“An interesting thought,” I said. “But in this case we both got drenched in a storm and he caught a chill that went to his chest.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve been worrying for both of you,” he said.
Then he bowed and turned on his heel. I watched him walk away. A nice lad, I thought, and a brainy one too. If only he’d put his talents to good use he’d be a great asset to the Hannan company.
I entered the dark hallway of the cottage, and stood alone, trying to process all I had learned in the past moments. Two little girls dead in two New York towns. Someone in this family who killed little girls. But how would I ever find out who? I wasn’t like the police. I couldn’t drag them one by one into a dark cell and threaten them with being locked in the Tombs or with being roughed up until they confessed. If only Gus could reach Kathleen and rekindle her memory about what happened to her sister. But she had shut that horror firmly away to the extent that she no longer believed she had a sister. Colleen was a big floppy rag doll with yellow hair.
Then a thought came to me. That portrait of the adorable child just before she died. I went upstairs to find Daniel’s mother sitting at his bedside, while he was pretending to be asleep, I suspected. “I have to go into town on an errand,” I said. “Is there anything you want me to buy for you?”
“Thank you, dear, but we have all we need, I believe,” she said. “You just run along. I’m taking good care of my son.”
At any other time that would have riled me no end. Today I was glad of it. As I came out of the house I spotted Miss Gallinger at her window. She waved and beckoned me. I really didn’t want to stop, but I could hardly refuse her. So I went in, telling her that I could only stay for a few minutes. Of course she had seen all the police activity and wanted to know what was happening. I filled her in on the details of Kathleen, refused tea, and said I had an urgent errand in town.
“So silly, these policemen,” she said as I walked to the door. “They never get it right, do they? If they allowed more women to be detectives, they would know instinctively who was guilty and who was innocent and the world would be a better place.”
I wondered about this as I walked into town. Did women make better detectives? Did I instinctively know who was guilty and who was innocent? I had always felt that Kathleen had no part in her sister’s death, but as to the guilty—I could not tell which one of them had put cyanide in Alderman Hannan’s glass, or who had pushed Mrs. McCreedy from that trapdoor. But it did occur to me that whoever did it would now try his hardest to get at Kathleen, just in case she could incriminate him. I sensed the urgency and quickened my pace.
Ned Turnbull was painting away on the quayside, with some admiring tourists behind him. He stopped, produced a painting from his canvas holder, and held it up for them. They nodded, then haggled and money was produced. The tourists went away and Ned stuffed the money into his pocket. I seized the moment to pounce.
“Mr. Turnbull, about that painting of Colleen Van Horn.”
“I told you. It’s not for sale,” he snapped.
“I don’t want to buy it. I want to borrow it for about an hour. Is that possible?”
“Why?”
“I want to save her sister’s life. You do still have the picture, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I have it. How do I know I’ll get it back if I lend it to you?”
“You could come with me, if you like and bring the picture yourself.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not going near that place and seeing them. Don’t ask me to do that.”
“What do you have against them?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s not their fault.”
“What’s not their fault?” I was confused. I sensed a powerful emotion in him, almost ready to explode, and wondered for a moment if he might strike me.
“Nothing. None of your business. Okay, you can borrow the picture as long as you bring it back safely and promise you won’t leave it with any of them.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Then come with me. It’s in my workshop.” He gathered his things and stomped ahead of me, his big seaboots making a thumping sound on the cobbles. I followed, trying to keep up with his giant strides. What had made him so angry with the Hannan family? Had they tried not to pay him for the painting? Or not paid the agreed price? I thought of old Miss Gallinger and her assertion of women’s intuition. What exactly was this emotion that I was sensing and suddenly a word came into my head. Jealousy. And I thought what old Miss Gallinger had said about Irene slipping in and out through the secret door in the wall.