Death of Riley

by Rhys Bowen

  I thought of looking for another photographer, but came away resigned to patience. A week, after all, was not the end of the world, was it?

  Meanwhile I had other things to keep me busy. My conscience had been bothering me about my desertion of Seamus and the children, considering my current good fortune. However much I reasoned with myself that they were not my responsibility, Bridie's little elfin face kept appearing before my eyes. And I had not even given a thought to how Seamus was faring either. If he didn't make a full recovery, there would be no job for him. So I bought a basket of good, nourishing food, then added a wooden top and a hair ribbon as extras and set off for my old abode.

  Nuala was sitting on the stoop, fanning her vast body.

  “So yer fancy man has thrown you out then, has he?” she asked triumphantly.

  “I just stopped by to see if your cooking had managed to poison the children yet,” I said, brushing past her. “And to pay my respects to Seamus. I hope he's still making a good recovery.”

  “As good as can be expected,” she said cautiously. “Seeing as how there is precious little money to buy him the good food he needs to build up his strength.”

  “I've brought a chicken and some grapes,” I said. “That should help.”

  “Well, that's might decent of you, I have to say,” she said, following me into the house. It was the first word of praise for me that had ever passed her lips. Seamus was sitting up by the window, but still looked the shadow of his former self. I put the chicken on to boil so that he could have broth as well as meat and handed him the grapes. He was pathetically grateful.

  “So good of you, Molly,” he said. “The doctor says I'll be able to go back to work, but I seem to be weaker than a kitten.”

  “You need fresh air and exercise,” I said.

  “Not with weather like this. It's all I can do to drag myself across the room. It feels like the whole world is melting,” he said.

  “You're right aboutthat, but it's September tomorrow. This kind of weather can't last forever, can it?” I looked around. The place was awfully quiet. “Where are the children?”

  “Out with my boys, swimming in the East River, I expect,” Nuala said, standing, hands on her hips, in the doorway behind him. “That's what they do when it's too hot to stay indoors.”

  “I hope Bridie's not thinking of swimming in that filthy river,” I said. “You should forbid her, Seamus.”

  “Oh let the little body have her fun,” Nuala said. “All the children do it.”

  Seamus half nodded agreement, so there was nothing for me to say. I left them, tempted to go and check on Bridie myself, but returned to Patchin Place feeling strangely discontented. I had been glad to hand over my responsibility for the children, but now I was finding that it wasn't easy to let them go.

  Then that night, all worries about Seamus's little family were put from my mind. I had delivered Ryan's summons to witness his triumphal return to society at O'Connor's saloon. By eight o'clock all his friends were dutifully assembled when the door of the tavern was flung open. Ryan's style of dress was always more flamboyant than was usually seen on the streets of New York, but tonight he had surpassed himself. He wore a black opera cape lined with scarlet satin, top hat, purple silk cravat at his neck with a large diamond in a stick pin, and he carried a silver-tipped cane. He stood in the doorway waiting for the full effect to be realized upon his admirers.

  “My children, I have arisen,” he said, holding out his arms. “I am here to report a great victory. The task is ended. The play is finished. The battle is won. Ryan O'Hare has triumphed.”

  He beamed at the expected applause.

  “And now, George, my good man, a bottle or two of your best French champagne, if you please. I wish to celebrate with my friends.”

  “Not wishing to be rude, Mr. O'Hare,” George said, “but you will be paying cash for this tonight, won't you? Champagne's an awful big item to add to your bar tab.”

  “My dear, sweet George.” Ryan went over and put an arm around the bartender's shoulders. “How long have I been coming here? And have I ever failed to make good on my debts?”

  “Well, I suppose, in the end, after a few proddings …” George had to admit.

  “Then trust me, my dear man. Next week I take the new play out of town for some preview performances before it returns in triumph to open in New York. It is, without doubt, the most brilliant tiding I have ever written. So in a few weeks I shall be able to buy not only French champagne, but a large ocean liner equipped to go over to France to replenish supplies.”

  George laughed uneasily, but went to the cellar to produce the champagne. Ryan came to sit at our table.

  “Ah, the divine Molly.” He took my hand and brought it to his lips. “You may be the first to give me the congratulatory kiss.”

  “I haven't seen the play yet,” I replied, “so how am I to know what it's worth?”

  That produced chuckles and comments.

  Ryan put his hand to his breast. “My dear Molly, I am mortally wounded. You mean to say you believe me capable of writing anything other than sheer brilliance?”

  I didn't want to admit that I hadn't seen any of his plays. “Of course not,” I said, and kissed his cheek. “And I congratulate you on your fortitude at working so hard to finish it.”

  “If you need convincing,” he said, “then come to a rehearsal tomorrow. Daley Theater—my grandfather's name. I hope that's not a bad omen. I couldn't stand my grandfather—we'll be rehearsing all afternoon and evening. My long-suffering cast has been furnished with the pages of the last act as I wrote them and they have had to wait with bated breath to see if Cameron goes to jail or Fifi dies.”

  The champagne arrived. George opened the first bottle with a satisfying pop and started pouring the bubbly liquid into tall, thin glasses. I had never tasted champagne before, although I'd read about it enough. It was as good as I'd imagined it would be. The bubbles tingled and went up my nose, but the wine slipped down easily enough. After my second glass I was feeling relaxed and pleased with myself. Ryan was still sitting beside me. I was at the center of the bright, witty group. This is how I had always pictured life should be.

  More people arrived. The party became noisier as more champagne was ordered and produced. Then the solemn Russian, Vlad, came to stand behind us.

  “By the way, Ryan, Emma has been asking after you,” he said.

  Ryan spun around. “Emma? She's in town? Why didn't somebody tell me?”

  “You had locked yourself away in your room with strict instructions not to be disturbed, remember?” Lennie said.

  “Yes, but Emma—that's different. You know I'd even forgo finishing my play to see her.”

  I had no idea who Emma was, but already I was feeling jealous. Supposedly Ryan wasn't interested in women, so I'd given up all hopes of falling in love with him. But this one woman's name had such a powerful effect on him that I saw her instantly as a rival.

  “So where is she? How long will she be here?” Ryan had put down his glass and was perched at the edge of his seat.

  “She's only passing through on her way back from Europe,” Vlad said. “She said she'll be at Schwab's tonight, if any of her friends want to find her.”

  “Then I must go to Schwab's this instant,” Ryan said. “I can't let her go without seeing her again. How did she look, Vlad? Is she well?”

  “She looked fine, Ryan. In the best of health.”

  Ryan had risen to his feet. “I am sorry to desert the party, but I must answer to a higher call.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “I fear I must leave you, dearest Molly.”

  The champagne had made me bold. “Who's Emma?” I asked.

  “Only the most fascinating woman in the world,” he said. “There's no one like her.” Without warning, he grabbed my hand. “Come with me. You have to meet Emma. She loves the Irish.”

  Before I could think rationally, he had whisked me out of the saloon and into the crisp
night air.

  Twenty– one

  It felt like September. The night air had a chill to it, which made walking delightful. I was still bubbling with the champagne, and floated along easily, tethered to earth by Ryan's hand. We flew across Washington Square, with the marble arch looming ghostly in the lamplight to one side of us. Late-night student revelers came out of cafes and taverns, laughing and singing. Couples drifted like spirits along leafy paths, pausing to kiss in the shadows. Sharp painful memories stabbed at me, dragging me down to reality for a moment.

  Then we passed on into quiet backstreets where we only encountered a policeman on his beat. How far were we going? The wine had dulled my brain, but not enough to stop me from wondering what the fascinating Emma would think about Ryan's bringing another woman to meet her.

  At first glance, Schwab's Tavern, tucked away in the more seedy section of the Village, was not particularly inviting—a drab sort of place and lacking the noisy gaiety of O'Connor's. It was dimly lit and full of smoke. The front tables were empty but there was a large group clustered around a table in a far back corner. They huddled like black shadows around a single candle on the table. The barman gave Ryan and me a curious look, but Ryan released my hand and rushed to the back table. “Emma, darling, you have returned to me,” he announced with great drama.

  A figure rose from among those at the back table. She turned, saw Ryan, then let out a little gasp of delight as she held out her arms in an embrace. “Ryan—my dear boy. It's been too long. I'm so glad they found you and passed along my message. How could I possibly visit New York without seeing you? I would have been devastated.” Their arms came around each other and they stood there, embracing.

  I was completely dumbfounded. I had expected a gorgeous young creature, exotic enough to sweep even Ryan off his feet. Instead Emma was a dowdy, almost middleaged lady. She had a severe round face, unadorned with any powder or rouge, and her dark hair escaped in untidy wisps from her bun. Her dress was black, high-necked and unadorned. In fact, she resembled a governess I had once known.

  As they embraced, her eye fell upon me. “And who is this, Ryan?” she asked, breaking away from him.

  Ryan took me by the hand again and led me to her. “This is Molly. You'll like her. She's Irish and opinionated.”

  “Excellent,” Emma said. “We're always glad to meet new recruits, aren't we, Sasha?” She turned to the man beside her. In the light of the candle flame he looked gaunt but rather good-looking in a poetic sort of way. He was dressed in worker's garb with a black cap on his head. “Sit down. Sit down,” She clapped her hands. “Come, make room for them.” I noticed there was some kind of foreign accent to her speech. “We're drinking tea, but I expect they can find you something stronger.”

  “We're already floating on champagne, Emma dearest. In celebration of my new play, you know.”

  “You have a new play coming out?”

  “Opening shortly in New York, after we've taken it on the road to iron out the creases. You'll love it, Emma. It may seem funny on the surface, but it's very deep. It deals with the whole question of nationality and loyalty—do I owe loyalty to a country, a clan, a family, just because I was born into it?”

  “Interesting,” Emma said. “And do you?”

  Chairs were produced for us. A few inches of space was made at the table for Ryan to sit beside Emma. I was squished in between two young men in black, both of whom smelled unwashed. Now I had a chance to look around the table, I noticed that the company was composed entirely of young, earnest-faced men in black, with the exception of Emma and one equally dark and severelooking young woman. This latter was staring at me now, so intensely that I felt uncomfortable.

  “Who are these people?” I heard her ask the man beside her. “Look at them. They're not one of us. What are they doing here?”

  “Ryan's a friend of Emma's. He used to come to meetings,” I heard the man reply in a low voice, also glancing my way. “I don't know who she is.”

  “So I hear you've just come from Europe, Emma darling,” Ryan said. “What news?”

  “A very successful year, so I'm told,” Emma said. “Our Italian and Baltic comrades have been very busy.”

  “They have dealt more stunning blows for democracy over there following last year's successful coup,” the rather good-looking man beside her added.

  “Death to all tyrants,” one of the unwashed young men beside me muttered.

  “So what have these blows for democracy achieved, do you think?” Ryan asked. “Are the Italian peasants now living like Medicis?” He reached across, grabbed himself a tall glass mug in a raffia case and poured himself tea from a curiously shaped teapot in the middle of the table. I was still doing splendidly on the effects of champagne and had no wish to follow suit.

  Emma didn't even smile at the quip. In fact, none of these people looked as if they smiled at all. “To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what we've achieved,” Emma said. “Frankly, I question whether the masses are ready to take control in many of these countries. As long as they go on breeding like rabbits, I don't see much hope.” She paused to sip tea. “I met one young woman who had just had her tenth child, and she was younger than me. When I questioned her about it, she said it was God's will.‘Rubbish,’ I replied,‘it was the will of some man who can't keep his pants buttoned up.’” She looked around at us with intensity in those dark eyes. “This is our next big crusade, comrades. How do we make people take control over their own bodies? How can women ever achieve equality if they can't stop having children all the time?”

  “Is that what you think we should be doing over here?” the young woman asked. “Not try to bring down the rich until the poor can stop having children? I fear we have a long task ahead of us. I know. I come from an Italian family. Tell the Italians not to have bambinos and they'd rather die.”

  “She's right, Emma,” one of the unwashed males chimed in. “The average laborer doesn't see children as a liability, but an asset—making sure someone is there to take care of them in their old age.”

  “I didn't say no children at all,” Emma replied. “Of course there must be children if the human race is to continue. My point is that there do not have to be ten or twelve children anymore. As medicine advances, more children will live to grow up. If a woman has three or four children in her life, and those by choice, when she wants them, think how productive she could be to the cause. She could be a full member of society, protesting, voting, making sure laws are carried out fairly. That is my aim.”

  “And wonderful it is too, Emma,” Ryan said, taking her hand and kissing it.

  “But what of the cause?” the young woman demanded. “You're not going to abandon the cause, are you?”

  “I'm not abandoning any causes,” Emma replied sharply. “In fact I aim to stir up as much trouble as possible for the rest of my life. It's just that I have started to question whether our aim should continue to be to bring down without the means to build up again. Trade unions, birth control, equal rights for women—those should be our aims here in America.”

  “And what about tyrants?” the girl asked. “Surely it is our sworn duty to bring equality to the people, and to make filthy millionaires pay for their greed.”

  “Ryan would be happy to join you in that cause, wouldn't you, Ryan?” The speaker was yet another haunted-looking young man in die darkness at the far end of the table. He was wearing the same uniform black worker's cap and a large black jumper, even though the heat in the saloon was uncomfortable.

  “Oh, Leon. I didn't notice you. What are you doing here?” Ryan asked.

  “Just passing through, like Emma,” Leon said. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

  “Nor I you. Exactly what cause should I be happy to join?”

  “Making millionaires pay for their sins—or at least a certain millionaire.”

  Ryan looked amused. “Why do you say that?”

  “One hears rumors, Ryan. I understand that he bolted.”
/>
  “I must correct you there, Leon dearest. If there was any bolting done, it was I who was bolter and Angus was boltee. In either case, it is over, done, finito, schluss.”

  “So you've moved on to a new lover?” I was looking straight in front of me, but I got the feeling that I was being scrutinized.

  “My new lover has to be the theater at the moment. I have no time for outside dalliances until my play opens.”

  “Tell me more about this play, Ryan.” Emma leaned forward between the two men and latched on to Ryan's arm, drawing him toward her. A private conversation began at their end of the table. I looked back to find the young woman in black watching me again.

  “You're from Ireland,” she said. “Tell me, how goes the cause over there? Is there hope of expelling the tyrants anytime soon?”

  “Driving out the English, you mean?”

  “What else?”

  “I'm afraid I don't know.”

  “You were not involved with the cause over there?”

  “I lived on the remote west coast,” I said. “Far from Dublin and politics.”

  “The struggle must be carried on everywhere if success is to be achieved,” she said coldly. “I could tell you weren't one of us. What are you doing here?”

  “I came with Ryan,” I said.

  “With Ryan? But I thought that Ryan …” One of the young men beside me looked confused. I guessed his meaning.

  “I'm a cousin, visiting from Ireland,” I said hastily, hoping this would stop the questions. “He wanted me to come and meet Emma.”

  “And now you've met her, what do you think?” the same young man asked. “Isn't she wonderful? Doesn't your heart leap in your breast when she speaks?”

  Personally my heart hadn't stirred an inch, at least not in the way it leaped when Ryan kissed my hand or caressed my shoulder, but I nodded politely. “She seems a very interesting woman.”

  “And powerful, too. They listen to her over in Europe as well, you know. And they fear her over here. She's been in jail more than once.”