Death of Riley (14 page)

“Lord Edgemont?” He gave me a saucy grin as soon as we were out of the elevator and walking down the plushly carpeted hallway. “You don't seem his type.”

“And you don't seem smart enough to hold a job for long if you make remarks like that to the customers,” I replied, but with a smile.

“Go on,” he said, “you're not a swell.”

Obviously the two-dollar suit was not as expensivelooking as I had thought. I would have to observe and practice getting inside other characters, as Paddy had said. It was no use dressing like another person if you didn't feel like that other person inside. One little wrong gesture and the cover was blown. I still had a lot of learning to do. Too bad Paddy wouldn't be around to teach me.

The cheeky bellhop tapped on the polished wood door at the far end of the hallway. The man who opened it was not what I had been expecting. He was old, with a bald pate and wisps of white hair around it. He had the serene, innocent face of an elderly monk, not in any way that of a famous seducer.

“A young lady to discuss business with his lordship,” the boy said jauntily.

The elderly man looked me up and down.

“His lordship is currently breakfasting,” he said. “Does the young lady have an appointment?”

“No, but the matter is of the highest importance.” This time I tried to think snooty thoughts as I spoke. I saw those apparently gende old eyes sizing up that my costume was not of the finest Irish linen but of the thirtynine-cent-a-yard variety of locally made broadcloth.

“Please wait here and I will inform his lordship.” The elderly man bowed and disappeared, leaving us standing in the hallway. I heard a loud, hearty voice demand, “Who did you say it was, Carstairs?”

“A young woman, m'lord.”

“Of our acquaintance?”

“I think not, m'lord.”

“Pretty?”

“I would say so, although not your lordship's type.”

I saw the boy beside me smirk. I gave him my newly acquired haughty stare. “I think you may go now,” I said to him. “You'll be needed downstairs and I can find my own way down.”

The boy looked at me doubtfully but went under the intensity of my gaze.

“Oh, bring her in, Carstairs,” the hearty voice boomed. “A nice glimpse of ankle should liven up what has been a gloomy morning until now.”

The door was opened. “His lordship will see you, Miss—”

“Murphy,” I said.

He led me through an ornate sitting room with a large red plush sofa and two leather armchairs. The room beyond was a bedroom, thus a completely unsuitable place to receive a young lady, but it seemed his lordship didn't abide by the rules. He was sitting at a small table by the window with a silver salver before him, on which a single boiled egg sat in solitary splendor. His lordship was engrossed in dipping thin slices of bread and butter into a soft-boiled egg. He was instantly identifiable as an English gentleman—long, lanky, with a thin, lugubrious face, hooked nose and nondescript-color hair. He looked up when he saw me, appraised me for a second and nodded with approval.

“Miss Murphy, m'lord,” Carstairs said.

“Ah, Miss Murphy, do take a seat. I'd offer you coffee, but they've only sent up one cup. But do feel free to join in the egg-dipping, should hunger strike.” Carstairs pulled out the chair opposite for me and I perched at the edge of it.

“I always start the day with my boiled egg and fingers. Nanny thought I had a delicate stomach, y'know. She used to call them soldiers.” He waved one of the thin strips of bread at me before dunking it in the yolk and popping it into his mouth. “To what do I owe this delightful visit?”

“A small matter of business, m'lord. And I'm sorry to trouble you on a Saturday morning, but I wanted you to be apprised of a delicate situation.”

“Oh, weally?” I noticed he didn't pronounce his i?’s correctly. “Of what delicate situation are we speaking?” He dipped another finger of bread and butter into his egg.

“I have just taken over the running of a small business, m'lord—”

“If it's money that's owed you, then you'll have to wait like everybody else.” He looked up defiantly.

“I assure you it's nothing to do with money, m'lord. As I said, I have just taken over this small business, owing to the sad demise of the senior partner. On going through our books, I find that one of our clients is your wife, the Lady Clarissa.”

“Good lord. Clarissa? What on earth does she want?”

“A divorce, it would seem. I thought you should know.”

He looked startled for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Oh, she's playing that game again, is she? Stupid female.”

“Again?” I asked.

“She does it every time I stay away too long. Doesn't really want a divorce, of course. She only married me for the title. If the divorce went through, she'd be back to being plain old Aggie Sugg—which was her name before she went on the music hall stage—and that wouldn't suit her at all. So don't worry your pretty little head, my dear. I'll send her a telegram promising to come home like a good boy on the next boat, and all will be forgiven.” He leaned confidentially toward me. “Between the two of us, I rather fear that I've outstayed my welcome in New York. Too many creditors knocking on the door, if you know what I mean.”

“So we may consider your case closed and not proceed any further with it?” I got to my feet.

“Oh, absolutely. I'm running home to Nanny to be a good boy again.” He gave me an endearing grin.

“May I ask your lordship one small question, if you don't think it impertinent of me?” He nodded and wiped egg from his chin with a large damask napkin.

“Would your lordship confirm, confidentially, of course, that you were in a private dining room at Delmonico's with Miss Kitty Le Grange on Monday last?”

The genial countenance changed. He got to his feet too. He was tall—at least six feet—and he towered over me. “What the devil do you want? Blackmail, is that what it's all about? Because you've come to the wrong place if it is. For one thing, I have no funds to pay you and for another, my recent dalliance with Miss Le Grange is common knowledge among the gossipmongers of New York.”

“I assure you that I am not a blackmailer,” I said. “I came here to spare you embarrassment, not to cause it.”

“Then what in blazes do you want?” He was still rattled.

“I am merely trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle that is only coincidentally to do with you and Miss Le Grange. My senior partner went to observe a couple in a private dining room last Monday. Something significant happened to him after he left. So if I knew you were the couple seen at Delmonico's, it would be a great help.”

He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “I can't wemember if we were actually there on Monday night, but it is a place we frequently dine together. So let's assume that we were there. Then what?”

“Then one piece of my puzzle falls into place. I am so sorry to have troubled you, m'lord. I thank you for granting me the interview.”

“Oh, not at all. The pleasure was entirely mine.” He gave a stiff little bow. “Carstairs will show you out.”

As I descended in the elevator I decided that I could cross Lord Edgemont off my list of suspects. He had no motive to kill. He was right: his dalliance with Miss Kitty Le Grange was well-known among New York society. He had run through his money and was about to retreat back to England with his tail between his legs. So nothing Paddy Riley could have discovered would have been a matter of life or death to him—unless, of course, he was a good actor and there was something that I, the bumbling newcomer, had not managed to uncover. Too late now, I decided as the elevator opened on the ground floor and the operator slid back the folding ironwork door for me. I had put my cards on the table. It was now up to Lord Edgemont to make the next move.

Th
irteen

I walked down Thirty-fourth Street to the El station, climbed the steps and waited on the platform. It was almost deserted at this late-morning hour, in contrast to the jostling crowds at the stations of Lower Manhattan. Most people here would not deign to take the El. Either they had carriages of their own, or they took a hansom. Apart from me and an elderly gentleman half hidden behind
The New York Times,
there were a couple of ladies in smart silk outfits, parasols open against the sun, probably traveling downtown to the Ladies' Mile and a spot of Saturday shopping. The platform vibrated, announcing the arrival of a train, and it came into view, gliding effortlessly into the station. The Sixth Avenue line was one of the few that had switched to electric locomotives that year. What a wonderful invention, indeed. No longer were passengers to be blackened by soot from the engine as they rode or pedestrians to be peppered with hot coals as they stood on the sidewalks beneath the rails.

I climbed in and we headed south. To tell the truth, I always feel uncomfortable riding in the El. Such intimate glimpses into other people's lives as the train passes second-floor windows. In one house a child was sitting on a chamber pot, in another, a mother was breast-feeding her baby. Neither looked up as the train rattled past. But it started me thinking again—what exacdy had Paddy said to me when I had come in on him to find him scribbling in his black book? Not at Delmonico's. Later. Was it possible that he had witnessed something in a lighted window from this very train? No, I was sure that he had said it was a tavern and that it was something he had overheard rather than seen.

I alighted at Jefferson Market, just to the north of Washington Square and Greenwich Village. This would have been the first possible station that Paddy could have left the train. I came down the steps to find the Saturdaymorning market in full swing. A woman passed me holding a live chicken, which flapped and squawked in protest. A man wheeled a barrow of oranges and bananas. Such luxuries to be bought for pennies! Back home in Ireland, oranges were a treat in the Christmas stocking and bananas such a novelty that most of us had never seen one!

I passed the market, lifting my new skirts to avoid the debris in the street, and stood on the corner trying to work out which route Paddy would have taken to his home. It appeared that Christopher Street would be the straightest shot at the docks, although it was hard to tell. Unlike the rest of New York City, where avenues ran from north to south and streets from east to west, this little section south of the Washington Square Arch was a higgledy-piggledy mess. Alleys and narrow backstreets went off in all directions. And every one, it seemed, contained some kind of tavern or cafe. I would just have to be methodical and explore them one by one.

At that moment a bell began to toll above my head. I thought it must be ringing the hour until a voice behind me commented, “Six strokes. That will be Bleecker Street then.”

Before I could turn to ask what his cryptic remark meant, a fire truck burst forth from somewhere in the market complex, scattering crowds with pounding hooves and clanging bells.

After it had disappeared, I set off in an attempt to crisscross the area, first down Sixth Avenue, until I struck Fourth Street. This should take me straight across to the Hudson, I thought. I kept walking with no river in sight until the position of the sun told me I was heading due north. I had come across the one numbered street in New York that did not play by the rules.

Not that I was in a panic, as I might have been about becoming lost in certain areas of the city. This was all rather quiet and tranquil, with sidewalk cafes, bakeries and houses that looked as if they had been built in other cities and carted to New York. There were no faceless rows here. Every house had its own character, from wrought-iron balconies reminiscent of the South to severe New England clapboard. And between and behind the streets were narrow back alleys, likewise filled with dwellings. It was definitely an area worth exploring, but most frustrating for my present quest. How was I to guess which of those narrow backstreets might contain the very tavern where Riley had sat that night?

I gave up on the search and decided it would make more sense to locate his boardinghouse first, then work backward from there. Maybe his landlady and other tenants could give me more information on his drinking habits. I kept going until, by sheer luck, I stumbled across Barrow Street and followed it westward to the Hudson River. It, too, wound around and it was several long blocks before the salty tang in the air announced that my quest was nearing an end.

The boardinghouse was most unprepossessing, in fact not the kind of place I would have entered willingly. As I approached the front door, a sailor exited with a brightly painted girl on his arm, making me double-check on the house number. Mrs. O'Shaunessey's, Riley had said, and there was the name on a faded wooden sign above the front door, O'SHAUNESSEY'S BOARDINGHOUSE. WEEKLY AND MONTHLY RATES. I rang the doorbell and waited. The door was opened by a large, untidy-looking woman with a dirty dish towel in her hands. “Yes?” she demanded sharply.

“Are you Mrs. O'Shaunessey?” I asked politely. “And who wants to know?”

“I understand that Mr. Paddy Riley used to live here,” I said.

“He did. God rest his poor soul.” She crossed herself, the dish towel still in her hand.

“I’m Molly Murphy.” I held out my hand, even though I wasn't too keen on touching her wet and greasy one. “I used to work for Paddy. I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

“I’m doing the washing-up from breakfast,” she said. “I got behindhand today. Had to call in the police to get a drunken layabout evicted, but you can come in if you want.” She led me down a narrow dark hallway that smelled of boiled cabbage and drains and into a dark, dank kitchen beyond.

“So what sort of work was it you were doing for Mr. Riley?” she asked, picking up a large saucepan to dry.

“I was his business associate. He was training me.”

“You? A young woman?” She laughed uneasily. “I thought he couldn't stand the sight of women. Me excepted, of course.”

“I understand he thought very highly of you.”

The stern expression softened. “He did indeed. I always took good care of him—I did his laundry and cooked his breakfast every day. Kept his room clean for him. He told me he never remembered his own mother, but I was as close as he'd ever come to having a mother look after him.”