In Dublin’s City

by Rhys Bowen

  “You’re calling yourself Mary Delaney, are you not? And supposedly you’ve come over from America. But there's no Mary Delaney registered at any hotel in Dublin. So why are you using an assumed name if you’re all above board?”

  “Did it never occur to you that I might be staying with my family?”

  “Possible,” he said, “but you’ve been observed going in and out of the Shelbourne Hotel, where you must be staying under another name.”

  He leaned back, tipping the gilt-edged chair and stretching out his long legs. “So, to start with, you could tell me your real name and why you’ve been asking so many questions about Terrence Moynihan and Mary Ann Burke. And what you’re doing here and who is paying you.”

  “As for what I am doing here and why I’ve been asking questions, that's easily answered and I’ve nothing to hide,” I said. “If this is a civilized conversation, as you say it is, may I not sit down? I am at a disadvantage standing up while you seem quite at ease, and I’m actually still quite dizzy after being deprived of air under that rug or whatever it was. Horse blanket probably. It certainly smelled of animals.”

  He smiled again. On any other occasion I would have thought he had a bewitching smile, but at this moment his complete ease was unnerving me. I was all too aware that this man knew he had the power of life and death over me and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

  “My apologies for the condition of the horse blanket,” he said.“Pray do take a seat. Brendan, could you find the young lady something to drink? Will water do, or do you need something stronger to steady your nerves?”

  “Water would do just fine, thank you,” I said. “I have no need of spirits.”

  He nodded as if he approved of this. I sat on the nearest chair.

  “Proceed,” he said. “You’re going to tell us why we shouldn’t be concerned about all the questions you’ve been asking.”

  “All right.” I leaned toward him. “My name is Molly Murphy, and I am a private investigator in New York City. I was hired by an Irishman who has lived in America for most of his life to come to Ireland to try and find his sister, Mary Ann, who was left behind when the family fled during the famine. I have traced her as far as Dublin, where I understood she was living with a man called Terrence Moynihan. Hence my visit to the Gaelic League poetry reading. I was sure that other poets might know of Mr. Moynihan's whereabouts.”

  “And did they?”

  “One of them told me that he’d died in jail at least ten years ago.”

  “That is correct. Terrence Moynihan was arrested because of an inflammatory pamphlet he wrote on civil disobedience. He was thrown into a jail cell, awaiting trial, and caught consumption while he was there. He never had the strongest of constitutions, and he didn’t last out the year.”

  “If you know this, then what became of Mary Ann?”

  He shook his head. “I have no knowledge of a wife. Within the Brotherhood we keep personal details to ourselves. You can’t reveal under torture what you don’t know. That's why most of the boys choose nicknames these days. It's better not to know.”

  “You’re with the Irish republicans then? The secret society called the Brotherhood?”

  He nodded. “That's correct.”

  “If it's so secret, why risk identifying yourself to me?”

  He smiled again. “Because, my dear, if we discover that you are some kind of informer, and you’re working for the hated English, you’ll not be leaving this house alive.”

  “You wouldn’t really kill me,” I said, with more bravado than I felt.

  “I wouldn’t want to, but if it was your life versus fifty or a hundred others, then I’d have to sacrifice you for the common good, just as I’ve been prepared to sacrifice myself for the common good. It's our cause that counts, not individual lives.” He looked up as the door opened. “Ah good. A glass of water for Miss Murphy.”

  I took it and drank, gratefully.

  “I don’t know what I have to say to convince you that I am not a spy of the English,” I said, as I put the empty glass down on the table. “I’m exactly who I say I am.”

  “I assure you it won’t be hard to check out your story. But if you are merely an investigator, looking for one Mary Ann Burke, what were you doing chasing one of our young men the other night? I am told you chased one of our lads and asked about him all over the Liberties?”

  “That's also an easy question to answer. I chased him because he's my brother.”

  For the first time I saw I had surprised him. “Your brother?”

  “His name is Liam Murphy, is it not? And I am Molly Murphy, his older sister. Of course I wanted to speak to him. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing in Dublin when I had left him as a fifteen-year-old boy in county Mayo.”

  The man in the chair snapped his fingers. “Brendan, do you know this Liam Murphy that she is talking about?”

  “I do, sir. He's just joined us. A new recruit.”

  “Then go and have the boy fetched right away.”

  “He's likely to be out making merry on a Saturday night,” the young man who had brought me the water answered.

  “I don’t care if he's in bed with his fancy girl, you tell him I want to see him right now. This is the army, boy, the republican army, and you’d better get used to it.”

  “Sorry, sir. I’ll bring him right away,” the lad mumbled and disappeared.

  Twenty-three

  Iwas left alone in the room with the charismatic man. He seemed relaxed and pleasant and yet the tension in the air was so strong you could cut it with a knife. I had the feeling that he could just as easily snap his fingers and command one of those boys to end my life, if he so chose. I wanted to ask him his name, but I didn’t dare. I found that my knees were shaking and was glad that they were hidden by my skirts. But I wasn’t about to play the helpless female. I had the feeling that all the strange things that had happened to me so far on this journey must be somehow linked, and that the man in the gilt chair knew the answers.

  Then there were voices in the hallway outside. I looked around, expecting Liam to enter through the double doors. Instead the last person in the world I expected to see came in. It was Grania Hyde-Borne, the society lady.

  “What is going on, Cullen, my sweetest,” she said, crossing the room to the man and putting her delicate gloved hand on his shoulder. “I go to the theater, and when I return I hear the boys mumbling about kidnapping a spy.”

  “You tipped us off to her yourself, Grania,” he said.

  “I did?” Grania turned those lovely eyes on me and registered surprise. “You? You were at the reception after the play the other night. You’re the one who knows Ryan O’Hare.”

  “And she was also at the Gaelic League tonight, asking questions about Terrence Moynihan.”

  “I see.” Grania perched on the edge of the sofa, close to the man. “And have we found out why she's so interested in knowing what happened to Terry?”

  “I’ve explained to this gentleman,” I said. “I’m an investigator from New York City, and I was sent over here to try and locate a Mary Ann Burke, who was left behind by her family when they came to America during the famine. That's the whole story. I’m no spy, I’m not interested in your republican struggles, and I’m no danger to anyone, so please just let me go about my business.”

  “Not as easy as that, sweetheart,” the man said.

  “Oh, come now, Cullen,” Grania leaned over and patted his knee. “Aren’t you overreacting? I’m sure she's as harmless as she looks.”

  “Just a minute,” I said as the wheels in my brain started working. “Your name is Cullen? Not Cullen Quinlan, the playwright everyone was talking about the other night? But you can’t be. He's dead.”

  “Have you not heard of the resurrection of the flesh?” Cullen asked, turning to Grania with a grin. “Cullen Quinlan in the flesh, my darlin’, alive and well, but a playwright no longer.”

  “But how?” I began.

  “For your info
rmation I was being held in a damned English jail. One of our boys was due to be hanged. They allowed a bevy of priests to come in and hear our confessions. Twelve priests came in and twelve went out again—only I was one of those twelve, looking very humble with my Franciscan hood over my head. The real Franciscan stayed behind, and only gave the alarm that he’d been overpowered, tied up, and gagged when he knew I was already on a ship bound for France. I’ve been in hiding in France ever since.”

  “So what on earth are you doing back in Ireland?” I blurted out. “Surely there is a price on your head?”

  “Bound to be,” he said easily. “But what the Brotherhood needs now is leadership. We were in tatters. And there's such apathy among the masses, even though home rule has suffered defeat after defeat. Most of them don’t care if we’re ruled by England or by the Queen of Sheba as long as they get their daily crust of bread and their pint of stout. Someone has to breathe the fire into them, and right now I’m the only one who can do it.”

  “If anyone can do it, you can, Cullen,” Grania said adoringly.

  “As long as the enemy doesn’t find out my whereabouts,” Cullen said.

  “Who would ever suspect that the fun-loving society hostess, Grania Hyde-Borne, was harboring a dangerous criminal at her house,” Grania said, looking delighted with herself. “Keeping you here was a stroke of genius, though I say so myself.”

  “But what about your husband,” I said, “what about your servants?”

  “My husband is currently at our house in London, and most of the servants with him,” Grania said. “Unfortunately I could not travel with him because of my health. Those servants who have stayed on here with me, I’d trust with my life. So we’re completely safe, unless the English are using subtler means these days—innocent-looking young girls, for example.”

  They were both staring at me, but I’d had enough of being accused.

  “I’m Irish born and bred,” I said. “Do you think I’d work for the English? And I don’t know why you are questioning me when it's I who should be questioning you. I came over here on a simple, innocent errand, minding my own business. You and your cronies are the ones who have used me to your own advantage and put my life in danger.”

  “Used you? How so?” Cullen asked.

  “Those trunks. I presume they were destined for you and your men. Did you think I wouldn’t look inside? And what if the customs men or the police had looked inside? I would have been the one who would be in jail right now, probably awaiting execution.”

  “What trunks are these?” Cullen asked.

  “Don’t pretend you know nothing about the trunks full of rifles, shipped in my name,” I said. “I take it that Oona Sheehan is in league with you, or were you using her against her knowledge too?”

  “Oona Sheehan?” Cullen asked sharply, sitting forward in his chair. “God Almighty, what's she got to do with anything?”

  “She was the one the trunks belonged to. She was the one who tricked me into changing cabins with her on the ship and . . .” I broke off as my thoughts went one step further. “Was it you who had RoseMcCreedy killed? Did she know what was in the trunks and start to talk when she should have kept silent?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Cullen said. “I know of no trunks, nor any Rose McCreedy.”

  “Rose McCreedy was Miss Sheehan's maid. She was murdered in Miss Sheehan's cabin, which I was occupying at the time.”

  “I know nothing of any of this,” Cullen said, “and I can assure you that the Brotherhood doesn’t go around killing maids.”

  “Let me intervene here. I’m the one who knows about the trunks,” Grania said.

  “A shipment of arms arrived, and I wasn’t told?” Cullen said shortly. “Exactly what I’ve been saying about no chain of command here and the right hand not knowing what the left—”

  Grania held up her own small hand. “Keep your hair on, Cullen. You couldn’t have known, since we only received word of them yesterday in a telegraph cable from New York and I haven’t had a chance to speak to you since then. I gather they’ve been picked up and taken to a safe place, awaiting our instructions. So they were sent as part of Oona's luggage, were they? God bless her.”

  “God bless her?” I said angrily. “She tricked me into taking her place and impersonating her on the ship, into having the trunks shipped as part of my luggage. I was the one who fell under suspicion when her maid was murdered. For all I know, I may still be under suspicion.”

  Cullen was frowning now. “And who did you tell about the contents of these trunks?”

  “Why nobody, of course,” I said. “I guessed right away where the rifles were destined. I may not be an ardent patriot myself, but I wasn’t about to do anything to hinder the fight for freedom either.”

  “You hear that, Cullen,” Grania said. “She's one of us. I knew we could trust her.”

  “We’re not trusting her out of our sight, Grania,” Cullen said. “In fact, we’re now in a most difficult position as to what to do with her. We could put her on a boat back to America, but we’ll never be able to rest easy.”

  “You don’t have to do anything with me,” I said.

  Who knows how the conversation might have developed, but atthat moment there came the loud sound of footsteps, there was a knock on the door and several lads entered. In the midst of them was Liam, looking white-faced and afraid.

  I stood up, unprepared for the rush of emotion I felt on seeing my little brother, now a good head taller than me, his boyish faced replaced by the square jaw of a man.

  “Liam,” I said. I started toward him to give him a hug, then saw him back away.

  “Molly, it is you.” I saw his Adam's apple move up and down. “Holy Mother of God.”

  “Why did you run off last night? You didn’t want to acknowledge your own sister?”

  “At first I thought I was seeing a ghost,” he said. “And I’m not supposed to be here.” He glanced nervously around the room. “Nobody's supposed to know I’m here. It could ruin everything.”

  “I don’t know you, boy,” Cullen said sharply. “Why don’t I know you?”

  “I just got here, sir,” Liam said. “I’m with William O’Brien and his United Irish League, working up in the Northwest.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Cullen asked. “Has Mr. O’Brien given up his fight for land reform and decided to join our struggles?”

  “No, sir. Mr. O’Brien isn’t here with me. I came by myself when I heard the news.”

  “News? What news is this?”

  “About Kilmainham Gaol, sir. I thought I might be of help.”

  Cullen was frowning now. “You might be of help?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, my brother is one of the lads in Kilmainham. If there's a plan to rescue him, I want to be in on it.”

  “Who said anything about a plan?” Cullen demanded.

  “Mr. O’Brien got word of it and told me. He sent me down here with letters to the Brotherhood. I’ve signed on. I’ve been staying with these lads and helping out with whatever needs to be done.”

  “Our brother is in jail?” I asked, not thinking that it probably wasn’t wise to interrupt Cullen Quinlan. “You’re saying that Joseph is in jail?”

  Liam nodded, his face now looking ridiculously young and scared. “They’re going to hang him, Molly.”

  “Holy Mother of God, what did he do?” I asked. “Killed a man, by mistake, mark you. He was only trying to protect Malachy.”

  “Malachy?” I felt a cold hand clutching at my heart at the mention of my youngest brother, the one who had always been my favorite. “What's been going on, Liam?”

  Liam shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Plenty's been going on since you left, Molly. Da went to pieces after you disappeared. He started drinking too much. You know he's always been a one for his drink, but it got really bad and the house became no better than a pigsty. The Hartleys sacked him right away because he couldn’t do the work, and he just sort of
gave up. Then Joseph and he got into a fight—a real fight, mind you, with fisticuffs, and Joseph took off and left. I couldn’t stand it there either, but I wouldn’t leave because of young Malachy. Then Da fell into the river on his way home from the pub one night and drowned.”

  “Drowned? You’re saying our father is dead?” He nodded, pressing his lips together.

  “God rest his soul,” I muttered, wondering if I actually felt grief at this news. “And Malachy? What's happened to him?”

  “I tried to carry on and look after Malachy,” he said, “but the next thing I know, I’m told that the Hartleys needed our cottage back, and I find that they’ve put Malachy up for sale.”

  “For sale?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Like a slave, you mean? I don’t believe it. This is the twentieth century. Such things can’t be allowed.”

  “Oh, but they are. They have hiring fairs all over where the farmers come to buy young boys as indentured servants. No better than slaves, really. Just like buying a new farm horse. Well, I went and found Joseph. It turned out that he had already joined the United Irish League and was working with Mr. O’Brien trying to pressure the big landowners to hand over land to their tenants like the law says they should. Well, Joseph was always the one with a temper. He was fighting mad, I can tell you. ‘We’re not letting those bastards sell Malachy into slavery,’ he said. So off he went with a group of lads to rescue him. There was a bit of a fight and men came at them with clubs and guns. Our lads foughtback, and a land agent got beaten up and killed. The Irish League managed to spirit away young Malachy and myself, but Joseph was on the run and he got caught. And he put up a fight then too, and damaged a few members of the constabulary, so I hear. So naturally they threw the book at him. He's sentenced to be hanged.”

  Unwittingly my hand went up to make the sign of the cross. My father dead, two brothers on the run and in hiding, and one sentenced to be hanged. It was almost more than I could take in. Grania must have sensed this. She came over to me.