“There is only one priest. He is a very spiritual man, lost in his devotions and notices very little,” she said. “Besides, he now suffers badly from rheumatics and can’t make the stairs. You’ll be in the attic and quite safe. Watch your step here.”
She led me around the side of the church and into a tall brick building beyond.
“He goes to bed early, so that he's up to say six o’clock mass,” Mrs. Boone whispered to me. “But try to go quietly up the stairs.”
The hallway was dimly lit, but warm and smelled of baking. Up a long flight of steps we went, then across a landing and up a second flight. These steps were uncarpeted and creaked alarmingly.
“Here we are.” She pushed open a door. “Wait while I light the lamp. There's no gas up here.” I heard a match strike and then the hiss of a lamp and the room was bathed in warm light. It was Spartan, to be sure, with an iron-framed bed, a chest of drawers and a marble-topped table on which stood a basin and water jug. The ceiling sloped and there was one small window
“It's not the Ritz, but you’ll be comfortable enough,” she said. “Chamber pot under the bed. I’ll bring you up hot water in the morning and your breakfast while Father is saying mass. Fortunately there are masses at six, seven, and eight on weekdays. You’ll have to make do with one of my nightgowns tonight. It will be large for you, but it will keep you warm.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’re very kind.”
“Just doing my Christian duty,” she said. “I’m one of the members of our group with no family and sufficient space, so of course I volunteered to house a sister in distress. Good night, now. And please stay put and don’t come downstairs until I tell you to.”
She closed the door behind her. I undressed in the light of the lamp, then turned it out and climbed into bed. The darkness was absolute. I lay there, listening to the wind in the chimney, the tooting of tug boats farther down the river, feeling cold and abandoned and fervently wishing myself back in Patchin Place, in my own little house with Sid and Gus across the alleyway. I even wished that Daniel was here. I wanted to feel his strong arms around me, my head resting on his shoulder. I had thought that having a husband would be a nuisance but now it seemed like a good idea to have a man to take care of me. It even seemed like a good idea to give up this crazy notion of being a lady detective and settle down to bake scones and do embroidery—which will tell you what an emotional mood I was in that night.
I had almost drifted off to sleep when I heard a noise. It was the slightest of creaks on a floorboard, but it was enough to jerk me instantly awake and alert. Mrs. Boone had said that nobody ever came up here. I couldn’t believe that she’d be coming up again herself just to check on me. I lay there, every muscle tense, holding my breath, and heard nothing more. I told myself that it was probably a house cat, prowling for mice and had just settled down again when another floorboard creaked, this time closer to my door. I was up and out of bed in a second. The darkness was almost complete. I could just make out the shape of the window, the whiteness of the counterpane on the bed, but nothing more. I stood beside the bed, heart pounding and listening.
Again there was silence. Then slowly my door began to open. I was too frightened even to scream. I kept telling myself that it was only Mrs Boone, come to see if I was sleeping. I sensed a large presence rather than saw it, and then I heard the sound of the door shutting, trapping me in the room with the person, whoever it was. Not Mrs. Boone then. Definitely not. I tried to remember where the table with the water jug was positioned. A good dousing with cold water would surprise any intruder enough for me to make it to the door and escape down the stairs. I wondered where Mrs. Boone slept and if I dared to call for help.
I heard a muttered curse as the intruder blundered into the bedside table. Definitely a male curse. But he was still standing between me and the door. Then a hissing noise and a match was struck. He looked up and saw me. I let out a scream. He gasped. The match went flying and was extinguished.
In a flash he had grabbed me, twisting my arm behind my back and clamping a big hand over my mouth.
“Don’t try to move or scream or I’ll break your neck,” he said calmly. “All right. Out with it. Who are you?”
I recognized the voice. “Cullen?” I tried to say through his fingers. “It's Molly Murphy. Let go of me.”
He released me, struck another match and lit the lamp.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he exclaimed, looking at me standing there in a voluminous nightgown. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
“More to the point, what do you think you are doing, barging into a lady's bedroom in the middle of the night.”
“Lady's bedroom? This is my room. I’m staying here.”
In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)
Rhys Bowen's books
- Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
- Bless the Bride (Molly Murphy, #10)
- City of Darkness and Light (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #13)
- Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)
- For the Love of Mike (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #3)
- Hush Now, Don't You Cry (Molly Murphy, #11)
- In a Gilded Cage (Molly Murphy, #8)