In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)

I had moved to the fringe of this group by now. “Who is Cullen?” I asked the young man standing beside me.

He looked surprised. “Cullen Quinlan? You’ve not heard of him? He was a fine young writer ten years ago, but he got himself too involved in the Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood?”

“The Irish Republican Brotherhood. The secret society dedicated to getting rid of the English. You’ve not heard of them either? Where have you been, under a rock?”

I laughed uneasily. “No, in New York, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, New York,” he said, implying that was almost as bad as under a rock.

“Where I do happen to know Ryan O’Hare well,” I said, playing my one trump card.

His face lit up. “You know Ryan? How is he doing these days?”

“Fair to middling, I should say. He's had his successes and his failures. In truth I think he's too wickedly witty for the New York crowd, who like their spectacles and big musical productions.”

“Well, he would be, wouldn’t he?” the young man agreed. “He was too wickedly witty for London, was he not?” He noticed the others in the group had turned their attention to us. “This young lady knows Ryan in New York,” he said.

I was suddenly part of the circle. “Dear Ryan. And how is he doing in New York?” Grania asked, in her cool, elegant voice.

“He's had his successes,” I said, “but he's had some bad luck too. One of his plays was due to open when President McKinley was shot. Another of his ideas was stolen from him. I’m afraid Ryan does talk rather expansively.”

They all laughed at this.

“When you see him, tell him we miss him,” Grania said. “Tell him Grania wants him to come home, Grania Hyde-Borne.” “I’ll do that,” I said.

“All the beautiful young men have left us.” One of the men sighed. “Oscar and Ryan and Cullen. All so talented and such a treat for the eye as well.”

“Don’t let anyone hear you saying that, Tristan, or they’ll get the wrong impression and you’ll be following Oscar to jail.”

“Such a terrible shame,” an older woman said, “and such a sad end for a brilliant young man.”

“It seems that all the true stars in the firmament are destined to flame briefly and then die,” the man called Tristan said. “Oscar and Cullen. Who can say what they might have contributed to the world of literature in their mature years had they been allowed to keep on writing.”

I turned to the young chap beside me who had been my supplier of information. “So what happened to Cullen?” I whispered.

“As I said, he became involved with the IRB, the Brotherhood. They attempted to blow up a barracks when there was that last push for home rule, and Cullen's name was implicated although I don’t think he had any part in the planting of the explosives, mind you. But he was a known name, and it was decided to make an example of him. He was hauled off to jail and nothing has been heard of him since. We don’t even know if he's alive or dead. Word has it that he died of typhoid. You know what the conditions are like in those places.”

I nodded. I did know. I had visited Daniel in a similar place. If his case ever came to trial, it was just possible that a spiteful judge could send him back there. I shivered, then reminded myself that this was no time for personal worries. I had enough concerns on my plate right here in Dublin.

“So tell me,” I said to the young man, “Do you happen to know a playwright called Terrence Moynihan?”

He frowned, then shook his head. “Can’t say the name means anything to me. Ask Grania. She knows everyone. Grania!” he attracted her attention, “have you ever heard of Terrence Moynihan?”

“The name is familiar,” she said. “Terrence Moynihan. Let me see. It was some time ago that I heard his name mentioned. A poet, wasn’t he? But I haven’t come across him personally, nor heard his name for quite a while.”

So Mr. Moynihan had become a poet, rather than a playwright. I’d have to visit the Gaelic League on Saturday night to find out more. Ihad a feeling that if Grania Hyde-Borne didn’t know him, he was no longer part of Dublin literary life.

More people crowded in upon Grania, and I found myself outside her little group. I looked around for Alice but couldn’t see her. There probably wasn’t any point in lingering any longer, and it was becoming impossibly loud for conversation anyway. As I fought my way to the door, a tall young man in a black frock coat grabbed my arm.

“Pardon me, but we’ve met before, I believe.”

I recognized him right away, of course. It was Mr. Fitzpatrick, whom I had encountered when playing the part of Oona Sheehan on the ship. He was staring hard at me, but he obviously couldn’t place me without my makeup and wig.

“Have we?” I asked innocently. “I don’t believe so.”

“I could have sworn your face looked familiar. Do you live in Dublin?”

“No, I’m just visiting from New York.”