In Dublin's Fair City Read online

  “Would you be a dear and assist me aboard?” she said. “Can I drop you off somewhere?”

  “I was staying here with Lady Ashburton,” I said, “but I rather fear there won’t be room for me if her brother has now arrived.”

  “And her husband is due home any minute, is he not?” she said. “Definitely an overcrowded household. I tell you what—you’re welcome to come and stay with me, if you don’t mind considerably less grand conditions. I could share with you my collection of Irish poetry. I’m rather proud of it. And you’d bring some youth and gaiety into a lonely old woman's life. What do you say?”

  “I would like that very much,” I said. “Do you think I could I come with you right away?”

  “I was going to suggest the very same thing. Hop in.” She patted the seat beside her.

  I needed no second urging. “I’m afraid my belongings are up in my bedroom at the house.” I glanced at the door.

  “Here, take my shawl,” she said. “It's not more than a ten-minute ride. You’ll not freeze to death traveling half a mile.”

  The cabby cracked his whip and we were off. I had escaped.

  Twenty-seven

  I must say I compliment you. You’re quick on the uptake, I’ll say that for you,” Mrs. Boone said as the cab left the square. “Either that or you’re a thoroughly nice, simple country girl who was brought up to help old women.”

  I turned to look at her. Her face in the darkness looked as if it was made of white marble, surrounded by all that black. Her expression was still serene. How much should I tell her, I wondered.

  “I should have let Lady Ashburton know I was leaving,” I said. “She’ll worry about what has happened to me.”

  “I shouldn’t think so for a second,” she said. “It was all arranged.” “That I was to go with you?”

  “Exactly. You had to be out of the house before the husband came home, and you certainly didn’t want to be caught there by Grania's halfwit of a brother, who can’t be trusted to hold his tongue about anything.”

  “I don’t know how much you’ve been told,” I said, “but my name's not really Mary Delaney and... “

  She patted my knee. “Never reveal anything about yourself unless you have to. That is rule number one for survival. I’ll call you Mary and you call me Mrs. Boone.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Boone,” I said. I leaned back against the leather upholstery as a sigh of relief escaped from my lips. I was in good hands, so it seemed. All would be well.

  We came out onto the quay and were trotting along the bank of the Liffy, retracing the route I had walked on my arrival from the station. “Adam and Eve, you said?” The cabby called down to us. “That is correct,” Mrs. Boone replied. “Here you are then, my dear.”

  “Thank you, but I am not your dear,” Mrs. Boone said. “Nor is it likely that I will ever be your dear.”

  I heard the cabby laughing. The horse was brought to a halt outside a tall building. The cabby came around to help us down. I looked up at the building with surprise. “It's a church,” I said.

  “That's right. St. Francis. One moment while I pay the cabby, then we’ll get you inside. The wind is quite raw tonight.”

  “What is Adam and Eve then?” I asked.

  “The old nickname for the church, dating back to the days before emancipation, when Catholic worshippers would have to enter the chapel through the Adam and Eve pub. Follow me, please, and watch your step.”

  I noticed that she set off at a good pace, and didn’t need any help on the uneven surface of the path to the church.

  “I’m to be housed in a church?” I called after her. It looked dark, devoid of life, and a little frightening. Thoughts did go through my mind that I’d become a liability and was to be dispatched.

  “In the rectory,” she said. “I am the housekeeper.”

  “But what about the priests?”

  “There is only one priest. He is a very spiritual man, lost in his devotions and notices very little,” she said. “Besides, he now suffers badly from rheumatics and can’t make the stairs. You’ll be in the attic and quite safe. Watch your step here.”

  She led me around the side of the church and into a tall brick building beyond.

  “He goes to bed early, so that he's up to say six o’clock mass,” Mrs. Boone whispered to me. “But try to go quietly up the stairs.”

  The hallway was dimly lit, but warm and smelled of baking. Up a long flight of steps we went, then across a landing and up a second flight. These steps were uncarpeted and creaked alarmingly.

  “Here we are.” She pushed open a door. “Wait while I light the lamp. There's no gas up here.” I heard a match strike and then the hiss of a lamp and the room was bathed in warm light. It was Spartan, to be sure, with an iron-framed bed, a chest of drawers and a marble-topped table on which stood a basin and water jug. The ceiling sloped and there was one small window

  “It's not the Ritz, but you’ll be comfortable enough,” she said. “Chamber pot under the bed. I’ll bring you up hot water in the morning and your breakfast while Father is saying mass. Fortunately there are masses at six, seven, and eight on weekdays. You’ll have to make do with one of my nightgowns tonight. It will be large for you, but it will keep you warm.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

  “Just doing my Christian duty,” she said. “I’m one of the members of our group with no family and sufficient space, so of course I volunteered to house a sister in distress. Good night, now. And please stay put and don’t come downstairs until I tell you to.”

  She closed the door behind her. I undressed in the light of the lamp, then turned it out and climbed into bed. The darkness was absolute. I lay there, listening to the wind in the chimney, the tooting of tug boats farther down the river, feeling cold and abandoned and fervently wishing myself back in Patchin Place, in my own little house with Sid and Gus across the alleyway. I even wished that Daniel was here. I wanted to feel his strong arms around me, my head resting on his shoulder. I had thought that having a husband would be a nuisance but now it seemed like a good idea to have a man to take care of me. It even seemed like a good idea to give up this crazy notion of being a lady detective and settle down to bake scones and do embroidery—which will tell you what an emotional mood I was in that night.

  I had almost drifted off to sleep when I heard a noise. It was the slightest of creaks on a floorboard, but it was enough to jerk me instantly awake and alert. Mrs. Boone had said that nobody ever came up here. I couldn’t believe that she’d be coming up again herself just to check on me. I lay there, every muscle tense, holding my breath, and heard nothing more. I told myself that it was probably a house cat, prowling for mice and had just settled down again when another floorboard creaked, this time closer to my door. I was up and out of bed in a second. The darkness was almost complete. I could just make out the shape of the window, the whiteness of the counterpane on the bed, but nothing more. I stood beside the bed, heart pounding and listening.

  Again there was silence. Then slowly my door began to open. I was too frightened even to scream. I kept telling myself that it was only Mrs Boone, come to see if I was sleeping. I sensed a large presence rather than saw it, and then I heard the sound of the door shutting, trapping me in the room with the person, whoever it was. Not Mrs. Boone then. Definitely not. I tried to remember where the table with the water jug was positioned. A good dousing with cold water would surprise any intruder enough for me to make it to the door and escape down the stairs. I wondered where Mrs. Boone slept and if I dared to call for help.

  I heard a muttered curse as the intruder blundered into the bedside table. Definitely a male curse. But he was still standing between me and the door. Then a hissing noise and a match was struck. He looked up and saw me. I let out a scream. He gasped. The match went flying and was extinguished.

  In a flash he had grabbed me, twisting my arm behind my back and clamping a big hand over my mouth.

 
“Don’t try to move or scream or I’ll break your neck,” he said calmly. “All right. Out with it. Who are you?”

  I recognized the voice. “Cullen?” I tried to say through his fingers. “It's Molly Murphy. Let go of me.”

  He released me, struck another match and lit the lamp.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he exclaimed, looking at me standing there in a voluminous nightgown. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  “More to the point, what do you think you are doing, barging into a lady's bedroom in the middle of the night.”

  “Lady's bedroom? This is my room. I’m staying here.”

  “Mrs. Boone put me in here. If you don’t believe me, I suggest you go down and wake her.”

  “But she put me—wait a second,” he said. He carried the lamp to the door, held it up on the landing, then looked back at me. “She put me in the room next door,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve never had to find myway to my door in the darkness before. I must have lost my way. I apologize profusely.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said.

  He started to laugh. “I had no idea there was anyone else staying here. She told me I’d be quite private and quite safe up here. I’ve just got back from a meeting.”

  “You scared the living daylights out of me,” I managed to say.

  “I scared the daylights out of you? My dear girl, the feeling was mutual, I can assure you.”

  “You’re lucky I couldn’t locate something to bash you over the head with,” I said. “Or you’d be lying there unconscious right now.”

  “Would I now? I think I might have underestimated you, Miss Murphy.” He was still smiling. Then he became grim again. “I tell you what I thought—that the English had located me and sent someone to bump me off,” he said. “When did you get here?”

  “A couple of hours ago,” I said. “Grania's brother arrived so Mrs. Boone spirited me home with her.”

  “She thinks on her feet, our Mrs. Boone.” Cullen nodded with approval.

  “And she didn’t tell me anyone else was staying up here. In fact, she said I’d be quite safe and private.”

  “She was told not to reveal my whereabouts to anyone and was leaving it up to me as to whether I made my presence known or not. Normally I’d have been asleep by this time, but something came up at the last minute and I had to go out to meet some fellows.” He looked at me and grinned. “So it seems that for the second time we’re sharing a domicile, Miss Murphy.”

  I must have been hugging my arms to myself, suddenly shivery. He noticed. “I’ve a bottle of Jamesons in my room. I think we could both do with a drink after that little scare. Hold up the lamp,- I’ll go and find it.”

  He came back with the bottle, and a glass into which he poured a generous tot for me.

  “I don’t really drink spirits,” I protested.

  “Go on. Drink it up. It will do you good.” He pressed the glass into my hands. I drank, coughed, and drank again. “This little encounter wasgood for us both,” he said. “From now on we’ll be on our toes, and we’ll need to be. The enemy is not as stupid as they look. We must expect for plans to go wrong and not to panic.”

  “You’re talking about the prison break,” I said.

  “That's exactly what I’m talking about,” he said. “We’ve set a date. October Twenty-second. Just over a week away.”

  “Will you be wanting me to help out in any way?”

  “We’re counting on it,” he said. “In fact, the whole plan depends upon it.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “I can’t tell you yet.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’d better get back to sleep, before Mrs. Boone hears us talking up here and jumps to the wrong kind of conclusions.”

  He started for the door, then turned back and gave me a wicked smile. For the second time in one night I found it hard to get to sleep.

  Twenty-eight

  The next morning Mrs. Boone brought me up a bowl of porridge and some rashers of bacon.

  “I’ve sent a boy to fetch your things,” she said. “They

  should be here any minute. Did you sleep well?”

  “Apart from bumping into Cullen Quinlan in the middle of the night, and nearly dying of fright,” I said dryly. “Why didn’t you warn me he was staying in the next room?”

  “I wasn’t sure whether Mr. Quinlan wanted that fact known. And it must never be mentioned to anyone but me,” she said. “Even Lady Ash-burton doesn’t know where Mr. Quinlan has gone. The authorities must have no whiff of the fact that he is in Dublin until the event. Many lives depend on it.”

  I glanced up at her. She was calmly laying out a knife, fork, and spoon onto the marble-topped table.

  “Are you the one they call Queen Mab?” I asked.

  “Queen Mab?” She looked amused. “The only Queen Mab I’ve heard of is the queen of the fairies, and I don’t think I have the build, my dear. Think of the size wings you’d need to lift this body off the ground.” She chuckled. “Now don’t let your breakfast get cold.”

  I ate then went over to the window, admiring the glimpses of the river and the Four Courts between the church roof and the next buildings, but then I wondered how long I’d be expected to stay up here. At least Grania's house had a grand library and Grania herself was goodcompany, as was Cullen. Would he be sharing my solitude, I wondered, and was rather surprised by the quickening of my pulse I felt at such a thought.

  Rubbish, I said to myself. The last thing in the world I wanted at this moment was to develop an attraction for an older revolutionary. What I really wanted was to catch the next boat home, to be back in my old life having croissants and coffee with Sid and Gus, unexpected visits from Ryan, all the excitement of life in New York. Oh, and Daniel, of course.

  I heard the clip-clop of hooves as a carriage went past and spotted a constable walking along the far bank of the river. Would he hear me if I opened the window and yelled to him? Which made my thoughts turn to Inspector Harris. What must he be thinking of me now? By vanishing without a trace, had I again become his number-one suspect in Rose McCreedy's murder? I wondered whether his investigation was still proceeding, whether any new details had come to light when the Majestic had docked again in Queenstown.

  The constable disappeared between the buildings, and I turned away from the window. It was the waiting and uncertainty and worry that I found so hard to take—knowing that I was to be part of a dangerous plot, knowing that my brother was destined to be hanged if we didn’t rescue him, knowing that I might still be a suspect in a murder and that Justin Hartley was in the same city as me. I felt as if I was walking down a dark tunnel and there was no escape, no turning back. Cullen, I could sense, was excited as well as apprehensive. He was ready to strike that next blow against the British. There was nothing I wanted to do less. All I was concerned about was saving my brother and then getting away from here as rapidly as possible. It was an agony being cooped up with too much time to think. I wished I had asked Mrs. Boone whether I was to stay hidden all the time or whether I could go out for an occasional walk.

  That question was answered later that day. There came a tap on my door. I expected it was Mrs. Boone, come to collect my lunch tray—a good, hearty Irish stew, by the way, followed by stewed apples and custard. I opened the door and saw Cullen standing there.

  “Get your coat. We’re going for a walk,” Cullen said.

  “Has something happened?” I asked nervously. “No, I just felt like going for a walk, and I hate walking alone.” He helped me on with my coat.

  “All right, if you think it's wise,” I said.

  “We can’t be wise all the time,” he answered. “Tie a scarf over your head so that your hair won’t be so noticeable.”

  We crept down the stairs together and then out into bright sunshine.

  “I was going mad, stuck up there in that poky little room,” he said, as we came out of the churchyard and crossed to the Liffy. “I expect you were too.”
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  “I was,” I said. “I was brought up in the outdoors. I like my freedom.”

  “And yet you choose to live in New York, which is all buildings and no outdoors,” he said.

  “Oh no. There is plenty of good walking in New York. Central Park, for example. You can get lost in Central Park and feel you are in the middle of the country. And there is splendid walking along the waterfront, down at the Battery. I have Washington Square just a stone's throw from my house.”

  “You sound as if you have a good life there,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “Then I hope you get back to it safely,” he said. “And is a young man part of this good life?”

  “There is a man,” I said slowly, “but I’m still not sure if he's destined to be my partner for life. There are—complications.”

  “But you miss him?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I definitely miss him.”

  He sighed. “I envy you that.”

  “I’m sure you have lady friends a plenty,” I teased. “Oona Sheehan still pines for you, so I hear.”

  “Ah yes. Dear Oona,” he said. “That relationship was doomed to failure.”

  “How so?”

  He smiled. “She wanted a lap dog, a devoted admirer who wrote her love notes every day. I could never be anyone's lap dog.” “I can see that.”

  I looked at him and our eyes met.

  “I rather suspect that you’re not too great at the lap dog business either,” he said.

  I laughed. “Absolutely hopeless. I’m too strong willed, I’m afraid.” “I like that in a woman,” he said.

  “So where are we going?” I asked, because the subject was becoming uncomfortable. “Just for a stroll to stretch our legs?”

  “That's right. A nice, middle-class couple out for a stroll. You may take my arm if you like.” He didn’t wait for an answer but slipped my hand through his arm, patting it into place. “It's been a long time since I’ve done this. It's rather nice.”

  We passed the Guinness Brewery. At Kingsbridge Station the road left the river bank and followed the railway line inland.