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.
Straight ahead of me was a staircase. For some reason, this reminded me that at one time in the royal courts of England and Europe, one's worth was reflected in the room in which one was received at court. The closer one came to the monarch's private chambers, the more important one was. I wondered if I'd make it up the stairs.
As it turned out, I got as far as the second of four floors, if I'd counted stories correctly as I'd approached from the street. Not that my progress there was entirely effortless. I had decided upon a surprise attack and came armed only with a letter from Alex, coconspirator that he was, but no appointment.
"I know this is really presumptuous of me," I said to the receptionist, a young woman with perfect fingernails, which she obviously worked on most of the day. "I'm sure that Mr. McCafferty and Mr. McGlynn are both extremely busy, but I'm in Dublin quite unexpectedly and must soon be off back to Canada, and I was wondering whether there might be any chance I could have a few moments with one or the other of them. I have some questions about Mr. Alex Stewart's inheritance from the Eamon Byrne estate." I hoped I sounded suitably contrite for this serious breach of legal etiquette. Up until the words "Eamon Byrne," she'd been regarding me with considerably less interest than her fingernails, but those, apparently, were the magic words. "Both Mr. McGlynn and Mr. McCafferty are with a client," she said in upper-crust vowels she obviously worked hard on. "I'm not sure when they'll be free."
"I'll wait," I said, plunking myself down on a very fine wing chair in the corner of the room. She looked at me for a moment or two and then reluctantly picked up the phone. What followed was one of those conversations in which the secretary pretends she is talking to an assistant when she is, in fact, talking to one of the lawyers. "There is a Ms. McClintoch here from Canada wishing to speak to Mr. McCafferty or Mr. McGlynn about Mr. Byrne's estate," she said. There was a pause. "No, she does not have an appointment." Another pause. "Yes," she said. "One of the solicitors will try to work you in," she said, hanging up the phone. "You may wait upstairs. You might want to have a look at this," she added, handing me an engraved card which listed McCafferty and McGlynn's fees for various services. They were, in a word, breathtaking.
After passing this first hurdle, I went upstairs to the library, an attractive room on the second floor, with walls of blue, stripped back to the original coat of paint, by the look of them, and lined with legal tomes by the yard. The centerpiece of the room was a marble fireplace that sported two carved rams heads, one on each side of the mantelpiece, and over it, a somewhat Italianate fresco of a country scene, probably dating to the early- to middle-eighteenth century. On the walls to either side of the fireplace, white plaster plaques depicted a blindfolded Justice, appropriately enough, robes flowing, scales in balance.
A large table had been placed in the middle of the room under an interesting chandelier with blue colored glass sprinkled through it to match the walls. It was here, I decided, that the lawyers or their assistants did their research, judging from the volumes in piles on the surface, seated in carved and intricately decorated armchairs that I believe are sometimes called Chinese Chippendale. Several choice mezzotint portraits had been hung on the walls, and placed about the room were some rather handsome pieces of furniture. Every piece was exquisite and chosen with impeccable taste or, to be more precise, taste very similar to mine.
A lovely period, Georgian, I thought. Some of the decorative touches were a trifle ornate for my taste, but overall the proportions were so pleasing, everything so elegant, I was quite enchanted.
My favorite object of all was the attractively worn Aubusson carpet. I like old carpets. They make me wonder about all the feet that have crossed them, the conversations that have taken place above them, the ghosts that still haunt them. This one was particularly fine in that regard, a worn patch where some heavy furniture had been placed for a long time, the hint of a well-travelled path, from one room to another perhaps.