Murphy's Law (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #1)
"That mouth of yours will be getting you into big trouble one day."
My mother started saying that as soon as I could talk. It turns out she wasn't far wrong.
By the time I was ten my refusal to hold my tongue had almost gotten us thrown out of our cottage. And a week before I turned twenty-three, I was on the run, wanted for murder.
The rhythmic puffing of the engine calmed me back to my senses. I had no clear memory of getting to the train station, but the pain in my ribs when I tried to breathe and the way I could feel my dress sticking to my back told me that I must have run every step of those five miles. About the state of the front of my dress I chose not to think. I pulled my shawl more tightly around me and glanced at the other people in my compartment. An old farm couple with weathered red cheeks already dozing in the far corner, a young mother with two lively little ones, plus another on the way, and a priest. He returned my glance and I looked away hastily, just in case priests could somehow read thoughts--or extract confessions. Wouldn't he be surprised to hear mine right now?
Every time the conductor walked through the train and glanced into my compartment, I was sure he was looking for me. But then that was stupid, wasn't it? Justin Hartley was lying dead on my own kitchen floor but nobody would even know he was missing yet. My father and my little brothers weren't due home until evening and Justin was hardly likely to have told anybody at the big house where he was going. I couldn't picture him saying at breakfast, over the deviled kidneys or whatever disgusting dish the upper class had eaten this morning, "I'm just off down to the peasants' cottages to have my way with Molly Murphy."
So I had a few hours yet to make my escape. This train would take me all the way to Belfast. And then I probably had just enough money for a boat to England. After that, I couldn't say. Maybe I'd be able to lose myself in a big city like Liverpool. Maybe I wouldn't. Likely as not the police would catch up with me
soon enough. It wouldn't be too hard to spot an Irish girl on the run, especially one with flame red hair like mine. Since I knew nobody in England, I had nowhere to hide. So it was only a matter of time, but I was going to go on running as long as I could. I've never been known to give up on anything without a good fight.
I stared out of the carriage window. It was a picture perfect day, sky like blue glass, sparkling clear, with just a hint of frost in the air --the sort of day that doesn't happen often in our Irish winters. The sort of day that would have made me rush through my chores, put the stew on the stove, and be off to walk along the cliff tops, with the wind at my back and the ocean at my feet. The sort of day when the gentry would be out, riding to hounds. A picture of Justin in his red coat flashed into my head. I'd always thought how handsome he looked in his red coat. I suppose I'd been a little in love with him when I was younger. Lord knows I never meant to kill him. I could almost feel that priest's eyes boring into the back of my head as I stared out of the window.
Green fields dotted with fine horses in them flashed past. The horses looked up in alarm as the fire-breathing monster approached, kicked up their heels, and ran off. How well they looked. If I could run that fast they'd not find it so easy to catch me.
When they did catch me, it would mean the rope around my neck--not much doubt about that. My hand went instinctively to my throat and I shuddered. Did you feel anything when they hanged you? Was it all over in an instant? Would it hurt? They certainly wouldn't listen to my side of the story. I'd killed an English landowner's son. That had to be a hanging offense, even if I was just trying to preserve my honor. But then peasant girls have no honor, do they? As Justin said, I belonged to him as much as any of his farm animals. I couldn't think of anyone who'd speak for me. Not my da--he'd be angry enough when he found I helped myself to the emergency fund in the teapot on the mantelpiece. It was supposed to be secret. We children all knew about it, of course, but the thought of my father's leather belt across our backsides had prevented us from dipping into it. Right now a leather belt across the backside seemed a good sort of punishment compared with what
else might be waiting for me. My hand strayed to my neck again.