by Rhys Bowen
“And she’s a detective, Daniel. Did you ever hear of such a thing?” Arabella slipped her arm through his and drew him close to her. “You two must have a lot to talk about.”
“Arabella, we are interrupting a private conversation,” Daniel said. “I really think we should be going.”
I got to my feet. “No, it is I who should be going. We have already concluded a most delightful coffee hour and I have friends waiting for me at a restaurant. Please excuse me.” I took the old woman’s hand. “Thank you for the coffee and for an enjoyable morning.”
“Do come again soon, my dear.” She patted my hand, a gesture which was most unlike her. “I hope to have news for you.”
I stumbled from the room, down the hall, and out of the front door. Arabella’s high, clear voice floated after me. “Where on earth did you meet her, Aunt Martha? What extraordinarily dreary clothes.”
I kept walking fast until I came to Park Avenue, then I turned and started walking south. The wind in my face was bitter, but I kept on walking. If I slowed down then I’d have to think, and if I thought, then the conclusions I’d come to would not be pleasant. I knew that Daniel was engaged to another woman, but he had sworn that he loved me and planned to break that engagement as soon as possible. And so I had kept hope in my heart. Now, seeing them together, I was forced to admit that such hope was ill founded.
Seven
I came into the front hall at Patchin Place to find most of it taken up by an enormous hat stand made of the antlers of some unknown giant beast.
“What in heaven’s name?” I asked.
Sid poked her black, cropped head around the drawing room door. “Don’t you adore it?” she asked. “Mrs. Herman across the street is going to live with her sister in South Carolina and was getting rid of items that were too big to move. This was so wonderfully ugly that we just had to have it. Gus is going to hang her painting smock on it up in the studio.”
My mind was already moving beyond painting smocks. “Across the street, you say?”
“Yes, you know, the old lady at Number Ten. With the cats—who are all travelling to South Carolina in baskets, you’ll be pleased to hear.”
“So Number Ten will be vacant? Will she be selling it, do you know?”
“I don’t think she owns it. Gus will know better than I. She’s the one who takes an interest in the neighbors. Help me carry the monstrosity up to her studio and you can ask her.”
We picked up the hat stand between us and womanhandled it up two flights of stairs.
“Look what your devoted servants have done for you,” Sid said, pushing open the studio door. “We have risked life and limb bringing the monstrosity up the stairs for you. I hope you are duly grateful.”
Gus looked up from her painting. To me it was a lot of red streaks and black dots, but then I hadn’t yet learned to appreciate the intricacies of modern painting. Sid went over to it and put an arm around Gus’s shoulder. “It’s one of your best yet, Gus dear. It speaks to the heart. A true representation of the chaos of war.”
I smiled and nodded agreement without actually having to say anything.
“Do you know what is going to happen to the house opposite when Mrs. Herman moves out?” I asked, before I was drawn into a discussion on the merits of the painting.
“It will be rented to someone else, I imagine.” Gus slashed another great daub of red across her painting.
“You don’t happen to know who the landlord is, do you?”
“What is this?” Gus laughed. “Have you tired of our company and are seeking to make an escape?”
“Not tired of your company,” I said, “I could never do that, but I have been plagued with guilt about the little family I brought over from Ireland. I can’t leave them living in deplorable circumstances any longer. Now that I have two commissions and I’m well on my way to becoming a successful businesswoman, I could consider renting a place of my own if the rent were not too high.”
“We would hate to lose you, Molly,” Sid said. “But across the street would be better than nothing. And I have to admire your philanthropic attitude.”
“Across the street would suit me just fine,” I said. “It would be perfect, in fact. I could wave to Gus as she does her painting, and come over for Sid’s Turkish coffee.”
“Of course you could,” Gus said. “And we can help you look after those two poor, dear children.”
It was sounding better by the minute. I resolved to write to the landlord immediately. As yet I had no money of my own, apart from the pittance being paid me for my work at the sweatshop, but J. P. Riley and Associates had money in the bank, from which I could loan myself an advance on my salary. It would be an enormous risk, renting a whole house on such a flimsy promise of future income, but if worse came to worse, I could always take in boarders or even start my own small school. There was no limit to the things I could do with my talent and enterprise! I was resolved to forge ahead with my life without Daniel Sullivan, one way or another.
I dropped the letter in the mailbox on my way to work on Monday morning and got a reply on my return home the very next day. The landlord was prepared to rent the place for forty dollars a month. Forty dollars a month was twice as much as I was making in the sweatshop right now. Although I had the expectation of a handsome fee at the end of my assignment, I had come to realize that not all cases were resolved successfully and not everybody paid. In my case nobody had paid so far! Four hundred and eighty dollars a year—I went hot and cold all over at the thought of it. My family had never owned that much money. I wasn’t at all sure I could earn that much in a year, but I wasn’t about to let this chance slip away. I wrote the check with trembling hand to pay the deposit. I had already taken some fairly large risks in my life, but this counted among them. Like most of my risks, I had little choice if I wanted to rescue Seamus and his family. Afterward I was so excited and full of nervous energy that I went straight to Fulton Street to deliver the good news.
Nuala let me in, grudgingly, her eyes darting to see if I had come with more chickens or grapes. The children had already bedded down for the night, curled up like puppies on top of some crates that still smelled of their fishy origin. They all scrambled up as I came in and Bridie ran to my side.
“Greenwich Village,” Nuala said with a sniff as I told them my news. “No respectable person would want to live there—a lot of students and rowdies and Negroes and anarchists from what I’ve heard.”
“Which suits me just fine, because you surely won’t be welcome, Nuala. Not you nor your children.” You don’t know how long I’d been waiting to say something of the kind. It gave me enormous satisfaction. I looked at Seamus, sitting pale and white in his chair. “So it’s up to you, Seamus. If you want to move into your own room, with heat and running water, then I’m offering you a place. But no relatives. Take it or leave it.”
Bridie rushed to hold my skirt. “I want to go and live with Miss Molly,” she said.
Seamus smiled weakly. “We’d be honored,” he said, then turned hastily to his cousin. “No offence, Nuala, but I have to do what’s best for the children.”
Nuala smoothed down her apron over her wide hips. “You don’t see me crying my eyes out, do you? Crammed in like sardines we were with the three of you. I’ll be glad to see the back of you and that’s God’s truth.”
I beat a hasty retreat from what could turn into an ugly scene.
I arranged with the landlord to take up residence at the end of the week. In the meantime my days would be more than full with twelve hours spent at the sweatshop, and hopefully enough time and energy to pursue my first inquiries into the whereabouts of Katherine Faversham. I was really rather annoyed that I found myself trapped in such a lengthy and demanding assignment when this Irish case was just what I had dreamed of when I decided to become an investigator. How would I possibly be able to comb New York when I was chained to a sewing machine until dark?
I hadn’t yet heard anything from Miss
Van Woekem, so my first step was to ascertain that Katherine and Michael Kelly had indeed come to New York. If they had access to Katherine’s money, they could have crossed the Atlantic in a second- or third-class cabin, which would mean that they stepped ashore with little or no formality and might well have already left the city. If they were penniless, on the other hand, they would have entered through Ellis Island and there would be a record of their arrival.
I wasn’t sure how to go about checking the Ellis Island records. I knew a record of each ship and its passenger manifest must be stored on the island, but I didn’t believe I’d be allowed to look at them. The general public was kept well away from the island buildings. Relatives who came to meet their loved ones were kept waiting at the dockside. If things had been different with Daniel I could have used his influence, but there was no point in thinking about him anymore.
Then it occurred to me that bribery and corruption had been very much in evidence when I came through Ellis Island. One of the inspectors or watchmen might do the job for me, if I offered to make it worth his while. Which was why I was standing on the dockside long before first light the next morning, waiting for the six o’clock government boat that would take the day shift over to the island and bring the night guards back. Several watchmen were standing together, impressive in their blue uniforms. I hesitated to approach a group such as this. The fewer people who knew of my plan, the better. Then I noticed a young inspector, dressed in a dark suit and stiff white collar, heading for the boat slip alone. I hurried to intercept him.
“If I might have a word with you, sir?”
He stopped and regarded me nervously. I could see him trying to decide if I was a criminal or a woman of the streets about to accost him. I gave him a big smile. “I’m Molly Murphy just come over from Ireland, and I’m trying to trace my cousin Katherine. I know you’re an inspector on the island and I wondered if you’d know how to look up the records and find out if Katherine ever got here.”
“You could write a letter to the governor, requesting such information,” he said stiffly. Wonderful—out of all the corrupt inspectors on the island, I had picked the only stiff shirt.
“I daresay I could, but it would take so long,” I said, “and I’m worried about my poor cousin Katherine, who may be living in a slum with no money when I could be helping her get a good start.” I gazed up at him appealingly. “If you’d be willing to put yourself out, I’d make it worth your while. I’m not rich, but I do have a little put by, and my cousin is very dear to me.”
I saw his Adam’s apple go up and down. “What exactly would you require me to do?”
“Nothing illegal. Just check the entries for the last few months to see if a Mr. and Mrs. Michael Kelly from Wexford arrived in New York. She ran off with this Mr. Kelly, you see, and the relatives at home suspect that they headed for America.” I touched his arm lightly. “If you are prepared to do that for me, I’ve got five dollars saved up that I’m willing to pay you for your trouble.”
I saw him glance around. Other inspectors were now hurrying past us to the dock. I heard a boat give an impatient toot.
“I have to go,” he said. “How will I find you again?”
“I’ll meet you here, shall we say on Friday morning, to give you enough time. And I’ll have the money with me.”
He glanced at the men now boarding the government launch. “I don’t know . . .”
“Do your best anyway,” I said. “I’ll understand if you can’t go through with it, but I’ll be forever in your debt if I can find my dear cousin. Michael and Katherine Kelly. They would have sailed from Queenstown.”
He nodded and had to sprint to jump onto the boat as the gangplank was being pulled away.
On Friday morning I was up before dawn, and waited in swirling fog for the young inspector. I cursed myself that I hadn’t thought to find out his name. If he hadn’t managed to do what I asked, then I’d have to start all over again, or I’d have to write to the governor and wait for the wheels of bureaucracy to turn. Then at last I saw him, hurrying through the fog.
“Miss Murphy?” he said with a little bow. “This is for you.”
He handed me an envelope.
“Thank you kindly. And this is for you.” I, in my turn, handed him an envelope. Neither of us checked our envelopes as we went our separate ways. Once around the corner, however, I ripped it open.
Michael and Katherine Kelly. Sailed from Queenstown on the S.S.
Britannic. Admitted to the United States August 18, 1901.
A big smile spread across my face. I had bribed an official, passed money, and got information I wanted. I was turning into a real investigator!
Eight
That Sunday I took up residence in my own home across the street. Even though the houses looked the same from the outside, my new abode had not benefited from Sid and Gus’s loving and artistic care, or from any of their modernizations. There was no beautiful claw-footed bathtub and the W.C. was in a little room outside the back door. The old lady had lived there for thirty years without giving anything even a lick of paint—or a good spring cleaning. So Sunday was spent with sleeves rolled up, scrubbing linoleum so dirty that the roses on it only came to light after hours of elbow grease. Seamus and the children arrived early in the morning and tried to help with the cleaning, but to be honest I’d have done a better job on my own. Seamus was weak after pushing their belongings from the Lower East Side and the two little ones saw an opportunity to play with water.
After we’d moved my meager possessions across the street, we had an impromptu party. Sid and Gus brought over food and wine and we ate at the kitchen table by candlelight (the gas having been turned off when Mrs. Herman left).
“To Molly’s ventures, may they all flourish, and may she stay in one piece,” Sid said, raising her glass. I fervently seconded this. If my current ventures didn’t end in success, I’d not be able to make the rent.
Now that I had good reason to believe that Katherine and Michael Kelly might indeed be in New York City, I had no idea how to start looking for them. Talk about looking for needles in a haystack! How many Irish lived in the Lower East Side alone, not to mention over in Hell’s Kitchen or any of the other tenement districts? And how could I begin to hunt for them in the dark, at the end of my working day? I’d discovered already that being out alone after dark was not wise for a woman. For a lone woman who would be asking questions in run-down boarding houses and taverns in the worst slums of town, it would indeed be asking for trouble. I’ve attracted enough trouble in my life so far, but I’ve never actually asked for it!
Of course I could do nothing until I knew who I was looking for. I had to wait to receive full descriptions from Katherine’s father. In the meantime, I would just have to be patient and concentrate on the bird in the hand and Mostel’s spy.
That Tuesday was election day in New York. I made my way to work through a city draped with bunting and banners. Men I passed in the streets were wearing rosettes with the likeness of either Edward Shepherd or the Fusion party candidate, Seth Low. I knew little of what either of them stood for, and cared even less. If I didn’t get a say in choosing them, then what did it matter?
When I came out of the garment factory twelve hours later, I found the streets full of drunken men singing, laughing, and fighting. It seemed that both parties had lured voters to their side with the promise of drink, or even of a dollar, which had now been spent in the nearest saloon. I passed a polling booth, still in operation. It was decorated with American flags and it looked decorous enough, but the area outside was patrolled by the toughest-looking louts I had ever seen. They swaggered around, swinging blackjacks and pouncing on any unsuspecting man who came past them.
“Have youse done yer votin’ yet?” I heard one of them growl at a thin little fellow in a derby hat.
“Not speaking good English,” the fellow replied, spreading his hands imploringly.
“No matter. Youse go in there and put yer X n
ext to Shepherd, you hear? The one that starts with S—dat’s the one. And when you come out, there will be a whole dollar for ya. If you vote for the wrong one, I’ll break yer head. Understand?”
The little chap scuttled inside fast. I passed the polling booth without meriting a second glance. I was a woman and therefore no use to them. I did, however, have to fight off several amorous attempts as I made my way to the trolley.
The next morning the New York Times proclaimed that the Tammany candidate had lost, in spite of the bully boys’ intimidation and bribery tactics. The editorial hoped for a brighter future in a city free from corruption. Unless they’d elected St. Patrick himself, I doubted that would come to pass. The gutters were full of discarded rosettes and trampled bunting.
The world went back to normal and work went on at Mostel and Klein, one day blurring into the next. Each night I came home wondering how much longer I could keep going and why the heck I was putting myself through this torture. Then the next Monday’s post brought a second letter from Major Faversham (retired). It was a fat packet containing a photograph of a lovely girl in a ball gown. The photo had been tinted so that the gown was light blue and her hair was a soft light brown. The gown was low cut and she wore a locket on a velvet ribbon at her neck and carried a fan—every inch the daughter of privilege. Another photo fell out of the envelope, this time of Katherine in hunting attire, on horseback. The young man holding the bridle was looking up at her—a good-looking example of Black Irish, not unlike Daniel’s appearance. He was younger, taller, and skinnier than Daniel but with similar unruly dark hair and rugged chin. It didn’t take a genius to guess that I was looking at Michael Kelly.
I read the accompanying letter:
I have enclosed two good likenesses of my daughter. The groom is, of course, the scallywag Michael Kelly. He is the most reprehensible young man. When he was caught poaching on my estate I took pity on his youth and had him trained to work in the stables. He proved himself good with horses and could have made something of his life if he had learned to be content with his station. Instead he became a rabble-rouser, a so-called freedom fighter, and was arrested for attempting to blow up the statue of Queen Victoria in Dublin. Again I spoke for him, and hoped that my lecture would make him mend his ways. It did not. Again he was implicated in civil unrest and, not content to flee the country, persuaded my young, impressionable daughter to flee with him. Heaven knows if he plans to make a respectable woman of her or if she is ruined forever.
