Death of Riley (2 page)

“But a companion is not a servant, Molly. You'd be expected to read to Miss Van Woekem and take her for strolls around the park—that kind of thing. What could be easier?”

“She'd be crotchety and finickety. Old spinsters always are. I'd lose my patience with her and that would be that.” I gave a gay little laugh, but still Daniel didn't smile.

“Molly, I'm sure I don't need to remind you that you do need to find some kind of job soon. I know the alderman gave you a small gift by way of apology for what happened at his house—”

“It was a bribe, Daniel, as you very well know.”

“But it won't last forever,” Daniel went on, ignoring my statement. It was funny the way the New York policemen seemed to become suddenly deaf at the mention of the word‘bribe.’ “And you do have rent to pay, even though it's a modest amount.”

“The O'Hallarans are being very kind,” I agreed. “I'm sure they could rent out their attic for much more if they chose to.” It was Daniel himself who had found me the pleasant top-floor flat owned by at fellow policeman. “And don't forget Seamus shares the rent, and pays for most of the food, too.”

“I should think so, considering that you cook it and look after his children for him.”

“I'm glad to do it,” I said. “They're no trouble, and how would he manage without me, poor man, with his wife back home in Ireland just waiting to die?”

I had brought Seamus's young son and daughter to New York at their mother's request when she found that she had consumption and wasn't allowed to travel. And in case you think I'm some kind of saint, let me assure you that the arrangement suited my own purposes very well.

“You've a good heart, Molly,” Daniel said, “but this arrangement can't go on forever. I'm not entirely comfortable with you living up there with a man whose wife is back in Ireland.”

I laughed. “Not comfortable, Daniel? Seamus O'Connor is a perfectly harmless individual—you've seen him yourself. Hardly the greatest catch in New York. What's more, we have a kitchen and hallway between us to keep things proper, and Mrs. O'Hallaran downstairs too, keeping an eye on things.”

“That's not the point,” Daniel said. “People will talk. Do you want them saying you're a kept woman?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then may I suggest you listen to me and find a suitable job for yourself that will not end in disaster.”

His reminders of my dismal failures in the world of commerce were beginning to rile me. I didn't like to fail at anything. “If you really want to know, I'm still planning to follow my original idea and set myself up as a private investigator.” I threw this out more to annoy him than anything.

Daniel rolled his eyes and gave a despairing chuckle. “Molly, women do not become investigators. I thought we'd been through all this before.”

“I don't see why not. I thought I was pretty good at it.”

“Apart from almost getting yourself killed.”

“Right. Apart from that. But I told you. I don't plan to deal with criminal cases. Nothing dangerous. I still keep thinking about all those people when I was leaving Liverpool, Daniel. They were desperate for knowledge of their loved ones who had come to America. I'd be doing good work if I united families again, wouldn't I?”

“Did it ever occur to you that the loved ones might not want to be found?” he asked. “And anyway, how would you set about this—this detective business? You'd need an office to start with, and you'd have to advertise …”

“I know that too!”

“And if you discovered that the loved one you were seeking had gone to California, would you take the train to find him? Families of immigrants won't have money to pay.”

“So I'd need some capital to get started.” I paused to watch an elegant open carriage pass on the road beyond the trees. Lovely women in wide white hats and young men in blazers sat chatting and laughing as if they hadn't a care in the world—which they probably hadn't. “And I'd just have to take some cases that paid well.”

Daniel turned to me and took my hands in his. “Molly, please put this foolish idea to rest. You don't need to set yourself up as anything. You need a pleasant, dignified job that pays the rent, for the time being, that's all.”

“Maybe I won't be content with a pleasant little job. Maybe I want to make something of myself.”

He laughed again, uneasily this time. “It's not as if you're a man and need to be thinking of a future career. Only something to bide your time until some fellow snaps you up.”

His eyes were teasing again, all seriousness apparently forgotten.

“Snaps me up? But surely you know I'm a hopeless case? Already turned twenty-three and therefore officially on the shelf.”

“You? You'll never find yourself on the shelf, Molly. You'll be just as fascinating at fifty.”

“Hardly a comforting thought,” I said. “Still a companion at fifty? Shall we go on walking?” I got to my feet. This conversation was definitely not leading where I wanted it to. Daniel had had several chances to state his intentions and failed miserably at all of them. It wasn't as if he were either hesitant or shy. Then he said something that made me realize how his brain might be working.

“I wish you'd give the companion's position a try, Molly. Miss Van Woekem is well respected in New York society. My parents really look up to her. Being with her would give you an introduction into society here.”

Then it dawned on me. That was why he was hesitating—he didn't want to marry an Irish peasant girl fresh from the old sod. I'd left Ireland with its snobbery and class prejudice and crossed the Atlantic to find that same snobbery alive and flourishing in the New World. And he with parents who came over with nothing in the great famine! Well, if that was how Daniel Sullivan thought—I opened my mouth to tell him what he could do with his companion's job, and with Miss Van What's-it too. I stopped myself at the last second. He presumably thought he was doing this for my own good. He wanted me to fit in and become acceptable and accepted in society here. What's more, it certainly beat out fish gutting. What did I have to lose? “All right, if you think I should take it, I'm prepared to give it a try.”

He stopped and put his hands on my shoulders. “That's my girl,” he said, kissing me on the forehead.

“Should we try the Ramble today?” I motioned to the inviting woodland path that disappeared into the undergrowth to my left. The area of Central Park known as the Ramble was made up of a series of winding, intersecting paths through a thickly wooded copse. Only a few steps into the woods and it was hard to believe that you were in the middle of a big city. It was also one of the few places where it was possible to steal a kiss undisturbed.

But Daniel shook his head. “It's too hot for walking today. Why don't we head for that ice cream parlor?”

“Ice cream? That would be wonderful!” On a hot day like this, ice cream won out over kisses with me too. I had only just tasted my first ice cream and was still amazed at a place where such luxuries were available every day.

Daniel smiled at my excitement. “Don't ever change, will you?”

“I might well turn into a severe and snooty spinster when Miss Van Woekem starts to influence me,” I retorted.

He laughed and slipped his arm around my waist. In spite of the heat and the fact that this was surely not proper behavior for a park on a Sunday, I wasn't about to stop him. We joined the stream of Sunday strollers on the wide East Drive. Half of New York had to be here. The upper crust passed by in their open carriages, oblivious to the stream of pedestrians beside them. On the sandy footpath it was ordinary people like ourselves, severe Italian mothers dressed all in black with a fleet of noisy bambinos, Jewish families with bearded patriarchs and solemn little boys with skullcaps on their heads, proud fathers pushing tall perambulators—every language under the sun being spoken around us. As we neared the gate the noise level rose—music from a carrousel competed with an Italian hurdy-gurdy man and the shouts of the ice cream seller. I knew that Daniel wouldn't buy ice cream in the park. You never knew what it was made from, he said, and typhoid fever was always a worry in the hot weather.

Suddenly a dapper little man in a dark brown suit and derby hat stepped out in front of us.

“Hold it right there!” he shouted.

“It's all right. He's only taking our photo,” Daniel whispered as I started in alarm. “He's one of the park photographers.”

I saw then that the man was pointing a little black box at us and we heard a click.

“There you are, sir. Lovely souvenir of the day,” he said, nodding seriously. He had a strange accent that seemed to be a mixture of London Cockney and Bowery New York. He came up to Daniel. “Here's my card if you care to stop by the studio and purchase the photo for your lady friend.”

As he handed Daniel his card he moved closer and I thought I saw his hand go to Daniel's pocket. It was over in a fraction of a second, so that I didn't know whether to believe my eyes. For a moment I was too startled to act, then, as I grabbed Daniel's arm to warn him, I saw the man's hand move away from Daniel again, and it was empty. I didn't want to make a scene, so I kept quiet until we had walked past the photographer.

“I think that man tried to pick your pocket,” I whispered.

“Then he was out of luck,” Daniel said, smiling. “I only keep my handkerchief in that pocket.”

He slipped his hand into the pocket and I noticed the change in his expression. “Yes, the fellow was unlucky all right,” he said, taking my arm. “Come on, let's get that ice cream.”

T
wo

A crisply starched maid showed me into the refined brick house with wrought-iron balconies on South Gramercy Park.

“Miss Murphy, ma'am,” she said and dropped a curtsy before retiring. The old woman who sat in the highbacked chair by the window looked as if she had been chiseled from marble. Her face had shrunk to a living skull but the eyes that fastened on me were still very alive.

“Well, come in, girl. Don't just stand there,” she said in a sharp, gravelly voice that sounded as if it had dried out like its owner. “What is your name?”

“Molly. Molly Murphy.” Her look was so intense that I was startled.

She sniffed. “Molly—a nickname only suitable for peasants and servants. You were presumably baptized with a Christian name.”

“I was baptized Mary Margaret.”

“And that is a little too pretentious for someone in your station. Nobody below the middle class needs two names. I shall call you just plain Mary.”

“You can call all you like, but I won't answer.” I had recovered enough to challenge her stare. “My name's Molly. Always has been. If you don't like it, you can always call me Miss Murphy.”

She opened her mouth, went to say something, then shut it again with a “hmmph.”

“Let me take a look at you.”

I could feel those dark boot-button eyes boring into me. “Are you not wearing a corset, girl?”

“I've never worn one,” I said. “Back where I come from, we didn't go in for such things.”

She made a disproving tut-tutting noise. “Daniel mentioned that you were newly arrived from Ireland, but he didn't say that you'd come straight from the bogs. When you leave here today I'll give you the money and you'll go to my costumier and have yourself fitted for a corset. And as for the rest of your clothing—I suppose I can't expect you to wear black in this summer heat. Do you possess a plain gray dress?”

“I don't possess much of anything,” I said. “I had to leave most of my things behind in Ireland.”

I didn't mention the reason I'd had to leave in a hurry. Nobody knew that but me. Nobody was going to know it.

“I'll have my housekeeper see if there is anything suitable for you in the servant's closet,” she said.

“I understood that you wanted a companion, not a servant.” Again I matched stares with her. With that hooked nose and those black little eyes she reminded me of some kind of bird. A bird of prey, definitely. “I don't get out much anymore,” she said. “I like to be surrounded by things that are pleasing to the eye.” My gaze followed hers around the room. It was indeed pleasing to the eye— not cluttered with too many knickknacks like other wellto-do rooms I had seen, it managed to be austere and elegant at the same time. The furniture was well-polished mahogany, with lots of silk cushions; a mahogany bookcase filled with rich leather tomes took up most of one wall. There was a lamp with a shade like a miniature stained-glass window and a couple of good, if somber, paintings hung on the walls. Not what one would call a woman's room, but a room of definite good taste.

“The lamp is from Mr. Tiffany,” she said, noticing my eyes falling on it. “My one concession to the latest fads. And the painting over the fireplace—”

“Looks as if it's of the Flemish School,” I said, studying the dark and rather too real-looking still life of a dead pheasant and some fruit. “Is it a copy of a Vermeer?”

She snorted. I couldn't tell if the sound was pleased or contemptuous. “It
is
a Vermeer,” she said. “Arid how do you come to know about painting? Are they hanging Vermeers in Irish cottages these days?”

“I'm not uneducated, even though I may not be fashionably dressed. Our governess was a great devotee of art. She had visited all the fine galleries of Europe.”

“You had a governess?” She looked at me incredulously.

“I was educated with the land-owner's daughters,” I answered, hoping she wouldn't interrogate further on this topic.

She stared at me in a way that could be considered rude among equals, obviously deciding whether I was lying to her or too impudent to keep. “You have a nice enough face,” she said at last, “and you carry yourself well, but that outfit has definitely seen better days. I'll have my dressmaker come in and measure you up. Maybe not gray. Doesn't do justice to the hair, which would be quite striking if properly arranged.” In deference to my companion's position I had managed to twist my unruly red curls into a severe bun. Not too successfully, I might add. Trying to tame my hair was like trying to hold back the ocean.

“So if you know about art, and you were educated by a governess, you presumably know how to read more than penny dreadfuls.”