Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

On the way home, sitting on a horse-drawn bus that went painfully slowly along Twenty-third, I wondered what else I should be doing to help Daniel. Did I know anybody who could be of use to him or find out who might have tipped off the police commissioner? I didn’t exactly move in high circles. I knew Senator Flynn, of course, but this was not the time to approach him for anything. From what I’d heard, he’d left the area and set off personally looking for his son. And after his improper advances to me, he’d only be a last resort anyway.

So who else did I know? Sid and Gus had a wide acquaintanceship, but mostly of a bohemian nature. I doubted that anyone who came to their house knew the commissioner of police, or any high-powered members of the force—at least not socially. Then suddenly it hit me—I did know a member of the Four Hundred. Miss Van Woekem! I had briefly been her companion before I learned of Daniel’s engagement and discovered that she was Arabella’s godmother. At the very least I could get Arabella’s address from her. I still had a sneaking suspicion that Arabella’s family could well be behind this whole business.

The more I considered the circumstances, the more I thought that this was likely. On the few occasions I had seen Arabella Norton she had shown herself to be a spoiled darling, used to getting her own way all the time. If she felt that Daniel had humiliated her by breaking off the engagement, then she could definitely have wanted revenge. Daniel thought, somewhat naively, that she wouldn’t go to these lengths, but I wasn’t so sure. He obviously had no idea what evil thoughts we women were capable of concealing beneath those elegant mounds of curls.

But going to all this trouble—the gang member, the bribe, setting up the meeting with the commissioner. If she had wanted his downfall, then why not attack him through the courts? I could answer that one easily enough. She didn’t want to look like a fool. A breach-of-promise suit would expose her to public scrutiny and public pity. And Arabella’s public face was very important to her. I resolved to see her as soon as possible. She may have wanted Daniel to lose his job, his status, everything he had worked for, but surely she wouldn’t have wished for him to lose his life. And that might very well happen if he had to stay much longer in that damp and dreary place.

Did I have time to fit in a visit to Miss Van Woekem this afternoon, before I had to start preparing my dinner? A portly gentleman sitting across from me was wearing a watch chain. I asked him for the time and found it was now only just after three. Plenty of time then. I was in the right area for a visit to Gramercy Park, but in no condition to pay a call on someone as proper as Miss Van Woekem. I was still wearing my muslin, which had become sweaty and crumpled. I was wearing no hat or gloves. Such things mattered to people like Miss Van Woekem, so I had no alternative than to ride the El all the way home. Once there, I took off my muslin, rinsed it out, splashed cold water over my body, and put on the only other summer dress I possessed. In Ireland it would have been called my Sunday dress, worn only to go to church, but I hadn’t done much churchgoing since I arrived in America. No doubt Father O’Reilly at home would say I was going straight to hell. Probably I was.

I combed out my sweaty tangle of curls and tied them back with a white ribbon. A glance in the mirror proved that I was looking halfway respectable as I set out for Miss Van Woekem’s house on Gramercy Park. I’d done a lot of walking already today, and my legs felt like lead. So I looked longingly at the trolley that clanged and groaned its way up Broadway, debated on whether to spend five cents on the fare, then made a mad dash across the traffic to swing myself aboard at the last moment. It wouldn’t help my cause to arrive at Miss Van Woekem’s drenched in perspiration. As I had heard many times when I was sampling the upper-class life on the Hudson, ladies simply don’t sweat. It isn’t done.

Gramercy Park looked as delightful as I remembered it, cool and countrified, with its leafy park enclosed in a tall, iron railing and its elegant brick homes. I paused to adjust my hat before I mounted the steps to the front door and rang the bell. I was admitted by the same crisply starched maid, who looked at me with the same disapproving stare as the first time she’d admitted me. The look said clearly that I was really of her class and should be entering via the back door if she had her way.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll see if the mistress is receiving visitors.”

With that she disappeared into the sitting room. I heard the sharp voice boom out, “Of course I want to see Miss Murphy. You should know that, Matilda. Bring her in.”