Molly
M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, many Regency romance series, and a stand-alone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.agatharaisin.com for more, or follow M. C. Beaton on Twitter: @mc_beaton.
Titles by M. C. Beaton
The Poor Relation
Lady Fortescue Steps Out · Miss Tonks Turns to Crime · Mrs Budley Falls from Grace
Sir Philip’s Folly · Colonel Sandhurst to the Rescue · Back in Society
A House for the Season
The Miser of Mayfair · Plain Jane · The Wicked Godmother
Rake’s Progress · The Adventuress · Rainbird’s Revenge
The Six Sisters
Minerva · The Taming of Annabelle · Deirdre and Desire
Daphne · Diana the Huntress · Frederica in Fashion
Edwardian Murder Mysteries
Snobbery with Violence · Hasty Death · Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker
Emily Goes to Exeter · Belinda Goes to Bath · Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton · Deborah Goes to Dover · Yvonne Goes to York
Agatha Raisin
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death · Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener · Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage · Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death · Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam · Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate · Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance · Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison · Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body · Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns
Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers · Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble
Hamish Macbeth
Death of a Gossip · Death of a Cad · Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife · Death of a Hussy · Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster · Death of a Glutton · Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man · Death of a Nag · Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist · Death of a Scriptwriter · Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas · Death of a Dustman · Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village · Death of a Poison Pen · Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer · Death of a Maid · Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch · Death of a Valentine · Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher · Death of Yesterday
The Skeleton in the Closet
Also available
The Agatha Raisin Companion
Molly
M. C. Beaton
Constable & Robinson Ltd.
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York
First published in the UK by Canvas,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1980
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-47210-117-4 (ebook)
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
For Marion and Duncan Mundell,
my cousins in Glasgow, Scotland,
with all my love
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER ONE
The Atlantic liner gave a great heave, shuddered, wallowed in the trough, and groaned its way up the next wave.
Molly Maguire clutched her little sister, Mary, closer to her on the stateroom bed as the great liner creaked and juddered its way through the storm, and thought miserably, This is how cattle must feel. Here we are, two poor little American cows on our way to England to be mated.
Mary whimpered with fright as the ship gave another monumental heave, and their ex-schoolteacher-companion, Miss Simms, let out a shriek and took an enormous pull at her bottle of gin.
Miss Simms looked with lackluster eyes at the beautiful Maguire sisters and reflected dully that she should never have accepted this post, no matter how much the money.
And as for Molly, she wished they were all back in the cosy comfort of her father’s shop in Brooklyn, when things were safe and normal before that momentous evening a year ago when she and Mary had unwittingly founded the Maguire fortunes.
She closed her eyes tightly to shut out the motion of the ship and remembered how it had all begun….
It had been a close, humid Brooklyn evening in Jane Street, a narrow alley running off Fulton Street in downtown Brooklyn. The gas lamps had been lit, the other, bigger stores—Namm’s, Frederick Loeser’s, Waldorf Shoes—had all put up their shutters long ago. But the Maguire’s General Store stayed open, sometimes around the clock, in order to lure stray customers to their doors. They sold everything and anything from hairpins to coffee beans. Mr. Joseph Maguire and his wife, Nadia, had retired to bed leaving their daughters, Molly and Mary, to cope with any late-night shoppers.
The large flyblown mirror over the unused fireplace, advertising Bigg’s Tobacco in curly glass letters, reflected their tired faces; a beautiful combination of vivid blue eyes and black curly hair from their Irish father and the high Slav cheekbones of their Polish mother. The girls often took turns sleeping on a mattress under the counter. If anyone had told them that their life was hard, they would have been very surprised indeed. Both were dutiful, lively, and merry. They passed the long night hours weaving romantic fantasies. The shop bell would clang and who should be standing on the threshold but the Prince of Ruritania himself. He would fall in love with one of them, of course. Molly said it would be Mary and Mary swore loyally it would be Molly.
But usually it was only one of the local lads with his sheepish smile and thick boots, giggling and asking for “two ounces of baccy.”
The neighbors were apt to censure the Ma
guire parents for exposing their daughters to the dangers of nighttime Brooklyn. But Molly kept a shotgun under the counter, which her father had taught her to use, and Officer Brady made as many calls as he could to stand and drink coffee in the warmth of the little shop and admire the famous beauty of the girls.
On the fateful evening that was to change their lives, Molly had just celebrated her seventeenth birthday. Mary was nearly sixteen. The hour was eleven in the evening and the shop no longer shook with the rumble of the trains on the King’s County Elevated Railroad that ran above Fulton Street.
Molly was not feeling her usual happy-go-lucky self. Jimmy Heimlich, whose father owned the greengrocers two doors away, had asked her to walk out with him, but she had refused. And her mother had been very angry. Jimmy was a well-set-up young man and Mrs. Maguire had looked forward to a merging of the two businesses. Jimmy’s father was failing, everyone knew that. It was only a matter of time. But her infuriating daughter had said no and had refused to give a reason.
Molly could not really work out in her mind why she had refused Jimmy. At last she had said slowly that it was because she was not in love with Jimmy, and her angry mother had confiscated her small store of romances, saying she could not have her books back until she came to her senses.
The theater crowd from Colonel William F. Simm’s Park Theater had cheered the Spooner Stock Company to the last curtain call and had gone home without any of them calling in at the Maguires’ store. It looked as if it were going to be a quiet night.
Mary was asleep under the counter because she had school in the morning. Molly, who had finished school, had elected to stay awake.
But her eyes felt heavy and she leaned her elbows on the counter, enduring the familiar feeling of fatigue and sore feet. Her eyelids drooped lower and lower and the temptation to crawl under the counter beside Mary was nearly irresistible.
The sudden clanging of the doorbell brought her eyes open with a jerk, and then she blinked. For surely the lady standing on the threshold must have come from one of her dreams.
Despite the close humidity of the night, she was dressed from head to foot in white ermine. She had a thin, white, autocratic face with weak, pale eyes. On her scarlet hair was perched a sequined cap ornamented with long black cock’s feathers that hung down to her shoulder. She raised a hand to her forehead and her furred cuff fell back to reveal a heavy diamond bracelet circling a wrist so fragile and thin that you would have thought it would have snapped under the weight of the jewels.
Behind her stood a tall elderly gentleman with a white mustache and a florid face. Little beads of moisture clung to his tall silk hat and to the fur collar of his coat.
And behind the couple a huge Lozier automobile crouched beside the curb, with a uniformed chauffeur standing at attention.
It must be a dream!
But the lady was moving forward languidly to the counter. She opened her thin, painted mouth and said, “Hev youse got anything for dis cough? It’s a-makin’ me sick to my stummick, ain’t it, Joey?”
“Yaas,” said the elderly gentleman vaguely, and then, “What’s thet?”
“Thet” was Mary’s round eyes peering over the counter. Mary got to her feet and smoothed out the creases on her starched pinafore and both Maguire sisters stared at their customers in awe.
“Come along, gels,” said the gentleman called Joey. “Meh Dolores hes got the cough something awful, she has.”
And in answer Dolores let out a series of stentorian barks. “Theh you ah!” said Joey triumphantly. The gentleman appeared to be English, to judge from the strangulated accents coming from him. But his fair lady had undoubtedly sprung from Brooklyn soil. Molly looked feverishly around the shop. No cough medicine.
She stood irresolute. She did not want to send these grand customers away empty-handed. Then Molly remembered her grandmother’s old receipt book in the back shop. Surely there would be something in that.
“We have just the thing, if you will wait a few minutes,” said Molly, nipping deftly around the counter and placing a chair for Dolores next to the shelves of canned goods. And hustling the wide-eyed Mary in front of her, she bustled into the back shop.
“What are you doing?” demanded Mary.
“We ain’t got no cough syrup.”
“Haven’t got any,” corrected Molly automatically. “But there’s bound to be something in Gran’s book. Here it is! Now, let me see—cough, cough, cough—ah, got it! Find an empty bottle, Mary, and draw a label—you’re good at that—and call it…oh, something fancy.”
While Mary seized her ever ready paints and paper, Molly got to work. In a small bowl she mixed fennel, cinnamon, anise, and lemon and added two spoonfuls of honey. It needed more. It needed something to bring these fabulous people back to the Maguire store. Alcohol! That was it! Coming as she did from a Polish-Irish background, Molly was convinced that adults were fueled solely by alcohol. Her mother’s bottle of 140 proof Polish vodka stood over by the sink. She added a great slug to the mixture and turned to see how Mary was getting on.
Mary had cut one of her small drawings out of her pad. It showed a rather evil-looking leprechaun sitting on a rock, leering up at several fairies who were dancing through a rainbow overhead. Mary had quickly added the words MAGUIRES’ LEPRECHAUN DEW in bold black gothic lettering.
“Oh, that’s very good. But it’s awful, too,” laughed Molly. “They’ll know we’re taking the Mickey.”
“Come along, gels,” trumpeted the voice of Joey. “Meh Dolores is waiting.”
“It’ll have to do,” hissed Molly, pasting the label on the bottle. “Here goes!”
“This is our own recipe,” said Molly sweetly, handing Dolores the bottle. Dolores looked suspiciously at the leprechaun who seemed to look suspiciously back, but Joey was already pulling out a purse and demanding the price. Molly thought quickly. She did not want to charge too little. She did not want to charge too much. She took a deep breath. “Fifty cents, please,” she said. “It’s a very old recipe and we don’t give it to many customers.”
“It had better work or youse’ll hear from me,” said Dolores nastily. Joey was looking at the Maguire sisters in a way Molly did not like.
When the door had crashed shut behind the customers, Molly and Mary remained standing primly behind the counter until they could hear the car no longer. Then they both burst out into peals of laughter, hanging on to each other. “Leprechaun Dew, indeed,” howled Mary. Then she sobered. “But why are you always after me to talk proper, Molly? She don’t. I mean she talked like a regular Brooklyner.”
Molly hesitated. And then, lowering her voice, she said, “I think Dolores was that man’s mistress.”
“Ooooh!” screamed Mary in gleeful dismay. Then her face fell. “It’s a pity if she is. Thought she was one of them East Siders who’d take a fancy to us and introduce us to society, where we would meet a prince.”
Molly gave her an affectionate hug. “Let’s forget about the whole thing. Wouldn’t Ma be mad if she knew what we’d done!”
Perhaps Mrs. Maguire would never have heard of their visitors had they been sold something other than cough medicine. Dolores moved on the fringes of the best circles, where she was only barely tolerated because of her protector’s great wealth. No lady was going to listen to Miss Dolores’s views on anything. Anything, that is, but the common cold, that most democratic of minor illnesses.
The stunned Maguire parents found themselves being besieged during the following week for Maguires’ Leprechaun Dew. The secret was out and the custom was in as Molly mixed and filled and Mary drew and painted and the limousines and carriages blocked the narrow lane outside.
By the following week the Maguires were closing up shop very early indeed so that they could cope with the flood of orders. Neither parents had any proper business sense and the whole thing might have fizzled out for lack of supplies, but Fate decided to take a further hand in the presence of Mr. Bernard Abrahams who ran the tailoring
shop next door.
Mr. Abrahams was in his thirties and had recently and gloomily inherited the business from his father and was reputed to make the worst suits in the whole of Brooklyn. But Bernie had also recently discovered a talent for turning money into more money by gambling shrewdly on Wall Street. He elected himself advisor to the bewildered Maguires. With his beaky nose and brightly colored waistcoats, he darted around the Maguires’ small living room above the shop like some strange bird of paradise. Soon a small factory in Red Hook was turning out the precious bottles of cough mixture, and the huge bull-like figure of Mr. Maguire twisted and turned to follow Bernie’s mad gyrations and his large cauliflower ears strained to take in a flood of talk about stocks and shares and distributors and international markets.
Now that the factory was in operation, Molly and Mary felt somewhat at a loss. The work and bustle had gone now that bottles of Maguires’ Leprechaun Dew were now appearing in all the major pharmacies.
One evening after she had put up the heavy wooden shutters, Molly climbed the stairs to their small dark living room to find Bernie, as usual, holding the floor. Her mother had been darning a sock but it lay limply in her hand as she turned her large, dazed white face to Bernie’s small animated one. “Millionaires!” she was saying faintly.
“Ain’t it the truth,” said Bernie, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat and then peering down to admire the gleaming white of his new spats. “So you’ve gotta move in with the nobs, now…see. Can’t go on living in a rat hole like this.”
Mrs. Nadia Maguire looked dazedly around the dark living room. “But what will we do? What will happen to the girls?”
“They’ll become ladies, that’s what,” said Bernie. “As for you, Ma, don’t you want to travel? See the Riviera and places like that? I’ll find a companion for the girls. One of their schoolteachers’ll do the trick.”
And that, reflected Molly, had been the beginning of the end. They had moved to a great dark brownstone in Brooklyn Heights with Miss Simms, their former English teacher, as companion while their parents went off on a world tour.