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

“Maybe I find your company exciting,” he said. “Whither shall this errand lead us?”


“Nowhere you’d want to go,” I said, thinking quickly. “Some hair pins, various medicinal preparations, and face cream, some crochet yarn, and a new novel to read. Such are the ways elderly ladies fill their days. She doesn’t go out much any more.”

“Perhaps she would welcome a visit from a young buck like myself,” he said. “I’ve been told I have a way with elderly ladies.”

“I really don’t think so,” I said. “She's not that kind of elderly lady.”

“They all are in the end. A few words of flattery and flirtation from a handsome young man like myself, and I can have them positively eating out of my hand.”

“This one would be biting your hand, I can promise you,” I said. His smugness was beginning to annoy me. He was clearly brought up to privilege, never had to do a day's work in his life, and thought that he was God's gift to women. I decided that my initial reaction to him of distrust and dislike had been well-founded.

“Very well, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” I said. “You can come with me to buy hair pins and face cream if you like, but then I must take my leave of you.”

“You are being a spoil sport, Miss Delaney,” he said grouchily. “You know I couldn’t bear standing around in a chemist's shop while you ladies discuss the merits of various face creams. I shall accept my rejection like a man and do the various chores I’ve been putting off—like visits to my own relatives.”

He touched his hat to me and I watched him go with relief. I had been trying to think how I could pass across a message with the annoying Mr. Fitzpatrick breathing down my back. “Pompous ass,” I muttered myself. Our assignation, how dramatic, making it sound like a secret tryst.

I walked on. The word continued to annoy me. Assignation. Then I realized where I had last heard it: spoken by the executioner at the costume party on board the Majestic. “We have a confirmed assignation, you and I,” he had said, and I had laughed it off. But some time that evening Rose had been murdered. I paused and looked back. Surely the oafish Mr. Fitzpatrick couldn’t have been the executioner? Hadn’t he denied even being at the ball? I took this one stage further: so was it also possible he had killed Rose, thinking he was killing Oona Sheehan? But why? I tried to remember my encounter with him, when I was disguised as Oona. He had been remarkably restrained and correct, if I remembered rightly, and hoped he would have a chance to run into me in Dublin. Not like the enthusiastic puppy love of an Artie Fortwrangler or some of those other men who had tried to make it to my door.

I continued without incident to the bookshop, waited until it wasdevoid of customers, and handed over the note. The old man took it gravely.

“More book requests from Mrs. Boone, I’ll wager,” he said. “Doesn’t that woman have anything to do but read?”

I came out, put my hood over my head and made my way back to the rectory. As I was about to cross the road someone came running toward me. “Miss Delaney. Wait up!”

Oh no. Mr. Fitzpatrick again.

“We seem destined to bump into each other this afternoon,” he said. “Here I was, minding my own business, and suddenly you show up again. You see, you can’t escape from it. It is fate that we are to be together.”

“What are you doing here, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” I asked. Now I was no longer feeling annoyed, but distinctly uneasy. I sensed that he might have been waiting here for me to return. I asked myself why he was pursuing me so relentlessly and couldn’t come up with an explanation. Certainly not for my beauty or my prospects.

“Paying a courtesy call on my aged aunt,” he said. “And what are you doing? Going into the church to say a quick prayer?”

“Your aunt? Mrs. Boone is your aunt?”

“Absolutely. Don’t tell me you know her too? That's the most amazing coincidence. Dublin really is a small place after all.”

Now I really was unsure of myself. Another idea was forming in my head. Was Mr. Fitzpatrick who he made himself out to be, or was he really one of us? Had he been sent to make sure the guns crossed the Atlantic safely? No matter, I decided. Mrs. Boone would dispatch him quickly enough if he was an imposter. I tapped on the front door, found it unlocked, and let myself in, with Mr. Fitzpatrick breathing down my neck.

“Mrs. Boone?” I called from the entrance hall. “In here, my dear. In the kitchen, to your left.come on in.” “I’ve someone with me,” I called. “He says he's your nephew.” “My nephew? Really?”

She emerged from the kitchen, wiping floury hands on a large apron. “Now let me take a look at the young man who says he is my nephew.”

“Aunty.” Mr. Fitzpatrick opened his arms wide in a dramatic gesture. “All these years I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”