The Celtic Riddle

While nobody in these parts talks about it much, there was a period of time when Dublin was the second city of the British Empire, rivalling, and in some ways surpassing, London in grandeur and conspicuous consumption. London had its Thames, Dublin its Liffey, both cities taking advantage of strategic maritime positions to ensure a vibrant trade in goods from the far-flung reaches of the Empire, and in Dublin's case, a corresponding outflow of its magnificent craftsmanship, silver, porcelain, glass, and textiles, to grace stately English homes across the Irish sea.

In addition to bitter memories of repression and sectarian violence, that period left Dublin with some im- pressive public monuments-broad sweeping avenues, soaring bridges and architectural gems like the Four Courts, home of the Irish law courts since 1796, and the Custom House with its graceful arcades, columns and soaring dome-together with some glorious urban spaces like St. Stephen's Green, a perfect Georgian square surrounding a pleasant little park, where the offices of McCafferty McGlynn, Solicitors, were to be found.

While Deirdre Flood might have thought that Dublin was sufficiently far away that she would never have to see any of us associated with Second Chance again, it was, in reality, only a few short hours' train ride from Tralee.

Jennifer had mentioned several times that she'd like to see Dublin, and I'd managed, quite easily, to persuade Rob to let me take her there for a couple of days' sight-seeing. This little excursion of ours worked well for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that we were all getting on each other's nerves. What no daughter of Rob's was to do, apparently, was to cut her hair, buy herself dark lipstick and black clothes- tights, turtleneck, and a short skirt that she wore with her trusty Dr Martens-and, horror of horrors, put a rhinestone stud in her nose. Telling Rob that almost every girl Jennifer's age had done something similar fell on deaf ears, and so I'd resorted to calling him an old poop to his face, as I'd promised myself that I would if he didn't listen to reason, a statement that, while true in my opinion, did not exactly endear me to him. A little space between us for a while seemed an awfully good idea.

The second reason was that the less-than-subtle search of our room had unnerved us all, although to be truthful, I was having more trouble dealing with scum having touched my stuff than Jennifer was. She'd been pacified by a new room and once-laundered clothes, immediately taken care of by Aidan and Sheila, the innkeepers, who had, if anything, been more upset than we were. I, however, found myself surreptitiously making my way to a laundromat to wash everything for a second time. A little space between me and whoever had trashed our room at The Three Sisters Inn seemed a good idea too.

I suspect Rob thought that keeping me away from the Dingle, and the Byrne family treasure hunt and ensuing murder investigation in particular, and his daughter from Padraig Gilhooly's sailing classes, was also an excellent plan. He would therefore have been disappointed to learn that my reason for going to Dublin was to pay a visit to McCafferty and McGlynn, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and that after seeing Jennifer off at the gates of Trinity College on a two-hour walking tour of historic Dublin, I headed directly there.

Eamon Byrne had said the two solicitors, or legal bookends as he'd referred to them, had become too accustomed to the good life in St. Stephen's Green to refuse him any request, and I could see that would be easy enough to do.

Their offices were located in a town house on the square right in the heart of the city. The exterior was pure Georgian, white, with a cheerful red door flanked by two columns, and crowned by a magnificent arched fan light above. Similar town houses, each entrance just a little bit distinctive, stretched out on either side, and all around the square: doors in every color imaginable from black to yellow to pink to lilac, some with similar fan lights, others with sidelights. A brass knocker on this one matched the discreet nameplate, C. B. McCafferty and R. A. McGlynn, Solicitors.

The door opened into a foyer of black and white marble floor tiles, black urns and white walls, with lovely decorative rococo plasterwork on the ceiling. A bust, vaguely Roman looking, a Caesar, perhaps, occupied one corner. It was as if one had entered the town home of a wealthy Irishman in the middle of the eighteenth century, the only jarring note the receptionist's computer and telephone. Jarring or not, McCafferty and McGlynn were doing quite nicely, thank you, that much was clear.