Murphy's Law (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #1)

It wasn't hard to find out where Alderman McCormack lived. The first person I asked, a greengrocer delivering produce, pointed me up Park Avenue. "You can't miss it--bloomin' great castle it is, turrets and all."

As I walked up Park Avenue the houses grew ever grander until they were nothing short of mansions. On my left a glorious park opened up. It was still dotted, here and there, in patches of snow and made a most charming scene. Among the snowy lawns and snow-draped trees I saw prim English nannies in their starched bonnets wheeling their youngest charges, while the older children ran laughing ahead, dragging wooden wagons or pausing to throw snowballs when their nannies weren't looking. Ladies in sweeping fur capes walked little dogs while a hurdy-gurdy man played a lively Italian tune. It might have been half a world away from the New York I had just left. This was finally life in the city as I had pictured it in my dreams. With a little bit of luck, I might be living here.

Alderman McCormack's house was the grandest mansion of them all. It was, indeed, a bloomin' great castle with turrets rising at each corner. Luckily I knew from my training with the Hartley family that humble people like myself should never use the front entrance. I had only done that once before the Hartley's butler put me firmly in my place. Now I behaved like a good parlor maid and followed the sign to the tradesman's entrance around the side of the house.

The door was opened by a young maid with a scrubbed, fresh face. I had tried to think out what I should say as I walked up Park Avenue. I couldn't very well lie and say that the agency sent me, but I might be able to hint it and they might be desperate enough not to ask too many questions. And if it turned out that I'd come to the wrong house, then they might at least offer me a cup of tea and a chat before I went.

"You're needing a parlor maid, I understand." I decided to tell no lies and state only facts, at least until I got my foot in the door.

"Wait here. I'll get Mr. Holmes," she said, and shut the door in my face again.

The next time it opened a tall and gaunt distinguished-looking man in a black frock coat was standing there. I took him for the master and wondered, for a moment, whether I'd come to the wrong house.

"So the agency found someone for us, after all? Splendid. I knew they wouldn't let the alderman down." He had a very superior English accent, quite as aristocratic as the Hartleys'. Was the entire domestic service profession run by the English over here? "I am the alderman's butler. You will call me Mr. Holmes. Well, don't just stand there, there's work to be done."

I was half dragged into a dingy back hallway and the door behind me closed with a bang. The sound of that door slamming brought me to my senses for the first time. The butler shot the bolt across the back door. "Follow me," he said. "The sooner we get you out of those unsightly clothes and into a respectable uniform, the better."

"Just a moment," I said. I could hear my voice rising. "My things are still down at the ladies' hostel. Shouldn't I go and fetch them first?"

"They will be collected for you when the coachman has time. You will not be needing them in a hurry." He walked down the hall ahead of me, not looking back. The uneasiness grew. I wasn't going to be allowed to leave again. Don't be stupid, I told myself. He couldn't possibly know who I am. I was perfectly safe--at least for a couple of days. I knew the agency had no available girl to send. I'd stay for the weekend, glean all the information I could, then find an excuse to leave again. And even if

I happened to pass the alderman in a hallway, nobody ever looks at servants. I'd be just another girl who worked in his house. I had nothing to worry about at all.

I was taken into an enormous warm kitchen. Pots and pans hung over the largest kitchen range I had ever seen. The center of the room was filled with a scrubbed wooden table where a girl sat chopping onions, occasionally lifting her sleeve to wipe her eyes. A round woman dressed in black was talking with another woman who was stirring a pot on the stove.

"Excuse me, cook. I'm sorry to interrupt. Mrs. Brennan? A word please?" the butler said and the woman in black turned around.

"The agency has sent a replacement for Eileen."

She looked me up and down critically. "What's your name, girl?"

"Molly, ma'am."

"Molly, eh? Well, Molly, I am

Mrs. Brennan, the housekeeper. You get your orders from me. I hope you're used to hard work. The mistress expects the highest standards in this household. No cutting corners. No slacking off when nobody is watching."