In Dublin’s City Page 16

  “Pardon me, but we’ve met before, I believe.”

  I recognized him right away, of course. It was Mr. Fitzpatrick, whom I had encountered when playing the part of Oona Sheehan on the ship. He was staring hard at me, but he obviously couldn’t place me without my makeup and wig.

  “Have we?” I asked innocently. “I don’t believe so.”

  “I could have sworn your face looked familiar. Do you live in Dublin?”

  “No, I’m just visiting from New York.”

  “Really? Then that is where I might have seen you. I also live in the States and often attend the theater in New York.”

  “There you are, then,” I said. “Amazing as such a coincidence would be, we must have bumped into each other at a New York theater.”

  “Do you believe in coincidence?” he asked. “I rather think I’m in favor of predestination myself. You and I were destined to run into each other on both sides of the Atlantic, which must mean something important.”

  “I think it's more likely that you’re mistaking me for someone else,” I said. “I’m told I look typically Irish. I’m sure there are replicas of me in every major city of the world.”

  “Oh no, I wouldn’t agree to that,” he said. “Ripping play tonight, wasn’t it? Of course a little highbrow for my taste. I go for musical comedies myself. Did you see Oona Sheehan in that last thing of hers? What was it called? She was a corker, an absolute corker.”

  I didn’t like this turn the conversation was taking. It occurred to me that he had very possibly been in the courtroom at the inquest and had seen me unmasked there. Was that why he had introduced Oona Shee-han into the conversation—to observe my reaction? In which case whynot just come out and say it? I decided that this was the moment to retreat.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr.—” “Fitzpatrick,” he said, with a little bow.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick,” I finished, “I have a cab waiting and really have to go home. My family will be expecting me.”

  I didn’t want him to know that I was all alone at a hotel. “Wait,” he called. “You didn’t tell me your name.” “It's Delaney,” I said. “Mary Delaney.”

  “Is it really?” he asked, his head cocked on one side. “Fancy that.”

  “I don’t see what's so extraordinary about it,” I said. “A very ordinary name, I’m sure. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  I turned away. I thought he was going to try and follow me, but at that exact moment there were wild cheers from the doorway and Maud Gonne made her entrance on the arm of Mr. Yeats and followed by other members of the cast. I took the opportunity of all that confusion to slip out into the night, where I hailed a cab and got safely away.

  Twenty

  In the middle of the night a storm blew up. Rain peppered my windows and the wind howled down my chimney and found cracks through which to stir my curtains. I suppose the tension of being alone in a strange city, added to that of having found a murdered girl and knowing that I was surrounded by trunks full of illegal guns, was enough to make anyone sleep poorly. On this night I found sleep absolutely impossible. Thoughts raced through my head and when I half-slipped into dreams they were disturbing and confused.

  I must have drifted into some kind of sleep in the wee hours because I woke to a leaden sky and a sodden dawn. The wind was still driving the rain almost horizontally. The milkman had hunched his shoulders to keep out the rain, and his horse stood head down and miserable. It was the kind of day that makes one long for roaring fires and tea and crumpets. Since I had no pressing need to go out, after breakfast I found a cozy chair in the lounge and sat down to think. If the Gaelic League had also never heard of Terrence Moynihan, where did I go from there? Somehow I had to discover whether he was still in Dublin, and if Mary Ann was still with him. It was all too possible that they had gone abroad to escape the vengeance of the horrible Mr. Kelly. He and Mary Ann could be living in London, Boston, or even Sydney by now.

  The man in the wing-backed chair beside me kept rustling his newspaper annoyingly as he turned the pages. As I glanced up, an idea came to me. I could put an advertisement in a Dublin newspaper. I’msure this was painfully obvious to anyone raised with a certain standard of culture, but newspapers were beyond our reach at home in Bal-lykillin. My father might have looked at one during his frequent visits to the pub, but he never brought one home for us. Had he done so, I might have known about things that were common knowledge to the rest of Ireland, like Cullen Quinlan and the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

  I opened my little pad and composed a message. Seeking information on Terrence Moynihan, poet, and the former Mary Ann Burke. Anyone with information on contacting these people please refer to Box Number—.

  I wasn’t about to brave the storm and hoped that it might subside before the end of the day. In true Irish fashion of the weather never being the same for more than an hour, the rain did ease in the afternoon, at least enough for me to brave the long walk up Sackville Street to the offices of the Irish Times, where I placed my ad. I hesitated over whether to add the word “reward” but decided against it. Such an enticement might produce too many false leads.

  As I walked back I had an odd feeling that I was being followed. I glanced around. The street was almost deserted and I saw nobody I recognized, but I quickened my pace. I was halfway down Sackville Street when the rains began again in earnest so that I was drenched through by the time St. Stephen's Green loomed through the fading afternoon light. I had forgotten how early it gets dark in Ireland the moment autumn closes in. The Shelbourne loomed like a safe harbor through the storm, and I ran up the steps and stood in the warm and comfortable foyer while lackeys rushed to relieve me of my sodden overcoat and hat.

  “Fancy going out without an umbrella, miss,” one of them said. “You’d better have some tea before you catch pneumonia.”

  Tea sounded like a good idea, so I let one of them carry my outer clothes up to my room while the other led me to a little table and had tea produced as if by magic. I had just finished my first cup and was pouring a second when I looked up to see a shadow standing over me. It was Mr. Fitzpatrick again, and he was beaming at me.

  “Miss Delaney? I can’t tell you how happy I am to find you here. I’ve been searching all over Dublin for where you might be staying and nobody had heard of a Mary Delaney. I was quite dejected. I believe you mentioned your family, and I thought I might have no hope of contacting you. And now here you are, at the Shelbourne and having tea. How delightful.”

  I don’t know why I had taken such an instant dislike to him. Maybe it was because he made me feel uneasy. I couldn’t help thinking that he knew exactly who I was and was enjoying this toying with me, like a cat playing with a mouse. To what end, I couldn’t imagine.

  Without being asked, he pulled over a chair and snapped his fingers for a second pot to be brought. “So tell me how you like Dublin so far. Is this your first visit? But surely not, for you say your family is here.”

  “It is my first visit,” I said. “I am from—” I was about to say county Mayo when I realized I didn’t wish to establish a connection to that county and to anyone who might have met Justin Hartley—”Galway myself, but I have an aunt and cousins who live here. And I am finding Dublin quite delightful.”

  He nodded. “I always enjoy coming here. Of course I live in the States, but my interest is in race horses, and everyone knows that the best horses are bred in Ireland. Hence I am enticed back here again and again.”

  “Do you have family here, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” I asked.

  “Not anymore. My family immigrated to America, like so many of our countrymen. But I have come to know this city well, and I should be honored to show you around when the weather improves. There is to be a race meeting next week, point to point. Would you care to accompany me? It will be a jolly day and if one of my fillies wins, an even jollier return to the city. What do you say, Miss Delaney?”

  “It's very kind of you, Mr. Fitzpatrick, but I can’t think wh
y you are showing me all this attention and consideration.”

  He blushed. “Isn’t a chap allowed to show attention to the prettiest girl in town? I mean, dash it all, Miss Delaney, I’m a visitor here like you and it can be quite lonely so far from home, and it would be no fun watching horses win all alone, so you’d be doing me a great favor by saying yes.”

  A battle waged within me. I had no reason to see him as anything other than a keen young man. Perhaps I was overreacting, and he trulydidn’t realize that I was also Molly Murphy and had once been masquerading as Oona Sheehan. I managed a gracious smile. “You are too kind, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I accept your offer. I’d love to go the races with you.”

  “Next Tuesday? Where may I call for you?”

  “I’ll meet you here since it is so central and accessible for both of us.”

  “Shall we say ten o’clock then? And let's pray for good weather.”

  “You’re very kind.” I looked up to see the bellboy making a beeline for me. Since I knew he’d address me as Miss Murphy, I got to my feet hastily and went to intercept him.

  “I just wanted to tell you, Miss Murphy, that the men have come for those trunks you’re having shipped,” he said. “They’re up in your room now. I gather they have received full instructions so there's no need for you to go up, but I just thought I’d warn you so that you weren’t alarmed if you barged in on them.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I think I will go up and take a look for myself to make sure that they’re not shipping anything I’ll need during my stay.”

  I turned back to Mr. Fitzpatrick. “Please excuse me. There's something I must take care of right away.”

  He also got to his feet. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Nothing. But I must leave you. Until Tuesday then.”

  I didn’t wait for a reply but hurried away and up the stairs. All but two of the trunks had already disappeared and two men were attempting to hoist one of the heaviest ones as I came in. They looked up, let go of the trunk and stood to attention.

  “Sorry to disturb you, miss, but we were sent to collect the luggage,” a big, ugly brute of a man said. “We’re almost done.”

  He had a face like a boxer's and great paws for hands, and I was glad I was meeting him in the safety of the hotel. The other one simply looked like a half-wit.

  I composed my features to look calm and disinterested. “That's quite all right. I’m glad it's finally going. I’ve had to clamber over it, and it's been most inconvenient.” I waited until they had hoisted the trunk between them and then asked carelessly, “So who do you work for? Who sent you?”

  “We work for the carter, miss. We got our instructions to come and pick up these trunks. We are in the right place, I hope.” “Quite right,” I said. “And where are you taking them?” “Just back to the warehouse, miss.”

  They had reached my doorway and were easing the trunk through it. “And after that?”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “I’ve no idea, miss. My job was to come and collect this luggage, and I just do what I’m told. Now if you’ll excuse us, this blessed thing weighs a ton.”

  They staggered out. I went across to the window and peered down to the street. No sign of any vehicle. On impulse I decided to follow them. I ran out into the hall, but they were nowhere to be seen. Obviously they had been required to carry luggage down by some sort of back staircase and then, presumably, out of a tradesman's entrance. I snatched up my shawl from where it was lying on my dresser and raced down the stairs. I stood on the steps, scanning the street. Still no sign of any conveyance. And it was raining again. I put my shawl over my head and walked out onto the pavement.

  “Are you requiring a cab, miss?” A hotel lackey stood ready at attention.

  “No, thank you.” I walked to the corner and looked into the alley at the side of the hotel. There was a horse and cart standing under a streetlamp and as I came around the corner, the two men appeared from a doorway, grunting as they tried to hoist the trunk into the back of the cart. I shrank back into the shadows. If they were indeed taking the trunks only back to their depot, then there was no point in following them. Besides, I didn’t really want to know more than what was good for me, did I? The trunks were gone, and with them any danger to myself. I should be glad and leave them to it.

  I was about to turn away when another man jumped down from the back of the cart.

  “Is this the last of them then?” he asked, in a voice that made me stop and turn back to look at him.

  “Jonnie and Donald are bringing down the last one now.”

  “Good, then let's get out of here,” the man said, glancing up and down the alleyway.

  He went to climb up to the driver's seat and the lamplight shone on his red hair. I must have gasped out loud because he looked up. For one brief moment our eyes met. I thought I must be seeing things,- it was my brother.

  Twenty-one

  Liam!” I shouted and started to move toward him.

  He shot me a frightened glance, then turned and fled, run-

  ning away as fast as he could. I took off after him, down the alleyway, the clatter of our feet on the cobbles echoing from the sides of the buildings. The nails in Liam's boots struck sparks on the cobbles, so fast was he running. Back at home I had been a fast runner too, able to keep up with the boys in any footrace. But in those days I’d been barefoot, with light cotton skirts I could easily hoist up. Now I was dressed like a lady, hampered by my dainty shoes, my tight skirts and petticoats, and that neat little waistline that made it impossible to breathe.

  “Jesus, Liam, slow down. Talk to your sister,” I managed to gasp, but he kept on going, dodging from alleyway to alleyway. I had no idea in which direction we were heading, only that my side felt as if it was on fire and I couldn’t go on much longer. When we had to cross a major road and a horse and carriage came hurtling toward us, he took the chance and sprinted in front of the horse. I had to stop for a moment while it passed by. In the time it took for me to cross the road, Liam had vanished. I was standing at the entrance to a maze of backstreets. From a nearby saloon came the sound of raucous laughter. I recoiled at the smell from an open drain at my feet. I started down a narrow, twisting street, then stopped when it branched again, vanishing into pitch darkness. There was no way I could pursue him into that warren at this timeof night. I stood there, rain and sweat streaming down my face, almost weeping with frustration.

  Then I realized how stupid I had been. All I had to do was follow the cart with the trunks on it and see where they were delivered. Even though it hurt to move and breathe, I ran all the way back and retraced my steps successfully to St. Stephen's Green. There was no sign of the cart anywhere. I tried all the streets that led from the green. I stopped passersby and asked if they had seen a cart go past, piled high with trunks, but none of them remembered seeing it. Who does pay attention to passing vehicles unless there is something strange about them?

  Reluctantly I made my way upstairs to my room, now spacious and remarkably free of luggage. I ran a bath and lay back in the hot water, trying to calm my racing thoughts. What on earth was my little brother doing here in Dublin? Last time I had seen him he’d been an undersized and skinny fifteen year old, helping my father cut the peat on the croft, or with whatever laboring jobs the Hartley family needed on the estate. So what in heaven's name could have brought him here? He wouldn’t have come all this way by himself to find work, when there were big cities like Galway and Limerick closer by. Surely he couldn’t be mixed up in this republican business, could he? But if he were only working for a carter, doing an honest job, why run away from his sister? It did cross my mind that maybe he had been sent to Dublin by my father, or, worse still, by the Hartleys, looking for me. In which case, why run away when he had found me?

  I asked myself if I could have made a mistake. It was almost two years since I’d set eyes on him last and in that time he’d have grown from fifteen to seventeen—from boy into a man.
Would I still recognize him that easily? It was just possible that I had chased a complete stranger. But I didn’t think so. I had looked into his eyes and seen recognition there.

  Tomorrow I would find him, I told myself. I would keep looking for him until I did.

  In the morning I inquired at the hotel about the carters who had come to pick up the luggage. I drew a blank there. They had come with a requisition slip, and I had already let the hotel staff know that I was expecting the trunks to be removed. I then asked for the name of firmsof carters within the area. They gave me one or two. I went to visit them and from them acquired the names and addresses of their competitors. After a long morning of walking, I had not found the company that came to pick up those trunks last night.

  I fortified myself with a good lunch of grilled herring with mustard sauce, followed by baked jam roll and custard, and then went out again, this time retracing my steps from the night before. I recognized the main road where I had been held up by the horse and carriage. On the other side was a large church, this one tall and gothic in contrast to the squat square Christchurch. The sign outside showed that it was St. Patrick's Cathedral—just how many cathedrals did one city need? Beyond it was the maze of small back streets. It didn’t take me long to realize that my instincts the night before had been right. This was indeed a terrible slum. I wandered down filthy alleyways and narrow back-streets. Some of the houses must have been elegant once, but now they had become tenements, crammed with people just like in New York City. I walked from street to street, some with open drains, while ragged children observed me from doorways, mothers hung out washing, men stood together talking, and cats slunk between railings. It reminded me of the streets of the Lower East Side in New York, but without the vibrancy of life there. This was the Lower East Side with the life and color drained from it. These were people who seemed to have given up the fight and decided to exist rather than live.

  I did stop to ask people I passed whether they knew a redheaded young man who looked a little like me and told them I was tracking down my young brother who had run away from home, but I got little help. For one thing there were redheads and skinny lads aplenty in the area, for another I might well be a wife seeking a runaway husband or even someone in league with the police. I offered some street urchins a reward if they found out where Liam Murphy was living and led me to him. They were certainly interested in the word “reward,” but, as one of them said, “Dublin's an awful big place, miss.”