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

“And she was also at the Gaelic League tonight, asking questions about Terrence Moynihan.”


“I see.” Grania perched on the edge of the sofa, close to the man. “And have we found out why she's so interested in knowing what happened to Terry?”

“I’ve explained to this gentleman,” I said. “I’m an investigator from New York City, and I was sent over here to try and locate a Mary Ann Burke, who was left behind by her family when they came to America during the famine. That's the whole story. I’m no spy, I’m not interested in your republican struggles, and I’m no danger to anyone, so please just let me go about my business.”

“Not as easy as that, sweetheart,” the man said.

“Oh, come now, Cullen,” Grania leaned over and patted his knee. “Aren’t you overreacting? I’m sure she's as harmless as she looks.”

“Just a minute,” I said as the wheels in my brain started working. “Your name is Cullen? Not Cullen Quinlan, the playwright everyone was talking about the other night? But you can’t be. He's dead.”

“Have you not heard of the resurrection of the flesh?” Cullen asked, turning to Grania with a grin. “Cullen Quinlan in the flesh, my darlin’, alive and well, but a playwright no longer.”

“But how?” I began.

“For your information I was being held in a damned English jail. One of our boys was due to be hanged. They allowed a bevy of priests to come in and hear our confessions. Twelve priests came in and twelve went out again—only I was one of those twelve, looking very humble with my Franciscan hood over my head. The real Franciscan stayed behind, and only gave the alarm that he’d been overpowered, tied up, and gagged when he knew I was already on a ship bound for France. I’ve been in hiding in France ever since.”

“So what on earth are you doing back in Ireland?” I blurted out. “Surely there is a price on your head?”

“Bound to be,” he said easily. “But what the Brotherhood needs now is leadership. We were in tatters. And there's such apathy among the masses, even though home rule has suffered defeat after defeat. Most of them don’t care if we’re ruled by England or by the Queen of Sheba as long as they get their daily crust of bread and their pint of stout. Someone has to breathe the fire into them, and right now I’m the only one who can do it.”

“If anyone can do it, you can, Cullen,” Grania said adoringly.

“As long as the enemy doesn’t find out my whereabouts,” Cullen said.

“Who would ever suspect that the fun-loving society hostess, Grania Hyde-Borne, was harboring a dangerous criminal at her house,” Grania said, looking delighted with herself. “Keeping you here was a stroke of genius, though I say so myself.”

“But what about your husband,” I said, “what about your servants?”

“My husband is currently at our house in London, and most of the servants with him,” Grania said. “Unfortunately I could not travel with him because of my health. Those servants who have stayed on here with me, I’d trust with my life. So we’re completely safe, unless the English are using subtler means these days—innocent-looking young girls, for example.”

They were both staring at me, but I’d had enough of being accused.

“I’m Irish born and bred,” I said. “Do you think I’d work for the English? And I don’t know why you are questioning me when it's I who should be questioning you. I came over here on a simple, innocent errand, minding my own business. You and your cronies are the ones who have used me to your own advantage and put my life in danger.”

“Used you? How so?” Cullen asked.

“Those trunks. I presume they were destined for you and your men. Did you think I wouldn’t look inside? And what if the customs men or the police had looked inside? I would have been the one who would be in jail right now, probably awaiting execution.”

“What trunks are these?” Cullen asked.

“Don’t pretend you know nothing about the trunks full of rifles, shipped in my name,” I said. “I take it that Oona Sheehan is in league with you, or were you using her against her knowledge too?”

“Oona Sheehan?” Cullen asked sharply, sitting forward in his chair. “God Almighty, what's she got to do with anything?”

“She was the one the trunks belonged to. She was the one who tricked me into changing cabins with her on the ship and . . .” I broke off as my thoughts went one step further. “Was it you who had RoseMcCreedy killed? Did she know what was in the trunks and start to talk when she should have kept silent?”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Cullen said. “I know of no trunks, nor any Rose McCreedy.”

“Rose McCreedy was Miss Sheehan's maid. She was murdered in Miss Sheehan's cabin, which I was occupying at the time.”

“I know nothing of any of this,” Cullen said, “and I can assure you that the Brotherhood doesn’t go around killing maids.”