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

“Your wigs?”


She waved her arm imperiously. “Open that hat box, on top of the dresser.”

I did so. It was full of wonderful auburn wigs, some with long curls, some piled up in chic styles.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I muttered.

“I often have to make quick changes on stage,” she said. “I find wigs remarkably helpful in changing my appearance quickly. And also if my hairdresser can’t visit before I have to go out. Try one on.”

Cautiously I picked out one with curls piled high above the head and tucked my own hair inside it. The change was amazing. I stared at myself in the mirror and put a hand to my cheek. “I look quite—”

“Quite like me,” she said. “I thought so when I saw you at Tommy's party. I think you’ll do remarkably well. So is it a deal, Molly Murphy? Will you promise not to reveal our plan to anybody on board? Sayyou’ll agree, and I’ll write you out a check for a hundred dollars for your pains.”

An extra hundred dollars. I could certainly use that. I’d have to forgo the fun of shipboard life, but then there would always be the return journey. “I’ll do it,” I said.

Her face lit up in that wonderful smile. “I knew you would,” she said. “Right.” She took out a checkbook and wrote out a check. “There,” she said. “Let's get to work and make the switch while everyone is still busy with arriving passengers. Let's exchange clothing and I’ll make my way down to E deck.”

“You want us to exchange clothing?”

“Of course. I have to go down exactly the way you came up, don’t I?”

“But someone is bound to notice the difference.”

“My dear, I’m an actress. I promise you that nobody will ever know that the Molly Murphy who walked up those stairs is not the same woman who comes down them again. Now take off that costume and choose yourself something from my wardrobe. How lucky that we’re around the same size.”

I opened the wardrobe and stifled a gasp at the array of dresses, suits, and evening gowns that hung there.

“You might want to select something rather dazzling to start with. It will help to enforce the illusion,” Oona said. She came across to the wardrobe and pulled down a burgundy silk two piece, its sleeves and high neck decorated with pearls. “Burgundy is a good color with our hair, I always think,” she said. “Can you manage by yourself, or should I summon my maid to dress you?”

“You’ve brought your maid?” I stammered. “But what will she say?”

Oona laughed. “She's in on the plot, my dear. She's been with me long enough to follow orders, and she's been told to treat you exactly as if you were me. Her name is Rose, by the way. A nice little thing. Not very bright, but willing enough. But let's not waste any more time.” She handed me the dress. “Off with your things and on with this.”

I performed the task with considerable embarrassment. I was not used to undressing in front of other people and horribly conscious of the shabby state of my two-piece business suit and my undergarments.

Oona hardly seemed to notice, however. She was out of her own robe in a second and slipping herself into my skirt and jacket. This was accomplished in a twinkling. I suppose quick changes of costume are commonplace at the theater where the exposure of the human form is not considered shocking.

I, on the other hand, was so clumsy in putting on her outfit that she had to help me button up the cuffs and neck.

“Put the wig back on and you’ll do very well,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “Just a touch of makeup of course. There is rouge and powder on my dressing table, and you’ll need more color on your lips. But as for those freckles . . .” she looked at me and sighed. “There's not much we can do about them in a hurry, is there? Did you never think of taking lemon juice to them when you were a girl?”

“I never even noticed them until I came to New York,” I said, laughing. “Now I’m afraid I’m stuck with them.”

“You’ll just have to use a lot of cold cream and powder,” she said. “You’re supposed to be ailing, remember. Here, let me do it for you.”

Before I could protest she was rubbing cold cream into my face, patting cheeks, drawing arches onto my eyebrows and reddening my lips with a brush and palette, just like an artist. When she was done, a stranger looked back at me from the mirror.

“All ashore who is going ashore,” was the cry from the hallway, along with raps on every cabin door.

“I’ll leave you now,” she said. “We won’t meet again on the trip. First-and second-class passengers are not permitted to trespass upon each other's domains.”

“So shall I wait for you here when we dock in Queenstown?” I asked. “Are you going ashore there or sailing on to Liverpool?”