In Dublin's Fair City (18 page)

“The young lady here is asking about a Dublin poet, and I’ve nevercome across him. The name's Moynihan. Terrence Moynihan. Mean anything to you?”

The shabby man got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and came over to us.

“I remember Terry Moynihan,” he said. “He wrote some fine stuff.” “Is he still in Dublin?” I asked excitedly. “I’d dearly love to hear him read his poems.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Kevin said. “But alas, poor Terry is no more. He had a little mix up with the Royal Irish Constabulary, and he was thrown in jail and never came out again.”

“How long ago was this?” I asked.

He thought for a while. “Ten years, at least, I’d say.”

“And what about his wife? Do you know what happened to her?”

He shook his head. “Terrence had no wife that I knew of.”

“Well, they probably wouldn’t have been legally married,” I said. “I heard that he ran away with another man's wife. Her name was Mary Ann. Mary Ann Kelly when she was married, but before that it was Mary Ann Burke.”

Kevin shook his head again. “Never met her. If Terry had her in Dublin with him, then he kept her hidden away.” He was still frowning as he examined me. “But how would you know about Terrence Moyni-han? Surely you’d have been nothing more than a little girl when Ter-rence was alive—certainly too young to appreciate the kind of political poetry that he wrote.”

“To tell the truth,” I said, as I weighed what truth I should be telling at this moment, “I was asked to look him up by a friend in New York who had been old enough to remember him in Dublin. You know what it's like when people hear that you’re paying a visit to the old country— they all have someone they want you to look up for them.”

“Is that a fact?” Kevin said. “I’ve never been out of Dublin myself.”

“A stick-in-the-mud, that's what you are, Kevin my boy,” Mr. Joyce said. “Travel broadens the mind, my friend. I aim to travel all over the world when I get through with my studies. I’ll expect you to show me around New York, Miss Delaney.”

“I’d be delighted to,” I said. “It's a grand city.”

“No city can beat old Dublin,” Kevin said morosely. “Those Irishmen who desert their motherland are no true Irishmen. That's what I say. Rats leaving the sinking ship, every one of you.”

He had just about reached that level of drunkenness that usually turns into fisticuffs with many Irishmen. Luckily I still had the matron beside me.

“Go back to your seat. Can’t you see they’re ready to begin,” she said, in such a commanding voice that Kevin meekly obeyed her.

The program started. There was a report on the local branch of the Gaelic League and the great strides being made in fostering our native art and culture. There were language classes being offered, Irish music sessions, people collecting folk tales and dances. For the first time since coming to Ireland I felt that charge of enthusiasm that was so often present in New York. These people really believed they were about to reawaken the spirit of the country.

If they planned to do so, it surely wasn’t with the poems of Desmond O’Connor. I think the best word to describe them is “long-winded.” In the first poem—”Sea voyage,” he took two pages just to describe the color of the sea, and then two more to describe the sound the sea made against the hull of the boat. Then he turned to the Gaelic and read the next pages in that language. I had to admit that the musical play at the Gaiety sounded like a much better way to spend an evening. But nobody else left so I was compelled to stick it out to the bitter end. I also wanted to make sure that nobody else present had any more information on Mary Ann and Terrence.

At last the poet finished to polite applause and we stood up stiffly. Some of the men made straight for the bar and another round of drinks. Demands for Jamesons echoed through the room as the menfolk moved on to stronger drink. Mr. Joyce had joined the crush at the bar. The matron was brushing herself down as if she might have picked up something unwanted on her clothing during the evening.

“A fine program, wasn’t it?” she said to me. “How long are you staying? You should join our language classes.”

“Not very long, I’m afraid,” I said, “Although I’d dearly love to learn.”

“My, but it's a difficult tongue.” She shook her head. “Quite a challenge at my age. But I shall conquer it eventually.”

With that she nodded to me. “Do you have someone to escort you home? Dublin is full of drunken rowdiness on a Saturday night.”

“My hotel is only a stone's throw away, thank you,” I said.

“I could arrange for someone to escort you without a problem,” she insisted.

“Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll be back at my hotel in five minutes.”

“Stay away from Grafton Street. It's full of drunken louts,” she warned, putting on her bonnet.

“Are you coming, Mrs. Boone?” An elderly priest stood waiting for her at the doorway.

“Coming, Father,” She glanced back at me with a concerned look as she went to join him.

I stayed around trying to find out from Kevin where Terrence Moynihan might have lived and who else might have known about him, but Kevin had sunk into the morose stage and kept muttering about the rats deserting their mother and going abroad. The men around the bar were becoming louder by the second, and it became clear that the respectable folk were going and I should probably join them.

I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and left the warmth and brightness of Davy Byrne's. The matron had been right about Grafton Street. I could hear drunken revelry going on from where I stood, so I decided to turn the other way on Duke Street and make my way back to St. Stephen's Green by back roads. Luckily the green was such a large landmark that it wouldn’t be hard to find it again, whichever route I took.

I reached the end of Duke Street and turned right, onto a quiet side road. After the noise and bustle, this street was poorly lit and deserted. One solitary lamp shone a circle of light onto the wet cobbles. They were uneven and slippery and I had to walk with care, so I was concentrating on not twisting my ankle rather than what was going on around me. I sensed, rather than heard, someone following me.

As I looked around something was thrown over my head—somekind of heavy cloth. I tried to cry out but a hand clamped firmly over my face, making it almost impossible to breathe. I tried to squirm but the large blanket, or whatever it was, hampered my movements. I was picked up, half dragged, and suddenly dumped onto a hard surface. I heard a door slam. Before I could try to move, I was held down. It felt as if someone heavy was kneeling on my back. Then I was jerked around and dimly heard the clatter of hooves. I was being taken away in some kind of cart or carriage.

Twenty-two

O
nce the vehicle was in motion, the pressure on my back eased a little, which was good as I felt as if I had been having the life crushed out of me. But the thick wool cloth over my face still made it hard to breathe. Moreover it smelled disgusting, like some kind of animal blanket and when I half coughed, half choked, I got a mouthful of hair. I tried to move my hands so that I could free some space around my nose and mouth, but my hands were still pinned to my sides and I was still being held firmly down. I tried to wriggle, to squirm, to cry out, but the moment I did, the pressure on me increased again so I lay still.

I tried to think who might have kidnapped me and for what reason. This must surely be more than a simple robbery, for a blow to the back of my head would have been enough to knock me out and steal my purse. The words “white slave trade” did come into my mind, but this was Dublin, a peaceful backwater, not London or New York. I was becoming light-headed from lack of air. I could hear singing in my ears and sparks dancing in front of my eyes. The singing turned to roaring, and I was close to losing consciousness when I was jolted violently, grabbed again, and carried like a sack of potatoes. From the feel of it, I was being taken up steps. My biggest fear was that I was being carried onto a boat that would then sail off to Shanghai or wherever unfortunate girls were taken. When I look back on this it was a ridiculous fear,as being murdered right there and then in Dublin was a more likely fate—and I’ve never believed in fates worse than death, myself.

I could hear men's voices but the cloth over my head was too thick to make out exactly what they were saying, until I heard one voice say clearly, “Right. Let's have a look at her then.”

I was set on my own two feet, and the blanket was taken from my head. I stood for a moment, blinking in the strong electric light and taking big gasping breaths before I had a chance to notice my surroundings. When I was finally able to breathe properly. I stared around me in amazement: I wasn’t in the sort of seedy den, damp basement, or even ship's cabin that I had expected. I was in an elegant sitting room with Chippendale gilt furniture, a grand piano in one corner, Persian rugs on the polished wood floor, good art on the walls, and heavy red velvet curtains drawn over the windows.

A man was sitting on one of the Chippendale chairs. I had met plenty of men in my life I would call attractive, but this one was different from all the others. Daniel was definitely handsome,- Ryan could almost be described as beautiful. This man was undoubtedly their equal in beauty—with a strong jaw, straight nose, dark hair worn rather long, and alarmingly blue eyes, but it wasn’t his rugged good looks that instantly held my attention, it was something in the power of his personality. You could tell instantly that this was the sort of man whom others followed willingly, who was quite confident in himself and his leadership, who knew what he wanted and got it. Don’t ask me how I could tell all this so quickly. I just knew as he fixed me with that steady gaze.

“All right, young woman,” he said, in a voice that bore the trace of an Irish accent but was deep and cultured, “out with it.”

My shock and fear had now subsided, and my relief at finding myself in a civilized-looking room allowed my normally feisty nature to resurface. I wasn’t going to let this man see how afraid I was. I took a step toward him. “Look here. I have absolutely no idea who you are, or why you had the nerve to send your men to kidnap me. They’ve obviously made a mistake and brought in the wrong person. I demand that you release me instantly, or it will be the worse for you.”

At this I saw those eyes light up and he actually laughed. “The worse for me? Did you hear that, boys? I like your spirit, whoever youare. Now supposing you start off by telling us who you really are, and who you are working for.”

“Supposing you tell me why you had me brought here in such an undignified fashion,” I said. “If you had merely wanted to talk to me, a civilized invitation would have worked just as well.”

“Ah, but I couldn’t risk that, my dear,” he said. “When the enemy doesn’t play by the rules, we can’t either. And I may look like a civilized man, indeed I am, but lives are at stake here and I can’t afford to take risks. You’re going to tell us everything you know tonight, one way or the other.”

I continued to stare at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. “I’m afraid I still have no idea what you are talking about. I can’t think that I know anything that might be of interest to you or anyone else. You’ve obviously mixed me up with someone else.”

“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.