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

“Indeed she was, but this one is living and breathing and mortal, and one of the leaders of our organization—although who she really is, I couldn’t say.”


She saw me looking perplexed and added. “Many of the ladies find it expedient to go by nicknames within the organization, just in case the English become too curious about our business. Not that we’re doing anything wrong or illegal, you understand, but the promotion of Irish culture is seen by some as subversive. You’ve heard of the GaelicLeague, no doubt. Some of their members have disappeared before now, and what could be more harmless than reciting Gaelic poems?”

Gaelic poems—now that was a phrase that caught my interest. “I’m looking for a man who is a poet and a playwright,” I said, “a Mr. Terrence Moynihan. You wouldn’t have heard of him, would you?”

She wrinkled her pretty little button nose. “The name is somehow familiar, but no, I can’t place him. You should attend the opening night of Mr. Yeat's new play tomorrow and ask your question there. All of those connected with the new Irish Literary Theatre will be in attendance, as well as all of the Dublin smart set, I’ve no doubt.”

“I had certainly planned to be there,” I said. “Do you know if there are any tickets left?”

“Let us walk to the theater together,” Alice said. “I’m heading that way myself.”

Together we crossed the O’Connell Bridge.

“Let me give you a word of warning,” Alice said. “Avoid the little iron bridge you see over there.”

“Is it dangerous in some way?” It looked perfectly harmless to me.

“Dangerous to the pocket book.” She laughed. “It's a toll bridge. They’ll extort a halfpenny a time from you for crossing.”

“Then I’ll remember to walk the extra distance and cross here,” I said.

We walked up Sackville Street, past Nelson's Column.

“What's that very grand building on the left?” I asked. With its Roman portico, its columns and statues, it looked like a temple in the midst of this street of commerce.

“That? Oh, that's just the post office.”

I sighed. “I had always expected Dublin to be a lovely place, and it's exceeded my expectations. Even the post office looks like a temple.”

“It will be even lovelier when we govern ourselves rather than being ruled from London,” Alice said. I noticed that she glanced over her shoulder, having made this utterance.

We reached the Ambassador Theatre and I managed to buy one of the last remaining seats.

“It's in the gods, unfortunately,” the man at the box office said, “but better than nothing if you want to be there to see history made.”

“I do,” I said, and paid a very small sum. “What are the gods?” I whispered to Alice as we came out of the theater.

She looked at me strangely. “The very top seats in the upper balcony. Don’t they use that term in America then?”

I wasn’t about to admit that going to the theater wasn’t something I did often.

“Not that I have heard,” I said.

“I’ll take my leave of you here and hope to see you tomorrow night,” Alice said. “I’ll also be attending, sitting up in the gods. That's where most of us students sit.”

“You’re a student?”

“Indeed I am. I’m attending University College, where they are more broad-minded about admitting women and less protestant in their outlook than Trinity. Until tomorrow then, Mary.”

We parted, with me feeling uneasy about giving her a false name when she was being so friendly. But as she said herself, the Daughters of Erin often adopted nicknames. As I walked back down Sackville Street, I saw a familiar figure coming in my direction.

“Inspector Harris,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

He tipped his hat to me. “Afternoon, Miss Murphy. Glad to see you’re in good form. I’m here because I’m based in Dublin with the rest of the CID.”

“So you’ve given up on the Rose McCreedy murder, have you?”

“Not at all,” he said. “We have certain suspects who are being observed, and I have my men on the Majestic for the return crossing, finding out everything they can about those stewards.”

“You still think it was a steward who killed her?”

“You don’t?” he asked.

“I don’t know what to think any more,” I said. “I had always thought that Rose was mistaken for Oona Sheehan and killed by mistake. Now I’m not sure of that.”

“Anything happened to make you change your mind?” He was looking at me keenly.

“Just that you seem to think that a steward killed her, and you’re the professional,” I said, in what I hoped was breezy manner.

“Where are you staying, Miss Murphy?’

“At the Shelbourne,” I said.

“You’re certainly living the life of Riley, are you not?”