books.
“May I help you, miss?” an elderly gentleman asked, appearing from behind a counter at the back of the store.
“I was wondering about missionaries in China,” I said. “Do you know if any accounts have been written of their lives there?”
“Of course there is the new book about the massacre,” he said. “We received the first copies only a few weeks ago and it’s been flying off the shelves ever since.”
“Massacre?”
“The Boxer Rebellion. You didn’t hear about it? Shocking it was. They were all killed. Every one of them. Men, women, children. The whole city was abuzz about it. It can’t have been much more than two years ago.”
“I’m afraid I was in Ireland two years ago and the only shocking events I heard about were the battles in the Boer War in South Africa where our own boys were fighting,” I said.
“Well, it was a terrible tragedy and it’s all documented here in this little book.” He went to a shelf and brought down a slim volume with a red paper cover. “I only hope the brutal events described therein won’t be too much for your delicate sensibilities.”
I was tempted to say that I didn’t possess any delicate sensibilities that I knew of. Instead I thanked him kindly, parted with twenty cents, and refused his offer to wrap the book in brown paper. I carried it out into the light and studied the cover. The Tragedy of Paotingfu, by Isaac C. Ketler. An authentic story of the Life, Services and Sacrifices of the Presbyterian, Congregational and China Inland Missionaries who Suffered Martyrdom at Paotingfu, China, June 30 and July 1, 1900. So now I knew that these particular missionaries were Presbyterian and I had an author’s name—presumably one of the party had survived to write the tale. What’s more, the publisher was one Fleming H. Revell, of New York, Chicago, and Toronto. After an hour or so’s diligent sleuthing, I had located their New York office and came away with an address in Pennsylvania for the author. I wrote to him and explained my plight—not mentioning I was a detective, of course. In fact my letter leaned toward the sentimental—my poor dear friend, orphaned at birth, raised knowing nothing of her parents, no mementos, no photographs, etcetera. Any help he could give me would be greatly appreciated—headquarters of missionary societies, other missionaries who might have been in China twenty-five years ago. I sealed the envelope and mailed the letter, feeling rather proud of myself.
My next task should be to find her Aunt Lydia’s maiden name. I was tempted to pay a visit to the mansion on East Seventy-ninth where Horace Lynch still lived and see if the direct approach might work. Perhaps one simple question and answer would reveal the truth about Emily’s background. But then I dismissed this idea. If there were any kind of underhand business, if he had indeed stolen her inheritance, then I should tread very carefully. Best to thoroughly check the Chinese connection first. It was just possible that everything Emily had been told was true but not completely accurate—maybe her parents had been in another Asian country rather than China. Maybe they had died before the Hinchleys arrived. And maybe Horace Lynch was so unpleasant to her simply because he objected to spending his precious money on someone who wasn’t a close relative, or on the education of a female.
Lots of things to think about, then. I went to City Hall, where they produced Lydia Lynch’s death certificate. From this I found that her maiden name was Johnson and that she had been born in Williamstown, Massachusetts. So a train ride to New England might be in my future. For the present, all I could do was wait for an answer to my letter from Isaac C. Ketler.
Unfortunately it is not within my temperament to wait patiently; nor can I sit idly. I had mailed the letter on Wednesday, and it should have arrived in Pennsylvania the next morning, and if Mr. Ketler had been at all
“May I help you, miss?” an elderly gentleman asked, appearing from behind a counter at the back of the store.
“I was wondering about missionaries in China,” I said. “Do you know if any accounts have been written of their lives there?”
“Of course there is the new book about the massacre,” he said. “We received the first copies only a few weeks ago and it’s been flying off the shelves ever since.”
“Massacre?”
“The Boxer Rebellion. You didn’t hear about it? Shocking it was. They were all killed. Every one of them. Men, women, children. The whole city was abuzz about it. It can’t have been much more than two years ago.”
“I’m afraid I was in Ireland two years ago and the only shocking events I heard about were the battles in the Boer War in South Africa where our own boys were fighting,” I said.
“Well, it was a terrible tragedy and it’s all documented here in this little book.” He went to a shelf and brought down a slim volume with a red paper cover. “I only hope the brutal events described therein won’t be too much for your delicate sensibilities.”
I was tempted to say that I didn’t possess any delicate sensibilities that I knew of. Instead I thanked him kindly, parted with twenty cents, and refused his offer to wrap the book in brown paper. I carried it out into the light and studied the cover. The Tragedy of Paotingfu, by Isaac C. Ketler. An authentic story of the Life, Services and Sacrifices of the Presbyterian, Congregational and China Inland Missionaries who Suffered Martyrdom at Paotingfu, China, June 30 and July 1, 1900. So now I knew that these particular missionaries were Presbyterian and I had an author’s name—presumably one of the party had survived to write the tale. What’s more, the publisher was one Fleming H. Revell, of New York, Chicago, and Toronto. After an hour or so’s diligent sleuthing, I had located their New York office and came away with an address in Pennsylvania for the author. I wrote to him and explained my plight—not mentioning I was a detective, of course. In fact my letter leaned toward the sentimental—my poor dear friend, orphaned at birth, raised knowing nothing of her parents, no mementos, no photographs, etcetera. Any help he could give me would be greatly appreciated—headquarters of missionary societies, other missionaries who might have been in China twenty-five years ago. I sealed the envelope and mailed the letter, feeling rather proud of myself.
My next task should be to find her Aunt Lydia’s maiden name. I was tempted to pay a visit to the mansion on East Seventy-ninth where Horace Lynch still lived and see if the direct approach might work. Perhaps one simple question and answer would reveal the truth about Emily’s background. But then I dismissed this idea. If there were any kind of underhand business, if he had indeed stolen her inheritance, then I should tread very carefully. Best to thoroughly check the Chinese connection first. It was just possible that everything Emily had been told was true but not completely accurate—maybe her parents had been in another Asian country rather than China. Maybe they had died before the Hinchleys arrived. And maybe Horace Lynch was so unpleasant to her simply because he objected to spending his precious money on someone who wasn’t a close relative, or on the education of a female.
Lots of things to think about, then. I went to City Hall, where they produced Lydia Lynch’s death certificate. From this I found that her maiden name was Johnson and that she had been born in Williamstown, Massachusetts. So a train ride to New England might be in my future. For the present, all I could do was wait for an answer to my letter from Isaac C. Ketler.
Unfortunately it is not within my temperament to wait patiently; nor can I sit idly. I had mailed the letter on Wednesday, and it should have arrived in Pennsylvania the next morning, and if Mr. Ketler had been at all
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