Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“Very well,” he said. “Did you bring the hair sample with you?”


“No, it’s still at my house. Now I know that you will do this for me, I’ll try to obtain a hair from the girl’s home. I’ll do that in the morning.”

“In the meantime, I have no wish to rush you or to appear discourteous,” Birnbaum said, “but we expect the arrival of some friends from Freiburg University any minute and we go to dine with them tonight.”

I got up. “I’ll be on my way, then,” I said. “And I thank you for your help.”

Ryan remained sprawled in the chair, eyeing his wine-glass, as Dr. Birnbaum ushered me out.

I was exceedingly weary as I came out onto University Place, but I made a supreme effort and dragged myself across to Broadway to catch the trolley car north to Gramercy Park, where I hoped to find Arabella Norton. I wasn’t looking forward to sharing my suspicion with her, but it had to be done. The sooner we arrived at the truth, the better.

As I stood outside Miss Van Woekem’s house on that lovely square, the first thing I heard was the sound of voices and laughter. Then I saw movement behind the lace curtains and realized some sort of large function was taking place. Hardly the right time to disturb Arabella. So it was a case of the trolley back home again, a quiet supper, and an early night. I slept peacefully and was disturbed by no strange dreams.

In the morning I repeated the trip to Miss Van Woekem’s. Knowing a little of the behavior of girls from Arabella’s background, I suspected that breakfast for her would never be before nine at the earliest. So I timed my arrival for ten, hoping to fit in between breakfast and leaving for the first shopping expedition of the day or fitting at the dressmaker. I was in luck. I requested to speak to Miss Norton, presented my card—although the maid knew full well who I was—and was shown into the drawing room. Arabella was sitting at her aunt’s desk writing letters. She jumped up when she saw me.

“Miss Murphy. You have news for me?”

“I may, Miss Norton,” I replied, “although I fear it will not be the news you want to hear.”

“Bad news? The worst?”

“I may be wrong. Let us hope so.”

She motioned to the sofa. “Please forgive my lack of manners. Do sit down. May I call the maid to bring you some coffee?”

I had to admit that ladies of Arabella’s class were exceedingly well trained in manners. I declined her offer, knowing that she was dying to hear the news.

“You’ve read of the string of murders they call the East Side Ripper attacks?”

“Yes, but they are all—ladies of low morals.” She flushed at the mention of them.

“Not all,” I said. “Some of them have proved to be ordinary working girls, whom the killer has dressed and painted to look like”—I spared her sensibilities—“such ladies.”

“But surely this can have nothing to do with Letitia? She wouldn’t have been anywhere frequented by—such girls. By her clothing and her manner she would never have been mistaken for a common girl.”

“I would agree with you, except for one thing, Miss Norton. One of the bodies possessed the most impressive head of pale blond hair. Now I do realize that one of the girls reported missing by her family is from Swedish descent and may also have such magnificent hair, but I thought the coincidence too striking to ignore.”

“But how—where could Letitia ever have been mingling with common people?”

“As to that, you said yourself that she helps her mother at a settlement house. The strange thing is that all these girls had something in common. They had all just been to Coney Island.”

Arabella gave a relieved laugh then. “There you are, then. Letitia would never have been to such a low-down place. We talked of it once and both agreed that it could hold no attraction for us.”

“But she was due to go there the day she disappeared. She was to plan an outing for the settlement house children the next day.”

“But she never arrived in the city. Her fiancé waited for her for hours.”

“What if she had taken an earlier train? What if she had somehow missed her fiancé at the station and gone to Coney Island that day to meet her doom.”

“Don’t.” She put a hand to her mouth. “What you suggest is too horrible. You say you’ve seen the body? Did it—did it look at all like her?”

“I can’t tell you that,” I said. I was about to mention the face, but stopped myself quickly. “And in truth I didn’t see the body. I was too much of a coward. But the body had been buried in the ground for some time. Her hair is the only way we have of identifying her.”

“You can identify her by her hair?”