Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

By midday Mrs. Goodwin still had not appeared. The rain had subsided to a light drizzle, and I paced impatiently. At last I could stand it no longer. If she hadn’t come by now, then surely she had gone home after her long night vigil and was now sleeping. I wouldn’t be likely to see her before this evening. I should go to the Herald and see what the fearsome Miss Pritchard had uncovered for me.

I was just turning onto Sixth Avenue when I saw a young policeman heading my way with purposeful strides and recognized him as Constable Byrne. Hope surged that he had come to escort me to Daniel again. He tipped his helmet as he approached me.

“Miss Murphy,” he said, “I’ve been asked to deliver this note to you.”

“Is it from Captain Sullivan?” I asked.

“I’m afraid it isn’t. It’s from one of our matrons. She apologized for not coming herself, but she was exhausted after a night in the rain and felt that she had to get some rest if she wasn’t to come down with a dreadful chill.”

He handed me the envelope.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it. So you haven’t had a chance to see Captain Sullivan again?”

“No, miss.”

“And you’ve heard nothing? What are they saying about him at headquarters?”

“Nothing, miss. They’re saying nothing. It’s as if he never existed.”

“And what about this investigation that Quigley and McIver are leading? Is there any talk at the station about that? Any hunches? Any suspects?”

He grinned. “If there are, miss, they don’t share them with me. I’m just a constable on the beat. But I was assigned to that patrol myself the other day. Dreary work standing on a street corner and nothing happening.”

“You didn’t see any suspicious vehicles then?”

“What kind of vehicles?”

“Carriages? Large and presumably enclosed carriages?”

“Oh no, miss. Nothing like that. In fact, the only vehicles to pass me during one twelve-hour shift were delivery drays, a couple of hansoms, and one automobile. That was about it. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I said and declined to go into details. Maybe it would be better if nobody at police headquarters knew I was following this case.

He shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Well, I best be getting back then, miss. I’ve work to do.”

“Of course you have, Constable. Thank you again.”

He nodded, then turned on his heel. I couldn’t help wondering if I should have tipped him. But since I was currently more of a pauper than he, it seemed a strange thought. The moment he was gone, I tore open the envelope.

My dear Miss Murphy,

I must apologize for not delivering this in person, but I am soaked to the skin after a night of observation on the Lower East Side and can only think of getting home to dry clothes and a warm bed. Another fruitless night, I’m afraid. But at least no more bodies. The advertisement should have run in this morning’s papers, so we’ll see what turns up.

And on the other matter we discussed. My friend’s name is Mrs. Rose Butler. I told her about you and she says she’d be delighted for you to pay her a call this evening, around eight, if that is convenient. She wouldn’t want you going home alone in the dark and would expect you to stay the night at least. You’ll find her a most competent and organized person. Her address is 231 Allen Street.

I do hope you take her up on her kind invitation. You’ll find the visit most worthwhile. But I should warn you to be on your guard throughout the Lower East Side after dark. Detective Quigley’s latest theory is that the murderer may ride around in his carriage or wagon or even automobile, looking for likely girls to snatch off the streets. He may then take them to a house nearby or may even pull into a convenient alleyway and assault them there, in the vehicle. So please be alert, and at the first sign of danger run, scream, and draw attention to yourself.

Believe me when I say that I wish you all the best and that your health should improve in the near future.

I remain yours truly,

Sabella Goodwin



I noted the clever way the letter was phrased so that there was nothing incriminating in it. So Mrs. Goodwin suspected that other eyes might read her letter, did she? That was interesting. I found myself trembling. “Mrs. Rose Butler, 231 Allen Street.” I said the words out loud, like a chant, over and over. And she was prepared to see me tonight, if I dared to go through with it. My hand strayed involuntarily to my stomach. Eight o’clock, I thought. That gave me almost eight hours to think about it. All the more reason to throw myself into my work so fully that I didn’t have time to think.

I climbed the steps to the El station and headed back to Herald Square. Today I had taken rather more trouble with my appearance, wearing my business suit and tying my hair back with a black bow. The lady in archives seemed to approve, and she nodded at me in almost kindly fashion.