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

Holmes said. "George and Hamish, you have clean white gloves ready for tonight? Bring them to me for inspection. Daisy, you will be positioned in the anteroom before the guests take their places, ready to take each course from the lift and place it on the hot plates. You will then take the dirty plates from George and Hamish and send them down in the lift for Ruby to wash up. You girl--what's your name? Yes, Molly. You will act as go-between. You will be available at all times to take messages to the kitchen as necessary, bring up items that didn't make it into the lift. You will use the servant's staircase and make sure you are, at no time, seen by the master's guests. Is that clear? Good. And I don't need to remind you that any dish dropped and broken will be paid for from your wages--and we are using the best Wedgwood tonight."

So I was going to be occupied, after all. At everyone's beck and call all evening with little chance to explore the alderman's study. If I disappeared for more than a moment, I'd be missed. I reminded myself there would be other occasions. I didn't have to accomplish everything in one day. But I felt a terrible sense of urgency, a nagging voice in my head that if I didn't act now it would be too late. Maybe it was that Celtic sixth sense working again, because I also sensed the presense of danger.

At six thirty the first guests started arriving. Mrs. Brennan and George were in the hallway to take coats and hats. Holmes was in the drawing room, stationed at the drinks table. Daisy was to take the trays of hot hors d'oeuvres upstairs as they came from the oven. And I found myself jobless for a moment. Suddenly I realized that this was my big chance. The alderman would be in the drawing room with his guests. The butler and housekeeper were otherwise occupied. There was nobody to see me flit into the alderman's study.

My pulse was racing so violently that I found it hard to breathe as I came out of the servants' door on the first floor. I could hear the sound of voices and laughter floating up from the floor below. There was a knock at the front door, a gust of cold air wafted up to me, and voices echoed from the marble tiled hallway. More guests were arriving. I waited until I heard Mrs.

Brennan escort them to the living room before I tiptoed down the hall and tried the study door. It was unlocked. I opened it and went inside. I wished that I had a torch, like Daniel Sullivan had used that night in the photography studio. The electric light, after I located the wall switch, was so very bright and visible. But the window faced the side of the house and I doubted if anyone would have need to go around there tonight.

I scanned the room quickly, not sure of what I wanted to look at first. There were several framed diplomas on the wall. One was a proclamation bestowing the keys of the city to the alderman for his outstanding leadership and philanthropic works. One was likewise the keys to the city of Dublin, for the alderman's great contributions to the Irish cause. Another was a diploma from Dublin University. Joseph William McCormack, of Waterford, had graduated with a B.a. in theology in the year 1873. And lastly a certificate of citizenship of the United States, dated 1885.

That changed a lot--unless the diploma was a forgery, Joseph McCormack really was from the far southern part of Ireland. And he had already been residing in the United States when the Plumbridge Nine were attacking the land agent in Northern Ireland. It looked as if I had been following the wrong man. No wonder he hadn't recognized me. But there was still that little matter of the secret drawer. What secret was he sharing with someone called Bertie? Why did Bertie think he might not want to show his face at the St. Patrick's Day parade? And what secret could be important enough to make Bertie think of disposing of a newspaperman? I had to know. My mother had always maintained that if my big mouth didn't kill me, my curiosity would.

I crossed to the desk, opened the front, and took out the drawer. The long, slim drawer behind it slid out easily. I started looking at the papers, not knowing what I was expecting to find. They all seemed harmless enough--receipt for a donation to the Irish Home Rule Fund from a wealthy benefactor in Boston. Letters of gratitude for donations made to various Irish freedom-fighting organizations. So the alderman was acting as middleman, taking in donations and

forwarding them to freedom fighters. Obviously not very popular with the English if they found out, but what Irishman would not approve? It wasn't until I stopped reading the words and started doing the math that I got an inkling of why all these letters were kept in the secret drawer. There were too many examples of ten thousand coming in from donors and five thousand going out to freedom fighters. The alderman was taking a nice cut from every single donation. No wonder he could afford such an extravagant lifestyle!

I refolded the papers exactly as I had found them, slid the drawer back into place, and was just replacing the outer drawer when I heard footsteps outside the door. I shut the desk but had no time to hide before the door was hurled open and the alderman stood there, his eyes blazing.

"What the devil are you doing, girl?" He demanded, and his voice was, indeed, big and booming. "I happened to look out of the window and I saw the light shining on the building next door. Do you mind telling me what you're doing in this room?"

"I'm sorry, sir," I stammered. "I meant no harm."

"Meant no harm? Sneaking into my private room and you meant no harm? Come on, out with it. Did you think you'd find something worth stealing?"