Hush Now, Don't You Cry(81)

“It seemed clear that he had followed Mr. Hannan from New York,” I said. “But the police were not able to find him the next day. Maybe he went back to New York on the early train.”

“Of course Hannan was a public figure, wasn’t he?” Gus said. “Such people do expose themselves to crackpots.”

“But what about the tray of liquor and the two glasses,” I said. “Brian Hannan was clearly going to have a drink with somebody he knew.”

Sid patted my shoulder. “Go to New York and find out what you can, Molly. Otherwise you’ll never be satisfied.”





Twenty-eight

I felt guilty as I hurried back to Daniel. I had left him longer than I intended to. What if he’d awoken and needed me and I wasn’t there? What if he’d taken a sudden turn for the worse? I glanced at that house across the street as I reached the gate. I’d have dearly loved to interview the person behind those drapes, but I had to check on my husband first. I opened the cottage door to the smell of bacon frying. An hour ago it would have been a delicious aroma. Having just had my fill of breakfast, it had lost its appeal.

“I’m back,” I called to Martha.

She looked out of the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready when you are. I told Mr. Sullivan that you’d gone out for an early morning walk and that I’d have a good meal ready for you on your return. He didn’t want much himself. Just a boiled egg and toast. I told him he needed to build up his strength again. He’s still looking awful peaky.”

I turned and ran up the stairs. Daniel was sitting propped up in bed. He did still look rather frail. The healthy tone had gone from his skin and his eyes were still a little sunken. But he gave me a grand smile as I came into the room.

“Ah, there you are. I wondered where you’d gone.”

“Out for a little walk. It’s such a lovely day and you were sleeping like a baby, so I left you in Martha’s capable hands,” I said.

“She was trying to stuff me full of food,” he complained. “I told her I had no appetite.”

I looked at the boiled egg, only half eaten with the yolk now congealed down the side of the shell.

“You should try to eat and build up your strength, Daniel,” I said. “And I’m going to see if we can get you downstairs and out into the good sea air later today.”

“All right.” He nodded halfheartedly and my heart lurched. The doctor had warned that there could be relapses. I had expected him to bounce back to his usual robust self. He was too passive, too lethargic.

“I’m going to ask the doctor to have another look at you today,” I said.

“What good could he do, old quack,” Daniel muttered. “Don’t worry, my love. I’ll be all right in a few days. Just give it time.”

“Old quack or not, I still want him to come and see you,” I said. “No arguing. And I’m making you another boiled egg and going to feed it to you myself.”

He didn’t protest, which made me even more worried. The normal Daniel would have told me in no uncertain terms that he was not about to be bossed around by his wife. I went downstairs and made a good show of enjoying a second breakfast. Then feeling like a stuffed goose, I set out for town and the doctor’s surgery. I decided it was still a little early to make a formal call across the street, so I walked briskly into town and found the doctor’s residence.

The door was opened by his wife. “I believe my husband was planning to stop by and check on your husband, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “But I’ll leave a note on his desk to make sure that he does. So don’t worry.”

I left and went to find a newsagent’s shop for a copy of The New York Times, then a greengrocer for some grapes. As I passed the harbor I had to stop and take a look at the waterfront before I returned to Daniel. I suppose in a way it reminded me of home with its busy fishing boats, gulls crying overhead, sounds of winches, shouts of men, and the smell of fish and brine and seaweed. I stood there for a while, taking it in, trying to enjoy the scene while thoughts raced around in my troubled brain. As I walked back through the town I looked in the art gallery window and saw that Colleen’s portrait was no longer there. I opened the door and went inside. The same young man came out from the backroom.

“Has the portrait been sold?” I asked.

He looked around. “Portrait?”

“The little girl and the lamb. We looked at it a few days ago.”

“Oh, that. I believe the artist came and took it back. I don’t know. Maybe he had found his own buyer.”

“And I remember you said I could find the artist down by the harbor. What was his name again?”