The Family Way

by Rhys Bowen

  Jessie poked her head around the door. “Nobody by that name that I can see, Mrs. Hartmann.”

  “Thank you, Jessie,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan. We can’t help you.”

  “What about a Mrs. Mainwaring?” I asked. “Have you ever supplied her with servants?”

  “Does she live in New York? We don’t really handle clients outside of Manhattan.”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem,” I said. “Maureen wrote to her relatives that she’d found a good position with a Mrs. Mainwaring. And that was the last they heard from her.”

  “I’ve never dealt with a woman of that name,” she said. “But there must be twenty or more agencies like ours in this part of the city, not to mention the more exclusive ones further uptown.”

  “Would you be kind enough to give me the names of some of those agencies?” I asked.

  “I can have Jessie write out a list of those we know,” she said. “Was this Miss O’Byrne a relative of yours? You’re going to a lot of trouble for her.”

  “I like to help when I can,” I said. “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

  “Not at all. Always glad to help a potential future client.”

  I came down the stairs again with a list of similar agencies in my purse. Unfortunately they seemed to be in areas that Daniel wouldn’t want me to go. I suppose that made sense if they wanted to attract girls straight from the boats—but they were off limits to me. I fought back annoyance again until I told myself I was, as usual, being too impatient. I could easily write to the addresses I had been given. It would only be a question of waiting a few days, and her family had already waited months. A week or so longer wouldn’t make much difference.

  Thus appeased for now I came out to the street and stood staring across at the shop window where the kidnapping had taken place. Other women pushed baby carriages past the shop, some pausing to chat as they met a neighbor. The scene was peaceful and ordinary as if no tragedy had happened there. I wondered if the couple at the center of yesterday’s drama had received their ransom note yet and how they would possibly come up with the money. I wondered what would happen if they couldn’t come up with the money. Would the baby then wind up floating in the East River with a note tied to it to warn future victims to pay up? It made me feel sick to think about it.

  I was about to make my way home when I froze. Someone I recognized was hurrying straight toward me. He was absolutely the last person that I ever expected to see again—my brother Liam.

  Six

  It couldn’t be true. For a second I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the sunlight was falling directly onto that flame-red hair, making it glow brighter even than my own, and the way he swung his arms in that rolling, jaunty way when he walked was so familiar to me. The last time I had seen him was two years ago, when we’d had to flee together from Ireland after a failed prison break that had killed my other brother Joseph. I’d left Liam hiding out in France, wanted by the English. So what on earth was he doing walking down a busy street in New York in broad daylight?

  “Liam!” I exclaimed in delight and moved forward to throw my arms around him.

  Instead he took a backward step. He looked startled, afraid, and for a moment I thought he was going to bolt on me. But his eyes lit up and he managed the ghost of a smile. “Molly. It’s good to see you. How are you?”

  “Well, thank you.”

  His eyes traveled over my person and reacted when he noticed my belly. “It’s a little one you’re carrying, is it? Does that mean that—” He broke off, trying to phrase the question correctly. I could see he was trying to catch a glimpse of my left hand.

  I read his meaning and laughed. “Yes, in case you’re wondering, Liam, I’m rightly and properly married. To a captain in the police force no less. I’m Mrs. Daniel Sullivan.”

  I saw his glance become wary. “A captain of police. Well, well.”

  “I would have written to tell you the news, but I had no way to contact you.”

  He nodded. “It’s better that way.”

  He looked thinner than when I’d last seen him and he never had had more than an ounce of meat on those bones. And older too. A grown man and not a boy. A man who had seen too much suffering for his years.

  “Holy Mother of God, Liam,” I said. “It’s grand to see you. How long have you been in the city?”

  “A week or so.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know?”

  He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “It’s a big city, Molly. How would I have found you?”

  “I left my address with you, didn’t I?” I felt frustration rising inside me. This was my brother, whom I hadn’t seen for years, and he was treating me like a causal acquaintance, almost like a stranger.

  “You might have done so. But I destroyed all the papers I had; everything, just in case we got caught. No sense in involving other people in our struggles. That’s why I didn’t try to seek you out, Molly. It’s better if no one knows I’m here.”

  “What are you doing here, for God’s sake?” I demanded.

  He looked around warily, although nobody on the street seemed to be paying either of us any attention. “I can’t tell you that, Molly.”

  “Look, why don’t you come back to my place for a meal?” I said. “Then we can have a grand old chat.”

  Again that guarded look. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. Better for both of us that way.”

  I touched his arm lightly. “Liam, are you in trouble?”

  At this he laughed. “Trouble? Me? Oh, no, only a price on my head from the English and me in this country with false papers. Otherwise everything’s just grand.” He shifted uneasily again. “I shouldn’t be standing out here, for anyone to see.”

  “Then come and have a cup of tea. There are plenty of little cafés on the Bowery.”

  He shook his head again. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.” He must have seen my face fall. “Look, I don’t want to involve you in anything, Molly. Far better if you’ve not seen me and don’t know that I’m here.”

  “But I’d like to help if I can,” I said. “Is it on Brotherhood business that you’re here?”

  “Of course, but I can’t tell you about it so don’t ask me.” He glanced past me up the street. “I should be going. It was lovely to see you. I just wish I could stay and have a ‘grand old chat.’”

  “Liam, don’t go yet.” I grabbed his sleeve this time. “You’re the only family I’ve got, apart from young Malachy and I don’t even know where he is anymore.”

  “He’s doing just fine from what I hear,” Liam said. “He’s still being looked after by Mr. O’Brien of the Irish League up in the north. I get reports on him from time to time. He’s a big strapping lad now, they say, as tall as me. Maybe I’ll see him again if decides to come and fight for the cause.”

  “But surely you can never go back to Ireland, can you?” I asked. “You said yourself there was a price on your head.”

  “There’s a price on the heads of all those who fight for our freedom, Molly. But we’re not just going to sit by and do nothing. We’ve a right to govern ourselves and we have to do what it takes to claim back what’s rightfully ours.”

  My mind went back to the events in Dublin, the bomb and the chaos and the dead bodies at that jail and our other brother Joseph sprawled dead in the street. It all seemed as remote as something I’d read about in a book. And yet Liam was still living it, clearly still planning to go on fighting.

  “God be with you then, Liam,” I said. “I’m at ten Patchin Place if you need me. Can you remember that? It’s in Greenwich Village, just north of Washington Square.”

  He looked at me, long and hard, as if trying to memorize my face. “I’ll not be involving you in this, Molly. Better if you forget you’ve ever seen me, all right?” He patted my shoulder and attempted a jaunty smile. “Good luck to you, and to your captain and the little one. You can always name h
im Liam after me. Someone needs to carry on the name.”

  Then he pushed past me and crossed the street to the other side. I stood and watched him go until he turned the corner into Elizabeth Street.

  After he’d gone all I wanted was to retreat to the safety and security of my own little home. I hurried to the Broadway trolley and back to Patchin Place. The wind had really picked up now, buffeting me full in the face as I crossed the north side of Washington Square and sending scraps of paper twirling. And those white fluffy clouds were now heavier. It would rain before the day was out.

  As I entered my house I saw the curtains in the kitchen billowing out and realized that I’d left the windows open to cool down the place. I closed the windows then sat at the kitchen table, trying to catch my breath. I had walked far too fast for my current condition and I could feel my heart hammering in my chest. As if in response the child wriggled and squirmed. I put my hand on my belly to quiet it and felt the strong little kick against my fingers. He or she would be born in a few weeks and would probably never meet his Uncle Liam. I felt tears pricking at my eyes.

  My brothers and I had never been that close. I was the big sister, the one who cooked for them and mended their torn clothing and broke up their fights. Joseph had only been two years younger than I—a co-conspirator in my adventures—but Liam was five years younger—the little one who tagged along and who ratted on us to our mother if we did something wrong. I’d never really known him. For a few brief moments we had been together in Dublin, but only as fellow soldiers in a failed uprising. And yet he and Malachy were all the family I had in the world and he was clearly risking his life by being here. I wanted to help but he wouldn’t let me.

  “Oh, Liam,” I said out loud, overwhelmed with futility and grief. I sank my head into my arms on the table and stayed there, feeling the cool of the scrubbed wood against my cheek. I suppose my disturbed night’s sleep must have had something to do with what happened next, because I awoke to find someone shaking my shoulder.

  I sat up, heart thumping and with no idea where I was. Daniel’s concerned face came into focus above me.

  “Good God, Molly. What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look terrible.”

  I could feel my cheek smarting as it came back to life. “Nothing’s wrong. I must have nodded off, that’s all.”

  “Doing too much again, I’ll wager,” he said. “And too late to bed last night. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that you have to take it easy. Go and wash your face, there’s a good girl, and spruce yourself up. I’ve brought a guest home for lunch.”

  I was instantly galvanized into action. “A guest? Why didn’t you warn me? I could have made something special.”

  “It was rather spur of the moment. We had a meeting together and then he asked after my wife and said how much he’d like to meet you again. Since it was around lunchtime I suggested we come back here.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “You’ll see. I’ve put him in the front parlor and I’ll bring him a glass of whiskey to keep him happy until you have lunch ready.”

  I crept upstairs and started in horror when I saw my face in the bathroom mirror. Lying against the wood of the table had flattened one side of my cheek, giving it a strange, villainous expression. I splashed cold water and massaged my cheek to bring it back to life, then brushed my disheveled hair, all the while trying to think what on earth I could serve to Daniel and a nameless male visitor. Really men were hopeless, weren’t they—expecting their wives to produce a meal out of thin air, like a conjurer drawing a rabbit from a hat.

  By the time I had made myself look respectable I had decided that I had enough eggs in the larder to make an omelet with cheese and parsley. I had some salad greens from the day before that shouldn’t have wilted too much and I had those lovely peaches to serve for dessert. I could hear the sound of deep male voices in the front parlor as I came down the stairs, followed by hearty male laughter. Of course my curiosity got the better of me. I had to know for whom I’d be cooking lunch.

  They both looked up as I appeared in the doorway and got to their feet.

  “Ah, Molly, there you are,” Daniel said. “You remember Mr. Wilkie, don’t you?”

  Seven

  Mr. John Wilkie, head of the newly formed Secret Service, came toward me, his hand extended.

  “My dear, Mrs. Sullivan, how good to see you again. And looking so radiant too. Your husband informs me that congratulations are in order.”

  His hand gripped mine in a powerful grasp.

  “How good to see you again, Mr. Wilkie,” I said. “Although if Daniel had informed me in advance that he was bringing a guest to eat with us, I’d have been able to make you a better meal.”

  “I’m sure whatever you prepare will be just fine,” Mr. Wilkie said. “And I assure you that my desire in coming here was to see you again, not to sample your cooking skills.”

  “I hope an omelet will do,” I said.

  “It will fit the bill perfectly.” He gave me a beaming smile. From his jocular manner it was hard to believe that this was a man who was responsible for the security of the nation and who dealt with spies and anarchists.

  As I excused myself to go through to the kitchen I heard him say to Daniel, “It’s too bad you’ve chained her down with a family, Sullivan. I could have used her to work for me. She’s one gutsy little woman. And sharp too.”

  “Too sharp for her own good, sometimes,” Daniel retorted. “I’m glad she’ll soon have a baby to occupy her and keep her out of mischief.”

  I set to work beating the eggs, wondering all the while why Mr. Wilkie had insisted on coming to meet me again. Perhaps he wanted me to do something for him. He had hinted at my wedding that he’d like to use me again sometime. Of course Daniel would flat out refuse. Once more it passed through my mind that Daniel didn’t have to know. If I worked for Wilkie I’d be some kind of spy, wouldn’t I, and spies weren’t supposed to confide in their spouses.

  Then I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of this thought. A fine spy I’d make with my bulging belly and then with a baby on my hip, demanding loudly to be fed while I tried to tail dangerous, international criminals. I managed a presentable omelet and salad, then peaches and cheese for dessert. The conversation was limited to harmless and general subjects—the recent hot weather, the political situation in Washington, possible names we might choose for our child. I remained the gracious hostess until I couldn’t stand it a moment longer.

  “Mr. Wilkie, you clearly didn’t come to New York to discuss the weather with the Sullivans,” I said. “Are you needing Daniel’s help with a new case?”

  “Molly!” Daniel gave me a warning glare.

  John Wilkie laughed. “I told you your wife was sharp as a tack, didn’t I, Sullivan. Of course I didn’t come to New York in midsummer for the sake of my health. And your husband’s knowledge of the city should prove invaluable. Actually we’re keeping tabs on a new group of anarchists.”

  “Is Emma Goldman still at their center?” I asked.

  He laughed again. “Now, how did you know about Emma Goldman?”

  “I was involved in the assassination of President McKinley,” I said, then corrected myself. “What I meant to say was that I was investigating a murder that brought me into contact with Mrs. Goldman, so I know a lot about her.”

  “My, but you would be useful to me,” Wilkie said.

  “The answer is no, Wilkie,” Daniel said. “Rope me in to help with your cases as much as you like, but my wife is no longer available for your little schemes.”

  Wilkie was still smiling. “In answer to your previous question, Mrs. Sullivan, from what we can gather this is a new and completely separate group of anarchists with no ties to previous cells. They seem to be popping up like mushrooms all over the globe at the moment, I’m afraid, and with very different goals. Some of them idealistic about creating a new order in countries like Russia, some of them seeking only destruction and collaps
e of regimes. And all of them quite ruthless, which is why we have to nip in the bud any threat against our government.” He pushed his plate away from him. “Fine lunch, Mrs. Sullivan, but we should be getting back to work. So good to see you again.”

  He held out his hand to me and shook mine warmly. I followed them out of the dining room.

  “I may be late again tonight, my dear,” Daniel said.

  “So now you’re working with Mr. Wilkie, does that mean that you’re no longer supervising the kidnapping case?”

  “Kidnapping—what’s this?” Mr. Wilkie asked and I saw Daniel give me an annoyed look. “I’ve heard nothing about it. Don’t kidnappings fall under my jurisdiction?”

  “Not these particular incidents,” Daniel said. “They all involve poor families in the Lower East Side, with ransoms of less than a hundred dollars. We suspect the work of a small gang, who have stumbled upon an easy way to make money.”

  “Have the children been returned safely?”

  “So far,” Daniel said. “At least in the cases we know about. I presume some parents never go to the police out of fear.”

  Wilkie nodded. “If it’s a small gang, then you shouldn’t have too much trouble. They’ll become too bold. That sort always do.”

  “You’re right, sir,” Daniel said. “We should be on our way, then. Good-bye, Molly.” He gave me a peck on the cheek. “And no more roaming around, remember. Take a rest this afternoon.”

  “Yes, Daniel,” I replied, giving my best imitation of a good wife, making both of the men smile.

  After they had gone I cleared away the remains of the meal, then wandered around the house, wondering what to do next. My nap at the kitchen table had taken away my need for an afternoon siesta, but the weather now looked as if it might rain any moment. I considered going uptown to Gramercy Park and visiting old Miss Van Woekem, who knew everybody worth knowing in New York, but I had no desire to get soaked to the skin. Besides, when it rained the trolley cars and Els became packed with people.