Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

“One hears rumors, Ryan. I understand that he bolted.”


“I must correct you there, Leon dearest. If there was any bolting done, it was I who was bolter and Angus was boltee. In either case, it is over, done, finito, schluss.”

“So you've moved on to a new lover?” I was looking straight in front of me, but I got the feeling that I was being scrutinized.

“My new lover has to be the theater at the moment. I have no time for outside dalliances until my play opens.”

“Tell me more about this play, Ryan.” Emma leaned forward between the two men and latched on to Ryan's arm, drawing him toward her. A private conversation began at their end of the table. I looked back to find the young woman in black watching me again.

“You're from Ireland,” she said. “Tell me, how goes the cause over there? Is there hope of expelling the tyrants anytime soon?”

“Driving out the English, you mean?”

“What else?”

“I'm afraid I don't know.”

“You were not involved with the cause over there?”

“I lived on the remote west coast,” I said. “Far from Dublin and politics.”

“The struggle must be carried on everywhere if success is to be achieved,” she said coldly. “I could tell you weren't one of us. What are you doing here?”

“I came with Ryan,” I said.

“With Ryan? But I thought that Ryan …” One of the young men beside me looked confused. I guessed his meaning.

“I'm a cousin, visiting from Ireland,” I said hastily, hoping this would stop the questions. “He wanted me to come and meet Emma.”

“And now you've met her, what do you think?” the same young man asked. “Isn't she wonderful? Doesn't your heart leap in your breast when she speaks?”

Personally my heart hadn't stirred an inch, at least not in the way it leaped when Ryan kissed my hand or caressed my shoulder, but I nodded politely. “She seems a very interesting woman.”

“And powerful, too. They listen to her over in Europe as well, you know. And they fear her over here. She's been in jail more than once.”

“So you do intend to join our little group?” The young woman wasn't going to let up. “You are remaining in New York for a while, aren't you? You could be instructed in how to pursue the fight when you go back to Ireland. More soldiers are needed on that battlefield, you know.”

“Are women now supposed to fight?” I asked. “Frankly, I find the petticoats too hampering.”

The young woman glared at me. “Emma fights,” she said. “And not all fights involve weapons. Words can be weapons too. Instructing the masses how to rise up against their oppressors—opening the eyes of the blind to the corruption and greed around us—those are ways we women can fight. Are you with us or not?”

I glanced across at Ryan, hoping to catch his eye. Now that I had met Emma, I had no wish to stay longer. I found these people rather alarming and pathetic. I certainly had no wish to be one of them. And I was beginning to feel very uneasy. Maybe I was just sensing the girl's hostility, but I started feeling as if I couldn't breathe. I couldn't wait to get out into the fresh air again. Just when I couldn't stand it any longer and was thinking up a way to excuse myself, Ryan seemed to tire of them also. He drained his glass of tea and got to his feet. “Well, I must be going, Emma darling,” he said. “I must make sure this adorable creature gets home safely before midnight, or she will turn into a pumpkin.” He leaned to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Do let me know where you will be and I promise to write. Will you be going home to Rochester? I'll be heading to the wilds of upstate New York myself in a week.”

He scribbled down her address on the back of an envelope, then put an arm around my shoulders and steered me out of the building. As we left, I could feel eyes on my back.

“So what did you think?” he asked as we set off back toward Washington Square. “Isn't she a hoot?”

“Why didn't you warn me?” I said. “Those people are anarchists, aren't they?”

“Oh, very much so. They meet at Schwab's and talk about taking over the world. Death to all tyrants.”

“How on earth did you get involved with them? Surely you were never an anarchist yourself?”

We paused to let a hansom cab clatter past on the cobbles. “I was introduced to Emma when I first got here. For a while I was rather entranced—she has that effect, you know. It seemed like rather a noble cause to blow up that fat old tyrant Victoria, especially after what she did to me. But the enthusiasm soon wore off. Victoria died and nobody could feel violent about poor old Edward. Anyone who has to do what his mummy tells him until he turns sixty should at least be allowed a few years of fun, ruling the British Empire, don't you think?”