Free In a Gilded Cage by Rhys Bowen Page B

afternoon I made my way to Emily’s room on the Upper West Side. It was a delightful spring day and people were out in their Sunday best, strolling in squares amid the bright green of new leaves, or just sitting on stoops, their faces upturned to the warmth of the April sun. I rather wished that I had taken Daniel up on his invitation and gone with him to Westchester to see his mother. It would have been a delightful train ride, and we could have strolled in her large back yard or sat on her lawn drinking lemonade. But I was a professional woman and I’d made an appointment with a client. A man wouldn’t have broken it because of the weather, so why should I?
    The twin spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral glowed bright in the clear air, and I experienced that twinge of guilt that I had missed mass that morning. Even though I had not been to church in years and felt little love for the Catholic religion, those of us brought up as Catholics have been indoctrinated to believe that you go to hell if you miss mass. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to really shake it off.
    Emily lived on the third floor of a rooming house. I suppose if it had been the Ansonia, around the corner, one would have described it as an apartment hotel, but this warranted no more than the rooming house description: tired brown linoleum, creaky stairs, that lingering smell of drains and an old woman’s face that peeped out of a door on the second-floor landing. I knocked and the door was opened by a rather flustered-looking Emily, with her hat in one hand and a hat pin in the other.
    “Molly!” She sounded surprised.
    “Hello. I promised I’d call ’round with news on Sunday afternoon for you.”
    “Oh mercy me. So you did. I was so upset at the thought of going to Mrs. Hartmann’s funeral that I didn’t properly take it in. And frankly I never expected you to have anything by this Sunday. You must be a miracle worker. Come on in, do.”
    She led me into what could only be described as a depressing room. Every attempt had been made to brighten it up. There were net curtains at the window, rugs on the floor, pillows on the daybed, but they couldn’t hide the brownish wallpaper, the dark wood trim, and the window that faced the back of another equally dreary building. Emily must have read my thoughts. “Pretty dismal, isn’t it?” she said. “But then I’m hardly ever here during the daytime, and it’s so convenient and cheap, too. I’m trying to save every penny I can.”
    “You’ve made it very nice,” I said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I felt. “Very homey.”
    “Do take a seat,” she said, indicating her one upholstered chair. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”
    “No, thank you. I just ate luncheon,” I said.
    She perched on the daybed, opposite me. “I had been living in a ladies’ residential club until recently, but it was expensive, and I tired of all the chatter and gossip and pettiness. You can imagine, can’t you, all those unmarried ladies living under one roof? Little notes saying, ‘Please make sure you dispose of tea leaves properly. Tea cups belong on the left of the cabinet. Do not hang stockings to dry in the bathroom.’”
    “I can imagine,” I agreed.
    She was looking at me, her face alight with expectancy. “So you’ve something to tell me already?”
    “I don’t want to raise your hopes too much,” I said. “I’ve no answers for you yet, but I have located a man who wrote a book on missionaries in China. It seems that they were all massacred during the uprising three years ago.”
    “Ah yes,” she said. “The Boxer Rebellion. We read about it. I paid particular interest because of my parents. When the horrific tales trickled in, I kept thinking that it could have been me.”
    “The writer lives in Pennsylvania,” I said. “I’m not sure if he was a missionary himself, but I have written to him and he will definitely be able to put me in touch with other missionaries. I