Chapter 2
TWO
Before she left to catch the bus, Ciara settled Brian on his big cushion in the kitchen and filled his bowl with water.
‘Maria will be here for your walk at lunchtime and then I will be home very soon after that,’ she said in the soft voice she used when talking to the dog.
He wagged his tail, which made a thumping sound on the floor, and laid his head on his front paws with a little sigh as if to say, Oh okay, but I’ll miss you.
She had found him in a dog rescue centre a year ago and fallen in love with him instantly.
She couldn’t imagine why anyone would abandon such a beautiful pure-bred wolfhound but the woman who ran the place had suggested that he might be too much for some people to handle.
‘He needs a lot of walks and then he eats a lot,’ she had said. ‘It could be expensive.’
‘I think he has been treated badly, somehow,’ Ciara had remarked as the dog shrank away from her outstretched hand. ‘I only want to pat him, but he’s backing away with his head down.’
‘I think you need to gain his confidence,’ the woman had said. ‘It’s possible that he was punished in some way for not behaving. Some people expect so much from dogs. But don’t take him if you feel you can’t cope with such a big dog.’
Ciara had stroked Brian’s wiry fur and looked into his soulful eyes and knew they were meant for each other. ‘What’s his name?’ she’d asked.
The woman smiled. ‘Brian Boru,’ she had said. ‘After the high king of Ireland.’
‘What a perfect name for such a noble creature,’ Ciara had said fondly.
She knew it would take a large chunk out of her salary to feed him, and a lot of patience to gain his trust, but she didn’t care.
She had always wanted an Irish wolfhound and here he was at last. ‘I’ll take him,’ she had said.
‘I’m sure we’ll get on well together.’ Which had turned out to be very true.
There had been a few teething problems, and it had taken Brian some time to get used to her, but he had finally settled down after a few months.
She had taken him to a dog training place a few times and that had made him easier to handle as he was so eager to please.
Once he had settled in properly, Ciara worked out a routine with her friendly neighbour Maria, who worked as a yoga teacher at a gym nearby and was free at lunchtime to look after Brian and take him for a walk in the hills or on the nearby beach.
That routine worked well and Brian soon got used to the arrangement.
Ciara ran down the stairs to the bus stop on the corner.
She knew her mother was right and that she should have tried to find a flat nearer to work in the city centre.
But Malahide was a lovely suburb by the sea on the northside of Dublin, close to nature and also not too far from Drogheda, where her mother lived.
Rents were cheaper here too, contrary to any kind of flat nearer to town where everything was double what she was paying here.
Once on the bus, she stared out the window as they made their way along the M50 motorway and then into town, the streets lined with redbrick Victorian houses once inhabited by the comfortably off middle classes of Dublin.
Now they had been turned into flats even though the houses had maintained their character of the good old days.
Some of the squares had once been private parks for the residents but now they were open to the public and provided green spaces for everyone to enjoy.
Ciara tried to imagine what life in those houses had been like then, with domestic staff downstairs and the gentry in the lovely rooms upstairs.
Probably not so nice for the servants, she assumed.
She was at least an hour late for work, but nobody seemed to have noticed, and she slipped into her cubbyhole of an office and turned on the computer to check her emails.
But she couldn’t concentrate and soon found herself staring into space, thinking about the inheritance and her appointment with that probate genealogist, or whatever he was.
And then she searched her mind for memories of her father, what he had said about his childhood and how he had avoided talking about his parents.
And then something else popped into her mind – her mother’s reaction to Ciara’s news. Ma was silent for a long time when I asked her about this woman, Martha Fitzgerald, and then, when I told her I was the sole heir, she seemed so shocked. Does she know more than she let on?
Unable to concentrate on her work all morning, Ciara left early for lunch, saying she had a dental appointment.
Then she walked the short distance to Dawson Street, found the office of O’Donoghue and Kiley solicitors beside an Italian restaurant, and rang the bell.
When a tinny voice answered she told them who she was and that she had an appointment with Ronan Burke.
There was another buzz and she pushed the door and walked into a dark hall with many doors, one of them bearing the name of the solicitors’ firm.
She opened the door and peered in, meeting the gaze of a woman behind a desk in the small reception area.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Ciara Doyle. I’m a little early for my appointment with Ronan Burke.’
‘That’s fine,’ the receptionist said. ‘You can go in. He’s expecting you.’ She indicated a door to the left and Ciara entered a small office where a young man was eating a sandwich, partly obscured by his computer screen.
He didn’t seem to notice her, so Ciara cleared her throat, which made him peer around the screen, looking startled when he spotted her.
‘Oh,’ he said, chewing furiously. ‘I didn’t see you there.
Sorry. Just a minute.’ He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and then pushed the screen to the side.
‘A large bite of BLT,’ he explained. ‘You know, one of those enormous sandwiches they make at Carluccio’s next door.
Please take a seat. I’ll just finish this. Too good to throw away.’
‘I’m sure,’ Ciara said, sitting down on the chair opposite him while her stomach rumbled at the thought of a large BLT.
She met his gaze and discovered that he had dark blond wavy hair, hazel eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, and he was dressed in a white button-down shirt, with a red-and-blue checkered silk tie with that ‘preppie’ look that spoke of a well-off background.
Possibly a Trinity College graduate, she thought. From some posh southside suburb.
‘So,’ he said when he had wiped his fingers and picked up a stack of documents. ‘Ciara Doyle…’
‘That’s me,’ she said and handed him her driving licence.
‘Of course. And I’m Ronan Burke,’ he said, after a quick glance at her licence.
‘So I gathered,’ she said, trying to keep a straight face.
He suddenly smiled as he handed her back her licence, showing even teeth and a dimple in his cheek.
‘Of course. Sorry if I seem a little absentminded. Okay, so let’s get down to business.
Martha Fitzgerald named you as her sole heir.
She has left you a property and a sum of money.
The property in question is located in Cherrywood, which is a little village near Enniskerry in County Wicklow.
’ He drew breath and looked at her over the rim of his glasses as her jaw nearly dropped with shock.
‘It took me a while to find you, as there didn’t seem to be any family connection.
I didn’t know Martha personally; it was one of the solicitors here who drew up the will a few years ago. ’
‘Oh,’ Ciara said, trying to process the information. A property? Money? ‘Can I talk to him, then?’
‘No,’ Ronan said. ‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’ Ciara asked. ‘Where is he?’
‘Glasnevin Cemetery,’ Ronan said. ‘He died shortly after Martha. He had been her solicitor for most of her adult life.’
‘What a pity,’ Ciara said. ‘I’m sure he would have known why she made me her heir.’
‘All I know is that she said something about your grandmother when she made her will. And I also know that she had no children or family who had any legal right to her estate. So the will is valid and nobody will contest it.’
‘That’s good, I suppose,’ Ciara said. ‘So what’s the property and how much money have I inherited from this mystery woman, then?’
‘I believe it’s a house with some kind of shop or business attached,’ Ronan said. ‘All I have is the Eircode and the keys to the house. You will have to go to Cherrywood and see for yourself. The money will be lodged into your account as soon as you give us your bank details.’
‘How do I get to this place – Cherrywood?’ Ciara asked.
‘If you have a car, you’ll just drive down the M50 and then take exit number fifteen and then up to the Enniskerry road and—’
‘I don’t have a car,’ Ciara interrupted.
‘But you have a driving licence?’
‘Yes,’ Ciara replied. ‘But I’m not a great driver, really.’
‘Well, if you’re going to live in Cherrywood, I suggest you brush up on your driving skills,’ Ronan suggested. ‘And then buy a car.’
‘Who says I’m going to live there?’ Ciara asked. ‘I mean, I could sell the house or whatever it is. Or let it or something,’ she ended vaguely.
‘You could,’ Ronan agreed. ‘But I don’t think you’d get much for it. I don’t think anyone has lived there since Martha Fitzgerald died. Maybe you could take a look at the place first? Rent a car and go up there. It’s easy enough to find, if you know Wicklow.’
Ciara bristled at his slightly superior tone. ‘I don’t, actually. I’m more of a northsider, you see.’
‘Northsider?’ Ronan asked. ‘Is that even a word?’
‘It is if you live there,’ Ciara retorted. ‘But I bet you’re from some southern suburb like Foxrock or Dalkey and you wouldn’t want to be seen dead north of the Liffey.’
‘I’m from Blackrock, actually,’ Ronan replied stiffly.
‘Lovely place,’ Ciara said.
‘You’ve been there?’ he asked, looking surprised.