The afternoon performance at The Source was a delight. Though the music by Molly’s ensemble was wonderful, as one would expect after the Saturday night performance, the twenty or so bright-eyed, fresh-faced children from the heritage school stole the show. They played Irish music on wooden flutes and whistles. They performed Irish set dances. They sang and recited poems and acted out a folktale about an old woman beside the road—all in Gaelic. The oldest students were just ten years old. We could not stop talking about them as we waited for Molly.
She joined us, with more high praise for the children. “Wasn’t it thrilling? Those lovely children, singing in our own language?”
It was the ensemble’s last performance at The Source, but the young people were going straight to the Seniors Centre to play again. “You can come, too. Please do!” Molly said to us, the Shepherds group. Doreen did not hesitate. She hooked one arm around Molly’s and grabbed Alex’s arm. At first he looked mortified, but then in the spirit of the occasion, he gave me a look—Why not?—and let himself be pulled along.
Ian held back a little, until I reminded him that he’d get to meet some of the older people in town who, no doubt, had a lot of stories. He nodded and said, “Ah, I see your point.”
As we turned on a side street with a narrow sidewalk, Molly broke loose from her mother and our little procession continued with Molly and Ian walking together, Helen and me bringing up the rear. Doreen seemed to have a natural sense of direction. Molly told her the address, and she said, “I know the street. Remember, love? Grace directed us to a place for lunch, our first day in Thurles.” Molly didn’t reply. She was smiling up at Ian.
And so, after enjoying the talents of the children, we assembled in a large hall surrounded by some fifty elderly citizens. They could not have been more hospitable, as they directed us to the tea and biscuits and put out extra folding chairs for us. Molly’s ensemble entertained for no more than fifteen minutes, after which the white-tufted gentleman in charge announced that the music had been grand but now it was time for dancing.
The floor was immediately crowded, and the Irish step dancing began. The footwork was incredible. Men and women much older than Alex performed intricate steps. Most astonishing was that no one seemed to be breathing hard. I commented to Ian that they were all amazingly fit. “Makes me think I should take up step dancing instead of tennis,” I said.
“The thing is to do manual labor all your life and walk or ride a bicycle everywhere you go. And hoist a pint or two every night,” Ian said.
The step dancing ended with a solo performance by a woman who had won some kind of national title. The announcer told her age, which was eighty-three. And then the others came back on the floor for set dancing, which was what we’d seen the children do at The Source, but somehow it was even more impressive, performed by these dancers in orthopedic shoes. The footwork was not so fancy in these figure-dances, but the movements required precision, grace, and—yes, a high level of energy. Memory was apparently not a problem with these seniors.
After the first dance, the announcer invited all the visitors to join in. Molly had continued to play all the tunes with the musicians, but the others from the ensemble were eager to participate in the dancing. Doreen popped up and said to Alex, “Let’s give it a whirl!”
“Not on your life, Doreen,” Alex said with an expression that indicated he was serious.
She laughed, gave him a dismissive wave as if to say he was being very silly, and found another partner immediately. One who took a liking to her, if I judged correctly.
Ian caught the eye of the woman who had performed the solo, and they joined one of the squares. Two very elderly men presented themselves to Helen and me, and we could not refuse. My partner was so small, he could have passed for a leprechaun. What a pair we made, with me at five-foot-ten and him at about five feet. But he was a splendid dancer and had a great knack for leading, so that I always knew what I was supposed to do. The only trouble we had was when he had to twirl me, and I had to stoop low to make it under his short arm.
When we joined Alex again, I said, “I’m embarrassed that I’m out of breath and no one else seems to be.”
“I am!” said Helen. “But isn’t this just lovely? Remarkable!”
Alex had been writing in his notebook. Most tourists would never know about this kind of thing—this unexpected pleasure—unless they were to read Alexander Carlyle’s account in his travel guide.
The group from Shepherds went to the Star of India for an early dinner and had another noteworthy meal. It was just beginning to get dark when we left the restaurant. Molly said she wanted to catch up with her friends who were going to The Monks pub for their last night out. “You’re welcome to join us, Ian,” she said with a demure smile.
“Sure, I would enjoy it,” Ian said.
“Don’t worry about me, Mam,” Molly told her mother before Doreen could speak up. I was certain Doreen was about to insinuate herself between Molly and Ian, but she had the good sense—this time—to stand still and keep quiet.
“I’ll see Molly home safe and sound,” Ian said.
Helen, like Doreen, sometimes missed the obvious, but not in this case. “Oh, Doreen, let the young people have their fun,” she said.
I had driven into town, with Alex, Ian, and Helen. Doreen had gone on to The Source much earlier. On the way back to Shepherds, Doreen, who had remained silent—a little sullen, actually—until she climbed into the back seat with Helen, said, “I don’t know how safe Molly can be with someone who’s been shot at twice.”
“All the more reason for Ian to be very careful,” Alex said. “He will be. Count on it.”
“Don’t you remember how it was to be young and in love?” Helen said.
Doreen gave a cry of horror. “In love? Molly’s not in love with anybody!”
Helen cleared her throat. “Perhaps—infatuated. Surely you’ve seen it, Doreen.”
“I don’t know what you mean about that,” Doreen said. “Molly is a sensible young woman who’s going to have a grand career, not a husband and a houseful of whiney children to take care of. I’ve raised her to aim higher than that.”
No one spoke. I think we were all shocked by Doreen’s pronouncement. She seemed to realize what she’d said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with children,” she went on after a minute. “Molly has been my whole life. My great joy. But she has a talent she should not waste.”
“What is Molly going to do when she graduates?” I asked.
“If I have my way about it, she’ll take the offer to stay in Dublin and play in the symphony and give music lessons at UCD. She will continue to nurture her gift.”
“I have four daughters and a son,” I said, “and we mothers don’t always get our way, not when they become young adults and have their own plans.”
“Molly has taken education courses to teach young children,” Doreen said. “Sure, children look very well when they perform, like today. But I ask you, does it take a gifted violinist to teach schoolchildren? Can’t those with no ear for music do that? Why should it be my Molly, taking off for Sligo!”
“Sligo?” Helen and I echoed at once, as the word had come out of nowhere.
“Up in the Northwest, in the wild country. Molly has had another offer, a teaching position in Sligo! And I think I’ll just lay down and die if she goes!”
It was just as well that we were coming upon Shepherds.
Patrick was behind the Reception desk with a cheery greeting when we arrived. He asked how our day had been. Alex said, “The best yet! I’m sure Jordan will enjoy telling you all about it.” He was exceptionally slow, climbing the stairs.
“I thought Ian went with you to the performance,” Patrick said. Doreen scowled and departed without an answer. Helen trilled a little laugh and left as well. I remained, and Alex was right. I enjoyed telling Patrick about the performance at The Source and the unexpected experience at the Seniors Centre.
“Ian and Molly went off to join Molly’s friends at The Monks pub,” I said. Leaning closer to the counter, I lowered my voice. “Doreen was not too happy about that.”
Patrick laughed. “I can’t say I’m surprised—not about Ian and Molly, and not about Doreen. I expect they’ll be in late, so I’ll just see him tomorrow.”
Probably Patrick had news about Ian’s computer, but I resisted prying. As I was about to say goodnight, Patrick said, “Ah, Jordan—my dad said you were wondering about Mr. Sweeney. I suppose I’ve wondered myself why he wanted a room here at Shepherds and took the third floor when he could have booked a very nice room at another B&B in town. I don’t have an answer to that, but I did find out with a few keystrokes that he does confidential investigations.”
The door to the office was ajar. It opened wide, and Enya stood there, frowning. “Why do you need to know about Mr. Sweeney?” she said to me.
“Enya, don’t be rude!” Patrick said.
“Maybe it’s rude to ask too many questions about a man who has done nothing but mind his own business,” she said.
“Stop it, Enya,” Patrick said. “I’ve seen him trying to talk to you, and you don’t act very friendly to him, so why are you saying this now?”
She walked up to the counter and stood beside Patrick. She had not stopped frowning, but her voice softened. “I do know him. What I mean is, I knew him in Dublin when I was younger.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Patrick said.
“Why should I? Nobody said anything about him to me. Maybe you and Colin talked about him, but you didn’t talk to me.”
The change in Patrick’s expression was barely noticeable, but I sensed that he was hearing Enya’s underlying complaint. I didn’t want this to become a marital spat. I asked, “Did you know he was a private investigator?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes. My family and the Sweeneys lived on the same street when I was growing up. It was not a posh neighborhood, but it was all right. My dad did very well in business and we moved to a better part of Dublin. Tim—that was his son—he was maybe ten or eleven years old when we left. I didn’t really know him. I didn’t know about his death—or Mrs. Sweeney’s—till Mr. Sweeney came to Shepherds.”
I blinked, taking it all in. “He lost his son and his wife?”
She nodded. “Both within the last year. I was sorry, of course. But when Mr. Sweeney recognized me, he seemed to want—I don’t know what he wanted from me.”
Just a listening ear, I thought, a little sympathy from someone who had known his family.
“My parents have not gone back to the old neighborhood, and I haven’t,” she said.
She looked at Patrick, her eyes asking for understanding. But his words were edged with sarcasm. “So I guess you didn’t want to talk about the old times on the old street.”
“I didn’t know what to say. He kept asking me things about Tim, but Tim was younger than me. ‘Did you ever hear him play his violin?’ Mr. Sweeney said. I never did.” Her voice was full of frustration now. “He said his wife had been very ill, and after Tim was gone, she just gave up. About a month ago, I think. He said my mother sent a card, but I didn’t know about any of it. I’ve been out here in Thurles! And Mam never mentioned it when we were in Dublin.”
“And Mr. Sweeney didn’t know you were at Shepherds?” I asked.
“He did not! I don’t know why he’s here, but I have nothing to do with it.”
After a moment, Patrick turned to me. “So now we know a bit more than we did but not why he came to Shepherds. Maybe it does have something to do with his work. It’s Sweeney Confidential Investigations if you want to look at his website. Not much to it, though.”
Enya’s glare seemed to dare me to pry any further.
It was nice to be in early, to just reflect on all of the day’s experiences. I was straightening up my room, which I had left in a mess, when my phone rang. It was Drew. I wasn’t always delighted to hear from my brother, but tonight I felt a smile coming on as I answered with a greeting that he was used to hearing when we’d been apart for a while. “Hello, Drew. What’s wrong?”
“You’re funny. Hilarious. As a matter of fact, everything’s great,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“When are you coming home?”
“We have another week here. Missing me?”
“Of course, Jordie! Are you having a good time in the Emerald Isle?”
“I am, indeed.” There was no point in trying to tell him any particulars. I hoped he was being truthful, that nothing was wrong, but he wouldn’t be calling to hear about my trip. I knew my brother. He had something to tell me. So better to get on with it. “What’s going on in Savannah?” I asked.
“Nothing much, you know, the regular. Actually—I don’t suppose you’ve talked to my sweet nieces, have you?”
There it was. “As a matter of fact, yes. They said they’d seen you on River Street.”
“Right. Saturday night. I’d had dinner with some friends at Rocks on the River.”
“Some very young women, your nieces said.”
“Okay, okay,” he said when it was clear he couldn’t keep up the pretense. “I figured Julie and Catherine got the wrong idea. Those girls—not girls, I didn’t mean that—those young ladies were friends of the guy that invited me. Walter Sutton, but you wouldn’t know the name. He’s not from around here. He’s living on Hilton Head and has his eye on some property here in Savannah, on Whitaker. I thought we were going to talk business.”
“Funny business,” I said. “So what did he want from you?”
“You are so suspicious! That’s a real flaw in your character, Jordan.”
“What’s the story, Drew? I know there’s a story.”
Drew had a long story about how he’d met Walter Sutton at a golf tournament and had gone out on his boat twice before that night on River Street. It was good to know my brother had been staying busy since I’d left town. The man was from Ohio, but after a messy divorce he’d decided to go South, for the weather. “He hasn’t spent a summer in Savannah yet,” Drew laughed, to which I had to add an Amen. Even the natives wilted in the humidity during July and August.
“The thing is, back in Ohio, his family owns some land that has an old house on it. Really old, probably early 1800s.” I smiled, thinking what really old meant in Ireland. “The house was literally falling down,” Drew went on. “Then somebody discovered a secret room that nobody had ever known about. They’re thinking it’s part of the Underground Railroad. You know, the Underground Railroad,” he repeated.
“I know about the Underground Railroad, Drew,” I said.
“So now they’ve got the historical society involved, and somebody’s going to make a documentary.”
“Where’s the hidden room?” I couldn’t help myself. “Was it part of the original structure or added later?”
“I don’t know all the details, but there’s something about a false wall and a hidden staircase. And they found a shoe and a scrap of paper with a name on it, somebody at another stop on the Underground Railroad. Pretty cool, huh?”
I had to admit it was. “So I have to ask again: What does Walter Sutton want?”
“I can’t believe you! Does there always have to be a catch?”
Usually there was, with my brother and his pals, but he sounded sincere when he said, “There’s no catch. I just knew you went for stuff like this. I told Walter about you and how you were the best when it came to historical renovations, and he said he’d love to take us to see the house. Did I mention that he has a private plane? And if he lands the real estate deal on Whitaker, you might get the renovation.”
“I’m properly scolded, Drew,” I said.
“I hope so. You really need to work on that suspicious nature of yours.” Then he said, “So about that night on River Street,” and I knew we had probably arrived at the real reason for his call.
“I’ll tell Julie and Catherine it was strictly business,” I said.
I was wide awake for a long time, and when I did go to sleep, my dreams were fitful, centered around a secret chamber housing slaves on the Underground Railroad. But, like most dreams, mine were confusing, with priests, not slaves, in the room, hiding from Oliver Cromwell’s men.