Death of Riley by Rhys Bowen Page A

during the Great Famine. They got as far as London. Maybe they'd have done all right there, but they didn't hold up long enough. They were both dead by the time I was ten. So I was out on my own on the streets.”
    “That's terrible. What did you do?”
    He took a big bite of pie and wiped the gravy from his chin with the back of his hand. “What did I do? I learned to survive, that's what.” He leaned over confidentially. “Did you read that famous book by Charles Dickens?
Oliver Twist
—that's its name. Know the Artful Dodger?—that was me. I turned myself into one of the best pickpockets in London. They used to say that I could take away a toff's handkerchief in mid-sneeze and he'd not notice.”
    “So you were a criminal. What brought you to the other side of the law?”
    “Fate, I suppose you could say. In the end I got caught, as most criminals do. I would have been put away for life, only this American gentleman was visiting London prisons, wanting to see how he could improve the lot of the poor prisoners. I suppose I must have looked young and angelic, because he took a fancy to me. He persuaded them to give me a second chance and let him take me to America. So that's how I got here. He had me taught a
    trade—printing, it was, but I never really took to it. So when I finished my apprenticeship, I tried my hand at a lot of things, including going on the stage. I wasn't much good at it, to tell you the truth, didn't have the voice, but I liked the theater. I worked as a dresser for a while—that's where I learned about makeup and disguises. Then I decided it was a pity that I couldn't put all the tricks I'd learned on the London streets to good use.”
    “You went back into crime?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “I'd promised Mr. Schlessinger when he brought me to America. A proper Bible-fearing gentleman he was. He made me swear on the Bible that I'd never resort to crime again. I couldn't go against that, could I? But I decided I could use my knowledge on the right side of the law. I do a bit of undercover work for the police from time to time, and I've got my own nice little business here. It's not for everyone, but it suits me fine.” He broke off, staring at me with his head tilted to one side. “I can't think why a pretty girl like you would want to do it, though. About time you got married and settled down, isn't it?”
    I looked down at the remains of the meat pie. “I came over here alone. I have no one. I want to be dependent on no one.”
    “I saw you with Captain Sullivan …”
    “He's just a friend, and he can't be anything more,” I said. “I think I could do this job well if you'd give me a chance.”
    “There are plenty of other jobs you could do. It's a big city.”
    “I've tried some of them. I don't want to work in a factory. I don't want to be a servant. I'm not very good at taking orders and being humble, I'm afraid.”
    “So what put this stupid idea in your head?”
    “When I left Ireland, there were all these people who
    wanted to know what had become of their loved ones. A woman gave me a letter, in case I should meet her boy. I thought I could trace some of those lost loved ones for them.”
    “And if they didn't want to be traced?”
    “It would be up to them if they got in touch again.”
    “Never make any money doing that,” he said.
    “Oh, so you do think I could make money doing other kinds of detective work?”
    “I didn't say that. Women are bad news. They talk too much. They can't keep secrets and they let their hearts rule their heads.”
    “So did you, just now,” I said. “You demonstrated your skill to me, instead of throwing me out. So you must have a soft spot in that hard heart of yours.”
    “Irish blarney,” he said, but he didn't look too upset.
    I got up and picked up the box and newspapers, depositing them in the can in the corner. “I could make this place look really nice for you,” I said. “I've kept house all my life. I could