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

“We do?” I asked cautiously. “I’ve no idea who you are, and I made no assignation.”


“But can’t you see who I am?” he demanded. “I’m your executioner.” Then he revealed the axe he had been carrying behind his back.

“Wrong executioner,” I said, in what I hoped was a confident voice. “I’m waiting for the guillotine. If you don’t have one of those behind your back, then I’m afraid I’m not interested.”

I left him standing there and hurried forward as if to join a loud and merry party on the other side of the room. I was relieved to find a seat at a table around the perimeter, where I could observe from behind my black mask. People nodded as they passed me. Some commented on the excellence of my costume, but nobody claimed to recognize me.

After a while I was asked to dance and managed a waltz without disgracing myself too much. Luckily the dance floor was so crowded that a shuffle was all that was required. I danced again and again, made small talk, drank punch, and had a good time. Several young bucks tried to find out who I was, and why they hadn’t encountered me before, but I remained mysteriously enigmatic. All I would say was that I was a young Irishwoman going home on family matters. A couple of my partners even tried to extract an address from me so that they could visit me once we were in Ireland, but I declined tactfully.

When the dance ended at midnight, I felt like Cinderella, rushing back before my carriage changed back into a pumpkin. I made my way to my cabin, past happy revelers who had been at the punch bowl more frequently than I. Frederick was off duty by this time. I expected to see Henry, the night steward, sitting in his little cubby, but the small room was empty as I passed. I presumed he was attending to another passenger's needs. I let myself into my cabin, closed the door behind me and gave a sigh of relief. Tomorrow we’d dock in Queenstown. I could stop pretending to be Oona Sheehan and get on with my own work. I was looking forward to being anonymous again. I took off the wig, even warmer and more scratchy than the one I’d been suffering with all week, and went over to the daybed where the costume boxes awaited it.come to think of it, the whole darned costume had been hugely uncomfortable. I couldn’t wait to get out of it. That was when it struck me that I probably couldn’t get out of the costume alone. It had taken a lot of lacing to strap me into it in the first place. I wondered whether it would be fair to summon Rose at this late hour.

As I turned back toward the door, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Someone was lying in my bed. The satin coverlet was pulled right up, but I could see red hair on the pillow. Had Oona Sheehan decided that she was fed up with sleeping in a second-class bunk and decided to reclaim her own, seeing that we’d be docking tomorrow?

At least she could have notified me of her intentions, I thought angrily. Was I now supposed to find my way back to my own cabin in the middle of the night? And what about my clothes? I could hardly make my way down to second class dressed as Marie Antoinette, could I?

Then it occurred to me that maybe she was angry at finding I had dared to leave the cabin to go to the costume ball. Maybe she had intended to talk to me tonight or even to change places again, but when I wasn’t to be seen, decided to go to bed instead.

I went over and tapped at the shape under the coverlet.

“Miss Sheehan,” I said gently, “it's Molly. I’m back. Do you want to wake up and tell me what you’d like me to do now?”

She didn’t stir. I prodded her again. She didn’t move.

I pulled back the coverlet and stifled a scream. It wasn’t Oona Sheehan at all who was lying there. It was a strange woman dressed as a Spanish senorita. Her black lace shawl was partly hiding her face. I lifted it away, recoiling instantly in horror. Rose was staring up at me with dead eyes.





Eight


She can’t be dead, was my first thought. She's only asleep, or fainted. Then I touched her bare arm and it was cold. And I had seen enough dead people to know death when I saw it. She couldn’t just have climbed into my bed and died, surely. She was young and healthy and I’d been joking with her only a couple of hours ago. I walked around the bed, staring at her, trying to think. There was no sign of any struggle, but somebody must have covered her up and arranged her peacefully. Which meant that somebody had killed her.