by Rhys Bowen
“So let me get this straight,” Sid said. “You admitted yourself to that convent, knowing that at least one girl had already been killed? Are you out of your mind, woman? What in heaven’s name possessed you?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t think I’d be in any danger. I thought I could snoop around and then say that I’d changed my mind and wanted to leave again. What I didn’t count on was that Sister Jerome had had a particular request for a red-haired baby. There was no way she was going to let me leave.”
“At least she wouldn’t have killed you, then,” Gus said.
I was about to answer when that whole scene on the chapel steps replayed itself in my head. In all the excitement that had followed I had struck that memory from my mind. Now it came back to me with full force and I realized: I had literally been one inch away from falling to my death. I kept silent.
“So how did you manage to escape?” Gus went on.
“The truth came out. We found Maureen’s body.”
“So you solved the whole thing by yourself?”
“I suppose so,” I agreed.
“Molly being brilliant as usual,” Gus said proudly. “And what happened to your evil nun? Has she been dragged away in chains?”
“She had an accident. When I left she was dying,” I said.
Sid was looking at me critically. “I can see there is more to this than Molly is willing to tell,” she said. “But the only thing I can say to you, Molly Murphy Sullivan, is this: don’t you ever do something as stupid as this again, do you hear me? Because if you try then Gus and I will personally lock you up in our attic until you see sense.”
I started to laugh. She laughed too and gave me a big bear-hug embrace.
“Here’s your handkerchief.” Bridie came in just as I was wiping away tears. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you sad?”
“Never happier,” I said. “I’m safely back among friends. What could be better.”
“And tomorrow we’re taking you back to your mother-in-law where nothing can happen to you other than a surfeit of jam making,” Gus said.
“Oh, no.” I shook my head firmly. “I have to get back to the city and tell Daniel…”
“You’re going to confess all this nonsense to Daniel? Are you quite mad, woman?” Sid demanded.
“I’m not going to tell him the actual details, but I think I’ve found out something that will help him with his investigation. Before Sister Jerome died she said that she had been sending money to aid the Republican cause in Ireland. Now it seems to me that the only person with whom she would have contact outside the convent would be her sister, who is also a nun but works in the Lower East Side. In fact I think I passed her sister in a carriage on the road when I was staying with Mrs. Sullivan.”
“So you think her sister would be handing the money to the Republican Brotherhood?”
“That’s what I wondered. At least she’d be a middleman along the chain and through her we might be able to find out where they meet and what exactly they are planning.”
Sid looked at Gus and shook her head. “She never gives up, does she? Now you want to go from one dangerous situation to the next. What are we going to do with you?”
“Oh, I’m not intending to do this myself,” I said. “But as Sister Jerome lay dying she did ask that somebody send a message of her death to her sister. So I thought that I could legitimately do that, find out where her convent is, and then pass along the information to my husband. There is no harm in that, is there?”
“With you there is always the potential for harm,” Sid said. “But to be on the safe side we’re coming with you. From now on we’re not letting you loose in the Lower East Side alone.”
“We are not letting her go anywhere alone,” Gus added firmly.
Thirty-one
We spent the rest of the afternoon beside the river, sitting in the shade, watching Bridie splash about at the edge of the water—in short exactly what I should have been doing all the time I was here. I couldn’t help thinking how pleasant it was and wondering why I felt so driven to put myself in difficult situations and get involved in other peoples’ problems. And for what? I asked myself. What exactly had I achieved? I had found out what happened to Maureen O’Byrne and I could now write to her family, but I would be bringing them only heartache. I had stopped Sister Jerome’s money-making scheme, but I would now be depriving the Republican Brotherhood of funds when I was really all for their cause. At least I had stopped girls who came to the convent in the future from being abused by Sister. I hoped I had prevented any future tragedies like Blanche’s suicide. So a little good was done then. Something achieved.
I turned my attention back to Bridie who was now standing on a rock, waving her arms. “Look at me, Molly,” she called.
“Mrs. Sullivan would have a fit if she saw you showing your arms and legs like that,” I called back. “And getting freckles to boot.”
“Then we won’t tell her, will we?” Bridie said with a cheeky smile on her face, and I read into her expression that she was hinting, “I won’t tell about you if you don’t tell about me.” The child was growing up fast!
We had a lovely dinner of locally caught fish out on the porch, under the stars and stayed up late watching lights dance on the water as a pleasure craft made its way upriver. Then the next morning Sid and Gus came with me to take Bridie back to my mother-in-law and pick up the rest of my things. Bridie was bursting with enthusiasm and couldn’t stop talking about the splendid time she had had with the ladies. I noticed she carefully avoided mentioning those things that might have distressed my mother-in-law.
“My goodness, child, you’re going off like a steam train.” Mrs. Sullivan put a hand on Bridie’s shoulder. “It’s not polite to hog the conversation when there are adults present. I think we need to get you back to some good honest hard work as soon as possible. I’ve the silver waiting to be polished in the dining room. On with your pinny and get to it.”
“Yes, Mrs. Sullivan,” Bridie said meekly and went off.
My mother-in-law turned back to us. “I can’t let her get too uppity, can I?” she said. “But I’m so glad she was able to let her hair down and be a child for a while. She’s been worrying so much about her father and brother.” She moved closer. “And between you and me, I’ve just heard a report from Panama that the conditions on that canal they are building are deplorable. Men are dropping like flies.”
“Let’s pray for the best, shall we,” I said.
She looked at me critically. “I can’t say the stay by the river has done you good, my dear. You look positively tired and pale. Never mind, a few days of rest and feeding you up will do the trick, I daresay.”
I couldn’t look her in the eye. “Actually I’m going straight back to New York with Miss Walcott and Miss Goldfarb,” I said. “I’m feeling guilty about leaving Daniel alone when he’s been working so hard. A man should have a good meal waiting for him when he comes home from work, don’t you think?”
She had to agree to that one. “I always made sure there was a meal in the oven waiting for my man,” she agreed. “But don’t you think he’d rather that you stayed up here and I took care of you?”
“I’m not an invalid, Mother Sullivan,” I said. “He worried about me in the heat wave but it’s cooled down remarkably, wouldn’t you say? Besides,” I added before she could answer, “I’ll maybe only stay down there for a few days, make sure he’s well-stocked up with food and come back here again—if you’ll still put up with me, that is.”
She looked flattered, as I hoped she would. “You know you’re always welcome here, my dear.” She patted my hand. “And I find it heartwarming that you’re so concerned about dear Daniel. He’s married a good woman, that’s for sure.”
Of course I felt guilty after that, because Daniel wasn’t my prime reason for wanting to return to New York. But at least I had managed to escape without any hurt feelings, and that was the main thing, wasn’t it? Bridie helped me pack m
y bags, no longer bright and chatty but silent and morose.
“Why do you have to go?” she asked at last. “Why can’t I come with you?”
I stroked her hair. “I’ll be back soon, I promise and it’s better for you to be out of the city in the good fresh air.” She shrugged. “And Mrs. Sullivan is very kind to you. If you mind her well, you’ll grow up to be a fine young lady.”
A tear trickled down her cheek. “I don’t want to grow up to be a young lady,” she said, wiping it away with the back of her hand. “Then my da and my brother won’t know me when they come back.”
I wrapped her in my arms. “Oh, sweetheart, they’ll be proud to know you. They just want what is best for you.” (This wasn’t exactly true, as her father had asked me to find her a servant’s position at the age of ten, but it was good that she thought it true.)
“I wish I were your daughter,” she said, her voice barely bigger than a whisper. There—she had voiced the thought that had gone through my own mind more than once.
“I love you like a daughter,” I said, “but I have a new husband and soon I’ll have a new baby of my own. Maybe when the baby comes and things are more settled then you might be able to come and live with us for a while, but for now you really are better off with Mrs. Sullivan. Remember how hot and crowded it is in the city?”
Bridie didn’t say another word, but insisted on carrying down my bag for me and giving it to Jonah to load into the trap. Then she stood solemnly waving as we set off for the station.
* * *
New York felt hot, sticky, and smelly after the country idyll and I almost regretted my decision to return home. However when I turned the key in my front door and entered my little house I changed my mind. The house had an unused feel to it and smelled of decaying fruit and stale coffee. So then I felt sorry that Daniel had had to fend for himself and looked forward to surprising him with a good meal. But first I had a task to perform. Sid and Gus insisted on accompanying me and even insisted on taking a hansom cab to the Lower East Side.
“At least it shouldn’t be too hard to track down a nun in this part of the city,” I said to them as we climbed down from the cab on the corner of Broome and Elizabeth Streets. “Last time I was here the place was crawling with nuns and priests.”
“You’ll probably find it some kind of feast day and they are all on their knees in their convents,” Sid said dryly as she scanned a street remarkably devoid of nuns. I looked around and my gaze fastened on the butcher shop on Elizabeth where I had come down the stairs just too late to witness a kidnapping.
“I wonder if that woman ever had the right baby returned to her?” I said.
Gus shook her head. “If she did, there has been nothing about it in the Times.”
“How terrible for her.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the door of that butcher’s shop. “I wonder what she’ll do? Would she keep a baby that she knows isn’t hers and spend her life wondering who is raising her baby?”
“It may not be as nice as that, Molly,” Gus said quietly. “Did it not occur to you that perhaps they killed her child by mistake and found a baby to take its place?”
“Yes, Daniel suggested that might have happened.” I turned away. “It just doesn’t bear thinking about it, does it? I don’t know what I’d do if…”
“Then don’t think about it,” Sid said firmly. “Frankly I don’t know that it was a good idea letting you come to this part of the city, even if it is just to deliver a message. It’s too distressing for you. Maybe we should take you straight home.”
“No. I have to do this.” I shook my head firmly. “There may be a lot at stake here. Let’s find the convent and get it over with. I’m sure almost any of the women around here can tell us where the Foundling Hospital is located.”
We stopped several women as they did their shopping. We asked in several stores. Yes, they knew there were nuns in the neighborhood. There was a convent attached to the church on Prince Street—the convent of the Immaculate Conception, but those nuns ran a school, not an orphanage. Their own daughters attended. You couldn’t miss it—big, imposing brick building. We thanked them and made our way there, sure that one set of nuns would know about others. These turned out to be the nuns with the big white coifs we had seen on the street and we encountered a pair of them coming out of the school yard just as we approached.
“Why is it nuns are always in pairs?” Sid muttered. “Are they only allowed out in twos, in case they get up to sinful behavior alone?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered back, “but it’s true. You do usually see them in twos.”
We stopped them and asked about the Foundling Hospital.
They smiled with sweet unlined faces. “It’s up in the East Sixties, my dear.”
I stared at them, confused. “The East Sixties? Not around here at all then?”
“That’s right. Sixty-eighth and Lexington, I believe. And a fine job those sisters do too, taking in poor abandoned babes and even finding good homes for some of them.”
“Then I must have misunderstood,” I said. “I thought there was an order of sisters living in this part of the city who took in abandoned babies.”
One nun looked at the other, turning the coifs carefully so that they didn’t bump into each other. “She must be thinking of that little convent on Broome Street. Aren’t they the same order as the Foundling Hospital? They probably do find babies left on their doorstep, in this part of the city.” I could tell she was examining us—my friends in their bohemian garb and me in my present condition, and trying to work out why we’d be looking for the Foundling Hospital. But she was too polite to ask.
“Thank you,” I said. “I have been asked to deliver a message to a particular sister. I was told she works in this area and I somehow associated her with foundlings. Do these nuns on Broome Street wear a habit with a black bonnet?”
“I believe they do,” one said. “Aren’t they Sisters of Charity? Yes, I’m sure they are. Mother Seton’s girls.”
“And where on Broome Street is their convent?” I asked.
Again they turned to each other in a cautious, stately fashion. “Close to Chrystie Street, do you think Sister?”
“I believe you’re right, Sister.”
“Thank you again,” I said. “We just came from Broome Street. We’d better go back and see if it’s the right place.”
“God bless you, my dear. And the little one you’re carrying,” she said and they resumed their walk, hands tucked in their habits and heads down. We made our way back to Broome Street. At first glance it wasn’t obvious which building was a convent. It was a street of a mixture of old brownstones and ugly new brick tenements. Laundry was draped out of upstair windows. At street level there was the usual mixture of shops, all doing a lively afternoon trade. There was no church to which a convent would be attached. No clear display of a cross or religious statue. But then I noticed a door at the top of a flight of steps with a cross on it and beside the door was a plaque that read: SISTERS OF CHARITY. VINCENT HOUSE.
I turned to my friends. “Look, I appreciate the way you are keeping an eye on me, but I don’t think you should come in with me. I want to find out if this nun has connections to the Irish Republican Brotherhood and she certainly wouldn’t tell me in front of you. Would you mind waiting for me somewhere nearby?”
“If you’re really sure…” Gus began.
“I’m sure I’ll be just fine,” I said. “It will only take a few minutes.”
“We’ll wait out here for you then,” Sid said. “On the other side of the street where we can keep an eye on the building. Just in case we’re needed to rush in and rescue you.”
Gus laughed. “It’s a convent, Sid. She’s not going into Eastman’s den.”
I pretended to laugh too, but I hadn’t told them about a nun who had tried to kill me and successfully killed two other young women. Convents were not always safe places. But this nun would not see me as a threat. I’d be the bringer of bad n
ews to her of course, but I’d be seen as a fellow champion of the Irish cause—an ally, not an adversary.
“I don’t think I should be more than a few minutes,” I said, “but I don’t like you having to stand on the busy sidewalk in the heat. Why don’t you wait for me at one of the cafés on the Bowery?”
“We’ll wait here,” Sid said. “We are not delicate violets who will faint in the heat. We can stand under the awning of that tailor’s shop. I’m sure the tailor won’t mind.”
“If you’re sure…” I repeated.
“Oh, go on with you. Get it over with and we can all go for a nice, cool drink,” Sid said.
I nodded, then went up the steps, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a fresh-faced young nun in the severe black habit I had remembered. I told her I was looking for a nun who had a sister in a convent in Tarrytown and her face broke into a smile immediately. “That would be Sister Mary Vincent,” she said. “Very fond of her sister she is too. She’ll be happy to receive a message from her. Won’t you come in?”
I stepped in a dark, narrow hallway and she closed the door behind me. Inside it was so cool it was almost cold. “I believe Sister is still in her office upstairs. If you’d like to go up, it’s the door on the right at the end of the hall.”
I made my way gingerly up an extremely narrow flight of stairs. The irreverent thought crossed my mind that it was a good thing these sisters didn’t wear coifs or they’d get stuck in the stairwells. At the top of the stairs a hallway disappeared into darkness in both directions. I peered around the corner cautiously and started as I saw a figure coming toward me, only a few feet away. The nun’s black habit melted into the darkness of the narrow corridor so that it looked as if a disembodied face was coming toward me. After my initial shock I recognized her. It was Sister Mary Vincent. There was a distinct resemblance to Sister Jerome, but this face was softer and kinder. She started too at the sight of my face appearing around the corner in front of her. And she shot me a look of horror and surprise.
