Oh Danny Boy

by Rhys Bowen

  Sabella Goodwin strode purposefully down the tiled hallway until she reached the stone-faced, white-coifed nun in charge of the admitting desk.

  “I am a police officer and I need to question somebody about the young woman brought here earlier today. The young victim who subsequently died,” she said in a voice that echoed from the tiled walls. Even the admitting sister was impressed by it.

  “I’ll find the sister who was on duty,” she said, and dispatched a junior nurse. “A tragic business.” She shook her head so that the starched veil rattled. “The sisters who tried to care for her were quite distressed about it. We had to relieve them from duty for a while. And believe me, we see everything here.”

  We stood and waited while the life of the hospital went on around us. I leaned against the cool tile of the wall for support. I certainly wasn’t going to faint again. At last there was a neat tap of feet along the corridor and a young, fresh-faced sister appeared. She looked about as white and pale as her veil and uniform.

  “I’m Sister Mary Margaret,” she said. “You wanted to know about that unfortunate woman who was brought to us.”

  “We do, Sister,” Mrs. Goodwin sounded brisk and efficient. “It can’t have been a pleasant experience for you.”

  “It was awful,” the young nun said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Neither had Sister Rose. She’s been crying all morning.”

  “We were wondering,” Mrs. Goodwin said carefully, “if the young woman was at all conscious, and if she might have said anything.”

  “We didn’t think she could be conscious when we first saw her,” Sister Mary Margaret said. “If you’d seen what was left of her poor face…We were sure she must be dead, but then Sister Rose felt a pulse and we were just moving her onto a gurney when she made a sound. Of course she could hardly speak, but I took her hand and put my ear close to her. ‘What did you want to tell me, my darlin’?’ I asked her. She just moaned and then she said what sounded like ‘Tree. Tree.’ Then there was a gurgle in her throat and blessedly she died.” The sister paused to cross herself. Mechanically my hand followed hers.

  “Tree?” Mrs. Goodwin asked. “What could that mean?”

  “We were wondering if perhaps she was an immigrant and that was the way she pronounced three.”

  “Meaning there were three men in on this?”

  The sister sighed. “I’ve no idea what she meant. Maybe she was trying to give her address so that we could notify her family. I really can’t tell you. But I do know it’s affected me deeply. I’ve been on my knees in chapel most of the morning, praying for her poor, departed soul.”

  “We’ll let you get back there then, Sister,” Mrs. Goodwin said gently. “Thank you for taking the time to see us.”

  She led us out of the building, and not a minute too soon. Another second and I would have vomited on those spotless tiles. I made it outside but had to hold onto a lamppost while the world swung around. “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I had no idea this would upset me so. I live only a couple of streets away. I should probably go home and let you get to your work.”

  She put an arm around my shoulder. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  “That’s really not necessary. You have to report in to your police station,” I tried, but she was adamant. I was escorted back to Patchin Place. She waited until I’d turned the key in the lock then came inside with me. “What you need is a cup of chamomile tea,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have chamomile,” I said. “It’s not something I’m familiar with. I’ve just ordinary tea like we drink at home.”

  “That will be better than nothing.” She started bustling around my kitchen, filling the kettle and lighting the gas with a spill. “Sit down. Unbutton your jacket, get some air to yourself.”

  I did as she commanded. “I didn’t think I’d be so affected by this,” I said. “I thought I was strong.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me. “I’ve taken care of enough young women in my life to recognize the signs,” she said. “I presume that’s why you’re so anxious to rescue Daniel Sullivan?”

  I felt myself blushing scarlet. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  “Oh, come on now. I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said. “And you’re not the first girl it’s happened to either. It seems to me that young Sullivan has a lot to answer for—to you and to me. Maybe he’d be better off rotting in jail. It would teach him a lesson.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “I can’t let that happen to him. How would you have felt if it was your husband who had been falsely implicated and faced a lifetime in jail?”

  “I suppose I’d have done what I could for him, the way you are. And I can see that your life will be a whole lot worse if you don’t prove his innocence.”

  I swallowed hard so that I didn’t cry in front of her. “But I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. This case we’re working on—what on earth can it have to do with wanting Daniel in jail? The sort of depraved man who is doing these terrible things—how would he have known about Daniel’s meeting with the Eastmans? How would he have steered the commissioner to the right spot at the right moment?”

  “You’d be surprised what depraved men look like by daylight,” she said. “He could be anybody, someone you know; someone I know. But I agree. If Captain Sullivan is telling the truth, then it would have to be someone with inside knowledge of the workings of the Police Department.”

  “Someone who might be jealous of Daniel, who might want his position?” I asked. “What about Quigley and McIver? They took over the case from him. And you said they are both ambitious young men.”

  “Yes, but removing Captain Sullivan wouldn’t really enhance their own chances of promotion that much. I can think of several men who could be made captain before them.”

  “And if removing Daniel from this case would give them a chance at glory? Saving the world from the East Side Ripper?”

  She shook her head again. “Hardly the case I’d have chosen. Not at all sure that we’ll ever catch the killer. Of course things look a little more hopeful now that we know this girl was only dressed up to look like a prostitute and may be missed from her home. But Quigley and McIver didn’t know that until now. Besides, I’ve worked with them enough to know they’re both straight. Quigley comes from an old family and abides by those rules. Old family honor and all that. McIver—well, he’s more devious, but I’d trust him.” She considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I’d trust him well enough.”

  “Which leaves me back at square one,” I said. “I’ve no idea what to do next.”

  “Drink your tea and take a rest,” she said. “I have to go, but I’ll get that advertisement put into the papers and let’s see if anyone comes forward to report a missing girl. And in the meantime…” She was halfway to my front door when she turned and looked hard at me for a long moment before saying, “You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked cautiously.

  “Exactly what I say. There are ways…to end it…if that’s what you’d want.”

  “But isn’t that very risky?”

  “Of course it’s always a risk, but no greater risk than trying to survive on your own in this world with a child.”

  She came over to where I was sitting at the kitchen table and bent her head close to mine. “Look, I know a woman,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve sent other girls to her before. She knows what she’s doing. She’ll want paying, but I’ll have a word with her. I’ve done her favors before now—got her out of a couple of arrest warrants.”

  “You know a woman,” I echoed, parrot fashion. “But I couldn’t.”

  “It’s that blasted Catholicism drummed into your head, I suppose. Don’t tell me the Catholic Church is going to support your child for you?”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m already damned as far as the Catholic Church is concerned. It’s just that I
can’t afford to be idle and recuperating right now. I’ve so much work to do.”

  “I told you. This woman knows what she’s doing. You’ll be back on your feet in no time at all, and feeling a lot better than you have been today, I’ll guarantee. Think about it. I’ll try to speak to her and let you know tomorrow if we can work out something between us.”

  “Thank you,” I stammered. I rose to my feet. “I—I’m very glad I met you.”

  “And I you.”

  “I think we were meant to be in on this together,” I said. “If we find out who framed Daniel, then maybe we’ll also find out who brought about your husband’s death.”

  “Maybe.” She gave a sad smile. Then she brightened up, waved, and was out of my front door.

  TWENTY-THREE

  As I closed the door behind her, I noticed two notes stuck in my letter box. I recognized Daniel’s angry black script on one of them, but the other was in a small, meticulous, unfamiliar hand. Of course I tore open Daniel’s note first.

  You ask whether anybody has been to see me in jail? Apart from that damned fool lawyer and yourself, the answer is no. The days and nights seem interminable. I understand from the guard who brings me my food that my date in court might be soon. But one small mercy—the food has improved, and they are emptying the buckets in our cells more frequently as rumor has it that the commissioner of police will be inspecting this week. You can bet he can’t wait to see me in this condition.

  I know you are doing everything you can. I just pray for a miracle. I think of you every waking moment.

  Daniel

  I looked at it, then carefully folded the letter back into its envelope. So the commissioner of police was planning to visit The Tombs, was he? It might just be coincidence. On the other hand, maybe my first instincts had been right after all, and he was the one who had orchestrated Daniel’s betrayal himself. What could have been easier than having those dollar bills hidden in his own fist, ready to scatter as the letter was opened?

  So I might have been wasting valuable time looking into a series of sordid murders when my investigations should have gone in quite a different direction. Daniel himself knew of no particular reason why Mr. Partridge should want him out of the way, but that didn’t mean that one didn’t exist. Had that man of moral rectitude something he wished to keep hidden? It seemed that my next task should be to look into Mr. Partridge’s life and affairs. I had no idea how I might do that, but maybe Sabella Goodwin could help me get started when I next saw her. She was in a position to nose around at police headquarters and pick up on any rumors.

  Then I remembered what else would happen when I next saw her. She’d bring me news of a woman who might be able to end my current predicament. I felt hot and clammy all over, just at the thought of it. She was right about that Irish upbringing. If ever there were mortal sins, that was surely one of them.

  I opened the second note, with some trepidation. Most letters these days did not seem to be bringing me good news. I saw from the neat signature that this one was from Dr. Birnbaum.

  My dear Miss Murphy:

  In truth I was much relieved that you were not allowed to accompany me to the morgue this morning. The sight of the young girl was most distressing, even to a hardened medical man like myself. I am sure you would not have been able to endure it, and it would have left a lasting impression of horror on your delicate psyche. And in truth, not much was gained from my visit or my discussion with the two detectives.

  They are deeply baffled by a man who can apparently drop girls on crowded streets under the very eyes of the police. Of course, they did point out to me that they had only just been assigned this case when Captain Sullivan was removed from his post, so have little to go on.

  All I could tell from viewing the corpse was that she was killed by a man of considerable strength and brutality. The thumb marks on her neck were impressive as was the force of the blows to her face. So we are dealing with a man who is not only powerful but enjoys taking tremendous risks. He probably realizes that his desire to kill is now out of control. Sooner or later it will drive him to take one risk too many.

  I don’t know if this helps you at all in your own quest. I fear not. We have so little to go on. We could be looking for any man in the Greater New York area.

  I regret that I can’t be of more assistance to you,

  Your faithful servant,

  Frederick Birnbaum, Doctor of Medicine

  I had to smile at such a correct and perfectly executed missive and found myself wondering what he and the flamboyant Ryan could possibly have in common. Then the smile faded. Another dead end, it would appear. I had learned nothing new from his note—or had I? It struck me that the two officers in question claimed they had just taken over the case from Daniel. But I seemed to remember it was the other way around—hadn’t Daniel been assigned to the case over them? So why make this false claim to Dr. Birnbaum?

  I could come up with a perfectly good answer, of course—they were ambitious, according to Mrs. Goodwin. They didn’t want to lose face by admitting how little they had achieved so far. Or Birnbaum, not being a native English speaker, might just have misunderstood. Besides, I couldn’t see Quigley and McIver scheming to have Daniel removed from this case just so that they could get all the glory for themselves. As Mrs. Goodwin had commented, it was a devilish puzzle with no guarantee of a successful outcome.

  So far my bet was on John Partridge. Men who rise to positions of power often have shady secrets in their past, secrets they’d rather didn’t come out. If John Partridge had such a secret and Daniel had inadvertently stumbled upon it, then the commissioner might feel himself threatened. But since Daniel had no idea himself what he could have done to antagonize Mr. Partridge, I wasn’t sure how I could unearth any deep, dark secrets in Partridge’s past. Still, I had to try. Who might possibly know details of Mr. Partridge’s past life and indiscretions? Nobody in my circle of friends. Then it occurred to me—newspapers! They loved to dig up dirt on political figures, didn’t they? A visit to the archives at The Times or the Herald might at least set me in the right direction. At the very least they’d have his biography on file.

  I changed into my cooler and less-constricting summer muslin, then departed on the hunt again. Another hot and muggy day, with thunder threatening over New Jersey. Flies and mosquitoes hummed around me, and I wished I had been like the fashionable ladies and bought myself a hat with a veil. I decided that the Herald was closer and by claiming to be from the Ladies Decency League again, sent by Mrs. Astor, I had the stern-faced woman in archives promising to search out all references to John Partridge for me. She even promised them by the next day.

  By the time I came out of the Herald Building, those storm clouds had grown into impressive thunderheads. The first fat drops were spattering onto the hot granite blocks of the street. I had thought of doing a thousand and one other things, including visiting some of those hotels in search of Letitia, but now, without an umbrella, I made directly for home.

  I was halfway down Patchin Place when the heavens opened and in the few short steps to my front door, I was soaked to the skin. I hung my dress to dry, made myself a cup of tea, and was overcome with weariness. I lay on my bed, listening to the rumble of thunder, getting closer by the minute. I should be making plans, I told myself. Instead, in spite of the flashes and crashes outside my window, I fell deeply asleep.

  I awoke to another loud rumble. It was dark as night outside and apparently the storm was still going on. Then I realized that the noise I was hearing came from my front door and not the sky. I scrambled into my skirt and shirtwaist as my muslin was still soaking wet and ran down the stairs. Outside, the rain was still coming down heavily but under a large, black umbrella stood Sid and Gus.

  “Oh, you’re home. We’re so glad,” Sid said, already stepping in through the front door and shaking out the umbrella behind her. “Did you get caught out in this awful storm? We did. Soaked to the skin, both of us. I made Gus tak
e a bath so that she didn’t catch cold.”

  “I’m fine,” Gus said. “I’m not really a delicate little flower, you know. I’m quite hardy, in spite of appearances.”

  “Would you like a glass of lemonade or some tea?” I asked.

  “Thank you, but we’ve just had coffee,” Gus said. “You know Sid can’t exist for long without her Turkish. We came to tell you what a fun and jolly day we’ve had.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Playing at sleuths.” Sid beamed, pulling out a chair at my kitchen table. “Finding out about the missing Letitia as we promised we would. Molly, now I see why the profession is so attractive to you. I felt like such a conspirator, slinking around and asking clever questions.”

  “Did you find out anything?” I asked, my heart sinking a little at the thought of Sid and Gus acting the part of sleuths.

  “Nothing really important, I regret,” Sid said. “We found out that when Miss Blackwell comes to town with her mother, she always stays at the Brevoort, just a stone’s throw from us.”

  “The Brevoort,” I echoed. A nice-enough hotel, but not on the level of the Plaza or the Astoria, where I am sure Arabella would have stayed. That presumably meant that Letitia was not as rich as Arabella’s family. Which, in turn, meant that no young man would be trying to get his hands on her fortune.

  “But we couldn’t find any hotel where Miss Blackwell registered alone recently,” Gus said. “Of course, she might have used an assumed name, but we did describe her from the photograph.”