Oh, bring us a figgy pudding . . .

Fine snow drifted slowly down, winter's white subst.i.tute for summer's dandelion puffs, and like icing sugar it powdered the shoulders of new overcoats, multihued woollen toques, and the flat tops of duncoloured tweed caps.

. . . and a cup of good cheer.

The black-haired girl held up her hands and turned to stare at O'Reilly. Barry was struck by the darkness of her eyes and the length of her eyelashes, where a single, large snowflake had lodged. She turned back to her choir and with more forceful movements of her arms exhorted the voices to greater efforts.

We won't go until we get some; we won't go until we get some . . .

Kinky appeared, pushing a trolley laden with plates of sweet mince pies and a steaming bowl of dark liquid that Barry knew would be hot Ribena Black Currant Cordial.

Barry joined in a round of applause when the carol ended. Then he stepped aside as Kinky invited the children into the hall.

All but the dark-haired girl queued for their mince pies and hot drinks. She held up a collecting tin with UNICEF on its label.

Barry pushed a pound note through the slot in its top. The United Nations International Children's Emergency Fund was a worthy cause.

"Merry Christmas, Doctor Laverty," she said.

"Well done, Hazel Arbuthnot and all the rest of you," O'Reilly said. "Aggie's daughter," he remarked to Barry, who couldn't help wondering if Hazel had an extra toe like her mother.

O'Reilly put a five-pound note in the tin. "That's from Miss O'Hallorhan and me."

Hazel made a small curtsey. "Thank you, sir."

"Well done, all of you," he said, ignoring the chorus of thank-yous. "Now Kitty, Barry, we've calls to make, so get your coats on. I've to get a wee thing." He stepped into the dining room and then reappeared clutching a bottle-shaped, paper-wrapped parcel. "Hold that." He handed it to Barry and shrugged into his coat.

"Who are we going to see, Fingal?" Barry wanted to know.

"Declan and Melanie Finnegan, then Eileen Lindsay. They all live on the estate."

Barry glanced first at the bottle he was carrying and then to O'Reilly. "And will we be bringing food and wine and pine logs too?"

"No," said O'Reilly, "I'm not Good King Wenceslas and you're certainly not my page, but with his Parkinson's disease Declan doesn't get out much, and he always enjoys a wee half-un with his Christmas dinner."

Barry wondered if this was the first Christmas O'Reilly had made this kind of call, but decided it almost certainly was not.

"Come on," said O'Reilly. "Time we were off."

Kinky looked up from dabbing at the coat of a small boy who had spilled his juice. "Then run along, make your calls, and enjoy His Lordship's hooley," she said. "But I'll expect you all back by five, not a minute later. I'd not want the dinner spoiled."

The Corridors of Power.

"Ne dites plus, Melanie. C'etait notre plaisir." O'Reilly had sent Kitty and Barry out and was saying good-bye to the Finnegans. And it had been his pleasure to see Declan's stiff smile and Melanie's obvious happiness to have the opportunity to speak her native French. The operation Declan had undergone earlier that year had not cured his Parkinson's disease, but it had certainly improved it.

"Joyeux Noel et une bonne et heureuse annee, Docteur O'Reilly."

"Et a toi, Melanie."

She closed the door behind him, and he started to walk along Comber Gardens to catch up with Kitty and Barry. Somehow, he thought, the street seemed less dingy today. Perhaps it was the covering of snow. Perhaps it was the happy shouts of children. Mary Lindsay sat on a small toboggan, and while w.i.l.l.y Lindsay pulled, another boy pushed. The sled's runners crunched through the snow. They didn't pay him any attention. And why should they? They were having fun. He hoped Sammy was enjoying himself too, and that was something he'd find out as soon as they made their call on Eileen.

Barry and Kitty stopped where a group of children were building a lopsided snowman on the footpath. "That's a good one," Kitty said. "I like the way they've given him a smile."

O'Reilly looked at the upturned, curved row of small pieces of coal at the bottom of the snowman's head. Anne-Marie Mulloy-he'd treated her last year for chicken pox-was sticking in a carrot for its nose between the larger lumps of coal that were the eyes. "Whose dad is short a bowler hat," O'Reilly asked, "and a Glentoran scarf?" He wondered if the items might belong to Gerry Shanks, but saw no sign of either of his kiddies.

O'Reilly pulled out his old briar-the new Dunhill was in his other pocket-and he looked at the pipe's bowl burnt black and irregular by years of use. "Here, Malachy." He offered it to a hatless boy in a grey coat. "Stick that in your man's gob. He doesn't look right without a pipe."

The boy dashed a snot track from his upper lip with one hand as he grabbed the pipe in the other. "Thanks, Doctor O'Reilly. That's wheeker, so it is. Thanks a million." He turned and pushed the pipe into the middle of the snowman's mouth.

"That's more like it," said O'Reilly, chuckling as he led his companions to Number 31.

The air was crisp and the smell of burning coal was strong. When O'Reilly looked up, he could see that every chimney in sight was smoking. There was no central heating in any of these houses, but at least the occupants would be keeping warm today.

O'Reilly pounded on the front door frame so hard that the holly wreath fixed to the door shuddered and swayed. Realizing he had overdone the announcement of his arrival, he stopped hammering and stamped his feet as he waited.

Eileen Lindsay opened the door. "Doctor O'Reilly? Is everything all right?"

"Of course, Eileen. We just came to wish you the compliments of the season. Can we come in?"

"Please." She stepped aside.

"This is Miss O'Hallorhan."

Eileen made a tiny bob. "Pleased to meet you." She closed the door. "Go on into the parlour. Can I get youse anything? A cup of tea in your hand? A wee half-un? Maybe an eggnog?"

"No thanks, Eileen," O'Reilly said. "We've only popped in for a minute to see how Sammy is." He led Kitty to the parlour, and Barry followed along.

A fire blazed in the grate. Three empty red felt stockings lay on the carpet, and O'Reilly could see the hooks in the mantel from which they had hung. An unlit red candle surrounded by a holly wreath sat in the middle of the mantelpiece.

Johnny Jordan and Sammy sat on the floor at the control box of a Hornby Dublo 00 electric train, an engine, two pa.s.senger coaches, and a guard's van. The train cars made a high-pitched clattering as they ran around and around an oval track. "How's about ye, Doctor O'Reilly?" Sammy asked.

"I'm fine, thanks, Sammy. How are you?" O'Reilly nodded to Johnny, who smiled. Donal had been right. The man was no oil painting. His bald pate glistened in the light coming in through the window. His smile was very wide, and O'Reilly noticed that two of his lower incisors were missing. "Doctor," he said, lowering his head slighty.

Sammy stopped the engine and showed O'Reilly his arms. "My rash is all gone now, so it has, and I'm not swollen up no more."

"Good."

"But Mammy wouldn't let me go out yet. She says it's too cold. Willie and Mary's gone to throw s...o...b..a.l.l.s, so they have."

"I know. I saw them. Do you mind not going out?"

Sammy grinned. "Nah. Santa brung all three of us bicycles . . . but you can't ride a bike in the snow. Anyway I'd rather play with Johnny and my new train set."

O'Reilly tousled the boy's hair. "Good for you." O'Reilly was delighted, and the best part of helping the Lindsays had been watching Donal work the fiddle. Admit it, Fingal, he told himself, that kind of scheming has always appealed to you. "Right then," he said, "we'll be off." He steered Kitty to the door. "A Merry Christmas to this house," he said. "A very happy New Year."

The chorus of returned greetings was still ringing in his ears as he closed the front door.

O'Reilly held open the back door of the Rover for Kitty. "Next stop, Ballybucklebo House. We're running a bit late but His Lordship won't mind, and by the time we get there the party should be in full swing."

"I don't care if we're a bit late. Please drive carefully, Fingal," Kitty said, as she got in. "Sammy may think it's too snowy to ride a bike, but if there are any cyclists out today . . ."

"And you don't want to think of anybody in a ditch on Christmas Day." He started the engine. "All right. Careful it is."

The boughs of the monkey puzzle tree in front of the Rover were bent low, their p.r.i.c.kly leaves sheathed in softness. There were a lot of parked cars. Quite a few were Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, and Daimlers. O'Reilly had to park some distance from the big house, but the drive had been cleared.

The snow, glistening as it reflected the rays of the low winter sun, lay almost unblemished on the lawns. The only imperfections in the white smoothness were tracks of birds' feet. O'Reilly narrowed his eyes. At least three pheasants had been there. With a bit of luck the marquis would have a shoot in January.

O'Reilly looked at Kitty. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks ruddy, and he had a sudden desire to push her down and roll her in the snow, ignore her laughing protests, and then hug her to warm her up. Instead he took her soft leather gloved hand in his.

"I love days like this," she said, "and we haven't had many for quite a while." She held his gaze.

"More's the pity," he said, and he smiled down at her when she smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. He looked away but held her hand more tightly. The lower windows of the Georgian front of the big house were festooned inside with evergreen branches and holly sprigs. By G.o.d, if there was a mistletoe sprig somewhere about the place, he'd get her under it before the day was over.

He led his little party up the wide front steps. Inside the portico the big front door was open and led to a marble-floored entrance hall.

"Hang on, Fingal. Hold this, please." Kitty handed him a shoe bag she was carrying. In no time she was standing in a pair of elegant grey-suede stiletto heels. "Can I leave my boots here?"

"I don't see why not," O'Reilly said.

He heard a low creaking and turned to see a pair of mullioned gla.s.s doors being opened by a middle-aged man in a morning suit and grey gloves. O'Reilly recognized His Lordship's butler.

"Good morning, Thompson."

"Good morning, Commander O'Reilly, and a Merry Christmas."

"The same to you."

"May I take your coats?"

O'Reilly, Kitty, and Barry shed their outerwear. "Fingal," Barry asked quietly, "he called you Commander?"

O'Reilly smiled. "Your dad and I weren't the only Ulstermen on the Warspite. Thompson was gunnery chief petty officer then. He won a Distinguished Service Medal at Cape Matapan." And b.l.o.o.d.y nearly lost his left foot, O'Reilly thought.

Thompson, now laden, began to carry coats and scarves to the coat stand.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll get these hung up. His Lordship's expecting you, and you know your way, sir." The butler limped away with the pile of coats.

"Come on then," said O'Reilly, "the party's along this way."

Kitty stopped. "Hang on," she said. "I want to get a good look." She stared up at the arched cathedral ceiling. "It's not every day a girl gets an invitation to the lord of the manor's place."

O'Reilly smiled as he watched Kitty scan the oil paintings that adorned the walls. There were a great many portraits of earlier holders of the t.i.tle, almost all of whom had iron-grey hair.

"Good G.o.d," she said, pointing to a painting of a periwigged soldier in a tricorne hat and scarlet coat who stood leaning against a caparisoned horse. "That could be Sir Joshua Reynolds's painting of Captain Robert Orne. I've seen it in the National Gallery in London."

"It is a Reynolds," O'Reilly said, remembering that Kitty dabbled in painting. Somehow, he thought, I'll give good odds she does more than merely dabble.

He heard footsteps approaching.

"My G.o.d," Barry said, "it's...o...b..ien-Kelly."

O'Reilly looked down the hall. Two young men were approaching. He recognized Sean, the marquis's soldier son, and Sean's senior officer, Captain O'Brien-Kelly. The captain, who had been in Ballybucklebo in August, was in O'Reilly's opinion a buck eejit of the first magnitude. "This should be interesting," he told Kitty, and before he could explain further, Sean was offering his hand. Almost as tall as his father, he had the same facial features, the same iron-grey hair.

"Merry Christmas, Doctor O'Reilly."

"Merry Christmas, Sean. On leave?"

"For a week. I brought my captain with me for a day or two at the pheasants. This is Captain . . ."

"O'Brien-Kelly," O'Reilly said, looking the man right in the eye. "We've met."

"Captain, Sean, may I present Caitlin O'Hallorhan and Doctor Laverty?"

Barry shook hands with Sean and then said to O'Brien-Kelly, "We've met."

O'Reilly turned to Kitty. "Caitlin O'Hallorhan. Lieutenant, the honourable Sean . . ."

"It's Sean, and may I call you Caitlin?"

She smiled. "I'd prefer Kitty."

"Kitty it is."

"And," O'Reilly continued, "this is Captain O'Brien-Kelly. He's a great fan of Irish thoroughbreds." O'Reilly struggled to keep a straight face. This was the man Donal Donnelly had sold Irish half crowns to for much more than they were worth. Donal had persuaded him that because the coins had a horse embossed on them, they were medallions specially struck to honour the great Irish thoroughbred Arkle.

"Delighted," said O'Brien-Kelly. "And jolly pleased to see you again, O'Weilly. Didn't get a chance to say cheewio. Had to leave in wather a wush after the waces."

The poor man must believe that p.r.o.nouncing his r's as w's adds cla.s.s to his speech, O'Reilly thought.

"Something to do with a bookie . . . Honest Sammy Dolan, as I recall," Barry said innocently.

Something to do with the marquis having to pay off O'Brien-Kelly's gambling debt, O'Reilly remembered.

"Indeed," the captain said. He quickly changed the subject. "I never had a chance to thank you, O'Weilly."

"Thank me?" O'Reilly frowned. He'd been quite prepared to be sworn at for introducing O'Brien-Kelly to Donal.

"Well, when I went to sell those coins to the chaps in the wegiment-recoup a bit, as you might say-an Irish officer, not Sean here, told them that all I had was some worthless Irish currency." He smiled widely. "The chaps twigged at once, but they seemed to think it was all a gag and that I was no end of a comic."

O'Reilly guffawed mightily.

"That's wight. No end of a joke, weally. The chaps do enjoy a bit of fun at a senior officer's expense, so my stock's been very high since. That's why I owe you my thanks."