He had not eaten since his early breakfast at Maria Walsh’s. He flanked the railings of Merrion Square, passing the Royal Dublin Society’s premises at Leinster House and the pillared facade of Francis Fowke’s National Gallery. In less pressured circumstances he would sometimes take an hour to wander in the Gallery. He would marvel at the ability of John Constable or Franz Hals to capture a rural scene or an individual’s mood, contrasting it with his own poor efforts to represent sunshine or rain on Dublin Bay. Most of all he liked the recent landscapes by Osborne, with shades of blue and green and dapples of white. But that was not for today. In Fanning’s public house on Lincoln Place he found an empty snug and ordered bread, cheese and a glass of light ale. He sifted his thoughts in the quiet of the snug as the barmaid cut into a yellowed cheddar and carved slices of bread from a crusted batchloaf beside it. He knew that he had been wrongfooted at the Fitzpatrick house. He was unsure what he should have expected.
What do You think about A June Of Ordinary Murders?
