Dublin between the wars, where Captain Arthur and Anne Foster run a young detective agency with a spaniel named Pip underfoot. Occasionally as far afield as Chicago and Havana.
Dublin, a wet September, and the young detective agency is running short-handed: Anne is away, the spaniel Pip has been banished to Blackrock, and our narrator wakes to a note in his own handwriting that he cannot remember writing, initialled R.K.
Dublin, and a young detective agency takes its second client: Mrs Vale, a handsome, iron-composed widow whose impractical nephew Julian has just announced his engagement to a Hungarian countess.
Dublin, and a decision that arrives at breakfast wearing the wholly unreasonable appearance of having been obvious all along: a former Army captain will not go back to London. He will stay — and open a detective agency of his own. A brass plate. An office above a stationer's.
Dublin, between the wars: a former Army captain has come to Ireland to meet the family of Anne Foster, the woman he admires — and quickly decides that being introduced to a houseful of O'Riordans is more perilous than any battlefield.