“Books,” she breathed.
“Hundreds of thousands of them,” Torin Slane said in agreement.
“What is this place? I mean, I know it is a library…but I have never seen anything like this one.”
“This is the Long Room in the Old Library,” Slane told her, his voice hushed. “It is over two hundred feet long. The Brian Boru harp is kept here.”
“The what?”
“One of three surviving medieval Gaelic harps—the symbol of Ireland.”
“Oh yes, I see. And one is here…” She turned her head. “May I…?” She waved along the gallery.
They began to walk. Slowly, for Adele continued to turn her head, taking in as much as she could.
She paused at a bust of a man with a great nose and downturned mouth.
“Jonathan Swift,” Slane said, his mouth turning up at the corners.
“Ah.”
They moved on.
“Why are you here, Lady Adelaide?” Slane said.
“You brought me here.”
“I mean—”
She lifted her hand. “It is about your brother.”
“What about him?”
Adele glanced at him. His face had clouded over, and his forehead was furrowed. There was pain there, too. After all, she reminded herself, the men had been brothers, no matter how different they were in nature.
She looked away. “Can you think of a reason why someone would want to kill your brother, Mr. Slane? I mean, other than it being the Irish because he was a monarchist and the English because he was not?”
“You read today’s Times,” Slane said heavily.
Adele kept her gaze averted.
“And would ye be telling me why ‘tis any business of yours?” he added, the brogue suddenly thicker.
“If I could, Mr. Slane, I would.”
“The Garda say ‘twas a robbery. McDermott himself assured me.”
“I read that in the paper, too. Can you tell me, then, Mr. Slane, why any self-respecting robber would leave five hundred pounds sitting in a drawer?”
She had walked another three slow steps before she realized that Slane was no longer by her side. She turned back.
He stood in the middle of the hall, his expression thunderstruck.
Adele moved back to him.
“How much was there?” His voice was hoarse.
“Five hundred pounds. I saw it myself.”
“In the drawer.” He stirred, almost shaking himself. “Tisn’t likely to be elsewhere. He could hardly walk around with that much…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Slane, but I feel as though the money is far more significant to you than it was to me.”
He moved on a step or two, then turned and walked back. He was pacing, whether he knew it or not. He repeated the circuit and came back to her. “Why d’ye want to know about this, then?”
“You mean beyond getting to a truth that Pureton and McDermott are covering up?”
“You’re something to do with that Pureton mucky-muck,” Slane said. “He was too familiar with you last night.”
“You mean he was rude.”
“Aye, that, too. Pureton’s the King’s man. ‘tis him who was the anonymous source the paper quoted, I lay my life upon it. So why are ye not falling in with the official story like a good little woman?”
“Because I am neither particularly good nor particularly short, Mr. Slane.”
He grinned, devilment dancing in his eyes.
“Because, in a way I cannot explain, it is my responsibility to investigate such things,” Adele added. “Until I know that the matter really is a simple robbery gone wrong, I must continue to search for the truth. And because, Mr. Slane, you no more believe it was a robbery than me. The five hundred pounds means something to you. Something more than an exorbitant amount of money left lying in a drawer.”
Slane nodded. “Ye’ve got me there. It does.” Again, caution seemed to fall over him like a curtain. “You’re not a flighty woman…”
“I stared at a dead body and a great deal of blood with more calm than you, Mr. Slane.”
“Aye.” He pulled out his watch and consulted it. “Would ye take a little ride with me? I promise ye an answer of sorts at the end of it.” He hesitated. “I can ask an assistant to come with us, if you feel the necessity.”
“Hardly, Mr. Slane. I am a widow, and you are far from the type of man whom I would permit any indelicacies.”
“And you are far and away removed from the type of lass I’d consider fit for the receivin’ of such. Step this way, Lady Adelaide.” He moved down the long room in swift steps and Adele hurried to catch up with him.
THE HOUSE THE CAB STOPPED beside was identical to every other house on the long street, except for the color of the front door. Torin Slane actually handed her down from the cab and as Adele examined the unbroken slab of housefronts running down the street, he climbed the three steps to the front door and used the knocker.
Across the road, she glimpsed green water through a narrow aperture between houses on that side. They were near the harbor, then.
The door opened. “Mr. Slane!”
Adele turned and moved up the steps. The middle-aged woman glanced at her, startled. Adele gave her a charming smile.
Torin smiled at the woman. “Is he in, Mrs. Hyland?”
“O’Doyle is ill, Mr. Slane. He’d barely let me in his room with tea, t’is morning.”
“I might be able to help with that,” Torin said. “May we?”
“Both of ye, then?” The landlady’s gaze slid back to Adele.
“We’ll leave the door open if it makes you more comfortable, Mrs. Hyland,” Torin replied.
“Oh, ‘tis not my concern at all. T’e man’s too sick for such business, anyway.” She stepped aside. “Shall I bring tea?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Hyland!” Slane called over his shoulder as he climbed the steps just inside the door two at a time.
Adele drew in a breath, lifted her skirt and climbed rapidly, too.
They wound up to the third floor, which had a low roof and creaking, unadorned floorboards. At one of the three doors coming off the landing, Torin rapped his
