In Dublin's Fair City (23 page)

He touched his hat to me and I watched him go with relief. I had been trying to think how I could pass across a message with the annoying Mr. Fitzpatrick breathing down my back. “Pompous ass,” I muttered myself. Our assignation, how dramatic, making it sound like a secret tryst.

I walked on. The word continued to annoy me. Assignation. Then I realized where I had last heard it: spoken by the executioner at the costume party on board the
Majestic
. “We have a confirmed assignation, you and I,” he had said, and I had laughed it off. But some time that evening Rose had been murdered. I paused and looked back. Surely the oafish Mr. Fitzpatrick couldn’t have been the executioner? Hadn’t he denied even being at the ball? I took this one stage further: so was it also possible he had killed Rose, thinking he was killing Oona Sheehan? But why? I tried to remember my encounter with him, when I was disguised as Oona. He had been remarkably restrained and correct, if I remembered rightly, and hoped he would have a chance to run into me in Dublin. Not like the enthusiastic puppy love of an Artie Fortwrangler or some of those other men who had tried to make it to my door.

I continued without incident to the bookshop, waited until it wasdevoid of customers, and handed over the note. The old man took it gravely.

“More book requests from Mrs. Boone, I’ll wager,” he said. “Doesn’t that woman have anything to do but read?”

I came out, put my hood over my head and made my way back to the rectory. As I was about to cross the road someone came running toward me. “Miss Delaney. Wait up!”

Oh no. Mr. Fitzpatrick again.

“We seem destined to bump into each other this afternoon,” he said. “Here I was, minding my own business, and suddenly you show up again. You see, you can’t escape from it. It is fate that we are to be together.”

“What are you doing here, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” I asked. Now I was no longer feeling annoyed, but distinctly uneasy. I sensed that he might have been waiting here for me to return. I asked myself why he was pursuing me so relentlessly and couldn’t come up with an explanation. Certainly not for my beauty or my prospects.

“Paying a courtesy call on my aged aunt,” he said. “And what are you doing? Going into the church to say a quick prayer?”

“Your aunt? Mrs. Boone is your aunt?”

“Absolutely. Don’t tell me you know her too? That's the most amazing coincidence. Dublin really is a small place after all.”

Now I really was unsure of myself. Another idea was forming in my head. Was Mr. Fitzpatrick who he made himself out to be, or was he really one of us? Had he been sent to make sure the guns crossed the Atlantic safely? No matter, I decided. Mrs. Boone would dispatch him quickly enough if he was an imposter. I tapped on the front door, found it unlocked, and let myself in, with Mr. Fitzpatrick breathing down my neck.

“Mrs. Boone?” I called from the entrance hall. “In here, my dear. In the kitchen, to your left.come on in.” “I’ve someone with me,” I called. “He says he's your nephew.” “My nephew? Really?”

She emerged from the kitchen, wiping floury hands on a large apron. “Now let me take a look at the young man who says he is my nephew.”

“Aunty.” Mr. Fitzpatrick opened his arms wide in a dramatic gesture. “All these years I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person,” Mrs. Boone said. “I have no nephews. I was an orphan. So I suggest you run off and go to find your true aunt.”

“But you are my true aunt,” he said. “I wasn’t sure until I saw you, but now I’m absolutely certain I’ve got it right. Your eyes, you see. The way they slant down at the sides and something about the way you carry your head. It reminds me of my dear departed mother and of my Uncle Tommy.”

“Uncle Tommy?” She was still standing in the kitchen doorway, hands on hips and frowning.

“Tommy Burke,” he said. “You are Mary Ann Burke, are you not?”

Twenty-nine

M
rs. Boone glared at me. “What have you been telling him, you foolish girl?”

“Me? I told him nothing, except I was staying with a

crotchety old lady who was a friend of the family. I had no idea, not the least idea.”

Even as I spoke I realized why I had seen something I deemed to be masculine in her features. It was the strong resemblance to Tommy Burke.

“What do you mean, you hadn’t the least idea,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said scornfully. “Why else are you here when you were sent by my uncle on a mission to find this woman, Miss Molly Murphy?”

I must have reacted at the mention of my real name because he laughed. “Did you think for a moment I bought that Delaney nonsense? I knew who you were the first time we met—on the deck of the
Majestic
when you were wearing that ridiculous Oona Sheehan wig. Oh yes, I heard all about the stupid idea to trade cabins as well. Oona was dining with my uncle and shared her little plan with him.”

“So why didn’t you let me know you knew the truth?” I demanded angrily. “Why let me go on making a fool of myself?”

“Isn’t that simple to answer? So you would lead me to her—save me the trouble of seeking her out for myself. I’ve always been a lazy fellow at heart. And a selfish one too, so I’m told. Not willing to share my uncle's fortune with a previously unknown aunt anyway.”

I had been observing him closely as he spoke, and I’m afraid that I was realizing many hard truths—things I should have known and recognized before and didn’t. He had been the executioner at the fancy dress ball, and what's more, he had been warning me what he planned to do to me. “I am your executioner,” he had said. Only he killed Rose by mistake. We had got it all wrong, Inspector Harris and I. The murderer hadn’t been out to get Miss Sheehan: I had been his target all along. The easiest course of action for him would have been to prevent me from ever reaching Ireland. I looked at his affable face and knew I had to tread very carefully. I couldn’t tell what Mrs. Boone was thinking. She certainly didn’t appear to be worried.

“I gave up that name and that identity long ago,” she said, “when Terrence died. When Terrence was murdered by the English, I made a vow that I’d devote the rest of my life to the republican cause. So you can go back to America, young man, and tell your family that Mary Ann Burke does not exist.”

He actually laughed. “Quite right. Well spoken. That's exactly what I’ll tell them. How easy you’ve made it for me.”

He reached into an inside pocket of his overcoat and produced a pistol with one fluid movement. Before either of us could react, he had jammed the gun into my side.

“Into the kitchen, both of you. And you, Mary Ann, shut the door. Is there anyone else in the house?”

“Father Flannigan is in his study, and the Parish Council is expected in half an hour,” Mrs. Boone said.

“Too late to be any use to either of you,” he said. “By the time they get here, you’ll both be dead.”

“May I ask why you have developed such a hatred for an aunt you’ve never even known?” Mrs. Boone asked. She still seemed calm and in control of herself, but then she didn’t have the barrel of a gun pressed into her ribs.

“Oh, I don’t hate you, dear Auntie,” he said. “It's just that my uncle has a large fortune and he was planning to settle the bulk of it on you, if he could find you.”

“My family has certainly taken its time to come and reclaim me,”she said dryly. “Where were they when I was in the orphanage? When I was in service?”

“Tommy Burke only found out about your existence when his mother was dying and spoke of you in her final rambling.” I managed to make the words come out, even though I was finding it hard to breathe evenly. “Before that he had no idea that a baby sister had been left behind when they went to America. He wanted to make amends immediately. That's why he sent me to find you.”

“Unfortunately your search came to naught,” Fitzpatrick said, giving the gun an extra little jab into my side. “Two women found shot to death in a rectory. And I on the boat to England from where I shall return home. My uncle need never know that I have been in Ireland or ever met you.”

“You would kill for money?” Mrs. Boone demanded. “You poor stupid boy. Money is not worth killing for.”

“On the contrary, one can only truly lead a happy life with sufficient money and I’m not allowing two meddling women to get in the way of my future happiness.”

“And how do you think you are going to carry out this deed?” Mrs. Boone said, still sounding remarkably calm—disinterested almost. “You can’t shoot us here, you know. Father Flannigan's study is just across the hall, and he has ears like a hawk. He’d be in here in a second, and he used to a fine boxer in his younger days. And that back door is always kept locked—nasty rusty lock too, so I wouldn’t count on making my escape that way. No, you’d have to force your way past Father Flannigan into the hall and risk running into the Parish Council who will be arriving at any moment.”

“You—unlock the back door,” Fitzpatrick said, no longer sounding the affable oaf. He prodded me forward with the gun.

“I can’t,” I whimpered, deciding that the helpless female impersonation might serve us best at this stage. “My hands are shaking so badly that I won’t be able to do it. I think I might faint.”

“Do it!” he shouted.

“I wouldn’t yell, if I were you,” Mrs. Boone said. “Father Flanningan will be in here, and I don’t think that even you can fight off three of us,especially not Father when his temper is roused. But you are hopeless, girl. You go to pieces at the least little thing.” And she rolled her eyes upward in a gesture of despair. For a moment I thought she was condemning me. Then I saw the rack hanging in the ceiling. It had a couple of big pots, some ladles and drying cloths on it. With my eyes I traced down the wall to where the cord to raise and lower it was secured. If one of us could only get over to it. If we could lure him to the right spot—

“Here,” she said, still sounding annoyed. “Out of the way, I’ll open the lock for you, if you must.” She pushed us aside and started to wrestle with the lock on the back door. “It hasn’t been opened in years,” she said. “We keep it locked for safety reasons. Never know who might be prowling along the waterfront. Ah, wait a minute, I can feel it moving just a little.”

I glanced at him. His eyes were on her, while she reached up and struggled with the lock. I was close to that cord on the wall, but not close enough to risk it. Somehow I had to get the gun out of my side first.

Suddenly Mrs. Boone spun around, looking surprised. “Father Flan-ningan!” she exclaimed.

Fitzpatrick turned instinctively to look at the closed door. I gave him an almighty shove and released the cord. A shot fired upward over my head as the rack crashed down onto him, knocking him to the floor in a jumble of cloths and pots. One of the large pots must have struck him with some force because he just lay there stunned for a second— long enough for Mrs. Boone to retrieve the gun.

“Stay where you are, boy,” she commanded, when he groaned. “Don’t try to move. I should warn you that I’m rather good with one of these things, and you wouldn’t be the first man I’ve killed. Molly, there is twine in that drawer behind you. Tie his wrists together please, then his legs.”

He started to struggle as I tied his wrists but I managed to bind them together securely before he could free himself from the rack. Then I started on his legs. By now he was wide awake again, and I had to sit on his legs to keep him from lashing out.

“You stupid old woman!” Fitzpatrick shouted. “What do you think you’re going to do now, eh? Do you think I’m afraid of you?”

“Oh, and use one of those pudding cloths for his mouth, please,” she continued.

I did a thorough job on this, and we raised the rack off him.

“Well done, Molly,” she said. “You performed admirably. I can see now why Cullen thought you were a good choice. A cool head indeed.”

“But what are we going to do with him now?” I asked.

“This is most inconvenient,” she said. “It comes at a bad time. Go up and see if Cullen—”

As she said the words, the kitchen door opened and Cullen himself entered. “I thought I heard a shot,” he said, looking around suspiciously. “Holy Mother, what's going on here?”

“A rather annoying complication,” Mrs. Boone said. “This young man followed Molly from New York with the idea of dispatching the both of us. He's my nephew, you see, and he didn’t want to share his uncle's fortune.”

“We have to get rid of him right away,” Cullen said. “I’ll send for some of the lads and have him taken out of town.”

I looked down at Mr. Fitzpatrick, now lying trussed like a chicken, his eyes staring at us in terror.

“You’re not going to kill him?” I blurted out.

“I don’t see what option we’ve got,” Cullen said. “He was planning to kill the two of you, wasn’t he?” “Yes, but that's no excuse,” I said.

“I can’t risk keeping him alive,” Cullen said. “What do you think, Mab? My inclination is to have him taken out to sea and then thrown overboard. We’ve got the boat standing by.”

“Yes, but it's not without risk.”

“Can’t you just put him on a liner and send him home?” I said. “If he knows your men will kill him if he sets foot in Ireland again, that should be deterrent enough.”

“Who knows what connections he has?” Cullen said. “He might be in Whitehall's pocket.”

“His family fled in the famine,” I said. “Mary Ann was the only one left behind. What connections could he possibly have?”

“We can’t risk his contacting the authorities under any circumstances,” Cullen said firmly. “I’m sorry, but he has to go.”

Fitzpatrick whimpered.

Mrs. Boone looked down at him. “I don’t like killing unnecessarily,” she said, “but we can’t just let him walk away. We can’t even trust him to make his own way home.”

Fitzpatrick made more pathetic noises through the cloth.

“So what's the answer?” Cullen demanded in surly fashion. “Invite him to stay to tea?”

“Tea?” Mrs. Boone put her hand to her mouth. “Lord have mercy, we’ll have the Parish Council arriving any minute, wanting their teas. You, Cullen, put the kettle on and Molly, take those scones off the rack and put them on that plate over there. I’d best take the first tray into the dining room right away so they don’t come looking for me. The gun's on the table if you need it.”

She picked up a tray of cutlery, leaving me and Cullen looking at each other over Fitzpatrick's trussed body.

“It seems the two of you handled yourselves rather well,” Cullen said. “I take it he was the one who started out with the gun?”

“Jabbed into my side,” I said. “Mrs. Boone certainly knows a thing or two.”

“Yes, well she would, wouldn’t she, after what she's been through,” he said, and I realized that I had got it right after all. He had slipped and called her Mab. Mary Ann Burke. Her own initials all the time: Queen Mab.

She came back in, wiping off her apron. “I’d better change out of this before I take the teapot in,” she said. “I’m all covered in flour. That will never do.”

Cullen prodded Fitzpatrick with his toe. “You’ll be all right for a while if I go to get the lads and set up the transportation?” he asked.

“Oh, we’ll manage just fine,” Mary Ann said easily. “And I had a grand thought while I was putting out those teacups—Molly will send a cable to my brother in America. She’ll tell him what this boy tried to do, and urge him to take appropriate action when the boy gets home.”

“What? You’re thinking of letting him go home?” Cullen demanded. “Are you out of your senses?”

More noises came from Fitzpatrick's gagged mouth.

“I thought if you were going to France anyway, you could drop him off there. Then it would be up to him where he took his useless hide.”

Cullen prodded him with his foot. “You hear that, you pathetic specimen? Your life's being saved for now by these two kind women you tried to kill. But I swear this to you—put one toe out of line and it will give me great pleasure to finish you off.”

He slipped out of the back door, which opened quite easily. He had only been gone a minute or two before there were voices in the front hall. Then a tap on the kitchen door. My heart leaped to my mouth, and I tried to stand in front of the trussed Mr. Fitzpatrick. An elderly priest poked his head around the door.