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

“This is ridiculous,” I told myself. “I can’t always be living in fear like this. What on earth do I have to be afraid of anyway? They know me as Mary Delaney and won’t give me another thought. I’ll remain Mary Delaney for the rest of my time in Ireland and I’ll have nothing to worry about.”


I started back in the direction of Waterford and soon picked up a ride on a farm wagon that moved at a painfully slow pace. After the farmer had turned off at his farm, I continued on foot, considerably more quickly, I might add. By asking at a general store, I found that I could make for Tramore cross-country without going back into Waterford. I walked a little, then picked up another lift on a wagon, which deposited me on yet another quayside. It was a quaint and pretty little place with a whitewashed inn and several fishing boats bobbing in a peaceful ocean. I was directed to the blacksmith's shop and stood outside a ramshackle shed with the sign R. KELLY. BLACKSMITH tacked over the entrance to a dark interior. Inside I could see the silhouette of a large man, outlined against the glow of a fire, an enormous hammer rising and falling to the sound of rhythmic chinks.

I went inside.

“Mr. Kelly?” I asked.

“Yes. What do you want?”

He turned to face me, his large face running with sweat and streaked with dirt, his front covered in a filthy leather apron, the hammer still raised in his hand. I took an involuntary step back. “Are you Rory?” I asked. “Used to work for the Conroy family?”

“What if I am?” he demanded.

“I’m looking for the former Mary Ann Burke,” I said, “and I was given to understand that she might be married to you.”

He glared at me. “Mary Ann's been gone these many years,” he growled. “Long gone. Dead and buried. Dead, buried, and forgotten.”

He turned his back on me and sent sparks flying with a great crash of his hammer onto molten metal. I needed no urging to retreat into the open air. So that was that. I almost wept with frustration. To have tracked her this far, only to find that she had died—probably like so many women in childbirth. I realized I should have asked about children. It was possible that Tommy Burke might want to settle money on Mary Ann's offspring. I looked back into that glowing hellhole and at the mighty figure pounding away amid the sparks. Did I really have the nerve to face him again?

“You’re being paid to do a job,” I told myself sternly. “Not all jobs are pleasant or easy.” With that I took a deep breath and stepped back inside.

“I’m sorry to disturb you again, sir,” I said. I was about to tell him about Mary Ann's brother, but it occurred to me that this man might well be interested in news of a new and rich relative. The way he had spoken of her made me feel that he had little true affection for her, or her memory.

He looked up, the hammer poised in midair. “I meant to ask whether you and Mary Ann had any children. Her relatives in America would want to know.”

“No children,” he said. “She wasn’t even able to produce me an heir, useless bit of rubbish that she was. And she didn’t have any relatives either. She was an orphan, from the orphanage, so you’ve got the wrong person. Now get out of here and don’t come back.” He slammed down the hammer again.

I retreated for a second time and stood staring as the blows rained down on the metal. I didn’t envy Mary Ann her lot, married to such a one. I wondered what had made her leave the comparative ease and refinement of a stately home for such an existence. Rory must have been a handsome brute in his youth to have made her throw all caution to the winds. I asked and found that there was a train station nearby. With anyluck I could be back in Cork tonight and maybe Inspector Harris would release me to sail home to America.

Before I reached the train station, I realized I should have asked where her grave was. Tommy would want to know. I saw the spire of a simple gray stone church among the trees and found that there was a churchyard behind it, so I went in to look around.

I must have searched for a good hour and examined every stone without finding one with Mary Ann's name on it. I had just reluctantly abandoned my search and reached the lytch gate when I heard the scrunch of feet on gravel and an elderly priest came out of the church. He noticed me and came over.

“Good day,” he said. “Visiting our lovely churchyard, are you? Isn’t it a fine spot? I’ve often thought I’d like to be buried here myself some day. Was there a particular grave stone you were looking for?”

“There was, actually,” I said, “but I couldn’t find it. The blacksmith—Rory Kelly. It was his wife, Mary Ann, whose grave I was seeking. Do you happen to know if she's buried here?”

“Mary Ann Kelly?” He looked, if anything, amused.