In a Gilded Cage by Rhys Bowen Page B

hoping to find a friendly cabby—one who would, for a small fee, let me know where he had taken Mr. Poindexter recently. But so far I couldn’t see this working out. All in all they were a surly bunch. Maybe sitting up on a cab in all weather, exposed to the elements, would make the best of men surly. And maybe after a few days of visiting this location, I could soften them up a little. I resolved to go home and bake cookies, knowing that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
    That much accomplished, I decided I still had time to visit the two missionary headquarters before they shut up shop that evening. I arrived at lower Fifth Avenue and paid a call on the Methodist Missionary Society, at number 150.
    I was greeted politely and told my tale. The bewhiskered gentleman listened attentively. “Boswell?” he said. “The name doesn’t immediately ring a bell. Are you sure of the denomination?”
    “Not sure at all,” I said. “All we know is that they were missionaries in China and died in a cholera epidemic about twenty-five years ago.”
    “Let me check for you.” He got up and went to a shelf full of ledgers. After searching for a while he shook his head. “No, they do not appear to be connected with our church. I’m sorry I can’t help you further. I wish you good luck.”
    One down, about twenty to go. I came out and walked a few paces up the street to the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions, at 156 Fifth Avenue. It was next to a fine Presbyterian church. Those Protestants certainly knew how to build some grand edifices. This time there were two gentlemen in earnest conversation when I entered. One was similarly elderly and distinguished-looking, the other a more robust-looking fellow with a fine set of muttonchop whiskers, in a black frock coat. I was offered a chair and they listened attentively while I told my story.
    “Boswell?” the older man said. “I don’t recall the name as one of ours, do you, Mr. Hatcher?”
    “I can’t say that I do,” the man with the muttonchop whiskers replied, “but I haven’t been in the service as long as you, Dr. Brown.”
    The older man nodded. “I have certainly been part of this missionary effort for more than twenty years. But let me go and check the ledgers for you, my dear young lady. Please take a seat and I’m sure our Mr. Hatcher will keep you entertained.” He disappeared into a back room while the other man leaned over to me. “So you’re doing all this for a friend, are you? That’s what I call real Christian friendship. Is the poor dear lady suffering from an infirmity?”
    “An infirmity? No, she’s in good health. Why do you ask?”
    “I just wondered, because from what you said it sounded as if she was not able to make the inquiries herself, so I thought that perhaps she was of frail constitution.”
    “No, not at all,” I said, smiling, although there was something about the man’s overly friendly manner and the fact that he had moved his chair closer to mine that was beginning to annoy me. “The answer to that is simple. She is a working woman, supporting herself with no family behind her. She has neither time nor leisure for this sort of undertaking.”
    “Oh, I see. Then you must be a lady of leisure yourself.”
    I was tempted to tell him it was none of his business, but I controlled the urge and reasoned he was only trying to make polite conversation while we were waiting for the search through the ledgers. Perhaps he wasn’t used to dealing with young white women any longer, and his gushingly friendly manner went down well among the heathen.
    “I happen to have enough time to help out a dear friend,” I said. “Isn’t that what the Bible tells us to do?”
    “Absolutely. Oh, indeed, yes, it is. You sound like you’d be an ideal candidate for the missions yourself, Miss—?”
    “Murphy,” I said. “And I think I’d be the last person to want to serve as a missionary. First, I happen to be a Catholic,