He shrugged. “There’s no harm in it. Just talk. Boys always run in herds, like young ponies, don’t they?”
But I couldn’t take this news so lightly. I had heard enough last night about violence and protection rackets to make me believe that there was indeed harm in young Shamey running with a gang. And I knew it was up to me to get him out of it. I’d just have to find a place of my own and bring them to live with me, at least until Seamus was on his feet again. I felt deep depression settling over me at the thought of leaving the little heaven on Patchin Place, but it had to be done. I was only alive now because the children’s mother had given me a chance to escape. Giving up a few months of my life was the least I could do in return.
Four
I walked home with heavy steps, deep in thought. How could I afford a place of my own, big enough to take in Seamus and the children? I wouldn’t want it to be in a neighborhood like this, either. I wanted to stay in Greenwich Village, where I had made friends and where I loved the exuberance of the lifestyle. Somehow I needed to make money. I did have the means in front of my nose—I’d just have to overcome my repugnance and get on with the Tomlinson divorce case—if I wasn’t arrested every time I tried to follow Mr. T.
I gave a big sigh. I wasn’t the sort of person who liked going against her principles, which was the reason that I was not prepared to spend the tidy sum of money that I’d discovered in Paddy’s filing cabinet. It was sitting in the bank, waiting for an heir to claim it. So far no one had, which probably meant it was my money. But I still couldn’t bring myself to use it for anything but official business.
I stepped back from the curb, hastily, as a carriage went past, its wheels and the horses’ hooves spraying up muck from the gutter. I supposed I’d have to go back to spying on Mr. Tomlinson. I just prayed he didn’t have aged female relatives all over the city. Next time I’d find some excuse to check out who owned the houses he visited. It was all so complicated. Why couldn’t the wretched man just agree to give his wife a divorce and save me all this trouble? I was half tempted to go to his office and beg him to grant her wish, so that I was spared any more of this sordid business. I paused on a street corner, one foot in midair. Why not? Why did it always have to be furtive and sordid like this? We were, after all, civilized human beings.
Having made up my mind, I turned on my heels and instead of catching the trolley up Broadway, I went in the other direction, down to Wall Street. I knew where Mr. Tomlinson worked. I had stood outside waiting for him enough times now. It was right next door to the magnificent columns of the stock exchange where there was always such a hustle and bustle that I could blend nicely into the crowd. This time I didn’t lurk in the shadows. I went up the steps, through the front door, and up a flight of marble stairs. I passed an impressive mirror and glanced at myself. I was glad that I had elected to put on my one respectable garment, a beige tailored business suit which had been made for me when I decided to become a female investigator. But I wished I’d put my hair up. With it tied back in a ribbon I looked ridiculously young and most unprofessional. I stepped into a recess and attempted to twist it into a knot. If only I could learn to wear hats like other women, then I’d never be caught out like this. But I’d grown up without wearing a hat and only wore one when strictly necessary. I didn’t like the feel of my head being restricted any more than I liked the restriction of a corset on my body.
J. BAKER TOMLINSON III, STOCKBROKER, was on the second floor. A hollow-eyed young man wearing a large starched collar greeted me and tried to wheedle out of me why I wanted to see Mr. Tomlinson. I was suitably enigmatic and, shortly afterward, I was shown into a tastefully furnished office with mahogany desk and thick carpet on the floor.
“Miss Murphy?” Mr. Tomlinson waved me to a leather padded armchair. “My secretary didn’t make it clear what your manner of business was. Are you here for financial advice?” I saw him summing up the quality of my costume and the hair, which was probably already escaping from its makeshift bun.
“I’m here on a very different sort of matter, Mr. Tomlinson,” I said. “One which causes me considerable embarrassment.”
“Really?” He was looking interested, not guilty. “Please proceed. I am quite intrigued.”
I handed him my card. “My company was hired by your wife.” I met his gaze. “She wanted us to provide proof for her to file for divorce.”