Maria had employed Tom to decorate the hall and parlour in the private quarters. He had hung tinsel stars and gaily coloured paper chains along the walls. Maria had never bothered to put up a Christmas tree, even though the practice, introduced in England by the Queen’s late husband, Albert, had become common in most comfortable households. But now she instructed Tom to procure a six-foot fir from the traders who brought them in from the mountains to sell by St Audoen’s. He brought three big bunches of holly too, and when he had finished the hall and stairs, the parlour and the dining room, were shining with rich green sprigs.

‘We’re going to have to take Christmas a lot more seriously when this baby arrives,’ she told Swallow happily. ‘There has to be a place for us to put out the presents, and we’ll have to light up the tree with candles on Christmas Eve for him—or her.’

Swallow’s mind went back to childhood and Christmas traditions in rural Kildare.

‘And it’s the youngest one in the house that lights the Christmas candle in the window. He’ll have to do that too,’ he said, ‘or she—of course.’

Maria smiled.

‘Things will be so different, Joe. We’ll have our own lives and our little one to raise.’

The day after Christmas—Boxing Day to the English but St Stephen’s Day to the Irish—was always busy in Grant’s. Many employers now gave their workers the day off in addition to Christmas Day, so both bars did a brisk trade from late morning. Swallow put in a short day at Exchange Court. The crime reports from around the city were mercifully few, and he was back at Thomas Street by late afternoon to provide a supportive presence to Maria and the staff.

Shortly before closing time he was surprised to see the portly figure of ‘Duck’ Boyle enter the select bar in plain clothes, his overcoat and bowler spotted from the light rain that had brought the spell of dry, balmy weather to a close. He pushed his way through the crowded, noisy room to where Swallow stood beside the door that connected to the even noisier public bar. It was his customary sentry point, allowing him to monitor activities in both areas simultaneously.

Boyle had never been in Grant’s before, at least not to Swallow’s knowledge. Even at a distance he could see the signs of drink. The superintendent’s jowly features glowed a mottled red, and he seemed to be having some difficulty maintaining focus.

‘Season’s greetings, superintendent. It’s a pleasant surprise to see you here at Grant’s.’

He thought it best to be formal, but not unwelcoming.

‘You’ll have something . . . for the night that’s in it?’

Boyle nodded appreciatively.

‘I could manage a Power’s . . . for the night that’s in it.’

Swallow nodded to Tom behind the bar.