The Edge of Dreams (12 page)

“But their daughter managed to escape,” Gus said. “That was a small miracle, I suppose. Was she an only child?”

“She was.”

“And you said that Susan was an only child of a rich banking family,” I interjected, without really thinking whether it was wise. It’s often been a fault of mine. I say something when it comes into my head, without thinking of the consequences. “Does that mean that Mabel is now a rich heiress?”

Mrs. Hamilton looked startled. “Well, yes. I presume that she is. We have been so engulfed in our mourning that the question of money has not arisen.”

I could tell immediately what she was thinking—that I had been implying they only took in their niece in the hope of financial gain, because she was an heiress—but that wasn’t what I’d meant at all.

“You said you brought Mabel to live with you,” Sid said. “That was a kind gesture.”

“It was either us or her grandfather, and he keeps a bachelor establishment after the death of his wife,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “And Mabel was such a poor, devastated little thing that we couldn’t say no. I must say she’s no trouble at all, compared to the boys. She’s quiet and retiring like her mother was. Hardly says a word unless spoken to. But then after what she has been through, it’s little wonder.”

She broke off and there was a moment of silence in the room. The day was cooler than yesterday, with a brisk breeze that came in now though the open window, making the leaves on the potted palm rattle.

“So how do you think that we can be of help to you, Mrs. Hamilton?” Sid asked cautiously. “You said you came about your niece.”

Mrs. Hamilton nodded. “She was found sometime after the fire, curled up in the back garden, apparently asleep, but unharmed. When she came to herself she had no memory of what had happened. Didn’t know there had been a fire. Asked about her mother and father.”

“It must have been the shock of what she went through trying to get out,” I said.

“That was another strange thing,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “She showed no signs of having been in a fire. Two of the servants also made it out safely, but they were blackened, with minor burns and singed hair. The third servant was not so lucky. Her room was in the attic, above Susan and Bertie’s room. They found her charred body later.”

“Very sad,” I said. “We also lost a servant girl in a house fire earlier this year.”

“But to get back to Mabel,” Sid said. “She was found unharmed in the back garden with no memory of what had happened.”

“That’s correct. The police have been investigating the fire, naturally, and they find it suspicious that she came out of it quite unscathed.”

“Do they suspect that she might have started it?” I asked.

She took a deep breath, then nodded. “That is certainly what the lieutenant has been hinting. An odious young man, keen on promotion, if you ask me.”

“Did Mabel dislike her parents? Had she any reason for wanting to do away with them?” I asked.

Mrs. Hamilton shook her head again. “She is a sweet child. There is no guile about her and she adored her parents. It makes no sense at all.”

“Had she shown any signs of mental instability before the fire?” Gus asked carefully. “It has been noticed that puberty can bring on such things.”

“Again I have to reiterate what I said. She is a sweet child, a little shy, but completely lovable.”

“Mrs. Hamilton,” I said, the detective in me now taking over. “You said she remembers nothing of the fire. Would you say that is true, or is that just what she is claiming? Has she ever tried to bluff or cover up something she has done in the past?”

“No, no.” She was animated and sounded distressed now. “I told you. There is no guile in her. Now, one of my boys—Winslow—he is a master at coming up with excuses and tall tales to cover up his transgressions. You know—the dog managed to open the cookie jar and stole the cookies. That kind of thing. But I can see through them right away. I’m sure I’d be able to tell if Mabel was lying. But her grief on finding out that her parents were dead and her home burned was real, I’d swear to that.”

“So why did you come to us, Mrs. Hamilton?” Sid asked. She was never one for preamble and liked to get to the point.

“It was what Miss Walcott said yesterday, about her study into the interpretation of dreams,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “You see, since the fire Mabel has been plagued with the most awful nightmares. She wakes screaming. I once found her cowering in the corner of her room shouting, ‘Keep away from me. Don’t touch me.’”

“I see,” Gus said. “So you believe that in her subconscious mind she remembers what happened that night, and it expresses itself in her dreams?”

“That’s exactly what I believe,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “The possibility only occurred to me when you were speaking last night, but it must be true. So I wondered if you’d come and see her. Let her tell you the content of these nightmares, and then see if we can come to the truth.”

Gus glanced at Sid before she spoke. “Mrs. Hamilton, I should tell you that I’m not a qualified alienist. I have only touched the surface of the study of dreams. Maybe you should look for a true specialist.”

“But, Gus,” Sid interrupted. “You have said yourself that America is far behind in the study of mental illness. I am sure there is nobody over here who has made a study of dream interpretation. You told me that American doctors scorned Professor Freud’s theories.”

“That’s true,” Gus agreed. “Very well, Mrs. Hamilton. I will come and see Mabel. I will do what I can.”

Mrs. Hamilton reached out and took Gus’s hand. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough. The thought of that sweet child locked away in a prison or mental institution by an overzealous policeman is breaking my heart.”

“I presume a thorough investigation of the fire has been carried out,” I said. “Do they know how and where it started? Because there is something that strikes me as odd.”

“And what is that, Mrs. Sullivan?” Mrs. Hamilton asked.

“That the parents were burned to death in their beds. Why did they not at least try to escape?”

The other three women around the table stared at me suspiciously.

“What are you suggesting, Mrs. Sullivan?” Mrs. Hamilton said. “The fire started in their bedroom. They did not have electricity in their house. The windows were open, and it is thought that a breeze blew over an oil lamp on the bedside table.”

“They slept with the lamp still burning?”

She nodded. “Susan did not sleep well on hot nights. Sometimes she liked to get up and read by the window.”

“Even so,” I went on. “If a fire started in the room of a normal, healthy person, they would be woken by the smell of burning and the crackle of flames before the fire had a chance to engulf the room. So why were they both found lying in their beds? Do you know if they took sleeping drafts to help them sleep on hot nights?”

Mrs. Hamilton shook her head. “I’m sure they did not.”

“And was an autopsy ever conducted?”

She looked confused now. “An autopsy? Mrs. Sullivan, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law were burned to death. Their charred bodies were found lying on the iron frames of their beds. It was quite clear what killed them.”

I wonder,
I thought, but did not say.

Eleven

“Well, that’s a rum do, isn’t it?” Sid asked, as she returned from escorting Mrs. Hamilton to the front door. “Poor woman. Poor child. I hope you’ll be able to help her, Gus.”

“I hope so too,” Gus said. “Now it’s come to an actual case, I’m questioning my skills and wondering if we shouldn’t write directly to Professor Freud to ask for his recommendation. He may know of a qualified alienist who is working in America.” She looked from Sid to me. “This is something really serious we’re dealing with. Not just the sanity of a young girl, but a possible criminal case. It’s not for my amusement any longer.”

Sid turned to me. “What do you think, Molly? You clearly read more into this from the beginning, with the questions you asked. You think it’s possible that Mabel killed her parents, don’t you?”

“I haven’t met the girl yet, so I can’t make a judgment on that,” I said as I rescued the sugar bowl from my overcurious son. “But I do think there is something fishy about the whole thing. The parents burned to death in their beds while the girl is found completely unharmed and apparently asleep in the garden below. It doesn’t add up, does it?” I put Liam down on the tiled floor and he promptly began to totter toward the open back door. I saw what Mrs. Hamilton had meant about boys being a handful. I leaped up and grabbed him before he could go down the step headfirst.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” I said. “There was a reason why those people didn’t leave their bed when the fire started. I’ll talk to Daniel and see if he can look into it.”

“And will you come with us when we go to see the girl?” Gus asked. “With your background as a detective you might pick up things that neither Sid nor I would find suspicious.”

“I’d very much like to,” I said. “I admit to being curious. Although it might be difficult now that Daniel’s mother is arriving.”

“Au contraire,”
Sid said. “You’ll have your babysitter, and you’ll need to be shopping for the hundred and one things she’ll point out that you lack.”

I laughed. “You’re even more devious than I am. But it is true. She will be able to look after Liam—if anyone can,” I added as he squirmed to get down from my lap and almost launched himself into midair. “Speaking of which”—I stood up with him—“I had better get back to my task across the street. And I’ll need to do something about food for tonight. There’s nothing in the larder yet, and I’ve all my staples back at the apartment. Let’s hope Daniel has had time to pack and arrange for everything to be delivered. But I’ll still need something for tonight’s dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast.”

“Give me a list of what you need right now,” Sid said. “I’ll pop down to Gambarelli’s and have them deliver.”

“Delivered?” I said. “Well, just this once, I suppose.” I laughed. “I better not get into the habit of having things delivered. Daniel will think I’ve picked up expensive habits in Paris.”

Then I had another thought. “Actually, why don’t I go to Gambarelli’s? It’s only just across the square. A short walk and fresh air might do me good.”

“Molly, it’s no trouble,” Sid said. “We’re here at your disposal, you know.”

“Then could I ask another big favor, and have you dust the living room before my mother-in-law arrives? She is bound to notice every particle of dust. I just tried, and the act of reaching up to dust is still quite painful for me.”

“Of course it is,” Sid said. “We’re happy to do it, and the shopping too.”

“I’m sure a short stroll will be good for me, and it’s a lovely day,” I said. “But I will take your advice and have them deliver, just this once.”

“One of us should come with you,” Gus said. “In case you suddenly feel faint.”

I smiled. “I’d rather you kept an eye on my son, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be just fine. And if I feel wobbly on my pins, I’ll just turn around and come home.”

I put Liam down for a nap, then set out down Patchin Place. The warm sun on my shoulders felt good and I tried to breathe in the smell of Mrs. Konigsberg’s roses before another jolt of pain shot through me. I’d just have to accept the fact that I could not make myself heal quickly just by willing it. Maybe I had been foolish to go out for this walk. But as I reached the end of Patchin Place and headed for Washington Square, my confidence returned and I strode out quite briskly.

Gambarelli’s was just on the far side of MacDougal Street. As I went into the dark interior of the store, the familiar smell of spices and pickles and garlic sausages rose to greet me. I handed Mr. Gambarelli my list and paid the bill. “My boy is just out on an errand, but I will send him straight to you when he returns,” he said. “It is good to see you back in the neighborhood, Mrs. Sullivan.”

I realized then that everyone must have heard about the fire that destroyed our house.

“Thank you,” I replied and found myself blinking back tears.

As I headed back toward the square I had to negotiate gaggles of university students, loitering on the street corner or coming out of the bookshop. Their attire ranged from smart blazers and boater hats to the sort of European student costume I had seen in Paris—the baggy pants and a worn jacket with patched elbows, and on the head a cloth cap. They talked earnestly in small groups and I imagined they were discussing philosophy or literature. This was one of the occasions when I truly envied Sid and Gus their experiences at Vassar.

Then I heard one of them say, “She’s a corker, all right. Best little barmaid in Greenwich Village,” which dispelled my illusion immediately.

Then, of course, I realized with a jolt that on the other side of the street was Fritz’s café, where Simon Grossman had drunk a cyanide-laced cup of coffee. I crossed the street toward the café and stood outside, looking and thinking. This was one of those places that had been started by an Austrian to mimic the elegant café scene of his native Vienna. But alas, the location was not right for an elegant clientele, being surrounded by students and immigrants and more recently by starving artists and writers. So it had become a place that served soups and sandwiches as well as little cakes, at prices students and starving artists could afford. I had been in there myself a couple of times since I moved to Patchin Place and had always found it lively and inviting.

It was crowded now, with students clustered around its marble-topped tables, drinking big cups of milky coffee or dunking rolls into it. I realized I hadn’t been told what time of day Simon Grossman had died, but he had been drinking coffee, so it had probably been in the morning, just like this. I stood in the doorway looking around. The owner, presumably Fritz, sporting an impressive mustache that curled up at the sides, saw me, recognized I wasn’t one of his usual customers, and came out from behind the marble-faced counter to me. “You wish coffee, madam?” he asked.

Why not?
I thought. It would give me an excuse to stay and observe.

“Thank you,” I said. “It seems rather crowded.”