Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I left Mrs. Goodwin in the capable hands of a nurse. On my way out I muttered a warning that she was never to be left alone with anyone, and that no strange men were to be admitted on any pretext. The nurse nodded and flexed a beefy arm. “Don’t worry. Nobody gets past me.”


I went home for lunch. I wasn’t sure whether I should write to Daniel again. I knew he must be longing to hear from me, but I couldn’t tell him any of the things I wanted to. I couldn’t even give him any hopeful news. But it had been a couple of days now without a letter from me. So I sat down and wrote a bright, cheerful note, telling him how hard I was working on his behalf, and how I felt I was getting somewhere at last. This was quite untrue, but I had to keep somebody’s spirits up, didn’t I? My own were pretty much in the dumps.

It was late afternoon when I set out again for Bellevue Hospital and the morgue. I had left it as late as I dared, because I was dreading what would happen next. I had fainted at the smell of formaldehyde and the sight of a body under a sheet. How much worse would four decomposing bodies be?

They probably won’t let me in anyway, I told myself to give me courage. I’ll ask the doctor for a description of his findings and then I can go home. This reassured me a little until the high brick wall around the hospital grounds came into sight. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other and force myself in through that gate. I walked around the morgue twice, trying to see in through the windows and to spot if the police were still in evidence. Then I took a deep breath, got my handkerchief at the ready, and pushed open the front door.

The marble-floored entry hall was deserted, but the smell was stronger than ever—sweeter, more cloying. Instantly my stomach lurched, and I swallowed back bile. I was not going to disgrace myself again. I went over to the double doors that led into the autopsy room, put my ear to them, and listened. I could hear sounds of low voices inside. Did that mean that the police officers were still here? I had no wish to face an angry Detective McIver or Quigley, or that new captain either. I just wished I could see what was going on. There was no keyhole, but I put my eye to the crack in the door. I got a glimpse of a white coat moving. No sign of blue uniforms.

Then suddenly the white coat was growing larger, coming toward me. I leaped back and flattened myself against the wall as the door was flung open and a young man appeared.

“Tell them I’m ready for the next one,” a voice called from the autopsy room, “and go and get yourself a cup of coffee. You look as if you’re going to pass out on me.”

“I’m all right, sir, honestly,” the young man called back. He had an earnest schoolboy’s face with round wire glasses, and he did look decidedly green. I wondered if he’d chosen the right profession. Maybe this was a required element of medical training. He passed by without noticing me and pushed open another door down the hall. I had recognized the first voice as that of the same doctor we had seen before. I mustered my full courage and stepped into the autopsy room before the door swung closed on me.

The first thing that assailed me was the smell, so overpowering that my eyes started to water and I could feel myself retching. Like rotting meat on a summer’s day but far, far worse. I put my handkerchief to my nose but even the eau de cologne on it did little to help. There were two bodies lying under sheets on marble slabs and one—my stomach lurched alarmingly—was lying fully exposed. I tried not to look, looked anyway and a little cry escaped from my lips. The doctor spun around.

“My dear young woman, what are you doing here? This is no place for you. Out with you.”

“I agree with you completely, but Mrs. Goodwin sent me,” I said. “I need to talk to you urgently, if you could spare one minute.”

“I’d be glad of a minute’s fresh air,” he said. He crossed the room and wiped his hands on his apron, like a butcher, before opening the door for me. The warm summer air had never felt better as we came outside.

“Now, what is it?” he asked. “I only have a moment before my student brings me the next body, if he doesn’t keel over in the process.” He smiled at me.

As rapidly as I could, I told him about the letters we had received from relatives of missing girls.

“So you want to discover whether your missing girls could be the ones lying on my slabs here?” he asked gravely.

“Can you tell for sure whether these girls were real streetwalkers or not?” I asked. Somehow I couldn’t make myself use the word “prostitute” in the presence of a man. “Streetwalkers” was hard enough.

“If you are asking me whether any of these girls was still a virgin, the answer is that I can’t tell for certain,” he said. “You understand that it’s summer. Decomposition sets in rapidly. The soft tissues don’t last long.”