Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I was up when the first touches of dawn streaked the eastern sky and made my way to Hart Island, where I was told the potter’s field was located. Mrs. Goodwin had warned me that the exhumation would be done early in the morning, and it would be quite a long journey. I don’t think she had any idea how long and arduous the journey would be, though. I’m sure she’d never done it herself. I doubt if many people had.

It turned out that Hart Island was in the middle of a piece of water called Long Island Sound, halfway between the Bronx and Long Island. It could only be reached from another island called City Island, and that was in the middle of godforsaken marshes. The journey involved taking the elevated railway to the Harlem River and then picking up a ferryboat that took a circuitous route through a narrow channel called Hell Gate, into Long Island Sound.

It was a misty morning and I was quite chilled when the ferry finally reached City Island. I don’t know why it was called by that name because anything less like a city I’ve never seen. We docked at a quaint waterfront community of boatbuilders and seafarers that looked as if it belonged to another age. The harbor was already a hive of activity at this early hour. Sounds of hammering rang out from a boat shed. A tugboat tooted a warning as it left port. I asked about a ferry to Hart Island and was given strange looks. Only the government boat goes over there, I was told. In fact, it had already gone in that direction this very morning. And it was just a great big cemetery—a sorry place, unmarked graves of those who were too poor to pay for a decent, honest burial or those whose remains had never been identified.

“I know what it is, sir,” I told the boatman who had given me this information, “but I have a special reason for being there today. I understand they are to exhume some bodies and I’ve a terrible fear that one of them might be my own dear sister. So if you could think of any way I might get there?” I looked appealing, grief stricken, and helpless.

“I reckon Old Tom could run you over—couldn’t you, Tom?” One of the men turned to a leathery old sea dog sitting on the harbor wall, puffing at his pipe.

“If she makes it worth my while,” Tom said grumpily.

“Oh come on, have a heart,” another of the men entreated. “She wants to know if they’re digging up her lost sister. You can do that much for her, can’t you?”

“I’m quite willing to pay,” I said, as Mrs. Goodwin had given me money for the fare. “And I assure you it would mean a lot to me.”

Old Tom got up, spat onto the cobbles, and inclined his head in my direction. “Come on, then,” he said. “While the tide is favorable.”

He helped me to climb down from the jetty into a rowboat. We cast off and slipped silently out of the harbor. As soon as the township was left behind we entered an unreal world. In the city the early morning sky had been clear and promising. On the voyage to City Island we had encountered patches of mist, which had grown thicker as the coastline became uninhabited marshland. Now we entered a world enveloped in mist. It rose, curling like smoke from mudflats, and hovered over the skiff. There was no sound except for the gentle lapping of waves and the rhythmic splash and creak of the oars. I had no idea where we were going or how close the island was. After a while even the mudflats vanished so that all that was visible was a few feet of water on either side of us. It was like entering a dream, and the thought crossed my mind that it was the River Styx, and I was being ferried to an afterlife.

Which in a way it was, of course. All those corpses had made this same journey to a final resting place. I sat, gripping the side of the boat, my head full of uneasy thoughts. I feared that we’d run into a rock or a bigger boat, or we’d get lost and find ourselves out at sea. I also feared what I’d see once we reached Hart Island. I was glad that Old Tom wasn’t the talkative sort. His face was impassive as he pulled on the oars, and we moved smoothly over a glassy surface. At least there aren’t waves, I thought. One thing to be thankful for, because I was definitely feeling queasy.

The journey seemed to go on forever. I lost all sense of time. Every now and then the mist parted to reveal a blue sky above, then closed in again. Once a cormorant rose flapping right in front of us, making my heart leap into my throat. Old Tom glanced up then and shot me a withering look before he went back to the business of rowing.

At last we were passing more marshes; reedy mudflats, a patch of sandy beach, and a wooden jetty appeared from the mist in front of us. A large motor vessel was already moored there. Old Tom jumped out easily in spite of his advanced years, and tied up the boat before helping me out.

“You will wait for me, won’t you?” I asked, my nerve almost failing me.