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Rob swivelled. Just across the spindly new footbridge, on the other side of the torpid Liffey, was a branch of Eason’s bookstore.

The five of them crossed the river and entered the store en masse, rather to the surprise of the young sales assistant. Immediately Christine went to the Irish Classics section. ‘Here.’ She pounced on a copy of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and flicked feverishly through it. ‘And here…are…the tundish pages.’

‘Read it out.’

‘The tundish passage occurs about halfway through the book. Stephen Dedalus, the hero, the artist of the title, has gone to see his tutor, a Jesuit dean of English studies at University College Dublin. They have a debate about philology. And that’s where we come in. Here’s what it says: “To return to the lamp, the feeding of it is also a nice problem. You must choose the pure oil…using the funnel”.’ She looked up at the assembled, expectant faces. ‘I’m doing dialogue here. Don’t expect an accent.’ Returning to the book, she recited: ‘“What funnel? asked Stephen.-The funnel through which you pour the oil into your lamp.-That? said Stephen. Is that called a funnel? Is it not a tundish?’” Christine stopped reading.

Rob nodded slowly. ‘So they talk about funnels. Where’s the Hellfire stuff?’

‘The precise passage we want is a page or two back.’ Christine flicked and scanned. ‘Here it is. “But the trees in Stephen’s Green were fragrant of rain and the rain-sodden earth gave forth its mortal odour, a faint incense rising upward through the mould from many hearts…he knew that in a moment when he entered the sombre college he would be conscious of a corruption other than Buck Egan and Burnchapel Whaley”.’

Rob nodded eagerly now.

‘Wait, there’s more.’ She turned another page and calmly recited. ‘“It was too late to go upstairs to the French class. He crossed the hall and took the corridor to the left which led to the physics theatre. The corridor was dark and silent but not unwatchful. Why did he feel that it was not unwatchful? Was it because he had heard that in Buck Whaley’s time there was a secret staircase there?”’ She closed the book.

The bookshop was quiet.

‘Ah.’ Said Dooley.

‘Yes!’ said Boijer.

‘But surely it can’t be that obvious,’ Sally said, frowning. ‘A secret staircase. Just like that? Why wouldn’t that horrible gang have had a look?’

‘Maybe they don’t read Joyce,’ said Forrester.

‘It makes sense,’ Dooley surmised. ‘Historically. The Whaley connection is true. There are two great big houses on St Stephen’s Green. And I am sure one of them was built for Richard Burnchapel Whaley.’

‘The building still exists?’ asked Rob.

‘Of course. I think they are still used by University College even now.’

Rob was heading for the door. ‘Come on, guys. What are we waiting for? Please. We’ve got one day.’

Just a couple of minutes of urgent walking brought them to a large Georgian square where lofty terraces overlooked a noble green space. The gardens and lawns had an inviting aspect, sunlight glittering through the greenery. For a moment Rob imagined his daughter playing happily in the gardens. He stifled his piercing sadness. His fear was unquenchable.

The old university college turned out to be one of the largest houses on the square: elegant and chaste, in grey Portland stone. Rob found it difficult to link this impressive building with the homicidal depravities of Burnchapel Whaley and his even crazier son. The sign outside read Newman House: part of University College Dublin.

Dooley buzzed the bell while Christine and Rob loitered on the pavement below. Sally elected to wait on a bench in the square itself: Forrester assigned Boijer to stay with her. There was some debate over the intercom: then Dooley gave his full police title, and the door opened smartly. The hallway beyond was nearly as spectacular as the exterior: with scrolling Georgian plasterwork, grey and white, and exquisite.

‘Wow,’ said Dooley.

‘Yes we’re very proud of it.’

It was a New England American accent. A neatly-suited, middle-aged man trotted along the hallway and extended a hand to Dooley. ‘Ryan Matthewson, Principal of Newman House. Hello, officer…and hello…’

They exchanged names; Forrester showed his badge. The principal took them into the receptionist’s cluttered office.

‘But officers, the break-in was last week, I’m not sure why they’ve sent you now?’ he said.

Rob felt a lowering feeling.

‘Break-in?’ said Dooley. ‘When? Sorry?’

‘It was nothing important. Some days back a group of kids broke into a cellar. Probably drug addicts. We never caught them. They positively brutalized the cellar stairs. God knows why.’ Matthewson shrugged his uninterest. ‘But the Gardai sent a constable at the time. We’ve already been over this. He took all the details…’

Rob and Christine exchanged a melancholy glance. But Dooley and Forrester were not, it seemed, so easily disheartened. Forrester gave the principal the essence of the Burnchapel story, and the Cloncurry search. Rob sensed, by the way he phrased his monologue, that he was trying not to say too much lest he totally confuse and frighten the man. Even so, by the end of the explanation, the principal looked both confused and frightened. At last he said, ‘Extraordinary. So you think these people were looking for the secret stairs? Mentioned in Portrait?’

‘Yes,’ said Christine. ‘Which means we’re probably too late. If the gang didn’t find anything that means there’s nothing here. Merde.’

The principal shook his head, vigorously. ‘Actually, there was no need for them to break in. They could have just come to one of our open days.’

‘You what?’

‘It’s not a mystery. Not at all. Yes there was a secret staircase here, but it was uncovered in 1999. During the major refurbishment. It’s now the main service stairs at the back of the building. There’s nothing secret about it these days.’

‘So the gang looked in the wrong place?’ Dooley said.

Matthewson nodded. ‘Well, yes. I imagine they did. What a cruel irony! They could have just come and asked me where the secret staircase was, and I would have told them. But I guess that’s not the modus operandi of these gangs, is it? Polite inquiry? Well, well.’

‘So where are the stairs?’ Rob asked.

‘Follow me.’

Three minutes later they were at the rear of the building, staring at a narrow wooden staircase that led from the ground floor to a kind of mezzanine level. The staircase was dark and badly lit, hemmed in by sombre oak panelling on either side.

Rob crouched over the wooden planks. He rapped the lowest tread of the stairs with his knuckles. The sound was disappointingly solid. Christine rapped the second tread.

The principal leaned over with an anxious expression. ‘What are you doing?’

Rob shrugged. ‘I just thought, if there is something hidden it must be under one of the treads. So if I hear a hollow sound, maybe…’

‘You intend to rip up the stairs?’

‘Yes.’ Rob said. ‘Of course. What else?’

The principal blushed. ‘But this is one of the most protected buildings in Dublin. You can’t just come in here and take a crowbar to the fittings. I’m so sorry I do understand your predicament but…’

Rob scowled, and sat down on the stairs, trying to repress his anger. Forrester had a short private discussion with Dooley, who turned to Matthewson. ‘You know, it looks like it could do with a lick of paint.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The stairs,’ said Dooley. ‘Bit spartan. Need a touch-up.’

The principal sighed. ‘Well of course we didn’t have enough money to do everything. The plasterwork in the hallway took most of the funds.’

‘We have,’ said Dooley.

‘What?’

‘We have the money, the Gardai. If we have to crack a few stair-rods in pursuit of a legitimate inquiry we will of course reimburse your college for any damage.’ Dooley patted Matthewson on the back. ‘And I think you will find that police refunds can be very generous.’