by Rhys Bowen
At that moment a hand grabbed my shoulder. I looked around frantically for the policeman, then found that I was staring up into his face and it was his hand that held me.
“Holy Mother of God,” I exclaimed. “You scared the daylights out of me, officer. What do you think you are doing? Do I look like a pickpocket to you?”
His angular boyish face flushed with embarrassment. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I believe I know who you are. Miss Murphy, is it not? I was sent to find you by Captain Sullivan.”
“By Captain Sullivan?” I blurted out as the crowd parted around us. “Of all the nerve. He daren't face me himself so he sends one of his underlings to do it now, does he?”
“I'm sorry, Miss,” he repeated again. “But it’s important. Captain Sullivan really needs to speak to you and you haven't answered his letters.”
“Of course I haven't answered his letters and I don't intend to speak to him either. That should be quite obvious by now. He and I have nothing more to say to each other.”
“So you won't come with me to speak to him?”
I shook my head. “Absolutely not. You can tell Captain Sullivan that our acquaintanceship is at an end and I have no wish to speak to him again. And if he continues to annoy me, I'll complain about him to his superiors. Is that clear enough for you?”
The young constable’s embarrassment grew. “Then I have no alternative, Miss. I'm only obeying orders, mark you, but I'm placing you under arrest.” With that he clapped a handcuff onto one wrist before I knew what was happening to me.
I stared down at the wrist in horror and indignation. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! How dare you! Release me this minute or I'll make the biggest fuss you can imagine.”
“I'm really sorry, Miss Murphy, but I've been told to bring you to Captain Sullivan and bring you I will, even if I have to carry you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.”
“I'd like to see you try,” I said. “Now let me out of this contraption at once.”
A crowd was gathering around us.
“Do you need any help, officer?” a distinguished looking man stepped forward. “Should I summon assistance for you?”
“I think I can handle her, thank you,” the constable said, “but she’s a feisty one, I'll grant you that. A string of outstanding warrants for her arrest as long as your arm.”
“Don't listen to him,” I shouted. “I'm being kidnapped, against my will. I'm a respectable woman. I've done nothing wrong.”
“If you could just hail that hansom for me, I'd be most grateful,” the constable said, wiping the sweat from his brow as I squirmed to break free of him.
The cabby reined in his horse and I was bundled inside by willing hands.
“The Tombs, as fast as you can,” the constable shouted up to the driver and we took off at a lively trot.
“The Tombs? Have you taken leave of your senses?” I demanded, suddenly feeling frightened. “You're taking me to jail? On what charge? Is this Daniel Sullivan’s idea of a joke?”
The constable shook his head. “It’s no joke, Miss. It’s deadly serious I'm afraid, or the captain wouldn't have had you brought in this way. But he had no alternative. He’s in serious trouble, Miss Murphy. He’s under arrest and being held in the Tombs pending his trial.”
I had been looking out of the hansom, wondering if I had any way of making my escape. Now I spun around to face the constable. “Daniel, under arrest? What has he done?”
“I'm not quite sure of the details, Miss. He'll have to tell you himself. I only know that the whole police force has turned against him. There’s only a few of us he can trust, me being one of them, and that’s why he sent me to fetch you. He needs your help.”
“He doesn't deserve my help,” I said.
“But you will speak to him, won't you? I don't want to see a fine officer like Captain Sullivan going to jail.”
I sighed. “All right. I suppose I'll have to see him.” Inside my head a small voice whispered that a stint in jail wouldn't hurt Daniel Sullivan. It would serve him right. But even I couldn't take revenge that far. “But I want these handcuffs removed immediately,” I added. “I'm not going to be seen entering the city jail in handcuffs. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
The constable grinned and clicked open the cuff. “Sorry, Miss. Captain Sullivan would never have forgiven me if you'd done a bolt on me.”
I peered out of the cab as it turned onto Center Street and slowed outside the imposing pillared entry to the city jail, commonly known as the Tombs. The nickname came from the architecture, supposedly copied from an ancient Egyptian tomb. But it carried with it a more sinister connotation these days. People who were sent there for a stint didn't always come out alive. The building was notoriously damp and the crowding led to typhoid, consumption, cholera—those same sicknesses that plagued the tenements and flared up during the heat of summer.
“Here we are, Miss.” The constable sprang down and offered me his hand.
There had been some major rebuilding going on since I was last here. Scaffolding covered the whole of one wall and the chink of mason’s hammers echoed as we emerged from the cab. A cloud of fine dust hung in the air. The papers had reported that the whole edifice was finally subsiding into the mud and in danger of collapsing on the inmates' heads any moment. Like many New York buildings, it had been constructed over a former stream or pond. Hence the continual complaints about the damp.
I coughed and put my hand to my mouth as I was ushered in through the front door. Inside was noticeably cool and dark after the heat radiating up from the sidewalks. An exchange I couldn't quite hear took place between the constable and the officer sitting at a desk. The latter glanced up at me, nodded, then got to his feet and produced a giant set of keys.
“This way then,” he said. “Mind your step.” He led us down along, dark hallway, finally opening a door into a bleak and Spartan room containing a couple of straight backed chairs, both rather the worse for wear. He turned on a switch and the room was bathed in harsh electric light. The green paint on the brick walls was peeling in places so that the original brick showed through with interesting adornments of mold. It smelled moldy and damp too, with a hint of urine, If the building was being renovated, they clearly hadn't reached this part of it yet.
“Wait here, please,” the warder said. “And just ten minutes, mind you or it’s more than my job’s worth.” He retreated, shutting the door behind us with a hollow clanging finality. The constable offered me a chair. I sat and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Now that I was about to see Daniel again, my heart was pounding so violently that I could hardly breathe. Outside it had been so hot that my thin muslin dress was damp with perspiration. Now I started shivering. In fact for one horrible moment, I felt that I might faint. Having never worn a corset in my life, I was not prone to swooning and the cold, clammy feeling was alarming. As I leaned back and closed my eyes, I heard distant footsteps echoing on a stone floor. Then a scraping sound as a partition was slid open in the far wall and I found myself staring at Daniel’s face through an iron grille.
“Molly!” he exclaimed. “You came. Thank God.”
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Coypright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
>
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Historical Note
Backmatter