Free Death of Riley by Rhys Bowen Page A

me out on a job. He obviously didn't trust me with anything yet, though, or he'd have wanted me around today when he had important work to do. I wondered exactly what he had overheard last night that had disturbed him so.
    I checked on Seamus when I got home. He was still drifting in and out of consciousness while Nuala applied cold flannels to his forehead, his face ashen-gray. What on earth would happen to those children if he died? Would it be better to send them back to Ireland to a mother who was dying of consumption, or leave them here with that dragon of a cousin? I tried not to think about it as I took the children to St. Patrick's Cathedral to light a candle for their da, then we rode the trolley up to Central Park, where they had a grand old time for the rest of the day. I had quite a grand old time myself. There is something about grass and trees and water that makes the world seem all right again.
    The next day Seamus was awake but still looking as pale as a ghost. Nuala asked me to run some errands for her. Calves'-foot jelly and marrow-bone soup would be nourishing, she said. This brought up the matter of money. I was down to almost nothing myself, except for the pittance Paddy was paying me and Miss Van Woekem's two dollars. I was willing to spend that, but what would happen if Seamus was out of work for a while? I certainly couldn't afford to support a whole family.
    My head was filled with troubled thoughts as I bought the calves' feet and barley for barley water, started a good soup cooking and set the children some lessons to keep them occupied. They seemed to like playing at school and told me I wasn't strict enough to be the schoolmistress and that I needed a cane. I left them practicing their penmanship on their slates and decided to go and see whether Paddy Riley was back in his office and in need of my services.
    It was late afternoon and the August heat was intense. The poor horses were flecked with foam as they dragged their delivery wagons and hansom cabs. One was lying in the gutter, cut free of its shafts, dying. People walked past, unconcerned. The horse's owner stood by the wagon looking bewildered. I hurried on by, wanting to do something but knowing there was nothing that could be done. Dying horses were too frequent a sight in this city.
    My white blouse was sticking to my back as I reached the mews. The alleyway was cooler, nestled in the shadow of taller buildings, and I dragged myself wearily up Paddy's steps, praying he was there, and looking forward to a drink of water. It seemed I was in luck. The door swung open to my touch. Paddy himself was taking a snooze at the table.
    “So this is how you've been working hard…” I began. Then I stopped. The room was in complete disarray. In fact, it looked as if a whirlwind had been through it—papers strewn all over the floor, wastebasket tipped upside down.
    “Paddy? What on earth's been—” I broke off as I heard a noise in the back room. I didn't stop to think. I went over and opened the door. This room was in equal disarray and someone was crouched on the floor, bent over the toppled file cabinet. It was a man, dressed head to toe in black. He looked up, startled. For a second our eyes met, then, before I could say anything sensible or let out any sort of sound, he leaped at me. A fist came flying at my face. I went reeling backward and collapsed on the floor, darkness singing in my head, as the dark shape leaped over me, ran to the open back window and jumped out. Still dizzy and feeling I was about to vomit, I staggered to my feet and made it to the window. I couldn't call out—my jaw hurt to move. I could only watch helplessly as an agile dark shadow dodged between garages and out of sight.
    I stood there clutching the windowsill, fighting the nausea, and then I remembered Paddy. I ran over to him and tried to rouse him. As I attempted to lift him, his head lolled back, and I saw the ugly red stain on his chest. But he was still