Murder in Dublin: The thrilling inter-war mystery series

Contents Title Page Dedication Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Acknowledgements About the Author Also By Christina Koning Copyright 
 
 
 
 3
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 MURDER IN DUBLIN
 
 CHRISTINA KONING
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 For Eamonn
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 
 
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter One 
 Chapter Two 
 Chapter Three 
 Chapter Four 
 Chapter Five 
 Chapter Six 
 Chapter Seven 
 Chapter Eight 
 Chapter Nine 
 Chapter Ten 
 Chapter Eleven 
 Chapter Twelve 
 Chapter Thirteen 
 Chapter Fourteen 
 Chapter Fifteen 
 Chapter Sixteen 
 Chapter Seventeen 
 Chapter Eighteen 
 Chapter Nineteen 
 Chapter Twenty 
 Chapter Twenty-One 
 Acknowledgements 
 About the Author 
 Also By Christina Koning 
 Copyright 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter One
 
 It was getting on for ten o’clock at night when the Liverpool ferry docked at North Wall Quay after what had been as smooth a crossing of the Irish Sea as one could have hoped to enjoy, thought Frederick Rowlands. It was of course high summer, he reminded himself as he lit a cigarette; he supposed it might be a very different story in the depths of winter when storms would make the crossing a far less pleasant experience. 
 Standing by the ship’s rail, he savoured the first few moments of arrival in a strange city as around him the business of disembarking passengers and unloading cargo began. ‘I always think this is the best way to approach Dublin,’ said his companion, who was standing next to him, close enough so that he could catch the scent of her hair, and the perfumed smoke of the Turkish cigarettes she favoured. ‘With the lights of the buildings along the waterfront shining on the river, and the loafers on the quayside, and the feeling one has – here, more than in London, I feel – of having arrived in the heart of things … although I imagine,’ she added, as if it had just occurred to her, ‘it isn’t the same for you.’
 ‘Not exactly the same,’ he replied, offering her his arm as the two of them started to move towards the gangplank, across which groups of foot passengers were already making their way. ‘But I can picture it, from what you’ve said. The lights and the buildings. The loafers, too – one finds them in every port. Then there’s the smell of the place – or rather, that of the warehouses along this stretch of the river. Coffee, and pepper, and beer – there must be a brewery nearby. And the sounds of the voices. Is that Irish they’re talking, those fellows?’ She said that it was. ‘I knew it was a language I hadn’t heard before although heaven knows I met enough Irishmen during the war …’ But she was only half-listening.
 ‘Now, where’s O’Driscoll got to?’ she murmured, looking out for the servant who was to meet them. ‘He should be here. I wired before we left Liverpool.’
 They had, by this time, reached the quayside where a crowd of those meeting the ferry jostled against those who were getting off; there seemed to be no particular organisation. ‘Perhaps,’ said Rowlands, feeling himself pushed this way and that, and doing his best to protect his companion from the same, ‘we should find a quieter spot to wait until this crush clears?’
 But just then there came the clatter of hurrying footsteps along the cobblestones. ‘Milady! Oh, milady! I was afeared I’d come too late and missed you.’
 ‘You certainly might have been earlier,’ said his mistress. ‘But no matter. Where have you left the car?’
 ‘Over the way, milady. Was it a good journey, now?’
 ‘Not bad.’
 ‘And the sea as calm as a millpond,’ said the man, sounding as satisfied as if he’d arranged this himself. ‘Would there be any luggage, milady?’
 ‘Yes. There are my two bags and one of Mr Rowlands’. See to it, will you? And then let’s waste no more time. We’ve had a long journey.’
 ‘To be sure,’ was the reply. ‘Patsy’s after collecting the luggage now. Hi there, Patsy! Over here with the bags, now! Car’s this way, milady. Just a few steps,’ added O’Driscoll in an encouraging tone. Within a few minutes, the travellers were seated in the back of the Bentley, with O’Driscoll taking his seat next to the silent Patsy, whose functions evidently included that of chauffeur. ‘Merrion Square, is it, milady?’ enquired the former. Being assured that it was, he conveyed this fact to the latter. Then they were moving, at a steady but not excessive speed, along the river – ‘The Liffey,’ murmured the woman beside him to Rowlands – and across O’Connell Bridge. Trinity College soon appeared on their left, so Rowlands’ companion told him, after which it was more or less a straight line to their destination where they arrived in little more than ten minutes.
 ‘Here we are,’ she said as they drew up in front of a house about halfway along the far side of the square. As he got out of the car, Rowlands had a sense of a freshness in the air that came from the presence of trees, and of a fountain playing softly somewhere. There was something else – the quiet that hung about the wealthier parts of cities where the raucous sounds of the poorer streets seldom, if ever, penetrated.
 Rowlands followed the mistress of the house up a short flight of steps, to a door that already stood open. A sensation of warmth and light met him as he entered the spacious hall. A smell of fresh flowers and polished