He nodded. I spared his dignity by not taking his hand as we walked up the stairs. At the top I looked back at Daniel. He was watching me with such an intense look of longing on his face that it gripped at my heart. For once he was the one suffering. Good.
Once outside I put my arm around Shamey. “You’ve had quite a fright, haven’t you?” I said. “I blame myself for sending you to do something that was stupidly dangerous. I’ll never do that again. I’m sorry.”
“The police were watching the place and they grabbed us,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to ask about that guy for you, Molly.” Then, a few steps later, “Does my father have to know?”
“I don’t think we need to worry him, do you?” I said. “We’ll tell him that you went home with the cousins and Nuala invited you to stay to supper.”
A beaming smile spread across his face. “And it was so good I forgot to come home,” he finished for me, then burst out laughing. It is hard to keep the young downhearted for long. I, on the other hand, had some serious thinking to do. My thoughtless behavior today had brought me to the notice of the Eastmans. They had been looking for me, maybe they’d come looking for me again. I would have to tread very carefully in the future.
The next morning I took Shamey and his sister and personally enrolled them in the local school. “And if I hear you’ve been playing truant, it will be bread and water for a week,” I said, giving Shamey my severest stare.
As I walked home, I was unsure what to do next. I had to hope that Daniel would keep his promise and find out about Michael and Katherine for me. Until then, I had nothing to do. After those weeks at the sweatshop, it was a strange feeling. I went to have coffee and rolls with Sid and Gus and recounted my adventure with the Eastmans. They were suitably impressed.
As the weekend approached and still no word from Daniel, I realized that I could wait no longer—I would have to apply at Lowenstein’s on Monday morning, or I’d miss the crucial moment when the new designs were finished. And if Daniel hadn’t found out any more about Michael and Katherine for me, then I’d just have to do it for myself, even if I was putting myself in danger.
I was walking the children to Washington Square on Saturday afternoon to play with a new whipping top Sid had bought for Seamus when I saw a young police constable striding up Patchin Place.
“Miss Murphy?” He stopped and saluted. “I was told to deliver this by Captain Sullivan. He told me to apologize that he hasn’t the time to deliver it himself, but he said to tell you that he’s had no sleep all week, what with this gang business.” He handed me a slim envelope, saluted, and went back the way he had come. I stood fighting back the disappointment that Daniel himself hadn’t delivered the note. I kept making splendid resolutions never to see Daniel again, then was down in the dumps when I didn’t. This had to stop.
I tore open the envelope. It contained a few lines scrawled in Daniel’s sloping script, obviously written in haste:
Sorry that the news is not happier for you: Michael Kelly was indeed loosely connected with the Eastmans for a short while. They claim to have no knowledge of where he is now or what happened to him. However, one of the cadavers found in a gangland back alley certainly bears a resemblance to your photograph. I cannot give you positive proof, as the skull was smashed with great force, but he was of the same height, build, and coloring. Of course he had no identification on him and nobody has come forward to claim the body.
I fear the news on Katherine is no better. A young woman was pulled from the East River three weeks ago. She also had no identification on her, but was described as fair skinned, light brown hair, blue eyes, about five feet, four inches. She was also pregnant—do you know if this was the case?
It seems likely that Michael was killed and Katherine threw herself into the river in a fit of despair. Both were buried in the potter’s field so we have no way of verifying either identity.
It was signed simply, Daniel.
I stood staring at it until Shamey pulled at my jacket. “Aren’t we going to play in the square, Molly? You promised to show me how to make my top go fast.”
I came out of my reverie. “Yes, of course. We’re on our way.” I thrust the letter into my pocket and took Bridie’s hand as we crossed the street. So the case was closed. I was not looking forward to writing to Katherine’s father with this worst of all news.
We reached the park and I demonstrated how to whip a top with great expertise.
“There. Now you do it,” I said.
“Let’s play tag, Molly,” Bridie yelled. “You catch me!”
“Not right now, sweetheart,” I said. “Molly doesn’t feel like playing at this moment.”