In Like Flynn (24 page)

Tell me one thing, Clara—if you didn't kill Theresa, do you have any ideas about who did?”

“It was suicide. It had to be suicide. Everybody loved Theresa. She was the sweetest, kindest…”

“I'm not talking about her personality,” I said. “It may have been something she knew that was dangerous to know.”

“I'd look no further than her no-good husband,” she said; “only he had more to lose than anybody. Theresa was a rich woman when she came to him, but she stood to inherit a large fortune on the death of her parents.”

“But Barney’s done pretty well on his own account, hasn't he?” I asked. “He owns the ice monopoly and has fingers in lots of pies. Do you really think he'd have given up the chance of a future for-tune to get rid of a wife who was not able to gratify his wishes?”

I could see that she was digesting this new thought. Then she shook her head. “Why would he worry about getting a new wife when he could get what he wanted on the side? Bamey never could keep his hands off women. Theresa knew what went on, of course, but she put up with it in silence. That’s what makes me think that she took her own life—the life she led was more than any human being should endure.”

“You may beright,“I agreed. “So we'll just have to wait for the doctor’s autopsy results and then maybe we'll know more.”

She got up, cautiously. “And about the other matter—won't you pleaseforgiveme? I'm truly ashamed of myself. Ill go to confession and do penance, but please don't let anyone else know. And if you told the police that it was a horrible accident and you weren't going to press charges?”

I stared at her for a long while, then nodded. “I'll think about it,” I said. “Now we'd better go downstairs and see what we might have missed.”

Thank you, dear cousin. Ill never be able to thank you enough.” She attempted to hug me. I stood like a tree and let her wrap bony arms around me. As she did so I felt something melt inside me and suddenly I realized what it must be like to be Qara—never hugged, never loved, always the companion tagging along in someone else’s life. Against my will, my arms came around her and I hugged her back.

Twenty-eight

B
y nine o'clock the doctor had departed, but the constable stayed on, awaiting the arrival of a vehicle to take Theresa’s body to the morgue. I tried to play the investi-gator and observed each member of the household. Obviously I wasn't very good at this investigation business, as everyone seemed to be acting normally, except for Clara, who was being too effusively nice to me. Barney, Joe and Desmond O'Mara disappeared into Barney’s study to discuss strategy. It seemed strange to me that men like Joe and Barney could be so concerned about what the press might say at a moment like this, but then I suppose politicians live or die by the press.

Desmond O'Mara definitely seemed paler than usual, if that were possible, but that meant nothing. He may have been rudely awoken and I know I never feel my best in such circumstances. I also watched Soames carefully. He certainly would have had the ideal opportunity to commit any crime in the household. He moved silently from room to room and blended in like part of the furniture. If he had carried a sleeping child downstairs, I doubt anybody would have noticed. If he had crept up to Theresa’s room and somehow put poison in her drink or messed with her sleeping powders, nobody would have noticed either. But what I needed for Soames was a motive. I knew nothing about him. He spoke like a refined Englishman, which might mean that he was possibly highborn and fallen on hardtimes—whichmight give him the motive of wanting revenge against Irish peasant upstarts for usurping a position that should have been his. Still, this was all supposition. 1 now knew that he hadn't poisoned my drink, so it was possible that he hadn't kidnapped Brendan or killed Theresa either. But somebody had.

The more I thought about it, the surer I became that Theresa did not take her own life. She had been optimistic during the past days. She had talked about getting strong enough to go to Ireland and having clothes made for me. But then who knows what the alienist said to her and what deepfearshe might have brought to the surface again?

It was strange, but the second I thought about the alienist, I realized that we hadn't seen him around this morning and wondered where he was. Surely nobody could have stayed asleep through the commotion that had been going on since six o'clock? But a few minutes later we had assembled out on the veranda, none of us wanting to be in the house while Theresa’s body still lay there, when we heard the tap of feet on the marblefloorand the alienist himself appeared, neatly dressed in tweeds and yellow waistcoat.

“I appear to have missed breakfast,” he said, clicking his heels to us. “I must apologize to our hostess. Where is she, please?”

“You haven't heard?” Belinda demanded. “You've been asleep all this time?”

Bimbaum bowed again. “I'm afraid I am a very sound sleeper once I get to sleep. I was up reading until well past midnight, then my mind was active and I probably didn't doze off until two or three.”

“I regret to inform you that Mrs. Flynn died last night,” Be-linda said.

“Mrs. Flynn died? But that is terrible,” Bimbaum stammered. “May one ask how she died?”

“She took her own life, apparently,” Belinda said quietly. “An overdose of her sleeping powders.”

“
Mein Gottf
” Bimbaum struck his own breast. “I am a doctor—I am trained to work with such people as your sister and I did not see this coming, la m ashamed of myself. I am not fit to be called alienist. How could I have missed the signs? I would have said that she was on the road to recovery, becoming more optimistic in her outlook.”

“I don't suppose we can ever know what goes on in the deepest recesses of the human mind, Doctor,” Clara said. “Mrs. Flynn had been suffering for many years. Maybe she realized that she had endured enough.”

Dr. Bimbaum was still shaking his head. “But usually patients give some sort of indication to me—they throw out little suggestions. They say, “Sometimes I wonder if it is all worth it. … Some-times I wonder if I would be better off dead.” Always some hint. But from her, nothing.”

I had been sitting in silence watching this current drama un-fold. But as they spoke, something was going through my mind. “Dr. Bimbaum, you say you were awake for most of the night,” I said. “Did you not hear anything unusual?”

“Unusual?” He looked puzzled.

“I wondered if Mrs. Flynn might have cried out or fallen from her bed?”

He shook his head. “I don't think I heard anything strange. When I read, I am in deepest concentration and I am able to shut out the world around me.”

He broke off as he observed Bamey come out onto the veranda, followed by his faithful minions. Barney stiffened when he saw that Bimbaum was with us. “Oh, the great alienist who was sup-posed to be helping my wife get better!” he boomed. “How many patients do you lose a week, Dr. Birnbaum?”

“I assure you, Mr. Flynn, that nobody could feel worse than I do about your tragic news,” he said. “I could have sworn that your wife was on the road to recovery. I sensed no suicidal tendency in her. Depression, yes, but a depression that could eventually be cured.”

“It doesn't help to blame anyone, Barney,” Joe Rimes said. Theresa is gone. May she rest in peace.”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“I should go up and pack my belongings,” Bimbaum said. “I can see that my presence among you will only heighten your grief, so if you could perhaps telephone for some kind of conveyance to take me to the ferry?”

“We can have a couple of the men row you across the riverto Peekskill,” Joe Rimes said. “That is the easiest way of hooking up with the train. Ill have Soames arrange it.”

“And I'll come up and help you pack, if you'd like,” Desmond O'Mara said suddenly.

That will not be necessary,” Bimbaum said. “I can see you wish me to leave. I can assure you I have no desire to stay here any longer. It will only take me minutes to pack my small suitcase and then I shall be out of your lives. Please excuse me.” He bowed, clicking his heels, and went into the house. Desmond was left staring after him.

It occurred to me that I had never heard Desmond O'Mara volunteer to do anything helpful during mytimeat Adare. Why was he anxious to help Dr. Bimbaum pack his case? I watched and waited, and the moment Joe Rimes had gone indoors to arrange for river transportation, Desmond quietly slipped inside the house as well. I was curious and also alarmed. I got up and excused myself, feigning a need to lie down, then I followed Desmond into the house. Sure enough, he was going up the staircase and I watched him hurry around the upper gallery to the second stair that led up to the tower bedrooms where Bimbaum had been sleeping. What-ever he had really wanted to do, he was thwarted, however, as he met Dr. Bimbaum already coming downstairs, his grip in his hand and his hat on his head. He nodded to Desmond and went on down the stairs and out of the front door. Desmond hung around for a moment, then sighed and turned to follow him down.

I stood in the hallway wondering what to do next. What had Desmond hoped to accomplish up in Dr. Bimbaum’s bedroom? There were two possibilities I could think of: one that he suspected Bimbaum of being the person who killed Theresa and that he had been brought to the house for that purpose; or the opposite—that Desmond was Theresa’s killer and was afraid that Birnbaum knew too much. I remembered that Bamey and his entourage had arrived just when Bimbaum had been telling us about being awake for most of the night. Had there been a telltale noise? Had Bimbaum passed Desmond in the hallway while heeding the call of nature? In which case, exactly what had Desmond planned to do in that tower room? I shuddered and wished again that Daniel had not returned to New York. The sooner I was out of this house, the better.

As I walked along the gallery in the direction of Theresa’s room, I remembered that she was still lying there. I told myself that any good detective would have wanted to view the scene of the crime and examine Theresa’s body. There was nothing I would have less wanted to do. To see that sweet, pretty woman lying there stiff and cold would surely break my heart. But would she be counting on me to find out the truth? Everyone else wanted to call it a suicide, especially her murderer. That could mean that vital evidence might be destroyed before the police got a chance to look at it. I couldn't trust the thick Mr. Plod to know what to look for and I doubted that a detective would be summoned.

I steeled myself and crept to her door. A notice had been af-fixed to it: DO NOT ENTER, and the door was locked. But surprisingly the key was still in the lock. I glanced around, turned it, and went in. The blinds had been drawn and the room had that sickly-sweet smell of death that I had experienced before in my life. I couldn't exactly identify it, but it was the smell that lingered when my mother passed on and I knew it now. In the half darkness I could just make out the white shape of Theresa’s body lying under a sheet on the bed. I tiptoed across the room, as if I might wake her, and switched on the electric light.

Apart from the white mound on the bed there was nothing out of place that I could see. Theresa’s silver-backed toilet set was perfectly arranged on her dressing table. The clothes she had been wearing had been removed by Adele and only her dressing gown was draped over the back of a low chair, in case she should need it in the night. I went around the bed to her dressing table. There were various bottles of French perfume on it, a gorgeous cut-glass eau de cologne spray with a pink silk-covered bulb, and the sort of toilet preparations I supposed that all rich women used. Then I noticed something interesting—a jar of face cream was on the bed-side table with its top off. This struck me as significant. I took out my handkerchief to wrap around it, lifted it to my face and smelted it. It smelted like face cream—slightly perfumed but with no under-lying bad smell. For a second I had wondered whether it was possible to administer poison in a face cream, since she had obviously used it last night. But I wouldn't know what poison smelled like anyway and it seemed a rather elaborate way of killing somebody.

Then I realized a second significance of the open jar. Theresa had put cream on her face last night. Would a person who was contemplating death decide to give her skin one last treatment of a cream that “guaranteed to restore your youthful complexion in a week”? I could only draw one conclusion from it: Theresa had not intended to kill herself last night.

With some trepidation I turned to the bed and lifted the sheet. I was so surprised that I almost dropped it again. Theresa lay there as if asleep, eyelids closed, mouth in peaceful repose. I fully expected her to open those eyelids and give me that sweet smile. This definitely damaged my theory that someone had poisoned her. I had never seen a poisoning victim but I had read of the dreadful gri-maces of agony imprinted on their faces. Swiftly I covered Theresa again and crept into her dressing room. Here there was a wash-stand, a large flowery jug of cold water, a cut-glass water jug for drinking, and a whole shelfful of patent medicines. There were also, scattered on the floor, empty packets on which a prescription had been scrawled, Take one powder to aid in sleeping. Do not take more than prescribed dose,” and a doctor’s scrawled signature. I counted seven of them. Assuredly enough to end a life—which made me think I might have been mistaken after all. Theresa could have woken in the middle of the night in a black fit of despair and decided to end it all. And if someone else had administered those sleeping potions to her, there would be no way of proving it that I could see.

I was about to make my way back to the bedroom door when I saw the handle start to turn. I had no time to dodge into the dressing room or behind the wardrobe as Desmond O'Mara came in. He started when he saw me.

“Miss Gaffney, what are you doing in here?”

“I might ask you the same thing, Mr. O'Mara,” I said, sounding a lot braver than I felt.

“I watched you go along the gallery and then you vanished. I was curious as to why you would want to enter a room which was clearly forbidden to you.” He closed the door behind him. “In fact I have been intrigued by your behavior since you came here. You arrive out of nowhere and start questioning everybody, then there are two deaths within one week. Can that be simple coincidence, I ask myself?”

I had an instant decision to make. I could come up with a perfectly innocent excuse or I could attack in my turn. I chose the latter. “As to that, I am asking myself the same question, Mr. O'Mara, especially when I observed you hurrying toward the cliff path on the afternoon when Miss McAlister plunged to her death. And you did not return to the house until the next morning, thus establishing your alibi, I've no doubt.”

I saw his eyebrows raise. “I must say you are very different from most young women, who only seem to notice who is wearing what and which young man smiled at them. But I have a word of warning for you, if I may, Miss Gaffney. Are you aware of the old saying, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?”

“I am quite aware of it, Mr. O'Mara.”

“Then I beg you take it to heart, Miss Gaffney, or you may be next in line.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. O'Mara?” I was amazed how composed I sounded.

“Please take it as a friendly warning from someone who is concerned for your welfare.” He glanced around the room, then back at me. “You have landed yourself, I fear, in a—” He broke off abruptly as the bedroom door opened yet again. This time Joseph Rimes was standing there.

“What the deuce do you two think you are doing? Can't you read the notice on the door? Nobody is allowed in this room.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Rimes,” I said meekly. “I'm afraid I am to blame. I didn't want dear Cousin Theresa to be taken away before I had a chance to say my good-byes to her. Mr. O'Mara noticed me creeping into the room and was naturally suspicious about my motives.”

Joe Rimes sighed impatiently. “She’s already dead, Miss Gaffney. You can't say good-bye to a corpse.”

I smiled at him. “You've obviously never lived in Ireland where most of us carry on the most spirited conversations with the dead.” I moved past him and out of the room, then I looked back at the sheet on the bed. “Don't worry, Cousin, well give you a grand old wake,” I said.