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

If they planned to do so, it surely wasn’t with the poems of Desmond O’Connor. I think the best word to describe them is “long-winded.” In the first poem—”Sea voyage,” he took two pages just to describe the color of the sea, and then two more to describe the sound the sea made against the hull of the boat. Then he turned to the Gaelic and read the next pages in that language. I had to admit that the musical play at the Gaiety sounded like a much better way to spend an evening. But nobody else left so I was compelled to stick it out to the bitter end. I also wanted to make sure that nobody else present had any more information on Mary Ann and Terrence.

At last the poet finished to polite applause and we stood up stiffly. Some of the men made straight for the bar and another round of drinks. Demands for Jamesons echoed through the room as the menfolk moved on to stronger drink. Mr. Joyce had joined the crush at the bar. The matron was brushing herself down as if she might have picked up something unwanted on her clothing during the evening.

“A fine program, wasn’t it?” she said to me. “How long are you staying? You should join our language classes.”

“Not very long, I’m afraid,” I said, “Although I’d dearly love to learn.”

“My, but it's a difficult tongue.” She shook her head. “Quite a challenge at my age. But I shall conquer it eventually.”

With that she nodded to me. “Do you have someone to escort you home? Dublin is full of drunken rowdiness on a Saturday night.”

“My hotel is only a stone's throw away, thank you,” I said.

“I could arrange for someone to escort you without a problem,” she insisted.

“Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll be back at my hotel in five minutes.”

“Stay away from Grafton Street. It's full of drunken louts,” she warned, putting on her bonnet.

“Are you coming, Mrs. Boone?” An elderly priest stood waiting for her at the doorway.

“Coming, Father,” She glanced back at me with a concerned look as she went to join him.

I stayed around trying to find out from Kevin where Terrence Moynihan might have lived and who else might have known about him, but Kevin had sunk into the morose stage and kept muttering about the rats deserting their mother and going abroad. The men around the bar were becoming louder by the second, and it became clear that the respectable folk were going and I should probably join them.

I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and left the warmth and brightness of Davy Byrne's. The matron had been right about Grafton Street. I could hear drunken revelry going on from where I stood, so I decided to turn the other way on Duke Street and make my way back to St. Stephen's Green by back roads. Luckily the green was such a large landmark that it wouldn’t be hard to find it again, whichever route I took.

I reached the end of Duke Street and turned right, onto a quiet side road. After the noise and bustle, this street was poorly lit and deserted. One solitary lamp shone a circle of light onto the wet cobbles. They were uneven and slippery and I had to walk with care, so I was concentrating on not twisting my ankle rather than what was going on around me. I sensed, rather than heard, someone following me.

As I looked around something was thrown over my head—somekind of heavy cloth. I tried to cry out but a hand clamped firmly over my face, making it almost impossible to breathe. I tried to squirm but the large blanket, or whatever it was, hampered my movements. I was picked up, half dragged, and suddenly dumped onto a hard surface. I heard a door slam. Before I could try to move, I was held down. It felt as if someone heavy was kneeling on my back. Then I was jerked around and dimly heard the clatter of hooves. I was being taken away in some kind of cart or carriage.





Twenty-two


Once the vehicle was in motion, the pressure on my back eased a little, which was good as I felt as if I had been having the life crushed out of me. But the thick wool cloth over my face still made it hard to breathe. Moreover it smelled disgusting, like some kind of animal blanket and when I half coughed, half choked, I got a mouthful of hair. I tried to move my hands so that I could free some space around my nose and mouth, but my hands were still pinned to my sides and I was still being held firmly down. I tried to wriggle, to squirm, to cry out, but the moment I did, the pressure on me increased again so I lay still.

I tried to think who might have kidnapped me and for what reason. This must surely be more than a simple robbery, for a blow to the back of my head would have been enough to knock me out and steal my purse. The words “white slave trade” did come into my mind, but this was Dublin, a peaceful backwater, not London or New York. I was becoming light-headed from lack of air. I could hear singing in my ears and sparks dancing in front of my eyes. The singing turned to roaring, and I was close to losing consciousness when I was jolted violently, grabbed again, and carried like a sack of potatoes. From the feel of it, I was being taken up steps. My biggest fear was that I was being carried onto a boat that would then sail off to Shanghai or wherever unfortunate girls were taken. When I look back on this it was a ridiculous fear,as being murdered right there and then in Dublin was a more likely fate—and I’ve never believed in fates worse than death, myself.