The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

The amounts of money I had seen would have amounted to more than small donations and I wondered if Sister Mary Vincent was lying to me, or if Sister Jerome had indeed hogged most of the money for herself. I would have to be extra diplomatic in my questions.

“So you yourself are also involved with the Republican struggles are you?” I asked, the Irishness in my voice becoming more pronounced. “God love you.”

She nodded as she carried two glasses of some kind of pink cordial to the table and placed one in front of me. “Our parents raised us to be passionate about the cause,” she said. “After what they went through in Ireland—seeing their home destroyed and cast out into the street with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The English landowner ordered that you know. He wanted the land and didn’t care a fig that people were living on it. Living from it. It’s about time we threw out the invaders and claimed what’s ours by birthright.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I was involved in a small way myself once when I returned to Ireland.”

“You were?”

I declined to elaborate but went on, “So you presumably are in touch with members of the Brotherhood here in New York, if you’re raising money for them. How might I get in touch if I wanted to send my own contributions?”

“If you’d like to give me the money, I’ll make sure it goes to the right people,” she said.

“And if I might want to get involved personally? Is there an address I can meet them and volunteer my services?”

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you that,” she said. “They’re secretive with good reason. The government here is in cahoots with the English. I just have to send on the money to a certain post office box and somebody picks it up. That’s all I know. If you’d care to write a note with your name and address, I could send it along next time there is a contribution.” She paused, reconsidering. “Not that there will be more contributions with my dear sister gone. I work among the poor here. Nobody has money to spare.”

Obviously I couldn’t give her my name and address. It occurred to me to give her a fake one, but I couldn’t see what that might achieve. “I probably shouldn’t do that,” I said. “My husband is a New Yorker and doesn’t understand the Irish cause as I do. He’d be angry with me.”

“I understand. But any time you can spare a little money, you can bring it to me and I’ll make sure it goes to the right place. Every little bit helps, doesn’t it?” She drained her glass and got to her feet. “I should be getting back to work. I have to go and pick up a baby from St. Peter’s church. That’s become a prime spot for dropping off unwanted infants, I’m afraid. I’ll bring it back here to clean it up and then take it to our Foundling Hospital. So many unwanted children in the city. There’s almost not a day goes by that someone doesn’t hand me a child, found in a doorway. Make sure you treasure yours, my dear. Is it your first?”

“It is.” I smiled and got to my feet too. I was trying desperately to think of other things to ask her, but it could well be that she really did know no more than she was telling me. She opened the door for me.

“Thank you again for bringing me my sad news, my dear,” she said. “I appreciate your coming here. Let me just get my basket for the baby and I’ll be off too.”

We stepped out into the blinding sunlight of the day and came down the steps together. Then she nodded to me. “God bless you then.” And she set off down the street with a basket over her arm.

I stood on the steps and it was almost as if I was having a vision. I was recalling the first time I had seen her, nearly colliding with her as I went up to the employment agency. She had had a similar closed basket over her arm then. And I remembered what Sid had said about nuns always going around in twos. She had been alone—the exception to the norm. And she was not there when the woman had started screaming that someone had stolen her baby.

And I knew with utter certainty that Sister Mary Vincent had taken that baby from its baby carriage.





Thirty-two

Why? I thought. When there were so many unwanted infants in the city, would she want to steal another? And I knew the answer to that too. Because Blanche’s baby had died. Sister Jerome had promised a couple a fair, blue-eyed baby and she didn’t have one to deliver. So her sister in the city had obliged, presumably thinking that the money was going to the Irish cause. And I had actually seen her going past in a small black carriage, bringing the baby with her. I wondered whether she had been responsible for any of the other kidnappings.

Before I could take this thought any further Sid and Gus had come across to join me.

“Well, that didn’t take long at all,” Sid said. Then she frowned. “Are you all right, Molly. Is something wrong?”

“I’ve just realized something shocking,” I said. “I know who stole that baby and why a different one was returned. I have to go home and wait to tell Daniel.”