“I’ll be back in the morning then,” I said.
“We’ll be just fine,” Gus said as she stroked Kathleen’s hair. “I’m going to stay with you, Kathleen, and we’ll be quite safe.”
I left them curled together. I was escorted back down the long stair, through the dark passage, and out to the front door. As I came out into the dying evening light two white shapes ran past me, followed by a third. One of them screamed again and I prepared to leap into action until I saw that it was the two boys, playing some kind of tag. And chasing them was Eliza.
Thirty-seven
The wind rose again that night, howling though the trees and around the cottage. I snuggled close to Daniel and felt safer wrapped in his arms. But even in the safety of my own bed I couldn’t shut off the thoughts. Kathleen had looked out of the window and seen something that had made her think of Mrs. McCreedy. Had she seen Eliza chasing the two boys? Had the sight of Eliza alarmed her? Surely not Eliza, who seemed so pleasant, so normal, so kind? I didn’t know what to believe anymore.
By morning the storm had blown through and we woke to mist. I could just make out the ominous-looking shape of Connemara, looming like a giant castle of nightmare, which I suppose it was. Mrs. Sullivan was already bustling around, making Daniel’s breakfast and bossing Martha who had just arrived. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to get away from all this.
“I’m going into town to book us passage on one of those steamers,” I said to Daniel. “It’s no good for either of us to linger here. We need to be back in our own home.”
“You’re not happy at the way my mother is taking over.” Daniel smiled. “I can understand that. But she does mean well, you know.”
“She wants to look after her precious darling boy and doesn’t believe his wife is capable of doing it.”
His smile broadened. “Wait until the babies come and you’ll be glad for her assistance,” he said. “But I have to confess that I’ve had enough of being waited on like an invalid. And between ourselves I’ve never been a big admirer of soda bread.”
I dressed, had breakfast, and went to the castle but this time I was not admitted. I was told that breakfast had been taken up to the young prisoner and her attendant and that nobody else would be allowed up there until Chief Prescott arrived. So I walked into town and booked a cabin on a ship sailing in two days. I thought Daniel might be strong enough by then, if a cab took us to the dockside. I hated to leave Connemara and Kathleen with nothing solved, but at this moment it appeared that Gus had a better chance of reaching the child than I did. If Sid’s investigation in New York turned up nothing, then I could see no way to prove Kathleen’s innocence or to find Brian Hannan’s killer. Ned Turnbull was painting on the dockside as I passed. I hesitated, wondering if there was anything he could tell me about Kathleen, anything that he had noticed when he presumably spent a considerable time with the twins, painting Colleen’s picture. But as I turned in his direction he gathered up his brushes, lifted his easel, and moved off. I returned and waited impatiently for a telephone call. Morning turned to afternoon and still she didn’t call.
The morning mist had melted away to a fine day. The boys were out on the lawn, trying to fly an improvised kite. Other family members strolled. It all looked so peaceful and so normal like any other family on holiday. It was hard to believe that this was a house of tragedies and that a young girl was locked away upstairs, perhaps on her way to an institution for the insane, perhaps even to jail. Then I spotted one of the young policemen coming toward the cottage. I went out to meet him and he beckoned to me. “You’re wanted on the telephone, ma’am.”
He escorted me to the house and then down the hallway to the library where the telephone was to be found. I picked it up and put the receiver to my ear. “Hello,” I began hesitantly.
“Molly, is that you?” came the voice through the crackles of distance and several exchanges.
“Yes, it is I. Is that you, Sid?”
“It is. Listen, I’ve been through the archives of the Times and I’ve found something that may be of interest. Just over a year ago a young girl was found dead in a field in what were described as suspicious circumstances in Cambridge, New York, and a month ago a little girl was found drowned in a pond near Granville. A long way from her home. Too far for her to have walked alone. Coincidence maybe, but both girls were of similar age and appearance—”
“They were both fair-haired?” I asked.
“Yes, and around six years old.”