“We only ‘ave yesterday’s,” he replied. “We’re always a day behind ‘ere, on account of it being shipped across, see?”
“You must have a daily newspaper here, surely?”
“The Irish Times, ma’am, but…”
“That will do. And I will have a pot of tea as soon as you can manage it.” She tried to smile charmingly at him but could only manage a grimace.
Both the tea and the newspaper arrived at the same time, for which she was grateful. She ordered toast and jam and gratefully quaffed the first cupful of tea, then freshened her cup and turned to the newspaper.
The death of Eilish Slane, MP, a family man with three children, was front page news. The newspaper offices must have worked all night to rebuild their pages to include the lengthy article, which she read with a great deal of interest. The beginning of the article spoke of his bereaved family, in Galway, and the misfortunate timing of his visit to Dublin, to coincide with the King’s visit.
Adele’s toast went untouched as she moved onto the second page, her disbelief building.
The newspaper had managed to interview a number of people, asking for their opinion about the well-known Irish politician’s death. A gentleman called O’Sullivan, who was named as a Nationalist, declared that the British had killed Slane to rid themselves of a troublesome MP, who was far too outspoken in support of Irish interests in Parliament.
An “undisclosed” Englishman, on the other hand, stated that the murder was clearly the work of the Irish Nationalists, who didn’t like the fact that Mr. Slane was a conservative and a favourite of the Crown.
The speculation continued for the length of the column and only at the top of the next column did the journalist get around to citing actual facts.
Chief Inspector Cillian McDermott of the Pearse Street Garda Station indicated that the investigation into the death of Eilish Slane would continue, but that the evidence already collected suggested that nothing more sinister was at the bottom of the affair than that of a robbery gone wrong.
Adele sat upright, and barely got her cup upon the saucer without a splash. Her heart raced as she re-read the offending paragraph.
“Robbery, my eye,” she muttered and got to her feet.
The waiter hurried over to her. “My lady?” He’d clearly learned who she was since delivering her toast and jam.
She drummed her fingers upon the tablecloth, making up her mind. “I am returning to my room to get my things. Can you arrange for a cab for me, please?”
“At once, my lady.” He dashed off.
TRINITY COLLEGE, ADELE LEARNED, WAS the only college of the University of Ireland. It was a grand, grey Georgian building featuring arches and bell towers, cobblestones and large squares. She quickly became lost, and had to ask strangers for directions several times, but eventually found her way to a small office lined with books, notebooks, and the paraphernalia of a man preoccupied with thought.
“He’ll be ‘long once his lecture is done,” the young lad who’d shown her in said.
“He won’t mind me waiting in here?” she asked doubtfully.
“‘tis naught elsewhere to wait,” he said with a shrug and shut the door.
Adele settled in to wait.
Over an hour later, she heard voices outside the door, then the door was pushed open. Torin Slane stepped in. He wore the same suit he had been wearing yesterday evening, but the tie was properly knotted this morning. The hair, though, was still unruly. Locks fell over his eyes as he took her in.
He moved over to the bookcase and dropped the small pile of books he had been carrying upon the shelf.
“I did not know you were a university professor,” Adele said. “Chief Inspector McDermott failed to add that to your character resume last night.”
“Assistant professor during the summer sessions,” he corrected. “And I didn’t know you were the daughter of an earl, Lady Adelaide. Everyone failed to provide even your name, last night.”
“I am Mrs. Becket now.”
“Ah.” He leaned against the shelf, his black eyes glittering in the low light in the room. “The intricate insanity of the English peerage.”
“I was born into it, Mr. Slane. I did not invent it.”
“My sympathies.”
“And you must have mine, for the loss of your brother.”
He drew in a sharp breath, but did not speak.
“You have a wonderful collection of books, Mr. Slane.”
“I see you have helped yourself to them.” He moved over to the desk and picked up a notebook.
She held up the book she had been reading. “I wonder…may I borrow this one? I would like to finish it.”
“I do not lend books which will never be returned.”
“I am a fast reader, Mr. Slane. I will return it before I leave
He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “That’s Gulliver’s Travels. No one reads Jonathan Swift quickly.”
“I’ve read seven chapters while waiting for you.”
He crossed his arms, the notebook beneath them. “Actually read? While waiting here?”
“Well, I read A Modest Proposal first, but yes.”
“You understand that Gulliver’s Travels is not a children’s tale?”
“Hardly. He is very clever in how he criticizes society’s ills, all without saying so openly.” She lowered the book. “Perhaps that is a lesson you should take from the story yourself, Mr. Slane.”
The man’s jaw worked.
Adele gave him her best smile. “I meant no offense, Mr. Slane. I like books. All books. I came to them rather late in life, you see.”
His gaze clashed with hers. “You like books,” he repeated heavily.
“Yes, I do.”
He moved to the door. “Come with me.”
“Where are you taking me.”
“You’ll see.”
ADELE PAUSED JUST INSIDE THE door, her breath escaping her in a rush, as she lifted her chin to take in the grand room. The roof was enormously high and rounded over to form an arch than ran the length of the room, which was very long. On either side of the
