"I really don't know, Captain. I swear I do not know Mr. O'Malley. I had no reason to kill him. Besides, you yourself said that I wouldn't have the strength to cut his throat as violently as it had been cut."
"As I told you before, Mrs. O'Connor, I don't see you as the murderer, but the accomplice and maybe the brains behind it?" I glanced up
to see him watching me closely. "Shall I tell you what I think happened that night on Ellis Island? I'm not sure if this whole thing was planned on Irish soil. Maybe you had been following O'Malley for years, seeking vengeance, waiting to strike. Maybe it was just a lucky coincidence. You boarded the Majestic and couldn't believe your eyes when you recognized your fellow passenger, now calling himself O'Malley."
"In which case, why didn't I get rid of him on board? We were allowed up on deck for an hour most days. One well-placed shove and he'd be overboard. Why wait until we got to America, to a place that was heavily guarded, with people around us everywhere?"
"Maybe he was on his guard all the time on the ship. You never had a chance to find him alone and unprotected. I think you realized it would be your last chance to kill O'Malley before he got away onto a vast continent and vanished. It was a huge risk, but you had to take it. One of you slipped into the kitchens and stole a large meat cutting knife--one is missing, by the way. Then you kept watch outside the men's dormitory while your accomplice slipped inside and with one daring stroke killed O'Malley in his sleep. Can you tell me anything to make me change my story, Mrs. O'Connor?"
"Only that it's a pack of lies," I said. I was tired of being meek and mild. If I had to go, I'd go fighting. "And who is this accomplice supposed to be, I'd like to know? The guard I saw in the men's dormitory?"
Captain Sullivan nodded to the policeman who was standing outside the door. I looked up as footsteps came down the hall and then I gasped. Michael Larkin was being escorted in between two burly policemen, his face as white as the shirt he was wearing, his innocent eyes as large as saucers. He looked at me and recoiled in horror.
"Are you going to claim that you didn't know this young man, either, Mrs. O'Connor?"
"We met on the boat," I said. "Michael was very helpful with the children."
"And you never met in your hometown? Never once saw each other in church?"
"I moved away, years ago, to live with an aunt." The words just came out. Lie upon lie.
I was surely destined for hell the way I was going.
"And you never saw this lady before you got on the boat?" He turned to Michael.
"No, sir, I never did."
"And you never worked out that your next of kin were involved in the same famous trial? You never sat on the same court benches, waiting for the verdict? Never stood outside Belfast jail, waiting for the final, terrible moment together? I find that hard to believe."
"I was not present at any of the events you speak of." I stared back, challenging him.
He leaned back in his chair and looked at me. "I'm curious. You don't sound the same. I'm no expert on Irish dialects, but you don't speak in the same way. Why is that?"
"I told you, I lived with an aunt over on the west coast when I was young."
"One of you is going to crack in the end," Sullivan said. "I wouldn't like to guess which of you, at this stage. It's not very pleasant in the Tombs, is it, Larkin? Perhaps when Mrs. O'Connor has had a taste of what it's like down there, with the prostitutes and the pickpockets and the scum of New York City--when her little children are starting to cry for their mother ..."
"Stop it," Michael shouted. "She had nothing to do with it. I swear she had nothing to do with it at all."
"And I'm sure Michael had nothing to do with it, either," I said. "He's not a violent type. He's a kind, gentle person. And where was the blood on his clothing, if he'd just slit a man's throat?"
The alarming eyes fastened on me. "But there was blood on his clothing, Mrs. O'Connor. There were spatters of blood on his jacket and his handkerchief was soaked in blood." He swiveled his chair to look at Michael. "I've got the right man, trust me. What better motive than vengeance for the death of a father? Isn't that what all the great tragedies are about? I'll take it to court and I'll make it stick. My only dilemma is you, Mrs. O'Connor. were you in on this or not?"
"I told you, she wasn't," Michael shouted. "Now let her go." Sullivan got to his feet. "The man says to let you go," he said. "You're a woman with small children, so I'm
going to give you the benefit of the doubt, for now. But I've got more evidence coming in from Britain all the time. And I'll be watching you. So don't think you're off the hook, Mrs. O'Connor. You're not."
I got to my feet, too. "You're making a big mistake, Captain Sullivan. When you find out O'Malley's true name, and his background, then you'll know that neither of us had any reason to kill him."
"I hope, for your sakes, that will be true, Mrs. O'Connor."
"And in the meantime you've got a violent killer running around loose in New York City and you're doing nothing to find him."
As I swept down the hall with all the dignity I could muster, Michael reached out to grab my arm. "Kathleen, you will help me, won't you? You're the only person who believes in me. You're all I've got."
"I'll help you, Michael. I promise." "You're the only one who can save us both. If they ship us back to Ireland, we'll hang."
The policemen pushed him past me and down another stairway. His voice echoed up the tiled stairwell long after he had vanished from my sight. I stumbled down the front stairs and out onto the street. I had just promised a man that I would do the impossible.
Thirteen
I came out into the late afternoon hubbub that was New York. People everywhere, all of them in a hurry, all wrapped and bundled like mummies against the snow that was still falling. I struck out in what I thought was the direction of the East River.
What have you done? I asked myself. How could I have volunteered to take responsibility for a man's life? How could I possibly prove he was innocent? The answer came immediately: by finding the one who is guilty. I would have to produce someone who had a better reason for wanting O'Malley dead--and I had no idea how I could do that. The English police might be able to find the details on O'Malley's background, but I never could. I'd just have to start with what I knew.
And what did I know? I knew that someone on
Ellis Island killed O'Malley and that person was someone who spent the night on the island and had no method of leaving until the government boat early next morning. So that meant it was either an employee on night shift or a fellow immigrant.
The only fact that I knew for sure was that a guard had appeared from the men's dormitory and the only guard who resembled him claimed he had not been on duty that night. Surely that was an important point. Either the man was lying, or someone had been impersonating a guard to gain access to the men's dormitory. Maybe the guards on duty hung up their jackets and caps during the long night shift and it wasn't too hard to borrow one for a while.
So the first thing to look into would be the guard Boyle's alibi. Did he really leave the island on the last boat of the evening? Was he at home that night? I'd go down to the docks first thing tomorrow and question the boatman myself.
I felt charged with energy and excitement. I would do this, and when I had found the truth, I would take great delight in turning the facts over to that self-satisfied Daniel Sullivan!
Of course, there was one small point I had overlooked. I paused at the edge of a busy street, then jumped back as a cab clattered past me, spattering slushy mud in my direction. The point I had overlooked was whether or not Michael was truly innocent. He's a sweet, gentle boy, I reminded myself. Look how good he was with the children, how kind he was to me. And he planned that clever scheme with the money while we were heading for the island. Surely he wouldn't have been carefree enough to do that if his mind was full of murder. But something was nagging at the back of my own mind. It was that conversation we had as we waited to enter Ellis Island. "If he bothers you again, I'll kill him," Michael had said. "I could, you know. I'm not as innocent as I look."
I hurried across the busy street, dodging traffic and feeling the icy slush engulfing my feet. I had to trust him. He was trusting me. Not that I would have blamed him for killing O'Malley. Hadn't I wanted to kill the man myself? I just couldn't see young Michael Larkin sneaking to the kitchens, taking a butcher knife, and calmly slitting a man's throat. That would require a different personality altogether.
The wind off the East River was like a knife cutting through me. I leaned into it and ducked my face into my shawl. Another small point I had overlooked ... Daniel
Sullivan had obviously asked for background details on both Michael and myself. Any good policeman would do that, wouldn't he? And when the details came back about Kathleen O'Connor and her brother Liam then he might smell a rat. What if they sent a description, or worse still, a picture? If he found out I wasn't Kathleen O'Connor, then it would only be a matter of time before he found out who I really was. I had been so intent on saving Michael that I hadn't realized that I might still be in mortal danger myself.
It was a pity that Daniel Sullivan and I had to be enemies, I thought. In other circumstances I might have enjoyed flirting with him, instead of having to match wits with him to save my own skin.
The dismal buildings of Cherry Street loomed up out of the snow. I climbed the dark stairway without treading on any babies and knocked at the door on the fourth floor. Nuala opened it and stood staring at me, hands on hips.
"Well, would you look at that? Turning up like a bad penny! We never expected to see you again."
"See, I told you she hadn't gone away, Bridie," young Seamus said as the little girl ran to hug my knees. "She was fretting for you all day, Molly. She thought you'd gone away without saying good-bye."
"I'd never do that, Bridie darling." I picked her up and she snuggled to my cold cheek.
"Didn't Mrs. O'Keefe see her being shoved into a paddy wagon with her own two eyes?" Nuala demanded, looking for affirmation to Finbar who sat slouched at the table, a large mug of tea in his hands. "Shoved into a paddy wagon, that's what she said. I had a feeling from the very first time I set eyes on her. That one's no better than she should be. I said it to you last night, didn't I, Fin?"
I'm better than you, I wanted to say. But I really couldn't risk being thrown out into the snow on a night like this. I'd freeze before morning.
"If you really want to know," I said, "the police needed my help. A man was killed on
Ellis Island and I was the only one who saw the man who might have done it."
"I told you, it was in the papers this morning," Finbar said, showing, what was for him, considerable enthusiasm. "A man called O'Malley. His throat was slit from ear to ear."
"Holy Angels protect us," Nuala said, crossing her vast bosom. "Do they not have watchmen on duty at that place anymore?"
I didn't think it wise to inform her that it might have been one of the watchmen.
"Why would anyone want to do a terrible thing like that?" Nuala demanded.
"To stop him from getting into America, I would have thought," Finbar muttered.
This was an angle that had never struck me before. Of course, it made sense. O'Malley had made it as far as Ellis Island. Somebody had to make sure he didn't go any farther. Why? I had no way of finding that out, until the police uncovered O'Malley's true identity. I didn't suppose that Captain Sullivan would be willing to share details with me. But it was worth suggesting to him. For one thing, it might show him that neither Michael nor I were his prime suspects. I had a lot of work to do tomorrow.
"And I suppose your grand helping out at the police station meant that you had no time at all to be finding a job for yourself?" Nuala demanded. "If you're going to be here any longer, you'll be expected to pay your share of the upkeep of this place."
"My share? There's no way I could possibly earn enough to--," I blurted out, in my usual way. I was about to say "to pay for the fleet of maids it would take to clean up this pigsty," but little Bridie was clinging to me as if I was a lifeline. I swallowed back the rest of the sentence at the last moment. "To repay you for taking me in," I finished lamely, hating myself.
Nuala smirked. I wasn't sure whether she was easily flattered or sensed my insincerity.
"Don't worry. I'll be out looking for a job first thing in the morning," I said.
"They're in need of fish gutters at the market," Nuala stated. "It's not the most pleasant work in the world but it's money, and beggars can't be choosers."
I tried not to shudder as I imagined standing out in the cold, gutting raw fish until my hands were as raw as the fish themselves. "Thank you for the suggestion," I said. "But I do have an education. I'm hoping for something better."
"Hoping for something better!" Nuala sniffed. "Hark at Miss High and Mighty!" She turned to Fin. "Maybe she's thinking of applying to be mayor of the city? Or a professor at the university? I expect she'll move up to Fifth Avenue next to the Vanderbilts when she leaves us."
Finbar chuckled as he slurped his tea. "Lord, get me out of this place in a hurry," I prayed.
I passed another uneasy night curled awkwardly in the armchair. Bridie insisted on sleeping beside me again, which made it even more cramped. I was wound up like a watch spring and sleep wouldn't come. So many things to plan. I had to find a job, but I also had to find enough facts to save Michael before the federal marshals insisted on having him shipped back to Ireland, or Daniel Sullivan sent him for trial here. The more I considered it, the surer I was that Michael didn't do it. I remembered his face that morning after the murder. He had looked white and shaken when he told me how he had discovered the body. And I still couldn't picture him slitting a throat. An ordinary person, not a trained assassin, would take a knife and plunge it desperately into a body, hoping that the stroke had killed. It took skill and know-how to slit a throat. Someone who was trained to kill then. That's who I was looking for.