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

A flight of duck rose from the lake, and from the trees behind the house came the cawing of rooks. I watched the smoke curl from those tall chimneys and something stirred in my memory. Then I realized what memory it had rekindled, and I froze on the driveway. The Hartleys had lived in a house not quite as grand as this one, but with the same air about it, and as a young child I had always been fascinated that a family could afford more than one fire and more than one fireplace lit at the same time. I remembered walking to that house every day of my girlhood to do my lessons with Miss Henrietta and Miss Vanessa after their mother was impressed with my youthful eloquence when the land agent tried to evict my family from our cottage. To me it had been both a joy and a torment: the joy of all those books, all that knowledge, a governess who said I was a delight to teach and shared with me her travels around the continent and her love of music, art, and literature. And the torment, of course, in knowing that none of it could ever really be mine. The Hartley daughters always made very sure I knew I was an outsider, only being included in their lessons through charity. And then there was Justin, who was the reason for my fleeing from Ireland.

I glanced back at the gateway, now hidden behind the row of poplars. I had reassured Daniel and my friends that I was in no danger going back to Ireland, and yet here I was walking into a lion's den. These great Anglo-Irish families all intermarried and knew each other.Even though we were many miles from county Mayo, it was highly possible that Toby Conroy knew the Hartleys. He may have heard of Justin's “accident,” and the name Molly Murphy may even have come into the conversation. From now on I reminded myself that I would be using an alias, just in case.

I straightened my hat, brushed the travel dust from my two-piece, and strode out for the front door.

“Yes? May I help you?” The maid who answered it wasn’t quite sure what to make of me. She peeped past me but saw no carriage.

“I have come from New York to inquire about a woman who was once in service here,” I said. “May I speak to someone in charge? My name is Miss Delaney.” It was a name I had used before during investigations so I wasn’t as likely to slip up.

The girl glanced down the front hall. “Mr. Phipps is butler here, miss. You’d better speak with him.come this way, please.”

I was led across the front hall, through the baize door, and then down a flight of steps to that semisubterranean area always inhabited by servants. The maid tapped on a closed door, and I was admitted to a cubicle. As soon as I saw Mr. Phipps, I knew that he’d be of little use. He was a relatively young man. I gave him my name and told him that I had been sent by the family from America to find out if Mary Ann Burke was still alive. He regarded me with a haughty stare, also trying to place my class and background, thus to decide whether he needed to be polite to me or not. I’m sure he took in the cut of Miss Sheehan's silk two-piece and her jaunty burgundy hat.

“You’re sure she was a servant here, are you?”

“I was told by the orphanage in Cork that she had been placed here at fourteen, but I have no idea how long she stayed. It would have been many years ago, in the sixties.”

He frowned. “We have no servants currently employed who go back that far, Miss Delaney. We do have the house books, of course. They should indicate when she came and when and how she left us. Let us take a look. He searched among dusty ledgers and finally extracted one. His finger searched down columns of faded ink, names and dates written in a meticulous script.

“Ah, here we are,” he said at last. “Mary Ann Burke. You are correct.She was a servant here. And I have a date too: left employment July Eighteenth, 1873. No references requested or provided.” “Does it say where she went?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. There is no mention of her having left in disgrace. Possibly she left to get married, which was why she did not request a reference.”

“And there is nobody here from those days?”

“I regret that there isn’t,” he said. “It's not like it used to be, is it? Young people become dissatisfied with their lot and try their luck at the factories in the big cities. I understand that the Jacobs Biscuit Factory in Dublin employs thousands of young girls. I can’t personally see that such a life would be preferable to good food and fresh air, but to each his own, I suppose. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Miss Delaney. Allow me to escort you back upstairs.”

He had just opened the baize door for me to pass through when I heard the crisp sound of boots on the marble floor and a young man came in through the front door. There was no mistaking the master of the house. He carried himself with the air of arrogance and authority of one brought up to privilege. He was dressed in riding gear, with a crop tucked under his arm, and mud from his boots left a trail across the white marble. He was halfway across the floor when he noticed us.

“I have a visitor, Phipps?” he asked, his eyes doing a swift examination of my person.

“No, sir. This is a young lady from America, a Miss Delaney, trying to trace a relative who was in service here once.”

“I see. And have you succeeded in locating her?” He looked me rather than Phipps.

“She is listed in your ledger but there is no indication as to where she went on leaving your service,” I said. “It was all such a long time ago, I’m afraid. She left in 1873.”

“I was only a small boy then,” he said. “I suppose we don’t have any servants who were employed here in those days, do we, Phipps?”

“I regret that we don’t, sir,” Phipps said.

“That's too bad. All the way from America, and we’re not able to help you,” he said, looking at me in a way that made me slightly uncomfortable. “Was this a close relative?”