"This holiday trip to Dublin had been very hard on detective Kathleen Doyle's husband--although he was making a monumental effort to disguise this fact--an unless she very much missed her guess, it was all somehow connected to the grisly murder on the station-house steps. That, and an African cab-driver who wore a jaunty tam o'shanter"--Back cover.
This homicide case featured aristocrats as far as the eye could see, between the Russians and the Spaniards-and Acton, of course, who was supposedly investigating the others but seemed a little too deferential, for Doyle's taste. Why wasn't her husband moving in on the killer? And why did she have the sense that she was standing on the outside, peering into a world where there were no laws and no explanations-only birthrights, forged in ancient blood.
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