Through the Window: A Molly Murphy Story (Molly Murphy Mysteries)

by Bowen, Rhys

  Your friend Elena (Sid)

  I shut my eyes, enjoying the feel of warm spring sunshine on my face and tried to picture Paris. Then suddenly I was back in Ireland, sitting in the schoolroom at the big house with Miss Vanessa and Miss Henrietta. When I was ten I had rather impressed their mother, Mrs. Hartley, with my eloquence and cheek and she had invited me to join her own daughters for lessons. They clearly didn’t think much of this idea and never made me feel welcome but their governess was delighted to have a pupil who was so keen to learn. On this day she was telling us about a trip she had taken to Paris. I was plying her with questions about the Louvre and Notre-Dome when Miss Vanessa cut into our discussion.

  “I don’t see why we’re wasting time like this. It’s not as if you’re ever likely to go to Paris, Molly,” she said scathingly and her sister had tittered as if this was a great joke.

  A sudden cold breeze swept across the square, almost snatching the paper from my hands. I looked up and saw that Aggie’s prediction was right. Dark clouds were racing in over the Hudson. It would rain before the day was out. I folded the letter, replaced it in its envelope, and then stood up. I should get a move on and do my shopping for tonight’s meal now, rather than later in the day. Liam slept on blissfully as I set the buggy moving in the direction of home. Another gust of wind sent spray from the fountain in our direction.

  And then it was almost as if I was having a vision: before they left for Paris, Sid and Gus had taken me to an exhibit of Impressionist painting at a gallery in New York. I had found the paintings delightfully light and fresh and free, although others viewing them had pronounced them as shocking daubs with no substance to them. Now, as I glanced back across the square it was as if I was seeing one of those Impressionist paintings of a park in Paris—a young girl holding onto a white straw hat with red ribbons flying out in the breeze, while her small brother ran to retrieve a red ball, pigeons pecking hopefully, and sycamore trees coming into leaf and casting dappled shade on the gravel walkways. I smiled wistfully as I moved on. Such a scene in Washington Square was the closest to Paris I was likely to get.

  Two

  Clouds had almost swallowed up the sun by the time we returned to Patchin Place. The bumpy ride over cobbles woke Liam and his loud cries let me know that he expected to be fed again soon. I felt my breasts react in response. None of this newfangled bottle feeding for me, in spite of my mother-in-law telling me it was more hygienic and that ladies of quality never nursed their infants. I had not regretted my decision for an instant but the arrival of sharp little new teeth made me wonder whether weaning might be a good idea.

  “I’m home, Aggie,” I called, pausing in the front hallway to remove my hat and coat.

  Her pinched little face appeared from the kitchen. “Laundry’s all done and out, Mrs. Sullivan, but for how long, who can say?”

  “You were right about the weather as usual,” I said. “The rainclouds are already gathering.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so cold all morning,” she said. “Could be a big storm coming.” Liam interrupted this conversation with another wail. Aggie went to lift him out of his pram, but I stopped her.

  “It’s all right. He wants feeding. I’ll take him up to the nursery.” Liam reached out to me to be picked up. I noticed how heavy he was getting as I swung him onto my hip. “I’m going to cut down your rations, my lad,” I said. “You’re getting too big.”

  “Don’t say that, Mrs. Sullivan,” Aggie said. “We never got enough to eat at my house. You don’t know what that’s like.”

  “No, I don’t,” I said, looking at her with pity. “It’s almost lunchtime. Go and warm us up some of that stew. I’ve got a nice chop for Captain Sullivan’s dinner, if he comes home in time to eat tonight.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Aggie said. I paused halfway up the stairs and turned back to her. “A man was here this morning asking for Captain Sullivan.”

  “What kind of man? A policeman?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” She chewed on her lip. “A swarthy type. Foreign.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He just asked when Captain Sullivan was likely to be home. I told him I couldn’t say, and that Captain Sullivan didn’t keep regular hours. We’d hardly seen him at all lately. He then asked about you, and I said you’d be back shortly.”

  “Did you ask if you could take a message?” I asked.

  “I did. And he said he had to deliver the message to you and the captain in person, so he’d be back when you were both home.”

  “How strange,” I said. “Foreign? I can’t think who that might be.”

  “I didn’t like the look of him,” Aggie said. “He had shifty eyes.”

  I smiled. “You think all foreigners have shifty eyes. Perhaps Daniel will know.”

  And I went on up the stairs. Liam was fed and put down for his afternoon nap. The rain started about three and we rushed to get in the line full of laundry. The rest of the day passed without incident.

  I reread Sid’s letter over an afternoon cup of tea, sharing the interesting bits with Aggie. She was duly impressed. “Imagine traveling halfway around the world and then bumping into a long-lost cousin,” she said. “And a handsome one at that. Maybe they’ll fall in love and marry.”

  “I hardly think that’s likely to happen,” I said, smiling at her naïveté. Sid and Gus lived as a couple right across the street from us, but then I hadn’t taken in the truth about their relationship when I first met them either. Such things had been outside of my sphere of experience too.

  Darkness fell early with wind moaning through the chimney. I prepared our evening meal and put Daniel’s chop out, ready to grill, in the hope that he might be home for dinner, just this once. Then about six thirty my wishes were answered. The front door opened, sending a blast of cold air right down the hall to us, and Daniel came in, his cheeks red from the wind, clapping his hands together.

  “It’s like winter out there again,” he said. “Luckily the rain has eased off. I thought I’d get drenched on the way home.” He looked around the kitchen. “Where’s my favorite son?”

  “Aggie’s just putting him to bed,” I said.

  “Good. I hoped I’d catch him awake for once.” He unwound his scarf, dropped it on a chair, and then bounded up the stairs. I heard his big voice and a baby’s squeal of delight and smiled to myself as I put his chop on the stove. By the time he reappeared his dinner was ready.

  “What a splendid sight,” he said as I placed the plate in front of him. “It feels like the first decent meal I’ve had in weeks.”

  “You’ve never been home to eat,” I said.

  He nodded, his mouth full. “It’s been a rough time,” he said at last.

  “Difficult case?”

  “More like a war than a case,” he said. “The commissioner decided the time had come to take a stand against the Italian gang that is terrorizing the Lower East Side.”

  “The Cosa Nostra, you mean?”

  “That’s what they call themselves, yes. And we thought the Eastmans were bad news. The Eastmans are child’s play compared to these new boys. Protection rackets, extortion—all the usual stuff—but done with such incredible violence and ruthlessness. Anyone who betrays them is found with his throat slit from ear to ear. And they don’t hesitate to take revenge on anyone who stands in their way.”

  “How do you plan to stop them?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know that we can. We can slow them down, but new Italian immigrants keep pouring into the city, so they’ll have keen new members all the time. But the commissioner says we must shut them down before they become too powerful, so try we must. We’ve got their big cheese behind bars now and I think we’ve enough on him to make a conviction stick, in spite of the dearth of witnesses willing to testify against him. We’ll see if he manages to wriggle out of it.”

  And he went back to his eating.

  “I had two letters today,” I said, trying to change
the subject to more cheerful matters. “One from your mother—you’ll never guess what she’s up to?”

  “She’s found a new way to make jam or she’s hosted another coffee morning?” He looked up, grinning.

  “No, she’s off on a trip out West with her friend Letitia Blackstone. They’re going to visit Letitia’s daughter—the one whose husband is building a bridge across the Mississippi River.”

  “Good God,” Daniel said. “Mother on a trip out West? I thought a journey from Westchester to the city counted as a long journey for her. I hope her health is up to it.”

  “She’s as strong as an ox, Daniel. And it will be good for her. She’s taking Bridie along for company.”

  “Amazing.” Daniel went back to eating. “I suppose it’s too late to dissuade her?”

  “Why stop her? Travel broadens the mind. One needs adventures.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “And my other letter was from Sid.” I held it up to him. “They’re having a lovely time in Paris. Sid’s discovered a long-lost cousin and started writing poetry. Gus has an introduction to Reynold Bryce—”

  Daniel grinned. “I shouldn’t have thought Gus painted in a style he’d approve of. Didn’t he do all those portraits of the angelic child, copies of which now grace half the nurseries in America?”

  “He moved on and became an Impressionist, so I’m told.”

  “But Gus is certainly not an Impressionist.” Daniel chuckled. “I’m not sure how you’d define her painting. Bad, I’d say, but I suppose you’d leap to defend her.”

  “It’s not my cup of tea,” I said, loyalty struggling with honesty, “but I’m not a qualified critic of the arts. I don’t think we fully appreciate modern art, such as the pictures Gus paints.”

  Daniel snorted as he picked up his glass and took a long swig of beer. “Well, good for them. At least they’re enjoying themselves and staying out of mischief with that damned suffrage movement.”

  “Sid wanted to know if policemen ever got time off to travel,” I said. “She and Gus want us to join them.”

  “Travel to Paris? On a policeman’s salary?” Daniel laughed. “Those women have no idea what it’s like to live in the real world.”

  I chose not to add that Gus had offered to pay my way if necessary. That would only insult Daniel’s pride.

  “I’m rather glad they’re away for a while, to tell the truth,” he said. “It gives you a chance to concentrate on your husband and son, and not get any more silly ideas in your head.”

  “Daniel Sullivan, don’t you dare talk to me like that,” I said angrily.

  “I think it’s just grand to be a wife and mother, but I’ll get all the silly ideas I want, thank you very much.”

  He laughed again. “I love it when you’re angry. Actually I was afraid you were becoming too docile of late. Not the wild Molly from Ireland I first fell in love with.”

  “If you say any more patronizing things to me, you’ll still find me wild enough, I’ll warrant,” I said, giving him a challenging stare that made him laugh all the more. I came around the table to him and he grabbed my wrist, drawing me down toward him.

  “And I wouldn’t mind a good wrestle either,” he said, his face now inches from mine. “I’ve been so damned preoccupied that we’ve hardly had a good….”

  Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass somewhere at the front of the house. Daniel and I broke apart and were on our feet instantly. “What the hell—” Daniel started to say as he made for the hallway. He had just reached the kitchen door, with me hot on his heels, when there was a tremendous boom. A great blast flung me off my feet, sucking all the air out of my lungs. As I was hurled backward I got an impression of a wall of flame, hurtling toward me before I crashed into the wall, hitting my head. Stars flashed before my eyes as a wave of pain came over me and I think I might have passed out. When I came to my senses I was lying with debris on top of me.

  My ears were ringing, my head swimming, and I was still fighting to breathe. I pushed a chair and what felt like big chunks of plaster from me and staggered to my feet. The air was so thick with smoke and dust that I found it hard to make out where I was. I felt the edge of the kitchen table, solid pine and still standing, and moved around it. In the darkness I could hear the crackle of flame but no other sound. Somewhere in that black and smoking hell were my husband and son.

  “Daniel!” I tried to shout but my voice came out rasping, like a bird’s caw. I pushed my way forward. “Daniel!” I tried again. The light from the fire, or maybe from the streetlamp outside, cast an unreal glow through the thick smoke. Where the hallway had been was now a pile of smoking rubble, and beneath it I spotted Daniel’s foot. With utter desperation I threw off one chunk of plaster after another, pieces of glass, pieces of what had once been the hallstand, a hook with my new hat still attached to it.

  “Daniel.” I dropped to my knees beside him and turned him over. His face was blackened, like a chimney sweep’s, with a nasty gash across his forehead. His jacket had been torn away and his shirt ripped. I lifted him gently and cradled his head in my hands. “Daniel, wake up, please.”

  I took his wrist and was relieved to feel a pulse. Still alive then. Must get him free of all this. Out of here. I dragged him back into the kitchen and opened the back door, letting in cold fresh air. I couldn’t wait a second longer to see if he was going to wake up. All I could think about was Liam. He’d been upstairs in his crib, in his nursery at the front of the house. As I tried to pick my way over the rubble in the hall I heard coughing behind me, a curse and a groan. Daniel was sitting up, his hand to his chest, trying to breathe.

  “Daniel.” I rushed back to him. “Get up. Help me. Liam’s upstairs. It’s all on fire.”

  He staggered to his feet. “Liam,” he gasped and came after me. We made our way down the hall, staggering like two drunks on a Saturday night. When we reached the place where the stairs should have been there was just a gaping hole with the upper steps hanging crazily over nothing.

  “My son’s up there!” I screamed, my voice coming back to me now. “And Aggie. Aggie!” I shouted her name. The only reply was the crackle of flames and the shifting of some beam.

  “Get help,” I tugged at his arm. “Get the fire brigade. A ladder.”

  Like an automaton Daniel made for the hole where the front door had been. I followed him, feeling the welcome cold rain on me. A crowd was gathering outside. I could see faces lit with the eerie red glow of the fire.

  “My baby!” I screamed, rushing up to the nearest figure in the darkness. “My baby is trapped upstairs. Get the fire brigade.”

  “I’ll get a ladder,” a man’s voice volunteered.

  “No time for that.” Daniel was already hauling himself onto a window ledge.

  “Give me a leg up, boys.”

  “You don’t want to go up there. It’s all on fire,” someone shouted.

  “My son is up there,” Daniel said grimly. “Help me.”

  “Daniel, no!” I shouted. “Be careful.”

  Two burly men helped Daniel haul himself to the top of the window frame and I watched him reach for the upper window. The glass had shattered and flames were licking out of it. Someone had started a bucket chain in a pathetically futile attempt to put out the fire.

  Each time a bucket of water was thrown through a broken window there was a sizzling noise and steam rose, but the fire didn’t subside. I watched Daniel haul himself inside, wanting him to go and not go at the same time. My heart was hammering. I found that I was holding my breath. In the distance I heard the bells of a fire engine, coming from the Jefferson Market station nearby. Then horses’ hoofs drumming on the cobbles and shouts of: “Out of the way! Stand clear!”

  And a fire engine appeared at the entrance to our alleyway. A hose was unwound. It all seemed to happen in slow motion as the firemen ran toward us.

  “What happened?”

  “There was an explosion,” someone in the cr
owd said.

  “Gas main blew up? Someone turned on the gas and forgot to light it?”

  Water was now being aimed at the front of our house, sending up a curtain of steam and smoke that hid the window into which Daniel had disappeared.

  I grabbed a fireman. “My husband is up there,” I said. “And my baby, and the nursemaid.”

  A ladder was placed against the wall. One of the firemen went up it and I heard him say, “Over here, sir. Come on. I’ll get you out.” And a blackened, singed Daniel appeared at the window, clutching a bundle wrapped in a blanket in his arms. He handed it to the fireman then lowered himself onto the ladder and came down. I pushed past the firemen and ran to grab the bundle.

  “My baby.” I could hear myself sobbing as I snatched him from the fireman’s arms. “Give me my baby.”

  “Just a minute, missus. Let’s take a look, shall we?” I could hear from the tone of his voice that he wanted to spare me the sight of my child, burned and dead. I opened the blanket. A pair of terrified eyes looked up at me and he held out his little arms, letting out a huge wail. I grabbed him and held him tightly to me while he cried against my cheek. Daniel joined us, wrapping the two of us in a fierce embrace.

  Also by Rhys Bowen The Molly Murphy Mysteries The Family Way

  Hush Now, Don’t You Cry

  Bless the Bride

  The Last Illusion

  In a Gilded Cage

  Tell Me, Pretty Maiden

  In Dublin’s Fair City

  Oh Danny Boy

  In Like Flynn

  For the Love of Mike

  Death of Riley

  Murphy’s Law

  The Constable Evans Mysteries Evanly Bodies

  Evan Blessed

  Evan’s Gate

  Evan Only Knows

  Evans to Betsy

  Evan Can Wait

  Evan and Elle

  Evanly Choirs

  Evan Help Us

  Evans Above

  About the Author

  RHYS BOWEN is the author of the Anthony and Agatha Award-winning Molly Murphy mysteries, the Edgar Award-nominated Evan Evans series, and the Royal Spyness series. Born in England, she lives in San Rafael, California.