The Secret Bookshop in Ireland (Sisters of Cherrywood #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

The letter arrived by registered mail on the first of April, a wet and windy Monday morning.

Ciara’s one-bedroom apartment was in a suburb north of Dublin, with views of the sea from every window. It wasn’t big, but it had a bright living room and a small kitchen that looked out over the nearby beach.

‘Ciara Doyle?’ the postman asked when she opened the door.

‘That’s me,’ she replied.

‘Great. Sign here,’ he said and pushed a pad under her nose. ‘Then I can give you the letter and get out of here before that hound eats me alive.’

Ciara smiled and looked at the dog in question: her Irish wolfhound, Brian Boru, standing by her side wagging his tail. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she said.

‘He’s as big as a house,’ the postman remarked, taking a step back and directing a nervous glance at the dog. ‘Please sign so I can go.’

Ciara sighed and signed her name. She took the letter, turning it over to see who it was from. ‘Ronan Burke, probate genealogist,’ she read out loud. ‘What’s that about? Doesn’t probate mean something to do with a will?’

‘Maybe some prince has left you a huge fortune? Or someone is playing you an elaborate joke,’ the postman suggested before he ran down the stairs. ‘It’s the first of April today, after all. Good luck anyway. Byee,’ he shouted.

‘Bye,’ Ciara mumbled and closed the door, her eyes on the letter she had just received. ‘Well, Brian, I have a feeling it might be what he said. Some kind of April Fool’s joke. But registered mail? Wouldn’t that be a little too much trouble just for an April Fool?’

Brian didn’t reply, just looked at her with his brown eyes and padded into the large, bright living room and lay down on the rug in front of the sofa with a loud thump.

Ciara, who had just finished her breakfast at the kitchen table, followed Brian and sat down on the sofa. She ripped open the letter and read the short message, feeling increasingly confused.

‘Dear Ciara Doyle,’ she read out loud. ‘We are pleased to inform you that you are the sole heir of the estate of Mrs Martha Fitzgerald of Cherrywood, County Wicklow, and would like to hear from you as soon as possible. Please contact our office in Dawson Street forthwith and we will explain how to proceed.’ Ciara stared at the letter, shaking her head.

‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’ She reached for her phone to call her mother.

If this letter was real and not a joke, maybe Ma would know what it was all about.

‘Hello, Ciara,’ her mother said when she answered. ‘How are you?’

‘Hi, Ma. I’m fine.’

‘Is anything wrong?’ her mother asked.

‘No, of course not. I just need to ask you something. I hope all is well with you.’

‘As well as it can be,’ her mother said with a sigh. ‘You sound a little shaken. What do you need to ask me?’

‘Well,’ Ciara said, hesitating for a moment before she continued.

‘Oh, okay, I’ve just got a registered letter saying I’m the sole heir of a woman called Martha Fitzgerald.

I’ve never heard of her at all, so as it’s the first of April today, it has to be a hoax.

So, ha ha, what fun they must be having.

I bet it’s someone in the office and now they’ll expect me to come into work all excited and then they’ll be in the loo laughing their heads off.

Ma, are you there?’ Ciara asked, when her mother didn’t reply.

‘I’m here. It was just that…’ Her mother stopped and then was silent for a long time before she continued. ‘Martha Fitzgerald?’ she finally asked in a shaky voice.

‘Yeah, that’s the name in the letter,’ Ciara said, puzzled by her mother’s reaction. ‘It says she lived in a place called Cherrywood in County Wicklow. Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘The heir of…’ her mother whispered. ‘This woman – Martha Fitzgerald?’

‘Yes,’ Ciara said. ‘Where in Wicklow is Cherrywood?’

‘I think it’s somewhere near Glencullen,’ Maureen Doyle said. ‘My grandfather came from Wicklow, near Avoca. He died in the First World War. I’m sure you’ve heard me mention him.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Ciara said, remembering that sad story and the old pictures of a handsome young man in uniform on her mother’s mantelpiece. ‘Such a tragedy. So he came from that county?’

‘Oh yes he did,’ her mother said. ‘But from another part of Wicklow. Cherrywood is quite a distance from there.’

‘Is it? I’ve never heard of it.’

‘That village is a bit remote, I think. Why don’t you contact whoever sent you the letter and find out if it’s real or not?’

‘I will,’ Ciara said and turned the envelope around. ‘There’s a name of a solicitors’ firm at the top of the letter. I’m going to call them right now. If there is no reply, I’ll go to their office and see if they really exist. I’ll be in town anyway, so it won’t mean a long hack from Malahide.’

‘You should have tried to find a place to live nearer to work,’ Maureen Doyle said. ‘Then you wouldn’t have such a long commute every day. I don’t understand why you had to go to Dublin at all. What was wrong with Drogheda?’

‘Everything, Ma,’ Ciara said with a sigh. ‘There was nothing to do there and not many jobs either.’

‘So being a junior civil servant is more enjoyable than being a librarian?’

‘The pay is better,’ Ciara pointed out. ‘Even at this grade.’

‘I thought you’d be promoted by now,’ Maureen Doyle said. ‘And maybe married too, with a child on the way. When is that going to happen?’

‘Not any time soon,’ Ciara replied, grimacing at her mother’s usual blunt remark. ‘The man of my dreams hasn’t arrived yet.’

‘You’re just too picky,’ Maureen Doyle said. ‘If you came back home, you could at least go to the dances here and meet someone suitable.’

‘You mean like Patrick next door who works at the grocery shop on the main street?’

‘He’s a manager,’ Maureen Doyle corrected.

‘I know, Ma. But he’s not my type,’ Ciara remarked. ‘And I’m happy here in my little flat with my dog. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know when I’ve met Mr Right and bring him home to meet you. I’m going out with some of the girls from work on Friday. You never know, I might meet someone special.’

‘Do your best to look nice,’ Maureen Doyle said. ‘And try to smile more.’

‘I will,’ Ciara promised, laughing to herself.

Her mother was so predictable. ‘In any case, I just had my hair cut. It looks nice.’ She stood up and glanced at her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace, trying to get used to her new look.

Her poker-straight black hair had been cut into a sharp bob, which suited her heart-shaped face and bright blue eyes.

‘It makes me look younger, the hairdresser said.’

‘You’re thirty-three,’ her mother remarked. ‘You don’t need to look younger.’

‘Of course I do,’ Ciara argued. ‘To anyone in their twenties, I’m ancient.’

‘You dress like a teenager,’ Maureen Doyle said disapprovingly. ‘If you could only try to look a little more stylish, you’d—’

‘Look, Ma, I have to go to work,’ Ciara interrupted. ‘It’s nearly half eight and I don’t want to miss the bus. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve found out about this inheritance thing, whatever it is. I’m sure it’s some kind of joke anyway.’

Maureen Doyle said goodbye and Ciara hung up.

Ciara was very fond of her mother but the constant remarks about dressing more elegantly and finding the right man to settle down and have a family with were getting tedious.

She knew her mother was getting on in years, having had Ciara at the age of forty-four, so it wasn’t so strange that she yearned for grandchildren.

‘You were a nice surprise,’ she had been told by her late father, who had been nearly fifty when Ciara was born.

‘A shock,’ Ciara had overheard her mother say to a friend, which made her feel that she hadn’t been particularly wanted.

But her parents had been good to her in their old-fashioned way, even though their methods of bringing up children seemed from a very distant era.

She had been educated at a Catholic all-girls school, one of the few that remained in their area.

Ciara had studied diligently and achieved high grades, which earned her a lot of praise from her parents.

Then, just after graduation from college, her father had died of cancer after a long illness at the age of seventy-four and Ciara found herself trying to console her grief-stricken mother just when she was ready to leave home.

But her mother had been anxious for Ciara to be independent, telling her she had to learn to fend for herself and live her own life.

So Ciara had left, applied for a job in a government department and began to look for a place to live.

It had been an exciting time and the beginning of her adult life, which to Ciara had felt both scary and exciting.

But she was free to do what she liked. Her job wasn’t very demanding, which left her plenty of free time for her hobbies.

She loved reading and had been toying with the idea of training to become a librarian, but then the job at the government department in Dublin came up and she was accepted for the position of executive officer at the Department of Finance, which sounded more prestigious than it really was.

But Ciara was young and free with her own little apartment and a growing circle of friends with whom she often went dancing at the many city centre clubs.

There had been a number of boyfriends but none really serious, to her mother’s disappointment.

But as time went on and Ciara turned thirty, she was still stuck in the same position as when she started.

She had begun to feel that her life had come to a dead end and she couldn’t find a way out.

It was as if her real life, the one she should have been living, was happening somewhere else, in another dimension.

Something had to be done so she could break out of the monotony of her daily routine.

Maybe she should go abroad? Or work somewhere in the private sector?

The civil service, although safe and steady with a guaranteed pension, was beginning to feel like a prison.

Ciara realised she had been reminiscing and needed to get ready for the day ahead.

Then she remembered the letter and read it again and pulled her phone from her handbag.

She would be late for work, but she simply had to find out what all this meant.

She tapped in the number on the letter and waited for an answer.

The phone rang several times and then someone picked up. ‘O’Donoghue and Kiley, how can I help you?’ a female voice said.

‘Oh, hi,’ Ciara said. ‘My name is Ciara Doyle and I’m calling about this letter I got this morning. Could you tell me who sent it?’

‘Oh, hello, Ciara,’ the woman chirped. ‘How wonderful that we found you at last. Ronan was hoping to hear from you. Hold on and I’ll connect you.’

There was a series of clicks and then a male voice came on the line. ‘Ronan Burke here,’ a deep voice said. ‘Are you Ciara Doyle?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Ciara said, her heart beating. ‘I got this letter this morning and, well, I just want to find out… I mean if it’s genuine.’

‘It certainly is,’ Ronan Burke replied. ‘I’m so glad we found you at last. It took us a little while but then we tracked you down at the Department of Finance and by sheer luck got your address.’

‘But…’ Ciara started. ‘What… I mean, why were you looking for me? It said something about an inheritance but…’ Then she decided to get to the core of the problem.

‘If this is some kind of April Fool’s joke, I’d appreciate if you told me right now who was behind it.

Was it Rachel in accounts from my office?

I know she hates me, but this is going a bit far, I have to say. ’

‘It’s not a joke,’ Ronan Burke said, sounding amused. ‘Absolutely not. I don’t know anyone called Rachel anyway.’

‘Oh,’ Ciara said, taken aback. She suddenly felt dizzy at the thought of being the heir to someone she had never heard of. ‘Are you sure you have the right person, though?’

‘Yes, we are,’ Ronan Burke said. ‘Quite sure. You were born in Drogheda in nineteen ninety-two, is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ Ciara stammered. ‘But I have never in my life ever heard of Martha Fitzgerald. And I hadn’t a clue where Cherrywood is until now.’

‘Well, she knew you, apparently,’ Ronan said. ‘And Cherrywood is a little village in County Wicklow, not far from Glencullen.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Ciara interjected.

‘Okay. But I’d like you to come to our office so we can sort it all out.’

‘I can come in at lunchtime,’ Ciara offered, still in shock. ‘About one fifteen, if that suits you?’

‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘Could you bring your passport? Or a driving licence? Just to confirm your identity.’

‘Okay,’ Ciara said. ‘But… but could you tell me more? This woman – Martha Fitzgerald… Who was she?’

‘I don’t know much about her. She was in her nineties when she died. I believe she said when she wrote her will that…’ Ronan stopped. ‘Well, I wasn’t there so I don’t have the facts. I’m the genealogist and my job is to find prospective heirs, not drawing up wills. That’s the solicitor’s job.’

‘Yes, but you started to say something just then,’ Ciara insisted. ‘About Martha Fitzgerald.’

‘I think she might have been a close relation,’ Ronan said. ‘That’s what she told the solicitor who dealt with her will.’

‘A close relation?’ Ciara repeated, confused. ‘To me? In what way?’

‘She’s supposed to have said she knew who your grandmother was. But we can discuss that when you come in,’ Ronan said. ‘I’ll look up the file for you. See you later.’ He hung up, leaving Ciara feeling even more mystified than before.

What is going on? she wondered, sitting stock-still, frozen in shock on the sofa. What was that about who my grandmother was? Which grandmother was he talking about? They were both dead before I was born.

Then she suddenly knew which one it had to be: her father’s mother.

He hadn’t wanted to talk about her when she asked about his parents.

‘Let the dead rest in peace,’ was all he said as an answer to her questions.

It had been a mystery to her but she had stopped asking after a while, feeling there was some kind of secret to do with her father’s childhood that had been too painful to mention.

Could the solution to the mystery be found in that village in County Wicklow?