Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

I completed seven of these and put them ready for mailing when I left. I felt rather pleased with myself. If any of this money came in, I could keep this business running and, if Paddy's death was not broadcast to the world, nobody would be any the wiser.

As I was rearranging the files I had taken out of the cabinet, I had a second, even bigger, pleasant surprise. Something was lying on the bottom of the drawer, under the files. It was a slim leather pouch, rather like a pencil case. I took it out, opened it and stared in amazement. I had never seen so much money in my life. There were some silver dollars, but a great wad of bank notes, too. I had no way of knowing if there was a hundred dollars in the roll, or a thousand. The first thought that came into my head was that I should turn it over to the police instantly. That lasted for approximately a second. The New York Police Department didn't exactly have a reputation for honesty. The officer who took the money from me would thank me kindly and it would never be seen again. There was only one New York policeman I could trust, and he had forbidden me to go anywhere near Paddy's place.

I stood there, turning it over in my hand. I was trembling a little at the audacity of what I was thinking. As far as I knew, Paddy had no next of kin. If they turned up, then they could claim it, plus anything else in here that they wanted. Until then I was an employee of the firm, so I was taking it home with me, for safekeeping. I stuffed it into my purse and locked the file cabinet behind me.

I stopped on the way home for the fitting of my costume, then I decided to give myself a modest advance on wages and get Seamus some nourishing treats—grapes and peaches, eggs and a small bottle of brandy to go with them. I was looking forward to his face when he saw them, but I came up the stairs to find chaos. Nuala's three boys had come to visit and the place was like a monkey house.

“I was missing them something terrible,” she said, when I suggested that Seamus needed peace and quiet. “They came over to cheer up their kin, and boys will be boys, won't they?”

“They can be boys down in the street,” I said. “Go on, out you go, the lot of you.” I reached into my purse. “Here, go and treat yourselves to a soda.”

They snatched the coins from me and were gone. Nuala eyed me suspiciously. “I got a raise at work. They're pleased with me,” I said, before she could make any remarks about my fancy man. I sent her to get more milk and bread so that Seamus could get his rest. He looked washed-out and weary, but perked up when I offered him the grapes and heated a little milk with some egg and brandy in it.

“You're a good woman, Molly,” he said. “If only my Kathleen were here. I miss her so badly. While I've been lying here, I'm thinking all the time of going home. I mean, what would happen to these children if I died out here?”

“You're not going to die,” I said. “You'll be as right as rain soon.”

“Maybe this time, but it's a dangerous job I'm in and I know it. Four men dead, they say, in that cave-in. Who knows how many in the next? And no compensation for their families either. They weren't even about to pay for the doctor until some young fellow insisted. He's been trying to form a union. Hadn't had much luck until now, just like me back in Ireland. Most men are scared in case they lose their jobs. If I get back on my feet again, maybe I'll help him. I know a thing or two about unions.”

“You're a born troublemaker,” I said, laughing.

“Oh, and you're not yourself?” A weary smile crossed his face. “I had a letter from Kathleen,” he whispered. “She's not doing too badly. Not any worse, anyway. Says she feels fine when she's out in the fresh air. Who knows, maybe she'll beat it yet.”

“Maybe she will.” I patted his hand, trying to look as if I believed a person might recover from consumption. “Now why don't you fall asleep in a hurry, so that I can keep the heathen hordes out of your room?”

He chuckled as he sank back onto his pillow.

When I was safely in my own room I took out the money pouch and looked at it again. I didn't dare count that money. I got out my needle and thread and made a crude pocket out of my oldest petticoat, then pinned it to my waistband, where it could hang, under my skirts. It was safe enough there for the time being.

When I went to bed, I put it under my pillow. But during the night I got an acute attack of conscience. That strict Catholic upbringing, those straps on the backside for lying or cheating, those embarrassing encounters with the priest in the confessional started playing on my mind. It wasn't my money. Not that I had any intention of keeping it, nor of helping myself to anything more than my wages, but I shouldn't have brought it home with me. What if there was a next of kin Paddy had never mentioned—a frail, crippled daughter who could have used that money for the operation to make her walk, or even a bright but poverty-stricken nephew who wanted to become a doctor but was working as a servant?

Next morning I went straight to Mulberry Street to police headquarters and asked to see Sergeant Wolski. He didn't look particularly pleased to see me.