Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“Too dreary. Not enough life.”


“Ryan could help her get something to do with the theater. She’d like that.”

“Ryan is unemployed and seriously short of funds himself at the moment.”

“Well, if he will write plays that mock the American theatergoing public, what can he expect?”

I looked from one to the other, amused that I was not being consulted in this discussion.

“You don’t understand,” I finally cut in. “It’s not the change of profession I’m anxious about. It’s worrying about whether I’m going to find Daniel Sullivan lurking outside my front door every time I come out. Or Jacob for that matter.”

“Jacob doesn’t lurk, does he? He doesn’t seem the type,” Sid said.

“No,” I conceded. “He’s very well behaved as usual. Waiting patiently for my decision.”

“And I don’t think we’ve spotted Daniel lurking recently, have we?” Sid turned to Gus. “Not for the last few days anyway. Maybe he’s given up in despair.”

“He’s still writing to me,” I said. “At least a letter a day. I throw them all in the rubbish bin without opening them.”

“I call that rather devoted,” Gus said.

“Gus! We’re talking about Daniel the Deceiver! The man possesses all the worst qualities of the male sex—untrustworthy, flirtatious, and an all-round bounder,” Sid said fiercely. “He promises Molly he’s broken off his engagement one day, and the next he goes running back to that spoiled Arabella creature as soon as she snaps her fingers. Molly is quite right to ignore him. And Jacob Singer, too. He may profess that he’s no longer under the thumb of his family, but I know Jewish families, trust me.”

Since she came from one, I did trust her.

“It’s not only that,” I said. “I don’t want to marry just for convenience or security. There is just no spark with Jacob. He’s a good man. He’ll make some girl a good husband, only not me.”

“Quite right,” Sid said. “At least we’re all in agreement that women don’t need to attach themselves to a man to make them happy.” She glanced up at Gus with a smile.

I got up and walked across to the French windows. The first fierce rays of summer sun were painting the brick wall behind the tiny square of garden. “I just wish I knew what I wanted,” I said at last. “Part of the time I think I must be crazy to try and carry on the detective agency. But at least when I’m on a case I know I’m alive, and it’s exciting.”

“When you’re not fighting for your life, getting yourself shot or drowned, or pushed off bridges,” Gus said dryly.

I grinned. “So it’s a little too exciting sometimes. But I can’t see myself sitting behind a desk all day. Or being a governess to spoiled children, or a companion, for that matter. I can’t think of what other job would give me pleasure or prevent me from bumping into Daniel.”

“I don’t see why you are so worried about bumping into Captain Sullivan,” Sid said. “You’re not usually a shrinking violet who avoids confrontation or hesitates to speak her mind, Molly. You’ve faced anarchists and gang members without flinching. Surely you’re not afraid of a mere police captain?”

“Not afraid, no.” I looked away to avoid meeting her eye. “I just lose all common sense when he’s around. I know he’ll try to sweet-talk me into forgiving him, and I’m afraid I’ll be weak enough to listen to him.”

“You’re a strong, independent woman, Molly Murphy,” Sid said firmly. “Face him, tell him what you think of him, and get it over with.”

“You don’t know Daniel. He has too much Irish blarney in him. This time I have resolved to be strong. Never seeing him again is the only way of accomplishing this. And I fear that involves leaving the city.” I touched Gus’s shoulder as I walked across the kitchen. “Thank you for the breakfast. I am quite revived and restored, and I’m off to look up Nebraska on the map.”

I let myself out of their front door to the sounds of their renewed laughter. Then I paused, glanced down Patchin Place to make sure that it was devoid of life, before I sprinted across to my own front door opposite. This was no way to live, to be sure.

Silence engulfed me as I closed my front door behind me. No little high voice singing, no Shamey leaping down the stairs yelling, “Molly, I’m starving. Can I have some bread and dripping?”