“Right. Let us continue the search,” Barker said, as if the near capture hadn’t happened. “What is this?”
There was a new letter laid atop the stack of bills. Barker snatched it up and read it before passing it to me. I spread it out on the table and read.
Buffalo, New York
Mr. Dunleavy,
We acknowledge your need of funds but regret to report that there may be some delay. As you know, much of our monies are divested in supporting candidates for elections, as well as in silver speculation. As soon as funds arrive, we shall send them along speedily.
Your humble servant,
Chester Finney
Secretary of American Hibernian League
Barker turned the note over in his hand. “This certainly does not ease Mr. Dunleavy’s financial woes, does it, lad? The American gives him no idea if the money shall be forthcoming in time for the faction to proceed with the bombings they have planned. This throws everything askew. Mr. Anderson has given us no instructions on what to do if the faction changes its plans. Do we hand them over to Munro and let him decide what to do about them, or continue our deception a little longer, to see how Dunleavy and his men proceed? I have no wish for us to remain on this case indefinitely. We must cast our nets a little farther. I believe the time has come to make a more thorough search of the O’Casey house. I do not see any evidence of plans or communications here beyond this note, but there is still the possibility that O’Casey has information. I’ve already searched his room, but I don’t think we should overlook his sister’s.”
“You don’t seriously think her mixed up in all this, surely.”
“Remember what I counseled you, lad, about considering everyone a suspect until all the facts have been revealed? If she’s innocent, nothing will be found. You look through Miss O’Casey’s room first, while I distract her, and then you do the same while I inspect her brother’s quarter again.”
“Me!” I cried. “Why have me search? I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“No more than I, Thomas. I shall engage her in conversation, while you feign a headache and go up to the room to lie down.”
Upon our return, we found Maire O’Casey in the parlor. “Did the two of you find lunch while you were out?” she asked.
“Ja, Fraulein,” Barker said. “We availed ourselves of one of your Aerated Bread Company tearooms. The sea air has not been so helpful for Mr. Penrith. It has brought on one of the headaches he suffers from time to time.”
The girl gave an anxious look my way.
“It is nothing,” I muttered, raising a hand to my head. “If you will excuse me, I think I shall lie down.”
As I climbed the stairs, I heard Barker speak to Maire. “I see you have been studying your own ancient language. Is there much need for it these days?”
I found her room on the third floor. When I had first been hired as an assistant to a private enquiry agent, I had thought myself ill equipped, but since then, I have found some duties that I am suited for. I am a confirmed busybody, inordinately curious.
I began going through drawers, all the while keeping a sharp ear out for someone on the stairs. A chest contained only clothes. I looked through it swiftly. There was nothing concealed under her garments, save a lilac-scented sachet. In a small, white desk with Queen Anne legs, I found her correspondence, along with her own stationery and ink. She kept up with a few friends she had known in school. One had married and was living in Cork, and another was a servant to an English family in Londonderry. Just when I was sure that my suspicions were groundless and the most secret thing she owned were merely her undergarments, I found a small wooden box on a shelf, and it was locked.
There were hairpins on her nightstand, and almost without thinking, I bent the end of one over my thumbnail, then inserted it into the lock. After a few frantic twists, the lock sprung open. There were letters inside. I read over one feverishly, knowing I might be discovered.
Maire, it has been too many days since my eyes feasted upon your beauty. I count the hours …
My eyes flew to the next one.
Maire, having just come from walking with you, I wanted to set down the impressions I have …
Love letters. Unsigned and undated. Who could have written them? Well, of course, anyone could; she was a rare beauty. But who had? Was it Willie? A secret lover, perhaps, or an old flame? I scarce knew. I got to the bottom of the stack of letters and found jewelry; a coil of pearls, a diamond broach, and a pair of opal earrings. Who had given these to a poor Irish girl?
My mind gave a sudden leap. Was it Dunleavy? He was old, but such things had happened before. Was he out of pocket because he lavished jewelry on Maire?
I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, I told myself. The jewels could have been handed down from her mother, and the letters … well, any pretty girl over twenty must have a boxful. Then, I reached the final letter and saw the inscription at the bottom. I locked the box once more, pocketed the hairpin, and left the room.
I wanted to sprint down the stairs, to fly, to slide down the banister, anything to get me down as quickly as possible, but I couldn’t attract attention. It required all I possessed to come down the steps at a sedate pace. I wandered into the parlor, still holding my head.
“I say, Miss O’Casey, I wonder if I might trouble you for a cold cloth for my head?”
“I do hope you are not catching a fever, Mr. Penrith,” the girl said, coming up and placing the back of her hand against my forehead. If I was feverish, it was more to do with the news I had to impart to Barker than any feigned illness. “A slight one, perhaps. I’ll get that cloth for you.”
She left the room and I moved over to her desk, where Barker was seated. He sensed I had something to tell him.
“Letters,” I whispered. “Love letters. A stack of them, along with jewelry. Expensive jewelry, if I am any judge. And you can’t imagine who sent them.”
“Tell me,” Barker murmured.
“Seamus O’Muircheartaigh.”
19
Barker suggested that miss O’Casey brew a cup of tea for me, and while I sat and sipped, making small talk with the girl and feigning a headache, he flew up the stairs to the box and read her private correspondence. Normally, of course, doing so would be an unconscionable act, but then most girls did not receive declarations of love from dangerous criminals. Even then, talking with beautiful and wholesome Maire, I could not picture her with the hard, dry Mr. O’Muircheartaigh, who, for one thing, was almost twice her age.
I used Barker’s diversion, and asked her to show me the Gaelic book she was using, but what I really wanted to do was to talk to her about what had happened at the lighthouse. Though it had only been one kiss, I felt betrayed. Willie Yeats was one thing, but that chilling fellow I’d met at Ho’s was quite another.
“You are not paying attention, Mr. Penrith,” she admonished lightly.
“Call me Thomas, Miss O’Casey. You must forgive me. This headache has put me out of sorts. Tell me more about your lessons.”
Twenty minutes later, I found Barker standing in the window of our room, absently playing with one of his razor-edged coins, deep in thought. There was a smile on his lips. He had discovered an enemy’s weakness, and was considering how to turn it to his advantage.
“Who would have thought it?” my employer murmured. “I would stake my life these letters are genuine. You missed an envelope at the very bottom of the stack. The letters are half a year old, from when the O’Caseys were living in Dublin. Seamus makes mention of meeting her at the O’Connell Bridge. He must have been seeing her in Ireland.”