on the education of a female.

Lots of things to think about, then. I went to City Hall, where they produced Lydia Lynch’s death certificate. From this I found that her maiden name was Johnson and that she had been born in Williamstown, Massachusetts. So a train ride to New England might be in my future. For the present, all I could do was wait for an answer to my letter from Isaac C. Ketler.

Unfortunately it is not within my temperament to wait patiently; nor can I sit idly. I had mailed the letter on Wednesday, and it should have arrived in Pennsylvania the next morning, and if Mr. Ketler had been at all diligent, I should have expected a response by Friday. When none had come with the morning post, I decided I should at least let Emily know that I had been working on her behalf. So I presented myself at the pharmacy and waited for Emily to emerge for her lunch hour. When she hadn’t appeared by ten minutes past one, I dared to enter that establishment to find out what was keeping her. At the sound of the bell jangling she appeared in person from the back room, tying the ribbons on a severe black bonnet of the type often worn by the women in the Salvation Army.

“Holy mother of God, you’re not thinking of following your parents into good works, are you?” I said jovially. “You look like a Salvation Army lass.”

She didn’t smile, making me realize that I had spoken rather too hastily to someone with whom I had such recent acquaintanceship.

“Oh, Molly.” She sounded flustered. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad moment. We’re just about to shut up shop and go to a funeral.”

“A funeral. I’m sorry. Was it a friend who passed away?”

“My fellow employee, Mrs. Hartmann. You remember, I had just visited her when you came to the store the other day.”

I nodded. “You said she was suffering from some kind of grippe, but she was improving.”

“She was. At least, she seemed to be.” Emily’s voice cracked. “But she must have had a relapse. Or perhaps she put on a good front for me, because she died the very next day. Such a nice woman too. A widow from Germany. Kind. Highly educated and had worked for Mr. McPherson for years.” She lowered her voice and glanced into the back room. “He’s very cut up about it. Ned’s with him now, helping him get ready.”

So Mr. McPherson did have a heart after all.

“I’ll leave you then,” I said. “My condolences. Should I stop by on Sunday to give you my report, do you think?”

“Yes, yes. By all means,” she said, but I could tell she was still distracted. At that moment Mr. McPherson emerged from the back of the shop, with Ned following at a respectful distance.

“Are you ready to shut up shop, Miss Boswell?” Mr. McPherson called. He looked positively hollow-eyed and his face was a mask of distress.

“Very good, sir,” Emily said.

“This way, Mr. McPherson, sir,” Ned led him forward. “Shall I go and find us a cab?”

I beat a hasty retreat.