In Dublin I visited a wide variety of pubs, generally dark and smoky even if they were not in fact underground. I practiced my disguises and my Irish accent, which resulted in an annoying number of inquiries as to whether I was American. I might have to find a proper tutor sometime. Despite the season it rained even more than it did in London.
I missed having a partner. There was no way Watson could help me—more likely his presence would betray me entirely—yet I still thought of him. It had been only a week since I saw him last, and he was fully able to take care of himself. There was no need for this fretting.
If I cared for politics I might have built up quite a dossier to present to my brother, but I found little of use for my own purposes. Certainly the city was full of radicals and nationalists and Fenians, but there was no sign that they were part of the same network I had detected in London. Indeed, their disorder did not bode well for their own goals. I began to suspect that Ireland, and possibly even the name Moriarty, had been a red herring. There was little scope for profit in this milieu, and profit seemed to be his main objective.
Profit and pleasure, I thought. He clearly enjoyed the planning and organization, and also, of course, the power. The latter I had no interest in, but the former was familiar.
In England he was focused primarily in London, but here there were other places where he might have a hand. I was considering the risks of going into the countryside when I received Mrs. Hudson’s telegram, which made it clear that I was indeed in entirely the wrong place.