Free For the Love of Mike by Rhys Bowen

the middle of my second week, I received a letter from Ireland.
Collingwood Hall
Castlebridge
County Wexford, Ireland
    Dear Sir,
    I saw your advertisement in the Dublin Times. I am trying to locate my only daughter Katherine. The foolish child has run off with one of our estate workers, an undesirable young man called Michael Kelly, and it appears that they took a ship to New York. Naturally I want her found and brought home as soon as possible, although I fear it is already too late where her reputation is concerned. As you can imagine, this is breaking her mother’s heart. My wife is bedridden and of very delicate constitution. I cannot leave her or I would have undertaken this assignment myself. Please advise by return of post whether you will take on this commission and the fee you would require.
    Yours faithfully,
    T. W. Faversham, Major, Retired
    Now this was just the kind of job I had imagined when I made the absurd decision to become an investigator. I wrote back immediately to Major Faversham, telling him that I would be delighted to find his daughter for him, that I needed as many details and photos as he could send me, the amount of money she might have taken with her, plus the names of any friends or relatives she might contact in the United States, and that my fee would be one hundred dollars plus expenses. My conscience got the better of me and I had to add, “In matters of extreme delicacy such as this, our junior partner, Miss Murphy, usually handles these cases with the required finesse and discretion.”
    It was only when I posted the letter that I stopped to wonder how I would manage to juggle these two assignments. If I was in a sweatshop from seven until seven every day except Sundays, I wasn’t left with any time for finding missing heiresses. I didn’t actually know whether she was a heiress, but the English who had settled in Ireland had mostly done very well for themselves—unlike the Irish who had either starved or been driven from their homes during the potato famine.
    I decided to start making inquiries right away. It should be possible to find out when a Mr. and Mrs. Michael Kelly had arrived in New York. I presumed they would claim to be married. I’d have to find out if the records were kept over on Ellis Island, and if they’d let me go over there to check them. But in the meantime a splendid notion had come to me. If Miss Faversham had any connections among New York society, then my acquaintance Miss Van Woekem would hear about her. I resolved to visit her this coming Sunday and sent her a note to that effect. Miss Van Woekem liked things to be done correctly.
    On Sunday morning, at an hour when all good Christians would have returned from Sunday services and less good Christians like myself had finished taking coffee and pastries at Fleischman’s Vienna Bakery, I took the trolley car up Broadway, alighted at Twentieth Street, and walked to the charming brownstone on South Gramercy Park. In case you are wondering how an Irish immigrant girl like myself should have friends who live in such exalted parts of the city—I had briefly held the post of companion to Miss Van Woekem. For once I was not fired, but resigned from the position myself, for personal reasons. We had sparred considerably, the old lady and I, but had forged a mutual respect. She admired my decision to strike out on my own and had invited me to drop in from time to time.
    The maid showed me into the first-floor drawing room, overlooking the park. Miss Van Woekem was sitting in the tall-backed armchair by the fire.
    “Ah, Miss Molly Murphy, what a delightful surprise.” She held out her hand to me. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Not coming to reapply for the position, I fear. My current companion is a feeble little creature who cringes when I shout at her. No fun at all.” Her beaky, birdlike face broke into a wicked smile. “Come, seat yourself. Ada will bring coffee, or would you prefer tea?”
    I took