In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)

We emerged from West Tenth to the hustle and bustle of West Street. Porters, seamen, and passengers were scurrying around the great ship, picking their way among stacks of cargo like a lot of ants around a picnic basket. The ship's twin funnels sparkled in the morning sunlight. She cast a great black shadow over the scene below. Truly a majestic sight, and this time I was really able to savor it. When I had departed from Liverpool, not only had I been a bundle of nerves at sailing underan assumed name, but I had two terrified children in tow—Kathleen O’Connor's little ones, en route to their father in New York. I had written to Seamus O’Connor telling him that I was going back to Ireland and would try to visit Kathleen's grave, if I had time, but had received no reply. Seamus wasn’t the greatest when it came to penmanship. I felt a pang of regret that those children were no longer part of my life. Maybe they’d come back to New York in the winter, I thought. I didn’t allow myself a pang of regret for my own child. No good would come from dwelling on that.

I paid the cabby and assigned my humble luggage to a porter who looked at it with distaste, when compared to the piles of steamer trunks that were going aboard and led me to the second-class gangway. I went aboard without looking back, my heart racing a mile a minute, and showed my ticket to the purser at the top of the gangway.

“This way, miss,” I was told pleasantly, and was handed over to a steward who took my train case from me and escorted me along a never-ending corridor to a small cabin. It was hardly big enough to swing a cat, but at least it did have a porthole. The view wasn’t the greatest, obscured by a lifeboat hanging out from the deck above, but at least I could see daylight and a glimpse of sky.

“Your bags will be brought up right away, miss,” the steward said. “Have a good trip. We’re expecting good weather all the way. That's a blessing at this time of year, isn’t it? It's no picnic when we have to outrun a hurricane, I can tell you.”

I thanked him, wondering if I was expected to give him a tip. Such questions had not been necessary when I traveled steerage. Before I could fumble for a purse, however, he gave me a cheery grin and left me to examine my quarters. Not that the cabin took long to examine. There were two bunk beds along one wall, a chest of drawers, wardrobe and mirror on the other. And just about enough room between them for a slender person to pass. But I didn’t have to share it with anybody, and I didn’t expect to be inside it much. I intended to make full use of my time on board. I took off my hat and was about to brush my hair when there was a tap at my door. I expected it was my luggage, but instead another steward entered.

“Note for you, miss,” he said, in cheerful Cockney tones.

“For me? Are you sure?”

“Miss Molly Murphy, E deck, cabin 231. Is that you?” “Yes, it is, but—”

He grinned. “Maybe you’ve already got an admirer on board. Great place for romance, Atlantic liners.” He winked, handed me the note, and was gone.

I stared at my name written on the envelope. Not any handwriting that I knew. For one dreadful moment I had thought that it might be from Daniel, begging me to reconsider. I decided it must be some last-minute instructions from Mr. Burke and tore it open.

“Dear Miss Murphy,” the note began, “You can’t imagine how delighted I was to find that we were to be shipmates. I too am traveling back on the Majestic to my homeland. I’d be most grateful if you’d come to my cabin as soon as you read this. I’ve a small matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

It was signed Oona Sheehan.





Six


Itidied my hair and made myself presentable before I made my way back to the main reception area, where I knew I’d find a staircase.

“Can I help you, miss?” a fierce voice echoed after me. “I’m going up to A deck,” I said. “Isn’t this the right way?” “A deck is first-class cabins, miss.” His look was inscrutable. “Precisely,” I answered. “I have just received an invitation from a friend in first class to visit her at her cabin right away.” I waved the note at him.

“Very good, miss,” he said. “Allow me to escort you. What cabin number is it?”

I smirked as he led the way up the stairs. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be humble.

The steward knocked on the cabin door, and we were rewarded with “Enter” in those deep melodious tones that had charmed audiences across the globe.

The steward poked his head around the door. “If you please, ma’am, there's a young lady to see you—a Miss Murphy?” “How delightful. Send her in,” Oona said.

I swept into the cabin, past the rather astonished steward, savoring every instant. Then I just stood there and gasped.

Oona Sheehan's cabin was nothing like my own. It was as big asmost drawing rooms, with a double bed against one wall, surrounded by white built-in wardrobes and cupboards. Under her porthole there was a daybed, a couple of gilt-edged chairs, and a low table decorated with a big bowl of flowers. There were more flowers on every surface of the room, great displays of them, orchids and roses and every kind of exotic bloom. Oona was lounging on the daybed, looking stunning in a black-and-white striped traveling suit with a matching black-and-white feather ornament in her hair. She didn’t attempt to sit up but raised a hand to greet me.

“Molly Murphy. How good of you to come and visit me.”