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

“It's Mr. Joyce, is it not?” I asked.

He smiled. “It is indeed. And you are—don’t tell me—Miss Delaney.”

“Quite right.”

“I’m glad you’ve an interest in our native Irish poetry, Miss Delaney,” he said.

“Oh, I have indeed,” I said. “One poet in particular I had hoped to meet here. Terrence Moynihan. He used to write fine poetry, and I heard he’d left for Dublin some time ago.”

Mr. Joyce frowned. “Terrence Moynihan? Now that's not a name I’ve heard. Maybe Kevin here would know better than I—he's been hanging around the city, imbibing equal measures of liquor and culture for as long as he can remember. Isn’t that so, Kevin, my boy?”

“What? What's that you’re saying, Joyce, old man?” One of the shabby fellows looked over in our direction, waving a half empty glass. It was hard to say how old he was—at least thirty but possibly a good bit older. He looked as if he was in need of a good meal, and his clothes were definitely in need of a brush and press.

“The young lady here is asking about a Dublin poet, and I’ve nevercome across him. The name's Moynihan. Terrence Moynihan. Mean anything to you?”

The shabby man got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and came over to us.

“I remember Terry Moynihan,” he said. “He wrote some fine stuff.” “Is he still in Dublin?” I asked excitedly. “I’d dearly love to hear him read his poems.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Kevin said. “But alas, poor Terry is no more. He had a little mix up with the Royal Irish Constabulary, and he was thrown in jail and never came out again.”

“How long ago was this?” I asked.

He thought for a while. “Ten years, at least, I’d say.”

“And what about his wife? Do you know what happened to her?”

He shook his head. “Terrence had no wife that I knew of.”

“Well, they probably wouldn’t have been legally married,” I said. “I heard that he ran away with another man's wife. Her name was Mary Ann. Mary Ann Kelly when she was married, but before that it was Mary Ann Burke.”

Kevin shook his head again. “Never met her. If Terry had her in Dublin with him, then he kept her hidden away.” He was still frowning as he examined me. “But how would you know about Terrence Moynihan? Surely you’d have been nothing more than a little girl when Terrence was alive—certainly too young to appreciate the kind of political poetry that he wrote.”

“To tell the truth,” I said, as I weighed what truth I should be telling at this moment, “I was asked to look him up by a friend in New York who had been old enough to remember him in Dublin. You know what it's like when people hear that you’re paying a visit to the old country— they all have someone they want you to look up for them.”

“Is that a fact?” Kevin said. “I’ve never been out of Dublin myself.”

“A stick-in-the-mud, that's what you are, Kevin my boy,” Mr. Joyce said. “Travel broadens the mind, my friend. I aim to travel all over the world when I get through with my studies. I’ll expect you to show me around New York, Miss Delaney.”

“I’d be delighted to,” I said. “It's a grand city.”

“No city can beat old Dublin,” Kevin said morosely. “Those Irishmen who desert their motherland are no true Irishmen. That's what I say. Rats leaving the sinking ship, every one of you.”

He had just about reached that level of drunkenness that usually turns into fisticuffs with many Irishmen. Luckily I still had the matron beside me.

“Go back to your seat. Can’t you see they’re ready to begin,” she said, in such a commanding voice that Kevin meekly obeyed her.

The program started. There was a report on the local branch of the Gaelic League and the great strides being made in fostering our native art and culture. There were language classes being offered, Irish music sessions, people collecting folk tales and dances. For the first time since coming to Ireland I felt that charge of enthusiasm that was so often present in New York. These people really believed they were about to reawaken the spirit of the country.