Hush Now, Don't You Cry(82)

“Ned Turnbull,” he said. “Not a bad painter, but he needs to adopt a more modern style, if he wants to sell. It’s all Impressionism these days.”

I couldn’t find a logical reason why I wanted to talk to Ned Turnbull and found out who might have bought his painting, so I turned my steps reluctantly in the direction of the cottage and Daniel. It was almost eleven o’clock when I reached the gates of Connemara. A respectable hour to pay a social call. So instead of entering those tall iron gates, I changed direction and went up to the front door of the red-brick colonial house. I knocked, having no real idea what I was going to say. It was opened by a crisply starched maid.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

She looked so prim and severe that words failed me. Luckily at that moment a voice called out from a nearby room, “Who is it, Maude?”

“A lady, Miss Gallinger. I haven’t yet ascertained what she wants.”

“A lady? Well, don’t leave her standing on the doorstep. Invite her in.”

“Please come in, ma’am. What name shall I say?”

“Mrs. Daniel Sullivan. I’m staying at the house across the street.”

I was ushered into an attractive front hall, decorated with hunting pictures, a curly hat stand, and an old wooden chest.

The maid went ahead of me through the doorway on the right. “A Mrs. Sullivan, ma’am. She is staying at the house across the street.”

“Of course she is,” said the voice. “Show her in, Maude.”

And I was invited into a charming sitting room. The furniture was very old and well polished. The sofa had comfortable cushions on it and the chairs needlepoint antimacassars. It smelled old—a mixture of beeswax, woodsmoke, and lavender water. A tiny old woman, wearing a white lace cap of a style that had long gone out of fashion, was seated in a high-backed chair near the window. Her face was smooth and pink, without a wrinkle in sight and her blue eyes were still bright.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said. “I am Miss Gallinger—Catherine Swan Gallinger to be precise.”

“Mrs. Daniel Sullivan,” I said, taking the bony little hand she extended to me and shaking it gently for fear it might shatter. “Molly Murphy Sullivan.”

She beamed. “I’m so glad you’ve come to visit. How kind. I rarely get visitors these days. Do sit down. Maude will bring us some coffee, or would you prefer lemonade?”

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you,” I replied as I took another high-backed chair close to her. “And it’s good of you to see me. I’ve wondered about this house every time I’ve passed it. Have you lived here a long time?”

“I was born here, my dear. My father was a sea captain, as was his father before him. He was lost at sea and I remained as companion to my dear mama. She died many years ago and it’s been my house ever since. I’ll die here soon and am content to do so.”

I nodded, wondering how to put what I wanted to ask. Again she gave me the right opening. “So you’re staying at the haunted castle, are you?”

“Haunted?” I asked. “Why haunted? Have you seen a ghost there?”

She had a delightful melodic laugh. “Oh, no. It’s just what we old-timers called it when we saw it being built. Why would anyone want to build a haunted castle, we asked ourselves? But then I probably shouldn’t make fun of it if you are connected to that family. And it has had more than its share of tragedy, in its few short years, hasn’t it?” She pulled back the lace curtain to take another look at it. “First the granddaughter and now we understand that Mr. Hannan has died tragically. I watched all those policemen coming and going. Tell me, do they suspect foul play?” She was looking at me eagerly.

“I believe they do,” I said. “Miss Gallinger, you are—” I paused, fishing for the right words—“you are so well positioned here to see who goes up and down this street, and I imagine you have a lot of time on your hands.”

She gave that musical laugh again. “A polite way of saying I’m a nosy old lady. But you’re quite right. Looking out of my window and catching glimpses of other people’s lives is about all I can do these days. We can no longer afford a carriage so I can’t go out. And I can only take a few steps. So I have to live vicariously.”

“The evening that Mr. Hannan was killed,” I said. “Did you see him arrive?”

“Oh, yes. He came in a hansom cab from the station.”

“How do you know it was from the station?”

Another laugh. “Because I recognized the horse. That cab picks up passengers from the trains.”