Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“I’m sorry, Miss Van Woekem,” I said. “I meant no disrespect to your family.”


“No disrespect? Suggesting that my goddaughter might be involved in planting false evidence to get an innocent man convicted?” She drew herself up, her hand still at her throat. “I’m afraid I have no wish to continue this conversation. Such thoughts are unworthy of you, Miss Murphy.”

I rose to my feet. “I am sorry I have upset you, Miss Van Woekem. In the circumstances, I think it may be better if I take my leave of you and go.”

Her hand was still on her bosom. “Yes, it may be better before our friendship is irretrievably damaged. Good day to you, Miss Murphy.”





SEVEN




As I had suspected, I had no easy task ahead of me. In fact the words “bitten off more than I could chew” came into my mind as I stepped out onto Gramercy Park. I had been ushered out of Miss Van Woekem’s by a gloating Matilda, without having managed to glean Arabella’s address from her godmother. The old lady’s horror and indignation probably confirmed that the Norton family in general was not involved in plotting Daniel’s downfall. But that still didn’t mean that Arabella couldn’t have arranged a secret vendetta of her own. Whatever her godmother might think, Miss Norton certainly had that amount of venom in her, I was sure. Now I’d just have to head blindly for Westchester County and seek out Arabella for myself. I knew from Daniel that she lived in White Plains, but I had no idea exactly how far away it was or whether it was a big town. And I had invited guests for a dinner that was now less than three hours away. So it would just have to wait for tomorrow.

In the meantime I had gleaned one piece of information from Miss Van Woekem that should be shared with Daniel right away. I made my way along Twentieth Street to Broadway and hopped on a returning trolley. It was full and I had to stand, holding onto one of the brass poles. I grasped it firmly, with both hands, knowing what was about to happen in a couple of blocks. Sure enough, as we came toward Union Square, instead of slowing for the sharp curve, we picked up speed. The passengers, including myself, were flung to one side as the trolley negotiated the bend. Hats were knocked off, children screamed. There was also an angry shout from the street as a pedestrian had to leap for his life. I peered out to see the men seated in Brubaker’s Biergarten chuckling as usual at this spectacle. It was said they actually took bets on possible fatalities.

After Union Square the trolley continued at a more sedate pace until I alighted outside City Hall and walked down the block to The Tombs. This time gaining entry wasn’t so simple. In the company of Constable Byrne, I hadn’t noticed the uniformed guards who stood outside the building. Now they stepped out to bar my way as I approached the front door.

“Where do you think you’re going, miss?” one asked.

“I need to see Captain Sullivan, who is one of your prisoners at the moment.”

“Visitors allowed once a month,” the guard growled in a most unfriendly tone, “and today ain’t the day.”

“I just need to speak to him for a few minutes, like I did earlier today.”

“This ain’t the Waldorf Hotel.” The man scowled at me. “Like I told you, it ain’t visiting day. Now beat it. Go on.”

“If I could just speak to the sergeant in charge, I’m sure—” I started, but the guard came toward me, looking menacing. “Beat it, I said.”

“You don’t scare me,” I retorted, although in truth he did look rather alarming. “I’m an upright citizen, and I’m not doing anything against the law.”

“You’ll hop it if you know what’s good for you, missy,” the other, kindlier guard said. “There’s no way you’re going to get in through those doors. Why don’t you write your sweetheart a message? Prisoners are allowed to receive mail.”

“Very well,” I said. I crossed the road to City Hall Park and sat on a bench. Then I took out the small gold pencil and notepad I always carried. It had been intended as a dance card for highborn ladies to fill in the evening’s contenders. I had bought it for sixty-five cents at a pawnshop and very useful it had become when I needed to take field notes.

“Dear Daniel,” I wrote in tiny letters because the cards were small. “They won’t let me see you again. Have you hired a good lawyer? If so, why aren’t you out on bail? I have met You Know Who and sent him to the right places. More tomorrow. M.”

I addressed it to Capt. Daniel Sullivan, currently being held in The Tombs. But when I tried to hand it to one of the guards, I got the same hostile response.

“What do you think we are, your lackeys or a damned messenger service? You’ll send your message through the U.S mail like everyone else.”

“You two are about as friendly as a couple of gargoyles,” I said.