Oh Danny Boy

by Rhys Bowen

  “And no more should he,” I exclaimed before I realized that I should probably be playing the helpless female at this point.

  “She claims she has new information for Sullivan but she’s unwilling to share it,” Atkinson said, sounding rather like the model pupil, telling tales to the schoolmaster.

  “Why don’t we all pay a visit to Sullivan right now,” Partridge said amiably. “Then I can get a feel for myself as to whether his defense has merit and whether the conspiracy you suggest is in any way possible.”

  “I think you already know the answer to that,” I said, “and I would not upset Daniel even further by exposing him to his accuser and a lawyer who has no interest in setting him free!”

  I went to sweep past them in a dignified exit. But Mr. Partridge grabbed my arm. “I admire your bravery and your loyalty,” he said, “but I don’t think you realize you are playing with fire. Go home and read your Sherlock Holmes stories, because in real life young women who dabble in affairs beyond their scope have an unfortunate habit of winding up dead.”

  He released my arm. “Now, Governor, let’s go and see this new building of yours.” And he was gone.

  I came out of the building alone and stood with the particles of brick dust flying around me, trying to calm my racing thoughts. Had that been a direct threat, or was he just warning a young girl as any avuncular figure would? I had no way of knowing. What’s more, I was furious with myself. He had been right. I had probably put Daniel’s whole case in jeopardy by revealing my hand like that. Now he knew I was working to prove Daniel’s innocence he could do any number of things, like rush through the trial, or transfer the prisoner. It didn’t need to be anything too obvious, but a cell with the right amount of damp and mold, or a cellmate who was already infected with consumption, would do the trick quite easily.

  I wasn’t going to let that happen. I brushed the dust from my shoulders and sleeves and stepped out into full sunlight. At least I hadn’t revealed the information I had come to give Daniel. If Partridge were the guilty one, that would be on his mind. He’d be asking himself how much I had found out. Which wasn’t too good for my own health and safety.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I spent the rest of the morning at Mrs. Goodwin’s bedside while she slept on, breathing steadily but not stirring. Fear gripped me that she might stay asleep forever and then quietly slip away into death.

  “You’ve got to wake up,” I said out loud, “because I can’t do this on my own. We’ve letters from the families of two girls now, and I’m sure one of them is the latest victim that we saw at the morgue. So it’s up to you to get well quickly and help prevent any more deaths.”

  I was all too aware that I was wasting my time by talking to an unconscious person, but it made me feel better—less alone, anyway. Because in truth I felt horribly alone at this moment. It had nothing to do with my own safety. It was thinking about Daniel and the very real possibility that he might be in prison for years. On the way back to Saint Vincent’s I had been forced to face the reality that I might never be able to prove his innocence. If it came down to a confrontation, me against the police commissioner, what jury would be persuaded to believe me?

  I also was forced to admit that I still loved him. I had kept those feelings in check, ever since I found out that he was engaged to another woman. Now the feelings came to the fore with a vengeance. He did have his faults, he had treated me shabbily, but I still loved him in spite of everything. It’s one of the failings we women have. Our hearts rule our heads all too often.

  I dragged myself out of this wallowing in introspection and self-pity. It certainly wouldn’t help Daniel or Mrs. Goodwin if I wasn’t strong and alert right now, and it wasn’t getting me anywhere either.

  “Now, about these girls,” I said to the sleeping Mrs. Goodwin. “Someone should go out and talk to their families. Maybe one of them has left a note from the boy, hidden away somewhere. At least we can find out if the girls have any identifying marks or ways of knowing who they are for sure.”

  “The exhumation,” said a weak voice beside me. Mrs. Goodwin was looking at me. “What day is it?”

  “It’s Thursday,” I said.

  “And the exhumation is set for Friday morning.” She sighed as if it was still an effort to talk. She tried to sit up, groaned, and flopped back to the pillow. “You’ll have to go. I’ll be in no condition to.”

  “How can I go to an exhumation?” I blurted out, my mind presenting me with pictures of partly consumed flesh and maggots. “They surely won’t let me be present.”

  “You mustn’t let them see you,” she said. “You should appear to be a mourner, come to deliver your respects to another grave site. Keep well away, disguise yourself beneath a big hat, and watch who comes to observe. The notice about the exhumation should have made it to the press by now. Someone might be interested to see what we dig up.”

  “You mean the Ripper himself might come?”

  “It’s possible. In my experience, killers show a fascination with their own cases. I’ve heard of men volunteering to help look for missing girls whom they’ve actually murdered and buried. I suppose it gives them an added thrill to know they are one step ahead of the police.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” I said, “although I hate to leave you here. You gave us all a nasty shock last night, lapsing back into unconsciousness. Was there any warning you were feeling worse?”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t aware of feeling worse. I certainly feel groggy, so I presume I’ve been asleep for a while.”

  “Unconscious,” I said. “They couldn’t wake you earlier.”

  “Curious.” She closed her eyes again.

  “You didn’t feel anything while you were dozing?” I asked. “A prick, perhaps?”

  Her expression became instantly alert. “Are you suggesting that somebody gave me an injection? Somebody wanted to make sure I stayed asleep?”

  “And didn’t wake up, I believe,” I said. “I’ve no idea how this person could have slipped in past the guard here, but our killer has shown himself to be the most resourceful of men.”

  “He certainly has,” she said. “But I take your warning seriously. I will ask to be moved to my own house right away, with a police guard.”

  “Will you be able to manage at home?”

  “I’ll hire a nurse.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll come and sit with you as much as I can.”

  She patted my hand. “You’re a good girl,” she said. “And I’m sorry it didn’t work out with my friend the other evening.”

  “My choice,” I said. “Probably a foolish one.”

  She gave a tired smile. “We all have to follow our own hearts. It may turn out all right in the end for you.”

  “At least I’m not an invalid myself when you need me,” I said. “I can go to that exhumation. I can even go and question the families.”

  She tried to prop herself up again. “Ah yes, the letters about the girls. You have them with you?”

  I produced them from my purse. She read them in silence, then she nodded. “I’d say the one from the Italian father could well be the girl we saw on Monday, don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” I said. “And you’ll note that other one—the Swedish girl, Dilly Lindquist. She had a secret meeting with a boy at Coney Island.”

  She nodded. “Yes, we have to go out there as soon as possible. You feel that Coney Island is significant, don’t you?”

  “We know that the first girl to be murdered was a prostitute at Coney Island and her body was found under the boardwalk there. Now we have proof that a second girl went to meet someone at Coney Island and never came back. But that’s not all. I’ve also been asked to trace a missing heiress who supposedly ran away with a penniless young man. It probably has nothing to do with this case, I realize, but it’s interesting that she was supposed to go to Coney Island on the day she disappeared. With a young man who was not her fiancé.”

  Sabella G
oodwin frowned. “And do we know this young man’s name?”

  “Oh yes. My associates have visited his mother. He is from a good family, summering in Newport, Rhode Island.”

  “Close enough to make the train journey,” she said, “and rich enough to hire a carriage when needed. We must pass this information on to the detectives.”

  “He is supposedly away for the summer, helping out at a camp for city children in the wilds of New England,” I said. “Nobody has verified this yet, or exactly where the camp is. It might be within reach of a train station and the city.”

  “Good work,” she said. “It all fits very nicely. Son of a rich family. Not quite comfortable with girls, or not quite right in the head. Shielded by his family. Yes, I think our detectives should question him as soon as possible. Write down all your information on him, and I’ll give it to them next time I see them.”

  I was loath to do this, but I couldn’t quite determine why. I suppose that until then it was our case—mine and Sabella Goodwin’s—and I didn’t want simply to hand it over to two supercilious young men, who clearly had no regard for me or my skills.

  “I could go and check him out myself first,” I said.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” she retorted. “If this charming young man is indeed our East Side Ripper, he is devious and cunning, and very good at killing. I certainly don’t want you to wind up as his next victim.”

  “He wouldn’t have to know that I have anything to do with this case,” I said. “I’m merely investigating the disappearance of a Miss Blackwell.”

  Sabella shook her head firmly. “If he’s killed her, do you think you wouldn’t be next? And at a camp in the wilderness, you don’t think he’d have ample opportunity?”

  She did have a point. “Very well. I’ll write down the information for you. But I’m going to stay with you until you are safely moved to your own home and have a nurse installed. Shall we ring for Sister now and see if we can arrange this?”

  Mrs. Goodwin looked at me and laughed. “You’re a very forceful young woman, do you know that?” she said. “I’ve always been told that I was aggressive for a woman, but you take the cake.”

  I smiled, too. “It comes from having to fend for myself in New York. If I don’t stand up for me, nobody else will.”

  “That’s why you have to behave sensibly and not take too many risks,” she said. “If you have nobody watching out for you, you’re very vulnerable. And I don’t think I’ll be well enough to be your bodyguard for some time yet.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of myself,” I said. “I’ve no wish to wind up as the Ripper’s next victim.”

  Surprisingly, Sister Mercy thought that moving Mrs. Goodwin to her own home was a good idea.

  “More chance for peace and quiet,” she said. But she looked at me as she said it, and I read her thoughts.

  By that evening Sabella was installed in her home with the next-door neighbor, who had supplied me with the key, fussing over her and making chicken soup. She was going to stay the night, and a real nurse was to arrive in the morning. What’s more the constable I had spoken to earlier was assigned to keep an eye on the house. I went home feeling much relieved and tried to get a good night’s sleep before my own ordeal the next day.

  I was up when the first touches of dawn streaked the eastern sky and made my way to Hart Island, where I was told the potter’s field was located. Mrs. Goodwin had warned me that the exhumation would be done early in the morning, and it would be quite a long journey. I don’t think she had any idea how long and arduous the journey would be, though. I’m sure she’d never done it herself. I doubt if many people had.

  It turned out that Hart Island was in the middle of a piece of water called Long Island Sound, halfway between the Bronx and Long Island. It could only be reached from another island called City Island, and that was in the middle of godforsaken marshes. The journey involved taking the elevated railway to the Harlem River and then picking up a ferryboat that took a circuitous route through a narrow channel called Hell Gate, into Long Island Sound.

  It was a misty morning and I was quite chilled when the ferry finally reached City Island. I don’t know why it was called by that name because anything less like a city I’ve never seen. We docked at a quaint waterfront community of boatbuilders and seafarers that looked as if it belonged to another age. The harbor was already a hive of activity at this early hour. Sounds of hammering rang out from a boat shed. A tugboat tooted a warning as it left port. I asked about a ferry to Hart Island and was given strange looks. Only the government boat goes over there, I was told. In fact, it had already gone in that direction this very morning. And it was just a great big cemetery—a sorry place, unmarked graves of those who were too poor to pay for a decent, honest burial or those whose remains had never been identified.

  “I know what it is, sir,” I told the boatman who had given me this information, “but I have a special reason for being there today. I understand they are to exhume some bodies and I’ve a terrible fear that one of them might be my own dear sister. So if you could think of any way I might get there?” I looked appealing, grief stricken, and helpless.

  “I reckon Old Tom could run you over—couldn’t you, Tom?” One of the men turned to a leathery old sea dog sitting on the harbor wall, puffing at his pipe.

  “If she makes it worth my while,” Tom said grumpily.

  “Oh come on, have a heart,” another of the men entreated. “She wants to know if they’re digging up her lost sister. You can do that much for her, can’t you?”

  “I’m quite willing to pay,” I said, as Mrs. Goodwin had given me money for the fare. “And I assure you it would mean a lot to me.”

  Old Tom got up, spat onto the cobbles, and inclined his head in my direction. “Come on, then,” he said. “While the tide is favorable.”

  He helped me to climb down from the jetty into a rowboat. We cast off and slipped silently out of the harbor. As soon as the township was left behind we entered an unreal world. In the city the early morning sky had been clear and promising. On the voyage to City Island we had encountered patches of mist, which had grown thicker as the coastline became uninhabited marshland. Now we entered a world enveloped in mist. It rose, curling like smoke from mudflats, and hovered over the skiff. There was no sound except for the gentle lapping of waves and the rhythmic splash and creak of the oars. I had no idea where we were going or how close the island was. After a while even the mudflats vanished so that all that was visible was a few feet of water on either side of us. It was like entering a dream, and the thought crossed my mind that it was the River Styx, and I was being ferried to an afterlife.

  Which in a way it was, of course. All those corpses had made this same journey to a final resting place. I sat, gripping the side of the boat, my head full of uneasy thoughts. I feared that we’d run into a rock or a bigger boat, or we’d get lost and find ourselves out at sea. I also feared what I’d see once we reached Hart Island. I was glad that Old Tom wasn’t the talkative sort. His face was impassive as he pulled on the oars, and we moved smoothly over a glassy surface. At least there aren’t waves, I thought. One thing to be thankful for, because I was definitely feeling queasy.

  The journey seemed to go on forever. I lost all sense of time. Every now and then the mist parted to reveal a blue sky above, then closed in again. Once a cormorant rose flapping right in front of us, making my heart leap into my throat. Old Tom glanced up then and shot me a withering look before he went back to the business of rowing.

  At last we were passing more marshes; reedy mudflats, a patch of sandy beach, and a wooden jetty appeared from the mist in front of us. A large motor vessel was already moored there. Old Tom jumped out easily in spite of his advanced years, and tied up the boat before helping me out.

  “You will wait for me, won’t you?” I asked, my nerve almost failing me.

  “Don’t worry. Old Tom will be here,” he said, in an almost kindly fashion.

>   I picked my way along the rickety jetty and passed what must have been a caretaker’s shack, looming out of the mist. I was expecting to see headstones, crosses, something to tell me that I was in a cemetery, but it wasn’t until my foot hit against something hard that I spotted the small metal number plate and realized I was already walking on the dead. I recoiled in horror. In Ireland it was regarded as terribly bad luck to step on a grave. But they were all around me. It was scarcely possible to walk forward without stepping on them. I made my way forward, searching for a path.

  Then the mist lifted a little and I saw what looked to be one large, rolling meadow before me. There were a few stunted trees, bent by the force of the wind, but apart from that, nothing. No sign of other people, anyway. I realized with annoyance that they might have already exhumed the bodies and departed. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Then I heard a strange rhythmic clanking sound. It was coming my way, getting louder and louder. I made for the nearest tree and attempted to hide behind it. A line of men came into view, walking one close behind the other. Then I saw the striped uniforms and realized that the clanking I had heard was the chains of the leg irons that bound them together. A convict chain gang.

  Of course that sight really alarmed me. Was there also a prison on this island or had Old Tom made a mistake and deposited me on a prison island instead? Not a happy thought. Then I heard voices and saw figures motioning behind a far clump of trees. The chain gang headed toward them, breaking into an ungainly trot when urged on by their overseer. When they were far enough ahead and their forms blended into the mist, I followed them.

  On this occasion the mist was my ally. I could get quite close to the group without being observed and found a vantage point behind some kind of prickly shrub. I could hear voices now. Commands being given.

  “This is the first site. Start digging here.”

  “Come on, lads. Jump to it. Grab your shovels.”