Tom, the head barman at Grant’s, was dousing the last of the oil lamps around the bar as the laggard clients of the night shuffled out for home. His expression was sympathetic when Swallow walked in. He knew that Maria had expected him to be there from the end of his shift at six o’clock.

‘Bloody cold out there, sir.’

‘It is that, Tom. Busy night?’

‘Much the usual, sir. Brisk, but nothin’ unmanageable. I think people are savin’ up whatever few bob they have for Christmas. Mrs Walsh is gone up. She’s fairly tired what with bein’ off listenin’ to that fella Davitt and his friends all afternoon down at the Mansion House. You’ve had a busy day yourself I’d say with that business out at Rathmines.’

Swallow consciously evidenced no surprise at how Maria had spent her afternoon.

‘I have, Tom. A busy day. And not much to show for it.’

Maria’s parlour, above the bar, was their private retreat after closing time. When he climbed the stairs, she was in her usual easy chair by the turf fire. A small supper table, set for one, stood to the side of the fireplace. ‘I heard you coming up,’ she smiled. Swallow could see that she was indeed tired. She gestured to the table.

‘You’re not too late for supper. When I read in the Evening Mail about the murder I guessed you wouldn’t be home until late, so I had Carrie put some Irish stew in a hot box.’

The stew was good. Chunks of tender mutton with carrots and parsley for flavour. Maria’s cook and housekeeper, Carrie, knew Swallow’s preferences. There was a bowl of boiled floury potatoes too. He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a bottle of Guinness’s stout.

‘Would you like something? A glass of port wine?’

She shook her head. ‘No thanks. I’m very tired. I doubt I’d rise tomorrow morning if I took anything at this hour.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘You probably heard about the murder out at Rathmines. This is a bad one. A young girl’s head battered in. No clues or witnesses.’

‘Dreadful. The newspaper said it might be connected with these murders in London.’

‘No. Not at all, for God’s sake. That’s just the journalists trying to sensationalise things.’

He sounded irritated, and regretted it instantly.

‘What I mean is that it’s an easy line for a lazy reporter to peddle. Linking it in with these London murders is absolute nonsense. This is a respectable girl. Good family in poor circumstances.’

‘That’s some comfort, I suppose,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know what happened to her?’

‘What, yes, but not why,’ he answered. ‘She was attacked just a few yards from her home. It might have been for any reason. We’ll find out in time.’