Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I decided to wait until the afternoon mail delivery before I went to Mrs. Goodwin’s house. I’d have liked to question the constables who escorted Mr. Partridge on that fateful day, but I had promised Mrs. Goodwin I wouldn’t go to that part of town alone. Given her current precarious condition, I couldn’t break a promise right now. Besides, I suspected that Mr. Partridge had chosen the route with one purpose in mind. And now he was planning a visit to The Tombs—was that just to gloat over Daniel, or did he have a more sinister purpose in mind there, too?

I looked up at the clock on the mantel. I didn’t really have time to visit Mr. Atkinson and convince him to take me to The Tombs today if I wanted to be at Mrs. Goodwin’s house in time for the afternoon mail. I’d have to leave that for tomorrow morning. A stiff breeze was blowing off the Hudson, and I retrieved my line of dry laundry before starting the long walk across town, past Cooper Union to Tompkins Square. The rain, followed by the breeze, had brought the temperature down and the walk was not at all unpleasant. It gave me time to think. I’ve always found walking was great for putting my thoughts in order.

I was anxious to see if any answers to the advertisement had come in the mail yet. If the dead girl we saw yesterday was not a prostitute, then it was possible that some of the others weren’t, either. If so, where did this monstrous killer meet the girls and persuade them to go with him? I decided Detective Quigley’s theory was a good one—he trolled the streets in his carriage, looking for likely victims. Maybe he offered them a ride; maybe he simply grabbed them off the street. If we received letters from one particular part of the city, we’d be able to start hunting him down in earnest.

Mrs. Goodwin’s house was in a pleasant, established neighborhood, just beyond a square with a green and leafy park in it. The front steps were well scrubbed, the brass door knockers well polished. The children who played hopscotch or whipped their tops on the sidewalks were well cared for. I got the key from the neighbor, who was most upset to hear about Mrs. Goodwin’s accident.

“That poor dear woman has devoted her life to the service of others, and look where it’s gotten her,” she said. “And her man before her, too. He was one of the best, and he was struck down in his prime.”

She handed over the key with no difficulty, and I was about to put it into the lock when the door swung open. This was strange, and I hesitated for a moment. There was no sign of forced entry around the lock, however, so I decided there had to be a reasonable explanation. Either Mrs. Goodwin herself had left in such a hurry that she hadn’t quite closed the door and today’s strong wind had blown it open again, or she had another friend or neighbor who had been entrusted with the key.

“Hello?” I called, standing in the narrow front hall. “Is anyone there?”

I stood listening but heard no kind of movement. I went on into the house, leaving the front door open, just in case. There was no mail of any kind on the front door mat, which was disappointing. I suppose I should have left again straightaway, but my curiosity got the better of me. I went down the hall into a meticulously scrubbed kitchen, complete with a row of gleaming copper pans hanging over the stove. I then conducted a brief tour of the front parlor, with its furniture covered in dust sheets, then the back parlor, which she obviously used for day-to-day living. The furniture in here was well-worn, and over the mantelpiece there was a framed photograph of a man in police uniform. I stood looking at it for a moment. Her husband had been taken from her, but she still carried on his work. That was noble enough. What was even more noble was that she had become my friend. She had every reason to hate Daniel as the man supposedly responsible for her husband’s death, and thus to hate me, working to secure Daniel’s release; but somehow she had believed me enough to trust me. Not only that—she had gone out of her way to help me.

I glanced around the room, and my gaze alighted on a piece of paper, sticking out from under the armchair. It was so unlike Mrs. Goodwin to leave anything untidily that I bent to pick it up. It was a new envelope. I decided to return it to the oak secretary nearby. When I opened the front of the secretary I gasped. The papers inside it were in complete disarray. Somebody had gone through her papers and then stuffed them back anyhow.