Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“I am a police officer and I need to question somebody about the young woman brought here earlier today. The young victim who subsequently died,” she said in a voice that echoed from the tiled walls. Even the admitting sister was impressed by it.

“I’ll find the sister who was on duty,” she said, and dispatched a junior nurse. “A tragic business.” She shook her head so that the starched veil rattled. “The sisters who tried to care for her were quite distressed about it. We had to relieve them from duty for a while. And believe me, we see everything here.”

We stood and waited while the life of the hospital went on around us. I leaned against the cool tile of the wall for support. I certainly wasn’t going to faint again. At last there was a neat tap of feet along the corridor and a young, fresh-faced sister appeared. She looked about as white and pale as her veil and uniform.

“I’m Sister Mary Margaret,” she said. “You wanted to know about that unfortunate woman who was brought to us.”

“We do, Sister,” Mrs. Goodwin sounded brisk and efficient. “It can’t have been a pleasant experience for you.”

“It was awful,” the young nun said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Neither had Sister Rose. She’s been crying all morning.”

“We were wondering,” Mrs. Goodwin said carefully, “if the young woman was at all conscious, and if she might have said anything.”

“We didn’t think she could be conscious when we first saw her,” Sister Mary Margaret said. “If you’d seen what was left of her poor face…We were sure she must be dead, but then Sister Rose felt a pulse and we were just moving her onto a gurney when she made a sound. Of course she could hardly speak, but I took her hand and put my ear close to her. ‘What did you want to tell me, my darlin’?’ I asked her. She just moaned and then she said what sounded like ‘Tree. Tree.’ Then there was a gurgle in her throat and blessedly she died.” The sister paused to cross herself. Mechanically my hand followed hers.

“Tree?” Mrs. Goodwin asked. “What could that mean?”

“We were wondering if perhaps she was an immigrant and that was the way she pronounced three.”

“Meaning there were three men in on this?”

The sister sighed. “I’ve no idea what she meant. Maybe she was trying to give her address so that we could notify her family. I really can’t tell you. But I do know it’s affected me deeply. I’ve been on my knees in chapel most of the morning, praying for her poor, departed soul.”

“We’ll let you get back there then, Sister,” Mrs. Goodwin said gently. “Thank you for taking the time to see us.”

She led us out of the building, and not a minute too soon. Another second and I would have vomited on those spotless tiles. I made it outside but had to hold onto a lamppost while the world swung around. “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I had no idea this would upset me so. I live only a couple of streets away. I should probably go home and let you get to your work.”

She put an arm around my shoulder. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“That’s really not necessary. You have to report in to your police station,” I tried, but she was adamant. I was escorted back to Patchin Place. She waited until I’d turned the key in the lock then came inside with me. “What you need is a cup of chamomile tea,” she said.

“I’m afraid I don’t have chamomile,” I said. “It’s not something I’m familiar with. I’ve just ordinary tea like we drink at home.”

“That will be better than nothing.” She started bustling around my kitchen, filling the kettle and lighting the gas with a spill. “Sit down. Unbutton your jacket, get some air to yourself.”

I did as she commanded. “I didn’t think I’d be so affected by this,” I said. “I thought I was strong.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me. “I’ve taken care of enough young women in my life to recognize the signs,” she said. “I presume that’s why you’re so anxious to rescue Daniel Sullivan?”

I felt myself blushing scarlet. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“Oh, come on now. I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said. “And you’re not the first girl it’s happened to either. It seems to me that young Sullivan has a lot to answer for—to you and to me. Maybe he’d be better off rotting in jail. It would teach him a lesson.”

“Oh no,” I said. “I can’t let that happen to him. How would you have felt if it was your husband who had been falsely implicated and faced a lifetime in jail?”

“I suppose I’d have done what I could for him, the way you are. And I can see that your life will be a whole lot worse if you don’t prove his innocence.”