“Sure it was him?”

“Certain, I am. A very nice man, Mr. Fine. I’m still not able to believe it. Lovely young man. Of course I knew he was a Jew, seeing as I see the mention of his father in the papers and so on. Lovely family, I’m sure.”

Minogue staved off his discomfort. He was less irritated than nervous at people telling him that Paul Fine was a Jew.

“Did Mr. Fine speak to you at all recently?”

“Oh, precious little. ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good evening’. Very much kept to himself and always polite.”

“Any chat with him at all?”

One of the Gardai started in on another piece of sponge cake. Minogue didn’t care that they were all seated around the table listening. She might say something different to them and that would be good for starters.

“Nothing. I’m alone here, you see. I never married, as I was saying to the lads here,” she smiled wanly toward the two Gardai. “But I don’t like to be putting conversation on people. If I met him at all, it’d be: ‘How’s it going, Miss Connolly?’ and ‘Grand weather’. Oh a lovely young man.”

She looked entreatingly at all the policemen and shook her head.

“Any visitors, Miss Connolly?”

“Let me think… Very, very occasional… very odd…”

“Do you mean odd visitors, is it?”

“A very odd time, I meant. It was only people he’d arranged to come and visit, I’m sure. There was one fella, I remember his face, used to call by sometimes. Familiar-looking, a fella with a beard. They’d sit in the garden of a nice day. Have a little wine and all that,” she said with an air of casual insight. ‘Having a little wine and all that’ might constitute glamour or bohemian living in these latitudes, Minogue guessed.

“A fella with a beard?”

“Matter of fact I saw him on the telly once. Fitzpat-”

“Fitzgerald?”

“That’s it.