Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 1, Dublin, 1903

Clara Sullivan cursed herself for not paying closer attention to her surroundings. Had she done so she might not now be pressed against a wall by a man with a knife to her throat.

Sullivan had chosen to walk to the office on the hot summer afternoon, unwilling to endure the stuffiness of a hansom cab or the sweaty, sardine-like awfulness of a tram. More than once, as she made her way along Great Brunswick Street, she stopped, tipped back her hat, closed her eyes, and let the sun caress her face with its life-affirming warmth.

Later, she reproached herself. Had she acted more like the mature woman she was, and not a schoolgirl sauntering through convent grounds, she might have noticed the two men approaching. They emerged suddenly from the indistinct mass of pedestrians, heads bent beneath cloth caps, sleeves rolled, their purpose clear in the speed of their stride.

Before she fully grasped what was happening, one sealed her mouth shut with his calloused, grimy hand and both men bundled her swiftly down a narrow lane.

Pushed up hard against a rough brick wall, she saw the flash of something metallic, then felt cold steel pinch the skin at her throat. They had pulled neckerchiefs up over their faces, so she could only see the eyes of the one who pressed himself against her. He was a little smaller than she, portly, with a low center of gravity, and the lines about his angry eyes marked him as middle-aged. The other man, tall, skinny, and seemingly younger, had taken up the role of sentry a short distance away and scanned the alley in both directions.

Sullivan looked back to the street but any hope of rescue or assistance was dashed when she saw people passing the opening to the alley without even giving a glance in her direction. Everything had happened quickly, unexpectedly. Was it possible no one noticed her abduction?

"You're that bitch, Eileen Blair. Aren't you?" said the man with the knife, his voice was low and guttural.

He addressed her by her publication name, her byline for the newspaper. While this served to eliminate in her mind the possible motives of robbery or something worse, it did little to alleviate her fear.

"What of it?" she said, conscious her voice came out sounding weak, almost broken.

"No more stories about Gardiner Street. Got it? Stay away from the girls who work there. You've upset the wrong people with your newspaper stories."

The man lowered his left arm until it rested on her waist above the belt of her skirt, and squeezed her flesh, then lent in heavily to hiss in her ear: "Remember, awful things can happen to a woman walking alone on these streets, even in the daytime. Take this as your one and only warning."

Fear had risen steadily in Sullivan's chest and now it was suffocating her. Instinct demanded she involuntarily expel her terror in an open-mouthed scream using the full capacity of her lungs, and while she resisted this compulsion, she knew she must do something, anything. She had to end her paralysis.

Clara drove her knee sharply into the man's groin. She cursed her skirt—the thick material and petticoat beneath dulled the force—but it was enough to make him groan, double over, and stagger backward before collapsing to his hands and knees.

The younger man turned around, took a step forward, but then became uncertain of what to do, so he just stood looking on.

The older man pulled away the neckerchief from his face and gasped for air. He let out a roar, part pain but mostly fury, and stumbled to his feet while still holding the knife.

"Bloody bitch!" he spat, "I'm going to mark you good and proper."

Sullivan dug her right hand into her handbag, searching frantically until her fingers wrapped around the pearl stock of the desired object. She drew a pocket pistol out and pointed it at the man's face. It was a Remington Model 95, which would mean nothing to him, except for what he should be able to see plainly, it was double-barreled and, therefore, capable of firing twice without reloading.