Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I spent the rest of the morning at Mrs. Goodwin’s bedside while she slept on, breathing steadily but not stirring. Fear gripped me that she might stay asleep forever and then quietly slip away into death.

“You’ve got to wake up,” I said out loud, “because I can’t do this on my own. We’ve letters from the families of two girls now, and I’m sure one of them is the latest victim that we saw at the morgue. So it’s up to you to get well quickly and help prevent any more deaths.”

I was all too aware that I was wasting my time by talking to an unconscious person, but it made me feel better—less alone, anyway. Because in truth I felt horribly alone at this moment. It had nothing to do with my own safety. It was thinking about Daniel and the very real possibility that he might be in prison for years. On the way back to Saint Vincent’s I had been forced to face the reality that I might never be able to prove his innocence. If it came down to a confrontation, me against the police commissioner, what jury would be persuaded to believe me?

I also was forced to admit that I still loved him. I had kept those feelings in check, ever since I found out that he was engaged to another woman. Now the feelings came to the fore with a vengeance. He did have his faults, he had treated me shabbily, but I still loved him in spite of everything. It’s one of the failings we women have. Our hearts rule our heads all too often.

I dragged myself out of this wallowing in introspection and self-pity. It certainly wouldn’t help Daniel or Mrs. Goodwin if I wasn’t strong and alert right now, and it wasn’t getting me anywhere either.

“Now, about these girls,” I said to the sleeping Mrs. Goodwin. “Someone should go out and talk to their families. Maybe one of them has left a note from the boy, hidden away somewhere. At least we can find out if the girls have any identifying marks or ways of knowing who they are for sure.”

“The exhumation,” said a weak voice beside me. Mrs. Goodwin was looking at me. “What day is it?”

“It’s Thursday,” I said.

“And the exhumation is set for Friday morning.” She sighed as if it was still an effort to talk. She tried to sit up, groaned, and flopped back to the pillow. “You’ll have to go. I’ll be in no condition to.”

“How can I go to an exhumation?” I blurted out, my mind presenting me with pictures of partly consumed flesh and maggots. “They surely won’t let me be present.”

“You mustn’t let them see you,” she said. “You should appear to be a mourner, come to deliver your respects to another grave site. Keep well away, disguise yourself beneath a big hat, and watch who comes to observe. The notice about the exhumation should have made it to the press by now. Someone might be interested to see what we dig up.”

“You mean the Ripper himself might come?”

“It’s possible. In my experience, killers show a fascination with their own cases. I’ve heard of men volunteering to help look for missing girls whom they’ve actually murdered and buried. I suppose it gives them an added thrill to know they are one step ahead of the police.”

“Then I’ll do it,” I said, “although I hate to leave you here. You gave us all a nasty shock last night, lapsing back into unconsciousness. Was there any warning you were feeling worse?”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t aware of feeling worse. I certainly feel groggy, so I presume I’ve been asleep for a while.”

“Unconscious,” I said. “They couldn’t wake you earlier.”

“Curious.” She closed her eyes again.

“You didn’t feel anything while you were dozing?” I asked. “A prick, perhaps?”

Her expression became instantly alert. “Are you suggesting that somebody gave me an injection? Somebody wanted to make sure I stayed asleep?”

“And didn’t wake up, I believe,” I said. “I’ve no idea how this person could have slipped in past the guard here, but our killer has shown himself to be the most resourceful of men.”

“He certainly has,” she said. “But I take your warning seriously. I will ask to be moved to my own house right away, with a police guard.”

“Will you be able to manage at home?”

“I’ll hire a nurse.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll come and sit with you as much as I can.”

She patted my hand. “You’re a good girl,” she said. “And I’m sorry it didn’t work out with my friend the other evening.”

“My choice,” I said. “Probably a foolish one.”

She gave a tired smile. “We all have to follow our own hearts. It may turn out all right in the end for you.”

“At least I’m not an invalid myself when you need me,” I said. “I can go to that exhumation. I can even go and question the families.”