The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

“‘Friendly’? You call that old cow friendly?” She scooped up a snotty-nosed baby that was attempting to crawl out of the door and shut it behind her.

Bridie looked at me, wide-eyed, and said nothing. I took her hand and we went up the last flights in silence. As I tapped on the door I was transported back to my first day in New York, almost five years ago, when I had stood outside Nuala’s door on the top floor of a similarly disgusting tenement. The door was flung open, and the doorway filled with Nuala’s enormous bulk. Just as she had done the first time, Nuala now looked at me with loathing. “Well, would you look what the cat’s brought in,” she said.

“And top of the morning to you too, Nuala,” I replied. “A fine greeting for your young relative whom I’ve brought to see you.”

Her face softened then. “Well, look at you, Bridie, love. My, aren’t you growing into a fine young woman. And where did you get those clothes? Fancy, aren’t they? Did herself buy them for you, now that she’s a policeman’s wife?” She jerked her head to indicate me, but refused to call me by name.

“Mrs. Sullivan made them for me,” she said. “I live with her.”

“Mrs. Sullivan?”

“My mother-in-law. She’s kindly taken Bridie in and is educating her,” I explained for her.

“Well, how about that?” she said. She stepped aside. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

The inside was as sorry as the last place they’d lived. One threadbare armchair, a scrubbed table with benches made of planks over blocks, a couple of saucepans hanging over the sink, and the smell of frying and unwashed bodies.

“Sit yourselves down then,” she said. “I’ll be making the tea.”

We sat.

“Bridie’s anxious to hear if you’ve any news of her father,” I said. “She herself has heard nothing, and naturally she’s very worried.”

“We did hear, a little while back,” she said. “Himself met a man at the tavern who had come back from the canal. Said he couldn’t stick it out. Said no amount of money was worth enduring that hellhole. He’d caught yellow fever but recovered—one of the lucky ones, I suppose. Anyway…” I held my breath and didn’t dare glance at Bridie. “Anyway, he’d come across Seamus and young Shamey.”

“And they were both alive and well?”

“At the time he saw them, yes. He said it was an out-of-the-way, godforsaken place, days by mule from anywhere.”

I turned to Bridie. “There, you see, my love. They are still all right. But they have no way to send you letters.”

She nodded, her eyes still full of hope and fear at the same time.

The kettle boiled, and Nuala squeezed her bulk around the table to pour the water into the teapot.

“I see you’re not working at the fish market any longer,” I said. “Has Finbar found a better job that you’re able to stay home?”

“Himself? That lazy, good-for-nothing bag of bones?” she half spat. “He’s no job at all and drinks any money he can lay his hands on. No, it’s my boys. They are making money, doing odd jobs for certain influential people.” She didn’t mention that the influential people was really one person—Monk Eastman, leader of one of the city’s most powerful and brutal gangs. And I wasn’t going to let on that I knew.

“How very nice,” I said. “Are any of them here? I have a little job myself that needs doing, and I could use a smart boy.”

“Malachy’s out, doing something,” she said, “and James is in school. He’s the studious one. But I sent young Thomas down to bring us some oysters for our tea. The boat comes in from the marshes about this time, but you have to be quick. He should be back anytime now.”

She handed us chipped and grubby cups, and we sipped politely.

“Last time I saw you, you were in the family way,” she said.

“That’s right. I’ve now a fine boy a year old. Liam.”

“Boys.” She sniffed. “Boys only bring you grief. Would that God had given me a girl like young Bridie here. She looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Is that right, Bridie? You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Cousin Nuala,” she said. “I try to be.”

“You see. Doesn’t give you a day’s grief in her life. Boys, on the other hand, are always coming home dirty and bloody and…”

As if on cue we heard steps running up the stairs, and Thomas burst in. He was about to say something but stopped when he saw us.

“So you’re back,” Nuala said. “And where are my oysters?”

“I was too late. Some man pushed in front of me and took the last, and when I said something he threatened to punch me in the nose or push me off the dock.” I could tell now that he had been crying. Tears had streaked the dirt on his cheeks.