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

But then when I calmed down a little, I sat on the edge of my bed to think. There was a possibility that I’d still find myself under suspicion if I turned to the police. I was possibly still a suspect in the murder of Rose McCreedy. In their minds the rifles and the murder might be linked—maybe they were linked somehow. I paused to consider this new twist. I had always thought that Rose had been killed by someone who mistook her for Miss Sheehan, and I had thought that that someone would be a jilted lover or spurned admirer. But what if Rose knew more than was good for her? That meant that these were people not to be trifled with, one of whom had paid for my hotel room, someone who would not take it kindly if I betrayed him or her. I had no wish to end up like Rose.

And it would only be my word that the trunks were destined for Oona Sheehan and she, safely across the pond, didn’t have to answer any of their questions. I would be seen as a junior lackey who had lost my nerve.

There was also the matter of patriotism. I was all in favor of home rule, wasn’t I? And every home rule bill had been defeated in the English parliament, which seemed to indicate that our freedom wasn’t to be won by peaceful means. But did I really want to encourage violence? The killing of innocent people? Soldiers, policemen, even bystanders?

I got up and paced again. This was a decision for which there was no right answer. I found that cold sweat was trickling down my forehead. A good Irishwoman would want the English out of her country, wouldn’t she? Hadn’t I grown up with no cousins or aunties or grandparents because my whole family had been wiped out in the potato famine while the English landowners did nothing but hasten evictions and burn cottages? And if I alerted the police to these guns, then maybe I would be responsible for bringing down a whole network of freedom fighters and thus delaying the Irish cause for years.

I decided to do nothing for now. Someone might come to pick up the trunks. I’d ask no questions, tell no lies and, get on with my own life. The rifles were none of my business. I was here to find out what hadhappened to Mary Ann Burke. I closed the trunk again, hearing the lock click back into place, then carefully replaced the layers of dresses over the false bottoms in the other trunks, spruced myself up, and went downstairs. My hotel room had been paid for, I had money to spend, and I was going to have a darned good meal in the dining room. The maftre d’ could tell, with that uncanny sense they seemed to possess, that I was not really the right class of person to be dining at the Shelbourne. He didn’t exactly sniff, but he led me to a table behind a potted palm tree, with his nose in the air. This suited me just fine. I could observe and not be observed.

The merry party that had arrived just before me were seated at a big table at the center of the room, still talking and laughing with the ease of those born to the upper class. The elegant lady in the fashionable costume was holding court, telling an amusing story that held her table-mates enthralled.

“You are quite wicked, Grania,” one of them said, when they had finished laughing.

“Not I. I am merely relaying the words of one with more wit and talent than I,” she said. “You’ll be coming to the opening tomorrow night, I’ve no doubt. Then I’ll introduce you, and you’ll meet him for yourself. He's going to be the talk of the town, I’ll wager.”

“And anything you take a wager on has a remarkable way of being a winner, as I sorely remember from last year's Grand National,” one of the men remarked.

“Ah, well, I do know my horses,” the lady replied.

“You certainly ride divinely.”

“You are such a flatterer, Dermott.”

The young man leaned closer. “So tell me, Grania. What do you think of Mr. Yeats as a dramatist? A poet, I agree, but will his play be a torment of dreary Celtic poetry?”

“It stars the delectable Maud, my love. Can you not endure dreary Celtic poetry for her sake?”

The young man sighed. “If one must, for the sake of art, then one must. But to tell you the truth, I’d rather be at the Music Hall, watching the cancan.”

“You always were a philistine, Dermott.”

“I resent that deeply. I thought that fellow Quinlan's work was splendid. Sent quite a shiver up a fellow's spine.”

“There will never be another Cullen Quinlan,” Grania said. “A great loss.”

The mention of this Cullen subdued them, and they ate in silence while I studied the menu and ordered brown Windsor soup, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, and finished it off with bread-and-butter pudding. New York cuisine had a lot that was good about it, but you’d have to go a long way to beat good Irish beef and bread-and-butter pud!

After I had eaten I went to Reception and inquired about theaters in the city. I told the clerk I’d a mind to take in a good play tonight. If Terrence Moynihan had been a poet and playwright, then his name might be known among the theater crowd.

“Theaters? You’re spoiled for choice,” the clerk said. “There is a delightful musical at the Gaiety and a very good rendition of Mr. Dick-ens's A Christmas Carol at the Olympic. On the other hand, if your taste runs to the more highbrow, you’d better wait until tomorrow night when a new play opens at the Ambassador, written by none other than Mr. Yeats, the poet. His new Irish Literary Theatre, you know. And you won’t be at all surprised to hear that Miss Maud Gonne is in the leading role.”