Page 1 of The Secret Bookshop in Ireland

ONE

The letter arrived by registered mail on the first of April, a wet and windy Monday morning.

Ciara’s one-bedroom apartment was in a suburb north of Dublin, with views of the sea from every window. It wasn’t big, but it had a bright living room and a small kitchen that looked out over the nearby beach.

‘Ciara Doyle?’ the postman asked when she opened the door.

‘That’s me,’ she replied.

‘Great. Sign here,’ he said and pushed a pad under her nose. ‘Then I can give you the letter and get out of here before that hound eats me alive.’

Ciara smiled and looked at the dog in question: her Irish wolfhound, Brian Boru, standing by her side wagging his tail. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she said.

‘He’s as big as a house,’ the postman remarked, taking a step back and directing a nervous glance at the dog. ‘Please sign so I can go.’

Ciara sighed and signed her name. She took the letter, turning it over to see who it was from. ‘Ronan Burke, probate genealogist,’ she read out loud. ‘What’s that about? Doesn’t probate mean something to do with a will?’

‘Maybe some prince has left you a huge fortune? Or someone is playing you an elaborate joke,’ the postman suggested before he ran down the stairs. ‘It’s the first of April today, after all. Good luck anyway. Byee,’ he shouted.

‘Bye,’ Ciara mumbled and closed the door, her eyes on the letter she had just received. ‘Well, Brian, I have a feeling it might be what he said. Some kind of April Fool’s joke. But registered mail? Wouldn’t that be a little too much trouble just for an April Fool?’

Brian didn’t reply, just looked at her with his brown eyes and padded into the large, bright living room and lay down on the rug in front of the sofa with a loud thump.

Ciara, who had just finished her breakfast at the kitchen table, followed Brian and sat down on the sofa. She ripped open the letter and read the short message, feeling increasingly confused.

‘Dear Ciara Doyle,’ she read out loud. ‘We are pleased to inform you that you are the sole heir of the estate of Mrs Martha Fitzgerald of Cherrywood, County Wicklow, and would like to hear from you as soon as possible. Please contact our office in Dawson Street forthwith and we will explain how to proceed.’ Ciara stared at the letter, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’ She reached for her phone to call her mother. If this letter was real and not a joke, maybe Ma would know what it was all about.

‘Hello, Ciara,’ her mother said when she answered. ‘How are you?’

‘Hi, Ma. I’m fine.’

‘Is anything wrong?’ her mother asked.

‘No, of course not. I just need to ask you something. I hope all is well with you.’

‘As well as it can be,’ her mother said with a sigh. ‘You sound a little shaken. What do you need to ask me?’

‘Well,’ Ciara said, hesitating for a moment before she continued. ‘Oh, okay, I’ve just got a registered letter saying I’m the sole heir of a woman called Martha Fitzgerald. I’ve never heard of her at all, so as it’s the first of April today, it has to be a hoax. So, ha ha, what fun they must be having. I bet it’s someone in the office and now they’ll expect me to come into work all excited and then they’ll be in the loo laughing their heads off. Ma, are you there?’ Ciara asked, when her mother didn’t reply.

‘I’m here. It was just that…’ Her mother stopped and then was silent for a long time before she continued. ‘Martha Fitzgerald?’ she finally asked in a shaky voice.

‘Yeah, that’s the name in the letter,’ Ciara said, puzzled by her mother’s reaction. ‘It says she lived in a place called Cherrywood in County Wicklow. Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘The heir of…’ her mother whispered. ‘This woman – Martha Fitzgerald?’

‘Yes,’ Ciara said. ‘Where in Wicklow is Cherrywood?’

‘I think it’s somewhere near Glencullen,’ Maureen Doyle said. ‘My grandfather came from Wicklow, near Avoca. He died in the First World War. I’m sure you’ve heard me mention him.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Ciara said, remembering that sad story and the old pictures of a handsome young man in uniform on her mother’s mantelpiece. ‘Such a tragedy. So he came from that county?’

‘Oh yes he did,’ her mother said. ‘But from another part of Wicklow. Cherrywood is quite a distance from there.’

‘Is it? I’ve never heard of it.’

‘That village is a bit remote, I think. Why don’t you contact whoever sent you the letter and find out if it’s real or not?’

‘I will,’ Ciara said and turned the envelope around. ‘There’s a name of a solicitors’ firm at the top of the letter. I’m going to call them right now. If there is no reply, I’ll go to their office and seeif they really exist. I’ll be in town anyway, so it won’t mean a long hack from Malahide.’