Unless Ned were not being paid to kill Fanny. What if he had his own reason for wanting her dead? I couldn’t think what this could be, apart from a paranoid hatred of rich women. Was it possible that he was systematically killing off rich women because they had everything he had lacked growing up? It seemed rather improbable. Suddenly I thought of the first time I had been to McPherson’s drugstore. Emily had been to visit the older woman who worked with Emily behind the counter. She had become sick and died from very similar symptoms. Had she tried the face cream? Was it possible that Ned was not the good pharmacist he imagined himself to be and had created a mixture containing lethal elements? I knew that some face preparations contained arsenic. Maybe Ned had thought that thallium would be a good addition, and I had just heard from Daniel that a badly made tonic had been responsible for killing people. But then Emily had used the cream previously and suffered no ill effects. Just this current batch then.
The closely packed buildings gave way to a more genteel landscape. Out of the window I glimpsed Columbus Circle and the elegant area around the southern entrance to the park. Carriages were passing here, fashionable folk were strolling. Watching them made me think of that one particular black carriage. Who had tried to run me down? Not Ned. He would have no access to such a vehicle, and besides, it had proved rather easy to kill with a simple jar of face cream. Perhaps the carriage had been a mere accident after all, the result of a bad coachman and a great hurry and nothing to do with someone wanting me out of the way.
A good motive, that was what I needed. I toyed with the idea of Ned loving Fanny from afar—but knowing he didn’t come from the right background to ask her to marry him. But from conversation it seemed that he only knew Fanny as Emily’s rich friend. And if he loved her secretly, would he want to kill her?
Then, as the train slowed for the Seventy-third Street station and I stood to disembark, the germ of an idea started to grow in my brain. I considered Ned’s hard life, growing up in extreme poverty as an illegitimate child without a father. And I thought of Mrs. Bradley and her husband’s roving eye . . . actresses, cigar girls, she had said. Could it be possible? I had to see Mrs. Bradley and find out for myself.
So instead of going straight to Emily, I crossed the park to the Bradleys’ mansion. Mrs. Bradley had been about to go out and was fixing an enormous hat to her head with several lethal-looking pins.
“Miss Murphy!” She looked startled.
“I’m sorry to trouble you yet again, Mrs. Bradley,” I said, “but I have to ask you an important question.”
“Very well.”
“Not here.” I looked around the vast front hall with all the doors opening from it. “It’s of a rather private nature.”
“Very well,” she said again, looking both startled and annoyed now. “But I do have an appointment for which I cannot be late.”
“This will only take a minute.”
She ushered me through the nearest door into a cavernous drawing room and shut the door behind us.
“Well?”
“This may seem like an impertinent question,” I said, “and I would never have dreamed of asking it unless I thought it might unmask your daughter’s killer. You mentioned that your husband had a roving eye. To your knowledge did he ever father an illegitimate child?”
“What a preposterous thing to say. Absolutely not!” She spat out the words.
I said nothing, but continued to look at her. I saw her face twitch uncomfortably.
“The answer is that I really don’t know,” she said.
There was another long pause and I saw her expression change.
“You’ve remembered something,” I prompted.
“There was one young man, a few months ago,” she said hesitantly. “He came to see my husband. I never knew what it was about but I assumed he might have been asking for a loan, or a job. Anyway, I heard raised voices. The study door opened and the young man stalked out with my husband hot on his heels. ‘And don’t let me ever see your face again,’ my husband shouted after him. His face was almost purple with anger. I’d completely forgotten about it.”
“And what did this young man look like?” I asked.
“Personable. Well turned out. Dark hair. A good-looking boy, in fact. I was a little surprised that Mr. Bradley had been so rude to him.”
“Thank you.” I beamed at her. I turned to go. She grabbed my arm.
“Miss Murphy—my husband is not an easy man. I would advise caution about approaching him with this. He may not wish to discuss it with a stranger.”
“Of course not,” I said. “If your suspicions are true, then I can find my confirmation somewhere else.”
She was still holding onto the fabric of my coat. “Miss Murphy. You think this young man may have killed our daughter?”
“I think it’s highly possible.”
“And he may have been her half brother? But that’s monstrous, absolutely monstrous.”
“It is indeed,” I said. “Of course I may still be wrong, but I’ll know by the end of this day.”
Thirty