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

I learned that the area I was in was called the Liberties. It had once been a self-governing center for weaving and trade and had been prosperous in the days before taxes on Irish goods made exporting impossible. For the last hundred years it had been the city's worst slum. Iwalked past dank tenements and desolate warehouses until I spotted the Guinness Brewery chimneys over the tenements and made my way toward the river Liffy. At least I now had my bearings, but no proof that Liam actually lived in this area. He might have used this confusing network of alleyways as a means of losing me and then come out the other side, free to go to his lodgings, wherever they might be.

I had to be content with telling myself that Liam knew where to find me if he wanted to make contact. If he didn’t, there wasn’t much more I could do but keep my eyes open as I went around the town. I came back to the hotel just in time for a change of clothes and a quick meal before I had to head out again, this time to my poetry reading, sponsored by the Gaelic League at Davy Byrne's on Duke Street. I asked directions to Duke Street from the hotel porter and was relieved to find it wasn’t far away as the weather had worsened again, the wind was bitter, and my legs were already rebelling after a day's walking. I had changed into the warmest clothing I had brought, and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders before stepping out into the night. I didn’t know at what number Davy Byrne lived, but I hoped that I’d arrive early enough on Duke Street to watch other people going into his house.

Duke Street was just behind Trinity College, and the whole area presented a lively scene on Saturday evening. Droves of young men, some of them already intoxicated, some arm in arm with young women of questionable repute, swept up the middle of the street, singing, laughing, shouting as they went. Some of them tried to persuade me to join them. Instead I asked them if they knew where Davy Byrne lived and was met with howls of laughter.

“That's Davy Byrne's over there,” one of them pointed. “See the sign?”

Davy Byrne's was a public house, so it seemed. I hesitated outside in the darkness. In New York women were not allowed in most saloons and would only go into respectable drinking places accompanied by a man. Our pub at home had a ladies lounge around the side but decent ladies didn’t frequent it. I’d been a few times with local lads, but there was nothing I hated more than watching grown men get drunk so I usually stayed well away. A group of men passed me and went in. Were ladies even allowed at meetings of the Gaelic League, I wondered? Istood there in the shadows until a middle-aged couple entered, then I stepped up hastily and followed them inside.

Inside was warm, with gas lamps casting a friendly glow on dark oak-paneled walls. There were simple oak benches around the walls, already full with an interesting assortment of young men, elderly professors, a couple of priests, shabby-looking individuals, and here and there a distinguished-looking matron. There were a couple of other young women, dressed rather in the bluestocking manner, one of them wearing glasses and both occupied with a book they were studying. I looked to see if there was any room beside them, but they were squashed into a corner, sharing a seat meant for one. So I stood awkwardly near the door until a young man called out, “Come over here to us, my dear. You can always sit on my lap.”

“Nonsense. We can make room for the young lady over here,” one of the matrons said firmly. “You two. Move over, please.” Her look implied there was to be no hanky-panky in the establishment this evening. The men beside her moved to make room for me. I smiled gratefully and sat down. She was a large woman, with a mannish face, dressed head to toe in black, her hair scragged back into a severe-looking bun. But she had a serene, innocent look to her, and her face was remarkably devoid of wrinkles. In fact, she reminded me of the nuns who taught me in school, and I sat down cautiously beside her.

“Thank you. I wasn’t even sure that women were allowed to attend,” I said.

“What better way to resurrect our Irish culture than through the women, who will then teach it to the children,” she said. “Are you a newcomer to town?”

I nodded. “I’m a visitor from New York,” I said. “I heard about this meeting and wanted to see for myself what the Gaelic League had accomplished.”

“Quite a lot,” she said. “There are great stirrings all over Ireland. Our aim is to awaken interest in our past and our culture in the smallest villages of the land. We know that we’re a nation of poets and musicians. Let's be proud of our own poetry and music and language too. You don’t speak Irish, I take it?”

“I’m afraid not. We were never taught, although there were some people near my home who did.” “And where was that?”

“Up in—” I paused, conscious that people were listening, “In Gal-way,” I said, latching onto a big enough city.

“Galway. How lovely,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Boone, by the way. And your name is?”

“Mary Delaney,” I said.

She nodded. “Welcome to the meeting, Mary. I hope it inspires you.”

A barman came around with pints for those who had ordered them. I wondered if I was required to order something, and glanced at my female protector to see what she was doing. Before I could come to any conclusion the man next to me said, “and a half pint for the young lady here,” and a glass was shoved into my hand. I turned to thank him and realized that I had met him before.