In Dublin's Fair City by Rhys Bowen Page A

love-sick young men.”
    “Any names you can give me?”
    I frowned, recreating the times I had been on deck. “One of them had a very silly name—Artie something. Rotweiler? Something Germanic sounding. Fortwrangler, that was it, Artie Fortwrangler,- but he seemed like a harmless sort of boy.”
    “Fortwrangler,” the inspector said slowly as he wrote it down. “Did he make threats?”
    “Oh no. Exactly the opposite. He professed undying love. He was like a love-sick puppy dog.”
    “And who else?”
    “There was a good-looking young man, spoke with an American accent but he was obviously of Irish heritage. Black Irish, you know. Now what was he called? Fitzwilliam, maybe? No, I think it was Fitzpatrick.
    But he didn’t act the love-sick oaf like the other one. He was polite. He just said he was sorry to hear I was indisposed and expressed the hope that we’d meet again in Ireland.”
    Inspector Harris nodded. “And then?”
    “He went on his way.”
    “Anyone else?”
    I shook my head. “After that, if I left the cabin at all, I went out early, when fashionable young men are still asleep and there was nobody—except there was an older man who followed me at a distance sometimes. Tweed overcoat. Mustaches rather like your own. But he never approached me. It could have been that we both took our morning constitutional at the same time.”
    “And that's it? Any young men try to come to the cabin?”
    “All the time, but the stewards kept them out. There was someone called Teddy and someone called Bertie, who constantly sent me flowers. Teddy sent big displays like that one and gushing love notes. Bertie sent a dozen red roses every day. And there were others who sent me flowers, champagne, chocolates.”
    “Do you have any of these notes?”
    “I threw most of them away, I’m afraid, after I had a good laugh- but one or two may still be lying around or in the wastebasket.”
    “Wastepaper basket, Jonesy,” the inspector said. He stretched out his legs, leaned back on the chaise, and studied me. “So tell me a little about yourself, Miss Murphy. It's not too often that a second-class passenger gets approached by a famous actress with the offer to trade cabins with her. You knew Miss Sheehan, did you, or was this a random selection on her part?”
    “I had met her recently at a theatrical party. I gather she found out that I would be traveling on the same ship.”
    “Exactly why were you making this voyage?”
    I wasn’t sure how truthful to be and decided to play it safe. “Apart from visiting friends and relatives at home in Ireland, you mean? I’d been asked to look up the sister of a friend in New York.”
    “You’re not married, I take it.”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “So you must have done pretty well for yourself in America if you can afford the passage home, just for a visit.”
    “I’ve done well enough,” I said, and left it at that.
    “And Miss Sheehan just happened to pick you to change cabins with her on the spur of the moment, did she?”
    “Yes. Apparently I looked sufficiently like her to be able to carry off the switch.”
    “Did you?” He sounded skeptical. I realized that after an almost sleepless night and with my hair still looking decidedly rattaily, I hardly looked like a famous actress.
    “And this girl Rose was in on the plot?” he went on, before I could tell him about how I’d dressed up to impersonate the actress.
    “She was, sir.”
    “And what did she think of it?”
    “I’ve no idea. She was always pleasant enough to me and respectful too. She said Miss Sheehan had instructed her to act as if I was her real mistress for the whole voyage, and she certainly did act that way.”
    Inspector Harris leaned toward me. “You strike me as an intelligent young woman, Miss Murphy. Did Miss Sheehan's request ever seem odd to you?”
    “To begin with, yes. Why would anyone want to trade this cabin for my little cupboard of a place. But then I saw how much she was