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

It was now almost dark and getting mistier by the moment. I ran past a line of yew trees, then gasped as a white figure, brandishing a sword, rose up in front of me. It took a moment for my heart to calm down enough to recognize that it was a marble statue of an angel, probably St. Michael by the look of him, and that I had stumbled into a cemetery. I dodged between grave stones, past Celtic crosses, around more angels. I could hear those running feet clearly approaching now. I came to a mausoleum, elaborately decorated with urns and cherubs, climbed the low iron fence, and cowered beside one of its corner pillars. I’d be fine here unless they had lanterns or dogs with them.

The sound of footsteps had stopped. I crouched low without moving, trying to regulate the great gasps of breath. I heard nothing more and was about to straighten up when there came the distinct crunch of a foot on gravel, on the other side of the mausoleum. Farther away, on the other side of the wall, there were shouts. It sounded as if they were coming this way.

I looked around, deciding whether I should stay where I was or attempt to run. I could see no safer hiding place, pulled the black cape around me, and decided to bluff it out. Then suddenly shouts eruptedagain, and I was almost knocked over as someone stumbled into me. I waited to feel hands grab me or a bayonet spear me, but instead the person dropped to the ground beside me and I heard ragged breathing. I pulled my hood aside to look and saw Cullen, pressing himself against the marble, clutching his side, panting in rasping breaths. His eyes suddenly spotted me, registering recognition and warning at the same time. I took the cape and flung it over the two of us.

Feet crunched on gravel. More shouts. Then someone called “This way!” and the footsteps receded. Cullen and I huddled together without moving. I straightened up, looked around, and whispered, “I think they’ve gone.”

He didn’t move and I was afraid for a moment that he was dead. Then he stood up, in obvious pain, still clutching at his side. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“They shot at me,” he said. “I seem to be bleeding pretty badly.”

“We need something stop the bleeding.” I tried to think clearly then lifted my skirt, untied my petticoat and stepped out of it.

“I must be pretty bad,” Cullen muttered with a grimace. “The sight of a pretty woman undressing, and it doesn’t rouse me.”

“Show me where it is.”

He lifted his jacket and I saw the right side of his white shirt was sodden with a big dark stain. I folded the petticoat into a pad. “Keep that pressed to it. There's nothing more I can do here and now. We should get you to a doctor.”

“Are you mad? We can’t wait around to see a doctor. The boat will leave without us. They won’t wait forever.”

“A lot of good the boat will be if you die on the way to France,” I said.

“Someone on board will know what to do,” he said. “I don’t think the bullet struck any vital organ or I’d be dead by now. It's just a question of stopping the blood.”

“All right.” I took a deep breath and tried to sound calm and in control, even though I was trembling. “Can you walk, do you think?”

“I have to,” he said.

“Lean on me,” I whispered.

“I’ll manage. You’ll need all of your own strength. And Molly—if they come after us, don’t stick around to wait for me. Run like hell.”

“Such heroics,” I said, and heard him chuckle.

We made our way through the cemetery and came out to the still-deserted street. After we’d gone a few hundred yards I could see the river ahead of us. Cullen was staggering rather than walking.

“How far is it to the docks where we’re meeting the boat?”

“Maybe three miles,” he said.

“You’ll never make it. Look, we’re close to the river. Why don’t I drop you off at St. Francis. Mrs. Boone can look after you.”

“We agreed we wouldn’t go back there,” Cullen said. “She's too important to put at risk.”

“But you can’t walk three miles.”

“That's true.”

“And we can’t risk taking a cab. You’d bleed all over the seat.”

“That's true as well.”

“So what are we going to do?”

He was breathing heavily now. “You leave me and go on alone. The boat won’t wait forever.”

“I’m not leaving you.” I tried to think.

“We could go down to the river and see if we can find ourselves a little boat,” Cullen said at last. “Do you know how to row?” “Of course, but that's stealing.”

“Molly—we’re about to be hanged for murder. I don’t think stealing a boat will make much difference at this stage,” he snapped.

I saw his point. “Come on, then. Let's take this alleyway.”