Murphy’s Law

by Rhys Bowen

  The young policeman returned with our breakfast. Daniel took a swig of coffee and waited a moment before continuing.

  “And if he found out I was doing it?” He lowered his voice. “Don’t you realize this place is full of his spies? The police love him. He gets them their pay raises and gives them carte blanche to extort bribes and kickbacks from every shady operation in the city.” He paused. “Oh sorry, carte blanche means—”

  “I know what carte blanche means. Je parle Française très bien.”

  Again he looked at me with surprise. “You’re an interesting woman, Mrs. O’Connor. How did someone from a small village in the back of beyond get an education like yours? Most of the Irish who come here are lucky if they can write their own names.”

  “I was educated with the young ladies at the manor house,” I said. “Their mother thought me worth educating.”

  “And why was that?”

  “I—told her land agent what I thought of him when he tried to raise my parents’ rent. She found it amusing.”

  “How old were you?”

  “About ten.”

  “I see. Making trouble even then?”

  “From the moment I was born, according to my mother.”

  “No wonder your husband found you too hard to handle,” he chuckled, then checked himself. “I’m sorry, that was a tactless thing to say.”

  “It’s all right. I’m sure it’s true.”

  “Do you think you’ll go back to him?”

  I was so longing to tell him the truth. I’m free. I’m available. I’m yours for the asking. But he still had Michael Larkin locked in his jail. He was still the law.

  “I’m not sure what will happen next,” I said.

  “Does he want you back? Do you still—I’m sorry, I should shut up. I’ve no right to pry.”

  This was becoming awkward. “If you’d hurry up and get this case sorted out, I could think about getting on with my life,” I said. “It’s like walking on eggshells. But at least I get the feeling that I’m not a suspect anymore—” I broke off as I realized something—”and Michael can’t be your number one suspect, either. He was locked in your jail when poor Mr. Levy was killed last night. Won’t you let him go now?”

  “What is he to you?” Daniel asked. “He’s only a boy. Surely there’s nothing more than—”

  “Nothing more than concern for a friend, I assure you.”

  “I let him go, last night,” Daniel said. “I came to the same conclusion. It seems that you and Michael being on the same ship as O’Malley was just a horrible coincidence.”

  “Thank you.” A wave of relief swept over me, as if it were I who had been set free. In a way it was. “You don’t happen to know where he is now?”

  Daniel shrugged. “No idea. I’d imagine he spent the night in the police shelter. We have a place for indigents to sleep, next to the Tombs.”

  “Oh, really?” I pretended to be interested in finishing my roll. I wasn’t going to let him know I had also spent the night there. “I’ll try and track him down. And then I must find myself a job. Do you know how hard it is to get work in this city?”

  “With your education I should have thought you could find employment as a governess. Although you’d have to live in and they probably wouldn’t want a woman with children.”

  “But it’s a thought,” I said. “Better than the only things I’ve been offered so far.” I refrained from mentioning that they were fish gutting and prostitution.

  Daniel drained his coffee cup. “For my part I’d be very happy if you got yourself settled, preferably as far away as possible.”

  “Oh.” It felt like a slap in the face. He wanted me out of his hair. I was a nuisance to him.

  “You’re still in danger, you know. Unless I make an official statement that I’m dropping the case, due to lack of evidence. And if Alderman McCormack is involved, I might just have to do that.”

  “I hate to let anyone get away with murder,” I said. “I’d be prepared to take the chance for myself. You can’t just leave someone out on the streets free to kill more people. And it’s possible that he was the one who betrayed his friends in Ireland, too. Who let those boys all hang.”

  “Sometimes my job isn’t pleasant,” he said. “My hands are tied when I’d like to act. But I will send off to Ireland and get confirmation on the alderman’s background if that will keep you from doing any more stupid things.”

  “Don’t worry. Now Michael’s free, I’ve done my part. I’m off job hunting.” I stood up and brushed the crumbs from my shawl. “Wish me luck.”

  “I wish you all the luck in the world,” he said.

  I floated down the stairs.

  Now I had some objective. A governess sounded like a good idea for a start. At least it would mean a roof over my head, enough to eat, and a place well away from the Bowery, should Boyle, or whoever it was, want to follow me again. I went back to the hostel and asked the ladies how I should set about it. They were instantly helpful. A governess was the sort of profession of which they approved—suitably humble and austere.

  “There is a very trustworthy Christian agency on Park Avenue that specializes in placing domestic employees. Some of our more refined and educated girls have found an entrée into domestic service there. Put on a fresh white blouse before you go. They are very strict about appearance. And of course you’ll have your references from home with you.”

  Of course I would. I went back to the dormitory to change into the one white blouse I had luckily brought with me, to spruce myself up, also to write myself a couple of glowing references on notepaper I had stolen from the office downstairs. I decided that the occasion warranted that I didn’t arrive looking hot and disheveled, so I wasted five cents on the elevated railway up Third Avenue. What a wonderfully exciting view of the city it was, peering into all those windows as we went past. It was interesting to watch packed tenements give way to streets with trees in them, then to squares and parks and tall brownstones. I was truly going uptown! I was bubbling with energy. Soon I’d have a good job and I’d be able to start on the next stage of my life.

  I found the agency, among smart dress shops and professional offices just off Park Avenue. A middle-aged woman in a severe high-necked black dress, her graying hair scragged back into a high bun, was seated at the desk. She looked a little like Queen Victoria on the old pennies, and just as little likely to be amused.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” she asked in a clipped English accent that may or may not have been put on. She was eyeing me up and down as if I was something that the cat had brought in. I was conscious of my travel-stained skirt that needed a good washing and ironing, and my old woolen shawl which had certainly seen better days.

  “I’ve come about a position,” I began.

  “Oh yes?”

  “A governess position,” I said firmly.

  Now she looked surprised. “Governess? I hardly think—”

  “I have just arrived in this country,” I said. “I may not be looking at my best, but I can assure you I have a high quality of education, and I’m good with children. I was just hired to escort two young children across the Atlantic.” This was a flash of inspiration and I saw it register in her eyes. “I was educated with the daughters of gentlefolk,” I went on. “I know Latin and French and I’m very well read in the classics.”

  “I really don’t think—” she went on, but I didn’t give her time to say what she didn’t think. “And I have references,” I finished triumphantly. “From the best families—from titled families.”

  That clinched it. “Really? Well in that case we may be able to help you. Please take a seat, Miss? . . .”

  “Murphy. Molly Murphy.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Murphy. I am Miss Fortescue. May I see the references?”

  I handed them to her. She read them, then nodded approvingly. “Most satisfactory,” she said. Of course they were. I had a fine way with words when I chose. “I’m
sure we’ll be able to place you in a suitable position,” she said. “Just as soon as we’ve had a chance to check on those references.”

  “To check on them?” I blurted out. “But they’re all the way over in Ireland. It could take weeks before you get a reply. The viscount and viscountess travel a lot. They usually spend the winter in the south of France.”

  She gave me a patronizing smile. “This agency prides itself on the meticulous checking of references. We would never risk our reputation on sending out a girl before she was thoroughly vetted. I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient if you wish to work through us.”

  “But I can’t afford to wait for weeks before I’m hired.” I took the references back from her. “I have to pay for my room and board with no money coming in. I’m afraid I’ll have to look elsewhere for a job. Maybe I should try finding a position through the advertisements in the newspapers.”

  “As you wish,” she said, “although I assure you the best families will be as meticulous in their hiring procedures as we are. Of course, if you choose to leave New York and go out West, then you might find standards are considerably laxer. In California, or Colorado, so I understand, they will hire just anyone.”

  “Thank you, I may do that,” I said.

  I rose to my feet. So did she. “If you change your mind . . . ,” she began when another woman, slightly younger but no less severe looking, came scurrying out of a back room and beckoned fiercely to Miss Fortescue.

  “That was the alderman’s butler on the telephone,” I heard her mutter. “He said they are desperate. The alderman has a dinner party tonight—”

  “The alderman will just have to wait his turn like everyone else,” Miss Fortescue said. “Trained parlor maids do not grow on trees.”

  “So what should I tell him?”

  “That we will do our best to find him a speedy replacement. I have some more girls arriving from England at the end of the month.”

  “He won’t be happy.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s the best we can do.”

  The younger woman scurried into the back room again. Miss Fortescue looked around and saw me still standing there.

  “Thank you for stopping by, Miss—uh—. So sorry we couldn’t help you,” she said with a dismissive wave.

  “By any chance, would that be Alderman McCormack?” I asked.

  “We never discuss our clients,” she said in a horrified voice. “Good day to you.”

  I came out into the crisp cold air and stood on the sidewalk, trying to collect my thoughts. My heart was racing at the preposterous idea that was forming in my mind. If it was Alderman McCormack who was desperate for a new parlor maid, then maybe I had found him a suitable replacement.

  Twenty

  I couldn’t believe my luck. If only I could gain access to the alderman’s household, I might have a chance to find out the truth for myself. It shouldn’t be hard to discover whether the alderman came home on the night of the Ellis Island murder. It might not even be hard to find out about his background in Ireland. Even if it turned out that he wasn’t the alderman who needed a new parlor maid, I’d have an excuse to chat with his servants. I imagined the satisfaction I’d feel when I presented Daniel Sullivan with the truth. I was so impressed with my own cleverness that it never crossed my mind that I could be putting myself at considerable risk.

  It wasn’t hard to find out where Alderman McCormack lived. The first person I asked, a greengrocer delivering produce, pointed me up Park Avenue. “You can’t miss it—bloomin’ great castle it is, turrets and all.”

  As I walked up Park Avenue the houses grew ever grander until they were nothing short of mansions. On my left a glorious park opened up. It was still dotted, here and there, in patches of snow and made a most charming scene. Among the snowy lawns and snow-draped trees I saw prim English nannies in their starched bonnets wheeling their youngest charges, while the older children ran laughing ahead, dragging wooden wagons or pausing to throw snowballs when their nannies weren’t looking. Ladies in sweeping fur capes walked little dogs while a hurdy-gurdy man played a lively Italian tune. It might have been half a world away from the New York I had just left. This was finally life in the city as I had pictured it in my dreams. With a little bit of luck, I might be living here.

  Alderman McCormack’s house was the grandest mansion of them all. It was, indeed, a bloomin’ great castle with turrets rising at each corner. Luckily I knew from my training with the Hartley family that humble people like myself should never use the front entrance. I had only done that once before the Hartley’s butler put me firmly in my place. Now I behaved like a good parlor maid and followed the sign to the tradesman’s entrance around the side of the house.

  The door was opened by a young maid with a scrubbed, fresh face. I had tried to think out what I should say as I walked up Park Avenue. I couldn’t very well lie and say that the agency sent me, but I might be able to hint it and they might be desperate enough not to ask too many questions. And if it turned out that I’d come to the wrong house, then they might at least offer me a cup of tea and a chat before I went.

  “You’re needing a parlor maid, I understand.” I decided to tell no lies and state only facts, at least until I got my foot in the door.

  “Wait here. I’ll get Mr. Holmes,” she said, and shut the door in my face again.

  The next time it opened a tall and gaunt distinguished-looking man in a black frock coat was standing there. I took him for the master and wondered, for a moment, whether I’d come to the wrong house.

  “So the agency found someone for us, after all? Splendid. I knew they wouldn’t let the alderman down.” He had a very superior English accent, quite as aristocratic as the Hartleys’. Was the entire domestic service profession run by the English over here? “I am the alderman’s butler. You will call me Mr. Holmes. Well, don’t just stand there, there’s work to be done.”

  I was half dragged into a dingy back hallway and the door behind me closed with a bang. The sound of that door slamming brought me to my senses for the first time. The butler shot the bolt across the back door. “Follow me,” he said. “The sooner we get you out of those unsightly clothes and into a respectable uniform, the better.”

  “Just a moment,” I said. I could hear my voice rising. “My things are still down at the ladies’ hostel. Shouldn’t I go and fetch them first?”

  “They will be collected for you when the coachman has time. You will not be needing them in a hurry.” He walked down the hall ahead of me, not looking back. The uneasiness grew. I wasn’t going to be allowed to leave again. Don’t be stupid, I told myself. He couldn’t possibly know who I am. I was perfectly safe—at least for a couple of days. I knew the agency had no available girl to send. I’d stay for the weekend, glean all the information I could, then find an excuse to leave again. And even if I happened to pass the alderman in a hallway, nobody ever looks at servants. I’d be just another girl who worked in his house. I had nothing to worry about at all.

  I was taken into an enormous warm kitchen. Pots and pans hung over the largest kitchen range I had ever seen. The center of the room was filled with a scrubbed wooden table where a girl sat chopping onions, occasionally lifting her sleeve to wipe her eyes. A round woman dressed in black was talking with another woman who was stirring a pot on the stove.

  “Excuse me, cook. I’m sorry to interrupt. Mrs. Brennan? A word please?” the butler said and the woman in black turned around.

  “The agency has sent a replacement for Eileen.”

  She looked me up and down critically. “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Molly, ma’am.”

  “Molly, eh? Well, Molly, I am Mrs. Brennan, the housekeeper. You get your orders from me. I hope you’re used to hard work. The mistress expects the highest standards in this household. No cutting corners. No slacking off when nobody is watching.”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I’m used to hard work.”

  She nodded but her expression wa
s skeptical. “Very well then. We’ll see how you do. We’re at sixes and sevens today because the master is hosting a large dinner party tonight—he always does, the week before St. Patrick’s Day. And with a girl short, we’ve all been run ragged. I’ll find you a uniform and have Daisy show you your duties. Follow me.”

  She led me out of the kitchen, along a dark hallway, and into a small office. The shelves were lined with folded linens. She took a black dress from a closet, held it up, then nodded to herself. “That was Eileen’s dress, it will have to do, near enough for now. And here’s your apron and cap. Make sure you don’t spill anything on your apron. It won’t get laundered until next Friday.”

  Then she was off again, along the hall and up a flight of uncarpeted stairs. She pushed open a swing door and we were in a different world. It was an entrance hall with a marble floor, adorned with life-sized marble Greek statues and potted palms as big as trees. To our right a curved marble staircase swept up to the next floor and the chandelier over it was sparkling even though I could see no candles. It took me a second to realize that it was lit with carefully hidden electric lights. The housekeeper hurried me across the hall and opened a door on the far side. It was a dining room, far grander than anything in the Hartleys’ house. Two maids and a footman were standing at a table long enough to host the Last Supper, giving a final polish to candelabras before placing them on the center of a long white cloth.

  “Daisy?” Mrs. Brennan’s voice cut through the silence. “Leave that for a moment. This is the new girl, Eileen’s replacement. Take her up to your room, help her into her uniform, and then she can finish laying the table for you. Go on, girl, get a move on. There’s work to be done.”

  Daisy gave her a frightened look, scurried across the room, and out of the door. I followed. We ducked through the swing door again and she led me up a narrow wooden back staircase. Up and up. Those turrets that looked as if they reached into the sky? We were sleeping in one of them. My legs felt like jelly by the time she pushed open a door on the final landing. It was a narrow, cold room with just one bed in it.