The Winter Guest A Mystery (W. C. Ryan)

ALSOBYTHEAUTHOR
AHouseofGhosts
Copyright?2022byW.C.Ryan
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FrontcoverillustrationbasedonanimageofLissadellHousebykindpermissionoftheowners
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ISBN:978-1-956763-16-4
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER1
CHAPTER2
CHAPTER3
CHAPTER4
CHAPTER5
CHAPTER6
CHAPTER7
CHAPTER8
CHAPTER9
CHAPTER10
CHAPTER11
CHAPTER12
CHAPTER13
CHAPTER14
CHAPTER15
CHAPTER16
CHAPTER17
CHAPTER18
CHAPTER19
CHAPTER20
CHAPTER21
CHAPTER22
CHAPTER23
CHAPTER24
CHAPTER25
CHAPTER26
CHAPTER27
CHAPTER28
CHAPTER29
CHAPTER30
CHAPTER31
CHAPTER32
CHAPTER33
CHAPTER34
CHAPTER35
CHAPTER36
CHAPTER37
CHAPTER38
CHAPTER39
CHAPTER40
CHAPTER41
CHAPTER42
CHAPTER43
CHAPTER44
CHAPTER45
CHAPTER46
CHAPTER47
CHAPTER48
CHAPTER49
CHAPTER50
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER1
KilcolganHousestandsattheendofthelongdrive,caughtbyamomentofmoonlight.Itsgranitewalls,slickwiththeearlierrain,shinesilver;itsroofglows;itsmanylargewindowsarelikemirrorstothesky.Thebadweatherhaspassedforthemomentandonlythebreathofabreezefluttersthelonggrassinthehomemeadow.Fromthestrand,throughthetrees,therollofthewavescanbeheard.Here,atthehouse,theonlysoundisthesteadydripofleakinggutters.
Itisalargehouse,builttoreflectthesignificanceofthefamilywhobuiltit.Itstandsonarisethatoverlookstheseaandthesurroundingcountry.WhentheoriginalPrendevilles—hard-knuckledinvadersintheserviceofaTudormonarch—tooktheland,thefirsthousetheybuiltwasabastiontodefendagainstthepeoplefromwhomthelandwastaken.Ithadthickwallsandhigh,smallwindows,andacourtyardintowhichlivestockcouldbebroughtintimesoftrouble.Thebastionstillstandswithinthedwellingthattookitsplace,builtontoandaroundandthrough.Theolderstructurewithinaccountsforthestrangeshapesofcertainroomsandsome,atleast,ofthedraughtsandcreaksandotherphenomenathatthePrendevillesandtheirfewremainingretainersbarelynotice.Whatmightseemoddtoastrangeris,tothem,quiteusual.Theyareaccustomedtothewaysofthehouse;theyknowitswhims.Prendevilleshavebecomepartofthefabricofthehouse;thedeadlivingoninthestoriesheldwithinitswalls.
Thehouse,despiteitsgrandeur,hasseenbetterdays.Themooniskindtoit,butitsslatesarenolongerregular;mossfillseachcrackandgapinthestoneworkand,inthedaylight,thereisanairofabandonmentabouttheplace.Thefutureofthehouseisnolongercertain.IfthePrendevillesareawareofthis,theyshownosignofit,continuingoninlong-accustomedinertia,whilethehouseslowlydisintegratesaroundthem.
Withinthehouse,mostareasleep.AllexceptforBridget,ahouse-maid,whositsintheentrancehall,wrappedinthebutler’sgreatcoat,alongsidetheglowingembersthatareallthatisleftofapeatfirethatburnstherethroughouttheday.Shestaresintoit,mesmerised,andthen,beforelong,shetooisasleep.
Outside,aseamistcreepsupoverthelongbeach,then,slowly,makesitswayacrosstherocks,theroad,thedemesnewall.Ithidesthemenwhowalkwithinit—mencarryingriflesintheirhandsandblanketsslungacrosstheirchests.Theywearlongcoats,collarspulledupagainstthecold,andflatcapsthatwouldobscuretheireyes,weretherelightenoughtoseethem.Fortwoyearsnowthemen,andotherslikethem,havebeenfightingfortheindependenceoftheircountry.Ithasbeenalongandbloodywarandthemenonthecoastroadaretiredofit,butstilltheywalktowardsKilcolgan.Thefogdoesnotslowthem.Theyknowwheretheyaregoing.Theyclimbthewallwhereithastumbledinwardsandthentheyareamongthetrees,asisthemist.Theyslipthroughthebushesandlow-hangingbranchesuntiltheyfindthedrivethatleadstothebighouse,wherethecommanderorderstwoofthementothesmallcottagestandingbesidethegate.Itsinhabitantsknowbetterthantoresist;theyallowthemselvestobeboundandgagged,thenareloweredcarefullytothefloor,wheretheylie,listeningasthemenmaketheirpreparationsinthedark.Theyhearthesoundofatreetrunkbeingdraggedacrosstheavenueandthecommander’squietordersashepositionsthemenoftheflyingcolumn.
Soonallisquietandthemenwaitinthebusheswiththemistgatheringaroundthem.Theirfingersarestiffaroundthegunstheyhold,buttheyareusedtothecold.Theybreatheontheirhandstoputsomeheatintothemandthink,perhaps,ofwarmbedstheyhaveknowninthepast.Theyarepatient.
Then,inapausebetweenthebreakingwaves,theyhearthedroneofamotorcarapproachingfromthewest,thedirectiontheyhavebeentoldtoexpectitfrom.Thefogthinsforamomentandtheycanseethewhiteglowofapproachingheadlights.Theyleanforwards,liftingtheirweaponsinpreparation,smellingtheoilandmetaloftheriflesastheybringthemclosetotheircheeks.Thecarisgettingclosernow,anditsengineseemstovibratethroughtheirentirebodies,shatteringthestillnessthatcamebefore.Thegateshavebeenleftopenforitandthereisonlytheslightestreductioninspeedbeforethetwinbeamsthatarethecar’sheadlights,blurredbythefog,swingin.Theengineisnowlouderstill,perhapsamplifiedordistortedbythefog,anditfeelsasthoughitiscomingstraightatthem.Someonefiresashot,justatthemomentthatthedriverseesthelogthathasbeendraggedacrossthedriveway,andthecarswervesintothewallofthegatelodge.Thereisascreechingandtearingofmetal,andthennothingexceptforthelowcoughingrumblefromtheengine,whichstillturnsover.
Themenwaitinthedark,listeningforanorder,theonlysoundascrapeofmetalasthecarsags.Oneoftheheadlightshassurvived,lightingthegatelodgeandrevealingthecar’slong,blackshape.Afteramoment,amanstandsupintheopencar,apistolinhishand.Thefiringstartsagain,eachshotlikeahammeronthenailofacoffin.
Afterwards,thecommanderwalksovertothemotorcar,hispistolattheready.Themenfollow,riflesshiveringintheirhands;theyarenotcertainifitisfromcoldortheexcitementofitall.Abullethastakenawaymuchofthefaceofthemanbehindthewheel,buttheyrecognisehimfromthebottlegreenofhisuniformandthecrownsonhisepaulette.Besidehimliesayoungmanwearingablackbowtie,withapistolinhishand.Theydonotknowhim,buttheydecideheisnoinnocent.Thewomaninthebackseatisadifferentmatter;shehasnotbeenhitbyanyoftheirbulletsandisalive,butunconscious.Theyfindablanketforherinthecar’sbootandmakehercomfortable,buttheydonotstaytotendtoher.Thepolicefromthetownwillbeheresoon,andtheworktheycametodoisdone.
Themenleave,walkingquicklyawaythroughthetrees.Theywillwalkuntilthemorningandthenrestupinahousethatisexpectingthem.ThePrendevillewomanisabadbitofbusiness,buttheyhopeshewillsurvive.Howcouldtheyhaveknownshewouldbeinthecar?She,ofallpeople,shouldhaveknownbetter.
Theyleavebehindtheoccupantsofthecar,theirshapesindistinctinthemistthatstillmovesslowlyacrossthetableau,bringingwithitthedampsmelloftheseatoblendwiththestenchofcorditeandblood.
HarryCartwright,formerlyoftheBritishArmy,liesawkwardlyoverthebackofthepassengerseat,hisheadandhairhangingdownbehindit.HisfingersstillgraspfortherevolverhetookfromInspectorTeevan’sholstertodefendhimself,andwhichwastakenfromhisdeadhandbyoneoftheambushers.Thereisnotmuchblood,atleastnotthatcanbeseenatfirst.Cartwright’sfaceislargelyunmarkedexceptforatinyholeabovethehairlinewhereasmall-calibrebulletcaughthimjustafterhestoodupinhisseatandfoundhimselflookingdowntowhereanotherbullethadhithiminthechest.
ThebodyofDistrictInspectorJamesTeevanisslumpedbehindthesteeringwheel,avictimofthatsinglefirstshot.Themenoftheflyingcolumnwerepleasedtohavekilledhim,holdinghimresponsibleforrecentreprisalscarriedoutbyacompanyoftheAuxiliaryDivisionoftheRICbasedinthetown.TheAuxies,astheyareknown,aremostlyBritishex-officers,veteransatalooseendafterthebrutalityoftheWesternFront,andnotreallyunderanyman’scommand,exceptperhapsforMajorAbercrombie.ItwasAbercrombiewholedtheAuxieswhoburnedoutninecottagesontheothersideofthehillsthreedaysbefore.Abercrombietookthethreelocalmenfromtheburningbuildings,whoshowedupdeadthemorningafter.Theburningofthedwellingsandthekillingofthemenwereamessagetotherebels,andthiswastheirreply.Itisalong-runningcorrespondencebetweenthetwosides.Thecorrespondencewillcontinuetomorrowandintheweeksthatfollow,backandforth.Itdoesnotmattermuchtoeithersidethatthevictimsoftheirreprisalsareoftenundeserving.
Thefinaloccupantliesinthebackseat,herarmacrossherforeheadasthoughtoshieldherselffromthelittlelightthereis,theblanketwrappedroundher.MaudPrendeville’sface—asmuchofitascanbeseen—isstill.Themen,knowingherandherfamily,havemadehercomfortable.TheHonourableMaudPrendeville,afterall,isaheroofthestruggleforindependencewhofoughtbesidePearseandConnollyintheEasterRising.Sheisthelastpersonthemenoftheflyingcolumnwouldhavewantedtohurt.
Insidethegatelodge,PatrickWalsh,gatekeeperandgardener,liesalongsidehiswifeupontheflagstoneflooroftheirsmallkitchen,handsandfeetbound.HehasheardthemendiscussMaudPrendeville.Nowheworkswithhiswifetoreleasethecordsthattiehishands,anxioustohelpthedaughterofhisemployer,whomhehasknownsinceshewasachild.Theycurseeachotherastheyfumblewiththeknots,butthetaskisdifficultandtheprogressisslowandtheminutesaretickingby.
Throughthetrees,althoughitcannotbeseenfromthegate,lamplightcoloursthewindowsofKilcolganHouseyellow,oneafteranother.OthermembersofthePrendevillefamilyaregatheringinthecoldentrancehallindressinggowns,alertedbythegunfire,theirfacesanxiousinthecandlelight.Maud’ssister,Charlotte,asksifsomeonehasalreadydroppedtheirhouseguest,HarryCartwright,backfromthecardevening,andlooksgravewhentheanswercomesthathehasnot.Bridget,theservantgirl,issenttofetchBillyfromhisroombutshedoesnotfindhimthere,althoughhewillsoonarrivefromthedirectionofthestables.Inafewminuteshisfather,LordKilcolgan,Charlotte,BillyandSeanDriscoll,thehousekeeper’sson,willmaketheirwaydowntothegate.Forthemoment,however,theyhesitate,perhapsbecausewhiletheyremainuncertainaboutwhathashappened,thereisstillhope.
If,attheirmomentofindecision,someonewerestandingbesidethewreckofTeevan’scar,theywouldseeafigureapproachingthroughthetrees.Themistandthedarkwouldmakeithardforthemtotellifthefigureismaleorfemale,youngorold,oranythingmuchaboutthem,exceptthattheyseemtoknowtheirway.Theytaketheirtime,yes,buttheymovewithpurposeandseemtoknowhowremotetheplaceisandthatthegunfirecanonlyhavebeenheardbythePrendevillesupatthehouse,ifithasbeenheardatall.PatWalshandhiswifecanbediscounted,theydecide.Theyarecertaintheywillhavebeentiedupbytheambushers—itistheusualwaythesethingsarehandled.
ThePrendevillesarenotanimmediaterisk.Thehouseisawalkalongthedriveandthefamilywillnotrushintothedarktoconfrontmenwithguns.Whowould?TheywillcalltheRICstationinthetown,ofcourse,butthecallwillhavetogothroughtheexchange,whichtakestime.WhilethestationpossessesanumberofCrossleyTendersthatcouldmakethejourneyinaquarterofanhouriftheydroveatfullspeed,theconstableswillhavetobewokenandorganised.Whentheydocome,theywillcomecarefully,consciousoftheriskofasecondambush.Insummary,thechancesofinterruptionareslight.
Insidethecottage,PatWalshgruntsashishandatlastcomesfree.Thenhehearsthesoundoftheapproachingfootsteps,barelyscrapingthegravel,andheknowsitisnotthepoliceorthefamilyfromthehouse.Walshrubsathiswristsandwhisperstohiswife,whowhispersback.Thentheyaresilent.
Asthefigurecomesclosertothecar,theremainingheadlightgivesout,leavingbehindaprofounddarknessbeforethesoftyellowbeamofatrenchtorchilluminatesthecar,thenthevictimsandfinallythewindowsofthegatelodge.Nothingstirsinthesilence.
Cartwrightischeckedforsignsoflife,althoughtheexaminationisperfunctory.ItisashameaboutCartwright;hehadnopartinthisbusiness.NotimeatallisspentonTeevanandthereisnoregretathispassing.AndthenthefigureleansoverMaudPrendeville—surprisedtofindherherebutacceptingherpresence.WhenMaud’swristisliftedtocheckherpulse,theyoungwoman’seyesflickerforamomentbutshedoesnotwake.
Eventually,aftersometimespentcontemplatingtheprostrateMissPrendeville,thefigureseemstocometoadecisionandturnstheirattentionbacktoTeevan.Theinspectorissearchedefficientlyandthoroughlybutnot,apparently,withanysuccess.Cartwrightisthenalsosearched,anditisnoticeablethatthereisnosqueamishness;thisisapersonusedtobloodanddeath.Itisalsocleartheyintendtheirsearchtobeundetected.Thefigurewearsthinkidskingloves,sothatnoawkwardtraceisleftonasurface.Eachbuttonthatisundoneisdoneupagain.Whentheinspector’scoatisopenedtocheckhisinnerpockets,itisreplacedjustso.
OnceCartwrightandTeevanhavebeenchecked,andthencheckedagain,thefigureturnstheirattentiontothecar,openingtheglovecompartmentandthesidepocketsandlookingundertheseats.Adocumentcaseisfoundinthebootanditisgonethroughquickly.Nothing.AndthenthefigureturnstheirattentiontoMaudPrendeville.
Maudiswearingalongblackvelvettravellingcoat,andclutchedinherlefthandisasmalleveningbag.Thecoathaspockets,butthebagseemsmorelikely.ItrequiressomecarefulefforttodetachthebagfromMaud’sgrip,butthenitisopenandthereistheitemwhichthefigurehasbeensearchingfor.Theyhadnotexpectedtofinditinherpossession,butperhapstheyshouldhave.Thehandbagisreturnedtotheyoungwoman,emptynow.Thenthefigurehesitates,lookingovertheirshoulder,peeringintothemistydarkness,crouchingdownandturningofftheirtorchastheydoso.
Itismoreofafeelingthananything.Theyhaveheardnothingdefinite.Thereishardlyanybreeze,certainlynotenoughtoshifttheleavesormoveabranch—theseamistbarelymovesatall.Andyetthereisasenseofsomeoneoutthere—orperhapssomething—andanunexpectedscentthatisbothsweetandcorrupt.Foramoment,thefigurethinksitseesthepaleshapeofawomanmovingthroughthemist,butwhentheylookagainthereisnothing.Theyshiverinvoluntarily,allthesame.TheyhaveheardthestoriesaboutthebighouseandthecoastroadandthePrendevilles.Thiseveningisnotthefirsttragedytocometopassinthisplace,andthePrendevilleshavebeenanunluckyfamilythroughthecenturies.Somesaycursed.Butthatisallnonsenseandtimeispassing.Thetorchisturnedononelasttimetomakecertainallisleftasitshouldbe.Thefiguretakestheopportunitytolightacigaretteandturnsbacktothebusinessinhand.
Whentheydoso,theyellowbeamoflightfindsMaudPrendeville’swidegazestaringupwardsatthem,hermoutharoundOofsurprise.Isthererecognition?Perhapsthefigurethinksso.Becausetheytakeasmallpistolfromtheirpocket,leanforwardssothatitisonlyamatterofinchesfromMaudPrendeville’sappalledgaze,andfire.Onceissufficient.Thedilemmaisnolongeradilemma.
Thefigureturns,withoutanydetectableemotion,andwalksbackthewaytheycame.TheydonothearthesobbingfromPatrickWalsh’skitchen,anditisjustaswell.
Ifthedeadatthegatelodgecouldspeak,theymighttelloftheirhopesforafuturethatwillnotcometopass.Theymighttalkoftheirloves,fortheydidloveandwerelovedinturn.Thosethatlovethemwillmournthem,andthosethatdidnot,willnot.Intime,theywillpassfrommemoryandbeforgotten.
Butinthisplace,eachmistthatcomesinfromthesea,eachbreezethatstirstheheather,willcarrythewhisperofthemalways.
Evenifthelivingdonothearit.
CHAPTER2
WhenTomHarkinleavesthepub,itisnearlymidnight—anditistoolate.Muchtoolate.Hecan’trememberathickerfog.Hecantasteitonhistonguelikewetcharcoal.OntopofwhichtheCorporation,inprotestattheBritishcurfew,turnsofftheelectricityathalfpasteleventhesedays.Helooksdownattheyellowsemicircleoflightfromthedoorwayinwhichhispolishedblackbootsstand,tendrilsofmistfromtheriverswirlingslowlyaroundthem,andhethinksaboutthewarmthheisleavingandthedarknessofthejourneyahead.Hepullsupthecollarofhiscoatandtightenshisbelt,butalreadythecoldhascreptinsidetohisskin.
‘Goodluck,’Malonesays,blurred,eventhoughonlyafewfeetseparatethem
Thenthedoorisshutandthelightgone,andHarkinsighsbecause,ontopofeverythingelse,heiswearingthewrongboots.Hetakesthreesteps.Click,clack,click.Hewillhavetowalkonhistoes.Likeaballerina.AnditisfourmilestoBallsbridge,inthefog,towherehisotherpair,thebrownoneswiththerubberheels,awaithim.Ifhegetsthere.
Assoonashestepsoffthepavement,hecanseenothing—hemustfeelhiswayalongthestreet,towardstheriver,listeningforotherfootstepsandhalf-wishinghe’dtakentherevolverMalonehadofferedhim,beforeherememberstheweightofaguninhishandandheshivers.
ThiswaragainstBritishruleisonadifferentscalefromthewarhefoughtinFrance.Thebattlesnowarebetweenhandfulsofmen,butthekillingisstillthesame.Heknowstherearesentriesandpatrolsandcheckpointsbetweenhimandhishome,andeverypolicemanandsoldierwillhavetheirfingeronthetriggerofagun.Hehasapassthatallowshimtobeoutduringthecurfewhours,thankstoahighlyplacedofficialinthegovernmentadministrationbasedatDublinCastle.Ifheisabletoshowhispass,he’llbefine.Butwilltheyevenask,whatwiththefogandnotknowingifthefootstepsinthedarkmightnotbelongtoamanwithanothergun?Heisn’tsure,ifhewereintheir
Thatfellow’spasswasgoodtoo.
Themistclingstohisfaceandclothesinacold,dampsheen,andthecobblestonesareslipperyunderfoot.Thetemptationistowalkquickly,towarmhimselfup,butifhetakeshistime,hecanlistenandmakelessnoise.Thecityisquiet,butnotsilent.Thesoundofafoghorn,muffledandlonely,comesalongtheriverfromtheportandhecanhearconversationsinthehouseshepasses,andonceagramophone.
Heconsidershisoptions—SackvilleStreetistobeavoided.TherearesentriesoutsidetheGPOandO’ConnellBridgeisalwaysguarded.CapelStreetisapossibility,butthenhehearsthedistinctiverattleandwheezeofaCrossleyTenderfromthatdirectionandadjustshiscoursetoavoidit,makinghiswaydownanarrowerstreetthatrunsparallel.TheCrossleycomestoahaltsomewhereandhecanhearshouting—Englishvoices—butitisn’tforhim.Hestepsintoadoorwayallthesame,findingthebreathinhischesthardtocomeby,andwaitsuntiltheCrossleymovesoff.Hefollowsthenoiseofitasitgoestowardstheriver.HethinkstheymusthavebeenAuxies;theiraccentswerethoseoftheofficerclassratherthantheotherranksthatmakeuptheBlackandTans,theothertemporaryRICrecruitedfromBritain.Thenhecan’thearthetenderanymoreandheisunsureifithastravelledoutofearshotorperhapscometoanotherhalt.Heknowshowfogcanaltersound,andhewantstobecertainitissafebeforehegoesforwards.
HecursesMalone.Threehourslateforthemeeting,andtherehadbeennothinghecoulddoexceptwaitforhim.Thelistthathebroughtwithhim,nowinthebreastpocketofHarkin’sjacket,isasgoodasadeathsentenceifanAuxiepatrolsearcheshim.Thethoughtofitmakestheadrenalinecoursethroughhisbody.Somewhereabovehimababybeginstocryandhelistensasthemothersoothesthechildbacktosleep.HehearsthebellsfromChristChurchringformidnight.Whentheyfinish,andhehasheardnothingmoreoftheAuxies,heforceshimselfoutofthedoorway,keepingtothesameslow,steadypace,preparinghimselftoanswerthechallengeifitcomes,listeningforanythingthatmightsignaldanger.
Heneedstogetacrosstheriver.O’ConnellBridge,tohisleft,willbetoodangerous,andthepossiblepresenceoftheCrossleyrulesouttryingGrattanBridge,whichspanstherivertohisright.Hefeelsboxedin,withonlytheHa’pennyBridge,thenarrowpedestrianarchbetweenthealternativecrossings,asapossibility.It’snottheworstoption,however.Thereisabetterchanceitwillbeunguardedthantheothers.Hereachestheendofthestreet,andheknowsfromthedank,fetidsmellthattheriverisjustaheadofhim.Helistensforamoment,uncertainwherethebridgeisfromwhereheisstanding.Heknowsthecitywell,buthehaslosthisbearingssomewherealongthewayandhestandsthere,panicbuilding,unabletodecidewhethertogoforwardsuntilhefindstheembankmentwallorstaywhereheisuntilheissureitissafe.
Heisstillfrozeninindecisionwhenhehearsalowvoice,tohisleft.AnEnglishvoice.Hecan’tmakeoutthewords,buthecanhearsomeonerespondingandthenthescrapeofamatch.Heholdshisbreathandlistenstothemetallicsoundofacardooropeningandthenclosing.TheAuxies.Hewantstogobackthewayhecame,buthisfeetseemtobestucktothepavement.HeknowsthiskindoffearfromFranceandheknowshewillgetpastitinafewmoments.Notentirely,ofcourse—feardoesn’tjustswitchitselfoff—butenoughtobeabletomoveandthink.Heforceshislungstotakeinsomeairandthenslowlyexhales,listeningtotheAuxiesmurmuringtoeachother.
Thenhehearsthesoundofarifleboltbeingpulledback.
Heisstillstandingthere,lockedintotheboxofhisownterror,whenhefeels,tohissurprise,asofthandtakehiselbow.Itpusheshimgentlyforwardsandhedoesnotresist.Heknows,somehow,thatheisbeinghelped.WhenhehearstheCrossley’senginestartup,seeminglyonlyafewyardsaway,heallowshimselftobedirected,morequicklynow,untilhecanmakeouttheshapeofthenarrowentrancetothecast-ironbridgeonlyafewstepsaheadofhim.Thereisnoguardonitthathecansee.Tohisleft,theheadlampsoftheCrossleyareturnedon.Hewalksforwards,hearingthehollownoiseofhisfeetonthebridge,hopingthesoundwillbeinaudibletotheAuxiesovertheengine.HelooksbacktoseethetwinbeamsoflightonOrmondQuay,blurredbythefogbutnotmorethanfiftyyardsfromthebridge’sentrance.Hishelperpusheshimforwardsonceagainandhetakesthehint,encouragedbyashoutfromthedirectionoftheCrossley,andwalksacrossthebridgeasquicklyandquietlyashecan.
Whenheturnstothankhissaviour,thereisnoonethere,onlythefaintestscentofawoman’sperfume.
Herememberstheperfume.Eventhoughhehasnotsmelleditforseveralyears.
CHAPTER3
Mudandwater.Asfarastheeyecansee.Adark,fetidbrown,withtheonlyvariationthegrey-yellowfacesofthedead,themud-smearedpallorofthelivingand,overhead,theironsky.Thewaterhasthethicknessandcolourofmudandthemudhastheconsistencyofwater.Itmakesnodifference.Youcandrownineither.Therainisaconstantrattleonhishelmet,fromwhichitdripsdownontohissoddentrenchcoat.Heisshiveringwiththecold,thewetand,ofcourse,thefear.Hisordersaretoholdthispockmarkedstringofshellholes,regularlyaddedtobytheGermanartillery.Itis,apparently,theremnantsoftheirsecondtrench,althoughthereisn’tmuchleftofit.Atornsandbaghere,aduckboardthereand,acrossfromhim,themuddygreyclothofadeadGermancorporal,hisheadhalf-buried,hisleftarmelsewhere.Thetrenchhasbeenfilledandflattenedsothatit’smoreofadipinthegroundthanafortification.Sometimestheyarenotevensuretheyareinthetrench.Itdisappearscompletelyinplaces.Hiscompanyarelikearchaeologistsdiscoveringitsremnants,diggingitoutasdeepastheycanbeforeitfillswithmoreofthemud.TheGermansknowwhereitis,though.Theirgunsarezeroedinonitandtheysendoverashelleveryfiveminutes,rightontopofthem.Thestretcherbearerstakethewoundedback.Thedeadtheyleavewheretheyfall.Themudburiesthemsoonenough.
Helooksathiswristwatchbuthishandisshakingsomuchhecan’tmakeoutthetimeatfirst,andthenhehasit.Halfpasttwelve.LunchtimeinDublin.Hismotherwillbesittingoppositehisfatheratthediningroomtable,andthethoughtissooutofplaceherethathetriestoputitfromhismind.
It’sanhoursincehewentalongthetrench.Timetogoagain.Hefeelsfeardrainingtheenergyfromhislimbsandbreathesindeeply,fillinghisnoseandmouthwiththestenchofearthandrot.Ajobtodoisallitis.Onekneeinfrontoftheother,onehundredyardsthatway,thenonehundredback.Itisanachievabletask.Heswallows,hismouthdry.Then,withoutaconsciousdecision,heismoving,
Alltheotherofficersaredeadorwounded,andhe’satthepointwherehethinkstheyaretheluckyones.Heknowsthisshortjourneyisfutile,thatitwillnotmakeablindbitofdifference,butitishisdutytohismen.Themudsucksathim,andheknowshemustkeepmoving.Ifhestops,themudwilltrytotakehimand,ifnooneiscloseandhehasnotenoughstrength,itmaysucceed.Henodstoeachmanhepasses,askshimhowhedoesandtheylietoeachotherthatalliswell,andthenhemoveson.Hecountstwentystillalive,threelessthanthelasttime,whichisbetterthanhehadexpected.Hedoesnotknowhowanyofthemhavesurvivedthislong.Itseemsanimpossibility.Hestopswhenhereachestheendofthetrench.TheGlostersaremeanttobeontheleftbuttheyhavebecomedetached.Theycouldhavefallenback,forallheknows.
HedoesnotknowwhattheycandoiftheGermanscomeatthem.Themudhasmadetheirriflesuselessexceptasclubsor,withbayonetsfixed,spears.Atleast,hesupposes,itwillbethesamefortheGermans.Hehearsanothershellcomingin,andburieshisfaceinthemud.Itexplodesnotfarbehindthetrench,showeringhimwithmoremudandthescrapsofthethingsitholds—metal,wood,clothandflesh.Themud-cakedprivatehehasbeentalkingtobeginstosob.Hetriestosmilereassuringly,buthecan’t.Hefeelsthesameterror.Ifhecouldonlystopthinkingandfeelingandseeing,justforalittlewhile,thenmaybehecouldholdhismindtogether.Butthereisnopausetothehorror.
Hemakeshiswayback,passingthesurvivors,barelyenoughforaplatoon,letaloneacompany.Theygazebackathim.Theyseehimlookingathiswatchandhowhishandshakes.HepassesSergeantDriscoll’scorpse,plasteredinmudfromheadtotoe,slumpedagainstwhatpassesforaparapet,whentheman’spaleblueeyesopenandstareathim,verymuchalive.Twenty-one.HenodstoDriscoll,suppressinghissurprise,thinkingthatthedifferencebetweenbeingdeadandaliveinthisplaceisnothingmorethanaflashofblueinamud-encrustedface.Heavoidslookingattheothersnow,notwantingtoseethepaper-thinskindrawntightovertheirbones.Hehearsanothershellcoming—highexplosive,hecantellfromtheroaringandthewhistle—andhedoesn’tmoveoreventrytocoverhimself.Thereis,hesuddenlyrealises,nopoint.Andthenhefeelstheblastandheisup,weightlessforamoment,turningoverintheair,glimpsingthewideexpanseofmudinalldirections,andthenheiscomingdown.
Themudislikeawetpillowwhenhelands.
Whenheopenshiseyes—anditcouldbehoursormomentslater;hehasnoidea—hismindisblank.Helooksaroundforapointofreference,feelinghiswholebodyachewiththeeffort,eventhoughonlyhisheadmoves.Allhecanseeismud.
Andheisalone.
CHAPTER4
‘CaptainHarkin?’
Theboyisyoung,nomorethanfifteen,andhasatelegraminhishand.Harkinhasnoideahowhefindshimselfhere,standinginthehallwayofthesmallhouseinBallsbridgeheinheritedfromhisbrother,stillwiththetasteofFrenchmudinhismouth.Thetransitionfromnightmaretorealityisjarring.Buthereheis,andhereistheboywithhistelegramandthesamewashed-outblueeyesasSergeantDriscollfromthetrench.
‘That’sme,’hesays,hisvoicehoarserandhigherthanhewouldlike.‘MrHarkinthough.I’mnolongeracaptain,thesedays.’
Eachwordisaneffort.Hefeelsnotquitepresent,asyet.Heholdsouthishandforthetelegram,noticesitisshaking,andthinksbetterofit,placingitinsteadbehindhisbackandoutofview.Theboyfrowns,thosepaleeyestakinginthestateofhim.Harkinlooksdowninhisturnandseeshisbareblue-veinedfeetwhiteonthemosaic-tiledfloor,toenailslongerandyellowerthantheyshouldbe.Atleastheiswearingadressinggown.Theboy,ithastobesaid,iswellturnedoutinhisPostOfficeblueuniformwithitsredtrim.HewearshispillboxhatatanangleHarkinsuspectswasmuchconsidered.Harkintracesathumbdownhisunshavencheek.
‘Whattimeisit?’heasks,decidinghemightaswellknow.
‘Eleveninthemorning,sir.’
The‘sir’isuncertain.
‘Iamunwell,’Harkinsays,bywayofexplanation.‘I’venoideawherethemaidis.Gallivanting,mostprobably.’
‘YouareCaptainThomasHarkin,though,sir?’Theboyasks,andHarkinfeelshisangerbubblingup.
‘MisterThomasFrancisMaryHarkin,formerlycaptainintheRoyalDublinFusiliers,currentlyofthisabode.Areyougoingtogivemethetelegramornot?’
The‘Mary’hasalwaysannoyedhim.Hedoesn’tmuchlikethe‘Francis’either.Theperilsofbeingthechildofareligiousmother.TheboylooksstartledandHarkinfeelsanaggingguilt.
‘Istheresomethingowed?’Harkinsays,inagentlertone.
‘No,sir.’Theboyispoliternow.Themessageishandedover.‘ButI’mtowaitforaresponse.’
Ofcourseheis.TheenvelopeisthininhishandbutassoonasHarkintouchesthepaper,heknowsnothinggoodisinside.Thetelegramboyknowsitaswell.Thetelegraphofficereadsallthetelegrams,andtellsthemessengerswhentheycontainbadnewssotheyareprepared.This,asithappens,issomethingHarkinisallinfavourof.ThesurreptitiousreadingoftelegramsbypatrioticIrishmenisofenormoususetohiminhiswork.Harkinslidesafingerinsidetheflapandtearsitopen,awareoftheboy’sexpectation.Heopensupthefoldedsheetandthere’sthemessage.Twelvewords,twoofthematease,therestashock.
DEARMARY.MAUDKILLEDIRAAMBUSH.FUNERALIMMINENTKILCOLGAN.PLEASECOME.BILLY
Hefeelsnothingatfirst.Harkinhas,afterall,fouryearsinthetrenchesbehindhimandsomethingofanimmunitytodeath.HismemoriesofMaudPrendevillearefromlongagobuttheysurfacenow.Thewarmthofherinhisarms,hermouthagainsthis.Thesmellofherperfume…andthenhefindstheworldtiltsslowlyonitsaxisasthememoryoftheperfumefromlastnightfillshisnostrils.Hereachesoutahandtosteadyhimselfagainstthewall.MaudPrendevilleworethesameone.Acologneofsomedescription.Heusedtoknowthename,buthecan’trecallitnow.Hegaspsandseessympathyintheboy’seyes.
‘Haveyouapencil?’heaskstheboy,whenhefeelshimselfalittlerecoveredfromtheshock.Theboyopensthesquareleatherholsteronhisbeltandproducesapencilandasmallnotepadwhichheopensinanticipation.
‘Areyouready?’Harkincanhearthestraininhisvoice.
Theboynods.
‘Willattend.Tom.’
Ifhecouldunderlinethe‘Tom’hewould.‘Mary’isajokethatworethinsometimeback.Hefindsthruppencefortheboyinhisovercoat,stilldampfromthefoglastnight,andsendshimonhisway.
Whenhehasclosedthedoor,hestandsinthehallwayforaminuteandthinksbacktotheeventsofthenightbefore.Itmustbehisimagination.Heknowshisdreamshavebecomemorerealinrecentmonths.ItisnotpossiblethatthewomaninthemistcouldhavebeenMaud.Thethoughtreassureshim,butadoubtremains.
Hewalksintothedarknessofthesittingroom,litonlybythesliversofdustylightthatedgeinthroughthedrawncurtains.Unsettled,heputsthetelegrambackintoitsenvelopeandplacesitonthemantelpiece.Itisonlywhenthereisaslightcoughfrombehindhimthatherealisesheisnotalone.Harkinswallows,hismouthsuddenlydry.Helooksabouthimforaweaponandhiseyefallsontheglimmerofthelongbrasspokeramongthefireironstohisleft.Hemarksitspositionandturnstoseewhohasbrokenintohishouse.Alargemaninagreythree-piecesuitwithacarnationinthebuttonholeissittingcalmly,acupandsaucerinoneofhislargehands.ForamomenthethinksitisMartin,hisdeadbrother,sittinginhisfavouritearmchair,andhefeelsfear’sgriponthebackofhisneck.Butthenthebigmanlooksupathim,hisexpressionapassableimitationofinnocence,whichisanachievementonafacethatlooksasthoughit’sbeencarvedoutofrockwithaheavyhammer.
‘Iletmyselfin.Iwaswornoutfromknocking.’ThemangesturestowardsHarkinwithhiscup.‘Imademyselfsometea,Ididn’tthinkyou’dmind.There’smoreinthepot—willIgetyouacup?’
Harkinfeelsthetensiondrainoutofhimwiththeshudderingbreathhereleases.
‘Vincent?’hesays,bywayofgreeting,andputsaquestionintothename,asthoughVincentBourkehasbeenuptonogood.Which,hethinks,isalmostcertainlytrue.‘Ithoughtyouwere…someoneelse.Wasthedoornotlocked?’
Thebigman’smouthwidensintoagrin
‘Itwas.Iliketokeepinpractice.’
Harkinsaysnothing,wonderingifheshouldgetanewlockputonthedoorandknowingitwouldn’tmakemuchdifference.
‘Iwishyouwouldn’tdothat.Ifadoorislocked,it’spolitetowaituntiltheowneropensit.’
‘ButifIcanopenitmyself,whywait?’Bourkeexamineshimforamomentandhissmileslips.‘I’llgetyouyourtea,’hesays.‘You’llfeelbetterforit.’
WhileBourkedepartsinthedirectionofthekitchen,Harkinopensthecurtainsandletsinthewintersunlight.TheairischillandheremembersthatKathleen,themaid,isvisitinghermother.Helooksaroundtheroom,unchangedsincebeforethewar,whenheandMartinwouldsithereandtalkaboutpoliticsandmotorcarsandwhateverelsecametomind.Heremembers,suddenly,MaudandMartinatthepiano,theirfacesglowinginthecandlelight.Onlyhimleftalivefromthatevening.Herubsahandacrosshisface,feelingthestingoftearsforminginhiseyes.
Bourkereturns,handinghimthepromisedcupoftea,withashort-breadbiscuitleaningintothesaucer.HewatchesHarkintakeasip.
‘IheardMalonewaslatelastnight,’hesays,eventually.
Harkinnods.
‘Wasitthefog?’
Harkinshrugs,thinkingbacktotheeveningbefore,rememberingonceagainthepressureofthatinexplicablehandonhisshoulderdownbytheriverandthesmellofMaud’sperfume.Hesuppressestheshiverthatcomeswithit.
Itcanonlyhavebeenhismindplayingtricksonhim.
‘HesaidtherewasaraidonBachelorsWalkthatnearlypickedhimupandhehadtogotoground.Afterthathetookaroundaboutroutetomakesurehewasn’tfollowed.Hesaidtherewerepeelersallovertownandhewasluckytogetthereatall.Ididn’thangaroundtoquestionhim.Thecurfewhadalreadystarted.’
Thebigmanconsidersthis,andgivesanon-committalnod.
‘Didhebringthelist?’
Harkingoestothehallwayandtakestheenvelopefromthepocketofhisovercoat.Theenvelopecontainsasummaryoftheenlistmentinformationof163cadetsoftheAuxiliaryDivisionoftheRoyalIrishConstabulary,includingtheirhomeaddressesinEngland.TheAuxiesliketoburnthehousesofmembersoftheIRA.Thelistopensupthepossibilityofpayingthembackinkind.Bourkeopenstheenvelopeandscansthecontents,whistling.
‘Iwouldn’tliketohavecarriedthisacrosstownpastcurfew.Agoodthingyoudid,though.ThepubwasraidedafteryouleftandMalonetaken.Betterforallofus,especiallyhim,hedidn’thavethelist.’
Harkinconsiderstheimplicationsofthisnews.Malone,herealises,knowswherehelives.Knowshisrealname.
‘He’ssolid,isn’the?’Harkinsays,asmuchtoreassurehimselfasanything.Thenreconsiders.‘Isn’the?’
‘Solidenough.They’llgivehimagoing-over,ofcourse.Mightbebestifyoulielowforawhile.MaybegetoutofDublin.’Hepauses,andthatlookofcontrivedinnocencereturns.‘Thebosshasasuggestion,asithappens.’
Suddenlyheknows,thoughhedoesn’tknowhow,thatthisproposalwillbesomethingtodowithMaud.
‘Goon.’
‘YouknewMaudPrendevillebeforethewar,right?Andthefamily?Quitewell,hethinks.’
‘Iknewherwellenough,’hesays.‘Thattelegramwasfromherbrother.’
‘Well,isn’tthatacoincidence?ThebosshadatelephonecallfromSirJohnPrendevillethismorning,himself.SirJohn’salittletickedoffattheminute,whatwiththeIRAhavingkilledhisnieceinanambush.’
Harkinshakeshisheadslowly.
‘Sothetelegramsaid.Butit’snotpossible,surely?Maudwas…well…MaudPrendeville.’
‘Indeed.Thebossisn’thappyaboutiteither.AflyingcolumnkillingaherooftheEasterRisinginacrossfire?It’sagifttotheBrits.’
‘Doweknowanythingaboutthecircumstances?’
‘Notmuch.ThecolumnareadamantMaudPrendevillewasalivewhentheyleft,althoughunconscious.Theysaytheyheardasinglegunshotfiveminuteslater.Inotherwords,theysaysomeoneelsepluggedher.Butthen,theywould.’
HarkinlooksatthepianoandthespotwhereMaudhadplacedherhandthatevening,rememberingthesoftsmileshe’dgivenhim.
‘SowheredoIcomeintothis?’
‘YouknowSirJohn,don’tyou?’
‘Iknowhimwell,’Harkinsays.‘Iwashisprivatesecretarybeforethewar,whenhewasstillaHomeRuleMP.’Hepauses,examiningBourke.‘ItakeitthebossalsoknowsIwasengagedtoMaud?’
Bourkenods.
‘Thebossmentionedit.Hesendshissympathy.Andhisapologies.’
‘Apologies?’
‘Thebosswantsyoutogodownandtalktohim.Thereneedstobeaninvestigationandyou’retheperfectmantodoit,hesays.Asofthismorning,theinsurancehasasubstantialpolicyonMissPrendeville’slifeinSirJohn’sname.Thepaperworkwillcomeoverlateron.’
Harkinnods.Onpaperatleast,heisemployedasaclaimsassessorfortheAll-IrelandInsuranceCompany.It’sarealcompanywithrealinsurancebusiness,butit’salsoafrontfortheGeneralHeadquartersintelligenceoperation,ofwhichHarkinisaseniormember.
‘Isee.I’mtoassesstheclaim,asitwere?’
‘Exactly.Ifitreallywassomeoneelse,dealwiththemandgetthehelloutofthere.’
‘Andifitwastheflyingcolumn?’
Bourkelooksuncomfortable.
‘Thebosschoseyouforthisjobbecauseheknowsyou’veasensibleheadonyou.Itwon’tbeeasy.Thecolumnareveryactivedownthere,andwewantthemtocarryonbeingactive.Ontheotherhand…’Bourkepauses,asthoughrememberingtheboss’sexactwords.‘Hesaidtoremindyouwe’reveryshortonguns.’
HarkinsmilesatBourke’slookofpuzzlement.WhatBourkedoesn’tknow,becauseheisn’toneofthehandfulofpeopleinIrelandwhodo,isthatSirJohnPrendevillehasbeeninstrumentalinarrangingtheshipmentoftwohundredThompsonsub-machinegunsfromNewYorkfortheIRA.Ashipmentthatisduetobearrivinginlessthantwoweeks’time.
‘Hesayshe’ssorrytohavetoaskyou,’Bourkesays.‘Butyouknowthefamily,youknewMaud,andit’sagoodideaifyou’reoutoftownforafewdays.’
Harkinnods,rememberingMalone’sarrest.
‘Andifhetalks?’
‘We’rebatteningdownthehatches,andyoubeingoutofthewayisapartofthat.’
CHAPTER5
Harkinstretcheshimselfoutwhentheelderlylady,andthestaring,glass-eyedfoxstoleshewearsaroundherneck,leavesthetrain.He’srelievedtohavethecompartmenttohimself.Ithasbeenonethingbeingscrutinisedbytheoldwoman,buthavingthedeadfoxeyeinghimupaswellhasbeendisconcerting.Hetakesouthiscigarettecase,almostasbatteredbythewarasheis,andsettleshimselfmorecomfortablyintohisseat.
Thecigarettecasehasseenbetterdays—eachdenttellingthestoryofatrenchorabattleoranearmiss.Noneofthemaregoodstories.Itwas,coincidentally,agiftfromMaudandhe’sstuckwithitforsomereason.Thereisaninscriptionontheinsidethathemakesapointofnotreading.Heknowswhatitsaysandhefeelsthesadnesstuggingathimlikeariptide.Hestaresoutthewindowatthepassingfields,wetanddarkintheearlylight.Hisfingersaren’tsteady—theyhaven’tbeenforweeksnow—buthemanagestolightupwithouttoomuchtroubleandexhalesaringofcigarettesmokewhichhoversintheyellowlightofthecarriageforamomentbeforedispersing.Thevillagesandtowns,thestonewalls,thehaggards,barnsandlow-slungcottages,allseemtosagintogreaterdegreesofdilapidationthefurtherthetrainrollswestandthemorelightthereis.Itlooksasthoughawarhaspassedthroughthecountryside;thatimpressionisnotincorrect,althoughitisawarofhedgerowsandalleyways.Thewarhasbeengoingonfortwoyearsnow,andithasbeenhardforapeoplewhowerealreadyusedtohardtimes.Therearealotofhungry,desperatepeopleinthecountrythesedaysbutitwon’tbelong,hethinks,untilthewariswon.
Mattersarecomingtoahead,whethertheBritishauthoritiesknowitornot.
Theweathercontinuestodisappointasthetraincontinuesthroughtherollinglandscape.Whipsofrainlashthewindowlikeapunishmentandthesteamfromtheengineisthrownupanddownbythewind,sothatonemomenthecanseerain-mistedhillsintheneardistanceandthenheandthetrainarehurtlingalonethroughawhitecloud.Itdoesn’tmatter.Heisnotreallyinterestedinthescenery.Insteadheallowshismindtowander,andfindshisthoughtsreturningtoMaud.
Heknowsmoreaboutherdeathnow—fromthereportoftheunitresponsiblefortheambushandtheRICreportswhichoneoftheirsourceshaspassedon.ThereismoredetailintheRICreportsbutthetwoaccountsareconsistent.TheybothagreethatMaudwasinthecarwhenitwasambushedandthatshediedasaresultofasinglegunshot.TheRIC’sreportaddsthedetailthatthegunshotenteredherforeheadjustaboveherlefteye,withpowderresidueindicatingitwasfromcloserange.TheRIC’sconclusionisthatalldeathswerecausedbytheIRA.TheyseemtohavenointerestinconsideringwhyMaudmighthavebeenshotintheheadfromcloserangebyotherrepublicans,norhavetheytakenintoaccountthatthekillermusthavebeenlookingrightintoMaud’sfacewhentheydidit.Harkinknowsalittlebitaboutkillingandthisstrikeshimasunusual.Inhisexperience,ifmenhaveachoice,they’llavoidlookingdirectlyintotheeyesofapersontheyaretokill.Theblindfoldsthatthecondemnedaregivenatexecutionsareasmuchforthefiringsquadasforthoseabouttobeshot.Eveninthetrenches,inthemiddleofadesperatebattle,ifenemysoldiersattemptingtosurrenderhadtobekilled,itwasdonefrombehind.WhoeverfiredthatweaponmusteitherhavehatedMaud,orbeacold-bloodedkiller,andhedoesn’tknowhowanyonecouldhavehatedMaud.
ThelasttimehesawMaudmusthavebeensixyearsago.Herfaceseemstoslideawaywhenhetriestorecallit,butherdeathhasbroughtupawaveofmemoriesoftheirtimetogether.Ithelpsthattherewasagoodphotographofherinthepaper,onefrombeforethewar—herfaceturnedslightlyawayfromthecameratoshowherprofile.Nowhecanpinhismemoriestothephotograph:dancingataballinDublin;hervisitinghimintheuniversityroomshesharedwithherbrother;apicniconthestrandatKilcolgan.HeremembersMaudleaningintohisshoulderastheylookedouttosea,thesunwarmontheirskin.Afterwardstheywalkedbackalongthedrivethatledtothehouseandherememberstheblackwindowsgazingdownatthem,thespiritsoftheplacebehindeachone.Harkinlooksattherainthatisnowstreamingbackalongthewindow,blownbythetrain’sspeedintolonglinesthatrunacrosstheglass.Hedoesn’tknowhowthePrendevillesstickitinthatdarkmansion,perchedontheedgeoftheworld,itsgranitewallsfightingaperpetualbattleagainstAtlanticstormandrain.Maudhadbeenlivingthereforthelastfouryears,sinceshewasinjuredintheRisingandwithdrewfromthestruggleforindependence,andfromoneTomHarkin—amanwholovedher.
Tohissurprise,atearbeginstotraceapathdownhischeek.
Eachmilethetrainjourneybringshimclosertothehouse,themoreunrealthewholesituationfeels.Nowtherainhasgivenwaytoalowmorningmistthatliesthickacrossthefieldsanditfeelsasthoughthepresentworldisblurringaroundhim.ThehouseandMaud,incontrast,becomingclearerinhismind’seye.Hemusthavedriftedoffthen,becausewhenhewakesupitisinthedarknessofatunnel,withsmokeandrockflickeringpastthewindow,half-visibleinthelightfromthetrain’scorridor.Therearetwomensittingacrossfromhim.Onehastakentheseatbythewindowandtheothersitsbesidethedoor.TheyarewearinglonggreatcoatsandwhenHarkin’seyesadjusttowhatlittlelightthereis,heseesthecoatsarekhakibrown,tornandcrustedwithmud.Theywearnocapsorhelmets;insteadtheirfacesarecoveredwiththewhitebandagesofgas-attackvictims,soakedwithbloodwheretheeyesandmouthshouldbe.Heswallowshard,feelingthefearsqueezinghischest.
Foralongmoment,hestaresatthem.Heknowstheyarenotthere—thatifhereachesouttothemtherewillbenothingbutair—butthatdoesn’tmeantheyarenotreal—tohim,atleast.Theyfillhisgazeasthesweetsmellofrottingfleshfillshisnostrils.Hewantstolookawaybuthecan’t.Hewondersiftheycanseehim.Whatcantheythinkofhim,asurvivor,whentheyaredustinsomenamelessgrave?
Hecloseshiseyesandwhenheopensthemthetrainisbackamongtheopenfieldsandthemenhavegone.Heseeshisreflectionintheglassofthecompartmentdoor,blackeyesandwhitefaceandthescarofamouth.Helookshalf-deadhimself.
Hemanagestolightacigarette,hishandshakingonceagain,andisawarethatthetrainisslowingforthenextstation.HeseesaplatoonofAuxiliarieswaitingontheplatform,armedtotheteeth,slungwithbandoliersofammunitionlikeMexicanbanditsinamovingpicture.Eveninhiscurrentstate,Harkinisalerttothedangertheyrepresent.Hewatchesastheyswaggerupanddowntheplatform,theirhandsonthebuttsoftheirholsteredrevolvers,botheringthecitizenryontheplatformbeforetheyeventuallyboard,whentheystartonthepassengers.Heisinafirst-classcompartment,andthereforehopesheisofnointeresttothem.Someonewealthyenoughtoaffordafirst-classticketislikelytobealoyalcitizen,keentokeeponastheyhavebeengoingon,whichiswhyhetravelsthisway.Iftheydolookinathim,hehopesthey’llseenothingmorethanamanonhiswaytoafuneral,inawell-cutwoollensuitandstiffcollar.Andiftheyarestillcurious—well,hehasthetruthtoprotecthim.ThreeyearsinFrance.
Unless,ofcourse,Malonehasblabbed.
ThethoughtofMalonecausesanunseasonalsweattobreakoutalonghisspineandhecloseshiseyestowhisperashortprayerandremindhimselfthat,withluck,thearrestwillhavebeenfornothingmorethanlate-nightdrinking.
Whenhehearsthesoundofthecompartmentdoorslidingback,hefindshimselflookingupintothegreyeyesofamiddle-agedmaninadarkgreentunic,wornoverkhakijodhpurs.Histam-o’-shantercapiswornatarakishangleandHarkinnoticesthatthebuttononhisholsterrevolver,reversedforaneasydraw,hasbeenundonetomakethateasydrawstilleasier.Hewisheshehadn’t.
‘Papers,’theAuxiesays,inaYorkshireaccent.
Harkinreachesintohisinsidepocketandhandsthemover.TheAuxielooksatthemintentlyandHarkinwaitsfortheacknowledgementoftheirsharedmilitaryhistory,butnonecomes.
‘Harkin,isit?’
Harkinfeelshismouthgodrybutanswersasnonchalantlyaspossible.
‘Yes.’
‘Whereareyoutravelling?’
Harkintellshimhisdestination.
‘Youlivethere,doyou?’
‘No,IliveinDublin.I’mtravellingforafuneral.’
TheAuxielooksup.
‘Whosefuneral?’
Harkinconsiderstellinghimtomindhisownbusiness,buthecanhearshoutingfromfurtheralongthetrainandsomethingtellshimthattheAuxiesarenotinaquibblingframeofmind.
‘Shewasinthepaper.LordKilcolgan’sdaughter—’
Heisabouttogoon,buttheAuxieinterruptshim.
‘Iknowwhoshewas.’HelooksbackatHarkin’spapers,squinting.‘Wereyouafriendofhersorherfamily?’
There’sanedgetothequestion;Maud’srepublicanactivitiesare,afterall,wellknown.There’snoneed,hedecides,tomentionheisherformerfiancé.
‘Iservedwithherbrotherinthewar.InFlandersandelsewhere.’HenodstowardsthestripofmedalsontheAuxie’schest.‘You?’
TheAuxiedoesn’trespondatfirst,lookingdownforaninstantasthoughhe’dforgottentheywerethere.
‘Thesame,’hesays,examiningHarkincoldly.‘Doyoumindmeaskingyouaquestion?’
‘Ofcoursenot.’
‘WhyamIcheckingpapersandgettingshotatbyyourcountrymenwhileyou’resittingonyourarseinfirstclass?’
Harkinopenshismouthtosaysomethingandthenclosesit.Hedoubtsthereisananswertothatquestionthatwon’tcomebackandbitehim.
TheAuxiesmilesagrimsmile.
‘Nothingtosaytothat,eh?Ithoughtnot.Youlotareallthesame.I’vegotatipforyou,though,oldcomrade.Keepyourheaddownwhereyou’regoing.Becausewe’regoingthere,too,andwe’vegotascoretosettle.’
HethrowsthepapersinHarkin’slapandslidesthedoorshutwithabang.
Harkinbreathesoutalong,shallowbreathandconcentratesonbreathinginanother.Outsidethecarriage,therainhasturnedtomistthatisclosinginaroundthetrainevenashewatches,darkeningthegreenofthegrasstoblack,andeverythingelsetoahazy,driftinggrey.
Itfeelsasthoughheisenteringanotherworld.
CHAPTER6
Thetrainslowsuntil,withafinalscreechofthebrakes,itcomestoashudderinghalt.Heremembersthestation,althoughitishardenoughtoseeeventheoppositeplatformwiththemistthatpassesthewindowinashiftingpatternofshadowandswirl.Theyhavereachedtheendoftheline—atwo-platformedterminuswhereitwillbedifficulttoavoidtheAuxiliaries,sohesitsandwaits.
Itisn’thardtofollowtheirprogress.Theirdetrainingisloudandboisterous,thesoundmuffledanddistortedbythemist,theircallsandlaughterlikethefoghornsofpassingships.Theyarecuriouslyundisciplinedforabodyofmenwhoarelargelyformerofficers.Whenthelastofthemleaves,itisasthoughthestationitselfsighswithrelief.
Harkinwaitsforanotherminute,standsandpullsdownhissuitcasefromtheluggagerack,thenputsonhistrenchcoat,buttoningituptotheneck.Hishandsarestillunsteadybutthere’snothingtobedoneaboutthat.Hepullsthebelttightaroundhim,hopingitwillholdhimtogether.
Thefogextendsevenundertheshelterofthestation’scast-ironroof,forminghalosaroundthegaslanternsthathangatregularintervals.Theplatformisemptyexceptforthetwodarkshadowsapproachingfromthefarendofthetrain.Theytaketheirtime.Somewhere,thedriverischeckingthetrain’swheels;theclangofhishammerisasteadyrhythm.Whenthefiguresemergefromthemist,Harkincanseeitisthestationmasterandaguard,lookingforstragglerslikehimself.ThestationmasterdoffshiscapandHarkintipshisownhomburginresponse.Hewondersifit’sthehomburgthatinspiresthedeference,orthecarriage.Heforcesasmile,thenturnstowalktotheexit,casting
‘CaptainHarkin,sir?CanItakeyourbag?’
Harkinlooksup.Themanstandinginfrontofhimiswearingatweedsuitandmilitaryboots.HebearsastrongsimilaritytosomeoneheknewinFlanders.
‘SergeantDriscoll?’Harkinasks,hearingthefrightinhisvoice.HeremembersthetrenchinFlandersjustbeforeheandtheotherswereblowntopieces.Hewondersforamomentifheishavinganotheroneofhisvisions.‘Butyou’redead.’
Driscolllooksdownathimself,pattinghischestandwaist.
‘Stillhere,Ithink.’
Harkin’sreliefissopronounced,hefeelstearswellup.Helooksawaytohidethem.
‘Ithoughteveryoneinthattrenchhaddied.I’mpleasedtobewrong.’
DriscollsmilesasthoughHarkinhasmadeapassingremarkabouttheweather.
‘Iwasn’tsureifyou’drememberme.’
Harkintakesamomenttogatherhimself
‘Irememberyouwellenough.Sergeant…John…Driscoll.’Harkinisconsciousofhowhesitanthesounds.‘Theytoldmeinthefieldhospitalthattherelieffoundonlymealive.’
SomehowhissuitcaseisnowinDriscoll’shandandhewishesitweren’t.Itsdragonhisarmwasatangiblething,andhehasthesensethatheisnotquitetetheredtorealitywithoutit.Ontopofwhich,Driscollwalkswithapronouncedlimp.Driscollshrugs.
‘No,meandafewothersmadeitout.Itwasuscarriedyouback,nottherelief.Wewouldn’thaveleftyouthere.’
‘Thankyou.’
Harkinfindsthatanervouslaughterisbubblingupinsidehim.Hepushesitbackdown.Driscoll’ssmileispolite,butthereissomethingbehindit.AsthoughHarkinismissingsomethingstill.Hewonderswhatstatehewasinwhentheycarriedhimout.Withluckhewasunconscious.
‘Didmanymakeitout?’heasks.
‘Afew.Morethanyoumighthavethought.Wewerebackinthetrencheswithinamonth.IcaughtabulletinmyhipsoonafterthatandwhenIrecovered,Iwasassignedtothequartermasterandlightduties.Iwasn’tsadtoseethebackofthetrenches.’
Harkinnodsandasilencefalls.
‘Howwasthejourneydown?’Driscollasks.
There’saslightteasetothewaythefellowsaysitanditgivesHarkinthejoltheneeds.Driscollisalsothenameofthemanheismeanttobemakingcontactwith—theintelligenceofficerforthelocalVolunteerbattalion.AndSeanis,ofcourse,theIrishforJohn.
‘You’retheSeanDriscollI’mmeanttobelookingoutfor?’
‘Thesame.’Themangiveshimaslantedsmile,hispaleblueeyesalmostkindly.‘IwasalwaysSean,buttherecruitingsergeantwrotedownJohnandIwasstuckwithitforfouryears.IworkatKilcolgan.MasterBillyaskedmetocomeandfetchyou.’
TheconnectioniscleartoHarkinnow.SomehownoonehadthoughttomentioninthereportorhisordersthatthelocalintelligenceofficerhappenedtoworkforthePrendevilles,orhemighthavemadeitbackinDublin.
‘Well,then.Wecantalkontheway.’
CHAPTER7
Driscollhasahorseandcarriagewaitingoutside—theyellowglowofthestation’slightsgildingtheblackhorse’swetback.Harkincantastetheseawhenhebreathesin,thesaltmixedwiththesmellofkelp.Heremembersthestreetjustpasttherailings,andthetown,butallthatcanbeseenofitnowarevagueoutlinesinthegreygloom.HarkinwatchesasDriscolltieshissuitcasetotheluggagerackandthenswingshimselfupawkwardlyintothecarriage.
Ifanything,thefogbecomesthickerastheymaketheirwayslowlythroughthetown—thehorse’shoovessoundinglikeamuffledechoofthemselves.Thefewshopsandpubsglowlikeislandsinthemist,whilesomewhereachurchbellrings,itsmournfulsoundseemingtocomefrombehindthemonemoment,andfromupaheadthenext.Adonkeycartloadeddownwithmilkchurnsloomstowardsthemfromtheothersideofthestreet.Theflat-cappedfarmerholdingthetraceslooksintheirdirectionwithsuchablankexpressionthatHarkinisnotevensurethathehasseenthem.
Perhapsthehorseknowstheway,becauseitspaceissteady.Time,bycontrast,seemstoslow.Whenthegapsbetweenthebuildingsoneithersidebegintowidenandthenbegintobereplacedbyhedgesandlowwalls,Harkinhasnoideahowlongtheyhavebeentravellingorhowfartheyhavecome.Heisonlyconsciousthattheswayandrollofthebuggyislullinghimintosomethinglikeawakingsleep.
‘There’sacheckpointupahead.’
DriscollbarelywhispersthewordsbutHarkinfeelsthetirednessslideawayfromhiminaninstant.Abarrierhasbeenplacedacrosstheroad,behindwhichstandtheshadowsofgreatcoatedmen,armedwithrifles,andtheshapeofanarmouredcar.Driscollpullsslowlyonthetracesandthehorsecomestoahaltsometenfeetshortofthemen,stilllittlemorethansilhouettes.Thereisalong,silentpausewhichgivesHarkintheopportunitytorememberVolunteershehasknownwhowerestoppedatcheckpointsmuchlikethis—thenfoundlaterinanalleyoratthesideofsomeboreen.HeremindshimselfthatheisaformerBritishofficer,withnothingtofear.
Unless,ofcourse,Malonehastalked.
Alargepolicemaninanoilskincloakwiththickwhitesergeant’sstripesonhiscuffsapproaches.Hiseyesarehardtomakeoutunderthebrimofhispeakedcap,andHarkinfindshimselfinsteadtryingtodeducehisintentionsfromthehangofhisenormouswalrusmoustache.
‘Goodmorningtoyou,SergeantKelly.’
ThesergeantnodsbywayofresponsetoDriscoll’sgreeting,pushingbackhishelmettoexamineHarkin.Hiseyes,nowthatHarkincanseethem,areintelligentandnotunfriendly.
‘Whoisyourpassenger,Sean?’
‘CaptainHarkin.HeservedwithyoungMrPrendevilleinthewar.He’sdownfromDublinforthefuneral.’
ThesergeantregardsHarkincalmly.
‘Didyoucomedownonthetrain,CaptainHarkin?’
Harkinissurprisedtheyhavenotbeenwavedstraightthrough.Harkinuseshisofficervoice—theclipped,neutraltoneexpectedinthearmy—toanswer.
‘Idid,althoughit’sMrHarkin,thesedays.IsthereanythingIcanhelpyouwith,Sergeant?’
Thesergeant’shelmetisspottedwithrainandhisfacedamp,althoughheseemsoblivioustoit.HisimpassivefeaturesmakeHarkinfeeluneasy.Theusualreactionoftheregularpolicetothediscoverythatheisaformerofficerisadegreeofdeference.
‘Didyoumeetanyoneonthetraindown,MrHarkin?’
Harkinexaminesthesergeant’sfaceforanyevidenceofparticularintentbehindthequestion,butthereseemstobenothinguntoward.
‘Noone,apartfromanoldladywhogotoffinMullingar.AplatoonofAuxiliarycadetsgotonafewstopslaterbutthatwasaboutit.’
‘They’llbehereforDistrictInspectorTeevan’sfuneral,I’mafraidtosay.Willyoubecomingtothat,yourself,MrHarkin?ToDistrictInspectorTeevan’sfuneral,thatis?’
Thesergeant’squestionisunexpected,buttheveryblandnessofitsdeliverysuggeststhereisapurposebehindit.
‘I’mafraidIdidn’tknowInspectorTeevan…’hebegins,andwhenhepauses,uncertainhowtoproceed,thesergeantinterruptshim.
‘Hewasagoodman.AnIrishman,likeallofus.Idoubttherewillbemorethanahandfulcometoseehimputintheground,exceptthoseofuswhoservedalongsidehim.Seanhere,forone,isn’tlikelytopayhimtherespecthe’sdue.Areyou,now,Sean?’
Harkinisaware,withoutlookingathim,ofDriscoll’sdiscomfort.
‘YouknowIhavethePrendevillestoattendtoandpoorMrCartwright’sbodyhastobereturnedtohisfamily.InspectorTeevanwasnottheonlyloss.’
‘That’strueenough.ButevenifMissPrendevillehadn’tdied,wewouldn’tlikelyhaveseenyouatJimTeevan’sfuneral.Nowwouldwe,Sean?’
Thesergeant’svoiceislowandHarkindoubtsthatthemenonthecheckpointbehindhimcanoverheartheconversation.Itmightwellbethatthesergeantdoesn’twantthemtolistenin,andHarkinisstruckagainbythelackofhostility.Heisunsurewhattomakeofitor,indeed,howtoreact.Shouldhetrytoblusterhiswayoutofthesituation?IntheendhetakeshisleadfromDriscoll,whosaysnothing.
‘Well,Iwon’taskyouforyourpapers,MrHarkin.I’msurethey’reveryimpressive.I’llknowwheretofindyouifIneedyou.’HeturnstoDriscoll,hisvoiceloweringstillfurther.‘Iwouldn’tbesurprisedifthereisn’ttroubleinthetownoverthenextfewdays,Sean.I’dstayoutofit,ifIwereyou.’HelooksintentlyatDriscollforamoment,asiftoseeifheistakingheed.Thenhenods.‘Givemyregardstoyourmother.’
Thesergeantstandsasideandcallsoutforthebarriertobelifted.Astheypass,thepolicemenseemcoldanddispirited—asifTeevan’sdeathhastakenthefightoutofthem.Whentheyareclearofthecheckpoint,DriscollturnstoHarkinandnodsoverhisshoulder.
‘Mymother’sfirstcousin.He’snotactiveagainstus,ifyouknowwhatImean.Hedoeswhathe’sorderedto,butnothingmorethanthat.That’sthecasewithmostoftheoldRICaroundhere.TheAuxiesandtheBlackandTansareadifferentstory.’
‘AndTeevan?’
Driscollconsidersthisforamoment.
‘Itwasn’thimthecolumnwereafter,’hesays,shruggingasiftosaythattherewerenotearsshedallthesame.
‘Whoweretheyafter?’
‘MajorAbercrombie.HecommandstheAuxiliarycompanyinthetown.He’searnedabullettwentytimesover.Itwashimwasmeanttobeinthecar.’
CHAPTER8
Theyfollowtheroadwestandthefoggraduallydissipates,leavingHarkinwithaviewtohisrightofstone-strewnhillswithmoregorsethangrass,andtotheleft,throughthescatteredtrees,theoccasionalflashofwhitewavesalongagreyshore,notmorethanahundredyardsaway.Thewindispickingupandtheskyislowabovethem,filledwithbruisedcloudsthatpromisetowipeawaythelastofthemist.
Theytravelinsilenceuntiltheyseetheblackenedtimbersandthatchofastill-smoulderingcottagebuilthardupagainsttheroad,itswhitewashedwallsstreakedwithsoot.Asmallcrowdstandaroundit,sombreandsilentastheypass.Awomaniscryingloudlyfromwithinthebuilding,andhecanseethatafewrecoveredpossessionsarepiledonasmallcart.SomeofthemeninthecrowdnodtoDriscollwhileotherslookatHarkinwithacoldhostility,oneturningawaywithacommentthatismetwithamurmurofapproval.Hecanseethebitternessintheirdarkeyesandgaunt,smudgedfeatures,andangercomesfromthemliketherustleofleavesinaforest.Hesitsandlooksdownatthelongblackcoatsandflatcapsandheknowshelooksliketheenemytothem,sittingbesideDriscollinhishomburgandtrenchcoat.
‘Whathappened?’heasks,whentheyhavepassed.
‘Oneoftheladsinthecolumnlivedthere.Thewomancryinginthehouseishismother.’
‘Andtheson?’
‘Abercrombieandhismentookhimlastnight.Hewasfoundatthecrossroadsthismorning.’Driscoll’stonemakesitcleartheVolunteerwasfounddead.‘ThoseAuxiesonthetrainwillbeouttonightaswell.Adistrictinspectorisworthahalfahundredhouses,andwoebetideanyoneofourstheycomeacrosstillthingscalmdown.’
Theroadwindsalongsidetherockyshoreand,afteranothermileortwo,theyfindthemselvesfollowing,ontheoneside,alongstrandstripedwithlinesofseaweedand,ontheother,Kilcolgan’shighdemesnewall.Driscollnodshisheadinthedirectionofagapwherethestonework,underminedbytherootsofatree,hascollapsedoutontotheverge.
‘Youhaven’tbeenheresincebeforethewar,haveyou?’
‘No.’
‘Kilcolganhaschangedsincethen,’Driscollsays.‘Thelastfewyearshavebeenhardontheplace.There’snomoneylefttokeepitup.Justbywayofwarning.’
Harkinrecognisesthetallpillarsstandingeithersideofthegates,nowcoveredwiththickivythatthecarvedeagleswhichtopthem,wingsbunchedforflight,willneverbreakfreeof.Driscollallowsthehorsetocometoaslow,swayinghalt,pullsthebrakebackandlooksoverathim.Withoutaword,theyclimbdownandHarkinfollowsthelimpingDriscollinthroughthegate.
TherewasaphotographinthepaperofTeevan’sbullet-riddledcarleaningintothegatelodgewall,butit’sgonenow.Allthatremainsarethewhitescarswherebulletsstruckthestone,aboarded-upwindowandadarkstainwheretheengine’soilleakedout.Thedriveleadsonthroughthetreestowardsthebighouse,visiblethroughthewinter-strippedbranches.ItsfamiliarwindowsstaredownatHarkin,mirroringtheseaandtheshore.
‘Tellmewhathappened.’
Driscollwalksawayfromthegatelodge,towardsalogthathasbeenpushedtothesideofthedrive,upagainstthelaurelbushesthatlineit.
‘Theyblockedthedrivewiththis.’
Harkinnods,beforewalkingashortdistanceintothewoods.Emptybrasscartridgesliescatteredamongtherottingleavesandmoss.
‘TheRICdidn’tcollectthese?Whentheywereinvestigating?’
Driscolllaughs.
‘Investigating?Asfarasthey’reconcernedthecaseisclosed.Theytookthebodiesandthecarawayandtookafewphotographs,butpastthattheydidn’tbothermuch.Theyknowitwasussettheambushandwhatmoredotheyneedtobotherwith?’
HarkinknowsDriscollisright.InthepartsofthecountrywheretheVolunteersareactive,theRICarenolongeractingasapoliceforceinthewaytheyusedto.Heturnstolookbackattheirsurroundings.
‘Tellmehowithappened?’
‘CommandantEganandthecolumnarrivedaboutanhourbeforehand.Theysecuredthegatelodgeandtookuppositions,aswellasbarricadingtheroad.Whenthecarcamein,Teevanmusthaveseenthebarrier,becauseheswervedandhitthewall.Therewassomereturnfirebuttheyhadn’tahope.AneatjobifMissPrendevillehadn’tbeeninthecar.’
Harkinlooksaroundandcanseehowtheambushplayedout,wherethegunmenwerepositioned,andcanalmosthearthefusilladeofbullets.HecanalsoimagineMaud’sterror,surroundedbytheflashofmuzzlefire—theVolunteersclosetothecarastheywouldbeinanightambush.Hefeelsafamiliarnauseaasheimaginesthestenchofcorditeandblood.HewalksafewstepsawayfromDriscoll,towardsthehouse,givinghimselftimetorecover.
‘Butshesurvivedtheattack?’hesays,overhisshoulder.
Driscollnods.
‘SoI’mtold.TeevanandCartwrightweredead,orasgoodas.Maudmayhavebeenknockedoutwhenthecarhitthewallbutshewasstillbreathingandtherewasnovisiblewound.Theymadeherascomfortableastheycouldandlefther,knowingwe’dcomedownfromthehousesoonenough.Afewminutesaftertheylefttherewasasingleshot.Ihearditaswell.’
‘Anditwasthatshotthatkilledher?’
‘Soitseems.’
‘Yousaid“soI’mtold”?’
Driscollnods,hisexpressiondarkening
‘Iwasn’therewhenithappened.Iwasatmymother’shouse.’DriscollnodstowardsKilcolgan.‘It’sbehindthehouse,pastthewalledgarden.ThefirstIknewoftheambushwasthegunfire.IfIhadknownaboutit,I’dhaveaskedthemtogetoutofit.There’stenplacesbettertheycouldhavedoneitalongthecoastroadwithoutbringingmeintoit.’
‘Yourmother’shouse?’
‘She’sLordKilcolgan’shousekeeper.Igrewuphere.Ihelpoutaroundtheplace.Itsuitsme.ItalsoallowsmetogoaboutthecountrywhenIneedtoforbrigadebusiness.’
‘Soyou’retheintelligenceofficerbutyoudidn’tknowwhatwasgoingtohappen?HowdidEganknowthecarwouldbevisitingKilcolgan?’
Driscolltakesadeepbreath,frowning;asthoughmarshallinghisthoughtsisaneffort.
‘I’mnottheonlyintelligenceofficerinthebrigade.Thecolumnhaditsownintelligenceofficer,MattBreen.Theotherintelligenceofficersandmyselfpassoninformationtothem,butthecolumnmakesitsowndecisionsastowhattargetstoattackandwhen.Theydon’tconsultwithanyone.Itwouldn’tbepracticalandit’smoresecurethatway.Ididn’tevenknowtheywereanywhereclose.IthoughtEganwasinthehillstotheeast.Fortymilesaway.’
‘Butitwasyourinformationtheyactedon?’
‘No.Now,IknewHarryCartwrightandMaudweregoingtoplaycardsatSirJohn’sthatevening.IalsoknewMaudwasmeanttobestayingthenightandcomingbackinthemorning.CartwrightwasgettingtheearlytraintoDublin,sohewouldcomebackthateveningifsomeonewouldgivehimalift,butIdidn’tevenknowTeevanandAbercrombiewouldbeatSirJohn’s,letalonethatoneofthemwouldbedriving.Butthecolumnknew.EvenifIhadknownaboutit,it’snotsomethingI’dhavepassedontothem.I’dneverhaveputthePrendevillesatrisk.Never.Ontopofwhich,it’snotgoodformyhealthtohavethecolumnshootingupAuxiesonmydoorstep,drawingattentiontome.Last,andnotleast,theAuxiesarecurrentlybasedintheoldpoorhouseinthetownandtheydon’tmuchlikeit.TherehavebeenseveralofferstorentKilcolganfromhisLordshipasanalternative.HisLordshipwouldhavetakenthemoneylongago,onlyforMaudbeingopposed,andanambushathisfrontgatemightwellbethethingthatwouldhavepushedhimintodoingit.’
‘Andwillhetakethemoneynow?’
Driscollshrugs.
‘Whoknows?’
HarkinthinksbacktotheconversationwithKellyatthecheckpoint.IfKellyknowsaboutDriscoll,asheseemsto,thenothersmightaswell.HepresumesDriscollisawareofthedangerhe’sinandhewonderswhyhehasn’tgonetoground,atleastforaweekortwo.
‘SowhodidtellthecolumnaboutAbercrombie?’
‘Breenhadaninformantwhopassesusmessagestohimthroughapriestinthetown.’
‘Whoisthisinformant?’
Driscollputsahandtohischin,runningathumbalongitslength.
‘Idon’tknow.Breenkepthisidentitytohimself.Ifyouaskme,it’slikelyit’sanRICman.Theinformationwegetfromhimincludesdetailsoftroopandpolicemovementsinthispartofthecounty,aswellaswarningofthebigsweeps.It’shelpedEganstayoutofthewayafairfewtimes.Myguessishe’dhavetobeasergeant,atleast,tohavetheinformationhegivesasearlyashepassesiton—butthetruthisitcouldbeanyone.There’sneverbeenaquestionofmoneyoranything,asfarasIknow.Whoeveritis,theyseemtobestraightandtheymusthavebeeninformedofAbercrombie’smovements.’
Harkinthinksbacktothecheckpointandthesergeant’swarning.
‘MightitbeKelly?’
Driscollshrugsonceagain.
‘IthinkKellywouldhavecometomeratherthanBreen.Becauseoftheconnection.’
Harkingathershisthoughts.Ifthecolumn’srecollectioniscorrect—thatMaudwaskilledbysomeoneelseshortlyaftertheambush—thenitseemslikelythatwhoeverkilledhermusthaveeitherbeenpartoftheambushorhaveknownitwouldtakeplace.Thereisathirdpossibility,ofcourse.Thatitwassomeonefromthehouseitself.
‘IthinkweneedtofindoutfromMattBreenwhohissourcewas,forastart.’
Driscollrubshischin,agesturethatisbecomingfamiliartoHarkinasaprecursortobadnews.
‘Thatmaybedifficult,’hesays.‘ThatwasMatt’shousewepassed.’
Harkinremembersthewoman’scryingandthehostilityofthecrowd.
‘Youdidn’tthinktomentionthatwhenwepassed?’
‘Wouldhisnamehavemeantanythingtoyou?’
Whichisprobablyafairpoint,Harkinconcedes.
‘Washetortured?’
Driscollnods.
‘Isawthebody.’
‘Andyou’renotworriedhe’llhavetalked?Thatthesamethingwillhappentoyou?’
Driscollmeetshisgazeforamoment,thenlooksaway.Itseemsit’snotasubjecthewantstodiscuss.
‘I’mneededhere,’Driscollsays.Then,afterthebriefestofpauses.‘Ifyouwanttofindoutwhothesourceis,it’llhavetobethroughFatherDillon.He’stheparishpriestatStAnn’s.It’sasmallchurchinthetown,alittleoutoftheway.I’lltryandtalktohimthisafternoon—Ihavetomeetthetwoo’clocktrainanyway.’
Harkinlooksaroundhim.Theonlysoundsarethecryofagullfromtheshoreandthecrunchofthegravelunderfootasheshiftshisweight.Thereisanatmosphereabouttheplacethathedoesn’tlike.Asthoughsomethingbadhashappenedhere,whichofcourseithas,butsomethingelseaswell.Heglancesupatthehouseanditsemptywindows,blackagainstthegreygranite.
‘I’llneedtotalktohimaswell.’
Driscollnods.
‘I’llseewhatIcando.’
‘Thiscardeveningtheywereat?Whoelsewasthere?’
‘MoiraWilson,shehasafishinglodgebetweenhereandBallynan—that’swhereSirJohnPrendevillelives.TheEustaces,wholivefurtheralongtheroad.’Driscollindicatesfurthertothewest.‘DrHegartyfromthetown,TeevanandAbercrombiefromthebarracks,MaudandCartwright,and,ofcourse,SirJohnhimself.’
‘Whydidn’tAbercrombiedrivethemback,aswasoriginallyplanned?’
‘Hewascalledaway.HeandTeevandroveseparately,soIsupposeTeevanfeltobliged.’
‘AnyideawhyMaudchangedhermindaboutstaying?’
‘You’llhavetoaskSirJohn.’Driscolltakesadeepbreathandexhales.‘Doyoumindmyaskingwhatthepointofallthisis?Thecolumndidn’tkillher,butyourinvestigatingherdeathisn’tgoingtochangeanyone’sopiniononewayoranother.’
Harkinholdshisgaze,thengiveshimahalfshrug.
‘MaudPrendevillewasoneofthelasttoleavetheburningGPOin1916andoneofthelasttosurrenderaftertheRising.Herbeingkilledbyherowncomradesisnotthewaywe’dliketohaveherremembered.Ifthereisanychancewecanfindproofthatwillstanduptoscrutiny,thenweneedtofindit.’
‘AndwhataboutthefactshewastravellinginacarwithanRICdistrictinspector.Shewasinthewrongplaceatthewrongtime.She’dhavetoldyouthesameherself.Ourladsdidn’tkillher,buttheyeasilymighthave.’
Harkinsmilespatiently.
‘AsIsaid,iftheydidn’tkillher,thenIneedtofindoutwhodid.’
Driscolllookssceptical.
‘Whatareyougoingtodo?Goroundaskingquestions?Thepolicewon’tlikethatmuch.’
‘SirJohntookoutalifeassurancepolicyonMaud’slifesomeyearsago.Iworkfortheinsurancecompanywhoissuedthepolicy.Ihaveallthepaperwork.Theymaynotlikeit,buttheycan’tstopme.’
Driscolllooksathiminastonishment.Harkinshrugs.
‘It’sarealcompany.It’sallaboveboard.’Henodsovertothegatelodge.‘Whataboutthesepeople?I’dliketotalktothemforastart.’
‘PatrickWalshandhiswife.Theyweretiedup,theysawnothing.’
‘Theymighthaveheardsomething,though.’
Driscollnods,althoughhislackofenthusiasmisclear.
‘They’restayingwithhisbrothertheothersideoftownforafewdays.I’llseewhatcanbedone.’
‘AndI’llneedtomeetwithCommandantEganassoonasispossible.’
‘I’llpassamessageon.’
Harkintakesafewmorestepsalongthedrivetowardsthehouse.Thecoatfeelsheavyonhisshoulders.Heistired.Hewonders,foramoment,whatheisdoinghere,ofallplaces.
‘Soafteryouheardthegunfire?’Harkinsays,summoninguptheenergytocontinue.‘Whathappenedthen?’
‘Iwenttothehousesonoonecouldpointafingeratme.ThenBilly,myself,CharlotteandLordKilcolganwentdowntothegate.’
‘Andyouheardnomoregunfire?’
‘Apartfromthesingleshot.Afewminutesaftertheambushitself.’
‘You’dreachedtheotherswhenyouheardit?’
‘Iwasjustwalkinginthedoor.’
‘Howlongdidittaketogetthere?’
Driscolllookssheepish.
‘Ihadtogetdressed.Andmymotherdidn’twantmegoingout.Ittookalittlewhile.’
‘Howlongexactly?’
‘Maybefiveminutes.Idon’thaveawatch.’
‘Theotherswerethere,though?Whenyouarrived?LordKilcolganandBillyandCharlotte?Whatabouttheservants?’
‘Therearen’tmany.Mymother,whowasinthecottage.Murphythebutler,buthe’snotmuchusethesedays,andthenBridgetthemaid.’
Harkintakesonefinallookaround.
‘Anythingelseyou’dliketotellme?’
Driscollrubshisjawoncemore.Harkinwaits.ForsomereasonDriscollappearstobeembarrassed.
‘There’sonething,’Driscollsays,hiseyesshiftingawayfromHarkin’s.‘BillysawtheWhiteLady.Justbeforetheambush.Aghost.’
HarkincanfeelhiseyebrowrisingandDriscoll,glancingbackathim,seeshisbemusement.
‘Look,Iknowwhatyou’rethinking,butthestoryisthatbeforeaPrendevilledies,theWhiteLadyappears.Sotheysay,anyway.’
‘AndtheWhiteLadyis…?’
‘You’dbetteraskthePrendevilles.’
Astheywalkbacktothecarriage,Harkinseesascrapofwhiteintheundergrowthtothesideofthepath.Heleansdownandfindsahalf-smokedcigarettebutt,dampfromtherain,althoughthelabelisstilllegible.Thereisasmallshieldembossedingoldonthepaper,andthenthewordsPéra—NewBondStreet.Frowning,hereachesintohispocketforhishandkerchief,foldsthecigarettebuttupintoit,andfollowsDriscolltothecarriage.
CHAPTER9
Thehalldoorisopenedbyanelderlyservantinabutler’scoatthatseemstoobigforhim,asthoughhehasshrunkinonhimself.HarkinremembersMurphy,butthisisadiminishedversioncomparedwiththeoneherecalls.ThebutlerglancesquicklypastHarkin,hiswaterygazescanningtheimmediatesurroundingsofthehouse,anervoustongueflickingoverhispurplelips.
‘Murphy,it’sgoodtoseeyouagain.’
‘Andyourself,MrHarkin,’Murphysays,lookingoutpasthimonceagain.‘Youdidn’twalkherefromDublin,didyou?’
ThebutlerseemsfrailtothepointofdecrepitudebuthespinsHarkinaroundwithease,beforepullingoffhiscoatwithapractisedtugthatsendsshrapnelgratinginsideHarkin’sshoulder.
‘Driscollpickedmeupfromthestation.’
‘Ofcoursehedid.Ofcoursehedid.’
Harkinlooksabouthim.Thelongcentralhallreliesonwhateverlightcomesthroughthewindowsatthefrontofthehouseandthosethatcirclethehighroofabove.Theday,unfortunately,isovercastandwhenhelooksupHarkincanseehowtheglassinthewindowshasbeencloudedbyyearsofgrime.Theresultinggloomshadowstheinteriorofthehouse,reducingthefurnituretodarkshapes.Thewallsarelinedwithdeadanimals,clusteredingroups.Ashiseyesadjust,heseesatiger,alionandasmallherdofdecapitatedantelope.Thelittlelightthereisilluminatesbaredteethandstaringglasseyes.
‘Hadyouanytroubleontheroad?’Murphyasks,leadinghimintothehouse.
‘No.Apartfromthefog.’
AshefollowsMurphy,hepassesmoreanimals:stags,aquantityofvillainous-lookingfoxes,abadgerand,forsomereason,aborderterrier.Hecanseecobwebsstretchedbetweenantlersandbarepatcheswherefurhasbeentakenbymoths.Theslaincreatureslookdownonhim—reproachful,melancholy,or,inthefoxes’case,furious.
‘ThankGodforthat.WhatwithEgan’sbanditsseenthismorningcomingdownfromthemountainsonlyfivemilesfromhere.’
Harkinisbroughtbacktotheconversationwithajolt.Hewondersiftheinformationaboutthecolumniscorrect.
‘Soclose?’
‘Hehasthewholecountryinastateofterror,’Murphysays,inadolefultone.
Thereismovementonthestaircaseattheendofthelonggalleryandtwohugewolfhoundscomelopingoutofthegloom,tongueslollingandgreycoatsmatted,theirpawspaddingonthemarbletiles.TheyapproachHarkinwithcuriosity,thesmallerofthemsniffingathiscrotch.Theysmellofwetwoolandforestfloor.
‘Getoutofthat,Fiachra,’Murphysays,half-approvingly.‘LeaveMrHarkinalone,likeagoodbeast.’Hemakesnoefforttoremovethedog,however,soHarkinpushesitawayhimself.
‘Helikesyou,’avoicesays.
WhenHarkinlooksuphecouldswearheseesMaudPrendevillecomingdownthestaircase,caughtinarareshaftoflight.Shehasthepallorofaspirit,butthenherheelsbegintoclickassheapproacheshimacrossthemarblechessboardfloor,sohepresumesshemustbereal.
‘Youlookasthoughyou’veseenaghost,’shesays,squintingathimwithamusement.
SheisnotMaud,hecanseethatnow—althoughshehasthesamecleargreeneyes.Heremembers,inthenickoftime,Maud’syoungersister.
‘YoumustbeCharlotte.’
HegivesFiachraasharpershove,whichthedogseemsnottomind,saunteringofftowardsthepeatfirethatglowsinthelargefireplaceandarranginghimselfinfrontofitlikesomecaninepasha.
Charlottetakeshishandandheisgratefulforthesoliditythetouchoffershim.Shewouldhavebeenaboutfifteenthelasttimehesawher,whichwouldmakehertwenty-threenow.
‘Didyouhaveapleasantjourneydown,MrHarkin?’
Heremembershismanners,atlast.
‘IamverysorryaboutMaud,MissPrendeville.Aterriblebusiness.’
Shegiveshimahalfsmile.
‘Thankyou.’
Sheexamineshim,asthoughseeinghimafresh.Whenshespeaksagain,hertoneisgrave.
‘IpreferCharles,’shesays.
‘Charles?’
‘ToCharlotte.Shouldweevermovepasttheformalities,Charlieisalsoacceptable.’
CHAPTER10
Thediningroomis,liketherestofthehouse,dark;itsthreelargewindowslookouttowardsablack,squall-tornseaandatroubledskythatisblackerstill.Harkinfindshimselfsittingatoneendofalongtablethathasbeensetforfive,althoughtwooftheplacesremainempty.Thesilvercutlerygleamsdullyintheflickeringlightofasinglecandle.Marblecolumnslinethewallsandanothersmoulderingpeatfire,biggerthantheoneintheentrancehall,popsandwheezesbehindhim.PortraitsofPrendevilleancestorslinetheyellowsilkwallpaper.Long-nosed,haughtymen,andpalewomeneachaselegantasthefashionofthetimeallowsher.LordKilcolgansits,slouchedbeneaththeirgazeatthetopofthetable:asilveringthicketofhair,half-closedeyes,anotherofthoselongnoses,andamoustachethatobscureshismouthandmuchofhischin.CharlottesitsoppositeHarkin.Thecandleflickersintimewiththerainthatlashesthewindows.
‘Wehaveagenerator,youknow,’LordKilcolganmuttersasMurphyplacesabowlinfrontofhim,thesoupsloshingasitlandswithabump.‘Forelectriclightsandsoon.Buttheywon’tsendafellowfromLondontofixit.Sayit’snotworthriskingalifewiththesituationbeingwhatitis.Sowe’rereducedtocandles.’
Harkinlooksupatthelayerofdustthatcoversthebulbsinthechandelierhangingoverthetable,andtriestorememberiftheywerelitthelasttimehewashere.Hethinksnot.PerhapshisexpressionrevealshisthoughtsbecauseheseesCharlieglanceathimquicklybeforelookingaway.
‘Father,’shesays.
‘Iknow,’Kilcolgansays,noddinginHarkin’sdirection.TheremaybeasmileunderneaththemoustachebutHarkincannotseeit.‘Ihavebecomesomethingofaboreabouttheelectricity.Withoutthelightsthehouseistoodark,yousee.Toomanyshadows.’
Theconversationlapses.Harkinfindshisattentiondrawn,notforthefirsttime,totheemptyplaces.Charlieseesthemovementofhiseyes.
‘I’msurethey’llbeheresoon.Murphy,isthereanysignofBilly?’
Murphyshrugsandseemstothinkthisisasufficientresponse.ThenheseemstorememberthereisastrangerpresentandsummonsaningratiatingsmileforHarkin.
‘Itoldhimhewasmadtogoout,buthewouldn’tlisten,’hesays.Thenadds,asanafterthought,‘MissCharlotte.’
‘Whatsoupisthis,Murphy?’LordKilcolganasks,examiningit.
Murphylooksdownatthebowlheiscarryingandfrowns.
‘I’llaskherself,’hesays.
HeputsthelastbowlinfrontofHarkin,andthendisappearsthroughthesidedoorfromwherehecanbehearddescendingtheservants’staircase.Inhisabsence,itseemstoHarkinthattheshadowsintheroomgrowcloser.Thesoupisthesamegreyastheexteriorofthehouse.
‘Mushroom,’Charliesays.‘Itcouldbesomethingelse,ofcourse,butIbelieveitshouldbemushroom.TodayisTuesday.’
Harkinlowershisheadtohidehissmile.Hecanhearstepsclimbingthestairsfromthekitchen.Hefeelslaughterbuildinginsidehimandheknowsitisofthenervousvariety.Heremindshimselfthatthereisgriefinthehouse.
Anattractivewomaninherlatethirties,wearingablackdresswithahighcollar,andwithherhairtiedback,stepsintotheroomandstandsfacingthetable.Sheissilent,butherdemeanourseemstobeoneoftestedpatience.LordKilcolganlooksalittleunsettledbyherarrival.
‘Wedidn’tmeantodisturbyou,MrsDriscoll.’
‘Iexisttobedisturbed,mylord.Didyouhaveaquestionaboutthefood?’
‘Onlythatwewerewonderingwhatthesoupwas?’
‘Canyounottell?’
‘Isitperhapsmushroom?’
MrsDriscoll’ssevereexpressionishardtoread,butonbalanceHarkinthinkssheisnotpleasedbythequestion.
‘Doesittasteofmushroom?’
‘Itdoes,’LordKilcolgansaystentatively.
‘Wellthen.Willyoubewantinganythingelse?’
‘Thatwillbeallforthepresent,thankyou.’
Thefamilyexchangeglanceswhensheleavesandwouldperhapshavediscussedtheconversation,butMurphyreturns,wheezing,fromhisjourneytothekitchen.Hemakesaslow,carefulexpeditionaroundthetable,picksupaforkfromtheemptyplacesettingforareasonthatisn’tquiteclear,thendisappearsintothebowelsofthehouseonceagain.Charliegivesherfatherameaningfullook.
‘Yes,butwhatwouldhedowithhimself?’LordKilcolgansays.‘Andweareusedtohim.’
‘Hasn’theadaughterinDublin?’
‘Despisesher.Andshe’snotveryfondofhim.There’snothingtobedone.Anyway,MrsDriscollwouldn’thearofit.Therewouldbewarifwewereeventosuggestit.’
Charlotteturnstohim,hergreeneyesshadowed.
‘MrHarkin,youmustseehowreducedMurphyis.Fromwhenyoulastsawhim.’
Hepauses,consideringhisresponse.Thensmiles.
‘Hedoesseemalittlesmaller.’HeglancesupandseesCharlie’sgraveexpressionandwondersiftheyhavenotnoticed.‘Andolder,butisn’tthatoftenthewayofthings?’
‘Quiteso,’Kilcolgansays,afteralongpause,thencloseshiseyesandliftsaspoontohismouth.Thesoupleavesacreamytidelineonhismoustache.
Thereisaclatterofbootsrunningalongthecentralhallandthenheavystepspoundingupthecentralstaircase.Somethingisknockedoveralongthewayandclatterstothefloor.Thestepspayitnoheed.
‘That’llbeBilly,’LordKilcolgansays,andthereisaflickerofdisapprovalinhisexpression.‘He’llbesoakedtotheskin.Changeofclothes,Ishouldn’twonder.’
Sureenough,notmorethanaminutepassesbeforethemanhimselfappears,finishingtheknotofhistieasheenters,hishairandfacestillwetfromtherainoutside,hischeeksrosywiththecold.Heiswearingadrytweedjacket.
‘Don’tgetup,Mary,’hesaystoHarkinwithanod.‘Ishallslipin,almostunnoticed.’Heglancestowardshisfather,whomutterssomethingunderhisbreath.‘Well,perhapsnotentirelyunnoticed.’
Harkinreturnshisfriend’ssmilebutit’simmediatelycleartohimallisnotwell.Thejollityseemsforcedandunderneaththetousledblondhair,Billy’seyesaredark.Hismouthcurls,firstup,thendown,andHarkinwondersifBillyisevenawareofit.Ifhedidn’tknowbetter,he’dthinkBillywasonthevergeoftears.
‘It’sgoodtoseeyou,’Harkinsays,andtriestosendBillysomecomfortthroughthewarmthinthewords.
‘Mary?’Charlieasks.
‘Yes,veryunusualname,’Billysays,hisbrittlejollitybackinplay.‘Doyouthinkthereissomesoupleftinthetureen?IthinkI’llmakepoorMurphy’slifealittleeasierandhelpmyself.’
Hestandsandwalksovertotheservingtable,liftsthecoverfromthetureenandinhales.
‘Mushroom?’heasksand,whenthereisnoanswerfromthetable,hebeginstohelphimself.Harkincanheartherattleoftheservingspoonagainstthechina.ItseemsHarkinisnottheonlyonewithjitteryfingers.
‘Maryismysecondname,’hesays,feelingheshouldsaysomethingtodistracttheothersfromBilly’sshakes.‘Mymotherisreligious.’
‘HisothernameisFrancis,’Billysays.‘That’sagirl’sname,too.’
‘Franciswithani,’Harkinadds.‘AfterSaintFrancis.Whowasnot,sofarashistoryrecords,agirl.Thatwouldbemyconfirmationname.’
ThereisyetanotherawkwardsilenceinwhichHarkincontemplatestheunusualsituationofbeingtheonlyCatholicpresent.Itisn’tasthoughthereisashortageoftheminthecountry.
‘Areyoureligious,MrHarkin?’Charlieaskswithatoobrightsmile.
Hewondersifsheismockinghim.Heconsidershisanswerandsees,inhismind’seye,anexpanseofmudandwaterandbrokenthings.Brokenmenaswell.Theimageissorealthathefeelssweatpricklinghisforeheadandneck,andthemushroomsouprisingupinhisthroat.Heswallowsitbackdown.
‘No.’
HeseesthatBilly’sfacehaslostallofitscolour,despitetheyellowlightfromthecandles.Agustofwindrattlesthewindowsandscattersrainagainsttheglass.ItremindsHarkinofmachine-gunfire.HewondersifBillyhadthesamereactiontothequestion.
‘Billytellsmeyouworkforaninsurancecompany,’LordKilcolgansays,whenthequietbecomesoppressive.
Harkinthinksthisisanoddchoiceoftopictogettheconversationgoingagain,givenwhereitmustinevitablylead.Still,itwillbegoodtogetitoutoftheway.
‘TheAll-IrelandInsuranceCompany.We’rearelativelynewbusiness,Irish-ownedforIrishcustomers.’
‘Isee,’LordKilcolgansays,andHarkincanhearthequestionintheresponse.HecanimagineKilcolganmutteringsomethingaboutSinnFeinersifhewerenotpresent.
‘AndMaudwasinsuredwiththem?’Charliesays,andhecanseesomethinglikesuspicioninhergaze.‘Itseemsastrangecoincidence.’
‘Notreally.Yourunclewasoneoftheoriginalinvestors.Ibelievehetookoutvariousinsurancepolicieswhentheenterprisebegantotrade,inordertogivethecompanyastartonthebusinessside.Theseincludedlifeassurancepoliciesonhisclosefamilymembers,aswellasotherrisks,whichhehasmaintained.’
‘What?’Billysays,hisinterestpiquedtotheextentthathesuddenlyshrugsoffhisdarkmood.‘Allofus?’
‘Notyou,Billy,’Harkinsays.‘Youwereuninsurableatthetime.’
‘Fairpoint,’Billysays.‘Thewarandallthat.’
Harkinwatchesashisfriend’sgazelosesfocus.Heknowswhereithasreturnedto.
‘Inanyevent,asBillymayhavementioned,IhavebeenaskedtoconductabriefinvestigationintoMaud’sdeath,fortheunderwriters.’
Billycontinuestoexaminehissoup,notmeetinganyone’seye,butHarkincanseehehastheothers’attention.
‘AndSirJohnthoughtitwouldmakesenseformetoundertaketheinvestigationimmediately,givenIwouldbehereforthefuneral.’Theyappearuncertainsoheadds,‘Aninvestigationisstandardinthissituation.’
‘Whatsituation?’Charlieasks,herwordscarryingadetectablechill.
‘Aviolentdeath.’Heregrets,toolate,thebluntnessofthewords.‘Theunderwriters,yousee,’headds,asthoughabsolvinghimselfandtheAll-IrelandInsuranceCompany.
LordKilcolganmaynotevenhaveheard,forallthereactionhegives.
‘Andhowdidyouendupworkingforthisinsurancecompany?’Charlieasks,inanoffhandwaythatdoesnotdeceivehim.
‘YourunclerecommendedmetothemwhenIleftthearmy.IwaslookingforapositionandSirJohnwaskindenoughtoofferanintroduction.YouwillrecallIwashisprivatesecretaryatonetime,sohefelthecouldrecommendme.’
Hisanswerflowseasilyenoughoffthetongue.Hehasspentsometimeanticipatingthequestionshemightbeasked,andpreparinghisresponses.LordKilcolganhasleanedbackintohischair,hiseyesshut,andheappearstobeasleep,butthenthereisaquiverofthesoup-linedmoustacheandagrowlemanatesfromunderneathit.
‘IstheresomequestionastowhoisresponsibleforMaud’sdeath,MrHarkin?Iwasn’tawareofany.’
‘TheIRAhasissuedastatement—’
HarkiniscutshortbyabarkoflaughterfromKilcolgan.Itisnothappylaughter.Thereiscontemptinit.
‘Soyouintendtouncovertherealperpetrator.Isthatit,MrHarkin?Youdon’tbelievetherebelsaretoblame?’
Harkinchooseshiswordscarefully.
‘Thereportdoesnotsolelyaddressculpability.Myinstructionsaretoreviewthecircumstances.Asyouknow,IcaredagreatdealforMaud.Iwillnotshirkfromassigningresponsibilitywhereitbelongs,ifIcometoafirmconclusion.’
LordKilcolganlooksoutofthewindowatthedarkclouds,thewindandtherain.Intheshadowedroom,hisfeaturesareindistinct.
‘Andifyoudiscoversomeoneelsekilledher,MrHarkin?Thenwhat?’
CHAPTER11
Therainhasblownthroughbythetimelunchends,andawateryandpatchysunlightglintsoffthewetgrassofthehomemeadow.HarkinmakesnoresistancewhenBillytakeshiselbowandguideshimdowntothestrand,eventhoughanotherbankofdarkcloudisalreadycominginfromthewest.Therainhassoftenedthebiteofthecoldseaweed-scentedairbuthecanstillfeelitscrapingtheDublinsootfromhislungs,particlebyparticle.
Theytaketheirtime.TheywalkinsilenceandHarkinisgratefulforthequiet.Theywalkintothewindatfirst,anditflingssandandsaltatthemwhilewavesrollupthebeachwithasteady,relentlessrhythm.Thetideisgoingoutandtheyfollowthelooping,froth-markedlineofthewaves’utmostreachand,whentheyreachtherocksandlookback,theirsaretheonlyfootprintsthatmarkthesea-smoothedsurface.Indeed,wereitnotforthegranitebulkofthehouseonitsrise,theymightbetheonlypeopleleftintheworld,forthereisnosignofanyoneelse.
‘Sheneverfullyrecovered,’Billysaysinalowvoice.
Harkinisn’tsurewhetherBillyisspeakingtohimortohimself.Hewaitsforamoment,tobesureonewayortheother.
‘Itwasn’tonlytheinjury,’Billycontinues.‘ThefightingwasveryhardduringtheRising,withshellingandmachine-gunfireandmanydead.Webothknowhowthesethingscanknockapersonofftheirstride.’
‘Wedo,’Harkinsays,thinkingbacktothegassedsoldiersonthetrain.
‘Shetoldmeshewasn’therselfwhenshesentyouthelettercallingofftheengagement.Itwassomethingsheregretted.Therewasnothingtobedoneaboutit,soIdidn’ttellyou,andIdon’tthinksheregrettedthedecision—onlythemeansofdelivery.’
HarkinremembersthatwhenMaud’slettercame,theyhadbeenfightingontheSomme,andhe’dbeensocertainhewasgoingtodiethatithadbeensomethingofarelief.MaudandIrelandhadseemedtoexistonlyinanotherworld,towhichhehadthoughttherewaslittleprospectofreturning.Hehadlovedher,certainly,butbythenthewarhadits
‘Whathappenedtoher?’Harkinasks,curiousnow.‘Iknowshestayedthroughthefighting,lookingafterthewoundedandloadingrifles,andwhentheybrokeholesthroughthewallstoescape,shewentwiththem.’
Billypauses,takinghistime.
‘Shewasshotintheshoulder.Fatherwasabletokeepheroutofjailandgetherbackherequietly,butitwasn’tonlyaphysicalwound.Isupposeshe’dhadanideaofarevolutionbeinglikethestormingoftheBastille—allflagsandcheering.Insteaditwaslikeanyotherwar,anditshookher.Whenshewrotethelettertoyou,shewasatthelowestpoint.Shedidn’tfeelshecouldcarryonwiththerebelseither.Shethoughtshe’dfailedthemsomehow.AndwithArthurandmyselfinFrance,alongwithyou,shefeltshewaspulledintwodirections.’
HarkinremembersanoticeintheIrishTimes
MajortheHonourableArthurPrendeville,IrishGuards.PassedawayfromhiswoundsatKilcolganHouseon12thDecember,1919.
PoorArthur;ithadtakenhimalittleoverayeartosuccumbtoawoundreceivedsixdaysbeforethearmistice.Ofallthepointlessdeaths,theonesfromthelastdaysofthewar,wheneveryoneknewitwasover,werethehardest.Harkinhastolookawayfromhisfriend.TherawnessinBilly’sfaceisnothingtodowiththeexfoliatingwind.
‘Iheardshewasn’twellafterwards,’Harkinsays,asgentlyashecanwhenhalf-shoutingoverthewavesandthewind.Hehasheardsomehintsofherconditionbutnothingmore.Withinthemovement,sheisstillheldupasanexampletobefollowed.‘Diditpersistafterthosefirstfewmonths?’
‘Itdid.Buthere’sthething.Shewasbetterthelastyearorso.CertainlysinceArthurdied.Itwasharderwhilehewasstillalive.Weallknewhewouldn’tlastlong.Butoncehepassedon,itwasareliefforallofus.Shestartedtoaskaboutyou,fromtimetotime.’
‘Aboutme?’
‘Justtoknowhowyouwere—thatsortofthing.’
‘Andthatwasarecentchange?’heasks,unabletodisguisehiscuriosity.
‘Shehardlycouldhave.Youwere…’Heseemstochoosehiswordscarefully.‘…Anawkwardmemory.’
‘Doyouthinkshemetsomeone,perhaps?Someoneelsewhocaredforher?’
Billyshrugs.
‘Iwouldn’tknow.Iknowshestoppedbeingsucharecluse.ShewentuptoDublinfromtimetotime.ShewenttoPariswithaschoolfriend.MaybeCharliewouldknowmore.’
‘Butit’spossible?’
‘Youthinksomeonecommitteduncrimepassionnel?InKilcolgan?’Billysnorts.
‘Itdoesseemquiet,’Harkinsays.Billysmilesinresponse.
‘Thesocialhighlightofourmonthwasaninvitationtoplaycardsatmyuncle’shouse.’Billynodsalongthecoasttowardsthewest.‘ExceptIhaven’ttheheadforcardsthesedaysandUncleJohnandIdon’tgeton.Justaswell,giventheoutcome.’
‘Ishethesame?’
‘UncleJohn?Alittlequieterbutstillassanctimoniousasever.TellsmeIhaveresponsibilitiesandsoon.IknewifIwentalongthatnighthe’donlygetmeinacornerandtellmewhatadisappointmentIam.’
Theystandforawhile,handsdeepintheirpockets.Harkincanbarelyfeelthetipofhisnoseandsuspectsitmaybedripping.
‘Whydoyoustayhere?’
‘Money.Wehaven’tany.Wehavethehouseandwhat’sleftoftheland,butnoonecanpayrentthesedays.Idon’thaveachoice.’
‘Youcouldgetajob?’
‘InLondon,perhaps,orDublin,butIwantedtobehereafterthewar.Justtowalkaroundandrideahorseandenjoynotbeingshotat.’BillyglancesoveratHarkin,smiling.‘Then,ofcourse,peoplestartedshootingeachotherhereaswell.You’rerightthough.Ishouldgetoutofhere.Standonmyowntwofeet.’
‘WhataboutSirJohn?’
‘Oh,UncleJohnhasmoney,ofcourse.HegoteverythingwhenhisrichAmericanwifepassedaway.Buthekeepsittohimself.Fatherhastogobeggingtohimforafewbobtokeeptheroofontopofthewalls.’
‘DriscolltellsmetheAuxiliarieswanttorentitforthedurationoftheTroubles.’
Billylooksoveratthehouse.
‘Ifitweren’tforMaud,IthinktheIRAwouldhaveburnedtheplacedownbynow.’
Whichistrue,Harkinreflects.Nowthatshe’sdead,theymaystilldo.
‘Canyoutellmeabouttheeveningoftheambush?’
Billypusheshishairback,andHarkincanseethestrainandsadness.
‘Thereisn’tmuchtotell.MaudwenttothecardeveningwithHarryCartwrightaroundhalfpastsix—UncleJohnpickedthemup.Maudwasgoingtostayover.Shemusthavechangedhermind.ProbablybecauseAbercrombiewasthere.Shewouldn’thavebeencomfortablewithhimbeingunderthesameroof.’
‘AndyetsheendedupcominghomewithInspectorTeevan.’
Billyshakeshishead.
‘I’mnotsayingshewouldhavegoneoutofherwaytotakealiftfromTeevan,butsheknewhimfromlongago.He’sfromnearbyandwasalwaysadecentsort.Abercrombieisaverydifferentbeast.IavoidhimmyselfbutMauddespisedhimandeverythinghestandsfor.’
Harkinconsidersthearrangementfortheevening,givenhowclosethetwohousesare.
‘Wouldthathavebeenunusual?Forhertostayover?’
Billyshrugs.
‘Notdownhere.Theroadsaren’tassafeastheymightbeatnight.ThelocalVolunteershaveatendencytodigthemupandblockthemtodisruptthepoliceandmilitary.Thenthere’stheAuxies,whoarealawuntothemselves.Wherepossible,peopletravelduringtheday.’
‘AndherandSirJohn?Didtheygeton?’
‘Thickasthieves.Alwayshavebeen,butmoresorecently.’
‘Andyou?’
‘MaudandI?’Helooksconfused.‘Shewasmysister.’
There’snotmuchHarkincansayinresponsetothat,otherthantonodinagreement.
‘ImeantyouandSirJohn.’
Billylaughs,althoughitcomesoutmorelikeacroak.
‘We’regoingthrougharockypatch.It’shardnottorememberhisgoadingusallintojoiningthefight.ArthurandIwouldhavejoinedupanyway,buttherewassomethingnotquiterightabouthisenthusiasmforothermenfightingawarhechosenotto.It’snotasthoughhewassoveryold.WillieRedmondwasfifty-fivewhenhejoinedup.Johnwasforty-one.Andthenthere’stheknighthoodtheygavehimforhispatrioticefforts,whichhehadthegalltoaccept.So,no,wearenotgreatfriends.Wetolerateeachotheratbest.’
Harkinnodshisagreement.WhateveraboutArthurandBilly,hedoubtshewouldhavegoneintothearmywereitnotforSirJohn’spersuadinghimandotherslikehimthatitwasasurewayofachievingHomeRuleforIrelandandeffectiveindependence.
‘WhataboutHarryCartwright?’
‘AchapIwenttoschoolwith.Hethoughthe’dseetheinsurrectionatfirsthand.Hewasalovelyfellow.Couldn’tbelievehisluckatmakingitthroughthewar.Heoftenspokeofhisgoodfortune.’
Theysmile.It’snotthattheycarenothingforBilly’sdeadfriend;it’sjustthattheyarealittlenumbedtothefutilityofyoungmen’slivesbeingcutshort.
‘WashefriendlywithMaud?’
‘No.Ifshewasseeingsomeone,itwasn’thim.Hewasn’thersort.Hewaslikeapuppy.Alwaysdelightedwitheverything.Shelikedhimwellenough,butno.’
‘SosheleftSirJohn’shouse—forwhateverreason…andthen?’
Billyshakeshisheadsadly,asthoughhecanshakeherbaddecisionaway.
‘ThefirstIknewaboutitwastheshooting.IthoughttheremusthavebeenanambushontheroadandworriedthatpoorHarrymighthavegotcaughtupinit.’
‘Alotofshooting?’
‘Enoughtogetthejobdone.Riflefiremainly.Fortyorfiftyshots?Ihadalookaroundinthemorningbeforethepolicetookthecaraway.Mainly.303sbutsomeMausersandpistolcasings.’
‘Wereyouasleep?’
Billyavoidshisgaze.
‘Notexactly.Iwasoutforawalk.’Helooksaway,avoidingHarkin’sgaze.‘Idon’talwayssleepwellthesedays.Iliketogodowntothestablesatnight.Tolistentothehorses.Iliketolistentothemsleeping.Don’taskmewhy.’
‘Iwon’t,’Harkinsays,thinkingofthetimesbeforetheTroublesbegan,whenhewouldwanderthestreetsofDublinuntilthesuncameup.
‘Sowhatdidyoudo?’
‘ItoldmyselfIshouldstaywhereIwasandleavewhateverwashappeningtothepolice.’
‘Butyoudidn’tdothatintheend.’
‘No.IrememberedHarrywasmeanttobebeingdroppedback,soIwentbacktothehouse,loadeduptheshotguns,andthenwewalkeddowntofindoutwhathadhappened.Fourofus.Me,SeanDriscoll,FatherandCharlie.Wedidn’ttakethegunsintheend.Seanthoughtbetterofit.Father,too,Ithink.Wewerebetteroffgoingdownunarmed.’
‘Whataboutthisfinalshot,aftertheothers?’
Harkinglancesacrossashespeaksandissurprisedtoseeasuddenshiftinhisfriend’sexpression.Itmightbethatheistakingamomenttothinkbacktotheeventsofthefatalevening,oritmightbesomethingelse.
‘Yes,that’sright.Afewminutesafter.’
‘Andeveryonewaswithyouinthehouse?’
‘IwasjustwalkinguptothehousewhenIheardit.Seanwasn’tlongafterme.’
‘Howlongafteryou?’
‘Aminuteortwo.Nomorethanthat.’
Harkinsaysnothing,rememberinghowDriscollhadsaidhehadbeenrightbehindBillyandwonderingifthediscrepancymightbesignificant.HemightneedtohaveanotherwordwithDriscoll.
‘Whatdidtheshotsoundlike?’
‘Youmeanwhatweapon?Definitelyapistol,butnotabigonelikeaWebley.IfyouareaskingwasittheonethatkilledMaud,thenIwouldsayitwas.That’snottosayitwasn’ttheIRAwhofiredit.’
HarkinthinksaboutMaud,lyinginthebackofTeevan’scar,herkillerlookingdownather.Hefeelsangerwrithinginhisstomach.Thatsomeonewouldkillherincoldblood.Hewaitsamomentbeforecomposinghimself.
‘Driscollsaidsomethingunusualhappened.Thenightoftheambush.’Billy’sexpressionisthatofananimal,perhapsarabbit,caughtintheopenbycompletesurprise.‘TheWhiteLady,Ithinkhesaid.’
‘TheWhiteLady,’Billyrepeats,andthereissomethinglikereliefinhisexpression.‘That’sallnonsense.Afamilysuperstition.IdidseesomethingbutIwasimaginingit.Driscollwaswithmeandhesawnothing.’
‘Ithoughthewasbehindyou?’
Billyglancesathimquickly.
‘Earlier.Iwentouttothestablesandhewaspassing.Wewalkedforawhile.There’snotmanyaroundfromthewar,Tom.AndDriscollissolid,unlikeme.’
‘Whatdidyousee?’
‘Somethinginthetrees.Itwasmostlikelyadeer,butatthetimeIwasn’tsure.Thestoryisthatthereisasmellthatcomeswithherofrottingflowers,andIdidsmellsomethingforamomentbutitcouldhavebeenanything.WhenMauddiedIsupposeIjumpedtoaconclusion.’
HarkinwonderswhyBillyisn’ttellinghimthetruth,buthenodshisacceptanceanyway.Hepullsouthiswatchandlooksatthetime,takingadeepbreath.Hehassomeoneelseheneedstosee.
CHAPTER12
ThelibraryatBallynanHouse,whereamaidhasseatedHarkintowaitforSirJohn,isimpressive;thewallsarefilledwithbookshelvesthatreachuptowithinafewfeetofthehigh,mouldedceiling.Itsmellsofleatherandpaperandhasthekindofstillnessthatroomslikethis,insulatedbymillionsofprintedwords,oftenseemtohave.Theonlynoiseisthetickingofaclockthatsitsonthewidepartner’sdeskthatfillsonehalfoftheroom.Itisalsowarmwithlargecast-ironradiatorsgivingoffakindofheatHarkindoubtsiseverfeltinKilcolganeveninthesummer.Thefrigidlandscapewhichthetwolongsashwindowslookoutontoseemsamillionmilesaway.Itisaroomthatisdesignedtotellyousomethingaboutitsowner,hedecides,andmakeshimselfcomfortable.Hehaslittledoubtthathewillbekeptwaiting.IthasalwaysbeenSirJohn’sway.
Whenhishostdoesfinallyenter,tenminuteslater,Harkinisremindedhowhandsomethemanis.Hehaschiselledcheekbonesandhoney-browneyesthatmatchthetweedsuitheiswearing.Hemustbeinhislatefortiesnow,buthelooksyoungerand,somehow,eveninthemiddleofwinter,SirJohnseemstobealittletanned.Perhapsitissomethingtodowiththeradiators.
SirJohnsmiles,althoughthereislittlehappinessinit.
‘It’sgoodtoseeyou,Tom.It’sbeenfartoolong.Ionlywishitwereunderhappiercircumstances.’
‘IwassorrytohearaboutMaud,’Harkinsays,andSirJohngivesashortjabofhisheadinacknowledgement,half-closinghiseyes.Hismouthcompactsintoathinline,barelyvisible.Whenhespeaks,hiswordsaremuffledsothatHarkinhastoleanforwardstohearthem.
‘Anawfulthing.’
SirJohnseemstogatherhimselfthen,anddirectsHarkinbacktothechairhehasjustrisenfrom,beforesittingdownhimselfinthearmchairthatfacesit.Hecrossesonelegovertheotherandfoldshishandsonhislap,lookingatHarkinasthough,foramoment,hehasforgottenwhyheisthere.
‘Wouldyouliketosmoke?’heasksabruptly,asthoughhehaddriftedoffsomewhereelse.Hereachesintohisjacketpockettoproduceablueenamelledcigarettecasewithgoldhinges.Arichman’strinket.
‘I’mallright,’Harkinsays.‘Butthankyou.’
Althoughwhenthesmellofthecigarettefillshisnostrils,hefeelsacraving.
‘Howarethingsoveratthehouse?’
‘Asyoumightexpect.ItoldthemIwasheretoinvestigateMaud’sdeathfortheinsurancecompany.’
‘Howdidthatgodown?’
‘Asyoumightexpect,’Harkinsays,flatly.
SirJohnnods.
‘IwassurprisedwhenIheardtheyweresendingyou,ofallpeople.ButIcanseetheadvantages.YouknewMaud,afterall,andweknowyou.’
‘Isupposethatwastheboss’sthinking.’
‘DidDriscollpickyouupatthestation?YoursuperiortellsmeheisaVolunteerofficer.’
‘Hedid.’
‘Hisinvolvementcameasasurprise,’SirJohnsays.‘Iwouldhavethought,havingservedinFrance,hewouldhavehadhisfilloffighting.’ThenheseemstorememberthatHarkin,too,isnowaVolunteerofficer.‘Ofcourse,bothofyouaretobecommendedforyourcommitmenttothecause.’Hissmileseemsstrained.‘DidyoucomeacrosshiminFrance?’
Harkinthinksbacktothetrench.
‘Wewereblownupbythesameshell.’
SirJohn’seyesseemstosharpenandHarkinwonderswhatthereactionsignifies.PerhapshethinksHarkinismakingajokeinpoortaste.Harkindecidesit’sbesttochangethesubject.
‘Hismotherworksforthefamily?’
‘She’sthehousekeeper.’
‘Andhisfather?’
‘HediedshortlyafterDriscollwasborn,’SirJohnsays.Andthen,inanswertoHarkin’sunansweredquestion,‘Herparentsworkedforthefamilyandshegrewupinthehouse.ShetookajobinDublinandmarriedthere,butwhenherhusbanddied,shecameback.Shehasn’tleftsince.Driscollgrewuphere.He’salwaysbeenveryclosetoBilly,theywerebosomfriendswhentheywerechildren.Infact,Ithinkthat’swhyDriscollwenttoFrance—becauseBillywasgoing.’
Harkinremembersthembeingfriendlierthanwasusualbetweenanofficerandsomeonefromtheranks.ItmakesDriscoll’sassertionthathewouldn’tplaceanyofthePrendevillesinharm’swaymoreconvincing.Orperhapsnot.
‘Whatisithedoesforthefamily?’
‘Anythingthatneedsdoing.Betweenhismotherandhimself,theykeeptheplacejustaboutstanding.Mybrothertakeslittleinterestthesedays…sinceArthur’sdeath.You’llhaveseenyourselfwhatastatetheplaceisin,’hesays,afterapause.‘Theydowhattheycan.’
Harkincan’thelpbutlookaroundhimatthesplendidroominwhichtheyaresitting.SirJohn’sAmericanwifediedinahuntingaccidentnotlongafterthemarriage,leavinghimrichandwithplentyoftimetomeddleinHomeRuleand,now,rebellion.SirJohnmustseesomeofthisinHarkin’sexpression,becauseheshrugs,unembarrassed.
‘Ihelpwhenmybrotherpermitsme,butaplacelikeKilcolganneedsanincomeandactivemanagement.Ithasneither.’
‘WhataboutBilly?’
‘Billy?Justanothermouthtofeed.Heseemsoblivioustohisresponsibilities.Heseemsoblivioustoeverything.’
Itisn’thisbusiness,butHarkinwonders,ifanyoneowesanyoneanything,ifitisn’tSirJohnPrendeville,theprominentnationalistwho’dthoughtthatHomeRulecouldbeboughtbyyoungIrishmensheddingbloodinthedefenceoftheempireandwho’dsentBillyandhisbrotherofftowar,whoisindebt.ThesameSirJohnPrendevillewhoisabouttoprovidetwohundredThompsongunstotheIRA,sothatyoungmencankillandbekilledalloveragaininfurtheranceofacausethatSirJohnbelievestobejust.
‘Whatisityouwantmetodo?’Harkinasks.‘AboutMaud.’
Thereisnothoughtbehindthewords,buthecanhearatraceofirritationinhisvoiceandremindshimselfthatheisheretoensureSirJohn’sgunsaredelivered,andhowimportantthatis.
SirJohn’sexpressionhardens.
‘MaudwasmurderedbytheIRA.Iwouldlikesomeonetobeheldresponsibleforthat.’
‘AmIrightinthinkingyouexpectsomesortofpunishmenttobeadministered?’
‘Isn’tthatwhyyou’rehere?Ishouldbeabletoaskforthat,surely.’
‘Andifitwasn’taVolunteer?’
SirJohngivesasnortofdisbelief.
‘Thenyouhadbetterfindoutwhoitwas.AlthoughtheideathatsomeonejusthappenedtowanderalongtothesiteoftheambushandkillMaudcoincidentallyseemsmostunlikely.’
‘Thecolumnhadnomotivetokillhereither,andsaytheywerenotresponsible.’
HarkinwatchesSirJohn’sjawtwitchashestrugglestocontainhisanger.
‘Ifnothingelse,theywereresponsibleforarecklessattackthatleftherdead.’
Harkinnodsslowly.
‘I’llinvestigate.YouhavetounderstandtherearequestionsthathavetobeaskedbeforeItakeaman’slife.Thatis,justsowe’reclear,whatyou’reaskingmetodo,isn’tit?Aneyeforaneye?’
SirJohnlooksuncomfortableandtheangerseemstoseepoutofhim.
‘Ifitdoescometothat,’Harkincontinues,hisvoicecarefullyneutral,‘willyouwanttobepresent?Toseethejobdone?’
SirJohnfrowns.
‘Youare,Ipresume,makingsomesortofapoint.’
‘Ionlywantyoutobeawareofwhatyou’reaskingmetodo.Inanyevent,atpresentI’monlycertainthatTeevan’smotorcarwasambushedandthatMauddiedinit.I’mnotcertainthetwoeventsareconnected,strangeasthatmayseem.Ifthecolumnkilledher,theywouldn’thavetomakeupastory.Shewas,I’msorrytosay,inthewrongplaceatthewrongtime.’
SirJohnbeginstospeakbutHarkinholdsuphishandtostophim.Theconversationisdrainingwhatlittleenergyhehasleft,buthemakestheefforttokeepcalm.HarkinhastosuppresstheurgetoremindSirJohnthathisThompsonmachineguns,withtheirrapidfireand.45calibreslugs,willlikelyincreasethenumberofunintendedciviliancasualtiesstillfurther.Hesmilesandattemptstoputanapologyintoit.
‘IwillfindoutwhokilledMaudandI’lldealwithit.Thelifeassurancepolicy,whichIunderstandyou’reawareof,isanadvantage,soIcanaskquestionsopenly.Ihaveafewforyou,asithappens.’
SirJohn,tohissurprise,giveshimagravenod.
‘Ofcourse.’
‘WasMaudseeingsomeone?Romantically?’
SirJohn’seyesseemtobulgeandHarkindecidesitwasprobablyaquestionheshouldhaveworkedupto.SirJohnrestrainshimself,however,andanswerscalmly.
‘I’mnotprivytomyniece’sromanticinclinations.However,no.Iamunawareofanysuchrelationship.’
‘Whowasshefriendlywith,orunfriendlywith?’
SirJohnsighs.
‘Weareaverysmallcommunitydownhere.Therearesometrades-peopleinthetownbutwedonotseethemsocially.DrHegartypassesmuster,andhisdaughter,MrsWilson.Herhusband,Robert,waskilledatCambraiandsherunsthefishinglodgebetweenhereandKilcolgan.Shehassomerespectablelong-standingguestswhowealsoseefromtimetotime.AndthentherearetheEustaces,andsomeofthearmyofficersatthebarracks.Alotofthepeoplewewouldhaveconsideredfriendshavesolduporgoneawayuntilthingscalmdown.’
‘WhataboutTeevanandAbercrombie?Theywereherethatnight.’
SirJohnshrugs.
‘IhavetokeepupanappearanceofloyaltytotheCrown.Andtheyplaybridgereasonablywell.’
‘Howdidshegetonwiththem?’
‘Shedidn’tlikeAbercrombiebutshetoleratedTeevan.TheinspectorwaswellrespectedaroundherebeforetheTroublesandsheknewhimfromthen.Abercrombieisadifferentkettleoffish.’
‘Butshecametoplaycardswiththem?’
SirJohnlooksuncomfortable.
‘ShedidnotknowAbercrombiewouldbepresent.ShecametokeepCartwrightcompanyasmuchasanything.’
‘WouldBillynothavebeenbetter?Cartwrightwashisfriend,wasn’the?’
SirJohnshrugs.
‘Billydoesnotmuchcareformeatpresent.Orcards.’
‘Wasthereanythingunusualaboutthelastfewweeks?Anydisagreementsorpeoplestayingatthehouse?Anythingatall?’
‘Notreally.Acousinofoursonmymother’sside,fromHampshire,cametostayafewtimes,butyouwouldhavemethimatlunch.’
Harkinrememberstheemptyplaceatthetable.
‘Perhapshewasdelayed.Tellmeabouthim.’
‘HugoVane.He’soverherebuyinghorsesforthearmy.Wedon’thavemanygueststhesedays,whatwiththeroadsbeingunsafe,sohe’sbeenverywelcome.’
‘Isheaciviliancontractorormilitary?’
‘HewasamajorintheGlostersduringthewar.I’mnotsurehowheendedupontheprocurementsideofthings,butIbelieveheretainshisrank.’
NowthatHarkinthinksofit,Vane’snameringsabell.Asdoeshisoccupation.He’ssureoneofthespiesVincentBourkeandhiscolleaguesdealtwithrecentlywassupposedtobebuyinghorses.PerhapsitwouldbesensibletopassamessagebacktoheadquarterstoenquireafterthisMajorVane.
‘Tellmeaboutyourcardevening.’
‘Itwasasmallgathering.Cartwright,DrHegartyfromthetown,MoiraWilson,whoasImentionedishisdaughter—sheandMaudwerefriendlyinDublin,theEustaces,InspectorTeevanandMajorAbercrombie,Maudandmyself.SomeofMrsWilson’sladies—herpermanentguests—weremeanttoattendbutdidn’tfeeluptoitintheend.Theyarequiteelderly.’
Harkinlooksattheoldermaninsurprise,makingtheconnection.
‘MrsWilsonisMoiraHegarty?’
‘Shewas.Ofcourse,youwouldhaveknownherinDublinaswell.Shewasatuniversityatthesametimeasyou.’
Harkinshakeshisheadinbemusement.HedoesindeedrememberMoiraHegarty.Heremembersherverywellindeed.
‘IthoughtshewenttoLondon.’
‘Shedid.It’swhereshemetRobertWilson.Theycamebackbeforethewarandbuiltthefishinglodge.’
Harkintakesamomenttocollecthimself,thenbringstheconversationbacktothecardevening.
‘AsIunderstandit,Maudwasmeanttostaythenightwithyou.Whydidshechangeherplans?’
HarkinwatchesasSirJohntakesinadeep,raggedbreath.
‘Idon’tknowexactly.Itseemedtobeaspurofthemomentdecision,quitelateintheevening.Abercrombiehadleftearlier—therewassomebusinessneedingattendingtointhetown,hesaid.HehadintendedtorunCartwrighthomeand,inhisabsence,Teevansaidhewouldtakehiminstead.Mauddecidedtogowiththem.SheseemedoutofsortssoIdidn’ttrytopersuadehertostay.Shecouldbestubborninherways.It’sonlyashortdistance,asyou’llhaveseenonthewayhere.Ishouldhaveinsistedshestayed.Theroadsaren’tsafeatnight.It’swhyeveryoneelsestayedover.’
HarkinseeshisregretandwondersifitisthesourceofSirJohn’sdesireforjustice—thatheblameshimself.
‘Whattimedidtheyleave?’
‘Abercrombieleftjustafterten.Maudstayedtilljustbeforemidnight.TeevandroveherandMrsWilsonhome,aswellasCartwright.Theothersstayedover.’
‘MoiraWilson?’
‘Shewasontheway.You’llhavepassedherestablishmentbesidethebridge.’
Harkinremembersthehouse,withitslonglawnleadingdowntotheroad.HethinksitisjustaswellforMrsWilsonthatherhouseisthissideofKilcolgan,andnotfurtheralong.AsforMaud’sjourney?Afewminutesinacar.Timeenoughtogetfromthisworldtothenext.
‘Noarguments?Nothinguntoward?WhataboutherandAbercrombie?’
‘No.Wedinedandthenplayedcards.However,youarerighttosayshedidn’tlikethemajor.IthinkthefactthatTeevanwasdrivingiswhatmighthavepersuadedhertotaketherisk.IdoubtshewouldeverwillinglyhavegotinthecarwithAbercrombie,nomatterwhatthecircumstances.’
Harkindigeststhis,thinkingitthrough.
‘I’lltalktoMrsWilsonandherfather,ofcourse.I’llalsowanttospeaktotheEustaces.AndMajorAbercrombie.’
AtthementionofhisintentionswithregardtoAbercrombie,SirJohn’sskinseemstovisiblytighten.Heshakeshishead.
‘IwouldadviseyoutostayclearofAbercrombie,Tom.Themanisunpredictable.’
Harkinshrugs.
‘I’marespectableinsuranceclaimsassessor.Idon’tseehowhecanreasonablyobject.Hemayhaveinformationaboutthepoliceinvestigationhewouldliketogiveme.’
SirJohnholdsuphishand.
‘Asforapoliceinvestigation?I’mnotsuretherehasbeenmuchofone.TheyaresatisfiedthatEgan’scolumnareresponsible.Thefactsspeakforthemselves.We’reoldfriends,Tom,youandI,soIbegyoutoproceedwithcautionwhenitcomestoMajorAbercrombie.’
There’sanobvioussinceritytotherequest,soHarkinnodshisagreement,althoughhewondersatSirJohn’sconcern,givenhefeelscomfortableplayingcardswiththeman.Hesuspectsheknowsthereason.Harkin,despitebeinganex-armyofficer,isstillfromaCatholicandmiddle-classfamily.AsfarasAbercrombieisconcerned,Harkinwillbeseenasapotentialenemy.SirJohn,despitehisHomeRulecredentials,ispartoftheProtestantascendancyandthereforetrustworthy.Itisthinkinglikethis,inanoverwhelminglyCatholiccountry,thatwillleadtodefeatforAbercrombieandhisilk,soonerorlater.
‘YouwillpresumablybetalkingtothelocalVolunteers?’SirJohnasks,interruptingHarkin’schainofthought.
‘Ishouldthinkso.’
SirJohnrubsattheseamofhistrouserlegandspeakswithoutmakingeyecontact.
‘Needlesstosay,theymustn’tbetoldabouttheguns,ormyroleintheirprocurement.ParticularlynotDriscoll.’
‘Iwillbediscretionitself,’Harkinsays,thinkingthatanotherreasonSirJohnmightnotwanthisinvolvementknownisifHarkinexactssomekindofpunishmentforMaud’sdeath.Hepauses,rememberingthatthereisamorepressingconcern.‘Speakingoftheshipment,doesanyoneelseknowaboutit?Locally.’
SirJohnlooksathimsharply.
‘Maud’smurderhasnothingtodowiththeshipment,’hesays.‘Nothingwhatsoever.’
Harkinallowsamomenttopassinsilencebeforeheresponds.
‘Exceptthatmypresencehereis,toanextent,becauseoftheguns.’
SirJohnsaysnothingforalongmomentbutHarkinholdshisgaze,keepinghisfaceimpassive.Eventually,SirJohnnods.
‘Thenumberofpeopleinvolvedisverylimited,particularlyinIreland.’
AtHarkin’sprompting,SirJohnliststhemenandwomenwhoareawareoftheshipment.TwoareinAmerica,oneinParis,andahandfulinIreland.SirJohnhasorganisedthingswell,exceptthatoneofthetwowomenwhowasawareoftheshipmentwasMaudPrendeville.
‘Ibegyourpardon.’Harkinissurprisedthathisvoicesoundsasnormalasitdoes.‘Maudwasinvolved?’
‘Yes.’SirJohnsoundsasthoughheisconfirminganobviousfact,onethatHarkinshouldhavebeenawareofalready.‘Sheassistedmeonsomeaspects.’
ThisisnewstoHarkin.HeknowsthattheshipmentrequirednegotiationsandpaymentinParisbutpresumedthatSirJohnhadtakencareofthis.NowheremembersBilly’smentionofMaudtravellingtherewithaschoolfriend.
‘BillysaidshevisitedParis.Wasthatconnectedtotheshipment?’
SirJohnlooksdeeplyuncomfortable.
‘Onceortwice.Iwasnotalwaysabletogowhenamatterhadtobediscussed.’
‘Youdidn’tthinkthiswasworthmentioningearlier?’
SirJohnappearstobelostforwordsforamoment.
‘Yoursuperiorknewofit.Ifhechosenottomentionittoyou,Idon’tseewhyIshouldhave.’
HarkinthinksonthisforamomentandwondersaboutthemysteriousMajorVaneandhisrecentvisits.Thereisstillsomethingaboutthenamethatnagsathim.
‘HowmanytimeshasMajorVanecomedown?’
‘Three.’
Harkinconsidersthis,thinkingaloud.
‘ItisquiteadistancetoherefromDublin,andadangerousjourneyforaBritishofficer,whatwithanactivecolumninthearea,nottomentionattacksontrains.Hemaybefamilybutheisn’tclosefamily,ishe?Doyouthinkhemighthavebeenaftersomethingelse?’
TheairseemstogooutofSirJohn.
‘HeseemedtobeafterMaud,ifanything.’
CHAPTER13
MoiraWilson’sguesthouseisrecentlybuilt,althoughasHarkinapproacheshenoticesthatthepaintisbeginningtopeelfromthewindowframes.Harkinhesitatesforamoment,thenknocksonthedoor.Whenitisopened,itisbyawomaninathicktweedjacket,carryingablood-splatteredknife.Aclearblueeyeexamineshimthroughamonoclewithaquizzicalair.Sheisastallasheis,herblackhairtiedback.Themonoclefollowshisgazedownwardstotheknife.Shefrowns.Itonlyemphasiseshowclearandsmoothherskinis.
‘Afish,’shesays.‘Itneededguttingandthere’sonlymeandMary.Youlookwell.’
‘Asdoyou.’
Shelooksbehindhim,asthoughexpectingsomeoneelse.
‘Isupposethat’sthethingwithfunerals.’
‘Whatis?’
‘Youseepeopleyouhaven’tseenforaverylongtime.’
Hefindshimselfsmiling,despitethecontext.
‘Itmustbenineyears.’
Sheconsidersthis,examininghim.
‘Itfeelslikemore.AreyoustayingatKilcolgan?’
‘Iam.’
‘Justaswell,’shesays,lookinghimupanddownwiththemonocle.‘Iveryseldomtakemaleguestswhoarrivewithnoluggage.Ihavestandards,yousee.’
‘Wherewouldwebewithoutstandards?’
‘Indeed.Iamgladweareagreedonthat,’shesays,liftingtheknifeandstaringatit,asthoughshehadforgottenshewasholdingit.‘Excuseme,Iappeartobeholdingablood-soakedweapon.Ishallreturndirectly.’
Shestepsbackinsidethehallway;thereisaclangofmetalagainstmetalandshereturns,herhandsempty.Shewipesthemonherapron,thenchecksthemforblood.Apparentlysatisfied,sheextendsherhand,achallengeinhergaze.Hetakesit.
‘Iamgladyouarenotbotheredbytheblood,ofwhichthereisbarelyany.Althoughtheremightbeaslightwhiffoffish.’Sheliftsherhandtohernose.‘Actually,notsoslight.’
Harkindoesn’tknowwhattosaytothat,soinsteadhefollowsherintoawidehallway,alloakanddarkgreenwallpaper.Thewall-paperlooksexpensive.Alargestuffedbearstandsjustinsidethedoor,wearingabowlerhatatajauntyangleandwithanumbrellahangingfromanupraisedpaw.Harkinlooksroundforsomewheretohanghisownhatand,intheabsenceofanalternative,placesitonthebear’sfreepaw.
‘Isthattherightplace?’
‘Ishouldthinkso,’shesays,reachingouttotouchthebear’sarm.‘ThisisBertie.Heguardsthehouse.’
Shepatsthebearaffectionately.
‘We’renormallyclosedinJanuary,’shesays,anticipatingthequestion.‘Wehavesomepermanentguests,butthereislittlecallforsightseeingatthistimeofyearanduntilthesituationchanges,notatanytimeofyear.Imissthefishermen.Ihavetocatchthefishmyselfthesedays.Inanyevent,youmayhavetoforgiveacertainamountofinformality.’
‘MrsWilson?’anelderlyvoicecallsoutfromsomewhereupstairs.
SheleanstowardsHarkinandsaysinastagewhisper,‘SomeofmyoldladiesareunderthemistakenimpressiontheyarestilllivinginIndia,withmeembodyingeachandeveryoneoftheirarmyofservants.ItisawondertomethatIndiahasnotalsorebelledifitsinhabitantsareconstantlychivviedalonginthewayIam.You’llhaveacupoftea?Inthedrawingroom.In,say,fiveminutes’time?’
‘Pleasedon’tinconvenienceyourselfonmybehalf.Ionlydroppedintosayhello.’
Shelooksathimgravely,thenopensthedoortowhatappearstobeherdrawingroom.
‘Fiveminutes.Andthenyouwillhavemyundividedattention.’
Shesmilesonelasttimeandthenturnstoshoutupthestairs.
‘I’mcoming,LadyBlaney.Directly.’
Harkinwalkstooneofthedrawingroom’slargewindowsandlooksoutataflatrockashortdistanceoffthebeach,revealedbytherecedingtide.Ashewatches,asealrollsitsbulkupontothesurface.Itlooksasthoughitplanstosleep,anditseemstohimaverygoodidea.Hesitsdowninthenearestchairandcloseshiseyes.
Whenheopensthemagain,itisbecauseofthesoundofateatraybeingunloadedontoalowtable.Hefindshimselflookingfrombehindatayoungwomaninamaid’suniform.Whensheturnssuddenlytofacehim,itiswithascowl.
‘Ithoughtyouwereasleep,’shesays,accusingly.
‘Ionlyhadmyeyesclosed.’
Sheraiseshereyebrowsatthis,andhewondersifshethinkshehasbeenlookingatherinasalaciousmanner.Hefeelshischeeksredden.
‘YoumustbeMary,’hesays,keentobreakthesilence.
Shelooksathimsuspiciouslyandhandshimacup.
‘There’syourtea.MrsWilsonwillbedowninaminute.’
Harkinwatchesherleavetheroom.Shewatcheshiminturn,positioningthetraytocoverherlowerbody.Hefindstheencounter,shortthoughithasbeen,disconcerting.
Helooksaroundhim.Twolongchesterfieldstakeupalargepartoftheroom,whileafolded-upcardtableleansagainstatallbookcase,itsfeltsurfacemarkedinplacesbycarelessash.Therearemagazinesinacanterburyrackbesidethenearerofthesofas,butnoneofthemlookrecent.Someonehasleftsomehalf-finishedknittingononeoftheseveralarmchairs.Itseemscomfortable,ifalittlerun-down.Hecanunderstandwhytheelderlyladiesliketheplace.
HarkinlooksupasthedooropensandfindsMoiragazingathim.
‘IunderstandfromSirJohnyouhavesomequestionsforme.’
‘Didhecall?’
‘Shortlybeforeyouarrived,’shesays.‘HesaidyouwoulddropinonyourwaybacktoKilcolgan.IseeMaryhasbroughtsometea.That’sgood.Onecanneverbeentirelycertainwhatshewilldo.’
‘Sheseemsasensiblegirl.’
ShelooksatHarkininsurprise,beforetakingaseatandliftingthelidoftheteapottolookinside.
‘Doyouthinkso?Ioftenwonder.She’shalfwildbeneaththatdemuresurface.Shemightdoanythingatanymoment.’
Hesmiles.Shehasn’tchangedmuchatall.
‘IthoughtyouwereinLondon.’
‘Iwasforawhile.’
‘Maudnevertoldmeyoucameback.Billynevermentionedyou.Ihadnoidea.’
Shesmiles.
‘Wouldyouhavecometoseeme?’
HarkinthinksaboutthepracticalityofvisitingwithMaudlivinglessthanamileaway.
‘Imighthavewritten.Wehavealwaysbeengoodfriends.’
Sheconsidersthisstatementandhedetectsahintofmischieftohersmile.
‘Iseemtohavealwaysknownwhereyouwere.Iknewabouttheengagement,ofcourse.ThenIknewabouttheendoftheengagement.PerhapsIshouldhavewritten.Butthen,Iwasmarried,andI’mtoldit’snotdonetowritetooldflameswhenyouaremarried.I’mnotsureRobertwouldhaveminded.Hewasverycalm.’
Harkinlooksatherinsurprise.Theyhadbeenclose,partofthesamegroupoffriendsatuniversitybutperhapstherewassomethingmorebetweenthem.Hedecidestochangethesubject.
‘Yourmonocle…’hebegins,beforefindingthatheisstrandedatthebeginningofasentenceitwouldbefoolishtocontinuewith.
‘Mymonocle?’sherepeats.
‘Imeant,’hebeginsagain,‘thatit’sunusual.’Thenheshutshismouthandconcentratesonkeepingitshut.
Sheleanstowardshim.
‘ShallItellyouasecret?’
Hefeelsaslightheatonhischeeksanditbothershimmorethanitshould.
‘Ifyouwouldliketo.’
‘Mylefteyeisindeedalittleweakerthantheother,butthemonocleisnotentirelynecessary.Ijustlikethelookofit.’
‘Isee,’hesays.
Shetapsitwithalongfingernail.
‘Itmakesmefeelalittlelikeapirate.Iknowpiratesweareyepatches,butallthesame…Goonthen,askmeyourquestions.’
Harkintakesadeepbreath,gatheringhisthoughts.
‘I’dlikeyourrecollectionsoftheeveningbeforeMauddied.’
‘Aretheyrelevant?’
Harkinshrugs.
‘Iwon’tknowifit’srelevantornotuntilIhearit,Isuppose.’
‘Fairenough.’
Moiragoesovertheguestlist,whattheyateforsupper,whoplayedwithwhoatcardsandalltheotherlittledetailsofasocialgathering.HeraccounttallieswiththatofSirJohn.
‘Ofcourse,ifIhadknownAbercrombiewastobetherefortheevening,Iwouldn’thavegoneandIdoubtMaudwouldhaveeither.Idon’tknowwhatJohnwasthinking.It’snotonlytheAuxieswhoburnpeopleout,andwherewouldmymemsahibsgoifthisplacewentupinflames?’
Hewantstodisagreewithheronthispoint—insistthattheIRAwouldneverburnoutahousepopulatedentirelybywomen—butheknowshecannot.Theretaliationsonbothsidesaresteadilyescalating.
‘DidyouknowInspectorTeevanwouldbethere?’
‘JimTeevanisadifferentstory.Hewasfromtheothersideofthemountain.Heknowseveryonearoundhere.Heknewhewouldhavetolivehereafterallthisisdone.Abercrombieseesusasahostilepopulationthathastobesubjugated.’
‘Abercrombieleftearly,though?’
‘Therewasatelephonecallfromthebarracks.Itwasjustaswell.Maudwasn’toftenangry,butshewasangrythatnight.AndnotjustwithAbercrombie—withJohnPrendevilleaswell.Althoughshehidthatbetter.’
ThisisnewstoHarkin.Heleansforwards.
‘Howdoyouknowthis?’
MoiraWilsonfrowns.Thethinlinesbarelyruffleherhighforehead,asthoughtheskinclingstighttotheboneunderneath.
‘Iwasoutsideinthecourtyardjustbeforesupper.’Shelooksdownatherhands.‘YouwillrecallthatIliketosmoketheoccasionalcheroot.’
Harkinreachesintohispocketforhiscigarettecase,andholdsitopentowardsher.Shepeersinsideitforamoment,thenreachesouttotakeone.
‘Ifanyonecomes,youwilltakethisfromme.’
‘Iwasplanningtohaveonemyself.’
‘Idon’tseewhythatwouldchangethings.Iquiteoftensmoketwocherootsatthesametime.’
MoiraWilsonexhalesaplumeofsmokewhenhelightsthecigaretteforher.
‘Anunfortunatehabit,butweallhaveourweaknesses.Anyway,IwasstandingthereagainstthewalltostayoutoftherainandnotbeseenwhenIheardthemarguinginJohn’sstudy.MaudandSirJohn.’
‘Whatabout?’
‘Shewastellinghimshefelthehadbetrayedher,thathehadputherinanimpossiblesituation.IpresumedshewastalkingaboutAbercrombiebeingthere.Mauddidn’tapproveofAbercrombie’sactivities,ofcourse.’
It’sHarkin’sturntofrown.
‘That’sallyouheard?Nothingelse?’
MoiraWilsonlooksslightlyembarrassed
‘Imovedaway.Itwasaprivateconversation.’
HarkintriestomakesenseofMaudandSirJohnarguing,particularlyinthelightofSirJohnsayinghe’dnoideawhatMaudhadbeenupsetabout.
‘Weretheybothangry,oronlyMaud?’
‘Yes,bothofthem,althoughperhapsMaudwastheangrier.Ihadthesenseneitherofthemwantedtobeoverheard.YouknowthewaypeoplelikethePrendevillesargueinpublic,almostoutofthecornersoftheirmouths.Itwasabitlikethat.’
‘Didshesayanythingaboutittoyouafterwards?’
‘Nothing.Butwewereneverreallyalone.Wesatdowntosupperandthenweplayedcards,andthenTeevandroveushome.Iwasdroppedofffirst,andyouknowwhathappenedtotheothers.Shewasnotingoodform,however.Shewasbarelycivilandshewasn’ttheonlyone,either.’
‘Whoelse?’
Shesighs.
‘Ithinkit’sfairtosayJimTeevandespisedAbercrombie,andthemajorwasn’ttoofondofhimeither.Theyweresnipingateachotherallevening.They’dhadsomesortofmeetinganditdidnotgowell.’
‘TeevanandAbercrombie?’
‘Isn’tthatwhatIsaid?’
‘Whatsortofmeeting?’
‘Idon’tknow.TheycameoutofitwhenIshowedup,thepairofthemwithfaceslikethunder.’
‘Doyouknowwhathadthematodds?’
‘I’dbeguessing,butIknowTeevanthoughtAbercrombie’smethodswereshort-sighted.’
Harkinnodsatthis.MostoftheAuxiliarieshavenotiestoIrelandandseethewarinpurelymilitaryterms,withnothoughttothelong-termeffectsoftheiractions.Hisnextquestionismoredelicate,buthecanthinkofnodelicatewaytoapproachit.
‘WasMaudseeingsomeone,doyouthink?’
Sheconsidersthesuggestion,oneofherlongfingerstappinggentlyonherteacupasshedoesso.
‘Shemighthavebeen,buttherearen’tmanypossibilities.AlloftheyoungmenofherkindwereeitherkilledoffinthewaroraresensiblystayingelsewhereforthedurationoftheTroubles.’
‘Herkind?’
‘Oh,youknow.Thelandedgentryandthelike.Shemighthavebeenarebelbutshewasn’tgoingtorunoffwithafarmer’sson.’
‘Sheranoffwithme,’Harkinsays.
‘Shedidn’texactlyrunoffwithyouandyouwerenotanyoldfarmer’sson.Doyouneedmetolistallyourmanyaccomplishments,youracademicbrillianceandyourcomeliness?Ihavethematmyfingertips.Mindyou,I’mcertainLordKilcolganwasdelightedshejiltedyou.’
‘Idon’tdoubtit,’hesays,smiling.Thenherunsoverherwordsagaininhismindandfindshischeeksareonceagainwarm.‘Shewasfriendlywithyouaswell,though.Shewasn’tasnob.’
Sheinclinesherheadtolookathimwithaspeculativeexpression.
‘BecauseI’monlythelocaldoctor’sdaughter?’
‘That’snotwhatImeant.’
Shesmiles.
‘ImarriedRobert,whichhelped—andyou’reright,shewasn’tlikesomeoftheothers.NorwasRobert.Ithelpedthathewasanatheist,ofcourse.Atheistsareallowedtomarrythelikesofus,yousee,whichwasagreatrelieftobothofus.Otherwisewemighthavehadtoliveinsin.Notthateveryonewaspleasedforus.Robert’smotherdidn’tspeaktohimforayearandahalf,andmyownmotheruppedanddied.’Shepausesforamoment.‘Shewasquiteillalready,tobefair,butIcouldn’thavemarriedsomeonemoreunsuitable.Anatheist?Ideallyshe’dhavehadmemarryapriest,buttherearepracticalproblemswiththat.’
Herememberstheportraitofasoldierinacaptain’suniforminthehall.Hedecideshemustlookatthemanmoreclosely.
‘Itmusthavebeendifficult,’hebegins.
‘Beforeorafterhedied?’
‘Both,althoughImeantlosinghim.’
Herhalf-smileisasbrittleasdriedpaper.
‘Thisusedtobeagoodlittlebusiness,youknow,’shesays,changingthesubject.‘Nicepeoplecamehere.Ilikedthem.Nowit’sjustmeandtheladies.’
MoiraWilsonseemslostinthought,andHarkindoesn’twanttointerrupther.Afteramomentortwo,hereyesfixonhisandhe’sawarehehasherfullattentiononceagain.
‘Therewasacousinofherscamefromtimetotime,butapartfromthat,thepoolwasveryshallow.’
‘HugoVane?’Harkinasks,stillcuriousaboutthispersistentcousin.
‘Theveryman.’
‘Doyouthinktherecouldhavebeenanythingbetweenthem?’
Shepondersforamoment.
‘It’sapossibility.’
CHAPTER14
HarkintakeshistimewalkingbacktoKilcolgan,rememberingthatDriscollhastoldhimthatthehousewillbefulloffriendsandfamilyforthefuneralthefollowingafternoon.TheskyisalreadydarkeningoverthehillstotheeastwhenheturnsinandpassesthespotwhereMaudandtheothersdied.Hestopsandlistenstothewindinthetreesandthesoundofhisownbreathing.Thereisanatmosphereabouttheplace,anechooftheeventitselforsomethingclosetoit.HewondersifitisonlyhisimaginationthathefeelsMaud’spresenceclosebyandthethoughtremindshimoftheincidentbesidetheHa’pennyBridge.IfitreallydidhappenatthetimeofMaud’sdeath,itposesquestionsheisnotsurehewantstoaskor,indeed,tohaveanswered.
Harkinlooksalongthedrivetowardsthehouse,itslowerwindowsglowinginthegloom,andthinksheseesmovement.Hewatchesandwaitsand,afteralittlewhile,afigurecanbeseenapproaching.Aman,astallasheis,walkingslowlyasthoughreluctanttoreachhisdestination.
‘DoyoumindifIjoinyou?’hesays,whenhecomescloser.
ThevoicehasthepoliteindifferencethatsuggestsanEnglishmanofthebettersort.Agood-lookingfellowwithastraightnoseandamilitarymoustache.Harkindoesn’tanswer,onlynodshisconsent,andtheystandforawhile,lookingattheslickofoilandthechippedgranite.
‘Shedidn’tdeservethis,’themansays.‘Noneofthemdid.’
HarkinconsidersTeevanandthelittlethatheknowsabouthimandcan’tfinditinhishearttodisagree.Therewillalwaysbegoodmenonbothsidesofawar.Hesighsandknowsthemanwilltakeitashisagreement.
‘YoumustbeHarkin,’themansays,turningtolookathim.
‘AndyoumustbeVane,’Harkinsays.
‘Shallwewalkbacktothehouse?’
Itisdarkunderneaththeoverhangingtrees,andthesoundoftheirfootstepsseemsamplifiedintheenclosedspace.
‘Youweredelayedthismorning?’Harkinasks,whenitseemsasthoughthesilencebetweenthemisbecomingawkward.
‘Yes,IneededtoseeamaninDublinquiteurgently.Otherwisewemighthaveendeduptravellingdowntogether.’
ThereisalittlemorelightwhentheyleavetheshadeofthetreesandHarkinglancesacrossatVanequickly,wonderingifthereissomesignificancetohismentioningthismeeting.Ashedoesso,Vaneleanstowardshim,asthoughcheckingsomethinghimself.
‘Youseemfamiliar,ifyoudon’tmindmysaying,’hesays.
Harkinkeepshisfaceimpassive,reachinginsidehispocketforhiscigarettes
‘DoI?’HemakesapretenceofexaminingVaneinhisturn.‘Idon’tthinkwe’vemetbutit’scertainlypossible.’
‘YouwerewiththeRoyalDublinFusiliers,weren’tyou?Firstbattalion?’
‘Forawhile,’Harkinsays,alarmclenchingathisstomach.‘You?’
‘Glosters.Perhapswemetoverthere?Wewerealongsideyourfirstbattaliononceortwice.Passchendaele,certainly.Wereyouaroundforthat?’
There’sanintonationtothequestionthatremindshimofwhentheGermanswouldsendoverasingleshellforrangeanddistance.Thisfellow,Harkincouldswear,knowshewasinPasschendaele.Heremindshimselfthatit’slikelyhehastheinformationfromBilly,butHarkindecidestoproceedcautiouslyallthesame.
‘Idon’tremembermuchfromPasschendaele.Iwasknockedaboutabit.Concussion.’
‘I’msorrytohearthat.IwishIrememberednothingaboutPasschendaele.Still,thatwhichdoesnotkillyouandallthat.’
‘Ifyousayso,’Harkinreplies,andthen,hopingtochangethedirectionoftheconversation,openshiscigarettecase,takesoneforhimselfandoffersthecasetoVane.
‘Idon’tmindifIdo,’Vanesays.
‘WhatbringsyoutoIreland?’
TheyareclosetothehousenowandVanehaltsand,afterabriefsearch,findsalighterinapocket.Theflame,overwhichtheybothlean,revealsanintentnessinthemajor’sexpressionwhichincreasesHarkin’sdiscomfort.
‘Horses,’Vanesayswithasmile.‘Forthearmy.’
‘IthoughttheGlosterswereaninfantryregiment.’
Vane’ssmilebroadens,asifcongratulatingHarkin.
‘Likeyou,Ihaveotherstringstomybow.’
‘Likeme?’
‘Insurance,isn’tit?Amongstotherthingsaswell,I’msure.’
Harkinconcentratesonhiscigarette,doinghisbesttokeephisconcernundercontrol.
‘Yes.’
‘Wellthen,ifyou’reworkingininsurance,whyshouldn’tIbebuyinghorses?’
‘Noreasonatall.Although,I’veleftthearmy.’
‘Yes,indeedyouhave.Wemustn’tforgetthat.Anyway,thesedaysthearmyisalwayssecondingchapshereandthere.’Vaneexhalesacloudofsmoke.‘LordKilcolgantellsmeyoudoubttheIRAisresponsibleforMaud’sdeath.Thatyou’redownhereinvestigatingonbehalfofyouremployers.DidSirJohnreallyhavealifeassurancepolicyonMaud?Itseemsratherodd.’
‘I’mnotreallysupposedtodiscussourclients’insurancearrangementswithunconnectedpersons.’
Vanechuckles,andthesoundofitcausesacoldsweattopricklethenapeofHarkin’sneck.
‘Quiteso.AreyoupermittedtodiscussyourreasoningfordoubtingtheIRAkilledMaud?’
‘Idon’tseewhynot.’
HarkinchooseshiswordscarefullywhenheexplainsaboutthesingleshotandtheIRA’sdisavowaloftheact.TheglowingtipofVane’scigaretterevealsthemajor’sconcentrationonhiswords
‘Isupposeit’saslimpossibility,’Vanesays,whenhefinishes,‘butperhapsalittlefar-fetched?’
‘Itjustseemsanoddinconsistency.’
‘Theirdenyingit?’
‘Yes.Whybother?Shewas,afterall,travellingwithanRICdistrictinspector.’
Themajorconsidersthis.
‘Willyoubeaskingthem?’
‘Me?AsktheIRA?’Harkinsays,attemptingtosoundsceptical.
Vanecircleshiscigarette.Indicatingtheirsurroundings.
‘Idon’tknowIrelandverywell,Harkin,butIshouldthinktheymightwanttotellyoutheirversionofthestory,iftheydidinfactleaveheralive.They’reunlikelytotalktotheauthoritiesbuttheymighttalktoyou.Don’tyouthink?’
‘Isupposetheymight,’Harkinsays,non-committally.
‘That’swhatIwoulddo,’Vanesays,thenadds,examiningHarkin,‘Isuspectyouarewellaheadofmethere,though.Acleverfellowlikeyou.’
ThereisashortsilencewhichVanebreaksbylookingathiswristwatchwiththesurpriseofamanwhohasforgottenheownedone.Hedropshishalf-smokedcigarettetothegroundandstampsitoutwithhisshoe.
‘Isthatthetime?Weshoulddressfordinner.’
‘I’lljustfinishthisandI’llbein,’Harkinsays.
Vanesmilesandmakeshiswayintothehouse,leavingHarkinwithhiscigarette.
Hestandsthere,smoking,andthinkingbackovertheconversation.Itcouldbehisimagination,butitfeltasthoughVanewastoyingwithhim.IfVaneisinvolvedinintelligence,andHarkinhasastrongsuspicionthathemightbe,thenDublinshouldbeabletoidentifyhim.Inthemeantime,thereareplentyofrocksinthispartofthecountry.Iftheworstcomestotheworst,hewillfindarockandhidehimselfunderit.ThedoortothehouseopensandBillycomesout.
‘Vanesaidyouwereouthere.DidyoubringeveningwearfromDublin?’
Harkingiveshimadazedlook.
‘Nottoworry,’Billysays,comingcloserandtakinghiselbow.‘I’llfixyouup.You’reaboutArthur’ssize.’
CHAPTER15
Anhourlater,Harkinfindshimselfstandinginthelonghallthatformsthespineofthehouse,aglassofmadeirainhishand,wearingadeadman’sclothesandbeinginterrogatedbyanelderlymanofimpressiveheightandevenmoreimpressivewhiskers.GeneralSomervilleisholdingatumblerfullofwhiskeyand,tojudgefromhisredfaceandslightsway,it’sneitherhisfirstoftheevening,norabeveragehe’sunfamiliarwith.
‘Harkin,yousay?’Thegenerallooksathimsuspiciously.‘No,don’tknowthename.Howdoweknowyou?Whoareyourpeople?’
Harkinlooksaroundhimatthefadedeleganceofthemainlyelderlygatheringandwonders,notforthefirsttime,whatheisdoinghere.HecanseeVaneontheothersideoftheroom,andnoticesthatthemajorlooksoverfromtimetotime,asthoughcheckingincaseHarkinmightrunoff.
‘IwenttoTrinitywithBillyandthenIservedwithhimduringthewar.’Thegenerallooksdubious,andHarkinfindsheresentstheman’squestioninghimasthoughheweresomewaywardtrooperupinfrontofhimonacharge.Heallowssomeoftheresentmenttoseepintohisreply.‘Myfatherwasasolicitor.Mymotherisawidow.Mybrotheroneofthegloriousfallen.’
Thegeneral’seyeswiden,thenhisdownturnedlipsbreakintoasmile.
‘Ihaveyou.Maud’schap.’Heturnstocallacrosstheroominaloudgratingvoicetoanequallytallmatronwithapince-nezandafeatherboa.‘Clem?He’sMaud’sfellow.Theoneshethrewover.Hisfatherisasolicitor.’
ThereisamomentarylullintheconversationandtwentyorsopairsofeyesturntofaceHarkin.OutofthecornerofhiseyehecanseeBillybreakoffhisconversationandthenheisbesideHarkinandtakinghiselbow.
‘General,mayItakeCaptainHarkinawayfromyou?’
‘Captain,isit?’thegeneralsays,approvingly.‘Ofcourse,ofcourse.’
Thegeneralmakeshiswayacrosstheroomtopassonthisfinalnuggetofinformation.
‘Youlookalittleshook,’Billysaysinaquietervoice,eventhoughasheenofsweatismakinghisownforeheadshineinthecandlelight.
‘Justtired,that’sall.’TheeveningcoatHarkiniswearingsmellsofmothballsand,astheroomwarmsup,itspreviousowner.
‘You’vemadequitetheimpressiononHugoVane.’
‘HaveI?’Harkinsays,hisstomachtwisting.
‘He’sbeensingingyourpraisestoFather.Itoldhimhemusthavethewrongfellow.’
‘He’saninterestingman.Haveyoumentionedmetohimbefore?Justasamatterofinterest.’
‘No,notatall.Whydoyouask?’
‘Noparticularreason.HesaidhewasinthetrenchesalongsideoursatLangemarck.Iwaswonderingifperhapsyou’dbeentalkingoveroldtimes.’
HarkincanseeashadowpassbehindBilly’seyesforamoment,beforeheshakeshishead,asiftoridhimselfofthememoryofPasschendaeleaswellasthequestion.
‘God,no.Ineverevenwanttothinkaboutthatplace,letalonetalkaboutit.’
‘NoteventoMaud?’
‘Maud?Maudhadherownproblems.Iwouldn’thaveburdenedherwithmineontop.’
Billy’sanswerdoesraisethequestionofwhoorwhatisVane’ssource.It’saquestionthatgivesHarkinpauseforthought.
‘Wheredidalltheservantscomefrom?’heasks,noddingatthestaffwhomovethroughthecrowdwithacalmefficiencywellbeyondtheelderlyMurphy,althoughunderthewatchfuleyeofMrsDriscoll,whoobservesthemfromthesecondstepofthestaircase,givingdirectionwhenneeded.
‘UncleJohn.Thewineaswell.HesayshewantstoseeMaudoffinstyle.Drinkup.He’llnodoubttakebackanybottlethatisn’temptytomorrow.’
Theremustbeahundredcandlesintheroom,givingoffascentofbeeswaxthatmixeswiththesmellofthelogsinthefireplacetoalmostoverpowerthedamp,decayandwetdogthatheremembersfromearlier.Thecandles’yellowglowdoesnotquitereachuptothegallerylandingontowhichthedoorstothebedroomsopen.HeseesafacelookingdownonthemforamomentandthinksitmightbeBridget,themaid,butsheleansbackwhensheseeshim,disappearingintothedarkness.
Thegueststhemselvesareingoodspirits,despitetheoccasion,andthecandlelightisforgiving.Upcloseitispossibletoseethattheirdressisoftenfromtenortwentyyearsearlier—alittlewornandinneedofalteration,thewhitewaistcoatsnolongeraspristineastheymightoncehavebeen.Itisalsocurioushowoldtheguestsare,withonlyahandfulofyoungerwomenandnoyoungmenatallexceptforVane,Billyandhimself.HecommentsonittoBilly,rememberingMoiraWilson’sremarkfromearlier.
‘Mostmenmyagehavegoneelsewhere.There’snothinghereforusnow,inthecountryatleast,andit’snotsafeeither.IhopebeingMaud’sbrotherissomeprotection,butit’shardtobecertain.ThegeneralwasheldupforhisgunsbyVolunteersjustbeforeChristmas.Everyoneknowsafamilywhosehousehasbeenburnedtothegroundorsomeonewhohasbeentoldtoleavethecountryonpainofdeathormurderedasapoliceinformer.We’vebeenlucky.’
Harkinthinksaboutthesmoulderingcottagehepassedthatmorning,andthetorturedVolunteerleftdeadatthecrossroads.
‘Itwillbeoversoon,’hesays,butheknowsthatthingswillnevergobacktothewaytheywere.
CHAPTER16
Itmightbetiredness,orSirJohn’sgenerositywithhiswine,butHarkin’sheadisnotquitewithhimwhenheslipsoutofthedrawingroom.Itisquietinthelonghallandthecandlesarenolongerlit.Heisjustwonderinghowheisgoingtomakehiswayuptohisroomwhenthedooropensbehindhim.HeturnstofindLordKilcolganholdingabrasschamber-stick,itscandlealreadylit.
‘You’llneedthis.’
Harkinrememberspassingatableofthemashelefttheroom,butHarkinhavingelectricityinhissmallsuburbanhome,theirpurposehadn’toccurredtohiminhisbefuddledstate.
‘Thankyouforcomingdown.’Kilcolgan’svoiceisevengrufferthanusual;thecandle’sflamelightshimfrombelowsothatthecontoursofhisfacearedeeplyshadowed.‘Maudwouldhavebeenpleased.’
ForamomentHarkinthinksKilcolganisgoingtoaddtothis,butinsteadtheolderman,flustered,thruststhechamber-stickathimandretreatssoquicklyintothedrawingroomthatthereisnotimetosayanythinginreply.Harkinlooksatthedoorandconsidersfollowinghimbackin,butthendecidesitistoolate—andwhat,afterall,wouldhesay?Instead,heturnsandmakeshiswayacrossthemarblefloortowardsthestaircaseandhopeshecanrememberwherehisroomis.
Asthenoiseoftheothersrecedes,thesoundsthatHarkinmakes—hisfootsteps,therustleofhisclothesashemoves,evenhisbreathing—becomemorepronounced.Thehousehasathicksilencewhichseemstomagnifythem.Theshadowsstretchoutaroundhim,acrossthechequeredtilefloor,illuminatingtheanimalsthatlinethewalls,theireyesseemingtofollowhimashemoves.
Hehasfeltlikeastrangermostoftheevening,consciousofthehundredtiesthatbindtheotherswhileexcludinghim.AtleasthemanagedtospeaktotheEustaces,buttheycouldtellhimnothingaboutthecardevening—orMaud—thathedidn’tknowalready.Nowhefindsthatthelongdayhascaughtupwithhim,andlefthimexhausted.
WhenHarkinbeginstoclimbthestaircase,eachstepcreaksinadifferentkeyandheisconsciousofamurmurofwindcomingthroughthewindowalongsidewhichhepasses.Itsoundslikeawarningwhisper.Heclingstothethickbanister,hisdeadman’sclotheslikeaweightonhisshoulders.Hestopsonthelanding,lookingbackdownalongthehallwaydespitehisbetterjudgement,andsees,atthefarend,theamberglowofthefireplacegrowbrightforaninstantasagustofwindcomesdownthechimney.Ifitisgivingoutanywarmth,itdoesnotreachthisfar;theairischilluponhisskin.
Whenheeventuallyreacheshisbedroomatthebackofthehouse,heclosesthedoorbehindhimandleansagainstit,breathingheavily.Theroomissmallerthanheremembers,almostclaustrophobic,asthoughthewallsareclosinginonhim.Ithasbeenusedasaplacetostoreoldluggagewhennotputtingupthelikesofhim.Astackofcasesandtrunksstandsalongonewall,withfadedhotellabelsandmilitarydestinationsstillstuckorchalkedontheircrackedleatherexteriors.Butthereisafireinthegratethatisstilllit,justabout,eventhoughthecandleflickerswhenthewind,withaplaintivewhistle,slipsthroughagapinthewindowframe.Hisbreathinggraduallyslowsandhedoeshisbesttoclearhishead.Thereisakeyinthedoorandheturnsit,lockinghimselfin,thoughhehasnothingtobeafraidof.Heisjusttired.Thereisnothingmoretoanyofthisthatagoodnight’ssleepwillnotfix.
Harkinpullsbackthecurtainsandfindsthegapbetweenthesashwindowanditsframeandfindsasockinhissuitcasetoplugitwith.Thereisastillnessnowintheroom,despitetheoccasionallaughterthatechoesupfrombelow.Outside,thewindispullingatthetreesand,inthedistance,wavesrollontotheshore.
Heleanshisforeheadagainsttheglass,closinghiseyes.Howlonghestaysinthisposition,hehasnoidea,butthecreakofafloorboardsomewhereremindshimthatheisinahousefullofstrangers.Heclosesthecurtainsandbeginstoundressinthelightofthesinglegutteringcandleandthefeeblefire,andheremembersthestoriesMaudwouldtellaboutthehouseanditspast.ThenherememberstheghostthatDriscollsaysBillysawbeforeMaud’sdeath.HismindwandersbacktothelasttimehestayedinKilcolgan,beforethewar,buthecannotthinkaboutthatvisitorMaudnow.Heisnotstrongenough.InsteadhetakesafewminutestowriteabriefletteraboutVanewhichhehopesDriscollwillbeabletoforwardtoDublin,thenliesdown,blowsoutthecandleandpullstheblanketsuparoundhischin.
Hedoesnotfallasleepimmediately,insteadwatchingtheswirlingshapesthefirethrowsupontotheceiling.Hedoesnotlethiseyesclose.Heisnotreadytobravesleepingyet.
Amotorcararrivesoutside,thelatecomerscomplainingloudlyaboutVolunteersmakingevenfuneralsimpossible.Helistensasthelastoftheguestsmaketheirwayupstairstobedandhearssomeonelaughnearby,thenthereisonlythemoanofthewind,theslowcreakingofthehouse’stimbers,likeashipatanchor,andanoccasionallowmetallicclangfromsomewhereinthepipes.
Ifhesleeps,hefearshewilldreamofthewar.Soheliesthereinhisnarrowbed,watchingthelastglowontheceiling.Eventually,however,thesoundsofthehouse,theseaandthewindpushingagainstthewindowcombineintoastrangemusicinwhichheloseshimself.
CHAPTER17
Anight-timeroadstretchesaheadofHarkinlikealong,twistinghangman’srope.Heisinthepassengerseatofacarwhichisbeingdrivenatbreakneckspeed.Thecar’sheadlampsarelikesearchlightsthatflickbackandforthacrossthelow,roughcountry,turningthestonewallsthatlinetheroadwhite.Thecarisgoingtoofast,buthecan’thearanyengine,onlytheswishofitstyresasitnavigatesthebendsandturns.Somehowheknowsthatthejourneyendswithadeathandhefindshimselfpushingbackintotheleatherseat,hishandsrisingupoftheirownaccordtocoverhisface.Itiscoldinthecarandhefeelsitcreepingthroughhisveins,turningthemtoice.
Aheadheseesalowfog,baretreesreachingupfromitlikebonyfingers.Thentheyareinsideitbutthecardoesnotslowdown,thedriversomehowknowingwhentoturnandwhentoslow.Thenthecarpassesthroughstonegatesandtheyaretravellingalonganavenueofcloselyoverhangingtrees.Theyhavenoleaves,onlybarethinbranches.Hereachesuptotouchthemastheypassbuttheyareoutofreach,andthenthetreesarebehindthemandthehouseisupahead,blackagainstthedarknightsky.
Thecarcomestoahaltandthedrivergetsoutaslightsbegintoappearatthewindows.Atfirsthethinksthelightsarecandles,butthenthewindowsexplodeoutwards,theglassglitteringlikeweldingsparksasitfallstotheground,whilegreattonguesofflamereachuptowardsthesky.Hecanhearthefireroar.Itconsumesthebuilding.Hecansmelltheburningflesh.Hecanhearthescreaming.
Andnowherecognisesthehouse.
CHAPTER18
Harkinisawake,thecottonofthepillowcasedampagainsthischeek.Hegathershimself.
ThehousewasKilcolgan,ofcourse,andherecognisestheroadasbeingtheonethatrunstoitfromthetown.Hegoesbackoverthedream’ssequenceagainandagain,andeachtimethefeelingofdreadinthedrivingcaralmostoverwhelmshim.Hedoesn’tliketothinkaboutthetimebefore,afterPasschendaele,whendreamsandrealityintertwined,
Harkinreachesforthebrasslighterheleftbesidethestubofthecandle,runninghisthumbbackacrosstheflintwheel.Anorangeflamespillsout,alongwiththereekofpetrol.Theflame,likehishand,isunsteady,buthemanagestolightthecandle.Hecheckshiswatch—afewminutespastfive.Hemusthaveslept,whichissomething.Thesky,whenhepullsthecurtainback,isblack,andallthatcanbeseenishisownfaintreflectionintheglass.Evenwithnoelectricitybecauseofthecurfew,thereisalwayslightsomewhereinDublin.Here,thereisnothing.Foramomentheisovercomebyasenseofhisowninsignificance,thevoidthatsurroundshimreachingoutintotheuniverse,andheswallowssoharditturnsintoahalfretch.
Heneedstogetoutofthisroom;itstinksofhisownfear.HarkindecideshewilltakethecandleandthenovelhebroughtdownfromDublinandhe’llsitinthediningroomuntilmorning.Bridgetwillbeupsoon,ifnotMrsDriscollorMurphy,andtheywillsurelygivehimacupoftea.Inthemeantime,thebookwillfocushisscatteredmind.Hedressesquickly,thenclosesthebedroomdoorbehindhimwiththesoftestofclicksandfeelsouteachstepashemakeshiswaytothestaircase,strainingtomakenonoise.Hedoesn’twanttowakeanyone.Hejustwantstositforawhileandbringhissensesintoline.Whenhereacheshisdestination,hesitshimselfdowninthesamechairhesatinthenightbefore,andplacesthecandleonthetableinfrontofhim.
Heopensthebookatthepagehehasmarked.TheherohasbeenspendingalotoftimebeingchasedaroundScotlandbyGermanspies,ifheremembersright,whilebeingrescuedbypeoplehehalfknowsatconvenientmoments.Itisallnonsense,ofcourse,butenjoyableallthesame.Apartfromthecircleoflightaroundthecandles,theroomisdark,exceptforthereflectionofitsflameonthecutleryandplatesthatarealreadylaidoutforbreakfast.Somewhereintheroomaclockticks—fat,whirringclicks.Hesighs,andsomething—aslightmovementperhaps—makeshimlookup.Thereistheoutlineofamansittingatthefarendofthetable,whoseemstobeexaminingHarkininturn,beforehelooksaway.
Harkin’sbreathshortensbutthemanseemsrealenough.Hemusthavebeenthereallalong,sittingquietly,watchinghimcomeintotheroomandmakinghimselfcomfortable;oneofthelatearrivalsfromthenightbefore,perhaps,hereforthefuneralanddelayedbydug-uproadsandbarricades.Hecannotquiteseehisfaceinthedarknessbutthereisjustenoughlighttomakeoutthatheiswearinganofficer’stunic,andthefaintgleamofthreepipsonthesleeveindicatesheis,orperhapsoncewas,acaptain.
Harkinopenshismouthtosaysomething,toapologisefordisturbingtheman’ssolitude,butthereissomethingabouttheman’sstillnessthatstopshimspeaking.It’sconceivable,afterall,thatHarkinisn’ttheonlyonewhorevisitsthetrenchesandtheirhorrorsinthesleepinghours.Hedecidestoleavetheothermaninpeace.He’lltalktohimwhenthegirlcomesintolightthefire.
Harkinfeelstheoutlineofthecigarettecaseinhispocket,extractsitandlightsonefromthecandle.Thesmokehangsintheair,gentlyturningoveronitselfinthehalf-light.Hedidn’tsmokebeforehejoinedup.Hedidn’tevensmokewhenMaudgavehimthecigarettecase.HisbrotherMartintoldhimthathewouldwhenhegottoFrance.Martinwasn’talwaysrightaboutthings,buthewasrightaboutthat.Harkinexhalesasmallcloudofsmoke.
Thebookdrawshimin.Helikesthewaythestorytwistsandturns—hownooneisquitewhotheyseemtobe.Heglancesupfromtimetotimeathisfellowinsomniac,butafterthatfirstcoolexamination,themanignoreshim.Hejustsitswithhishandsfoldedonthetableinfrontofhim—alittlelikeapriest.Thereissomethingfamiliarabouttheprofilebuthecannotplaceit.
Theapproachingdawnbeginstocolourtheskyandtheroomtakesonapalegreylight.DawnisthecoldesttimeofthedayandHarkincanfeelitnippingathischeeksandnose.Heturnsanotherpageandhearsthesoundsofmovementinthehouseastheinhabitantsbegintostir.Somewherefootstepswalkalongacorridorandatoiletflushes.Hecanhearwatermovingthoughthepipesandthesoundofanovendooropeningandthenclosingsomewhereinthebackofthehouse.Hesmellsbreadbaking,andlightsanothercigarette.Atlast,hehearsshoesclimbingthestaircasefromthekitchen.HeplacesafingeronthepageheisreadingandturnstosmileatBridgetwhensheenters.
‘MrHarkin,areyouupalready?’shesaysbreezily.‘Goodmorningtoyou.CanIgetyouanything?’
‘I’dloveacupoftea.’
‘Ofcourse.LetmejustgetthefirelitandI’llbringyouupapot.’
Shewalksquicklytothefireplace,kneelingdowntoclearthegrate.
Hewonderswhyshehasnotgreetedtheofficer,butwhenheturnshisgazeinhisdirection,hehasleft.
Itisonlylater,whenHarkinisgoingupstairstohisbedroom,whenheglancesatArthurPrendeville’sportraitinitsblack-ribbonedframe,thatherecognisesthemanfrombreakfast.
CHAPTER19
Laterinthemorning,Harkin,stillunsettledbytheexperienceinthediningroom,takesadvantageofthelullbeforethefuneraltowalkoutalongthecoastroad.TheProtestantchurchwhereMaudistobeburiedsitsontherisethatoverlooksKilcolganStrand,halfwaybetweenMrsWilson’sguesthouseandKilcolgan,shelteredfromtheworstoftheweatherthatcomesinfromtheAtlanticbyasmallclumpoftrees,anditseemsasgoodaplaceasanytoheadfor.Thewalkwillclearhismind,hehopes.Ashewalksalongthedrive,helooksinlandtoseethelowerslopesofthehillsblurredbytherainthatmustbefallingoverthatway,whiletheupperpartsareshroudedincloud.Thewindsendsashiverthroughhisbonesbutthecountryside—amixtureofbog,rockandgorse—isrealandtangibleandit’swhathismindneedsatthismomentandheloseshimselfintherhythmofhisfeet.
‘Apennyforyourthoughts.’
Harkinturns,alarmed,butrelaxesasheseesSeanDriscollemergefrombesideawhitewashedcottage,itswallspressedupagainsttheroadlikeasmallbastion,hisgleamingshoespickingacautiouspaththroughthemuck.Heiswearingablackarmbandinanticipationofthefuneral,andhishairseemstohavebeencutandoiledspeciallyfortheday.Hislimpis,ifanything,morepronouncedwhenhemovesslowly.
He’sagood-lookingman,Harkinthinks.Icanseehowawomanmightfallforhim.
‘I’msorryifIstartledyou,’Driscollsays,fallingintostepalongsidehim.
‘Didyougetaholdofthepriest?’Harkinasks,disconcerted.Hewonderswhathemusthavelookedlike.
Driscollgivesaslightscowl.
‘Hewon’teventalktome.Sayshewantsnothingtodowiththebusiness.Sayshe’dneverhavegotinvolvedifhe’dknownitwouldleadtomurder.’
‘Isthereanotherwaytoidentifythesource?’
‘Ihavesomeladskeepinganeyeonhimtoseewhohetalksto.Withluckthatwillthrowupsomething.’
‘Let’shopeso.’
Harkinwonders,ifthepriestisn’ttalkingtoDriscoll,thathemightnotbetakingthesamecourseofactionwiththesource.Amoredirectapproachmightbenecessary.AmanlikeVincentBourkewouldbehandy,hethinks.
‘Whatareyourthoughtsatthisstage?’Driscollasks.
Harkindoeshisbesttogiveaconfidentsmile.
‘I’veafewthingstofollowupon.WhataboutEgan?’
‘Ihaven’thadaresponseasyet.ButIcantakeyoutoPatrickWalsh,thegatekeeper,thisafternoon.’
Harkinnodshisappreciation.
‘There’sonemorething,’Harkinsays,feelinghiswayintothequestion.‘Therearesomediscrepanciesbetweenyouraccountoftheevening’seventsandBilly’s.’
‘Goon,’Driscollsays,frowning.
‘YousayyouwerejustbehindBillywhenyouwentintothehouse,butBillysaysyouwereacoupleofminutesbehindhim.’
Thefrowndeepens,almosttheatrically,andDriscoll’seyesseemtotakeonsomekindofaffectedstupidity.ExceptthatHarkindoesn’tthink,foronemoment,thatDriscollisstupid.
‘Hemustjustbeabitconfused,whatwithallthathappened.Iwasrightbehindhim.Nomorethanafewyards.’
Whichispossible,Harkinsupposes,andhestillcan’tthinkofanyreasonwhyDriscollwouldwanttokillMaud,evenifhehadtheopportunitytodoso.Atthesametime,hehasthesensethatDriscollisnottellinghimthewholetruth.
‘Billysaidyouweretogetherearlierintheevening,whenhesawwhateverhesaw?’
Driscollmeetshisgazeandagainthereisthesenseofsomethingbeingwithheld.
‘Look,Isawhimoutbythestables.Hewasshaken.’Hehesitates,asthoughconsideringhiswords.‘Hecangetalittlejitteryfromtimetotime.It’snotthatunusual.He’sbetterthanhewas.’
‘Whenwasthis?’
‘Earlier,’Driscollsays,hisirritationclearnow.‘IsawnothingbutIwalkedhimbacktothehouse.Aroundeighto’clock.It’sthetimethefamilynormallyeat.’
‘Maudusedtotellmethehousewashaunted,’Harkinsays,tryingadifferentapproach.
‘Mymothermightagreewithher.Shesaysthehousetakesgettingusedto.Butit’sjustanoldhousewithnotenoughpeopleinit.It’seasytoimaginethingsinthedark.’
LikeseeingArthurPrendevillesittingatthediningroomtable.
‘WhatI’mwonderingis,ifmaybeyouwentdowntothecarbeforeyoucameuptothehouse.I’mnotaccusingyouofanythingbutitwouldexplainthatdiscrepancy.’
Driscollstops,holdinghisground.
‘Ididn’tgoanywhereneartheambushuntilIwentdownwithBillyandtheothers.Youcanaskmymother.Therewasnotime.’
Harkinsmiles,attemptingtoreassuretheotherman.
‘Itriedtotalktoherthismorning,butshewasbusy.’
‘Thefuneralhastobedonejustso,yousee.’
‘Butyou’renothelpingher?’
‘Besttostayoutfromunderherfeet,andSirJohn’speoplearebetteratthissortofthing.’
‘Anyway,Ijustwantedtounderstandwhytherewasthatdifferenceintiming?’
‘Look,’Driscollsays,eventually,‘Ishouldmakemywayback.EvenifI’mnotneeded,Iprobablyshouldn’tbemissed.’
Harkinnods,wonderingifDriscollhasevenheardhisquestion.
‘Anymorenewsfromthetown?’
‘Theyburnedthecreamerylastnightandafewhousesandthey’vebeenbeatingladsinthestreet,butnomorekillings.Teevan’sfuneralistomorrow,though.’
‘Ifyou’dtakemyadvice,you’llbecareful,’Harkinsays,afteramoment’shesitation.
Driscoll’sfacelosessomeofitsdissatisfaction,replacingitwithanalertnessthatHarkinremembersfromthatothertime.
‘Whydoyousaythat?’
Harkinfeelshistirednessdraggingathim,buthe’salsoawarehemusttellDriscollaboutVaneandthedangerhemightrepresent.
‘HaveyoumetMajorVane?Iunderstandhe’sacousinofthePrendevilles.’
Driscollshrugs.
‘He’sstayedatthehouseacoupleoftimes.Hebuyshorsesforthearmy,I’mtold.’
‘Didhepayanyattentiontoyou?’
Driscoll’sconcernismoreapparentnow.
‘Idon’tthinkheevennoticedme.’
Harkintakesamomenttoputhisthoughtsinorder.
‘Ihadaconversationwithhimlastnightandthere’ssomethingabouthimIdon’tmuchlike.’Harkinremindshimselfhecan’tspecifyhisconcerns,giventhenecessityofkeepingDriscollinthedarkabouttheguns.‘I’dbeverywaryofhim.’
‘Why?’
‘Hemightbemorethanhesaysheis.Ifweknowhim,it’sunderanothername.They’remorecautiousthesedays,sinceNovember.ButIthinkwemighthaveenoughtoidentifyhim.HowdoyoucommunicatewithGHQ?’
Driscolllooksconfusedforamoment,thennodsinthedirectionofthetown.
‘OneoftheguardsontheDublintrainactsasmessenger.’
‘Isheworkingtoday?’
‘Heis.He’stakingapackageupforus.’
‘Good.I’dliketoaddthistoit.’
HarkinhandsDriscolltheletterhewrotethenightbefore.
‘IthinkVanemustbehisrealname—ifhe’speopletothePrendevilles,hecan’thavegiventhemafalseone.Whathe’scalledinDublinmaybeadifferentmatter.Still,wehavepeopleinDublinCastlewhoshouldbeabletoidentifyhim.’
‘Whatdidhesaytoyoulastnight?’Driscollsays,andHarkincanimaginehowhismindisworking.
‘Idon’tthinkheknowsI’maVolunteer,butheaskedsomeawkwardquestions.’Harkinweighshiswordsanddecidestheyareprobablyaccurate,althoughhecan’tshakeoffhisuneasiness.Hebreathesoutslowly.‘IfSergeantKellyknowsaboutyourinvolvement,thenyoumightbeknowntothepoliceingeneral.Ifthat’sthecase,thenhemightbeafterthecolumn.So,I’dsuggestyoukeepaneyeonhim.Ifyouthinkheissuspicious,actquickly.Bettermakingamistakekillinghimthanlosingoneofours.’
DriscollnodsandHarkinhasthesensethatheisonlyspeakingaloudwhatDriscollhadalreadydecided.Theystandinsilenceforawhile.
‘DoyouthinkhemighthavebeenclosetoMaud?’Harkinasks.
‘Vane,doyoumean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nottomyknowledge,’Driscollsays,althoughheseemshesitant.‘Tomyknowledgeshewasn’tseeinganyoneatall.’
HarkinnodsbutheisnotconvincedbyDriscoll’sresponse.
CHAPTER20
Thefuneralisamodestaffair,giventhepartMaudplayedin1916andherconnectionstothelocality.Ifshehaddiedinsomeotherway,ratherthaninanIRAambush,it’slikelytherewouldbethousandshere,withanhonourguardofVolunteersandshotsfiredoverthegrave.Theeulogies,suchastheyhavebeen,haveavoidedmentionoftheRising,andtherehavebeennosymbolsorflagstoindicateherhistory.Instead,herpassingismarkedbycolumnsofblacksmokerisingfromthetownwheretheAuxiesandRIChaveburnedhalfthemainstreetinrevengeforTeevan.
Harkinlooksaroundattheassortedrelatives,gentry,andlocaltradespeople—sombreandlong-faced,wearingdarkclothesandwiththesurprisedlookofpeopleaccustomedtoholdingswaywhofindthemselvesonthelosingsideofahedgerowwar.Whenconsideredfromthatperspective,hesupposes,it’sanotabadturnoutatall.Itcouldevenbeconsideredimpressive,giventhattherecan’tbeapersonherewhomustn’twonder,withthefiresburninginthetownandtheAuxiesshootingleft,rightandcentre,andtheIRAnodoubtplanningtodoprettymuchthesameinretaliation,whetheritissensibletoattend.Evengriefisapoliticalstatementthesedays.
Hefindsheissympathetictothesubduedcrowdwaitingforthecoffintoemergefromthechurch,wonderingiftheymightbenext,butheremindshimselfthatthisis,asmuchasanything,awaraboutland.ForeverybighouselikeKilcolganthatwasbuilt,therewereahundredsmallhomestaken.Thelandthatsupportsthebighousesis,asoftenasnot,rentedbacktothepeoplewhoselanditoncewas.Maudandherlikewillalwayscarrytheburdenoftheirsettlerancestors.Evenafterhundredsofyears,theyarestillseenasforeignersintheirowncountry,trappedbytheirpastandfacingableakfuture.ItoccurstoHarkinthathissympathymightbeasmuchforhimselfasforthem.Heisalsostandingattheedgeofapast,lookingintoafuturethatisuncertain—ifnotterrifying.
Harkinswallowsandacknowledgesthatheisnot,byanyobjectivestandard,well.Sweathasdrenchedhisshirtandyetheisshiveringwithcold.Itisnotjustthephysicalsymptomsthatconcernhim.Adark,swirlingcurrentlurksjustbelowhisconsciousness,andhefearsthatatanymomentitmaytughimdownintoablackplacethathedoesnotwanttogoto.Hebitesthesideofhislip,welcomingthepain.Thepainhelpshimfocusonstayingabovethesurface.
‘Wemeetagain.’Thevoiceisquiet,levelwithhisear—almostawhisper.
Harkinrecognisesthevoiceandtriestogatherhimself,evenashefeelsthestrengthinhislegsreceding.Withafinaleffort,heturnstofaceHugoVane,andissurprisedbythemajor’spallor.Hedoesn’tknowwhatheexpected,buthedidn’texpectsuchobviousgrief.
ThemajorexamineshimandHarkinseesanotheremotionsurfacethathehadn’texpected:concern.
‘Areyouallright?’Vaneasks.
‘I’vefeltbetter,’Harkinadmits,seeingnopointindenyingit.He’salsoalarmedtofeelasurgeofgratitudeattheunexpectedkindness.Hehastogetaholdofhimself.
‘Ididn’tknowyouweresoclosetoMaud,’Harkinsays,anditcomesoutlikeanaccusationbutatleastitcameout.Themajor’ssmiletakesonabittertinge.
‘AmIasuspect?’
Harkinswallows,andattemptstoshakehishead.
‘ThatkindofinvestigationwouldbetheRIC’sresponsibility.’
‘Ahyes.TheRIC.’Themajorlooksacrossatthecolumnsofsmokethatrisefromthesmoulderingtown.‘Iratherthinkthatinvestigationhasbeenclosed,don’tyou?InthecircumstancesIwelcomequestionsbeingaskedaboutMaud’sdeath.Whoeverchoosestoaskthem.’
Harkindoesnottrusthimselftospeak.Hefeelsthegroundreachinguptowardshimanditisallhecandotostayonhisfeet.
‘IfMaudsurvivedtheinitialambush,’Vanesays,‘anditseemsshemighthave,thenIsupposesomeonemusthavehadareasontowantherdead.’
‘Indeed,’Harkinmanagestosay.
‘Icanthinkofonepossiblereason,’themajorcontinues.‘Whatdidyousaythenameoftheinsurancecompanyyouworkedforwasagain?’
‘TheAll-IrelandInsuranceCompany,’Harkinsays,thewordsheavyonhistongue.
Hecanseetherecognitioninthemajor’seyes,evenbeforehesaysanything.Whenhedoesspeak,itiswithacarefuldetachment.
‘Yes,Ithoughtthatwastheone.IbelieveIhavecomeacrossthename.IdidwonderifSirJohnwastheonlybeneficiaryofthepolicy.Butperhaps,nowIthinkofit,thatisanunlikelymotive.’
Harkinsaysnothingandthemajornods,asthoughinagreementwithhimself.
‘Isupposeanotherreasonsomeonemighthavekilledherisifshehadsomeinformationthatmighthavebeencompromisingtothem.’
Itdoesn’tseemthatHarkinisexpectedtogivearesponse,sohedoesn’t.
‘Ofcourse,thereisanotherpossibility,’Vanecontinues.‘ThattheIRAconsideredherpresenceinthecartobeanactoftreachery.Itwouldn’tbethefirsttimesuchathinghashappened.’
ThesuggestiontakesHarkinaback,sothathealmostsurfacesfromtheblearysenseofdislocationintowhichheisslipping.TheapproachofanAuxiliaryofficerinhistamo’shantercapanddarkgreentunicprovidesaconvenient,ifnotverywelcome,interruption.Areversedholstersitsontheofficer’sthigh,theleathergleamingblack.
‘Vane,’theofficersays,noddingtothemajor,thenlooksatHarkinexpectantly,asifanticipatinganintroduction.He’sasmallman,wiry,withthejuttingchinofamartinet.Aclippedmoustachelurksunderanaquilinenose.Hiseyesaregreyandthereisachallengeinthem.
‘MrHarkin,thisisMajorAbercrombie.HecommandstheAuxiliaryunitinthetown.I’msureyoumustknowhimbyrepute?’
AbercrombierespondstoVane’sintroductionwithalookofmildamusement.
‘IknowallaboutMrHarkin.’Abercrombieplacesanemphasisontheword‘Mister’.‘I’mtoldyouintendtointerfereinpolicebusiness.Itwouldbemostunfortunateifyouweretodoso.’
Abercrombie’swordsarelikeasplashofcoldwater,revivingHarkintosomeextentandcausinghimtowonderwhohastoldAbercrombieabouthim,beforedecidingitisaquestionforlater.
‘TheinsurancecompanyIworkforhasaliabilityasaresultofMissPrendeville’sdeath,’Harkinsays,pleasedthathisvoiceremainslowandmoreorlessincontrol.‘Itiscustomaryinsuchcasesforustolookintothecircumstanceoftheloss.’
Othermournershaveturnedtolookintheirdirection—hecanseeMoiraWilson’spale,concernedface,herarmcaughtintheelbowofanolderman.Hewondersifitisherfather.Thelastthinghewantsistogetinvolvedinashoutingmatchatafuneral.He’sfairlycertainitisn’tthedonething.
‘“TheinsurancecompanyIworkfor”,’Abercrombiegrowls.‘Idon’tcarewhoyouworkfor.TheonlyinvestigationintothismatterwillbecarriedoutbytheRoyalIrishConstabulary,namelybymeandmymen.Isthatclear?’
‘I’mafraidyouhavenolegalauthoritytopreventmegoingaboutmyemployer’slawfulbusiness.’
Abercrombiestepscloser,staringupathim,histeethclenched.Morefacesareturningtowardsthem,butifAbercrombieisawareofthem,heshowsnosignthathecares.
‘GobacktoDublin,MrHarkin.WehavemartiallawinthispartofIreland.Don’ttemptmetodemonstratetheextentofmylegalauthorityandthelimitstoyourlegalprotection.’
Somethingabouttheman,haranguinghimatafuneral,inhisowncountry,haspushedHarkintothepointofresistance.Henodstowardstheburningtown,continuingtospeakquietlybuthisangergivinghiswordsforce.
‘Isthereaparticularreasonyoudon’twantanyoneelsetoinvestigatemurdersinthispartofthecountry,MajorAbercrombie?’
Harkincanfeelthebloodthumpinginhisears,andhewonderswhathemustlooklike,standingthere,toetotoewiththeAuxiliary.WhenVanespeaksitsoundsasthoughheisfaraway.Hisvoiceiscalm,butfirm.
‘Abercrombie,thisismycousin’sfuneral.Ifyouwouldliketocontinuethisdiscussion,itwillhavetowaitforanothertime.Thatisanorder.Doyouunderstand?’
Thereisamomentofindecision,thenAbercrombie’seyesseemtolosesomeoftheirintensity,althoughtheangerstillsimmersinthem.
‘Iknowwhosefuneralitis,Vane.Arebel’s.Noloyalofficershouldbepresent.’
Heturnsandwalksaway,thequiverofhisrageapparentineachjerkymovement.TheywatchhimleavethechurchyardandclimbintooneofthetwoCrossleyTendersparkedontheroadoutside,andthendriveoff.TheAuxiliariesinthebackunslingtheirriflesastheydoso.
‘Heseemstobeaveryangryman,’Harkinsays.
‘Ihesitatetoofferadvice,Harkin—’
‘ButyouthinkIshouldtakethefirsttraintoDublin?’Nowthathisangerhaspassed,Harkinfindsithaslefthimdrained.‘You’reprobablyright.’
‘MayIaskaquestion?’Vanesays,andHarkinfindshimselfsighing.Heistiredofthepretence.
‘Isn’tthatwhatmenlikeyoudo?Inyourlineofwork?’
Vaneshrugs.
‘Sometimes.’
Harkin’ssuspicionhardenstoacertainty.Ifheisn’taBritishintelligenceofficer,howcanheorderAbercrombiearound?
‘MyquestioniswhetheryouhaveagoodenoughreasontobelievetheIRAdidn’tkillMaud?Thisfive-minutedelaybeforethesingleshot.Isitenoughtoriskyourlife,doyouthink?’
‘Yes,’hesays.‘Ithinkitis.’
‘Isee.’
Vanelooksdownatthegroundforamoment,asthoughconsideringtheimplicationsofHarkin’sanswer.Whenhelooksup,itappearshehasmadeadecision.Henodscurtly.
‘I’llhaveawordwithAbercrombie.However,Isuggestyouavoidhimwherepossible.’
HarkinopenshismouthtosaysomethingbutVaneisdistractedbyacommotionatthedoorofthechurchasthecoffin,carriedbyassortedPrendevilles,slowlymakesitswayacrossthechurchyard,weavinginandoutamongthescatteredtombstonesandgatheringinitswakeaflowofblack-garbedmourners.Vaneandhefollow,althoughHarkinfeelsasthoughheismovinginakindofdreamlikestate.
Theopengravearoundwhichtheygatherbringsanothermemoryhecan’ttriflewith.Thedarkearthisfleckedwithhumanboneanditremindshimsostronglyofthetrenchesthathecanhearwhatsoundsliketherumbleofgunfireinthedistance.Hehopesitisthunder,butwhenhelooksupitisnightandthemournershavebeenreplacedwithsoldiersfromhisbattalion.Theirfacesaregrey,litintermittentlybytheorangemuzzleflashesofnearbyartillery,andthepaleredofsignalflares.Herecogniseseachoneofthem,despitetheirinjuries.Allofthem,heknows,aredead.Theystareathimwithblankexpressions,theirfacesimmobile,asstiffasphotographs.Abuildingisburningnearbyandhethinksitmustbethechurch.Hecanhearthecrackingofitsraftersandsmellthebodiesthatareburningwithin.Itremindshimofthedreamthenightbefore,andheis,onceagain,verycold.Hewonderswhathisdeadcomradeswantfromhim,andthenhelooksintothegraveandseesthatthecorpsethatliesthere,wrappedinagroundsheetexceptfortheface,ishisown
Heshouldn’thavecometothisfuneral,ordowntothisplace.HeshouldhavestayedinDublin,nomatterwhatthebosssaid.
Harkinthinksthisevenasthelastofthestrengthseepsoutofhislegsandhefeelshiskneesbuckle,awaresuddenlythatMoiraisbesidehimwiththeoldermanshehadbeenarminarmwith.Hefeelstheirurgenthandspullingathimtokeephimonhisfeet.
Theyaretoolate.
CHAPTER21
Harkindoesn’tfallintoacompletevoid.Heisconscious,atonestage,ofacircleofconcernedfaceslookingdownathim,thegreyskyabovethemandthespatterofraindropsonhisface.Atanotherpointheisplacedonthebackseatofamotorcar,hisheadinsomeone’slap.HethinksitmightbeMoiraWilson’s,butheisnotcertainofanythingexceptthathisheadhurtsandhehasastrongdesiretobesick.Later,hesurfacestofindhimselfbeingcarriedupawidestaircaseanditisBilly’sfacelookingdownathim,asheswaysfromsidetosidewitheachstepthebearerstake.HeislookingupatthewindowsthatrunthelengthoftheornateceilingaboveKilcolgan’slongcentralhall,noticingthedamppatchthatdeformsalaughingcherub.Heknowsheisunwellbecauseheisshivering.Thenheisplacedinaverysoft,butcold,bed.
Hewarmsitwithhisfever.
Whenheawakes,itisnight.Thecurtainshavebeenleftopenandhecansee,throughthelargesashwindows,asilveredswirlofstars.Heisnolongerinthesmallroomwiththesuitcasesandtrunks.Heislyinginawidebedwiththick,carvedpillarsateachcorner.Achestofdrawerssitsagainstthewalltohisrightandthereisanarmchairbesideit.Heiswearingpyjamasandtheyareasoft,thickcotton,betterthanhisown;hepresumestheymustbelongtoBilly.Histhroatisdryandhereachesfortheglassheseesonthebedsidecabinet.Awomanissittingbesidethebedand,whenhemoves,shestirs.ShelightsacandleandherecognisesMrsDriscoll,wearingblack,hergreyhairpulledbackintoabun.
‘You’reawake?’
‘Iseemtobe.’Hisvoiceishoarse,moreofacroakthananything.
‘Wouldyoulikesomewater?’
Henodsandshereachestofilltheglassfromasmalljug.Hetakesitfromher,buthishandisshakingandhespillssomeofitashedrinksit,sideways.Itdribblesdownhischeek.Shetutsandreachesforwardstodryhisfacewithalinennapkin,takingtheglassfromhim.
‘Whattimeisit?’Harkinasks.
‘Iheardtheclockstrikethreeafewminutesago.’
Hemusthavesleptbutheisstillexhausted.Herestsforamoment,theeffortofreachingfortheglassandreturningithavingspentmuchofhisenergy,then,withaneffort,pusheshimselfuptoasittingposition.Hetriestomakesomesenseofhissituation,gatheringtogetherthefewsnatchesofmemoryhehas.
‘Ifainted?’
‘Youdid.AtMissPrendeville’sfuneral.’
Hecan’tsaythathe’ssurprisedbythehostilityinhervoice.EverythingisclearupuntilwhenhemetVaneandAbercrombie;afterthatlessso,exceptforthedeadsoldiersstaringathimfromacrossthegrave,theirsunkeneyesregardinghimwithoutemotion,oreveninterest.Hefeelshisstomachcontract,recallingenoughtorealisehemusthavepassedoutbesidethegrave,justasMaudwasabouttobeinterred.
Howcanhehavedonesomethingso…?Hesearchesforawordandcanfindnonethataccuratelyencapsulatesit.Itiscertainlyworsethan‘embarrassing’.Asilencefallsbetweenthem.
‘Iwantedtotalktoyoubefore,’Harkinsayseventually.
‘Why?’
‘IwantedtoaskaboutthenightMaudwaskilled.Aboutthedaysleadinguptoit.Aboutherstateofmind.’
‘WhyshouldItellyouanythingaboutMissPrendeville?’
Hesighs.
‘Itwillgetmeoutofheremorequickly.’
MrsDriscollconsidersthis.
‘Askmeyourquestions.’
‘Youheardthegunfire?’
‘Icouldn’thelpbuthearit.’
‘Whatdidyoudothen?’
‘Igotoutofbed,gotdressedandranupthehouse.’
‘AndSean?’
Thereisamomentaryhesitation,sobriefheisn’tcertainitwasthereatall.
‘Hedidthesame.’
‘Wheredidhegoto?’
Sheisirritatedwiththequestionsnow
‘Didn’tIsay?Thesameasme.Hewentstraightupthehouse.’
‘Youdidn’tstophimleaving,thinkingitwasdangerous,perhaps?’
MrsDriscolllooksathim,hereyesblackinthecandlelight.
‘HisplacewaswiththePrendevilles,’shesays.‘Thesameasmine.’
‘Whoreachedthehousefirst?’
‘He’sayoungman.Whodoyouthinkgottherefirst?’
Whichisn’treallyananswer.Hefeelssleeptuggingathim.
‘WhataboutMaud?’heasks.‘Didanyonehaveareasontokillher?’
Hiseyeshaveclosedoftheirownvolition,butwhenheopensthembrieflyheseesthathereyesarewet.
‘Getsomerestnow,’shesays,gettingtoherfeet.‘That’senoughwithyournonsensequestions.’
HarkinwatchesMrsDriscollstandandwalktowardsthedoor,takingthechamber-stickwithher.Aftershe’sleft,he’suncertainshewaseverthereatall
Later—heisnotsurewhen—hesurfacesfromatroubledsleeptofindthathishandisbeingheld.Instinctivelyhefeelshisfingerstightenaroundthehandthatholdshis.HeopenshiseyestoseeMoira,herpupilsdarkcirclesinthecandlelight.Heopenshismouthtospeakbutshereachesovertoplaceafingeronhislips.
‘Don’ttryandtalk.I’lltalkifthere’stalkingneedsdoing.CloseyoureyesandI’lltellyouastoryaboutawomanwholovedamanandhedidn’tknowit.’
Hecloseshiseyesandlistensasshetellshertale.
Thecharactersarefamiliar,butthestoryisnewtohim.
CHAPTER22
WhenHarkinwakesforthethirdtimehethinksthereisalittlemorelightinthesky.Heliestherelookingoutthroughthewindow,savouringthewarmthofthebedandthetautcottonpillowcase.Helistenstothehousebuthearsnothing.Itisasthoughitisdeserted.Theguestsmusthaveleftafterthefuneral.Hewondershowtheymanagedtocarryonwithit,aftertheshowhemadeofhimself.Hepusheshimselfup,thenswingshislegsfromunderthecovers.Whenhetriestostand,thecarpetseemstomoveunderhisfeet,asthoughthehousewereafloat.Hehastositbackforamomentbeforeallowinghislegstotakehisweightoncemore,usingthemtocarefullypushhimselfupright.Hekeepsahandheldouttowardsthebedincaseheneedstosteadyhimself.Hewonderswhathemustlooklike,standingthereinthesilvereddark,bentoverlikeanoldmanreachingforhiswalkingstick.Thethoughtmakeshimsmileandhefeelsthebetterforit.
Hetakesstock.There’sadoorbesidethechestofdrawerswhichmustleadsomewhere.Heseesacandlestickandaboxofmatchesonasmallsidetable,althoughhedoesn’tfeeltheneedtolightit;theroomisdark,buthecanmakethingsoutwellenoughinwhatlittlelightthereis.Paintingslookdownathimfromthewalls,theirsubjectsjust
Nearthefirstofthewindowsthereisadressingtableandatthefootofthebedachest.Finally,thereisasecondarmchairbesidethefarwindow,andsomeoneissittinginit.Awoman,litbythestarlightsothatsheseemstoglow.Shestaresoutattheseabeyond,herexpressionunclearfromwherehestands.
AtfirsthethinksitmustbeMrsDriscoll,orperhapsBridget,butthewomanisyoungerthanMrsDriscollandwearsalongdressofaqualitythatneithershenorBridgetwilleverwear.Herdarkhair,aluminescentsilverinthehalf-light,isbraidedtohanginathickropethatrestsonherleftshoulder,beforefallingdownoverherchest.Sheholdsitinherrighthand,likeaclub.Hernoseisstraight,herlipsfullandforaninstanthethinksitmustbeCharlie,butitisn’t.Charliedoesn’tweartheperfumehisnostrilsarefilledwith.OnlyMauddid…andthewomanwhohelpedhimacrossthebridgeintheDublinfog.
Thecarpetbeneathhisfeetseemstoslipawaybuthedoesn’tfall.Harkingripsthepillarwithbothhandsandholdsontoit,usingittopullhimselfontothebed,wherehesits.Hedoesn’ttakehiseyesoffthefigureinthearmchair.Heknowsshecan’tbethere,thatsheiseitherimagined,orsomethingaltogetheroutsideanyrealityheunderstands.Hewatchesheruncertainly,wantingtoconfrontwhateversheis.Helockshiselbowaroundthepillar,asthoughescortingit,andfeelshimselfbegintoshiver.Shedoesn’tmove,noteventobreathe.Hestaysthere,hiseyesfixedonher,untilthecoldcreepsfurtherintohisbonesandtheshiveringbecomesuncontrollable.Hetriestosummontheenergytowalkovertoher—totrytotouchher,toconfirmtohimselfthatsheisnotreal.Butwhatifhishandtouchesflesh?
Whensheturnstofacehim,theemotionHarkindetectsis,tohisrelief,oneofcompassion—perhapsevensympathy.Sheholdshisgazeandheloseshimselfinit.Memoriesfloodback,aswellasregretforwhatmighthavebeen.Thenhergazeshifts,buthecannottakehiseyesawayfromhertoseewhathasattractedherattention.Thenshelooksbacktohimonceagain,somethinglikeaquestioninherexpression.Tohissurprisehefindsthatheisnolongerafraid.Itisasthoughtheyhavecometosomesortofagreement.
Hesitsthere,watchingherforalongtime,expectingsomethingmore,butthereisnochangetohersteadygazeandtirednesstugsathim.Eventually,hereachesadecisionandpusheshimselfbackalongthebedandgetsbeneaththecovers,allowingthewarmthtoseepbackintohim.
Hecontinuestolookatherforawhile,thenhecloseshiseyes.
CHAPTER23
ThenexttimeHarkinwakes,itisbecauseofthelightofanewday.Hedoesn’topenhiseyes,notbecauseheisafraidofwhathemightsee—heseemstobepastthat—butbecausehewantstoavoidtheworldforalittlelonger.Helistenstothehousewake;tasksbeingperformed,peoplegoingabouttheirbusiness.Atthethoughtofthedaybefore,hisguiltreturns.HewillhavetofacethePrendevillessoonenough,but,forthemoment,heturnsonhisshoulder,awayfromthebrightwindowsandtowardsthedarkofthefurthestcorneroftheroom.HepullstheblanketsuparoundhimandremembersMaudsittinginherarmchair,andhowbeautifulshewas.Hefindsthestrangeexperiencehasbroughtforthmemoriesoftheirtimetogetherthathavenotsurfacedforyears.Abreathless,laughingruntocatchatram.AdanceinsomegrandDublinhouse,hercheekwarmagainsthis.AmorningtheyhadspentcrammedintohissinglebedinhisroomsinTrinity,whisperingincasetheymightbeoverheard.Heallowshimselftobetakenoverbytherememberedhappiness.
Later,whenhewakesagain,heisawarethatsomeoneelseisintheroom.Hecanheartheirslowandsteadybreathing;theslightraspofsomeonewithablockednose.Theyareclose,thenahandliftshis,feelingforhispulse.Heopenshiseyestofindastocky,beardedmanisleaningoverhim.Onehandhashis,whiletheotherholdsasilverpocketwatchonachainwhichheexamines.
‘You’realive,’themansays,withoutlookingawayfromthewatch.
‘Soitseems.’
‘Alwaysbetterthanthealternative,’themansays.‘Howdoyoufeel?’
Harkin’sbodyfeels,hedecides,halfwaytobeingacorpse.Buthismindseemstobeclearforachange.
‘Nottoobad,’hesays.
‘Yougotagoodsleep,anyway.Wouldyoulikemetohelpyoudrinksomewater?’
‘Icanmanage,Ithink.’
Heliftshimselfupontohiselbowandfindstheglassfromthenightbefore.
‘Better?’themansays,whenHarkinplacestheemptyglassbackdown.
‘Yes,thankyou.’Harkinsquintsupathim.Herecognisesthevoicefromhishalf-memoriesfromthepreviousday.‘AreyouDrHegarty?Ifyouaren’t,wouldyoumindputtingmyhandbackdown?’
Themansmiles,aflashofteethinamongthebeard.
‘Pleasedtomeetyou.’
‘Whattimeisit?’Harkinasks.
HegartygivesHarkinbackhishand,andthenwritessomethinginanotebookhehasopenonhislap.
‘Justpasteleven.DoyoumindifIasksomequestions?’
HegartytakesHarkin’ssilenceasconsent.
‘Hasthishappenedbefore?’
‘Haswhathappenedbefore?’
‘Aprolongedperiodofinvoluntaryunconsciousness.Alcohol-relatedincidentsapart.’
‘Inthewar,’Harkinsays,reluctantly.
‘Concussion?’
‘Everyoneatthefrontsufferedconcussionatonetimeoranother.’
Itwastrue.High-explosiveshellsshookthebrainsinsidesoldiers’skullssohardsometimestheywouldbefounddead,withnovisiblewounds.
‘BillytoldmesomeofyourmedicalhistoryandI’vespokentoyourdoctorinDublinaswell.’
Harkin’salarmatthisismoreforhismother’ssakethanthis.He’salwaysbeencarefulwhathehastoldthefamilydoctorforfearhewouldtellhismother.NowhewondershowHegartygotholdofhim.Ifitwasthroughhismother,she’llbeworried.
‘Mymotherknowsaboutthis?’
‘No.Youremployergavemehisdetails.’
‘Good.Sheworriesaboutmeenoughasitis,’Harkinsays,wonderingifhespokedirectlytothebossoroneofthemenwhoactuallydealswithinsurance.Notthatitmakesanydifference.
‘Whyisthat?Thatsheworriesaboutyou?’
HegartyremindshimofthedoctorsinScotland.Thesteady,persistentquestioning.
‘Whatkindofdoctorwereyouduringthewar?’
Hegartysmiles,asifpleasedwithhispatient’sperspicacity.
‘Istartedatthefront,inforwarddressingstations,butIwasreallytoooldforthat.AsthewarproceededImovedtohospitalsintherearandspecialisedinwhatwethencalledwarneuroses.Shellshock,inotherwords.’
‘Andnowyou’rebackbeingafamilydoctorintheIrishcountryside?’
‘Well,Iwasalwaysthat.Thewarwasabreakfromit,that’sall.’HeexaminesHarkin.‘Doesthatconcernyou?WhatIspecialisedinduringthewar?’
Harkinthinksaboutthis,thenshakeshishead,decidingtolie.Itdoesconcernhim,andnotleastbecauseheremembersthatthisman’sdaughterisMoiraWilson.
‘No.’
‘Good.ThethingtotakecomfortfromisthatIhaveexperienceinmattersofthisnaturewhichmaybeuseful.Ifyou’dliketotalktome,totellmewhatleduptothis,thenI’mhappytolisten.AndtohelpifIcan.’
Harkindoesn’tknowhowtorespond.
‘Whatmattersareyoureferringto?’
‘Well,itseemslikelythatanepisodelikethishasbeenbuildingforsometime.Youhaven’tbeenaquietsleeperhere.YouservedthroughGallipoli,theSomme,PasschendaeleandGodknowswhereelse.IunderstandyousufferedasevereconcussionatPasschendaele,butIimagineyouhadyourfairshareofsimilarconcussionsbeforehand.Repeatconcussionsofthisnaturecancauselastingphysicaldamage.Asidefromwhich,theexperiencesyouhadduringthewarwillhavehademotionaleffects.Itmaywellbethatyourconditionisacombinationofthetwo.’
Harkinshiftsuncomfortablyinthebed.
‘Icanguaranteeconfidentiality,ofcourse,’Hegartycontinues.‘Iknowitisdifficulttodiscussthesethings,butinmyexperienceitisoftenthecasethattalkingtosomeonelikemecanhelp.Ithinkyouprobablyknowthat.’
BillymusthavetoldhimaboutEdinburgh.Harkincan’tbeangry.Hewouldhavedonethesameifhe’dseenBillyfaintatagraveside.HethinksabouttheencounterintheDublinfog,thegassedsoldiersinthetrain,ArthurPrendevillesittingatthediningtable,andalltheothertimeshehasseensomethingheshouldn’tbeseeing:corpsesfloatingintheLiffey;woundedsoldiersstrewnacrossGraftonStreet;Maudsittinginherarmchair.Evennow,lookingatHegarty,heisn’tentirelycertainthisishappening.
Harkintakesadeepbreath,shrugs,thenmeetsHegarty’sgaze,composinghisfeaturesintosomethingapproachingpuzzlement.
‘It’snothinglikethat.Ihaven’tbeensleepingwell,that’sall.’
Hegartysmilesonceagain,sighinginacontentedfashion.
‘Verygood.IshouldsayBillytoldmealittlebitaboutahospitalyoubothwerepatientsat.NearEdinburgh?’
Harkinishardlysurprisedattheconfirmationofhissuspicions.
‘WhichiswhyIknowit’sonlyinsomnia.’
Hegarty’slefteyebrowrises.
‘I’venodoubttherecouldbeanelementofinsomnia.Ontheotherhand,ifarelapseofsomedescriptionistakingplaceitisoftenaresultofstress.Whatisityoudoforaliving,MrHarkin?’
Harkindecidestoproceedwithcaution.
‘Iworkforaninsurancecompany.’
‘I’dhavethought,seeinghowyourconditionhasworsened,thatyoumighthaveamorestressfuloccupation.Isthereperhapssomethingelseinyourlifethatmightbecausinganxiety?’
Harkinsaysnothing.Hethinksoftheclandestinewarhehasbeenengagedin—aboutthethingshe’sdoneandwitnessedoverthelastyearandahalf.Hegarty,meanwhile,isexamininghimintently.Itdoesn’ttakeamind-readertodetectthedoctor’strainofthought.
‘Mydaughtertellsmeyou’redownhereinvestigatingMaudPrendeville’sdeath.’Hegartypauses.‘Foryourinsurancecompany.’
Theimplicationisunmistakable.Harkinfeelsasthoughhemightaswellbesittingherewithatricolourwrappedroundhim,singing‘TheSoldier’sSong’,asfarasthedoctorisconcerned.
‘That’sright.’Harkincanheartheuneaseinhisvoice.HewatchesasHegarty’sfrowndeepens.
‘Asadoctor,Iwouldadviseyoutogiveupthisbusiness.ToreturntoDublinor,evenbetter,takeaholidayinforeignparts.SomewherefarawayfromtheTroubleswefindourselvesinthemidstof.’
‘AndifIignoredthatadvice?’
‘Well,atleastavoidanyactivitythatislikelytoagitateyou.Inaddition,I’drecommendregularexercise—atleasttwiceaday.AndI’dsuggestyouremoveyourselffromthishouse.ThePrendevillesareusedtotheplace,andtheplaceisusedtothem.Therestofusneedtobecautious.I’dnotspendthenighthereforpleasure.Notforahundredpounds.’
‘Ihopenottohavetostaytoolong.’
‘Areyoudeterminedtopursueyourinvestigation?’Hegartycontinues,afteralongpause.
‘Thatismyintention.’
Hegartyinhalesdeeply,asthoughpreparingtodiveintoanicylake.
‘AmIrighttosayyoususpectMissPrendevillewasnotkilledbytherebels?Thatshemayhavebeenkilledbysomeoneelse?’
‘It’spossible.’Harkinisreluctanttocommithimselfonceagain.‘TherearecertainlysomequestionsthatneedaddressingbeforeI’msatisfiedonewayortheother.’
‘Youareprobablyawarethatthelocalauthoritiesrequireapostmortemtobeperformedwhenadeathoccursinthiskindofcircumstance.Thepolicewerereluctant,consideringapostmortemtobeaformality,butinanyeventitwascarriedout.Byme.Now,outofconsiderationforthePrendevilles,myexaminationwasnotasinvasiveasitmighthavebeen,becausethecauseofdeathwasclear.Asinglebulletenteredherskulljustaboveherlefteyeanddidnotexitherbody.Itwasfiredatcloserange—therewerepowderresiduesaroundtheentrywound,sowithintwofeet,Iwouldsay.Not,inotherwords,bysomeonefiringonthecarduringtheambush.Therewasalsoaseparatecontusiontotheforehead,notcausedbythebullet,butmorelikelybyherhittingherheadshortlybeforedeath.’
Harkindigeststhisinformation.Itchimeswiththecolumn’sversion.
‘ThereisonepieceofevidenceIthoughtmightinterestyouinparticular.’
Hegartyreachesintohisjacketpocketandbringsoutasmallbrownenvelope,thetypeusedforweeklywages.HehandsittoHarkin,whoopensit.Thereisabrassbullet,distortedbyimpact.Itissmallinhishand,itsweightbarelynoticeable.
Itmakeshisstomachturn.
‘ItookthisoutofMaudPrendeville’sneck.Itwaspressingupagainsttheskin.It’snotunusualforabullettoricochetaroundinsidetheskullandthenthroughthebody,andthat’swhereitendedup.Iwasabletoextractitwithasmallincision.Asyoucansee,it’squitesmallcalibre—myguesswouldbe.25.Probablyapocketpistolwithaneffectiverangeofaboutthelengthofthisroom.Ihaven’tcomeacrossmanybulletsthissizeandI’veextractedafairfewinmytime,fromboththelivingandthedead.’
‘DidyoushowittoAbercrombie?’
‘I’vesenthimmyreport.MajorAbercrombieprobablyusedittolightthefire.Idoubthevaluesanyopinionthatisn’thisown.WithTeevanincharge,therewassomehopefortheloyalistcausedownhere.Notanymore.’
Harkinreplacesthebulletintotheenvelopeandreturnsittothedoctor.
‘Thankyou.’
‘You’rewelcome.There’ssomethingelse.Ipresumeyouwouldbeinterestedinanyinformationthatmightpointtowardsamotive.’
‘Thatwouldbecorrect.’
‘ThereissomethingIleftoutofthereport.’
AgainthereisahesitationandHarkinwondersifthedoctorisabouttochangehismind.Instead,herunsahandacrosshisfaceandcloseshiseyes,asifpraying.Whenhespeaks,hisvoiceisveryquiet.
‘IfItellyouthis,youmustpromisemeyourabsolutediscretion.’
‘IwillbeasdiscreetasIpossiblycan.’
Thedoctornods.
‘IsupposethatisallIcanaskforinthecircumstances.’
Hegartypausesagain,thencloseshiseyes.Whenheopensthemagainitisclearthathehasmadeadecision.
‘MaudPrendevillewaspregnant.Aboutthreemonthsgone.’
CHAPTER24
Whenthedoctorleaves,HarkingetsoutofbedandwalksovertostandbesideMaud’sarmchair.Helooksoutatthedark,smoulderinggreysky,itscloudsrollingoverthehouseinaconstantstream.Beneathit,theheavygrassofthehomemeadowisfrostedbyrecentrain.Harkintakesstockofhimself.Hefeelsalittleweakbuthesupposesthatistobeexpectedafteralongtimeinbed.Hismind,however,seemssharpenough.Itisasthoughthedoctor’sinformationaboutMaudhasgivenhimasenseofpurposethathaspaperedover,atleastforthemoment,thesenseofunrealityanddreadthathasconfusedhiswakinghourstheselastfewdays—indeed,weeks.
Maudhadnotbeenprudishaboutthesethings—sheandHarkinhadbeenloversbeforethewar,afterall—butshehadalwaysbeencareful.Herreputationwouldcertainlyhavebeendamagedifapregnancyhadbeenmadepublic—andperhapsalsoherlover’s?Butevenifthepregnancywasthereasonbehindthekilling,itstilldoesn’texplainhowwhoeverwasresponsibleknewMaudwasgoingtobeinthecar.
HarkinwatchesasBillycomesintoview,walkingacrossthefrontofthehouse,aturned-uptweedjacketbuttonedtightacrosshischestandneckandaflatcappulleddownlowacrosshisforehead.Heswishesatthegrasswithablackthornstickashegoes,eachswingsendinganarcofgrassandwaterintotheair.Evenfromthisdistance,HarkincantellBillyisworried.ItoccurstoHarkinthatperhapsBillyisworriedabouthim.
Harkinturnsbacktotheroom.Thereisacollectionofframedphotographsontopofthechestofdrawersand,curious,hetakesamomenttoexaminethem.AlmostimmediatelyhisgazefallsonaphotographofhimselfwithMaud.Theyarestandinginfrontofhighblackrailingsthatseparatethemfromthetreesandbushesofapark.ItcouldbeStephen’sGreen,butheisn’tsure.Helooksyoung,andMaudevenyounger.Herememberstheafternoon.1912—justafterheleftuniversity.
Itstillastonisheshim,seeingthetwoofthemtogether.TheHonourableMaudPrendeville,thedaughterofalord,mixingwiththelikesofTomHarkin—asolicitor’ssonandaRomanCatholic.NowonderLordKilcolganneverwarmedtotheidea.Harkinreachesouttoplaceafingertiponthephotograph,touchinghisyoungerself.Hewouldliketobebackatthatmoment—tohaveallthathashappenedsincethentobeinafuturethatmightormightnotcometopass.It’snothardtoremember,lookingattheMaudinthepicture,whyhelovedher—althoughwhyshemighthavelovedhimislessclear.Heseemsnaive,uncomfortableinhissuitandtie,whilesheseemsamusedbyherself,andperhapsbyhimaswell;thereisamischievousslanttohergaze.TheyarelookingtowardsthecamerawithaffectionandheremembersitwasBillywhotookthephotograph.HeremembershowBillywasbackthen,beforethewar.
ThereisanotherphotographofMaudbesideit.Sheisolderinthisone,andmuchchanged.SheiswearingthedarkuniformoftheCumannnamBan,thewomen’sauxiliaryorganisationthatsupportstheIRA.Hethinksitmusthavebeentakenafterthe1916Rising.Thereisasombrenesstohergazethatherecognisesfromthetrenches,aturntothemouththatsuggestsexperience,andnotallofitpleasant.Thereisstillthatintelligenceheremembers,butthemischievousamusementisnolongerthere.
Therearephotographsofothermenandwomenandherecognisesmanyofthem—themakersofanattemptedrevolution.Someofthemaredead,somestillliving,andthenitoccurstohim—thebedroommustbeMaud’s.Thereisnootherroominthehouseinwhichthesephotographscouldbeondisplay.
Helooksaroundatthearmchair,remembersthefiguresittinginit,staringoutatthenight,andshiversonceagain.WhatcanhavepossessedthePrendevillestohaveputhiminhere?
Harkinwalksslowlytothebedandsits,consideringhisoptions.Thesensiblethingtodo,inhiscondition,isprobablytotakethedoctor’sadvice,cuthislossesandreturntoDublin.Heprobablyhasenough,withHegarty’sinformation,toconfirmtothebossandSirJohnthatthecolumn’sstoryiscredible.Asforthewiderworldbelievingintheirguilt,thecolumnhasbroadshoulders.It’snotasthoughtheyhavebeensaintsthislastwhile.It’sadirtywarandtheyhaveallofthem,himselfincluded,hadtogetdowninthedirttoscrapitoutwiththeBritish.Ifitweren’tforSirJohn’sguns,andifMaudhadnotbeenoneofthesurvivorsoftheGPO,noonefromthebossondownwouldhavegivenmorethantwoseconds’thoughttothematter.
Hegoestothechestofdrawersandpicksupthephotographofthetwoofthemtogetherandlooksatitonceagain.Thelastfewyearshavebeenfullofeventsoutsideeitheroftheircontrol,anditoccurstohimthatMaud’sdeathissomethingthatperhapshecancontrol,oratleastfindsomejusticefor.HeremembersMaudfromthenightbefore,sittinginherarmchair,andthewayshelookedathim.Hepresumeswhathesawwasamanifestationofhisimagination.Thealternative—thatitwassomekindofspectralapparition—isapossibilityhewouldrathernotconsider.Inanyevent,whateveritwas,hefeelssuretherewassomekindofcommunicationbetweenthem.Heknowssheisdead—indeed,he’dheldthebulletthatkilledherinhishandonlyafewminutesearlier—buthealsosuspectsthatsomethingpassedbetweenthem,inexplicableasthatmaybe.
Harkin’seyefallsonthesmalldavenportdeskbesidetheleft-handwindow—anembossedgreenleatherwritingslopeontopofafour-drawerpedestal.ItmusthavebeenwhereMaudwroteherletters.Helooksbacktoherarmchair,rememberingthewayhergazeshiftedwhenshelookedbacktowardshimforthefirsttime,andhefeelsasuddensweatchillonthebackofhisneck.Helooksagainatthedavenport.Logicsuggeststhatifshereceivedanyletters,perhapsfromalover,thenthere’sagoodchancethattheywillhavebeenkeptinoneofitsfourdrawers.Wasitthedeskhergazeshiftedto?Hadshebeensendinghimsomekindofmessage?Nopolicedetectivehassearchedthisroom,butthere’snoreasonHarkincan’t,solongasnoonewalksinonhim.Themoralityoftheactdoesn’tbotherhimtoomuch.Itisthenatureofhisworkthesedaystopryintootherpeople’ssecrets,andinthiscaseMaudisdeadandthebenefitsseemclear.
Whichisn’ttosaythatheplansongettingcaughtdoingit.Heliftsthechairthatsitsinfrontofthedavenportandcarriesittothedoor,wedgingitunderthehandle.Hecan’thearanyonenearbybut,ifsomeoneshouldcometovisithim,thechairshouldgivehimamomentortwo’sgrace.
Hewalksbackovertothedeskandtriesthetopdrawer.It’slocked,asarealltheothers,andheleansdowntoexaminethem.Eachdrawerhasitsownsmallroundkeyholeand,hesuspects,theywillhavethesamerelativelysimplemechanism,servedbyasinglekey.HehasspentafewafternoonswaitingaroundintheinsurancecompanyofficeswithVincentBourke,whohasshownhimhowtopickalock.IfHarkincanfindahairpinorsomethingsimilar,there’sagoodchancehe’llbeabletoopenthem.Helistenstothehouse.Thereissomenewmovementandnoisefromdownstairsbuttheupperpartremainsquiet.
Hiseyeisdrawntothedressingtable.Hewalksovertoitquicklyandbeginshissearchforahairpin.Thetable’sdrawersarewellorganised,withmake-upinonedrawer,handkerchiefsinanother,andsoon.Theysmellofpowder,patchouliand,herealisesinahotflushofmemory,Maud’scologne.Inthefourthdrawerheopens,hefindshairbrushesand,ashehadhoped,asmallglassjarofhairpins.Itisnot,however,thepresenceofthehairpinsthatmakeshimsmilebutratherthebrasskeyattachedtoathingoldchain,exactlythekindofchainayoungwomanlikeMaudmightweararoundherneckandmoreorlessthesizeofkeythatwouldfitthedavenport’slocks.AmomentlaterHarkinistryingitinthetopdrawerofthedesk.Thereisaslightresistanceandthenthekeyturnsandthedrawerisopen.
Hepausestolistenonceagain.Downstairsinthelonghallsomeoneiswalkingacrossthemarblefloor,thesoundechoingupthroughthehouse.Hetakesadeepbreath,letsitoutslowlyandpullsthedrawertowardshim.Itcontainspensandpencils,twoinkbottlesandapadofblottingpaper.Hetakeseverythingoutcarefully,checkingeachitem,beforereplacingthemashefoundthemandclosingthedrawergently.Helistens.Nothingatallthistime,exceptforthesoundofhisownshortenedbreathing.Herebukeshimselfforhisnervousness.Ifhe’scaughttherewillbeembarrassment,buthe’suptohisneckinthatalreadyafterhisperformanceatthefuneral.Alittlemorewon’tmakeanydifference.
Harkinopensthenextdrawer.Itcontainscorrespondence,althoughmostlyofacommercialnature.TherearelettersfromadressmakerinDublin,informingMaudofnewarrivalsandadressthathasbeenmadeforher,andareminderaboutanunpaidbillfromaBondStreetmilliner.Thereissomelegalcorrespondenceaboutawillinwhichshewasnamedasaminorbeneficiary,andadescriptionofahorsethatafarrierinthetownwantedtoselltoher.Heflicksthrougheachofthem,pagebypage,listeningashedoessoforanysoundonthestairsorlandingthatmightannounceanimminentarrival.Then,satisfiedthereisnothingofsignificanceinthecontents,heagainreplacesthemexactlyashefoundthem.It’sunlikelyanyoneotherthanMaudhaseverseentheinsideofthedrawer,andMaudispastcaring,butitfeelstherightthingtodo—toexamine,toremember,butnottodisturb.
Thethirddrawerismorepromising.Itisstuffedfulloflettersfromfriendsandrelatives,datingbackseveralyears.Thereareinvitationstodancesandhuntballs,newsyupdatesfromagodmotherinEnglandandacousininIndia.Theydeclineinnumbersharplyafter1916.HarkinwondersifMaudwasnolongerwelcomeatthehousepartiesandafternoonteasafterherinvolvementintheRising.Itseemslikely.Atthebottomofthedrawer,wrappedinadarkgreenribbon,hefindsasmallstackofletterswithahandwritingthatherecognisesashisown.Somearedatedfrombeforethewar,andsomefromthetrainingcampintheCurraghandthenmorefromFrance.Heturnsoverthepages,hearinghisownvoiceinhishead,speakingofeventshebarelyremembers.Heknowstheywon’tbethewholetruth,becauseyounevertoldpeopleathomethetruthofthetrenches,buttheybringbackthesmellandthefeelofthewar.Oneletterismarkedinplaces,brownblotchesthathesuspectsmustbemud,ormaybeblood.Anothermusthavebecomedampatsomestage,thepaperbleachedbywaterandtheinkblurredwhereitran.Helooksatthedates—1915,1916.ThereareevensomelettersfromaftertheRising,whichhereadsmorecarefully.Althoughofficers’lettersweren’tcensoredinthewaythatthoseoftheotherrankswere,hiswordsarecarefullychosen.Hewouldhaveknown,eventhen,thatapolicemanorintelligenceofficerwouldwanttoknowwhowaswritingtoaknownrebelfromthefront,particularlyfromanIrishregiment.Readingbetweenthelines,itisclearthathewasnotagainsttheRising—farfromit—althoughitseemsheconsidereditbadlyexecuted.Hisopinionhasn’tchangedsincethen.Itwas,however,anecessarystepandalessonaboutthefutilityofdirectlyengagingthegreatestmilitarypowerintheworldthatwaswelllearned.
Thelastletterisinresponsetohercallingofftheengagement.Therearenoharshwords—onlyahopethatwhenthewarisoverandtheirsituationsaredifferent,theywillfindsomemeansofrekindlingthelovehebelievedthattheyhadshared.Ateartakeshimbysurprisewhenitrunsthelengthofhisnoseandlandsjustbesidehissignature.
Whenhefinishesreading,hetiesthelettersbackupintothestackinwhichhefoundthemandweighstheminhishand.Hethinks,foramoment,aboutkeepingthem.They’renousetoMaudnow,andofnointeresttoanyonebuthim.Hecouldputtheminhispocketandnoonewouldeverknow.Butwhatwouldhedowiththem?Takethemoutandthinkaboutwhatmighthavebeen?Heputsthembackwherehefoundthem,asbefore.He’swallowedinthepastforlongenough.Fromthispointon,he’lllooktothefuture.
Thelastdrawerisadisappointment—acollectionofdiariesfromMaud’sschooldays.Hecheckseachoneincasetheremightbeamorerecententry,butthereisnothing.Thenhehearsfootstepsclimbingthestaircase,alongwithanaccompanyingscratchycavalcadeofcaninepaws,soheclosesthedrawer,locksit,andquicklycrossestheroomtotakethechairfromunderneaththedoorhandleandreturnittoitsusualplace.Thefootstepsareapproachingalongthegalleriedlanding,sohereturnstositonthebed,placingthekeyunderneaththepillowasanafterthought.Thestepsstopoutsidehisdoor.
Thereisapauseandthenasoftknock.
‘Comein.’Harkincanhearthecroakinhisvoice.Hereachesforthenowemptyglass,fillingitwithwater.
CharliePrendevilleentersaccompaniedbyherhounds,whoimmediatelyexploreeverycorneroftheroom,beforereturningtothedoorandcurlingupathercommandtobestillandnotbotherthem.OnceagainheisstruckbyherresemblancetoMaud.
‘You’reawake,MrHarkin.DrHegartysaidyoumightbe,butwe’vebecomequiteaccustomedtoyouslumberingaway.Ihopeyoufeelbetter?’
Hersmileseemsgenuineand,giventhecircumstances,heisgrateful.
‘Ifeelmuchbetter,’hesays.‘AlthoughIcanonlyapologise.NotthekindofthingIwouldhaveeverwantedtodo—faintingatyoursister’sfuneral.’
Hersmiledoesn’tfalter;infacthethinkshisstatementsomehowamusesher.
‘Youhavenothingtoapologisefor.DrHegartytellsusyou’relikelystillsufferingfromconcussion.Asaresult,IbelieveFatherisquitereconciledtoyou,giventhatyourpassingoutwasaresultofyoudoingyourbitfortheEmpireandtheUnion.AsforMaud,Idon’tthinkshewouldhavemindedaformerbeaucollapsingatherfuneral.Infact,Ithinkshewouldhavebeendelighted.’
Hesmiles,wonderingaboutthatotherbeau,thefatherofMaud’sunbornchild,andwhetherhewasatthegraveside,too,andwhathefeltwhenMaudwasputintheground.
‘I’msureImusthaveoutstayedmywelcome,nomatterwhatyousay.Ishouldmakearrangementstodepart.’
‘I’mafraidyoucan’t.DrHegartysaidyouarenotfittotraveljustyet.Hewantedtosendyouovertohisdaughter’sestablishment,butwefeltthatwouldplaceusinashabbylight.Youaretostayuntilyouareabletoleave.’
Harkincan’thelphisgazestrayingtothedavenport.
‘Imightstayforadayortwo,’hesays,althoughhecan’tdisguisehisdiscomfort.‘ThereareafewpeopleIstillneedtotalkto.’
Sheconsidersthisforamoment.
‘AmIoneofthem?’Shesetsherchinatadeterminedangle.‘Iwouldn’tworryaboutoffendingme.’
Harkinfindsitmomentarilydifficulttogatherhisthoughts.HewantstoaskheraboutMaud’slover,buthedoesn’tknowwheretobeginwiththat.
‘Itmighthelp,’hesays,hesitantly,‘ifyoucouldyoutellmewhatyourememberfromthatnight.Thesequenceofevents.’
CharliewalksslowlytothechestofdrawersandpicksupthephotographofMaudinherVolunteeruniform.
‘IwasinmybedroomwhenIheardthegunfire.Ihadn’tundressed.Iwasreading.Ioftenreadlateatnight.It’sthequietesttime.Itwastwominutesbeforemidnight.Ihaveabedsideclockanditisaccuratetothestationclock.TheshootingwasveryintenseforabouttensecondsandIknewitcamefromthedirectionofthegatelodge.WeknewHarryhadhopedtobedroppedbackthatevening,andasthereisnotraffictospeakofalongtheroadatthattimeofnight,Ifearedtheworstforhim.’
‘YouhadnoideaMaudwaswithhim?OrthatTeevanwasdriving?’
Shelooksdownagainatthephotographandhecanseethathereyesarewet.
‘No.Noidea.ShewasmeanttobestayingwithUncleJohn.Harryhadwantedtocomebackbecausehewasleavinginthemorning.IsupposeitispossiblethatheknewAbercrombiewouldbetherebutMauddidn’t,otherwiseshewouldn’thavegone.’
‘Sowhathappenedthen?’
‘Icameoutandfoundmyfatherinhisdressinggownonthelanding,thenwejoinedMurphyandBridgetdownstairsinthehall.She’dbeenwaitingupforHarry.’
‘AndBilly?’
Sheglancestowardsthebedroomdoor,asthoughconcernedthatBillymightwalkthroughit.
‘Billywasoutside.Helikestogooutwalkingatnight.It’sbeenthatwaysincehecamebackfromFrance.Hecameinafewminutesaftertheshootingstarted.Perhapsfive.’
There’ssomethingshe’sholdingback—he’ssureofit.Aslighthesitancy,asthoughshemightbecheckingoverherresponsebeforeshespeaks.
‘Hegoesouteverynight?’
Shenods,moreconfidentnow.
‘Inallweathers.IsometimesseehimmakinghiswayacrossthehomemeadowinthemoonlightandIknowhegoesdowntothestablesonoccasion.He’snotthesameashewasbeforethewar.Noonewhocamebackis.’
Shegazesathimcalmlyandit’sclearshethinksthathehasalsochangedandHarkincan’tbutagree.Healsoknowsthattherehavebeenmorethanafewnightswhenhe,too,haswalkedthestreetsofDublin,preferringtotakehischanceswiththecurfewthanlieinasleeplessbed.Hereturnstothematterinhand.
‘AndwhendidSeanDriscollarrive?’
‘AlittleafterBilly.’
Harkintriestorememberthetiming.Billysaidhehadbeenjustwalkinguptothehousewhenthefinalshotwasfired,withDriscollnotfarbehindhim.Driscollsaidthathewasalsojustwalkinginwhenthefinalshotwasfired.There’saquestionthathastobeasked.
‘Theyweren’ttogether?’
Shesendshimanenquiringglancebutwhensheanswershervoiceisflat.
‘No.SeanwasalittleafterBilly.’
Herubsathismorningstubble.‘HowlongafterBilly,wouldyousay?’
‘Ishouldthinktwominutes.’
Anotherdiscrepancy.Butheknowshowharditistokeeptrackoftimeinsuchasituation.Anhourcanseemlikeafewmoments,whilethebriefestwaitcanseemtostretchforever.
‘Therewasaseparateshot,awhileafterthemainambush.Didyouhearit?’
Charliegivesafairlygoodimpressionofsomeonesearchinghermemory,butHarkinhasthesensethatshe’sgoneovertheeventsoftheeveningmorethanonce,andthatthereissomethingaboutitthatshedoesn’tquitelike.
‘Yes.’
‘AndwhenwasthatinrelationtoSeanandBilly’sarrival?’
Shehesitatesonceagain.
‘NeitherSeannorBillyhadarrivedwhenweheardit.Fatherwasanxious—hewasworriedBillymighthavebeencaughtupintheshooting.Ifhe’dbeendownbythestrand,forexample,theVolunteersmighthavepickedhimup.Maud’sbrotherornot,he’saformerBritishofficer,andifheblunderedintotheirambush,theywouldcertainlyhavetakenhimprisoner—thesameastheydidwithPatrickWalshthegatekeeper—orworse…’Shepauses,andhecanseeherfacetighteningwithrememberedemotion.‘Whenweheardthegunshot,wethoughttheymighthaveshotBilly.Theyhaveshotothersforless.’
ThePrendevilleswererighttobeworried.GiventhebrutalityofBritishreprisalsagainstthefamiliesofVolunteers,hisdeathwouldhavebeenmorethanlikelyifBillycouldhaveidentifiedanyoneinthecolumn.
‘Whatdidyoudo?’
‘Whatcouldwedo?Fathercalledthestationinthetownandtoldthemabouttheambushandtheypromisedtosendapatrol,butweknewitwouldtaketimeforthemtocome.Therebelsknewwhichroadthey’dcomealong,sothepolicehadtobecarefulincasetheywereambushed.Ittookanhourintheend,andwethoughtthatwasprettygood.’
Itsayssomethingaboutthestateofthecountry,hethinks,thatpoliteyoungwomenarewellversedinguerrillatactics.
‘ButBillywasallright.’Harkinfeelsreliefwhenhesaysit,asthoughhehadn’tknownthisuntilhespokethewordsaloud.‘HowlongafterthesingleshotuntilBillyarrived,wouldyousay?’
Charlieshrugsasifthetimingisofnoimportancetoher,buthedoesn’tbelievethat.Herhandsareclaspedtogetherandherknucklesarewhite.Hernervousnessmakeshimwonderwhyshechosetotalktohiminthefirstplace.
‘Twoorthreeminutes,Ishouldthink,butit’shardtobecertain.AndwhenBillydidcomein,weweren’tentirelysureitwashim,hewassopale.Itwasonlythathiscoatandbootswerewetandhewassosolidthatweknewhewasn’taghost.Andthenhetolduswhathe’dseen.’
‘TheWhiteLady?’Harkinsays,withanattemptatalaugh.Hisattemptsoundssofalsethathefeelshischeekswarmwithembarrassment.Shelooksathimsharplyinresponse,butthenherexpressionsoftens.
‘Iknowyouwon’tmock,’shebegins.‘Becauseyou’rekind.Butmyfamilyhasbeenhereaverylongtimeandnotallofuspassonwhentheyaresupposedto.TheWhiteLady,wethink,isoneofthem.She’salwaysseenbeforeaPrendevilledies.Billysawherearlierthatnight.’
Shelooksathim,asthoughexpectingsomekindofreaction,whichhedoeshisbestnottogive.Sheshrugs.
‘Idon’texpectyoutobelieveme.’
Sheisn’tjoking—farfromit.Heopenshismouthtoaskheraquestion,buthecan’tfindthewords.
Who,afterall,ishetobesceptical,afterhavingseenMaudPrendevillesittinginthearmchairbythewindowonlythenightbefore?
TheremustbesomethinginhisexpressionthatamusesCharlie,becauseshesmiles.
‘Yougetusedtothem.’
‘Youseethem?’
‘Notsooftenthesedays,butwhenIwasyoungerIdid.Therewasonewhosometimescameintomybedroom.Iwouldwakeupandfindanelderlywomanlookingdownatme.Shewasn’tfright-ening—morereassuring,ifanything.Billyusedtosayshewasourgreat-grandmother,lookingforthechildshelosttocholera,buthewasjustteasing.Thereisanotherinthekitchen,acook,wethink,whousedtogiveMrsDriscollallsortsoftrouble,movingthingsabout.ButonceMrsDriscollleftthemwheretheoldcookpreferredthem,thingsbecamemuchquieter.’
Harkinseesthatsheisregardinghimexpectantly,asthoughhemightbeabouttosaysomething.Hefindshismouthopening.
‘IthinkIsawMaudlastnight,’hesaysabruptly.‘Shewassittingoverbythewindow.’
Charliewalksoverandplacesherhandsonthebackofthechair.Sheseemsunsurprised.
‘Shedidliketosithere,’shesays,leaningforwards,asthoughlookingfortracesofhersister’spresence.‘Doyouthinkshewantedsomething?’
‘Fromme?’
‘You’retheoneshecametosee.’
HarkinthinksbacktotheHa’pennyBridge.ItwasafewminutesafterthebellsofChristChurchrangformidnight.IfCharlieisrightabouttheambushbeingattwominutesbefore,thenwhateverguidedhimacrossthebridgedidsoattheverymomentthatMauddied.Perhapstheyweresavinghimforapurpose.Hewantstolaughattheideaandfindshecan’t.Insteadheshakeshisheadinthenegative.
‘Idon’tthinkso.’Heallowsabriefsilencetodevelop.‘Doyouthinkshemighthavehadalover?Orsomeonewhowantedtobeherlover?’
HecanseeCharlie’sshouldersstiffen
‘Whydoyouask?’
‘BecauseI’mlookingforareasonwhysomeonemighthavekilledher.’
Charlie’sheaddropsalittlelower.Hethinksshemightbecrying.
‘Shewasdifferent,recently.Shewasalmostheroldself.Shewouldgoonlittletrips.SheevenwenttoPariswithafriendfromschoolandwhenshecameback,wewouldtalkaboutmovingthere,thetwoofus.HowmanyFrenchmenwouldfallinlovewithus.Shesaidshehadcomeintosomemoney—shewouldn’ttellmehow…’Thereisasobinhervoiceandshebreaksoff.
Harkinwondersaboutthemoney;thesolicitor’sletterhadconcernedabequestforafewhundredpounds,nomore.Whatismoreinterestingisherplantoleave.Mightthathavebeenwhatdroveherlovertodespair?
‘Andnowwe’relefthere,BillyandI.We’llbelikethehouse,slowlyfallingintoruin,gettingolderandmorethreadbare.There’llbenoFrenchadmirers,onlybailiffsandratsinthekitchenandbeggingformoneyfromUncleJohntokeepthewallshalfstanding.Andthepeoplearoundherewillhateusbecausewewillrepresentapasttheywouldrathernotremember.Or,worsestill,theywillpityus.’
Withoutthinking,hewalksoverandplacesahandonhershoulder.Shecoversitwithherownandthen,withoutanotherword,shestraightensherselfandwalksquicklyfromtheroom.
Harkinstandslookingoutattheseaandthebarrenrockyshoreacrossthebay.Itisahardbeauty.Itisthetypeofplaceamanmightendupwhenhehaslookedeverywhereelseforwhateveritisthatheseeksanddiscoversthereisnowhereelsetogo.PerhapsthatwashowtheoriginalPrendevillesfoundit.
Hehasnotnoticeditbeforebut,inthecornerofoneofthepanesofglass,someone—hepresumesMaud—hasetchedherinitialsandadate.M.J.A.P.,4thFebruary,1911.Hereachesoutafingertorunitalongthechipped,overpaintedputtythatholdstheglassinsidethewindowframe.Hecanfeelitshiftunderhistouch.OnemoregustofwindmightbeenoughandthenMaud’smarkwillbegone.
Hetakesastepback,noticinghowthewallpaperunderneaththewindowframeispeelingawayandthattheceilingabovehimisstainedbydampinseveralplaces.EvenMaud’schairsags,althoughheimaginesitmightstillbequitecomfortable.Perhapsthat’sit.Thishouse,forallitsfaultsanddecrepitude,isalwaysgoingtobecomfortableforthePrendevilles.OtherwisehecannotforthelifeofhimunderstandwhyanintelligentpersonlikeCharliePrendeville—or,forthatmatter,Billy—feelstiedtotheplace.Here,theystillhavestature;theyhavetheirascendancyfriendsandfamilyandaplaceintheirfadedparade.Orperhapstheyfeelthatnowhereelsewillhavethem,atleastnotontermstheycouldaccept.AndthentherearethePrendevillesthatcamebeforethem,andthehousethatcontainedthem…andwhatwouldcomeofitifthelastofthelivingleft?
Harkindressesslowlyandashedoesso,hecontemplatesthedavenportdesk.Ithasahighbaseandsitsflattothegroundratherthanonwheels,asismoreusual.Itoccurstohimthatifthebasewerehollow,anditisveryunlikelytobeasolidpieceofwood,therecouldbeavoidwithinit.Hefetchesthekeyfromwhereheplaceditunderneaththepillowandunlocksthelowestdrawer,thistimepullingitallthewayoutandplacingittooneside.Hepeersinside,hopingtoseeaspacewithin,butifthereis,itissealedbythreewoodenplanks,ontopofwhichthedrawermustrest.
Heisabouttoreplacethedrawerwhenhenoticesthereisasmallgapbetweenthemiddleplankandtheothers.Theplankisthin,andwhenhegetsafingernailunderneathit,itliftsandbeneaththereisaspace.Hebreathesoutslowlyandreachesinside.
Hishandbringsout,first,aribbonedstackoflettersand,then,asmallblackautomaticthatfitsneatlyintohishand.Apocketpistol.JustliketheonethedoctorsaidwasusedtokillMaud
Thegunisanevillittlething,madebyaFrenchmanufacturer.Thereisadateonthebarrel—1920—anditappears,asthedatesuggests,brandnew.Heturnsitoverinhishand,feelingtheweightofit,thenpullsoutthemagazinetorevealfourshiny.25calibrebullets,amatchfortheoneHegartyshowedhim.Itcan’tbethegunthatkilledMaudbutitposessomeinterestingquestions,notleastofwhichisthatMaudmayhavethoughtsheneededitforprotection.
Harkinconsiderswhethertoreturnittothecavity,butremembersthewayMaudhadlookedinthedirectionofthesmallwritingdesk.Perhapshecanconsideritagiftofsortsand,havingmadehisdecision,hefindsitsweightinhispocketreassuring.
Heturnshisattentiontothelettersandimmediatelyrealisesthattheyareofanintimatenature.Theyarenotdatedandthereisnopostmarkorstamp.Heskimsthefirst
MybelovedMaud,
Heskipsthroughthebanalendearments,alittleembarrassed,untilhecomestothelastparagraph.
Thebarrierthatstandsbetweenusexistsonlyinyourmind.Ifyouwilltrustme,andwetakeourcourageinourhands,thenwecanbetogetherforeverinaplacewherewewillnotbejudged,orevenremembered.WithallmyloveSean
HarkincanhearCharliePrendeville’squickstepsclipacrossthemarblefloorbelowandthenbegintoclimbthestairs,buthedoesnotmovefromhisposition.Itisonlywhensheisonthelandingitselfthathehurriedlyreplacesthebundleoflettersandthenthedrawer,keepingonlytheletterwhichhehasjustread.Hestandssoquicklythathefeelsunsteady,hisvisiontemporarilyblurred,buthetakesthefewstepstothewindow,leaningonitsframeforsupport.Thereisaknockonthedoor.
‘Areyoudecent,Tom?’
‘Ithinkso,’hesays,andhearsheropenthedoor.
‘Iamsorryaboutearlier,’shesayswithatightsmile.
‘Notatall.Shewasyoursister.You’reallowedtogrieveforher.We’reallgrievingforher.’
‘Areyouquiteallright?’sheasks.‘Yourfaceisverypale.’
‘Isit?’hesays.‘I’msorry.’
Shesmilesathim,andhecanseeatraceofembarrassment.
‘Ishouldn’thavedisturbedyou.OnlySeanDriscollheardyouwereupand,seeingasDrHegartysaidyoushouldtakesomeexercise,he’saskingifyoumightliketotakeajauntalongthecoastalittle.OneofyourcolleaguesisstayingatMoiraWilson’sandwouldliketoseeyou.’
Harkinhastothinkforamoment—thiscomesassuchasurprise.
‘Andwhenwouldthisbe?Thisjaunt,’Harkinsays,curiousastowhothiscolleaguemightbe.
‘Seanisputtingahorsetothebuggyaswespeak.’
‘I’llbedowndirectly.’
CHAPTER25
CharlieinsiststhatHarkintakeathicktravelblanketforthejourneyand,althoughhedoeshisbesttorejectthekindness,bythetimeDriscollhasguidedthemoutfromtheshelterofferedbythehouse,andthebuggyisexposedtotheicywindfromthesea,heisgratefulforit.Hewrapsittightaroundhislegsandliftsthecollarofhiscoat,feelingtheskinonhisfacetauteninthechill.
‘It’sfreshenough,’Driscollsays,seeinghowHarkinishuddlingintohimself.
‘It’sbloodyfreezingiswhatitis.’
Driscollchuckles,hisglovedhandsflickingthetracesattheblackhorse’sback.Thebuggycreaksandswaysontheunevensurface.
‘Anyway,you’llsoonbeoutofthis.GHQhavesentamandownforyou.He’swaitingforyouatWilson’s.’
Harkindoesn’tsayanythingforamoment,wonderingwhothebosshassentdown,andwhatitmightmean.
‘Whatkindofaman?’
‘Abigman.Hedrovedowninamotorcar.’DriscolllooksatHarkin.‘Itwasn’tmeasletthemknow.Aboutyouatthefuneral.’
‘Iknow,’Harkinsays.‘ItwasHegartytryingtogetaholdofmydoctor.’
Infact,ifhisvisitoriswhohethinksitis,thenhehasreasontobegratefultoHegarty.AlthoughDriscoll,itoccurstohim,maynot.
‘Didhementionhisname,thisvisitorofmine?MightitbeaMrBourke?’
‘Ithinkthatwashisname,’Driscollreplies.‘Lookslikeaprize-fighter.Handslikeshovels.’
WhichsoundsexactlylikeVincentBourke.
Theytravelinsilence,whileHarkinputshisthoughtsinorder.Thejourneyisanopportunityforhimtocalculatethedistancefromthehousetothegate,andthetimeitmighttakeamantowalkit,andhethinksthatitisawalkthatcouldbemadeinacoupleofminutes—fasterifamanran.EnoughtimeforDriscoll,whoarrivedseveralminutesafterthesingleshot,tohavefiredit.Andthenheisremindedabouttheletters.AndthechildMaudPrendevillewascarryinginsideherwhenshedied.
‘DidMaudknowaboutyou?’
HarkindetectshissuddendistasteforDriscollinhistone.Hemakesanotenottoshowitagain.Hemustplaythisverycarefully.
‘YoumeanaboutmybeingaVolunteer?’Driscollsays,givinghimasidewaysglance.BeforeHarkincanreply,Driscollcontinues.‘Weneverdiscussedit,ifthat’swhatyoumean.IwasonlydischargedinJune1919andshewasnolongeractivebythen—downhere,atleast.Ididn’ttellherwhenItooktheoathbecauseIthoughtIshouldkeepmyinvolvementquiet,asregardsthePrendevillesatleast.Shemayhaveknownanyway.SheknewalotofthelocalSinnFeinandVolunteersfrombefore.Theymighthavementionedittoher,butsheneverhearditfromme.’
‘Butyouwereclose?’Harkinallowshimselftheslightemphasisonthefinalwordtoseewhatkindofreactionitmightprovoke.
Driscollinvoluntarilytugsatthetracesandthehorsecomestoahalf-haltbeforeDriscollurgesitforwardsonceagain.Whenhespeaks,hesoundsguarded
‘Howdoyoumeanclose?’
Harkinfeelshisirritationbubblingup,despitehisbestintentions.
‘WhatdoyouthinkImean?Wereyoufriendlywithher?Wouldyousayyouweregoodfriends?’
Driscolltakesamomenttorespond,andHarkincanseeconfusionandalsoangerinhisexpression,despitehiseffortstomaintainaneutralfacade.
‘IknewMaudPrendevilleallmylife.Wegotonwellenough.Therewasadistance,ofcourse.Iwasborntoaservantinthishouse,andsothat’swhatI’llalwaysbetothePrendevilles.SoIwouldn’tsaywewereclose.No,notclose.’
Harkinknowshe’srightaboutthedistancebut,thenagain,surelythelettertoMaudhadreferredtothisveryissue.
‘There’sabarrier,wouldyousay?’ThistimeHarkinmanagestokeephisvoiceclearofanyemotion.
‘That’sexactlywhatI’dsay.’
There’sathickveinvisibleonDriscoll’sjawlinethatwasn’tthereafewmomentsago,andabitterthinnesstohismouththatHarkinsuspectsmightmatchhisown.Hetakesaslowbreath.
‘Look,’Harkinsays,decidingtotryadifferenttack,‘I’msorry.I’mabitoutofsorts.’
Driscollseemstorelaxalittle.
‘Youdon’tlookthebest,’hesays.‘Maybeyoushouldletthisbusinessgo.Letsomeotherfellowlookintoit,byallmeans—maybeyourMrBourke?’
Harkinfeelshisangerriseuponcemorebutthistimeheallowsittodissipate.ItmightbeDriscolldoinghisbesttoputhimofffrompursuingthematter,oritmightbehonestconcern.Driscoll,afterall,didn’tknowthatMaudwasinthecar.Unless,ofcourse,Maudhadalwaysintendedtoreturnthatnight,perhapstomeetwithDriscoll.Hemusesonthisasthehorse’sgaitincreasestoabrisktrot,almostasthoughDriscolliskeenforthejourneytobeover.
‘DidyouarrangeameetingwithCommandantEgan?’Harkinasks.‘IfBourkehasamotorcar,wecouldgowhereverhefeelscomfortablemeetingus.’
Unless,ofcourse,BourkehasorderstotakeHarkindirectlybacktoDublin.
Butevenifhedoes,Harkinthinkshecanpersuadehimtostayforadayortwo.
‘Areyousureyou’reinafitstate?’
‘WithBourkedrivingIwouldn’tbeexertingmyselftoomuch.’
Driscolllooksacrossathim.
‘Thelikelihoodisthecommandantwillbesomewherenearthegapontheothersideoftown.’Hepointstothefarsideofthebay,wherethereisabreakinthehills.‘Ifthat’sthecase,there’savillagecalledBallycourt.IfyougointoO’Brien’sbesidethechurchandaskforabagofsugarandthreecandles,they’llpointyouintherightdirection.I’llletyouknowinthemorningifthereisachangeofplan.’
TheyareapproachingMoira’sguesthouseandDriscollbeginstoslowthehorsedown.Harkinwondersifheintendstodrophimatthegate.Heexaminesthegentleslopeofthedriveanddecideshewillbefirm.
‘Takemetothedoor,Driscoll,’hesays.‘There’snoneedtowaitaround,Bourkewilldrivemeback.’
CHAPTER26
Harkinissittingbesidethefireplaceintheresidents’sittingroom,watchingasVincentBourkewedgeshisconsiderableframeintoaleatherarmchairandreachesfortheteatheyoungmaid,Mary,hasbroughthim.ThecupseemssmallinBourke’sbighandandHarkinwatchesasheplacesthesaucerdelicatelyonhiskneeandthen,littlefingerextended,raisesthecuptohislips.
‘Lovely,’hesays,smilingupatMary.‘ThisisasfineacupofteaasIhavehadthismanyaday.’
HisblueeyestwinkleashespeaksandHarkinisnotsurprisedtoseeMaryblushinresponse.Foramoment,sheseemstolosecontrolofherfeet,whichpointfirstoneway,thentheother,asshetriestodecidewhattodowithherself.
‘Wouldyoulikesomecake?’shesays,inspirationstriking.
‘Iwouldlovesomecake,’Bourkesays,grinningather.‘Cakewouldbedelightful.Wouldn’tyoulovesomecake,MrHarkin?’
‘Somecakewouldbegood,’Harkinagrees,givingBourkeawarninglook.
Mary,tohissurprise,snortsbutitseemstobeasoundofpleasure,ratherthandisapproval.Shewalksquicklyfromtheroom,leavingthemalone.
‘Alovelygirl,’Bourkesays.‘IfI’dknownthereweresomanyattractivewomendownhere,I’dhavecomesooner,ordersornoorders.’
‘Butyoudohaveorders.’
‘Ido,’Bourkesays.‘Icertainlydo.’
‘Andtheyare?’
‘Toplacemyselfatyourdisposal.Ifyouwanttofuckoffoutofhere,I’myourman.Ifyouwanttostayaround,I’malsoyourman.It’suptoyou,butthebosswantsyoutomakeyourdecisionbasedonsomenewinformationthathascometohisattention.’
Bourkespeakswithastudiedeloquence,withoutalteringhisdeepDublinaccentoneiota,althoughthereisanundercurrentofmischievousness.
Whichisstrange,Harkinthinks,becauseVincentBourkeisaveryseriousindividualwhenitcomesdowntoit
‘Tellme.’
‘Firstly,yourMajorVaneisindeedknowntous.Heisknowntoyoualso,butasMrTomkins.Doesthatnameringabell?’
Itdoes.Tomkinsisarelativelynewarrival,comingtotheattentionoftheintelligencedirectorateinthelatesummerofthepreviousyear.He’dmadehispresencefeltbeforetheshootingofasizeablenumberofBritishintelligenceofficersthepreviousNovember,andhehadavoidedtheirfatelargelybecausetheintelligencedirectoratehadstillnot,atthatpoint,knownwherehewaslivingorwhathelookedlike.AftertheNovemberoperation,Tomkins—orrather,Vane—hadbecomemorecautiousstill,remaininginthebackgroundwhenitcametoactiveBritishoperations.Nonetheless,theintelligencedirectoratehadobtainedtwophysicaldescriptionsofhimfromthosewhohadbeeninhiscompany.Harkinremembersthemnow,andwhiletheyaren’tanexactmatchtoVane,hecurseshimselffornotmakingtheconnectionearlier.
‘Thatisaninterestingpieceofinformation,’hesays.
‘Isn’tit,though?Here’sanotherthing.He’scurrentlyinchargeofPaddyMalone’sinterrogation.Nosign,asyet,thatMalonehastoldhimanything,butthebossistakingstepstolimitthedamageifhedoes.WhichisoneofthereasonsI’mhere.Tolookafteryou.’
‘Isee.’Itmakessense.Maloneiscurrentlyaminorloss.ButifMalonegivesupHarkinoranyoftheotherseniormembersoftheintelligencedirectorateor,indeed,theboss,thenthedamagewouldbesignificant.
‘Andthere’smore.I’monlypassingonthemessage,sodon’tbeatmeformoredetailsbecauseIdon’thavethem.’Bourkepauses,asiftryingtorecalltheexactwordsthathe’sbeentold.‘ThebosssaystherearesignstheBritishareawareofashipment,whichhesaysyouknowabout.HesaysifVaneissnoopingarounddownhere,thenthechancesareit’stodowiththeshipment.Hesaysyoucantellmeaboutitifyouthinkyouneedtobutyou’llknowbest.’
Thisisadevelopmentthatposesallsortsofquestions,butifBourkesayshedoesn’thavetheanswersthenthereisnopointaskingthemaloud.
‘Didthebosshaveanythoughtsastohowweshouldproceed?’
Bourkenodsgravely,althoughhistwinklehasreturned.
‘HesaidifIgotachanceIshouldshootthefucker.Unlessyouhadanyobjections.’
MostofHarkin’scolleaguesareidealistsand,likeHarkinhimself,suffertheemotionalandpsychologicalstrainoftheirclandestinewar.VincentBourkeisdifferent.Hedoesn’thavequalmsornervesthewaytherestofthemdo.Ifanything,hetakesenjoymentfromthewholebusiness.He’spleasantcompany—charming,even—andagoodfriend,buthe’salsoakiller.IfBourkewasn’tfightingthiswar,hewouldfindanotherone.
‘I’dbettertellyouwhatthecurrentsituationis,then,’Harkinsays,andbeginstofillBourkeinonwhatheknowsaboutMaud’sdeathandthesurroundingcircumstances.Aftersomehesitation,hetellsBourkeabouttheshipment,withoutmentioningSirJohnPrendeville’sinvolvement,butrevealingthatMaudknewaboutitandwasinvolved.Whenhefinishes,Bourkesitsbackandcloseshiseyesforamoment.Whenhespeaksheistothepoint.
‘SoyouthinkDriscollpluggedher?’
‘It’spossible.Butitdoesn’tentirelymakesense.Imean,whywouldhekillher?Whatreasonmighthehave?’
‘Shewasuptheduff.’
‘Ihaven’treadalltheletters,buttheycouldbefromyearsago,andtherewasnothingintheoneIreadaboutapregnancy.’
‘Werethereenvelopes?Postmarks?Haveyoucomparedthewriting?’
Allgoodpoints.
‘That’soneofthethings.Therewerenoenvelopesandnopostmarks,whichcouldmeantheywerehand-delivered.ThatmightpointtoDriscollbut,no,Ihaven’tcomparedthehandwritingyet.’
‘YousayMaudPrendevillehadsomethingtodowiththearmsshipment.DidDriscoll?’
‘No.I’mfairlysureheknowsnothingabouttheguns.’
‘Butwhatifshetoldhimaboutthem?Iftheywerelovers,shemighthave.’Bourkescowls,asthoughthinkingoveraparticularlycomplexproblem.‘Whatifhe’saBritishinformer?Whatifhe’splayingadoublegame?’
Harkinconsidersthis,thenshrugs.
‘You’vemetDriscoll,Vincent.Whatdidyoumakeofhim?’
Bourkeconsidersthequestionforamoment,hisscowltwistinghismouthstillfurther.
‘Smartenough.Abitarrogantwithit,whichisnobadthing.Tough,I’dsay,ifhewentthroughthewar.Ididn’tmuchtaketohim,butthenI’mveryparticularinmychoiceoffriends.’HenodscordiallytoHarkin.‘Allinall,heseemedstraightandifheisaspy,he’snothavinganyeffectonEgan’sactivities.I’veonethought,though.’
‘Goon.’
‘We’dknowbetterwhatwaswhatifweknewwhotippedoffthecolumnaboutAbercrombie.IfDriscollhadnothingtodowithit,thatmightlethimoffthehookandgiveusanametotalkto.Ifhedid,itmightbeadifferentstory.’
‘AtriptoFatherDillon?’
Bourkesmiles,butthereisn’tmuchhumourinit.
‘Asithappens,I’minneedofconfession.Twobirdswithonestone.’
‘Threebirds,’Harkinsays.‘YoucantakealettertoSirJohnforme.He’snotfaroutofyourwayandIneedtotellhimwhatI’veuncoveredsofar.’
Later,whenBourkeisleaving,Harkinwonders,absent-mindedly,ifthebosshastoldBourketoshootHarkinifitlookslikelyhe’llbearrested.
It’sapossibility,hedecides.
CHAPTER27
Harkinsitsintheunlitroom,watchingthelastofthelightwashoutofthealreadydarkskyandlisteningtothesoundofBourke’scardisappearinginthedirectionofSirJohn’shouse.Hefindshimselftobeinasombremood,althoughitliftswhenMoiraWilsonenters
‘Whereareyourmemsahibsthisevening?’heasks,gatheringtogetherasmile
‘They’replayingcardswiththeEustaces.’Moira’smonocleglintsasshelightsacandle.‘Theywon’tbebackuntilthemorning.I’mallalone.’
‘WhataboutMary?’
‘Hereveningoff.There’sadanceintownandIbelieveMrBourkehasjustbeenkindenoughtoprovideherwithaliftin.Herintentionis,Ibelieve,tostaywithhermotherandbebackinthemorning.’
Harkinrememberstheburstoffemininelaughterjustbeforethedepartureofthecar.Hesmiles.ThechancesofBourkeaccompanyingMarytothedancewouldseemtobehigh.HewondershowhewillgetbacktoKilcolgan.
‘MrBourkeaskedforthekeytothefrontdoor.Justsoyouknow.’
HelooksuptofindthatthereissuppressedamusementinMoira’sexpression.Itseemsasthoughtheconversationisheadinginanunexpecteddirection,onethatMoirahascontrolof.
‘Thatisdisappointing.HewassupposedtodrivemebacktoKilcolganlateron.’
‘SoIbelieve.However,Ihavesolvedthatproblem.Youaretostaythenighthere.’
Hissurprisemustshow.
‘Itisperfectlyrespectable.YouarefeelingunwellandIamthedaughterofadoctorofmedicine,sopracticallyamedicalprofessionalmyself.’
‘DoIhaveanysayinthis?’
‘No.It’sallarranged.IinformedyourMrBourkeofmydecision,sothathefeltundernoobligationtoreturntooearly,andcalledKilcolganandspoketoMrsDriscoll.’Sheleanstowardshim,asthoughworriedshemightbeoverheard.‘Idon’tliketomentionthis,butshedidnotsounddisappointedintheslightest.’
‘Well,Imusthopeformyspeedyrecovery.’
‘Quiteso.MrsDriscollhopesforit,too,inthatitwillleadtoyourreturntoDublin.Anyway,Ihopeyoulikestew.’
‘I’mveryfondofit.’
‘That’sjustaswell,becausethealternativesareverylimited.Anomeletteatbest.’ShewalksovertositinthechairthatBourkerecentlyvacated.Herfaceisorangeinthefirelight,herhairtouchedwithgold.‘MyfathertellsmeyouintendtostayatKilcolganforalittlewhile.Isthattrue?’
‘Itwouldseemso.’
Moiranods.Herfaceishalf-obscuredbutintheflickeringflameofthecandleherlipsseemfullerthanusual.Amouththatcurvesupwards.
‘I’mpleased.Itisgoodtohaveyouaroundafteralltheseyears.’
Harkinrememberssnatchesfromthestoryshetoldhimthenightbefore—aboutayoungwomanwholovedaman,onlyhehadlovedanother—andfindsthathischestissuddenlyemptyofbreath.IfMoiranoticeshisstateofmind,whichhesuspectsplaysacrosshisfeatureslikeanewspaperheadline,shecoversitwithabreezydemeanour.
‘Nowwehavetodecidewheretoeat.Iwillgiveyouthealternatives.Thereisthekitchen,whichiswarm,welllitandconvenient,butperhapsalittledomestic.Orthereisthediningroom,whichwouldmeanIshouldbetraipsingupanddownthecorridormostofthenight,seeingasyouareaninvalidandincapableofmovement.Onbalance,Ithinkweshouldbemorecomfortableinthekitchen,butthedecisionisyours.’
Hewonderswhatshemeansby‘comfortable’andcan’thelpbutallowhisimaginationtospeculate.Thisshesomehownoticesandtapshiskneeinreproof.
‘Iamnotsurewhatisgoingthroughyourmind,MrHarkin.Butitshouldgetoutofyourmindandbehaveitself.’
‘Ididn’tmean—’hebeginsbutsheinterruptshim.
‘Thekitchen,then?’
Hersmileseemstoindicatesheisnotoffended,andHarkinknowsbetterthanmostwhentostopdigginghimselfintoahole.
‘Thekitchenitis.’
Hefollowsherandthecandlethroughthehouse,itsreflectionglitteringfromtheglassandpolishedwoodand,foraninstant,theblackandwhitephotographofRobertWilson.Astheywalk,Harkinhasthesenseoftheshadowsgatheringinbehindthem,butthishouseisnotlikeKilcolgan.Thereisnosensethattheverywallsarelisteningandwatching.
Thekitchenisasquareroom,whichmustoncehavekeptseveralpeopleemployed.Alongtablewitheightchairsstandsinfrontofalargecream-colouredoven;atendrilofsteamleaksfromacoveredpot.Aroundthewallstherearedressersloadeddownwithplates,potsandtheothernecessitiesofalargekitchen.
Theovengivesoffawarmththatisalmostsolid,andHarkinfindshimselfmakinghiswaytowardsittositontherailthatrunsalongitsfront.Thetable,hesees,issetfortwo,thesilvercutlerygildedbythelightoftwocandles.
‘Ianticipatedyourdecision,’shesays,liftingthelidofapotwithatowelledhandandstaringintoitintently.‘Notlongnow.Willyouhavesomesouptostartwith?’
‘Whatkindofsoup?’hesays.Sheshakesherheadreprovingly.
‘You’llbegettingnocluesfromme.You’llhavetomakeupyourownmindastowhatbreedofsoupitis.Anyway,it’sveryearlyyet.Iexpectamanofyourrefinementwon’twanttobeeatinguntileighto’clockattheearliest.’
Hisspiritssinkattheprospectofsittinginthekitchen,makingsmalltalk,withthesmellofthestewinhisnostrils,foranotherthreehours.
‘Unless,ofcourse,youarehalf-starvedafteryoursleep-enforcedfast.’
‘Icouldbetemptedtostrayfrommyyearsofrefinedlateeveningdining.’
Sheconsidershimwithaquizzicalexpression.
‘Sitdownbeforeyoufalldown,then.’
‘You’reverygoodtome,’hesays,andmeansit.Hewondersathissuddenemotion.Perhapssheseeshowaffectedheis,becausehersmilereturns.
‘Youwerewithmelastnight,’hesays,tobreakthesilence.
‘Iwas.’
‘Andyoutoldmeastory.’
‘Youwereasleep.HowwouldyouknowwhatstoryItoldordidn’ttell?’
‘PerhapsIammistaken.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Thankyouforlookingafterme,anyway.’
‘Iliketohavesomeonetolookafter,butreallyI’maselfishwoman.Iamstarvedforintelligentconversation,particularlywithanattractiveman,soImeantofeedyouup,letyoudrinkalittlewineandthenhopeyouwillentertainme.’Shepointstothechair.‘Don’tlooksoalarmed,onlysitdownandrestandletmeseetothefeedingandwatering.Iexpectnoentertainmentuntilyoufeelyourselfonceagain.’
Heobeysher,walkingaroundthetabletositdown.Hewatcheshermovearoundtheoven,retrievingaroundsodabreadloafandplacingitonthetablebetweenthem.Sheglancesathimsharplyasshedoesso.
‘Iexpectthiskindofinformalityisdeeplyshockingtoyou,MrHarkin,withyourhighsocietyDublinways,butIwon’thaveyousitinjudgementonme,doyouhear?’
‘You’llhearnocomplaintsfromme,MrsWilson.’
Shesighs,squintingathimthroughhermonocle.
‘Ithinkyouneedaglassofwine.I’mnotsureIcanbearbeingcalledMrsWilsonallevening.’Shefetchesanopenbottlewithafadedlabelfromthechina-ladendresserandsplashesthebottomofhisglassbeforepausing.‘Unlessyou’dpreferbeer.Perhapsbeeristhefashionnow?InDublin?Inhighsociety.’
‘Areyougoingtoteasemeallevening?’
Sheseemstomakeahalf-heartedattempttoappearoffended.
‘Imight.Anyway,wedon’thaveanybeer.Reallyyou’redoingmeafavour—wehaven’thadmanyguestssincethestartoftheTroublesandthememsahibsdon’tdrinkasmuchasI’dlikethemto.It’sarealshameastheyaremuchmoreagreeablewhentheyareslightlysozzled.Anyway,Idon’tknowhowlongwinekeepsandforallIknowthismayhavegoneoff.’
Hetastesthewine.Hecanfeelitsglowslidingdownhisthroattohisemptystomach.Heplaceshisglassbackonthetable,waryofhisalmostinstantaneouslight-headedness.
‘It’sverygood,’hesays,then,afterapause,‘Moira.’
Hereyestwinkleinthecandlelight.Itseemsshehasremovedhermonoclewhilehewasn’tlooking.Hedecideshedoesn’tmissit.
‘Ithoughtyou’dlikeit,Thomas.’
Shestandsbehindhimandhefeelsthetouchofherhandonhisshoulder,trackingthescarsofoldwoundsthroughhisclothes.Hefindsthathisbreathiscomingmorequicklythanusual.
‘IhelpedmyfatherwhenwebroughtyoubacktoKilcolgan,’shesaysinaquietvoice.‘Hesaidyourinjuriesweremostlyshrapnelbuttheymademesadtosee.’
Harkinthinksabouthisbodywhenhelooksatitinthemirror.Thebone-whiteshapesandswirlsthathotmetalcarvedintohispaleflesh,thecurlsofhairaroundhisbreastbone.Moirawillhaveseenthedarkpinkscarswhereabulletenteredandexitedhisthigh.Tohissurprise,hefindshedoesnotmindthatMoiraWilsonhasseenhimnaked.
‘Thankyou,’hesays,reachinguptotakeherhand.‘Onceagain.Forlookingafterme.’
Sheexertsthesmallestofpressureonhisfingers.
‘LaterIwatchedyousleeping.Youlookedverypeaceful,butthenIthoughtaboutthewarandwhatyoumusthaveseen.Iheldyourhandsometimes.ItwasheavierthanIexpected.’
‘Irememberthat.’
‘Ididn’tmind,Thomas,’shesays,shakingherheadasthoughhehassaidsomethingsilly.‘IwantedtolookafteryouorIwouldn’thavebothered.’Shehesitates.‘Myfathersaysyoushouldmakeafullrecovery.Solongasyoukeepyourselfoutoftrouble.Iwonderwillyoubeableto,though?’
Hewonderswhatsheknowsabouthim,orsuspects,butheisnotworriedthatshewillbetrayhim.
‘Itmaybedifficult,’hesays.
PartofhimwishesthatHegartyhadtoldhernothingabouthiscondition,butnowthatheissittingacrossfromher,herhandsholdinghis,itseemstohimshehasarighttoknow.
Shesqueezeshisfingers.Partofhimwantstopullbackhishandbutheforceshimselftoleaveitthere,tosubmittothestrokingofherthumb.Helooksdown,fascinatedbythemovement.
‘Shallweeatoursoup?’sheasksinalowvoiceandhenods.
Whenthey’vefinishedthemeal,shetakeshimbythehandandleadshimupstairs.
CHAPTER28
Afterwardstheylieontheirbacks,lookingupattheshiftingglowthatthesinglecandle’sflamecastsontheceiling,theirfingersentwined.Harkin’sbreathingislabouredand,despitethechillintheroom,hefindsthatheiscoveredinasheenofsweat.HesavoursthefeelofMoira’sskinagainsthis;thewarmthofheralongsidehim.
‘TherearesomethingsIthinkyouneedtoknow,’hesays.
Afterapausetoorganisehisthoughts,hetellsMoiraabouthisinvolvementwiththeIRA,andsomethingofhisactivities.Evennow,lyingherewithherlikethis,heholdsbackanythingspecific.Itisnotthathedoesn’ttrusther.Itisthattheinformationmightplaceherinharm’sway.Healsodoesnottellheraboutthevisionsandtheapparitions.Hethinksthereisenoughforhertodigestalready,withoutaddingthem.Whenhefinishes,Moirasaysnothingatfirstbutpullstheblanketsoverthemandnestlesintohisside.
‘AndMaud’smurder?’sheasks.‘Willyoucarryonwiththat?’
‘IfeelIhaveto.’Hecanheartheapologyinhiswords.
Inresponsesheplacesherhandonhischest.
‘Well,I’mnotsureitiswhatmyfatherhadinmindwhenhewantedyoutostayoutoftrouble.’
Hetakesadeepbreath.
‘DidhetellyouaboutMaud’scondition?’
Hecanfeeltheshakeofherhead.
‘Aboutherbeingpregnant?Hedidn’t.’Moirapauses.‘Maudtoldmeherself.OnceIknewhewastodothepostmortem,Ispoketohim.Iaskedhimtokeepitoutofthereport,whichheagreedtodo.Afterall,atthattime,itdidn’tseemherbeingpregnanthadanythingtodowithherdeath.Iknowhetoldyou,though.Hecamebythisafternoon.’
‘IfIsaidtoyouthefathermighthavebeenSeanDriscoll,whatwouldyousaytothat?’
Sheconsidersthequestioncarefully.
‘Doyouhaveanyreasontothinkthat?’
‘Imightdo.Butatthemomentitdoesn’tquitehangtogether.I’llknowmoretomorrowbutIwantedtogetyouropinionbeforethat.’
Shedoesn’tspeakforsometime.
‘Youneedtounderstandwhatitislikedownhere,forwomenlikeMaudandme.Wearen’tyounggirlsanymoreandwehavehadsomeexperienceoftheworld.IfwelivedinDublinorLondon,wemighthavesomemorefreedom,buthereengagingwithamanoutsideofmarriageisverydifficult,andmarryingevenmoreso.Sheobviouslysleptwithsomeone,
‘He’sarebel?’Harkinasks,attemptingtosoundperplexed.Shesighsinresponse.
‘ThereasonIknowheisarebelanddon’tmuchcareforSeanDriscollisthatmyhusband’sgunsweretakenfromthishouseandheledthementhatdidit.HeworeamaskbutIknewhimallthesame.Anyway,you’renotfoolingme,ThomasHarkin.IwatchedyoutalkingtohimandIwatchedhimtalkingtoyou.Youknowverywellheisoneofyours.’
Heleansdowntokissherforehead.
‘I’msorry.Oldhabitsdiehard.Butit’saswellifyouknowaslittleaspossibleaboutmybusiness.’
‘Youdon’twantmetojoinyoustormingthebattlements,mybreastsboundinatricolour?’shesays,amused.
‘Ilikethemunbound.’
Moirasmilesacrossathim.
‘Idon’twantyoutobehurtbecauseofme,that’sall,’hesays.
‘Thereisthat,’sheagrees,hervoicelanguid.‘It’snotmyself,ofcourse,thatI’mworriedabout.It’sthepoormemsahibs.Theywouldn’tlastaweekontheirown.’
Heisconsciousthatshehasn’taskedhimabouthisintentionsoraffections.Herunsafingeralongherarm.
‘Andwhatofus,MoiraWilson?’
‘Whatindeed?’Hervoiceisdismissive,butnotunkind.‘You’reagood-lookingmanandI’madesperatewomantiedtoahouseontheedgeoftheworld.I’msorrybutI’vetakenadvantageofyou.Yourchastereputationisalltornasunder.’
‘Myreputationisasarenownedladies’man.’
Shesnortsintohisarmpit.
‘Ifyou’dlikemetothrowyouacrumbofreassurance,thenIwilltellyouthatIlikeyou,TomHarkin.Ialwayshave.MorethanIshouldhaveandIshedatearortwowhenMaudsweptinandtookyouforherown.Ithinkyou’rebraveandhonestandkindandtrue.TheysaytheseTroubleswillpassoversoon,thatthingscan’tgoonthewaytheyare,thattheAmericanswon’tstandforit.Well,allI’llsaytoyou,Tom,isthatyouwillalwayshaveawarmwelcomeinthishouse.Whenthatcomestopass.’
‘Notuntilthen?’
Hehearshersigh.
‘I’mnotsuitedtowaitingaroundforsoldierstoreturnfromwar.Itrieditonceandthepoormandidn’tcomehomeatall.Anyway,Iknowyoursort—I’donlybeanimpediment.Iwasn’tborntobeanimpediment.So,fornow,youhadbetterleavemyroombeforeyourMrBourkereturns.There’sonetowardsthefrontI’vemadereadyforyou.’
Shepatshimonthechest,kisseshimandstands.Hewatchesherwalkaroundtheroom,gatheringhisclothing,herskingoldeninthecandlelight.Shehandstheclothestohim,thenpullsadressinggownfromahookbehindthedoorandputsiton.Shesmilesandthereisnoshameorsadnessinit.
‘I’mgoingtogoandwashbutfirstI’llshowyoutoyourroom.’
‘Thankyou,’hesays,puttinganarmthroughhisshirtsleeve.
Shetakesacandlefromadrawerinherbedsidetableandplacesitintoasmallroundholder.Shelightsthecandleandhandsittohim.Thensheleansforwardsandkisseshimonthecheek.Asagestureitfeelschaste,almostsisterly.
‘Comeon,then,TomHarkin.Youneedagoodnight’ssleep.’
CHAPTER29
Harkindoessleepwell,atfirst.Asolid,blacksleepinwhichthereisnohorrorormemoryorindeedanything.Thisabsenceofhissurroundingsandevenhisownselfishowheimaginesdeathmustfeel,ifdeathcanbefelt.Hiswakingconsistsofhimleavingthenothingnessandbecomingawarefirstofhimself,thenofthebedandtheroomandthenthenaggingsenseofanapproachingdanger.
Beforeheisevenfullyconscious,hehaspushedbacktheblanketsandhasrolledhimselfoutandisstanding.Thecarpetiscoldunderhisfeetandthehouseissilent.Hecrossestopushasidethecurtainstolookout,buthecanseenothinginthedarknessexceptforthefaintestoutlineofthetreesthatshieldthehousefromtheseaandthesuggestionofamist.Heplacesahandagainstthewindow,hearingthesoundofwoodagainstwoodasitshiftsinitsframe,andleansclosetotheglass,butthereisnolighttobeseenanywhereandeventheseaisquiet.Butsomethinghaswokenhim.
Then,afterafewmoments,hehearsit.Asoundinthedistance,andasitgrowslouder,Harkinbecomescertainitisanapproachingvehicle.AtfirsthethinksitmustbeBourkecomingbackfromthetown,butasthenoisecomescloser,herecognisesthedistinctiverattleoftheCrossleyTenderlorriesusedbythepoliceandarmyandrealisesthatitismorethanonevehicle.NosoonerhashecometothisconclusionthanthreesetsofheadlightscrosstherisethatseparatestheguesthousefromKilcolgan,searchingthroughthemistedhedgesandfieldslikegreedyfingers.Hehurriedlypullsonhistrousersandhisshoesandgathershisshirtandjacketinhishands,buttheyarealreadyalmostoutsideandcomingtoahalt.Harkincanseetheshapesofmenjumpingdownontotheroadandfanningoutaroundthehouse.Oneofthetendersturnsinthroughthegate,itsheadlightsturningtheshortdriveyellow,andhestepsawayfromthewindowastheylighttheroomaswell.Harkinstandsthere,thinkingaboutthegunhetookfromMaud’sroom,notbecausehemightuseitbutbecauseifheiscaughtwithittheywilllikelyshoothimonthespot.Helooksaroundforsomewheretohideit,andthenMoirahasenteredtheroomandcrossesquicklytowardshim.Herfaceseemstightwithtensioninthereflectedlight,hereyesshining.
‘Haveyouanythingneedstaking?’Hecanhearheranger,althoughisnotcertainwhetheritisdirectedtowardshimorthepoliceoutside.
Mutelyhehandsherthesmallpistolfromhisjacketpocket.Sheweighsitinherhandwithoutcommentandthenleaves.
‘Harkin!’
Thevoicecomesfromoutside.HerecognisesitasAbercrombie’s.Withoutconsciousthought,Harkincrossestothewindowandlooksdown,apartofhimattemptingtostopthemovementbutseeminglyunableto.Abercrombieisstandinginfrontofthelorrythathasturnedin,silhouettedbyitsheadlights.Heiscarryingarevolverinhishand.HeimaginestheotherAuxiesandRICmenouttherewiththeirgunstrainedonhim.Hemustmakeaneasytargetinhiswhitevest.
AbercrombieraiseshispistolandaimsitatHarkin,thenslowlyraisesthepistolfurtherandfiresittwiceintotheair.Harkinknowsheshouldmoveawayfromthewindowbut,asbefore,itisasthoughhisbodybelongstosomeoneelse.Hefeelsadistancefromtheeventsthatareunfoldingaroundhim,uncertainastowhathasjustpassed.HewatchesAbercrombieasthoughthemajorisanactoronaback-litstage.Thenheseesasilhouettedfigure,whomustbeMoira,comefromthedirectionofthehouseandstandinfrontofAbercrombie,wholowersthepistolandsmilesather.Thesmileseemstobepolite,evengentle,andseemsoutofplacegiventheshooting.Thesenseofbeingapowerlessmemberofanaudiencewatchingaperformanceisstrongerthanever.HarkinwantstocallouttoMoira,totellhertocomeaway,butheisnotableto.Instead,someonecomestostandbesideAbercrombieandHarkinseesintheheadlight’sglaretheflashofasergeant’schevronsagainstthedarkgreenuniformoftheregularRIC.
Thereisapause,duringwhichthesergeantleanstowardsAbercrombie.HarkinthinksherecognisestheshapeofSergeantKelly,theRICmanwhoquestionedhimonthejourneyfromthestation,butitcouldbeanyone.Iftherearewords,Harkincannothearthem.Theonlysoundhecanhearisthebeatingofhisownheartandnothingelse—noteventhesoundofthetenders’engines.
Perhapssomeonegivesordersthen,astheshapesandshadowsofRICpolicemenandAuxiliariesbegintomovethroughandaroundthepatternsofmistedlight.Henoticesthattheirriflesareslungnow,whereasbeforetheywereheldready.Afterashortpause,thesemi-silenceHarkinfindshimselfinisbrokenbythesudden,harshgrindofgearsasfirstoneofthetendersandthenanotherdriveoff.OnlythesergeantandAbercrombieareleftstandinginfrontofthelasttender,facingMoira,theirshadowsstretchingouttowardsthehouse,untilfinallythemajornodscurtlyandthetwopolicemenwalkoutoftheheadlights’glare.
Afteramoment,thereisthemetallicclangofthetender’sdoorsclosing.Thenthetenderreversesdownthedriveandfollowstheothersalongtheroadtothewest.
CHAPTER30
WhenthelastoftheglowfromthefinalCrossley’sheadlightsdisappearsoverthehill,Harkinmakeshiswaydowntothehallway,whereasinglelitcandlesitsonasmalltable.Ashedescendsthelaststep,MoiraWilsonenters,herlonghairwildaroundhershoulders,herfacepale.Seeinghim,sherunsthelastfewstepsandholdsupahandtohischeek.Heleanshisheadintoherhandandthenhefindshehasherinhisarms,orperhapsshehashiminhers.Theonlysoundinthehallwayisthetick-tockofthegrandfatherclockandtheonlylighttheswirlingshadowsfromthecandle’sflame.Shepushesawayfromhim,hereyescatchingaglitterfromthecandle’sflame.
‘Ithoughttheywereshootingatyou.’
‘Theywerejustawarning,’hesays,thewordssoundingcalmerthanhefeels
Sheplacesahandbehindhisneckandkisseshim.
‘Iftheywereawarning,maybeyoushouldpaysomeheedtoit.’
‘I’llthinkaboutit.’
Hewantstosaysomethingreassuring,buttheyareinterruptedbythesoundofanotherapproachingengine.Theylookateachotherwithapprehensionforamomentbutwhoeveriscoming,itisn’ttheRIC.
‘It’snotAbercrombie,’hesays.‘Itsoundsmorelikeamotorcar.Perhapsit’sBourke.’
‘I’llgoandgetdressed.Youcanmeethimlikethis,butnotme,Idon’tthink.’
Itisn’tBourke,however.WhenHarkinwalksoutsidetogreetthevisitor,itisclearthatthemotorcarisapproachingnotfromthedirectionofthetownbutfromthewest,andwhenitpullsintothedriveway,itisSirJohnPrendeville’sblueDaimler,notBourke’snondescriptFord.SirJohnstepsout,paleandanxious.
‘Iseverythingallright?Iheardshootinganddrovestraightover.’HelooksatHarkin.
Harkinreachesuptorubathischin.
‘Itwasnothing.MajorAbercrombiecamevisitingandfiredafewshotsintheair,that’sall.’
‘Abercrombie?’SirJohnlooksalongtheroadthatleadstowardsthetown,hisconcernapparent.
‘WhereisMrsWilson?’SirJohnsays,seeminguncertainforamomenthowtoproceedbuthavingaskedthequestion,Harkincansee,findshimselfonsaferground,hisindignationswellinghim.‘Issheharmed?Andtheladies?IshallreportAbercrombiedirectlytotheCommissioneroftheRICfirstthinginthemorning.’
‘TheladiesareawayplayingcardsandMrsWilsonwenttogetdressedwhensheheardyoucoming.I’msureshe’llreturndirectly.’
SirJohnlooksathiminconfusionandthenheseesanotheremotionentertheolderman’sexpression.Aquickglancetowardsthedoorway.
‘Butwhatareyoudoinghere,Harkin?IthoughtyouwereatKilcolgan.’
‘Thebosssentamandowntoassistme.Icameovertotalktohimthisafternoonandwastakenunwell.’HecanseeSirJohnislessthanconvincedanddecidestostretchthetruthalittle.‘DrHegartyinsistedIstayhereuntilIfeltbetterandIonlywokeupwhenAbercrombiecamecalling.’
Helistensbacktohiswordsandisunconvinced.Theysoundtoodetailed,toorehearsed.Hewouldn’tbelievehimselfandSirJohn’sconfusionhasdisappeared,replacedbysomethingmorelikewariness.Hedecidesonaquickchangeofdirection.
‘MrBourkebroughtyoumymessage?’
‘Yes.Someinterestingdevelopments.Theletters,forexample.’
HecanseethatSirJohnisuncomfortablediscussinghisniece’sloveaffair.
‘WehaveafewmomentsbeforeMrsWilsongathersherself,’Harkinsays.‘Shallwediscussthematterasitstands?’
HarkinleadsSirJohnintothediningroom,lightsoneoftheoillampsandplacesitonatablebeforesittingdownfacingtheolderman.Herepeatstheinformationheputintheletterbutwithmoredetail.SirJohnsaysnothinguntilHarkinhasfinished.Hisexpressionisasblandasifheisbeingtoldyesterday’sweather.
‘Youkeptoneletter,yousay.MayIseeit?’
HarkinreachesintohispocketandpassestheenvelopeacrosstoSirJohn.Henoticesthathishandsshakewhenhetakesit.
‘IsthewritingDriscoll’s?’Harkinasks,onceSirJohnbeginstoexamineit.
HarkinnoticesthatSirJohn’sblueeyesaresopaleinthecandlelighttheymightalmostbewhite.Heseemstohaveagedsincehesteppedfromthecar.
‘Ibelieveitis,’SirJohnsays,afteramoment.‘WouldyoumindifIkeepthis?Iwouldn’twantittobecirculatedmorewidelyandthisdoesn’tseemtobeamatterwhichwewouldwanttobringtothepolice,giventhecircumstances.IwilltalktoDrHegarty,thankhimforhisdiscretionsofaranddomybesttoensurethematterisleftthere.’
Harkinnodshisagreement.
‘Whatwillyoudonow?’SirJohnasks,hisgazefocusedonhisupturnedhands,asthoughheholdsananswerinthoselongfingersofhis.
‘Thatdependsonyou.Theevidenceismainlycircumstantialand,tobehonest,confusing.ButIthinkheneedstogiveanexplanation.’
‘Ithinkitismorethancircumstantial.Hewouldhavelosthisjobifthemattercametolight,’SirJohnsaysquickly.‘Hismotherwouldhavelosthers,also.Whatismore,itseemscleartomethatthisRICsourceisanonsense.DriscollmusthaveknownMaudwascomingbackthatnight.Hesetuptheambushandkilledherwhenshesomehowsurvived.’
SirJohn’sfacesagsafterhefinishesspeaking,asthoughovercomebythehorrorofit.Harkinnoticestheoldermanswallowhard,thenheseemstogatherhimself.WhenHarkinspeaks,hekeepshistonecalm.
‘We’llknowmorewhenmycolleaguehasspokentoFatherDillon.Oncewehaveasmuchinformationaswecangather,Driscollwillbegivenachancetoexplainhimself.MrBourkeandIwilltalktohimtomorrow.Ifwearenotsatisfiedwithhisexplanation,hewillbedealtwithbyacourtmartial.’
SirJohn’sfaceiswhite,eveninsoftlightfromthelamp.Whenhespeaksitisslowlyandquietly,butwithagatheringconviction.
‘Iamnotcertainthereisaneedforsomethingsoofficial,’hesays.‘Hisguiltisclear.Itwouldbepreferableifitweredealtwithmuchmore…howshallIputit…efficiently.Nomoretalking.NomoredraggingMaud’snamethroughthemud.’Hepausesandwhenheresumes,thereisagratingmenacetohistone.‘Iwouldgofurther.Mycontinuedco-operationwithyoursuperiorandyourorganisationdependsonabsolutediscretioninthismatter.’
ThereissomethingrepellenttoHarkinaboutthecoldnessinSirJohn’sexpression,butherememberstheboss’sinstructionsaboutthegunsbeingthemostimportantelementofthiswholebusiness.HecanhearMoiracomingdownthestaircase,approachingthediningroom.
‘Iwillconsideryoursuggestion.’
OnceSirJohnleaves,MoirawalksHarkinbacktohisbedroomandleaveshimthere,closingthedoorbehindherwithawhisperedbutfirm‘goodnight’.
Hestands,thinking,foramoment,anditoccurstohimthatSeanDriscollisalmosttheonlypersonwhoknewhewashereandnotinKilcolgan.Italsomadethemajor’svisitallthemoresuspicious.It’sathoughthedecideshewilladdresswithDriscollinthemorning,possiblywithVincentBourke’sassistance.
Eventuallyhegetsintobedandliesthereforawhile,unabletosleep.Hestaresupattheceilingandlistenstothewavesonthelongshoreandthesoundsofthehouse.Hetriestorelax,toslowhisheartrate,totrickhisbodyintoslumber,butnothingseemstowork,eventhoughheistired.Bone-tired.Eventually,indesperation,helightsthecandleanddecidestogodownstairstofindabooktoreadbyit.
Hedescendsthestairsslowly,notwantingtowakeMoira,placinghisweightoneachstepwithcare.Thecandlelightbarelyreacheshisfeetandheholdsontothebanisterwithonehand,itswoodchilltothetouch.
Heishalfwaydownthestaircasewhenhehasthesensethatheisbeingwatched.Hestops,liftingthecandlehigher,lookingdownintothehallwayforawaitingshadoworanunexpectedmovement,butthereisnothing.Yetthefeelingwillnotgoaway.Hestandsthere,holdingthecandlealoft,feelingslightlyfoolish.Hetakestwomorestepsdownthestaircase,beforecomingtoanotherhalt.Hetakesamomenttobreathe,admittingtohimselfthatwhilehismindistellinghimthereisnothingtoworryabout,hisbodyistakingadifferentview.Adrenalineswirlsthroughhisveinslikealongelectricshock,whilethehaironhisheadandtheskinonhisshouldersseembothtobestiffwithanticipation.Hetriestoswallow,buthecan’t,andallthewhilehisheartispumpingbloodaroundhisbodyatafuriousrate,thesoundofitsoloudinhisearsthatheisn’tsurehewouldbeabletoheardangerapproachingevenifitwererightbesidehim.
Anotherstep.Andnowhesmellsanalmostoverpoweringstenchasifsomethingisrottingnearby.Heliftsthecandleonceagain,consciousthatitisshakinginhishand,thehotwaxshakingdownontohisbareskin,andlooksdowntoseeifthereisavaseofdecomposingflowersonthesidetableinthehallway.Butthetableisclear.
Hedoesn’tknow,afterwards,whatmakeshimlookupatthispoint.Heturnsslowlyonthestaircase,thelightthrownbythecandleadvancingslowlyalongthewall,reachingupwardsuntilheseestheshapeofawoman,herfeaturesindistinct,standingatthetopofthestaircase,along,old-fashionedwhitedressfallingfromherbareshoulders,nearlyaspaleasherface.Sheholdsinherhandsabouquetofwhiteroses,thepetalswitheredalmosttobrown,andheremembersthestoryabouttheirsmell,whichnowfillshisnostrils,beingawarningofdeath.Transfixed,herealiseshecanseethewoodenpanellingonthefarsideofher.
Heswallows,ortriesto,andthencloseshiseyes.Whenheopensthemagain,thewomanhasgone,althoughthecorruptedperfumeoftherosesremains.
CHAPTER31
Itislongaftermorninglightpenetratesthehalf-drawncurtainsthatHarkinwakesfully.Heliesthere,thinkingbacktothenightbefore—toMoiraWilson,andAbercrombie’sarrival,andtheterrifyingincidentonthestaircase.Atfirstheisuncertainthatanyofitwasreal,butwhenhelooksathishanditisstillmottledbythewax,nowstiffandflaking,thatdrippedfromthecandlewhilehestoodfrozenonthestaircase.Hehasnoideahowhereturnedtohisbedroom,andyetheseemstohaveslept.
Hedressesquickly,onlypausingwhenhehearsthesoundofanapproachingmotorcar,butthistime,tohisrelief,itisdrivenbythereturningVincentBourke.Theymeetinthediningroom,whereasomewhatsubduedMaryhassatthebigmanatatablewithapotoftea.Sheleaveswiththepromiseofbreakfast.Bourkeisunreadable,hisdemeanouroneofjovialbonhomiedespiteawhiffofstalewhiskeyonhisbreathandtheairofamanwhohasnotsleptmuch.
‘Youstayedthenightintown,then?’Harkinasks,hisgazefollowingMaryassheleavestheroom.
‘Ididn’thavemuchchoice,whatwiththepeelersonthewarpath.Iholedupatthehotel.’
‘AndMary?’
‘Anyonewouldthinkyouwerehermother,’Bourkesays,raisinganeyebrowinmockaffront.‘Anyway,youdon’tneedtoworryaboutMary.Sheknowsallaboutthelikesofme.’
‘Youdidn’tgototheceilidh?’
‘Therewasnoceilidh.Thepoliceimposedasixo’clockcurfewanditwasjustaswelltheycancelledit.OurladsburnedouttwobighousestheeveningbeforeinretaliationforthedeathofMattBreen,andtheAuxieslosttwomenyesterdayupthehillsgoingafterthem.TheAuxieswereafterbloodlastnightandGodknowswhatwouldhavehappenedifthey’dhadaceilidhtofixtheirattentionon.’
‘OurfriendEganagain?’
‘Ipresumeso.’
Harkinrubshischinwiththepalmofhishand.
‘Itwasn’tonlyinthetownthatAbercrombieandhismenwerethrowingtheirweightaboutlastnight.’
HarkintellsBourkeaboutthemajor’svisit.
‘Jesus,’Bourkesays,cheerfully.‘You’reamanindemand.DoyouthinkVanetippedhimoff?’
‘I’mnotsure.IthinkifVanehad,though,I’dbedead,somaybeMalonehasheldfirmafterall.Ithinkit’sjustthatAbercrombiedoesn’twantmepokingaroundinhisbusiness.I’mmoreworriedabouthowheknewIwashere.’
‘OneofthePrendevilles?’
‘OrSeanDriscoll.’
Maryreturnswithtoastandtwoplatesofeggsandbacon.Harkinfindthatheishungry.
‘DidyoutalktoFatherDillon?’
‘Hewasn’tthere,’Bourkesays,throughamouthfuloftoast.‘Hishousekeepersaidhewouldbebacklaterintheevening,butbythatstagetheAuxieshadtheplacebatteneddown.Anyway,Ithoughtwecouldvisithimontheway.’
‘Ontheway?’
‘Well,theresidents’barstayedopenandourfriendSeanDriscollcamein.’
‘And…?’
‘AndhesaidtheboldCommandantEganwouldbedelightedtomakeyouracquaintance.Hesaidifyouweretogototheestablishmenthetoldyouabout,you’llbegivendirections.WhichItooktomeanyouknewwhatthehellhewastalkingabout.’
‘Whattimedidhetellyouthis?’
‘Aroundeightintheevening,I’dsay.’
Abercrombie’svisithadbeenatjustaftertwo.IfDriscollwasintownthenightbefore,mighthehavetoldAbercrombiehewasstayingatMoira’sguesthouse?
‘Didhestaylong?’
‘No,hewasinandout.SaidheneededtobebackatKilcolganforthemorningandhadamanheneededtomeet.Thebarmantoldhimtostaybecauseofthetrouble,buthesaidhe’dbecareful.’
Harkinpondersthisstatementforamomentortwo,watchingBourkemakeshortworkofthelastofhisbreakfast.BourkehelpshimselftoanothersliceoftoastandthenlooksattheremnantsonHarkin’splate.
‘Doyouwantahandfinishingthat?’
Harkinpushesitacrossthetableandthebigmansmilesinanticipation.
‘IwonderaboutDriscoll,’Harkinsays.‘IwonderhowcomehefeltcomfortablegoingaboutthetownonanightwhentheAuxieswereontherampage.TherearealotofthingstowonderaboutwhenitcomestoSeanDriscoll.’
HetellsBourkeaboutSirJohn’sconfirmationthattheletterscamefromSeanDriscoll.Bourke’sexpressiondarkenswhilehespeaks.
‘It’snotlookinggoodforourSean.’
Harkinnods.
‘It’snot.Let’sseeFatherDillonfirst,andthenitwoulddonoharmtosquarethingswithEganbeforewedealwithDriscoll.Inanyevent,whetherornottherewasamessageaboutAbercrombiepassedonthroughthegoodfatherissomethingweneedtoknow.’Harkintakesamomenttoconsiderhisnextquestion,knowingitsimplications.‘Areyouarmed?’
‘Ifneedsbe,’Bourkesays,hismouththinandhard.‘IhaveaMauserinthemotorbehindapanel.Ittakesnotimetogetitout.’
Harkintakesadeepbreath,preparinghimselfforthedayahead.
‘Let’sseewhatthedaybrings.’
Afterbreakfast,HarkingoesinsearchofMoiraandfindsherinthekitchen.Whensheseeshim,shesmilesandturnstoMary.
‘Thegentlemenseemtohavefinishedtheirbreakfast.Willyougoandcleartheroomforlunch?TheladieswillbebackfromtheEustaces’soon.’
WhenMaryleavestheroom,hetakesasteptowardsherandslipshishandaroundherwaist.Tohissurprise,sheletshim,turninguphermouthtohimtobekissed.
‘Didyousleepwell?’sheasks.
‘Nottoobad.’
Hewantstotellherabouttheapparition,butthewordsdon’tcomeandthenhethinkssheknowsenoughtofrightenoffanysensiblewomanalready.
‘I’llbeleavingwithMrBourkeinalittlewhile.’
Sheregardshimsteadily.
‘Youowemenothing,youknow.Iamnotadamselinafairystorythatneedstakingcareof.Ifanyoneneedstakingcareof,it’syou.’
‘That’sgoodtoknow.’
Shereachesupahandtopullathistie.
‘I’dbettertakethatlittlegunback,’hesays.
Shelooksathim,thenturnsandleavestheroom.Whenshereturns,lessthanaminutelater,sheiscarryingthesmallpistolinherhand.Hetakesitfromher,checksthesafetycatchandputsitinhispocket.
‘Thankyou.’
‘Iwouldlikeyoutobecareful,MrHarkin.Whateveryouaregettinguptotoday.’
‘I’lldomybest.’
‘That,’shesays,‘willhavetodo.’
CHAPTER32
StAnn’sisasmall,recentlybuiltchurchontheoutskirtsofthetown,thegranitefromwhichitisconstructedstillretainingafreshpolishthattheseaairandtheweatherhavenotyetdulled.Bourkeslowsthecarandbringsittoahaltjustpasttheentrance,indicatingadetachedhousemadefromthesamecutstone,setinanewlylaid-outgarden.
‘Doesthehousekeeperlivein?’Harkinasks,examiningthebuilding.
‘ShewasleavingwhenIwasherelastnight,butshecouldhavebeenjustgoingoutfortheevening.’
Harkinpullsouthiswatch.It’sjustpastteno’clock.Hetakesanotherlookatthepriest’shouse.Thecurtainsarestilldrawnacrossthewindows.
‘Let’stakealookaround.’
Theystepoutofthecarintoafinemistydrizzle,barelyvisibleonadaythatissoovercast.Harkinwalksovertotheentrancetothechurch.Thereisamassscheduledforeleveno’clock,whichmakesthehouse’scurtainsstillbeingclosedallthemorestrange.HecantellfromBourke’snarrowmouthandalertairthathehasthesamepresentiment.
‘WillIfetchtheMauserfromthecar?’
Harkinlooksalongthestreet,firsttowardsthetownandthenalongtheroadthatleadstowardsthehills.Hehasabadfeelingaboutthehousebut,ontheotherhand,heknowsheisnotquitehisnormalself.
‘No,’hesays,afteramoment’sfurtherthought.‘I’llgoandhavealook.Youstayback.I’llletyouknowifIneedyou.’
‘WoulditnotbebetterifIwent?’
Harkinlooksatthebigmanandsmiles.Bourkeisgoodatpersuadingpeopletodowhathewantsthemtodo,buthe’snotsubtle.Harkinwantswhateverinformationthepriesthas,butideallywithoutbreakinganyofhisbones.
‘BestifIgo,Ithink.Youkeepaneyeoutfortrouble.’
BourkenodshisagreementbutthereisapartofHarkinthatwishesthebigmanwouldinsistoncomingwithhim.
Thereisnopavementandtherun-offfromthevergeshascausedalayerofmudtospreadacrosstheroad.Harkinhasnochoicebuttowalkthroughit,andthesuckofitonhisbootsandtheanticipationofdangersendhimbacktothememoryofaslowstragglingnightmarchupintotheline—thesoundofhiscompanymovingstepbystepthroughthedark,theirbootsscrapingonduckboardsandsquelchingthroughmud,thesoftclangandbumpoftheirequipmentandthesoundofthegunsalongthefrontadullrumblethatgetslouderwitheachstep.Hefeelsafamiliardullnesscomeoverhim.Itisthedeliberatesuppressionofemotionandhope.Whatwillbe,willbe.Hereachesthegatetothepriest’sgardenandliftsthecast-ironlatch,thecreakofthemetalagainstmetalbringingbackanotherimageofaGermantrench,andalongitthestrewncorpsesofthedead.Theimageissoclearthathefeelshisbodybecomedampwithsweat.Heswallowsandtakesastepontothepaththatleadstothehouse.Thereisnosoundorsignoflife,onlythecawingfromthespiralofcrowscirclingthefieldbeyond.Harkinconcentratesonwalking,butevenhisbesteffortscan’tstopthenaggingcertaintythatthehouseaheadofhimdoesnotharbourawarmwelcome.
Hereachesthedoor,pullsthebellandwaits,hearingitechowithin,imaginingatiledhallwaywithreligiouspaintingsandaclockonthewallthatsomeonehasforgottowindup.ThereisnoimmediateresponseandheturnstolookatBourke,whoisleaningagainstthemotorcar,hishatpulledlow,acloudofcigarettesmokehidinghisface.Harkinnodstohimandtriesthebellagainthen,tentatively,putshishandonthedoorknob.Heturnsitandthedooropensinwards.
Hefindshimselflookingintoahallwaythatisalmostexactlyashehasimaginedit,exceptthatthereisnoclock.Heallowsthedoortoswingopenfullyandstandsthere,takinginthesmallsidetablewithasetofkeysinabowlandastatueoftheSacredHeart.Hedoesnotcallout.Thereisnopoint.Hecantellfromtheperfectstillnessthatnoonewillanswerhim.SomehowMaud’spistolisinhishand,eventhoughhedoesn’tremembertakingitout.
Thehousesmellsofpatchouliandpeatandsomethingelsethatheprefersnottothinkabout.Hefollowstheshortcorridorthatrunsalongsidethestaircasetowardsthebackofthehouse,wherethekitchendoorstandsopen.Ahalf-eatenplateoffoodsitsonthelongtable,besideitanoverturnedglass,redwinepooledaroundit,andinfrontofitanopenbook,thepageheldopenbyaredribbon.Asolitarysupperinterrupted.Harkinmakeshiswayaroundthetableandfindsachairislyingonthefloorbehindit,alongwithasingleslipper.
Heconsidersthescene.Iftherewasastruggle,itwasbrief.Akitchendresserstandsagainstonewall,asetofporcelainplatesondisplay.AdoubleBelfastsinkstandsinfrontofthewindowthatoverlookstherearofthehouse,withdishesandcutlerylongdriedontherackbesideit.Thereisapantryandalaundryroomleadingoffthekitchen,butbothareemptyofanythingbuttheusual.Harkincheckstherange.Itisstillwarm,butwhenheopensthelowerdoortolookatthegrate,thereareonlyashes.
Aneveningmeal,aninterruption.Andthenwhat?
Harkinwalksbackoutintothehallandstandsforamoment,consideringwhethertocallforBourke,butasheispassingthedoorwayonhisleft,hishand,asifofitsownvolition,comestorestonthehandle.Henodstohimself.Hehasbeeninhouseslikethisbefore.Thiswillbethepriest’sstudy.Heturnsthehandleandtheclickofthemechanismsoundsshockinglyloudinthesilence.Heconcentratesnowonhissenses.Thesmellheavoidedaddressingwhenheenteredthehouseiscomingfrominsidetheroom,andhemakeshisbreathingshallowtoavoidasmuchofitashecan.Heknowsthesmell.Hefeelshisstomachturnslowlyandhiseyesbegintowater.
‘Comeon,’someonesays,andheknowsitishisownvoiceevenifitsoundsasthoughitbelongstosomeoneelse.Hepushesthedooranditswingsopen.
Abodyhangsfromacassockropethathasbeentiedtotheornamentedcornerofahugewardrobe,atleasteightfeethigh.
Asingleslipperstillclingstothebody’sleftfoot,whichhangsinspace,sixinchesabovethefloor.
Thestenchofdeathisalmostoverpowering.
CHAPTER33
Bourkeenterstheroomandstandsinfrontofthepriest,examiningthedeadbody,hisfaceimpassive.
‘Hewasn’tabigman,washe?’
Harkinhearshimspeakasthoughfromadistance.Heissearchingthroughthedrawersofthepriest’sdesk,lookingforsomething—anything—thatmightgivesomeclueastowhythepriestdied.It’strue,though,Dillonwasasmall-bonedman,notmuchbiggerthanachild.Thepriest’seyesareclosed,forwhichHarkinisgrateful.
‘Whattimeisit?’heasksBourke.
‘Justcominguptoaquarterpast.’
Harkinremembersthemassthatisduetobesaidateleven.Heshouldhaveleftassoonashefoundthebody,buthereheis,goingthroughDillon’spapersasfastashecan.
‘Itakeityoudidn’tfindthehousekeeper?’Harkinsays,relievedthatBourkedidn’treturnwithnewsofanotherbody.
‘No.Itmustbeherdayoff,’Bourkesays,thedistractioninhisvoicesuggestinghismindisonotherthings.‘She’swelloutofit.Findanything?’
‘Hisappointmentbook.’
‘Anythingusefulinit?’
‘Mightbe,’Harkinsays,wonderingifBourkewilleverbequietandlethimfinish.
‘I’lltellyousomething,though,’Bourkesays,soundingsatisfied,asthoughhehassolvedaproblem.‘Hedidn’thanghimselfupthere,thelittlepriest.Hewasdeadbeforetheropewasputonhim.’
HarkinlooksuptofindBourkereachinguptoliftthepriest’seyelid.Afteraquickexaminationhelowershishandtopressafingerintothecorpse’sneck.
‘Whydoyousaythat?’Harkinasks.
‘I’veseenamanhangedhimselfbefore.Therewasspitalldownhisfront.’Hetapsatalongwoodenlibraryladderbesidethewardrobe,whichthedeadmanhadprobablyusedtoreachtheuppershelvesofthefittedbookcasesthatstretchfromfloortoceilingontwoofthestudy’swalls.‘I’dsaysomeoneknockedhimonthehead—look,youcanseehe’stakenaknock—thenhunghimuptheretomakeitlooklikehekilledhimself.Idoubtthepeelerswillbefooled.YourDrHegartywon’tbefooledanyway.’
Bourketapsthepriest’sbodysothatitswaysforamoment,likeasluggishpendulum.
‘I’lltellyousomethingelse,’hesays.‘Rigormortis.Thatdoesn’tsetintothisextentforaroundtwelvehours.Thepriestwasn’therewhenIvisitedataboutsixo’clocklastnight,andit’steninthemorningnow.Sothat’smyguessastowhenithappened,betweensixandtenlastnight.’
‘Howdoyouknowallthis?’Harkinasks.
‘Iusedtoworkforanundertaker.’
Somehowthisdoesn’tcomeasasurprisetoHarkin.Heshutsthelastofthedrawers.Heleaveseverythingexceptfortheappointmentbook,whichheplacesinthepocketofhisovercoat.
‘Comeon,’Harkinsays.‘Rigormortisornorigormortis,wedon’twanttobefoundherewithacorpse.’
Theywalkintothehallway,whereBourkeholdsupahandtostopHarkinwhilehelooksoutthroughthesidewindowbesidethehalldoor.
‘Thecoastisclear.’
TheywalkbrisklydowntotheroadandHarkinletsoutalongbreathofreliefwhenBourkeclosesthegardengatebehindthem.Perhapsit’sthereliefthatcauseshimtostopwalking,suddenlyoverwhelmedbythescenebackinthepriest’sstudy,hislegsshakingashestrugglestostaystanding.
‘You’regrand,’Bourkesays,takinghiselbowandalmostliftinghimupfromthegroundashepusheshimforwards.‘Youcanrestinthecar.’
ThenextthingHarkinisawareofissittingintheFord’spassengerseatandthecarmovingslowlyawayfromthesideoftheroad.Bourkeislookingintherearmirror,wheresomethinghascaughthisattention.Harkinlooksoverathimandnoticesthesuddensharpnessinhisexpression.
‘Peelers,’Bourkesays.‘Atripouttothecountryforus,Ithink.’
HarkinturnswiththelastofhisenergyandseesaCrossleyTenderturningintotheroadthatleadsoutfromtowntothechurch,abouthalfamileback.ItdisappearsfromviewastheFordfollowsabendintheroad.
‘Idoubttheysawus,’Bourkesays.‘Andeveniftheydid,weweremovingbythatpoint.Justacoincidence.’HelooksacrossatHarkinandfrowns.‘Youlooklikeadeadman.’
Hereachesinsidehisjackettothebreastpocketandproducesathinsilverflask,unscrewingitstopwiththehandhekeepsonthewheel,sniffingitandthenpassingitacross.
‘Haveadrinkofthis.It’llfixyouupornothingwill.’
Harkintakesasip.It’sasthoughhe’spouredfiredownhisthroat.
‘Christalmighty,’hemanagestosaywhenthecoughingsubsides.
‘Fellainthebarsoldmeabottleofitlastnight.Youcouldrunacaronthatstuff.’
Harkindoesfeelbetterforit,though.
‘Don’tbehoggingit,now,’Bourkesays,retrievingtheflaskanddrinkingdeeply.IncontrasttoHarkin,hisonlyreactionisaquickintakeofbreathandatiny,painedgrimace.‘Themanwhoputthatthroughthecopperpipingknewwhathewasdoing.Areyoufeelingbetter?’
‘Yes,sorry.Justfeltabitdizzyforamoment.’
‘Ifwe’rebeingsensiblehere,’Bourkesays,hisconcernapparent,‘weshouldn’tstopthiscaruntilwegettoDublin.Someonewillhaveseenthecarparkedwhilewewereinside.Therearen’tsomanycarsinthispartofthecountrythatapasser-bywon’thavetakennoticeofit.’
Bourkehasapoint,andHarkinisonthepointofagreeingwithhimuntiltheycometoacrossroadsandheseesasignpostforBallycourt.
‘Stophereforasecond,’Harkinsays
Bourkeobeys,althoughhelooksoverhisshoulder,backalongtheroad,incasethepolicelorrycomesintoview.HarkinconsidersthesignandthenthinksaboutBourke’ssuggestionthattheycuttheirlosses.
‘TakethelefttoBallycourt.’
‘You’resure?’
‘Iam.’
Bourkeshrugsasthoughtosay‘atleastheItried’.Thecarmovesforwardsandthenturnsthecorner.
‘What’sinBallycourt?’Bourkeasks,aftertheyhavedrivenforashortdistance.
‘Egan.’
Harkintakestheappointmentbookoutofhispocketandopensitatthelastentry.
‘WhenyousawDriscolllastnight,didyoutellhimyou’dbeenouttoseethepriest?’
‘Idid.’
‘Andyou’dbegoingbackthefollowingday?’
Bourkethinksback,thennods.Harkinholdsuptheopenpageoftheappointmentbook.Ontheleft-handsideofeachpageisacolumnoftimes.Driscoll’snameiswritteninfornineintheevening.
‘Accordingtothis,thatmeetinghetoldyouabout?Theonehewassoanxioustoattend?ItwaswithFatherDillon.’
Bourkegivesoutalowwhistle.
‘Hedidn’tmentionit.’
‘No.’
‘Youthinkhekilledhim?’
‘I’msayingitlookslikehewasinthehousewithinyourtimeframe.’
‘Ontopofeverythingelse.’Bourkesnorts.
‘Theonlyquestionis,why?’
Bourkeemitsadrylaugh.
‘MaybebecauseFatherDillonwouldhavetoldustherewasnoanonymoussourceofinformation—thatDriscollsetthewholethingup.Ifyouaskme,he’stheonetippedoffthepeelersaboutMattBreenaswell,tocoverhistracks.ThesamewayheprobablypointedAbercrombieinyourdirectionlastnight.’
Harkinflicksbackthroughthepagesoftheappointmentbookuntilhereachesthedayoftheambush.TheinitialsB.M.arewritteninforan11o’clockappointment.B.M.,reversed,couldeasilystandforMattBreen,thecolumn’srecentlydeceasedintelligenceofficer.Harkincanfeelhisfrowndeepeningasheseesanothersetofinitialswritteninforthedaybefore:K.R.Hechecksbackthroughthepagesandnearlyalltheappointmentshavethefullnamewrittenout.Theonlyexceptionsarethesetwosetsofinitials.IfB.M.reallyisMattBreen,thenperhapsEganwillknowwhoK.R.is.HarkinturnstoBourke.
‘Killingthepriestdoesn’tstopusthinkingDriscollsetuptheambushandEgancantelluswheretheinformationcamefromonewayoranother.Also,thewaywefoundFatherDillondoesn’tmakesense.IfitwasDriscoll,whywouldheleavetheappointmentbookbehind?Whystageitasasuicidebutleavesignsofastruggle?’
‘Maybehewasdisturbed?’
‘Maybe,’Harkinallows.‘Andmaybeitwasn’tabouttheinformer.Look,DillonhaswrittenB.M.inonthedayoftheambush.MyguesswouldbethatitstandsforMattBreen.IfMattBreenwastherethemorningoftheambush,thenthelikelihoodishewaspickingupinformationanditcamefromtheanonymoussource.Theinformationdidn’tpassthroughDriscoll.’
‘SoDriscoll’sintheclear?’
‘Notatall.HewasthelastpersontoseeDillonalive.PerhapsthepriestknewsomethingaboutDriscollandMaudPrendevillethatDriscolldidn’twanttocomeout—orsomethingelse.OnceDriscollknewyou’dbevisitingDillonthismorning,perhapshefelthehadtoact.’
‘SoweneedtotalktoEgan?’
‘Yes.AndthenDriscoll.Eitherway,hehassomeexplainingtodo.’
CHAPTER34
Ballycourtismoreofagatheringofdwellingsthanavillage—ascatteringoframshacklehousesandcottagesandasmallthatchedchurch,withacrossroadsastheirfocus.Theroadthathasbroughtthemthisfarcarriesonthroughthevillageuptothegapinthehillsbeyondit.Thereisnopavementinthevillage,andtheroaditselfismoreofalongmuddystreakofgravelthananythingelse.Theonlyothervehicleondisplayisadilapidated,horselesscartthatstandsbesidethechurch.
‘Thiscouldbeaone-horsetownifonlytheyhadahorse,’Bourkesays,slowingthecartolittlemorethanwalkingpace.Thesoundofthecar’senginebringswarymenandwomentotheirdoorsandwindows,andahandfulofshoelesschildrengathertowatchthem,theirfeetcakedbrown.
‘Youcanstophere,’Harkinsays,indicatingtheentrancetothechurch,andBourkeslowsstillfurthertillthecarcomestoahalt.
‘Thatwillbeyourpub,’Bourkesays,indicatingthelonglow-slungthatchedcottagefromwhichmenarecomingouttostandwatchingthem.Itdoesn’tlookasthoughthevillagersareinclinedtowelcomestrangersinamotorcarwithaDublinregistration.HarkinsuspectsBourkeisenjoyingthesituation.
‘Ihopeyou’veputdubbinonyourboots,Tom.I’dsayit’sthreeinchesdeep.’
‘SoI’mtheonegoingin,isit?Ithoughtyouwereconcernedaboutme.’
‘Iscarepeople—isn’tthatwhatyousaid?Anyway,someoneneedstokeepthecar’senginerunningifweneedtogetoutofherequicklyandyoucan’tdrive.’
‘Ican.’
‘Toolatetobetellingmethatnow.’
Bourkeleansdowntopresstwiceatapanel,whichdropsdowntorevealaMauserautomaticpistolheldinplacebytwoleatherstraps.Heundoesthemandholdsthegunlowbetweenhisknees.
‘Ifyouwantmetogoin,I’llgoin.ButifDriscollsetthisup,he’lllikelyhavegivenyournameanddescription,notmine.Areyouuptoit?’
Harkinsighs.Thetruthishefeelsbetterforthedrive,eventhoughthatdoesn’tmeanhewantstogetoutofthecar.Hereachesforthedoorhandleallthesame,thinking,ashedoesso,thatifDriscollisatraitor,thenthiscouldbeatrap.
‘Ifthisgoesbadly,’Harkinsays,‘IwantyoutopassonmyannoyancetoSeanDriscoll.’
‘Youcancountonit,’Bourkesays,slidingbackthesafetyontheMauser.
Harkinstepsoutofthecarintoastagnantpuddle.Helooksdowntoseehowdeephisbootshavegonein.Nomorethantwoinches.Bourkewaswrongonthat,atleast.Hetakeshistimetolookaroundatthescatteringofmenandwomenwhohavegatheredtoexaminehim.Noonehasthrownanythingsofar,orevensaidanything,andhetakesthisasagoodsign.Henodstothem,butnooneacknowledgesthis,sohetakesabreathandbeginstowalkacrosstheroad,steppingcarefully.
Ashedoesso,ayoungmaninalongblackovercoatandaflatcap,likeeveryothermanhecansee,comeswalkingalongtheroad.Hewalksanunsteady,weavingpathandtheotherinhabitantsstepbacktogivehimaclearpassage.HeseemsoblivioustoHarkinand,ashecomescloser,Harkincanhearthatthemanissingingtohimself.Harkincontinueshisslowwalk,changingdirectionslightlytoavoidthesinger,atwhichpointitseemshefinallynoticesHarkin,comestoahaltand,stillswaying,examineshim.
Theyoungmanhasasharpface,alledgesandpoints,aspaleasasheetofpaper,thatremindsHarkinofasaintinareligiouspainting,exceptthattheyoungmanismostlikelydrunk.Theblackhairthatcurlsoutfromunderhiscapiscaughtbythebreeze,andtheyoungmanreachesuptoslowlypushitawayfromdarkblueeyesthatseemtohaveatouchofmadnessaboutthem.Hehasnotshavedandthecollarlessshirtbeneaththecoatisdarkwithdirt.AtfirstheseemsconfusedbyHarkin’spresencebutthenhelookscloser,andhismouthcurlsinasneer,revealingtheyellowedstumpsofrottenteeth.
Harkinalsostops,closeenoughnowtoseecrustedbloodononeofhisears,ascuffontheyoungman’scheekboneandafat,brokenlowerlip.TheyoungmanhasathinneckandaprominentAdam’sapplewhichbobsasheswallows.Harkincansmellhimnow.Thesoursmellofolddrinkandancientsweat.Thecontemptintheman’sexpressionisalmostaphysicalforce.TheylookateachotherandHarkinisconsciousofhisironedsuitandleatherboots,histrenchcoatandhishat.Heseeshimself,foramoment,fromtheviewpointofthepeopleinthevillage.Hethinksbacktotheburningcottageonthefirstdayanddoesn’tliketheversionofhimhesuspectstheysee.
‘Goodmorning,’Harkinfindshimselfsaying,andimmediatelywisheshehadn’tspoken.
‘Goodmorning,’themananswersinexaggeratedimitation.
Harkinbeginstowalktowardsthebar,decidingtoignorehim.Butthemanleansback,thenflingshisheadforwards,spittingintothelongpuddleinwhichtheybothfindthemselves.Itisn’taimedathim,orifitis,it’saimedpoorly,buttheintentiontooffendisclearandHarkindecidesthat,fromtheperspectiveofthepeopleinaplacelikethis,heprobablydeservesit.Theyoungmanstands,swaying,asthoughofferingHarkinachallenge,beforescowlingonceagain,andturningtowalkaway
Harkinglancesattheretreatingfigureonelasttime,thenwalksforwardstowardsthebar.Themenwhohavegatheredinthedoorwaymoveslowlyoutofhisway,exceptforoneofthem,astockyoldermaninanapronwholeadsthewayinside.
Harkinhastostooptoenterand,ashedoesso,heisgreetedbythesmellofolddrinkandingrainedcigarettesmoke.It’sasfamiliartohimasbakingbread.ThemanintheapronmovesbehindthecountertostandatthecashregisterandHarkinpausesforamoment,lookingintotheemptyunlitinterior,andthenglancingovertheshelvesofbrandedtinsandboxes.Themanbehindthecountersaysnothing.
‘MrO’Brien?’
‘Thesame.’
‘Abagofsugar,’Harkinsays.‘Andthreecandles.Please.’
ToHarkin’sfaintsurprise,thereisatelephoneonthewallandthepublicanturnstoit,windingthehandle.Whentheoperatorcomeson,heasksforsomeonecalledO’Mahony.Whenhecomesontheline,O’Brientellshimthattheitemsheaskedforhavearrived,andasksifhewantssomeonetobringthemoutorwillhecollectthemhimself.Helistenstotheanswerandringsoff.HeturnsbacktoHarkin.
‘You’reexpected.Carryonuptheroadandthere’llbesomeonewaitingforyou.They’lldirectyoufromthere.’ThenO’Brien’sgravefacebreaksintoasmile.IttakesHarkinbysurprise.‘Isthereanythingelseyouneedbeforeyougo?’
Harkin,bemused,pointsatashelfofSweetAftoncigarettes,whilerootinginhispocketforashilling.
‘Givemeapacketofthose.’
BythetimeHarkingetsbacktothecar,thepanelinthedoorisbackinplaceandtheMauseroutofsight.
‘Allgood?’Bourkesays.
Themenandwomenwhowerewatchingthemearlierhavegoneonabouttheirbusinessandthevillageseemsalmostdesertedonceagain,exceptforthechildren,whohavegatheredbythegatetothechurch.Theylookhungry,likeeveryoneelseinthevillageexcept,perhaps,MrO’Brien.
‘Ithinkso.’
Harkinpassesonthepublican’sdirections.ThechildrenwatchthemastheyleavethevillageandwhenHarkinlooksbackoverhisshoulderasthecarbeginstoclimbtheroadtothegap,heseesthemstandinginthemuddyroaduntileventuallytheycanbeseennomore.
‘Imaginelivinginaplacelikethat?’Bourkesays,andHarkinissurprisedbythespurtofangerthattwistsinsidehisstomach.
‘ImaginewhatthatplacewouldbelikeifIrishmenownedthelandonwhichtheystood,’Harkinsays.‘Andmadetheirownlaws.’
Bourkelaughswithouthumour.
‘Youthinkitwillbeanydifferentifthathappens?’hesays.‘You’reanoptimist,I’llgiveyouthat.’
‘Maybenotrightaway,’Harkinsays,‘butoneday.’
Theroadbeginstosnakebackonitselfastheyclimbhigher,thelandscapearoundthembarrenandcoveredbygorseandrock,brokenupinplacesintosmallfieldswiththickstonewalls.Whatgrassthereisstandsstiffinthewind.Harkinlooksbehindthemattheseaandthewhite-edgedcoast.Onthefarsideofthebay,hecanjustaboutmakeoutKilcolgan.
Afterabouttenminutes’driving,theycresttheriseandbegintodescendtheothersideofthehills,thecountrysidebelowthemopeninguptoview.
‘Havewegonetoofar?’Bourkesays,perhapssensingthatHarkinhasbeguntoworrytheyhavemissedwhoeveristomeetthem.
Harkindoesn’tanswer,hisattentionfocusedonayoungred-hairedboyofaboutfourteen,inablackwoollenjumperandagrimycap,leaningagainstastonewall.Astheyapproach,henodstothemandstandsup,steppingforwardsontotheroad.Bourkeslowsthecarandtheyoungsterleansinwhenherollsthewindowdown.HelooksfromHarkintoBourkeandthenbackagain.
‘MrHarkin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anychanceofalift?’
‘Inyouget.’
TheboydirectsthemalongtheroadforaboutanothermileandthentellsBourketotakealeftturnalonganarrowlanewhichdoesn’tlookasthoughithasseenmuchtrafficinrecenttimes,andcertainlynotacar.Treessoonsurroundthelane,andHarkinissureheseestwomenwithriflesstandinginamongthem.HelooksacrosstoBourke,whonodsthathehasseenthemalso.Soontheboytellsthemtostopbesideasmallfarmyard.Anothertwomenstandinfrontofit,bandoliersofammunitionacrosstheirlongcoats,onewearingaflatcapandtheotherafedora.
‘Stayhereforaminute,’theboysays,andgoestospeaktothetwomen,beforewavingthemforwards.Theyarepatteddownforweaponsandthentakenintothefarmhouse.
TheyfindthemselvesinalonglowroomandbothBourkeandHarkinhavetoleandowntoavoidthelow-slungbeams.Harkintakesoffhishatandlooksaround,hiseyesslowlyadjustingtothegloom.Anelderlywomanisbusyattheopenhearthatthefarwallandyoungmenaregatheredaroundit,sittingonthefewchairsandstools,onthegroundandagainstthewalls.Thesmell,amixtureofwetwoolandthesourodourofmenwhohavenotwashedforsometime,isfamiliartoHarkin.Thementhathecanmakeouthavetwo-orthree-daybeards,andtheirtiredeyeslookbackathimwithoutmuchinterest.Toughmen.HarkinwondershowthemessagecameoverthehillfromBallycourt,becausetherehasneverbeenatelephoneinthishouse.
‘OurguestsfromDublin.’Asmall,wirymansittingattheonlytableintheroomwavesthemovertositwithhim.
Theirinterestsatisfied,mostoftheVolunteersinthelowroomlookawayandbegintoconverseinlowvoices.Thosewhohaveaplateoffoodareeating;theothers,waiting.ThenoiseremindsHarkinofearlyeveninginapub.Thesmallman’sblueeyessparkle,althoughitisn’tcleartoHarkinifit’swithamusementorsomethinglessfriendly.
‘Ihaveorderstoassistyou,ofcourse.’
‘MickEgan?’
Thesmallmannods.
‘You’llbeTomHarkinandyou—’hegivesBourkeanappraisingglance—‘willbeVincentBourke.’
Harkinlooksaround,uncomfortabletobespeakinginfrontofsomanymenhedoesnotknow.
‘Don’tworryaboutthem.Iftheywanttolistenin,theywill.Iftheydon’t,theywon’t.Whateverwehavetosaytoeachotherisforeveryone’sears.That’showweoperate.Nosecretsinthisunit.Well,notmany,atleast.’
Harkinexplainswhytheyarethere,whichseemstocomeasnosurprisetoEgan.Egantakesthemthroughthecolumn’sactivitiesonthedayoftheambush,fromMattBreen’sarrivalwithnewsofAbercrombie’slikelyvisittoKilcolgan,throughtotheambushitselfandthenthefinalpistolshot,heardwhentheywerealreadysomedistanceawayfromthesmokingcar.
‘MissPrendevillewasunconsciousbutwelefthercomfortableenough.Otherthanthat,allwedidwastakeTeevan’srevolverandariflethatwefoundintheboot.Wedidn’twaitaround—Iwantedtobebackinthehillsbeforethelightcameup.’
‘DriscolltoldustheinformationfortheambushcamethroughFatherDillon.’Harkindecidestoholdthenewsaboutthepriest’sdeathbackforthemoment.
‘That’sright,’Egansays,frowning,andHarkinwondersifit’satthememoryofMattBreen,orperhapsbecauseheisthinkingaheadtowhatHarkinmaysaynext.
‘DoyouknowwhogavetheinformationtoDillon?’
‘Isaywehavenosecrets,butMattwouldkeepsomethingstohimself.ThatsourcewasimportanttousandMattwascarefultoprotecthim.Ifallofusknewwhohewas,itwouldhaveputthesourceatrisk.’
‘Anysuspicions?’
‘NoneIwouldputmynameto.Whydoyouask?’
‘IfMaudwaskilledbysomeoneotherthanthemenofyourcolumn,theyprobablyknewwhentheambushwasduetotakeplace.It’sunlikelytheyweretherebycoincidence.’
Eganleansforwards,interested.
‘Goon.’
‘ButSeanDriscollwasn’tanythingtodowiththeambush?’
‘No.’Eganspeaksthewordslowly.Harkincanseehismindworkingbehindthosecoolblueeyes.
‘Butmighthehaveknownaboutit?’
EganexaminesHarkinintently.
‘Hemighthavedone.’
‘You’renotcertain.’
‘IonlyknowMattmethimafterhemetFatherDillon,topickupwhatevernewsSeanmighthavehadforus.Idon’tknowifMatttoldhimabouttheambush.Idoubtit,buthemayhave.’
‘Why?’
‘BecauseSeanwouldn’thavebeenhappyaboutanambushsoclosetoKilcolgan.ItmightbeMattdecideditwassaferforhimandforusifSeandidn’tknowaboutit.Seanisareliableman,buthewouldhavealoyaltytothePrendevillesaswell.’
‘Butyou’renotcertain?’
‘Inalltherushtogetthereintime,IneveraskedMattwhatSeanknewandwhathedidn’t.Tobehonest,Ididn’twanttoaskhimincasehe’dtellmesomethingIdidn’twanttohear.WehadagreatopportunitytodealwithAbercrombie.IknewtherewouldbearisktoSeanDriscollbutitwasariskIwasreadytorun.’EganliftshiseyestogazesteadilyatHarkin.‘Totellthetruth,IwouldhaveshotupthatcarevenifI’dknownMaudPrendevillewasinit,solongasIthoughttherewasagoodchanceIcouldplugAbercrombieatthesametime.I’venoregrets.Incasethatisn’tcleartoyou.’
‘IwouldthinkthechancesofLordKilcolganlettingtheAuxiliarieshavethehouseasabasearesignificantlygreaterasaresultoftheambush.’
Eganlooksupathimsharply,asthoughassessingthestatementforacriticism,orsomethingelse.Hesmiles.
‘Iwouldn’tliketheAuxiestobebasedinKilcolganHouse.Itwouldsuitthemverywellanditwouldn’tsuitusatall.Butit’safactorItookintoconsideration.’
Theintentinthewordsisclear.
‘Whataboutafterwards?Youdidn’taskBreenthen?’
‘Ididn’tspeaktoMattaftertheambush.Hepeeledawayfromthecolumnafteranhourorso—hehadbusinesstoattendto—andyouknowwhathappenedtohimafterthat.’
Harkinnods,thinkingtheinformationthrough.
‘Allyourmenwerewithyouwhenthesingleshotwasfired?’
Egannodsonceagain,butthereisaquestionnow,Harkincansee,thatthecommandantwantstoask,andit’saboutSeanDriscoll.Harkintakestheappointmentbookoutofhispocketandopensitonthetableatthedateoftheambush.
‘ThisisFatherDillon’sappointmentbook.I’mguessing“B.M.”isMattBreen.’
Eganleansforwardstoexaminetheinitialsandthennods.
‘ThatwouldbethetimeMattmethim.’
Harkinturnsbacktothepagebefore.
‘Anyideawho“K.R.”is?Itmightbethesourceoftheinformation.’
Eganthinksforamoment.
‘IsupposeIalwayssuspectedthesourcewassomeoneintheRICbarracksintown.TheonlypersonIknowofintherewithinitialssimilartothatwouldbeRichardKelly.DickyKelly.Asergeant.’
‘I’vemethim.’
‘It’sapossibility,anyway,’Egansays.‘DoyoumindmeaskinghowyoucometohaveFatherDillon’sappointmentbook?’
‘Wefoundhimhangingfromaropethismorning.Someonetriedtomakeitlookasthoughhe’dhunghimself.Wethinkhewasmurdered.’
Egannodsslowly,andHarkinturnsthepagestoyesterday’sdate.
‘Hehadaninterestingvisitorlastnight.’
EganleansforwardsandreadsSeanDriscoll’sname.Thenheleansbackand,apparentlyabsent-mindedly,takesatobaccopouchfromhisjacketpocketandbeginstorollhimselfacigarette.
‘ComeoutforawalkwithmewhileIsmokethis.Ourhostessdoesn’tlikeussmokinginside.’
Outsidetheystandinthesmall,rockyfarmyard,watchedbyanancientsheepdogand,atadistance,bythetwoguards.Afewlethargicchickenspeckatthegroundaroundtheirfeet.
‘Tellmewhatelseyou’vefoundoutaboutSeanDriscoll.Icantellthere’smore.’
HarkinfillshiminabouttheinconsistenciesinDriscoll’saccountoftheambush,theletterstoMaudPrendevilleandaboutherpregnancy.Then,alittlereluctantly,hetellshimaboutAbercrombie’svisittoMoiraWilson’sthenightbefore.
‘SeanDriscollwastheonlypersonapartfromthePrendevilleswhoknewIwasthere.’
‘Andwhattimewasthis?’
‘Twointhemorningorso.’
Egantakesalongpullonhiscigaretteandlooksoutatacowthatstands,watchingthem,intheadjoiningfield.
‘That’sinteresting,’Egansays.‘BecauseSeanDriscolldidn’tshowupforameetingwiththebrigadequartermasterintownlastnightatteno’clock.I’mtoldtheyfoundhishorse,stillwiththesaddleon,inafieldbesidetheroadfirstthingthismorning.Makeofthatwhatyouwill.’
CHAPTER35
ThereisnotmuchconversationbetweenHarkinandBourkeonthedrivebacktoKilcolgan.EverynowandthenBourkelooksacrossathimandshakeshishead,andeventuallyHarkincan’tignorethesilentreproofsanylonger.
‘LeavemeatthebackgatesandheadbacktoDublin.EgancanlookaftermeifIneedtogotoground.’
‘It’snotEgan’sjobtolookafteryou,it’smine.Ionlywishyou’dmakeiteasyforme.’
‘There’sanironmonger’sintowncalledLanigan’s.I’lltellyouwhatthepasswordisandthemantotalkto.YoucansendamessagetoGHQfromthere.Askforinstructions—forbothofus.You’llhaveanansweronthemorningtrain.Ifwe’reorderedtoleave,we’llleave.’
‘Ifwemakeittothemorning.’
Harkinopenshiscigarettecase,lightsoneandhandsittoBourke,thenlightsanotherforhimself.
‘Therearefourpossibilities,asIseeit,forwhereDriscollhasdisappearedto.First,hewaslyingdrunkinaditchorinsomeone’shousewhentheyfoundthehorse,andhe’sbackatKilcolganbynow.’
‘That’sapossibilityIlike.’
‘Second,hepanicked,maybebecausehekilledFatherDillon,andhasgoneontherun.Inwhichcase,heisn’tadangertous.We’readangertohim.’
‘Goon.’
‘Third,hewaspickedupbythepolice.Iftheyknowhe’sanintelligenceofficer,thingswillhavegonehardforhim,buthe’stougherthanhelooks.Andthenagain,theymaynotevenhavequestionedhim.Hecouldbesittinginapolicecellnow,waitingforhiscupoftea.’
‘Orbeinabogwithabagfulofbulletsinhim.’
‘Indeed.ThefourthpossibilityistheoneIdon’tlike.’
‘Norme.Ifhe’sbeenworkingwithAbercrombieallalongthenwe’reintrouble.’
‘ExceptthatDriscollknowswhoIamandI’mstillwalkingaround.Doyouthink,ifDriscollhadtoldhim,thatAbercrombiewouldn’thavetakenmeawaylastnight?HemayhaveletAbercrombieknowwhereIwas,buthecan’thavetoldhimwhoIwas.Ontopofwhich,ifhedidknowabouttheAbercrombieambush,andtoldAbercrombie,whywasitallowedtogoahead?’
‘MaybeAbercrombiewantedTeevandeadforsomereason?OrMaudPrendeville.OrmaybetheEnglishfella.’
Harkinlooksacrossathim,butBourkeisn’tbeingserious.Harkinsettleshimselfintotheseat,watchingBourkethinkthesituationthrough.Eventuallythebigmannods.
‘Allright,then.I’lltakeyoutoyourbackgateandleaveyouthere,andthenI’llgointotowntothisplaceLanigan’sandsendamessagethrough.Iwarnyou,I’mnotholdinganythingback.’
‘Iwouldn’twantyouto,’Harkinsays.
‘YoucanbesureI’llbewaitingtomeetthemorningtraintoseewhathesays.’
‘That’sallrightwithme.’
‘Verygood,then.Isthereanythingelseyouneedmetodo?’
Harkinthinksforamoment,thenlooksacross.
‘YourcontactisPeterLanigan.YourpasswordisExcelsior.AskhimifheknowswhereSergeantKellylives.’
‘Areyoujokingme?’
‘Thechancesarehelivesinthebarracks,buthemightstillliveinthetown.HeisMrsDriscoll’sfirstcousin.Idon’tseeanyreasonIshouldn’tvisithim,givenDriscollismissing.Ifheisthesource,thenwewillknowwherewestandonthat,atleast.’
‘I’llask.’Bourke’sunhappinessismorethanapparent.‘Afterwards,I’llbeatMrsWilson’sandyouaretocallmeifthereisevenahintoftrouble.Orifyouneedmetodriveyouintotown.’
‘Thankyou,Vincent.’
‘You’reverywelcome.’
Harkin’seyesareheavyandheallowshimselftoslipforwardssothathecanresthisheadonthebackoftheseat.Soontherhythmicthrumoftheenginebeginstotakeeffectandhefeelssleepdragginghimunder.
Hisviewofhissurroundingsisframedbytheglasseyepiecesofagasmask,foggedbyhisownbreath,liketwinportholeslookingoutontoastorm-struckseaofmud.
Everythingisbrown;thegroundisbrown,pockmarkedwithraggedholestornfromitbytheshells.Helooksdownattherifleheisholding.Thestockandstraparethickwithmud;thebayonetandthestraparecakedwithit,andhecannotevenseetheskinofhishands.Everythingisthesame:thescrapsandfragmentsofabandonedkitandshatteredwood;thetanglesandtwistsofbarbedwireandmetal.Eventhedeadarebrown,almostindistinguishablefromthegroundintowhichtheyslowlysink.
Theonlysoundistheraspofhisbreathingthroughtherespirator.Hesoundslikeasteamengineonitslastlegs.Hisbreathwheezesandsucksandthereisanirregularrhythmtoit,asthoughitisabouttocometoajudderinghaltatanymoment.Hecantastethemud;itmusthavebeeninsidethemaskandnowitisinhismouth.Outsidethemasktheremustbenoise.Hecanseetheslowfountainswhereshellsareexplodingandhewatchesasalineofsmallsplashescomestowardshim—machine-gunbulletslosingthemselvesinthesoftmudoneafteranother,stitchingaseamacrosstheliquidearth.Heknowshecannotavoidthembuttheystopthreefeetawayandhestumblespastthem,tastinghisownvomit.
Hepickshiswayforwards,movingfromtuftofseeminglysolidgroundtohalf-submergedduckboardtosandbag,andonwards.Someofthefogisoutsidethemask,herealises—alow-lyingbankofthickyellowgasaboutthirtyyardsaheadofhim.Notmuchofit,though,anditturnsslowlyinthebreezeandthewakeoftheothermenwhoareadvancingthroughit.Upaheadhecanseetheflashofthemachinegunasitstartsupagain,andhewatchesmentumble,oneafteranother,tohisleft.
Andthenahandtakeshiselbow,shakinghimhard,andhehearssomeonespeakingtohimurgently.
‘Wakeupnow.Slowlynow.There’sacheckpointacoupleofhundredyardsahead.’
ThevoiceisBourke’s.Harkinstrugglesupinhisseat,thetasteofmudandvomitstillinhismouth.HelooksacrosstoBourke,whosmilesbackathim,fortifyinghimwithhisownconfidence.
‘Areyouallright?’
‘Yes,’Harkinsays,andhearsthethicknessintheword.‘Neverbetter.’
Inthedistancealineofmenstandsinfrontofanarmouredcar,wearingajumblesaleofmilitaryandpoliceuniforms.Auxiliaries.Thecarmovesslowlytowardsthem,Bourkekeepingtheirpacesteady.
‘I’lldothetalking,’Harkinsays.
HerollsdownthewindowtoturnhisheadawayfromtheAuxiesandspitawaythetasteofthedream,gratefulforthecoldhazeofmistyrainthatclingstohisface.
Tenyardsfromthecheckpoint,atall,thinmanintheglengarrycapofaScottishregiment,theredandwhitecheckbrightabovehispaleface,holdsuphishandtostopthem.Harkinleanshiselbowouttogreethim.
‘Everythingallright?’hesays,inhisbestofficer’sdrawl,arranginghismouthintoastiffsmile.
‘Yourpapers,please.’Thethinmandoesn’tsoundScottish,butthenthere’snoreasonheshould.NearlyhalftheDublinFusiliersinthelastyearofthewarhadneversetfootinIreland,letaloneDublin.
HarkinhandshispapersoverandwatchesastheAuxieexaminesthemcarefully,lookingupfirstatBourke,thenatHarkin.
‘MrHarkin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doyouhavebusinessupahead?’
‘I’mstayingwithLordKilcolgan.IservedwithhissoninFrance.’
TheAuxielooksdownatthepapersagain,andthenatBourke.
‘IsMrBourkestayingatKilcolganHousealso?’
‘Acolleague.Iworkininsurancethesedays.He’sstayingelsewhere.’
‘Wherewouldthatbe?’
‘MrsWilson’s,outtheothersideofthetown.Istheresomethingthematter?’
‘There’sbeensometroubleinthetown.Nothingtoworryabout.It’sundercontrolnow.Whereareyoucomingfrom?’
Foramoment,Harkin’smindisblank,thenhementionsatownsometwentymilesaway,theothersideofthehills.
‘Didyouseeanythingsuspiciousonyourjourney?Thereisanactivecolumnofrebelsinthearea.’
‘Nothing,I’mafraid.IsthisthesamegroupwhoambushedMissPrendevilleandInspectorTeevan?’
TheAuxiedoesn’treplyatfirst,handingbackthepapers.Heholdsuphishandandthereisaburstofnoisefromthearmouredcarasitreverseswithaseriesofjerksintoagapinthehedge.
‘Yes.Someofthemhavebeendealtwithalready.Itwon’ttakeuslongtocatchupwiththosewhoremain.Haveasafejourney.’
BourkedrivesslowlyforwardsandHarkinrunshisgazeovertheAuxies—menhardenedbyyearsofwar,withblankfacesanddark,fatalisticexpressions.Theylikelyweren’tmuchbotheredwithtakingprisonersinFranceandhedoubtstheyseemuchneedtochangethatpolicyinIreland.
‘Ifuckinghatecheckpoints,’Bourkesays,whentheyarethrough.
Harkinnods.Thenaquestionoccurstohim.
‘DoyouthinkSeanDriscollwasoneofthosetheydealtwith?’
CHAPTER36
It’sashortwalkfromKilcolgan’sbackgate,whereBourkedropshimoff,tothemainhouse,althoughnotonethatHarkinhastakensincehislastvisit,oversevenyearsbefore.Whereasthehomemeadowandthedrivetothefrontofthehousearemaintainedtosomeextent,hereKilcolgan’sdeclineisclearer.AsHarkinmakeshiswaypastthestables,hefindsthecobblestonesintheyardarealmostinvisibleunderthegrass,andmanyofthedoorsoftheindividualstallsstandopenorhangfromtheirhinges.Theonlysignoflifeisinthecorner,wherethreehorseslookoutathimwithoutmuchcuriosity.Theyhaveclearedwiththeirhoovesapaththatleadsouttothearchedgatethatstill
Pastthestables,therowsofvegetablesintheonceneatwalledkitchengardenareweed-strewnandbarren.Thetreesofthesmallorchardaresurroundedbythebrownhusksofrottedfruit.Thereisanairofdesolationabouttheplace.
Itisasimilarstorywhenheapproachestherearofthehouse.Thewallsareslickwithdampinplaces,andthewindowsivy-chokedandfrostedbygrime.Hisfeetcrunchacrossthegrass-hiddengravelandclimbthegranitestepsthatleadtothesmallstoneporticothatguardsthebackdoor,hisfootstepsseemingtoechointhesilence.Whenheliftstheknocker,thedooropensbeforehishand;somewherewithin,adogbarks.
‘Hello?’hecallsoutand,whennooneanswers,hestepsinsidethesmallhallway.
Theroomsmellsofdampwool,oldleatherandsalt,andhispresencedisturbsamousethatrunsoutfromunderneaththeskeletonofanumbrella.Theroomishungwithlong-abandonedcoatsandscarveswhilethefloorswarmswithcrackedridingboots,stringlesstennisrackets,fishingtackleandashatteredboxcontaininganancientcroquetset,theballssofadedbyuseandagethattheircoloursaremeresuggestions.
‘Hello?’hecallsoutagain.
Hewalksthroughtofindhimselfstandingatoneendofthelonghallthatrunsalongthemiddleofthehouse.Theonlylightcomesfromthesmudgedgallerywindowsfarabove,andhemakeshiswayalongthehalllikeashipproceedingthroughafog:pictures,furnitureanddeadanimalsloomingoutathimlikelandmarkshedoesnotrecognise.
‘Tom.’
Thevoiceisquiet,barelyawhisper,andheturnstofindBillystandinginthedoorwaytothediningroom.Heiswearingatweedjacket,thelapelsturnedinsothatitisbuttoneduparoundarollneckjumper;hisjodhpursaretuckedintomud-fleckedridingboots.Hispallorgiveshimthelookofacorpse.
‘Seandidn’tcomebacklastnight.’
‘SoIheard.There’sstillnosignofhim?’
‘None.Amanfoundhishorseinafieldnearthemountainturn.I’veriddeneveryfieldandlanenearitbutthere’snosignofhim.’
‘Couldhehavefallen?’
‘Hecould,butthehorsedidn’topenthegatetothefielditself.’
HarkinreachesouttoplaceanarmonBilly’sshoulder,surprisedbyhowupsethisfriendis.
‘I’msurethereisanexplanation,’Harkinsays.
Billyturnsaway,takingthreeorfourstepstostandinthemiddleofthelonghall,apooloflightaroundhisfeetfromthewindowshighabove.
‘IthinktheAuxiliariesmusthavetakenhim.’BillylooksoverhisshoulderatHarkinwithahuntedexpression.‘Togothroughthewar,allofthat,andthentocomebacktoyourhome…’
‘Hasheanythingtofearfromthem?’Harkinchooseshiswordswithprecision
WhenBillyspeaks,itisasmuchasighasasentence.
‘Jesus,Tom.Ofcoursehedoes.I’msurprisedtheyhaven’tpickedhimupbefore.’
HarkinlooksathisfriendandwondersifhisanguishisasmuchforhimselfasforDriscoll.
‘Mighthehavebeeninvolvedintheambush,doyouthink?Isthatwhythey’vetakenhim?’
‘TheAuxiesmightthinkit,buthewasn’t.Iknowthatforafact.Thatwon’tbotherthem,though.Theysnatchamanandthat’stheendofit.They’renotfromhereandtheydon’tcareiftheymakeamistakeorthedamagetheycause.Oneofthemtoldmeifthefellowtheyshootdidn’tdothecrimetheysuspecthimof,thenhelikelydidanother.ThatalltheIrishweredisloyal.Thethingis,though,Tom.I’mIrish,too.’
‘You’recertainhehadnothingtodowithit?’Harkinpresses.‘Hewouldhavehadtime.’
Billylooksathimasthoughseeinghimforthefirsttime.Harkinwondersifhehaspushedtoohard.
‘Imean,therewastimeforhimtobewiththeambushers.’
Billyshakeshishead.
‘Yourtimingsarewrong.Hecouldn’thaveshotMaudandnorcouldhehavebeenpresentattheambush.Thereisnopossibilityofit.IknowwherehewasbeforetheshootingstartedandIsawhimafter.’
‘Wherewashe?’
Billygiveshimanotherlonglookanditisdifficulttomakeoutwhatitsignifies.ThenBillyshakeshishead.
‘Isawhimleavinghismother’scottageandIsawhimgoinaswell.’
‘Whydidn’tyoutellmethisearlier?’
‘Youaskedmewhenhecameintothehouse,notwhetherIsawhimbeforethat.Anyway,hegrewupwithMaud.Hehasalwaysbeenapartofthefamily.He’dneverdoanythingtoputanyofusatrisk.Ontopofwhich,hewascuteabouthisinvolvement.HekeepstheIRAawayfromhere.Wehaveneverevenbeenraidedforguns,andthere’sbarelyanotherbighouseforfiftymilescansaythat.’
HarkinremembersDriscoll’sconsciousnessofthedividebetweenthefamilyandthosethatworkforthemandwonders,ifheweredesperate,whathemightandmightnothavedone.Themathematicsoffear—whatamaniscapableofdoingforhisownsurvival—aremuchclearertothosewhohavelivedwiththemonaday-to-daybasis.PerhapsBillyhasforgottenthis.ThePrendevillesandtheirkindhavealwaysstruggledtounderstandthatloyaltyspringingfromeconomicdependenceisnotsomethingthatsurvivesmuchtesting.
‘HaveyoutelephonedAbercrombie?’Harkinasks.‘Ifhehashim,awordfromyouoryourfatherwouldsurelygivehimsomeprotection.’
‘We’vetried.Themajorisunavailable,orsotheysay.MrsDriscollhasacousininthestation,SergeantKelly,andhesworeonhismother’sgravetheyhadn’tSean,butthatmeansnothing.ItwillbetheAuxiliarieswho’vetakenhim,ifanyone,andthey’reaccountabletonoonebutAbercrombie,whatwithTeevandeadandhisreplacementnotyetarrived.Charlieistryingthearmybarracksincasetheycanhelp,butit’salongshot.’
‘Whataboutyouruncle?’Harkinasks.
‘He’sonhiswayover.’
Asifsummonedbythementionofhername,Charlieemergesfromadoorfurtheralongthehallway.
‘Anyluck?’Billyasks.
‘ThecaptainsaysitisapolicematterandthatAbercrombieisunco-operativeatthebestoftimes.He’llseewhathecando,however.’
‘Apolicematter?’Billysays.‘Andisn’tthatthewholeproblem?Abercrombieandhiscrewareasbadastherebels.’
Asilencefalls.Billypacesbackandforth.
‘Whataboutyourcousin,MajorVane?’Harkinasks.‘Haveyoucalledhim?’
Charlieshakesherhead.
‘He’sinDublin.’
‘He’dbenousetousanyway,’Billysays.‘Heonlybuyshorsesforthearmy.HehasnoinfluenceoverthelikesofAbercrombie.’
‘Thatisn’tallhedoes,Billy.’
Charlieglancesathim,aquestiononherlips.Harkinindicatesthedoorshehasjustcomeoutof.
‘CallhiminDublin,ifyouhaveanumberforhim.TrytheCastleifyouhaven’t.Iftheydon’trecogniseVane,askforMrTomkins.Butthey’llknowwhoheisallright.Ifanyonecanhelpyou,hecan.’
Charliegiveshimonefinallookofpuzzlement,beforeturningtofollowhisinstructions.HarkinturnstoBilly.
‘Doeshismotherknowhe’smissing?’
Billynods,hispuzzlementaboutVanestillapparent.It’snot,however,themomenttoexplainhowheknowsaboutVane’salias.
‘Whereisshe?’
HarkinfollowsBillydownthenarrowdiningroomstaircasetothekitchen.Itisalong,low-beamedroomwithtwowoodentablesrunningmostofitslength.Liketheexteriorofthehouse,itseemslargelyunusedanduncaredfor,exceptfortheareaaroundthelargeenamelstove,whereMrsDriscollsitsinablackdress,herfacecomposed,alineofjutebuttonsrisingtoacrispwhitecollar.Murphythebutlersitsalongsideher,holdingaglassofwhiskeyoutinhislarge,bonyhand.Itisn’tclearifthewhiskeyisforMurphyorthehousekeeper.Harkindecides,fromMurphy’srosycheeksandweteyes,thatitisprobablytheformer.Whentheyenter,MrsDriscolllooksup,heranxietymomentarilyapparent,beforeshecomposesherselfonceagain,hershouldersstiffandherbackstraight.HarkinnoticeshowhergazeslidespastBilly,asthoughavoidinghim,beforecomingtoarestonHarkin.
‘MrHarkin,’shesays.‘Haveyouwordofmyson?’
‘Notyet.Ihaveacarandadriveratmydisposal.We’llgolookingforhimdirectly.’
Shesaysnothing,asthoughwaitingforthequestionheisabouttoask.
‘Isthereanythingyoucouldtellmethatmightbeuseful?Anyreasonyouthinkhemighthavebeentaken?’Foramomentheseesaquicklysuppressedemotion,whichhetakesforanger.‘Anythingatall.Youcanrestassureditwon’tbepassedonifitisprejudicialtohim.’
ShelooksatMurphy,thenBilly,andfinallybacktoHarkin,asthoughaskingeachoftheminturnwhatshecouldpossiblytellhim.
‘Iknowhe’sanactiveVolunteer,MrsDriscoll,’Harkincontinues,wantingtoshakeherintoansweringhim.‘Havetherebeenanypreviousthreatstohim?FromtheRIC,oranyoneelse?Sinceheliveshere,itmaybethepolicethinkhewasresponsiblefortheambush.’
‘MrHarkin,mysonwouldneverintentionallycauseharmtooneofthePrendevilles.Aboveall,nottoMissPrendeville.’
Harkinconsidersthisinthelightoftheletters.
‘WhyMissPrendevilleinparticular?’
Shesighs,andwhenshespeaksitislikeateacherexplainingsomethingtoaparticularlystupidchild.
‘Onaccountoftheactionsshetookduringtherebellion.’
Theolderwomanlooksathimandforamomentitseemsheistheonebeinginterrogated,nottheotherwayaround.
‘Areyoucertainhehadnoinvolvementintheambushitself?Thathewaswithyouthewholeevening?’
ShelooksfromHarkintoBilly,andthenbacktoHarkin.Herlookisoneofscornfulcontempt.
‘Mysonwaswellregardedbyallwhoknewhim,’shesaysinasteadyvoice,asthoughreadingfromapreparedspeech.‘Ihavenoideawhatpeoplehavesaidabouthimbut,ifyou’llexcuseme,Iwon’tansweranymorequestionsofthisnature.Ifthereisanynews,Iwillbeinmyhouse.’
‘Imeantnodisrespect…’Harkinbeginstosay,butshehasalreadygottoherfeetandiswalkingfromtheroom.
HeturnstoBilly,buthisfriendisleaningbackonthelongtable,ahandshieldinghiseyes.HarkinturnstoMurphywho,asHarkinwatches,drinkstheglassofwhiskeyhehasbeenholdinginhishandinonelongswallow,beforewipinghismouthwiththebackofhishand
‘He’llturnup.Afineyoungman.Youcouldn’thelpbutknowitassoonasyoulookedathim.’
ThedoorbelljanglesfromupstairsbutMurphyignoresit.
Then,fromsomewhereupstairs,comesthesoundofalong,wailingscream.
CHAPTER37
Billyismovingbeforethescreamends,runningtowardsthenarrowstaircasethatleadsuptothediningroom.HarkinfollowshimandtheymaketheirwaythroughthehouseuntiltheyfindLordKilcolganinhisslippersandamoth-eatencardigan,standinginfrontofthestillopenfrontdoor.SirJohniswithhimandtheirexpressionsaregrave.Ared-eyed,sobbingBridgetisholdingSirJohn’shatandumbrella,anditseemstheweightofthemisalmosttoomuchforhertobear.Noneofthempayanyattentiontothesuddensquallofrainthatdrivesin,spatteringthemarbletiles.
‘GodowntoMrsDriscoll,Bridget,’Charliesays,walkingtowardsthemfromtheshadowedhallandassessingthesituation.‘I’lllookafterSirJohn.’
BridgetbobsherheadandputsSirJohn’sbelongingsintoCharlie’swaitinghands.Theylistentohersobbingasshewalksquicklyaway.Theothersdonotspeak,waitinguntilshehasleft.
‘They’vefoundhim,’LordKilcolgansays.ThereisnoneedforhimtoaddthatSeanDriscollisdead.
‘Whereishe?’Billyasks,hisvoicewashedsmoothofanyemotion.
‘Atthefarendofthelongstrand,towardstown.’
SirJohnlooksdirectlyatHarkinand,foraninstant,itoccurstohimthattheoldermanmightthinkhehassomethingtodowithDriscoll’sdeath.Billystepsforwardstowardsthedoor,buthisfatherblockshispath.ThisisasideofthemanHarkinhasnotseenbefore,becausehetakesholdofBilly’sarmsandpinsthemtohisside,speakingtohimwithanabsoluteauthority.
‘Youwillnotgodowntohim,Billy.MrHarkinwillobligeusbyattendingtoSean.Youmuststayhere,Billy.Youmustpromisemethis.’
Billylooksshockedbythefierceresolveinhisfatherbut,afteramoment,henods.Harkinseesthathisfriend’sfaceiswetwithtears.
‘I’llgodownwithTom,Billy,’Charliesays,puttingherarmsaroundhim.‘We’lllookafterhim.Therewillbeatimeandaplace.’
‘Youknowitisforthebest,Billy,’LordKilcolgansays.‘LetHarkinhandlethepoliceandwhoeverelseisthere.’
BillyleansintoCharlie’sembrace.HelooksoveratHarkin.
‘Thankyou,’Billysaysinawhisper,composinghimself.‘Iwillgotomyroom.’
Harkinwatcheshimwalkalongthelonghall,hisshouldersslumped.
‘ItseemsDriscollwasamemberoftheIRA,’SirJohnsaysintothesilence.‘Itappearsthepolicediscoveredthis.’HelooksatHarkinforamoment,gauginghisreaction.‘Wemustpresumetheybelievehewasresponsiblefortheambush.PerhapsforMaud’smurderaswell.’
TheotherslookatSirJohnandheseemsuncomfortableundertheirgaze.
‘WhereisMrsDriscoll?’Charlieasks,asiftochangeanembarrassingsubject.‘Shewillhavetobetold.’
‘Icouldtellher,’SirJohnsays,butKilcolganrespondstothiswithanimpatientshakeofhishead.
‘Iwill.ItwouldbebestifyouweretostayclearofMrsDriscoll.’Thenwhenheseeshisbrother’slookofconfusion,headdsinasoftervoice,‘Forthemoment.Youmustseeitismyresponsibilitytobreakthenewstoher.’
‘Shelefttogotohercottage,’Harkinsays.
Kilcolgannods,turningtowalktowardsthebackofthehousewithoutfurtherado.Charlielooksafterhim,thenturnstoHarkin.
‘I’llgetacoatandthenI’llbewithyou,’shesays.‘IshouldcallHugobackaswell,ifIcangetthrough.Hewasgoingtocomedown,butIdon’tthinkthereisanypointnow.’
HarkinfindshimselfalonewithSirJohn,whoisonceagaingazingathimwithanintensitythatismakinghimfeeluncomfortable.
‘Ididn’tkillDriscoll,’Harkinsays.
SirJohngivesastrange,tightsmilethatsuggestsheisunconvincedbythedenial.Thereissomethingrepellentabouthismisplacedknowingness.
‘Mightyourcolleaguehavetakenmattersintohisownhands?Iamnotcomplaining,byanymeans.’
‘NordidMrBourke.’
‘You’veheardaboutFatherDillon,Itakeit?’theoldermanasks,almostasanaside.
‘FatherDillon?’
‘Hehangedhimself…’Theoldermanhesitates.‘Apparently.Lastnightorthismorning.Beforeeleveno’clockmass,inanyevent,asthat’swhentheyfoundhim.Didyourmanspeaktohimbeforehand?’AgainthereisaninsinuationthatHarkindoesn’tmuchlike.‘Yousaidthatheintendedto.’
‘No,’Harkinsays,decidingthattheirencounterwiththepriestcouldbedescribedasmanythings,buttherewasnospeakinginvolved.‘ButDriscolldid.Lastnightatnineo’clock.’
SirJohndigeststhisnewinformation,hisfaceturningalittlepale.
‘DoyouthinkDriscollkilledhim?’
‘Hewouldseemthemostlikelyperson.Idon’tunderstandwhy,though.’
SirJohnconsidersthequestion.
‘Doesitmatter?WeknowhekilledMaud.Perhapsitwasthewar?Onehearsthingsaboutsoldiersbeingunabletoadjusttocivilianlife.PerhapshewenttoconfessaboutmurderingMaudandbecameenraged?’
TheoldermanavoidsHarkin’scoldstare.
‘WasDriscollaparishioneratStAnn’s?’Harkinsays.
‘Iwouldn’tknow.’
Harkinfindsthathishandshaveballedintofists,andwhenhehearsCharlie’sfootstepsapproaching,heisgratefulforthedistraction.
‘Ishouldcomedownaswell,’SirJohnsays.‘Toseethebody.’
Harkinshakeshishead.
‘Iwouldadviseyounotto.Wedon’twantanyoneinauthoritylookingtoocloselyintoyouandyouractivities.’
ItisalmostasthoughhecanhearthecogsofSirJohn’smindturning.Henods.
‘Perhapsnot.’
Charliejoinsthem,glancingquicklybetweenthem.
‘Iseverythingallright?’
‘Quiteallright,’SirJohnsays.‘IshallgoandseeifBillyneedsanything.’
PerhapsitisatrickofthelightbutasSirJohnturnsaway,Harkincatchestheechoofanotherface.Itisamomentaryimage,moreofasuggestionthananything,butitgivesHarkinpauseforthought.
CHAPTER38
Therainisintheirfacesonthewalkdowntothelongstrand,andHarkinandCharliebarelyexchangeaword.Harkinissurprisedtofindhecarriessadnessatanotherdeathonhisshoulderslikeaweight.FirstMaud,TeevanandCartwright,thenMattBreen,thenthetwoAuxiliariesshotthedaybefore,FatherDillonthismorning,andnowDriscoll.It’shardnottoregretanotherlifetaken,evenifDriscollmaystillturnouttoberesponsibleforatleastsomeofthosedeaths.It’shardalsonottoquestionthenecessityofthewartheyarewaging,exceptthatthealternativeisalmostinconceivable.IfIrishmenlikehimfoughtawartoprotecttheindependenceofsmallerEuropeannations,
‘Apennyforyourthoughts.’
HeturnstofindCharlielookingacrossathim,herfacewetwithrainandthesamecuriosityinherexpressionhenoticedearlier.
‘I’mnotsurethey’reworththatmuch.’
‘HowdidyouknowaboutHugo?’Thequestionisalmosttentative.‘OrshouldIsay“MrTomkins”?Hewasalittlesurprisedwhenhefoundoutitwasmeonthetelephone.’
‘Didyoutellhimitwasmethattoldyou?’
Shehesitatesbeforeanswering.
‘Heknew.Thatwasperhapsthemostsurprisingpart.Asthoughyoutwohavesomesharedsecret.’
Whichisnotfarfromthetruth.Thequestionis,ofcourse,whyVaneiskeepingthatsecret,ifindeedheis.
‘HowdidyouknowaboutHugo?’sheasksonceagain.
Harkinstopsandturnstofaceher.
‘Doesitmakeanydifference?Inthegreaterschemeofthings?I’llbegonefromherethisevening.’
‘BecauseyouthinkSeanDriscollwasresponsibleformysister’sdeath?’
‘Ithinkit’slikely.’
Sheshakesherhead,asthoughbewilderedbyhisfolly.
‘WhatreasondoyouthinkSeancouldpossiblyhavehadtowantMauddead?’
Hetakesadeepbreath.
‘Hewashavinganaffairwithher.Itmusthavebeensomethingtodowiththat.’
‘Maud?WithSean?’Herastonishmentisclear.Thenshebeginstolaugh.It’snotahappylaugh.‘Hewasn’thavinganaffairwithMaud,youfool.YouhavethewrongPrendeville.’
Itishisturntobesurprised.Itmustshow,becauseshelaughsagain.
‘Notme.Doyoureallynotknow?Afterallyouryearsoffriendship?’
Helooksatherinconfusionforamoment,andthenrealisesthathedoesknow.Hehasalwaysknown,butsomehowhaschosennottoknow.TheknowledgethattherehasalwaysbeenaprivateversionofBillywhichhisfriendhaskeptfromhimhasneveraffectedtheirfriendship.HehasalwaysknownthattherehasbeenaplaceaparttowhichonlyBillyhasheldthekey,andHarkinhasbeenhappytolethimhavethatplacetohimself.Butnow,inthismatter,Harkinseesthathisunthinkingignorancehasbeenmorelikestupidity.HehasbeensobusyignoringBilly’ssecretthathe’smissedDriscoll’ssecret.Charliewatcheshimandit’sclearsheisfollowinghistrainofthought.
‘SonowyouseewhymyfatherwouldnotallowBillytocomedowntoseeSean?’
‘Ido,’hesays,andhedoes.Inhisstateofdistress,Billymightwellhavebetrayedhimself.Aquestionisnaggingathim,however.Infact,alotofquestionsarenaggingathim.
‘DoesyourUncleJohnknowaboutthis?’
Sheconsidersthequestion,herbrowfurrowingintoafrown.
‘It’spossibleJohnmightnot,Isuppose.Itisn’tsomethingthathaseverbeendiscussed,asyoumightexpect.Butweknew.Maud,andI,andFather…’Shepauses,brushingaslickofwethairawayfromherface.‘I’veoftenwonderedifitwasn’toneofthereasonswhyFathertookArthur’sdeathashardashedid.TheendofthePrendevillesandallthat—whichisquitealotofnonsense,really.Johncouldstillhaveachild.Heisnotold,byanymeans,andheisbothhandsomeandrich.Ioftenwonderwhyhehasnotmarriedagain.’
Theyturnonceagaintowardsthebeach.
‘Ifshewasn’tseeingDriscoll,whowassheseeing?’
Charlieglancesacrossathim,surprised,butMaud’spregnancyremainsanundeniablefact.Harkinfrownsashethinksthroughthepossibilities.
‘TheschoolfriendshewenttoPariswith?’heasks.‘Doyouknowher?’
‘I’venevermether.HernamewasEmily,Ithink.’
‘WhendidtheygotoFrance?’
‘InMay.Towardstheendofthemonth.’
Which,ifHarkinrememberscorrectly,isaroundthetimethefirstpaymentwasmadefortheweapons.AlthoughhehadbeenundertheimpressionthatSirJohnhadbeenresponsiblefortakingthemoneytoParis.WhetherEmilyeverexisted,hehasnowayofknowingatpresentbutSirJohnmaybeabletoprovidemoreinformationaboutthemysteriousschoolfriend.
‘WhataboutHugoVane?’
‘Ifyou’relookingforapossiblemurderer,shouldn’thehavebeenwithinahundredmilesofhereonthenightinquestion?’
Thereis,ofcourse,anotherpossibility—anditisonewhichmakesHarkinquestionalmosteverythinghehasuncoveredoverthelastfewdays.TheyarepassingthegatelodgeandHarkincanseethattheboarded-upwindowhasbeenrepairedandacolumnofsmokeissnakingupfromthechimney.Eventhemarksleftbythebulletsseemtohavefadedintothestonework.InafewweekstherewillbenovisiblesignofMaud’spassing.
‘He’scomingdown,’Charliesays,asthoughrememberinganimportantpieceofinformation.‘He’llbeheretonight.’
‘Vane?’
‘Yes.’
Theywalkon,outthroughthegates,andHarkinconsidersVane’simminentarrivalandwhatitmightmeanforhim.Thenanotherthoughtoccurstohim.
‘WhatistheWhiteLadysupposedtolooklike?’
Thequestionmusthavebeeninhismindallalong,butitisonlynowthattheyarenearlyatthebeachthatitcomesout.Charlieconsidersthequestion.
‘I’veneverseenher.Ionlyknowsheissupposedtosignifyadeathinthefamily.Isupposeshemustbewhiteand…sheissupposedtocarryabouquetofflowers.’
‘Whatkind?’
‘Roses,Ithink.Whiteroses.Whydoyouask?’
‘Noreason,’hesays,histhoughtsthickastreacle.‘OnlybecauseBillysaidhethoughthesawherthenightMauddied.’
Shenods,thenappearstoremembersomething.
‘Theysayyoucansmelltheflowers.’
Harkinswallows,knowingthatifthestoryistrue,thenanotherPrendevilleissoontodie.
CHAPTER39
Fat,intermittentraindropscraterthesmoothsandbeachastheywalktowardswhereseveralpolicemenstand,theiroilskincapesandhelmetsslickwithrain.Inthemiddleofthegroup,HarkinseesDrHegartyand,besidehim,MoiraWilson.SheholdsanopenumbrellasothatherfathercanmakenotesandHarkincansee,evenfromthisdistance,theglimmerofhermonocle.Ontheground,Seanliestwisted,adarkerpatchofsandaroundhisbody.Inland,abovethebeachwherethecoastroadruns,menandwomenhavecometowatch—astragglinglineoffeaturelessblacksilhouettesinthegreygloomoftherain.
SergeantKellydetacheshimselffromhiscolleaguesandwalkstowardsthem.
‘Ishouldn’tgoanycloser,MissPrendeville.PerhapsMrHarkinmighttakeyoubackuptothehouse?Thebodywillneedtocomewithusintotownanyway,forthepostmortem.’
Charlielistenstohimpolitely,thenshakesherhead.
‘Seanwasafriend.’Shewalkspasthim.
HarkinseesMoiraturntowardsherassheapproachesandstretchoutherfreearmtogatherherin.Kellywatchesher,beforeturningbacktoHarkin.Thereissomethingclosetodesperationinthebigpoliceman’seyes,outofkeepingwithhisforbiddingexterior.
‘Itoldhimtobecareful.Youyourselfheardmetellhimsoonlytheothermorning.’
‘Idid.’
‘Iknewwhathewasupto.Itoldhimitwouldendbadly.Iwantedhimtogetoutofhere.GotoAmericaoranywhere.Therewasnothingforhimhere,buthewouldn’tleavehismother,evenwithherbegginghimtogetoutofitaswell.’Hisvoicecracks.‘Ineverhadasonofmyown.Onlydaughters.’
‘Hisfatherwouldbegratefulyouwatchedoverhim.’
KellylooksupathimsharplyandHarkinwonderswhatitisthathehassaid,butthesergeantrelaxesandnods.
‘Nodoubt.’
‘Doyouknowwhathappenedtohim?’
‘MajorAbercrombieiswhathappenedtohim.Hehasn’tatoothleftinhishead,norafingeroratoethatisn’tbroken.’
‘You’resureitwasAbercrombie?’
‘Iknowhismen’shandiworkwhenIseeit.’
Theystandforawhile,therainfallingaroundthem.Harkinglancesovertoseethattwoofthepolicemenhavebroughtdownastretcher.
‘IservedwithhiminFrance,’Harkinsays,decidingheshouldsaysomething.‘IwasinthesamebattalionashimselfandBillyPrendeville,allthroughtheworstofit.Hewasagoodman.’
‘Thefinest.’
Thereisenoughresentmentinthesergeant’sexpression,Harkindecides,toallowhimtotakearisk.
‘Thatwasyoulastnight,wasn’tit?’heasks.‘WhenAbercrombiecametoMrsWilson’s?Holdinghimback?’
Thesergeantnods.
‘Hewantsyougonefromhere—hethinksyouareinterferingintheinvestigationofMissPrendeville’smurder.InspectorTeevantriedtokeephimundersomekindofcontrol,toexplaintherealityofthesituationtohim,butAbercrombiethoughtTeevanwasweakandthattheonlywaytodefeattherebelswaswithforce.Hedoesn’tunderstandthecountryatall.TeevantoldmehehadwrittenacomplainttotheCommissioner.Butnowhe’sgonethere’snothingtostopAbercrombiedoingwhathewants.Helistenedtomelastnight—hemightaseasilynothave.’
‘Whatwashetryingtoachieve?’
‘Awarning,Ithink.’
‘JustbecauseI’mlookingintoMaudPrendeville’sdeath?Nothingmorethanthat?’
Kellynods.HarkinlooksonceagainatSeanDriscoll’sbody,nowcoveredwithablanket,andfeelsashiverrunthroughhim.IfAbercrombiehadknownhewasaVolunteerthenightbefore,thereislittledoubtthathe’dbelyinginthesandbesideDriscoll.
‘HowdidyouknowIwasatMrsWilson’s?’
‘Abercrombiesaidwewereactingoninformationreceived.Iknownothingmorethanthat.Hedidn’teventelluswhereweweregoinguntilwearrived.’
Harkinturnsthisoverforamoment.IfDriscollwastortured,thatmightexplainthemajor’sknowledgeofhiswhereabouts.ButifDriscolltoldAbercrombieabouthisbeingatWilson’s,thenwhynottellhimhewasanIRAintelligenceofficerdownfromGHQ?GivingupthatkindofinformationmighthavesavedDriscoll’slife.AndendedHarkin’s.
‘IunderstandaFatherDillonwasfounddeadinthetownthismorning.’
‘Whatdoyouknowaboutthat?’thesergeantsays,awarynoteinhisvoice.Harkindecidestotakeanother,greaterrisk.
‘IknowSeanwasmeanttomeethimlastnightandprobablydid.IknowDillonwaspassinginformationtoMattBreenandtheIRAfromananonymouspoliceinformerandafterBreen’sdeath,Driscollwastryingtore-establishcontactwiththeinformer.’
ThesergeantsaysnothingforalongwhileandHarkiniswonderingwhetherhehasgonetoofar,whenthesergeantturnstohim.Hespeaksslowly,andeverywordseemstobeweightedwithsignificance.
‘AccordingtoMajorAbercrombie,FatherDilloncommittedsuicide.’
‘Butyoudon’tbelievethat?’
‘Didyourfriend?’
‘I’msorry?’
‘Thebigman?Hewasaroundthereyesterdayandtherewasareportofacaroutsidethechurchthismorning.Itmatchesthedescriptionofhisvehicle.Ithoughthemighthavebeenresponsibleatfirst.’
‘Why?’
‘BecauseFatherDillonwasworkingforMajorAbercrombie.Ithoughtyourfriendmighthavekilledhimasaninformer.’
Harkintakesamomenttoconsideralltheramificationsofthesergeant’swords,notleastofwhichisthelikelihoodthatthesourcefortheinformationthatledtotheambushwascontrolledbyAbercrombie.Heforceshimselftostaycalm.‘Butyoudon’tnow?’hesays,moretosaysomethingaloudthananythingelse.
‘Ithinksomeonekilledhim.Itwasn’tsuicide.IknowasuicidewhenIseeit.Didyourfriendkillhim?’
‘No,’Harkinagrees,speakingslowly,deducingthatifKellyhasidentifiedBourkeasanIRAman,thenhemusthaveidentifiedhimaswell.‘Notleastbecausehedidn’tknowaboutDillonandAbercrombie.’
‘Ithoughtnot.’Kelly’sexpressionisgrim.‘InwhichcaseIthinkthemanwhokilledSeanalsokilledFatherDillon,’Kellycontinues.‘Sothat’swhereweare.Murderingpriests,whatevertheirfaults,andmenlikeSeanDriscoll.’
‘WhywasDillonhelpingAbercrombie?’
‘Hehadaholdoverhim.’
‘Whatkindofhold?’
‘Analtarboy.InspectorTeevanwouldhavehandleditquietly.Dillonwouldhavebeendisciplinedbythechurch.OnlyAbercrombiehadabetteridea.’
‘Howdoyouknowthis?’
‘FatherDillontoldme.Hewantedmyhelp.Hewastoolate.’
WhichwouldexplaintheK.R.intheappointmentbook.IfAbercrombiewasbehindDillon’smessages,thenhemustalsohaveknownabouthismeetingwithDriscoll.Whenhespeaks,heistalkingtohimselfasmuchastoKelly.
‘AccordingtoSean,thedetailsoftheambushcamethroughFatherDillon.’
Thetwomenmeeteachother’sgaze.Ifitispossible,Kellylooksgrimmerstill.
‘Didtheynow?’
‘DidDistrictInspectorTeevantellyouanythingaboutthenatureofthereporthesubmitted?TotheCommissioner?AboutAbercrombie?’
Thesergeant’slipstighten.Harkincanseeamuscleinhisjawthrobbing.
‘Idon’tknowthatitwassubmitted.Hethoughtitwasonlyrighttotalktothemajorfirstbeforehedidthat.Togivehimanopportunitytoexplainhimself.’
‘Andwhenwouldhehavegivenhimthatopportunity?’
KellylooksawayandHarkinseesareluctancetospeak.Areluctance,maybe,tofacetheimplicationsofAbercrombiearranginganambushonhimself,whichwasthenredirected,somehow,towardsDistrictInspectorJamesTeevan.
‘Ibelievetheyweretodiscussitontheeveningoftheambush.AtSirJohn’scardevening.Butwhethertheydidornot,andwhathappenedtothereport,Icouldn’ttellyou.Onlythatmancomingdownthebeachcouldtellyou.’
HarkinturnstoseeAbercrombiewalkingacrossthesand,atrenchcoatbeltedtightaroundhiswaist,asoddentam-o’-shantercapangledtowardshisrightshoulderandaclusterofAuxiliariesfollowinghim,facespaleabovetheirdarktrenchcoats.Themajorseemsinagoodmood,acigarettedanglingfromhislip.
‘Well,Kelly?Anythingtotellme?’
Kellymightaswellbeastatue,soimmobilearehisfeatures.
‘ThedeadmanisSeanDriscoll,astaffmemberatKilcolganHouse.He’sbeentortured,thenshotseveraltimes.’
AbercrombieglancestowardsHarkin,asthoughassessinghisreaction.
‘Anyindicationastowhyhemighthavebeenkilled?’
Kellywalksovertowardstheuniformedpolicemanandreturnswithawoodenboardonwhichhasbeenpaintedthewords:MURDERER,AMBUSHER,TERRORIST
AbercrombietakesthesignfromKelly,looksatitforalongmomentandthenshowsittohismen.Oneortwoofthemlookuncomfortable,butotherssmileasthoughatajokeonlytheyareprivyto.
‘ItwouldseemthemurdererofMissPrendevillewasunderyournosethewholetime,Harkin,andsomeloyalcitizenshavetakenmattersintotheirownhands.ItakeityouwillbereturningtoDublindirectly.I’msureyouhavesomefilesneedfiling,orwhateveritisonedoesinaninsuranceoffice.’AbercrombieleansforwardsandpresseshisforefingerslowlyintoHarkin’schest.‘Doyouknow,IonceshotaGermanrightthere.Hewasquiteindignant,asthoughIwasn’tplayingbytherules,butitdidn’tchangethingsforhim.HewasdeadandIwasn’t.Doyoutakemypoint?’
HarkinholdsAbercrombie’sgazeuntil,eventually,themajorsmilesandlookstoKelly.
‘Whysoglum,Sergeant?IthoughttheIrishweresupposedtobeahappy-go-luckyracebuthereyouare,yetagain,lookinglikeadogateyourdinner.Atreacherousrebelisdead.Sowhydon’tyousmile,Kelly?Aren’tyoupleased?’
Kellysaysnothing,butthereistheglitterofsteelinthesergeant’sunnaturallycalmgaze.Perhapsthemajorseesit,too,becausehegivesanuneasylaugh.
‘Ohwell,beaspoilsport,then.’Themajorturnstohismen.‘Comeon,chaps,nothingforushere.WecanleavethismatterinthecapablehandsofSergeantKelly.’
HarkinwatchesthemajormakehiswaytothetwoCrossleyTendersthatbroughthimandhismen.ThereisakindofswaggerinthewayAbercrombiewalks,asthoughthewholebusinessissomekindofentertainment.Hehasshownnointerestinthemanwholiesdeadbehindhim—amanhemostprobablykilled—norengagedwithDrHegartyorCharliePrendeville.HarkinturnstoexchangealookwithKelly.
‘Atleastheshowedup,Isuppose,’thesergeantsays.
Harkin’scuriositymustbeapparentbecausethesergeantnodstowardsthegatelodge.
‘HeneverevenmadeanappearancewhenTeevanandtheotherswerekilled.’
‘Buthemusthavecomeoutwhenitwasreported?’
‘Hewasoffonsomebusinessofhisownthatnight.TheAuxiliariesoperateindependentlyfromtherestofus,asoftenasnot.’
‘Itmusthavebeensomethingurgent,surely?’Harkinknowsheistreadingafineline.‘Forhimtobecalledawayfromthecardgame?’
‘Youwouldthinkso,butI’veneverheardwhatitwas.Thenextmorninghewasofforganisingasweepofthecountrysideandraidsandwhathaveyou,butnotoncedidhevisitthesiteoftheambushorlookinonInspectorTeevan’swidow,orevenvisitthePrendevilles.Nothing.’HelooksaroundasMoiraapproaches.‘MrsWilson.Ifyou’llexcuseme.’
Kellyraiseshisfingerstohishelmetinsalute,andmakeshiswayovertoDrHegarty.
‘WhatdidAbercrombiesaytoyou?’Moiraasks,standingbesidehimandfollowinghisgazeupthebeach.
‘Nothingtospeakof.’Harkinshakeshishead,keepinghisattentiononthemajor,whoisnowstandingwithhismenbesidetheTenders.‘Thecuriousthingwashedidn’tevenmentionlastnight.Itwasasthoughitneverhappened.’
‘Heisamurderer.’
‘Heis.Youhavetobecarefulofhim,Moira.’
‘I’llbefine,TomHarkin.It’syouweshouldbeworriedabout.’
PerhapsHarkinwouldbeworried,werehenotalittledistracted.HewatchesAbercrombieuntilthemajorpausesmomentarily,justbeforeheclimbsintothecaboftheCrossley,andHarkinfinallyseeswhathehasbeenwaitingfor.
‘Willyouexcusemeamoment?’hesays,notwaitingforMoira’sresponse.
HewalksquicklyupthebeachuntilhereachesthespotwhereAbercrombie’srecentlydepartedTender’styretracksarestillvisible.
Itdoesn’ttakehimlongtofindwhatheislookingfor.
CHAPTER40
BythetimeHarkinturnsbacktowardsthebeach,Driscoll’scoveredbodyhasbeenplacedonastretcherandSergeantKellyisescortingthetwopolicemenwhoarecarryingituptothewaitinglorry.KellynodstohimastheypasseachotherandHarkinreturnstheacknowledgement.Moirawaitsforhim,herarmscrossed,hermonocledeyeglittering.
‘Whatwasthatabout?’sheasksinasharptone,noddingtowardswhereAbercrombieclimbedintotheTender.
Harkinisn’tquitesurehowtorespond,soheholdsouthishandandshowshertheobjectitcontains.
‘Somethingveryinteresting.’
Sheraisesascepticaleyebrow—curiously,itistheoneabovethemonocle.
‘Iwillhalfforgiveyou,inanticipationofyourimminentexplanation.Itakeityou’veheardaboutFatherDillon?Didyouvisithimthismorning?’
‘Wedid,’hesays.‘Buthewasn’tverycommunicative.’
Hetellsherquicklyaboutwhattheyfoundatthepriest’shouseandtheirsubsequentmeetingwithEgan.
‘Sowheredoesthatleaveyourinvestigation?’sheasks.
‘ThismorningitleftitwithSeanDriscollasthemanwhosetuptheambush,andwhotookadvantageofittokillMaud,andthenkilledDillontocoverhistracks.ButsincethenI’vediscoveredBillywaswithDriscollatthetimeofhermurderandthat,inanyevent,Driscollwasn’ttheonewhosetuptheambush.So,nowI’mnotsurewhereIam.’
Shelooksathim,herexpressiongrave.
‘Oneotherthing,ofcourse,’headds,‘isInowknowforcertainhewasn’thavinganaffairwithMaud,asIsuspected.Howdidyouputit,nowthatIrecall?“Itseemsunlikelytherewasanattractionbetweenthem”?AndnowthepoorfellowismurderedandIfeelabitofadunce.’
Shelooksalittleguilty.
‘Hewasentitledtohisprivacy.’
‘Itisnocriticismofyou,believeme.IfIwasinanywaysuitedtothisrole,I’dhavenoticedthingsthatnowseemobvious.InsteadIfeellikeI’veblunderedaboutforthefewdaysI’vebeendownhere,generallymakingafoolofmyself.’
‘IthoughtItoldyoutoavoidstressfulsituations,’DrHegartysays,approachingthemandlookingfromonetotheotherwithanassessingeye.Behindhim,ontheroad,thepolicelorryhasbeenloadedwithSeanDriscoll’scorpseandHarkincanhearitsengineturningover.
‘SergeantKellysaidDriscollwasinprettybadshape.’
‘Indeed.Iftheyhaveanopencoffintherewillbetroubleinthetown.Wouldyoutellhismotherthat,MissPrendeville?There’salreadybeenenoughinthelastfewdaystolastusawhile.’
Charlie,joiningthem,nods.HarkinnoticesthatthebystanderswholinedtheroadarebeginningtodriftawaynowthatthelorryisleavingwithDriscoll’sbody.Thewavesarealsocominghigherupthebeach,andinhalfanhourtheseawillhavecleansedthesandofDriscoll’sblood.
‘Thereshouldbetrouble,’Moirasays,butwhenherfatherlooksathersharply,sheholdsupherhandsinsurrender.
‘It’sbeenabusydayforyou,Doctor,’Harkinsays,changingthesubject.
‘You’rereferringtoFatherDillon,Itakeit.’
‘Yes.Asuicide,I’mtold.’
‘SoI’minformed.’
‘You’renotconvinced?’
DrHegartysaysnothing.Hisdaughterspeaksforhim.
‘Hehasn’texaminedhim.MajorAbercrombiehasdecreedthatsincemartiallawisineffect,andwiththesituationsotroubled,onlypolice-determinedhomicideswillrequirepostmortems.’
Harkinfeelsahardfrowntightenhisforehead.
‘Isthatlegal?’
‘Whetheritisoritisn’t,there’snotmuchIcandoaboutit.’Hegarty’sangerisapparent.‘Icouldwritealettertosomeone,Isuppose,butthefirstpersontherecipientwouldcontactaboutitscontentswouldlikelybeAbercrombie.I’mnotsurethatwouldendwell.’
‘Father,I’msureMrHarkindidn’tmeantocauseyouirritation.’
‘Myirritationisn’twithMrHarkin,evenifhewillignoremymedicaladvice.Iam,however,annoyedwiththatjumped-upratofaman,Abercrombie,givenheisresponsibleforhalfthehomicidesaroundhere.’
‘WhereisFatherDillon’sbodynow?’Harkinasks.
‘Alreadywiththeundertaker.’
‘Couldyouexamineitthere,quietly?’
Hegartylooksathim,aneyebrowraised
‘IsthereapressingreasonwhyIshould?’
‘Theremightbe,’Harkinsayscarefully.
ItseemsthatDrHegartyunderstandshisdriftwhenhenodsslowly.
‘Butyoucan’ttellmewhy?’
‘ItwouldprobablybebetterifIdidn’t.’
Hegartythinksaboutthisforalittlewhile,beforeheseemstocometosomesortofadecision.
‘IsthistodowithMaudPrendeville’sdeath?’
‘ItmightevenbetodowithSeanDriscoll’s.’
‘Isee.KevinCunningham,theundertaker,isafriendofmine.Ioftenlookinonhimonmywayhome.Itwouldbeapurelysocialcall,ofcourse.IfIdohappentoseethebody,itwillofnecessityonlybethebriefestofexaminations,youunderstand?Butabriefexaminationisoftenallthatisneeded.’
‘Iwouldbeinterestedtoknowwhatyouthink.’
‘Verygood.Moira,willIgiveyoualiftbacktothelodge?’
‘IthinkI’llwalkuptoKilcolgan.IshouldgoandseeMrsDriscoll.’
Hegartyseemstotakeamomentbeforehesighs,appearingolderashisshouldersseemtolosetheirshape.
‘Ishouldcomemyself,butImustdothepostmortemonhimfirst.TellherIwilltakegoodcareofhim.’
Therainseemstohaveslackenedslightlyastheypassunderthegrimgazeoftheivy-wreathedeaglesthattopthepillarseithersideofthegatestoKilcolgan.Theeveningisdrawinginanditisdarkbeneaththetreesthatlinetheavenue.Theydonotspeakmuchastheywalk.IfMoiraandCharlieareinthesamestateasHarkin,theyarewetthroughandcold.Ontopofwhich,thereisDriscoll’sdeathandthefinalityofit.Thehouse,aheadofthem,isdark.Notasinglelightshows,despitethehour,noreventhehintofone.
Whentheyreachthefrontdoor,HarkinandMoirastandinthehallwayforamoment,listeningforanynoisewithin,puddlesspreadingaroundtheirfeet,whileCharliefindssomecandles.ThehallfireisnotlitandthereisnosignofeitherMurphyorBridget.
‘I’mafraidwecannotexpecttheservantstobeinastatetoperformeventhemostminimaltasksthisevening,’Charliesays.‘Tom,onceyouhavegotoutofthosewetclothes,doyouthinkyoucouldlightafireinthedrawingroomandinthediningroom?’
‘Ofcourse.’
‘Inthemeantime,I’llseewhatcanbearrangedinthewayofameal.Moira,willyoustayforsupper?’
Moiraseemstolookhiswayinthegloom,butHarkincan’tbecertain.
‘Iwouldliketo,ofcourse.Butthememsahibswillneedlookingafter,aswillMrBourke,myotherguest.OnceIhaveseenMrsDriscoll,Iwillmakemywayhome.’
‘CanIatleastfindyousomethingdrytowear?’
Moiraholdsupthehemofherwaxedcloak,toexaminethesoddendressunderneath.
‘Ifyouwereableto,thatwouldbeverykind.’
‘CouldIuseyourtelephone?’HarkinasksCharlie.‘IwouldliketocallMrBourke,nowthatMrsWilsonmentionshim.’
‘Ofcourse.There’soneinfather’sstudybutitisprobablybetterifyouusetheoneinthetelephoneroomattheendofthelonghall.’
‘Inwhichcase,’Moirasays,‘ImightalsotalkquicklytoMaryandmakesureeverythingisinhand.I’llshowMrHarkinwherethetelephoneis.’
Sheleadshimtoaroombesidethestaircaseatthefarendofthehall,whichseemstobeacrossbetweenabathroomandawardrobe,withalongsinkalongonewallandarackofemptyhooksandaboxedtelephoneonanother.Theirflickeringcandlesshowthempaleandwetinthewide,gilt-framedmirror,spottedwithage,thathangsabovethesink.Theirreflectionsseemtobelongtostrangers.Harkinturnstowardsher,butMoiraholdsafingertoherlipsandtheylistentoCharlieclimbthestaircaseandthenwalkalongthelanding.Moira,inthemeantime,removeshermonocleandwhentheycannolongerhearCharlie,shestepsintohisarms.Theydonotkiss,butholdeachothertight.Heissurprisedtofindtheyarebothshivering.
‘Ineedyourwarmth,MrHarkin,’shebreathesintohisear.
‘Itisallyours,MrsWilson.’
‘Iworried,whenIheardSeanDriscollhadbeenmurdered,thatyoumighthavebeenkilledaswell.’
Harkincanthinkofnothingtosayinresponse.
‘Youmustmakeyourtelephonecall,’shecontinues.
‘IndeedImust,andyoumusttotalktoMary.’
‘Mary?’shesays.‘She’swellcapableoflookingafterthingsuntilIgetback.Ionlywantedtofeelyourarmsaroundme.’
Andsoheholdsherforalittlelongerwhiletheirreflectionsseemtomergeintoone.
CHAPTER41
TheconversationwithBourkeisshortandtothepoint.
‘DidyouhearaboutDriscoll?’
‘Idid.Areweleaving?’
‘No.’
Thereisabriefsilenceontheline.
‘There’snoreasontostay.’ThereisaslightedgetoBourke’stone.‘He’sdealtwith.Theinvestigationisover.’
‘Exceptitisn’t.Listen,canyoucomeoverinanhourorso?I’llexplainthings.’
‘WillImeetyouatthebackgate?’
‘No,thefrontgate.There’samanweneedtospeaktothere.’
‘Inanhour,so.’
BourkehangsupandHarkinlistenstothecrackleonthelinebeforehereplacestheearpieceonitshook.Hestandsthereforamoment,wonderingifmaybeBourkeisrightandtheyshouldleave.ButthenheremembersVane’sswaggeronthebeachandMaudsittinginherarmchair.
Hestepsoutintothehallwayandstandsstillforamoment.Theonlylightinthelargeexpanseofthelonghallishissolitarycandle.Thereisanunnaturalquietwithinthehouseitself,whiletheexternalsounds,ofthewindandtheseaandtherain,althoughpresent,seemtocomefromadifferentworld.Somewhereatthefarendofthehallhehearsasmallcreature’sclawsscuttlingacrossthemarblefloor.HepresumesBillyissomewhereupstairs,aswellasCharlieandMoira.Iftheyare,theyhavebeenswallowedbydarknessandsilence.
Harkin’sfootstepsechoashewalkstowardsthestaircase,andstrangeshapesloomdownathimfromthewalls.Sometimeswhenaflickerofcandlelightcatchesasnarlofteethortheglintofglasseyes,hefeelshisbreathquicken.Heclimbsthestaircaseslowly,theoldwoodcreakingunderhisweight.Hiseyescanbarelydetectthefaintestoutlinesofthegallerywindowshighabove,andhethinksoftheWhiteLady,andMaud—ofArthuratthediningtableandthedeadsoldiersbythegraveside—andthereisapartofhimthatwantstorun.
Butwherecanherunto?ToDublin?Hewillhavehisghoststhereaswell.
HestandsoutsidethedoortoMaud’sbedroomandremindshimselftobreathe,concentratingontheliftandfallofhischest.Heturnsthehandleandthemechanismgivesalow,grindingsqueal.Hetellshimselfthatthereisnothinginsidetheroom—onlyhisclothesandthebedhewillsleepinthisnight—andthatevenifthereissomethinginthere,itisbetterhefaceshisfear.HeholdsclosethememoryofMoira’swarmthandpushesthedooropen,andwhenhestepsinsidethereisnothingoutoftheordinary,onlythesamesenseoflossthatpervadestherestofthehouse.
Afterplacingthecandleonthedressingtable,hetakescomfortintheroutineoflayingouthisclothesonthebed.Heremoveshiswetgarmentsandrubshimselfdownwithatowel,feelingthechilloftheroomagainsthisdampskin.Hewonderswhetheranyonewilllightafireinitthiseveningandthenremembersthatifanyonedoes,itwillhavetobehim.Hedressesquickly,savouringthecrispnessofthedryshirtagainsthisskin.Whenhehasfinished,heexamineshimselfinthecloudedmirror.Hischeekbonesseemhollow,whilehiseyesappeartohavesunkintohisskull.Hewondersifthedistortionisrealityoronlyinhismind.Tomorrowwillbetheendofit,onewayoranother.Orperhapstonight.HeretrievesMaud’slittlepistolandplacesitinhisjacketpocket,thinkingbacktothebeachandSeanDriscolllyingthere,hisbloodsoakingthedarksand.Itcouldhavebeenhimlyingthere,eitherinsteadofDriscolloralongsidehim,anditmightstillbe.
Hiseyefallsonthedavenportwritingdesk.IftheletterswerenotwrittenbySeanDriscoll,thenwhodidwritethem?
Harkinwalkstothedressingtableandretrievesthekeytothewritingdesk.Heislessworriedthistimeaboutoffending.ItseemstohimthatthesituationhasprogressedpasttheneedforpolitenesswhenitcomestothePrendevilles.Hegoesstraighttothebottomdrawer,unlocksitandpullsitout.
Thefirstsensehehasthatsomethingisnotquiterightisthatthesmallplankwhichconcealedthevoidwheretheletterswerekeptisnowmissing.Hereachesintothesecretcompartmentandfindsitlyingonthebottomofthevoid.
Theletters,however,arenowheretobefound.
CHAPTER42
BillydoesnotanswerwhenHarkinknocksonthedoor,butHarkinknowsBillyofoldandenters.Heissittinginanarmchairbesidethebed,inthedark.Hedoesnotlookup.
‘Howareyoufeeling?’
‘Middling,’Billysays,inahollowed-outvoicethattellsHarkinheisontheedgeofaprecipicetheybothknowwell.
‘I’msorryaboutSean.’
BillylooksupandHarkinknowsinstantlythathisintonationhasrevealedhisknowledgeoftheirrelationship.Butthen,hethinks,it’sbetterthisway.
‘You’llalwaysbemyfriend,Billy.Iamnotabletosaythattomanypeople.Idonotchangemymindaboutthesethings.Iwantyoutobeawareofthat.’
Billysaysnothingforamoment,thensighs.
‘Ilovedhim,ofcourse.Helovedme.HefollowedmetoFrance,forGod’ssake.Ifthatisn’tloveIdon’tknowwhatis.Itwasonlyafriendship,atfirst.Averyclosefriendshipandalongone,sincewhenwewerechildren.Butwhenwecamebackhere,afterallwehadbeenthrough,itdidn’tseemtherewasmuchpointnotbeingtruetoourselves.Idon’texpectyoutounderstandthat.’
‘Idounderstandit.Hewasafineman.Brave,andloyalandprincipled.’
‘Allofthat.’
Harkinletsthesilencebetweenthemlinger,whilehesitsonthebedandmakeshimselfcomfortable.Allthesame,hehascomeheretoaskquestions.
‘YouwerewithhimthenightofMaud’smurder,’hesays.
‘Yes.IwaswithhimwhenIsawthedamnedghostaswell.’
Harkinleansforwards.Hisfriend’sfaceisgauntinthecandlelightandhedoesnotmeetHarkin’sgaze.
‘I’msorryIsuspectedhim,’Harkinsays.‘IwilldowhatIcantobringAbercrombietoaccount.’
‘Willyoukillhim?’Billysays,hisvoicebarelyaudible.
‘Idon’tknow.Butifitcomestoit,perhaps.Sometimeskillingisnecessary.’
Thereisanothersilence.
‘Howwashe?’
‘Who?’
‘Sean,onthebeach.Howwashe?’
Harkintakesadeepbreath,remindinghimselfthatthisisaconversationtheyhavehadbefore,manytimes.Aboutdifferentmen,indifferentplaces.
‘TheyknewhewasaVolunteer,andalmostcertainlythathewasanintelligenceofficerforthelocalbrigade.Theytorturedhim.Theymusthavedoneeverythingtheycouldtomakehimtalk.Buthedidn’torIwouldn’tbetalkingtoyounow.I’mnotsureIcouldhavewithstoodwhathewentthrough.’
‘Thankyou,’Billysays,eventually.‘Ithoughtyoumightbeinvolved.Isupposewebothkeptsecretsfromeachother.’
‘Willyoubecomingdownfordinner?’
‘Yes.IneedtotalktoFather,andit’sasgoodatimeasany.’
HarkinwalksoverandputshishandonBilly’sshoulder.
‘IhaveaspareroominDublin.Thehousemaybesmallbutitdoeshaveworkingelectricity.’
Billymanagesahalf-laugh.
‘Andthere’satramfiftyyardsuptheroadthattakesyoustraightintotownprettymuchwheneveryoulike.Youcouldcomeandstayforaslongasyouneeded.’
‘Imaywelldothat.’
‘OnequestionbeforeIgo.’
‘Ofcourse.’
‘Didyourunclecomeandseeyouthisafternoon,afterwewentdowntothebeach?’
‘No.ThankGod.’
Harkinnods,surprisedonceagainathiscapacityformissingtheobvious.
‘I’llseeyoulateron,then.IfI’mafewminuteslatefordinner,willyouaskthemtostartwithoutmeandmakemyapologies?Iwillbethere,butImightbedelayed.’
WhenhehaslitthefiresthatCharlierequested,andmadesurethattheflameshavetakenhold,Harkinwalksdownthedrivetothegatelodge.Therainhasstoppedbutthewindcominginfromtheseaisdampandthecolditbringswithitworksitswaythroughhisclothinginnotimeatall.Heknowshisguiltisprobablymisplaced—thatAbercrombielikelyknewaboutDriscollweeks,ifnotmonths,beforeHarkincamedownfromDublin.HeknowsheismoredirectlyresponsibleforthedeathofFatherDillon,butgiventhepriestwasaninformerandtheindirectparticipantinthedeathsofatleastthreepeople,Harkinthinkshecanlivewithhisportionofthatresponsibility.
Somewhereinthewoodsanowlgivesitsmournfulcryandhehearshisownapprehensionreflectedinthesound.Hehasasenseofforebodingaboutwhatistocome.
ThereisthecrackofatwigandthenavoicewithaDublinaccentcomesfromthebushesbesidetheroad.
‘Verycareless.Icouldaseasilyshootyoudownasscratchmyarse.’
‘Justaswellyou’reheretoprotectme,then.’
‘Ifyou’donlyallowmetoprotectyou,’Bourkecontinues,emergingontothedrive.‘I’mtellingyou,ifIgetanordertomorrowtotakeyouuptoDublinwithme,that’sanorderIwilltakesomepleasureinobeying.’
‘Ipromisewewillbeleavingtomorrow,ifnotbefore.Ordersornoorders.Butweneedtodealwithafewlooseendsfirst.’
‘Looseends?Soyou’retellingmeSeanDriscollwasn’tthekiller.’
‘No,hewasnot.’
HetellsBourkeallthathehasuncoveredsincetheylastmet,omittingonlythenatureofBilly’srelationshipwithDriscoll.Whenhefinishesthereisalongsilence.
‘Fuck.’
‘Thataboutsumsitup.’
‘Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.’
Harkindecidesthereisn’tmuchpointhecanaddtothat.
‘YouknowwhatIthink?’Bourkesayseventually.
‘WeshouldgobacktoDublin?’
‘ThatisexactlywhatIthink.’
‘Let’sgoandseethegatekeeperfirst.’
Bourke’ssilenceisthesilenceofastormabouttobreak,buthefollowsHarkintothegatelodge’ssideporchandwaitswhileHarkinknocksonthedoor.Afterashortinterval,thereisthesoundofaninnerdooropeningandcandlelightinthesidewindow.
‘Who’sthere?’anunderstandablynervousvoiceasks.
‘It’sThomasHarkin,I’mafriendofthePrendevilles,stayingupatthehouse.I’minvestigatingMissPrendeville’sdeathonbehalfoftheinsurancecompanyIworkfor.’
Thedooropensacrackandanoldermanwithwispygreyhairlooksout.HelooksfromHarkintoBourkeandbackagain
‘Whoishe?’
‘MrBourke.Myassociate.’
PatrickWalshconsidersthisforamomentandthennods.
‘Comein,then.’
Thesmalllivingroomislitbyanoillampthathangsfromacrossbeam,givingoutasoftyellowlight.Harkinlooksaroundhim,atthecoalglowinginthefireplaceandthethreadbarefurniture,albeitofgoodquality.Hewondersifitmayoncehavebelongedinthebighouse.
‘Wewon’tstaylong,’Harkinbegins.‘Ijusthaveafewquestionsforyouaboutthenightoftheambush.Nothingyoutelluswillbepassedontothepoliceoranyoneelse,youhavemyword.’
‘Willyousitdown?’
Harkinsitsdowninanoldleatherarmchair,thearmscrackedthroughtothestuffing.HelooksupatBourke,whoisstillstanding.
‘MrBourke?You’llbemorecomfortablesittingdown.’
Bourkelooksasthoughhe’sabouttodisagree,butthenhesitsdownonanancienthallchairthatseemstobendunderhisweight.
‘IsMrsWalshathome?’
‘She’swithhersisterinthetown,’Walshsays.‘She’llbebacktomorrow.Thekillingsupsether,asyoucanimagine.’
‘Canyoutellusabouttheeventsoftheevening?Iunderstandthecolumntookoverthehousebeforehand?’
‘Yes.Theysaidthingscouldgobadlyforuswiththepoliceiftheydidn’t.’
‘Andwerethingsdifficult?Didthepoliceinterrogateyou?’
Walshlooksthoughtfulforamoment,asthoughthequestionhastakenhimaback.
‘Notatall.SergeantKellyaskedushowwedidwhenHisLordshiptoldthemhowwe’dbeentiedup,’hesays,histoneuncertain.
‘Theydidn’taskyouabouttheambush?’
‘Theywantedtoknowwhichdirectionthecolumnhadleftin,butwedidn’tknow.Thecarwasthere,allshotup,andMissPrendevilleandtheothersweredead.Isupposetheyknewwhathadhappenedallright.’
Harkinnods.‘We’vebeentoldtherewasasingleshot,aboutfiveminutesaftertheambushitself.Canyoutellmeaboutthat?’
Theoldmansitsbackinhischair,hiseyesdamp.
‘Idon’tliketorememberit.Yousee,we’dhaveknownMissPrendevillesinceshewasababy.Sowouldsomeofthemeninthecolumn.’HelooksatHarkinquickly,asthoughhehasgivensomethingaway.
‘Anythingyoutellmeisbetweenusalone,Iguaranteethat.’
‘Well,’theoldmansays,seeminglyreassured,‘whentheyrealisedshewasinthecar,theywereupset.Herreputationwouldhavebeenveryhighinthelocality.Buttheysawshewasonlyunconscious,sothecommandersaidtoputablanketoverher,asthepeoplefromthehousewouldbedownandtheywouldlookafterher.Andthenhetoldthemtosearchthebootandthecarforweaponsandthen,whenthey’ddonethat,heorderedthemtoleaveitastheyneededtobeonthemove.’
‘Andthentheyleft?’
‘Iwouldn’tsayitwasmorethanaminuteortwoaftertheshootingbeforetheyweregone.’
‘Whathappenedthen?’
‘Well,thenMrsWalshandmyself,wetriedtoundothecordstheyhadtiedusupwithsowecouldgooutsideandlookafterMissPrendeville.’
‘Butyoudidn’tmanage?’
‘No,wemanaged.’Walshseemstolookbackintothepastandnotmuchlikewhathesees.‘Igotmyhandsloosebutthenweheardthemancoming.’
Walshstops,andHarkinleansforwardsandWalshlooksuptomeethisgaze.
‘Tellmeabouttheman,MrWalsh.Anythingyoucanremember.’
‘Hecamefromtheotherside—notthedirectiontheVolunteersleftin.Frombehindus.Hetookhistimeandwhenhereachedthecar,hehadalight.’
‘Atorch?’
‘Itcouldhavebeen.Atthetime,Ididn’tknowwhatitwas.OnlyIhadafearofhim.’
‘Whatdidhedo?’
‘Therewasn’tanywind,soitfeltlikewecouldheareverynoisehemade.Hewasinnorush.Heopenedtheboot,Irememberthat,andthecardoors,anditsoundedasthoughhewasmovingthebodiesaround,withhimsighing.Iwasn’tevensurehewashuman.’
Theoldmanseemstohavebecomeolderstillinthetellingofthestory.Hestops,momentarilyovercome,andHarkintakestheopportunitytolookoverhisshoulderatBourketogaugehisresponse.Tohissurprise,thebigmanseemstohavetakenonWalsh’sfear,hiseyesroundandshiningintheyellowlight,hisfacepale.Harkinturnsbacktothegatekeeper.
‘Wouldyoulikeustofetchyousomething,MrWalsh?’
‘No,I’mallright.Justthememoryofit.’
‘Doyouthinkthemanwassearchingthecar?’
‘Iwouldsayso.Afterawhile,therewasasmallclickandthelightwasgoneandIthoughthemighthaveheardusandbeabouttocomein.IsweartoGodwedidn’tbreatheuntilthelightcamebackon.ThentherewasascratchandaflameandIthinkhelitacigaretteandthat’swhenIknewhewasamanafterall.’ThereisalongpauseandthenWalshwipessomethingfromhiseye.‘Thenheshother.’
Thereissilenceforamomentand,onceagain,HarkinissurprisedtoseethatBourke’seyesarealsomoist.
‘Doyourememberanythingaboutthesoundoftheman?Anythingdistinctive?’
Walshseemstolookbackintothememoryandthenhenods.
‘I’dswearhewaswearingridingboots.Icouldhearthemcreakashemoved.Iusedtobeafootmanupatthehouse.I’dknowthenoiseanywhere.’
‘Anotherquestion,ifyoudon’tmind.Wasthereanythingunusualabouthisgait?Alimporadraggedfootorasteelheelplate?Anythinglikethat?’
‘Nothing,onlythathewaswearingridingboots.’
Harkinthinksoverwhathe’stoldthem
‘Didanycarspassearlierintheevening?FromthedirectionofBallynanHouse?’
Walshconsidersthequestion.
‘None.I’msureofit.ThefirstcarthatcamefromthatdirectionwasInspectorTeevan’s.’
CHAPTER43
HarkinandBourkewalkdowntothebeach.Itisdark,butthereisenoughlighttomakeoutthewhiteofthewavesontheshore,andacrossthebaythereisasolitarylightagainstthelowhills.Harkinwonderswhatitcanbe,sobrightthatitcanbeseenfromsofaraway
‘Whydidyouaskhimabouthowthekillerwalked?’
‘Driscollhadalimp,’Harkinsays.
‘Ithoughtwe’druledhimout.’
‘Itdidn’thurttocheck.IfWalshcouldhearthecreakofaboot,hewouldhavenoticedalimp.’
‘So,whatdoyoumakeofit?’
‘Ihaveatheory.’
‘Goon.’
‘It’stenuous.’
‘Tenuous,isit?’
‘I’mnotcertainofit.’
‘Iknowwhatfuckingtenuousmeans.’
Harkintakesamomenttoorderhisthoughts.
‘IfKellyisrightaboutDillonbeinginthemajor’spocket,thenwehaveAbercrombiesettingupanambushonhimself.Whichwouldbestrangeifwedidn’tknow,alsofromKelly,thatTeevanwroteareportaboutAbercrombie’sactivitiesshortlybeforehisdeath—andthatthereporthasgonemissing.ItcouldbethatthereportwouldhavefinishedAbercrombie’scareer,maybeevenlandedhiminprison.AbercrombieknewTeevanwouldbeatSirJohn’scardevening.PerhapshesuggestedtheyshouldtalkaboutthereportandthatSirJohn’shousemightbetheplacetodothis.MoiraWilsonsaystheywentofftogetherearlierintheeveningandtheywerebothangryafterwards.PerhapsAbercrombiedecidedthatifthemeetingdidn’tgowell,hecouldbecalledaway,knowingitwouldmeanTeevanwoulddriveCartwrighthome.Ifitwentbetterthanexpected,hecouldbewaitingforEganandhismenwithalltheAuxiesandpeelersandsoldiersthetowncouldmuster.Hecouldhaveambushedtheambush.’
‘Butitdidn’tgowell,andsohesentTeevanandCartwrightintoatrapknowingourladswouldbewaitingforthem?’
‘ItwouldhavebeenaneatwaytogetridofTeevan.Therewouldn’thavebeenanyinvestigationifithadn’tbeenforMaud,andtherewasn’tmuchthen.Evenifmenfromthecolumnhadbeenarrested,noneofthemknewthesourceoftheinformationthatledtotheambush.TheonlylinkwasMattBreen,andhewaskilledacoupleofdaysafterwards.WhenFatherDillonwasmurdered,thelinkwasseveredcompletely.’
‘ButKellyknows.’
‘Idon’tthinkAbercrombieisawarethatDillontoldKellywhatwasgoingon.Giventhesergeantisstillalive.’
‘AndwhataboutCartwright?Weren’tAbercrombieandhimsupposedtobepals?’
‘TheyservedinthesamebattalionbutCartwrightdidn’tcomeheretoseeAbercrombie,hecameheretoseeBillyPrendeville.MaybeitwasjustacoincidencethatAbercrombieturnedouttobehere.’
‘SoAbercrombieleftBallynanHouseinhismotor,calledawaybyatelephonecall,butWalshsaysthecarneverpassedthegatelodge.Youthinkheparkeditsomewhereandwalkedovertowatchthefun?’
Harkinconsidersthepossibility.
‘Itcouldbe.WhenIwalkedinfromthebackgatethisafternoonitwasdeserted.Thechancesofanyonenoticingamotorcartherewouldbeslimifhecoasteditin,orhemayhaveleftitsomewhereelsealtogether.IfI’mright,hewantedtobetherewhentheambushtookplace,firstlytocheckTeevanwaskilledandalsotogetthereport.I’mguessingthesearchingWalshheardwasAbercrombielookingforit.’
‘SowhydidhekillMaudPrendeville?’
‘Idon’tknow.Idon’tevenknowwhyshewasinthecar.TherearealotofthingsIdon’tknow.ButifMaudwasinvolvedintheshipment,andtheshipmentisknownaboutbytheauthorities,thenperhapsthat’sthereasonshewaskilled.Oritcouldbesomethingelsealtogether.’
‘Sowhatdoyouwanttodo?’
‘IwanttohaveaconversationwithSirJohnPrendeville.ButfirstIwanttotalktoMrsDriscoll.WillyoudrivemeovertoBallynanHousealittlelater?’
Thereisamoment’ssilence,thenagrunt.
‘Issomethingwrong?’Harkinasks.
‘It’sonlySirJohndrivesablueDaimler.’
‘So?’
‘IsawablueDaimlerintownthenightSeanDriscollwentmissing.ThenightAbercrombiecametoshootupMrsWilson’slodge.Heknewyouwerestayingthere,becauseItoldhimwhenIdroppedoveryourlettertohim.’
CHAPTER44
HarkinleavesBourkewaitingwithhiscarbythegateandwalksbacktoKilcolgan,skirtingthehouse,nowwithlightcolouringatleastsomeofitswindows.HemakeshiswayalongthesmallcobbledlanethatrunsbesidethewalledgardenandleadstoMrsDriscoll’shouse.Somewhereoutinthedarkness,thesameowlhootsonceagain.Thereisasenseofexpectationabouttheplace.Harkinremembersthequietalongthelineinthehalf-lightbeforethedawnofanattack,thetensioninmen’sfacesandtheabsenceofbirdsongoranynoiseexcept,offinthedistance,thewhirrofanaeroplane’sengine.Theknowledge,ashelookedaroundathismen’sfaces,thatmanyofthemwouldbedeadbeforethehourwasout.Thereisthesameanticipationhere.
Thetwo-storeyred-brickhouseinwhichMrsDriscollliveshasasmallgardenaroundit,boundedbyalowwallandchest-highhedges,andeveninthedark,hecantellthatitiswellmaintainedenoughtobearebuketothetumbling-downuntidinessofthebighousenotmuchmorethanahundredyardsaway.Thecurtainsarepulledtightinthewindows,buttheyareedgedbylight.Harkinstandsoutsidethedoorandlistensonceagain.Eventhebreezehasdiedawaytonothinghere.Thereisonlythesoundofhisownbreathingandthemurmurofconversationfrominside.Heliftshisknuckles,reststhemagainstthecoldwoodforamomentandthenknockstwice,eachknocklikeapistolshot.
ThepersonwhoopensthedoorisMoiraWilson,wearingherhatandcoat.Shereachesupahandtohisface,herpalmagainsthischeek.Shesearcheshisfaceforaninstant.Hewonderswhathemustlooklike,standinghere…deathstalkinghim.
‘I’monmywayout.Sheisexpectingyou.’
‘Isshe?’heasks,surprised.
‘Shesaidyouwouldhavequestionsandshesaysshehasanswersforyou.WillIseeyoutomorrow?’
‘Yes.’Hehopesheistellingthetruth.
‘Takecareofyourself,MrHarkin,’shesays,smiling,andtoucheshisfaceagain.
‘Andyoutoo,MrsWilson.’
Inside,MrsDriscollsitsbesidethesmallrange,withBridgetalongsideher.Sheiswearingablackdressthatrunsfromahighcollardowntoblackpolishedshoes.Herfaceispaleagainstherclothing.Seeinghim,MrsDriscollleansforwardsandplacesherhandonBridget’sknee.
‘Goupthehouseandseeifthereisanythingneedsdoing,Bridget.MrHarkinwillsitwithmeforalittlewhile.’
WhenBridgethasleft,itoccurstoHarkinthathehasclearedthehouseofeveryoneexcepthimselfanditsownerinamatterofmoments.Itiswarm,sohetakesoffhishatandtrenchcoatandplacesthemonahookbesidethedoor.
‘MrsDriscoll,Iwantedtoapologiseagainforearlier.’
Sheexamineshim.Hereyesarered-rimmed,butherfaceiscomposedandsheseems,despitethenewsofheronlyson’sdeath,tobecalm.ShepointstothechairfromwhichBridgetrecentlyrose.
‘MrHarkin,pleasesitdown.’
Whenheisseated,theyexamineeachotherforafewmoments.
‘MrsWilsontoldmeyouwereexpectingme,’hesays,anopeningthatallowshertodecidehowtheconversationwillprogress.Sheinhalesdeeply,asthoughsummoningallherenergy.
‘I’mguessing,bynow,youknowmysonhadnothingtodowiththedeathofMissPrendeville.Ipresumeyoualsoknowsomeotherthingsabouthimaswell.’
‘Ido.’Heiscarefultokeephisvoiceasneutralashecan.
MrsDriscolllooksintothefirethatglowsintherange’sgrate.Afterthepersistentcoldbothoutsideandinthebighouse,Harkinfindstheheatcomingfromittobeawelcomenovelty.
‘HewaswithMasterBilly.Thatnight.Hewasn’twithme.’
‘SoIunderstand.’
‘Ofcourse,Icouldn’ttellyouthatatthetimeandIdidn’tthinkitwouldmakeanydifferencetoyourenquiries.Butitseemsitdid.’
‘Youweren’ttheonlyonewhomisledmeaboutthatevening.Everyonedid,indifferentways.Somemoresothanothers.’
‘IsupposeweallthoughtitwasobviousnoonefromKilcolgancouldhavebeenresponsibleforMaud’sdeathbut,then,youaren’tfromKilcolgansohowwereyoutoknow?’
‘That’sprobablyright.’
Shesighs.
‘Ineverwantedhimtogotothewar.Itchangedhim.’
Harkinisn’tsurewhattosaytothat.Heopenshismouthtomumblesomeplatitude,perhapssomethingalongthelinesofithavingchangedallofthem,butshespeaksbeforehecangatherthewords.
‘Heshouldneverhavecomeback,’shesays,inalowvoice.‘HeshouldhavegonetoLondonorAmerica.Anywherebuthere.BillyPrendevilleaswell.’
‘I’msorryitcametothis.’Harkinisconsciousofthecompleteinadequacyofhiswords.
MrsDriscollshakesherhead,hermouthopeningonceortwicetospeak,butseeminglyunabletodoso.Shedoesnotmeethisgaze.Afterawhile,heshiftsinhisseat.
‘OneofthereasonsIthoughtSeanmighthavebeenresponsiblewasbecauseIfoundsomeletters—intimateletters—inMaud’sroom.TheywerefromsomeonecalledSean.Ithoughtitmustbeyourson.’
Shenodsslowly.
‘WouldyouhaveanyofSean’shandwriting,byanychance?Iknowthelettersaren’tfromhimbutImayneedtoproveitatsomestage.’
Shestandsandwalksovertoasmalldresser,openingoneofitsdrawers.ShetakespapersoutandlooksthroughthembeforeselectingaletterandbringingittoHarkin.HeknowsimmediatelythatthehandwritingisdifferentfromthatoftheletterstoMaud.
‘MayIkeepthisuntiltomorrow?’
Shenods.Herwarinessisnothardtodetect.
‘AsIunderstandit,yourmarriagetoMrDriscollwasaveryshortone.’
HethinksbacktothewayKellybehavedwhenHarkinhadmentionedDriscoll’sfatherandwondersifheisontherighttrack.Ittakesherashortmomenttoreact,butwhenshelooksawaytoavoidhisgaze,heknowshishalf-suspicioniscorrect.
‘Inoticedearliertoday,apassingsimilaritybetweenSirJohnandSean.Ididn’tthinkanythingofitatthetime.’
Shelooksupathimnow,andhercomposureseemstoreturntoher.
‘Itoccurstome,’hesays,choosinghiswordscarefully,‘thatSeanmighthavebeennamedforsomeone.ThattheotherSean—orJohn,togivethenameitsEnglishform—mightbethemanwhowrotetheletterstoMaud.Strangeasthatmightseem.Iwonderedif“Sean”mightbeanamethismanusesprivately.’
Shenodsoncemore,unsurprisedbyhissuggestion,orsoitseems.Shedrawsherselfupalittlestraighterinherchair,stilllookingatherknees.
‘HewasnamedforSirJohnPrendevilleand,yes,IgavehimtheIrishversionofhisname,becauseitisoneheusesprivately.IdiditbecauseSirJohnishisfather.’Sheregardshimcalmly.There’snoshameinherexpressionor,indeed,anyemotionthathecandetect.‘Itwasmybigsecret.MyparentshelpedmetogoawaytoacousininDublinwhenIknewIwaspregnant.IhidthedateofSean’sbirthsonoonewouldsuspect.SeanmainlytookaftermyfamilyinlookssomostofthePrendevillesdidnotknowhewastheirownkin,althoughIthinkhisLordshiphadasuspicion.’
‘Billydidn’tknow.’
Shelooksawayfromhim.
‘Thatwasmybigmistake.Iclosedmyeyestoituntilitwastoolate.EvenifI’drealisedintime,Idon’tknowwouldIhavetoldSean.Theliewassooldbythenitwasalmostmorerealthanthetruth.’
‘TherewasnoMrDriscoll.’
‘No.’
‘AndSirJohn,ofcourse,hasnoidea.’
Shelaughsabitterlaugh.
‘No.Hecan’tseeanythingpasthimself.He’salwaysbeenthatway.Idoubtheevenremembersruiningme.’
‘WhataboutMaud?Thelettersappeartobeloveletters,althoughIonlysawonesideofthecorrespondenceandhaveonlyreadoneletter.SirJohnseemstohaveretrievedthemnow,soIdon’tknowanythingforcertain.’
Herforeheaddevelopsthefurrowsofadeepfrown.
‘Theyhadsomesecretbetweenthem.’
Harkinconsidersthis,rememberingthatthereisalsothematterofthearmsshipment.
‘Whatmakesyouthinktherewasasecret?’
‘Iwouldseethemtalkingfromtimetotime—veryseriousandcarefulnottobeoverheard.Ithoughtitmustbesomethingtodowithpolitics,soIdidn’tthinktoomuchofit.’
‘Perhapsitwas.ButperhapsSirJohnwantedittobesomethingmore?’
Sheconsidersthis,hermouthslowlytwistingintoanexpressionofdistaste.
‘It’spossible.Iwouldn’tputanythingpasthim.AndMissMaud,thelastfewyears,wasalittlevulnerable,whichIthinkhewouldhaveseenasanopportunity,evenwithherbeinghisniece.Heisnostrangertohypocrisy.IblamehimforSeanjoiningup.Hewasalwaysinthepaper,givingspeeches.HowIrelandwouldwinHomeRuleonthebattlefieldsofFrance.Nothim,ofcourse.Hehadtostayathometomindthehomefires.’
ThissochimeswithHarkin’sviewofhisformeremployerthathehastotakeamomenttolettherageitsparkssubside.
‘Iamsorryforbringingupoldmemories,’hesays,whenheiscalmer.
Shesaysnothing,onlyshrugs.
‘Whatwillyoudonow?’Harkinasks,lookingaroundthesmallroom.Emptynow,hesuspects,withouttheanticipatedpresenceofherson.
‘MoiraWilsonsaysIcangoandworkforherifIwant.IthinkI’lltakeheruponit.ThePrendevillescanlookafterthemselves.’
‘I’msorry,’Harkinsays,andhemeansitwithallofhisbeing.
CHAPTER45
BallynanHouseisablazeoflightagainsttheblackoceanbehindit.Allofthelowerwindowsarelit,aswellasseveralofthoseontheupperstorey.LightspillsoutontothegravelsemicircleinfrontofthebuildingwhereBourkehasstoppedthecar.Itseemsalmostprofligate.
‘Thewondersofelectricity,’Bourkesays,rollingdownhiswindowtospitoutontotheground.Harkintakesadeepbreath,preparinghimself.
‘I’llneedtakingbacktoKilcolganafterwards.ButIwon’tbelong.’
Bourkenodswithascowl.
‘I’mlikeataxidriver.Ishouldbechargingyouforwaitingtime.Chargingsomeone,anyway.’
‘Vincent?’Harkinsaysinaquietvoice.
Bourkecastsasuspiciousglanceinhisdirection.
‘What?’
‘I’mgladyou’rehere.I’mgladit’syouwhoiswatchingmyback.Sincerely.’
Bourkelooksmomentarilyconfused,thensmileswithsomethingverymuchlikepleasure.
‘Goon,goandholdthatfecker’sfeettothecoals.’
Harkindoesashe’stold.Heis,tohissurprise,calm.Almostunnaturallycalm.Hehasdecidedonhiscourseofactionandwhileheisnotcertainhowtheeveningwillendforhim,atleastthedecisionismade.Nowitisonlyamatterofexecutinghisintentionsaswellaspossible.
Hedoubtsthisstateofcalmwillpersisttillmorning,however.
Harkinpushesthebrassbuttonbesidethedoor,listenstotheelectricbuzzandwaits,feelingforMaud’ssmallautomaticinhispocket.Tohissurprise,itisSirJohnPrendevillehimselfwhoopensthedoor.Theoldermanstandsthere,momentarilyconfused.ItdoesnotlookasthoughHarkin’sarrivalisapleasantsurprise.
‘Tom,’hesays,warily.‘IstheresomethingIcandoforyou?’
‘Weneedtohaveaword,’Harkinsays,puttingalittlebitofmenaceintoit.
SirJohnnodsandleadshimtothelibrary,tellinghimastheywalkthattheservantshavetheeveningofftoattendtherearrangeddanceinthetown.TheroomisunchangedsinceHarkin’slastvisit,exceptthattherearesomesealedenvelopesandahalf-writtenletteronthepartner’sdeskwhichfillsoneendoftheroom.Harkinwalksoverandexaminesthem.TheyarenotthelettersfromMaud’swritingdeskbutthehandwritingisidentical.Hedoesn’tbothertakingoffhistrenchcoat.Hedoubtshe’llbestayinglong.
‘Whatnewsdoyouhaveforme?’
SirJohn’svoiceisalmostquerulous.HarkinturnstofacehimanditisclearthatSirJohnisnothisusualconfidentself.Theselastfewdayshavewornawaysomeofhissheen.Harkincanevendetectsomethingakintoalarmintheolderman’sexpressionanditpleaseshim.ShakingSirJohn’ssenseofwell-beingisentirelythepointofthisvisit.
‘Whydon’tyoutakeaseat?’Harkinsays,leaningbackonthedeskandfoldinghisarmsacrosshischest.
SirJohnseemstogatherhimselfforamoment,nodoubtsurprisedtobeorderedaroundinhisownhouse.ThenhewalkstothechairnearestHarkinandsitsdownwiththeairofamanwhohadintendedtodothatverythingallalong.
‘You’llbepleasedtohearmyinvestigationislargelyconcluded.IwillbeleavingKilcolgantomorrowmorning.’
SirJohnnodsgravelyandifheisrelieved,heconcealsitwell.
‘Isee.Thankyouforlettingmeknow.IwilltellyoursuperiorIamsatisfiedthematterisnowresolved.’
Harkinallowsthesilencetoextend,allthetimeholdingSirJohn’sgazewithadeliberateintensity.Eventuallytheoldermanlooksaway.
‘I’mnotsurethematterisresolved,though,isit?’Harkinsays,loweringhisvoicetoagrowl.
SirJohnmakesagoodattemptatappearingnonplussed.
‘Idon’tunderstand.YouhaveestablishedSeanDriscollkilledMaudandheisnowdead.Whatelseistheretoberesolved?’
‘Quitealot,’Harkinsays,drawingoutthewords.‘Infact,oneofthefewthingsIamcertainofisthatSeanDriscolldidnotkillMaud.Nor,asithappens,washeresponsibleforthearrangingoftheambush.’
SirJohn’smouthopensandthencloses
‘Buttheletters…’hesays,afteramoment.‘Maud’spregnancy.Thetimingsoftheevening.HismurderofFatherDillon.Itcertainlyseemsconclusivetome.’
Harkinallowsthecontempthefeelsforthemantoseepintohissmile.
‘No,’hesays,onceagaindrawingouttheword.‘Shallwestartwiththeletters?Letterswhichyou—alsoaSeanwhenitsuitsyoutobealittlemoreIrishthanusual—claimwerewrittenbyDriscoll.Exceptthattheyweren’t.Ipresumethat’swhyyouremovedthemfromtheirhidingplaceinMaud’sbedroomearliertoday.WhenyousaidyouweregoingtocomfortBilly.OnlyyouneverdidcomfortBilly.’
HarkincanseehowSirJohnhesitates,nodoubtwonderingwhethertolieabouttakingthem,beforeeventuallydecidingtoacknowledgetheact.
‘ItookthemtoprotectMaud’sreputation.Iwouldhavethoughtthatwasobvious.’
‘Maud’sreputation?Oryours?IftheletterscamefromyouratherthanSeanDriscoll,thenIcanseehowtheirbecomingpublicknowledgewouldn’texactlyenhanceyourreputation.IknowthedisgustIfeelforyou,amanIoncerespected,takingadvantageofhisvulnerablenieceinthewayyouseemtohaveattemptedandmostlikelysucceeded,isprofound.’
ThereissomethingplaintiveinSirJohn’sattemptatoutrage.
‘Don’tberidiculous.Iwasheruncle.I’veknownhersinceshewasachild.Iwouldneverhavesentherlettersofthatnature.’
Harkinleansforwards,catchingSirJohn’sgazeonceagainandholdingit.Thenheturnstopickupthehalf-writtenletterfromthedeskandholdsitouttohim.
‘Isthisyourhandwriting?’
SirJohnnodsashetakesit,hisfacealmostwhite.HarkintakestheletterMrsDriscollgavehimfromhisinsidepocketandholdsitoutsothatSirJohncanexamineit.
‘ThisisSeanDriscoll’shandwriting.ItbearsnoresemblancetothehandwritinginthelettersMaudreceived.Yourhandwriting,ontheotherhand,isidentical.’
‘Yourmemoryisdefective.Thelettersareinhishandwriting.’
Harkinsmiles.ThereisathinsheenofsweatonSirJohn’sforeheadandhismouthisslightlyopen,revealingclenchedyellowteeth.Itlooksmorelikeadog’ssnarlthantheperplexedsmilehepresumesSirJohnintends.
‘Shallwedoacomparison?’
SirJohnopenshismouthtoanswerbutHarkininterrupts.
‘Ah,butno,you’llhaveburnedthem,won’tyou?AssoonasyouscuttledbackherefromKilcolgan.Oratleast,that’swhatyou’dsayinacourtoflaw,isn’tit?’HeimitatesSirJohn.‘MrHarkin,adecoratedwarveteranandamanIholdinthehighestregard,hasbeensubjecttothepsychologicalstrainsofprolongedwarservice.Icanonlysuspectthishasledtohismemorybeingatfaultinthismatter.’
‘Tom,’SirJohnsays,gravely,‘Ididn’twritethoseletters.Whateveryoumaythink,SeanDriscollwrotethem.Ipromiseyouthis.NaturallyIdenyhavingwrittenthembecauseIdidn’twritethem.’
‘Whichbringsmetothenextitemofevidence.’
HarkinproducesMaud’sautomaticpistol.HewatchesSirJohn’seyesgrowwideashefindshimselfstaringdownthebarrelofthelittleweaponbeforeHarkinshiftshisholdsothatthegunsitsflatinthepalmofhishand.
‘Yourecognisethislittlebeauty,doyou?It’safour-bulletFrenchpocketautomatic,anunusualweaponthatfiresa.25calibrebullet.Identical,asithappens,totheonethatwastakenfromMaud’sskull.’
‘I’mnotsurewhatyourpointis,butIhaveneverseenthisgunbefore.’
‘That’sstrange,becauseIfounditinMaud’sdeskalongsidethelettersyouwrote.Iwonderedifsheassociatedthegunwiththeletters,becausetheycamefromthesameperson,whichiswhyshekeptthemtogether.Imentionedit’sFrench,didn’tI?Andthatitwasmanufacturedlastyear?Youcouldn’tbuythisinIreland,that’sforcertain—notthesedays.ButyouwereinParislastMayfortheearlynegotiationsoftheshipment.Ofcourse,bycompletecoincidence,sowasMaud.AmIwrong?’
Harkin’sassertionaboutSirJohnhavingbeeninParisatthesametimeasMaudwasasmuchaguessasanythingbutSirJohn’sslighthesitationisalltheconfirmationheneeds.BythetimeSirJohngathershimselfsufficientlytodenytheaccusation,itistoolate.
‘Idon’tknowwhatyou’retryingtosuggestbutthisisallnonsense.’
Harkindoesn’tevenbotheranswering.
‘SowehaveyourlovelettersandyourjointtriptoParis.AndthenwehaveMaud’spregnancy,whichyouaresokeentosuppressanypublicknowledgeof.YouwouldhavemebelievethechildmusthavebeenDriscoll’s,buttherearesomepracticalreasonswhythatisveryunlikely.ThemostimportantofwhichisthatSeanDriscollwashomosexual.’
Harkinallowshimselfanothercoldsmile.Indeed,thereisapleasuretobehadinwatchingSirJohnsquirm.
‘You’llrememberthattheidentificationofDriscollasthefatherofMaud’sunbornchildwasentirelybasedonhimbeingtheauthorofthemissingletters.Ofcourse,iftheletterswerewrittenbyyou,thatputsaverydifferentperspectiveonthebusiness.’
Ifpossible,SirJohnbecomesevenpaler,butheseemstogatherhisstrength,perhapsbelievingthatifthisisallHarkinhastooffer,thenheissafe.
‘Ifyoupersistwiththisinsaneseriesofallegations,Iwillhavetocontactyoursuperior.’
‘Yes,Isupposeyou’rethinkingabouttheshipmentandhowimportantyouaretousstrategically.’Harkinsoundsalmostbored,asifhehasbeenremindedofanotverygoodjoke.‘However,ourpeoplestronglysuspectthearmsshipmentisknownaboutbytheauthorities.Wheredoesthatleaveyou,SirJohn?Iwouldsayitleavesyouinaverydifficultposition.WhatwithyoubeingsuchgoodfriendswithMajorAbercrombie.ThesameMajorAbercrombiewho,lestweforget,isrunningaroundthecountrysidemurderinganyonehefeelslike,includingoneSeanDriscoll.Amurder,somemightthink,thatsuitedyouverywell.’
WhenSirJohnspeaks,hespeaksquietly,ashardoficeineachword,andHarkinhastoadmitheisverynearlyconvincing.
‘YoursuperiorisawareofmycontactwithAbercrombie.IthasalwaysbeenconsideredessentialthatImaintainthepublicpersonaofacommittedloyalist.Asforyoursuggestionsabouttheauthoritiesbeingawareoftheshipment,Isuspectthisisanotherfigmentofyourimagination.Finally,theideaIhadanythingtodowiththemurderofSeanDriscollispreposterousanddeeplyoffensive.Idemandyouwithdrawit.’
HarkinregardsSirJohncalmly,thenshrugs.
‘PerhapsthebossdidsuggestyoukeepincontactwithAbercrombie…’Harkinpauses,consciousthathisnextpieceofinformationmustbeletslipwithcompleteprecision.‘Although,havingreadTeevan’sreportontheman,youwouldthinkanyoneintheirrightmindwouldstaywellclearofhim.’
SirJohncan’thelphimself.
‘Whatreportisthis?’
‘TeevanwroteareportfortheCommissioneroftheRICconcerningAbercrombie’smanycriminalacts.TherewasacopyinMaud’sdesk.Teevanmusthavegivenittoherforsafekeeping.’
PerhapsSirJohnhasforgottenheisplayingthepartofaffrontedinnocent,becausethereisnohintofhisearlieroutrage.
‘Andyouhavethisreportinyourpossession?’
‘BackatKilcolgan.I’lltakeitwithmetoDublininthemorning.I’msurethebosswillhaveuseforit.’
SirJohnconsidersthispossibilityforamomentandHarkinseesthefirsthintofsuspicion.
‘You’venevermentionedthisreportbefore.Norindeedthatridiculouspistol.’
‘WhywouldI?IwasonlyorderedtoengagewithyouonthematterofMaud’sdeath.’
SirJohnlooksmomentarilybewilderedbutheseemstoshakehimselfoutofit.HeremembershisroleandHarkinispleasedtoseeit.
‘Allofthisismeresuppositionandcoincidence.Itisabsolutenonsenseanddeeplyoffensive.Asforthereport,itisnoneofmyaffair.’
Harkinnods,asthoughagreeingwithSirJohn.
‘Whataboutthisforanothercoincidence?’hesays,almostasanafterthought.‘YourcarwasseenintownlastnightatthesametimeSeanDriscollwentmissingandFatherDillonwasmurdered.Obviously,ifI’dquestionedDriscollabouttheletters,hewouldlikelyhavebeenabletoestablishhisinnocenceandtoindicatetheirrealauthor,soit’scurioushewasmurderedsosoonaftertheirdiscovery.Likewise,FatherDillonmightwellhaverevealed,underthepressureIwouldhavebeenforcedtoapply,theidentityofthesourcewhoseinformationledtotheambush.Thefactthatbothofthemwereputbeyondmyreach,shortlyafteryouwereinformedwewouldbequestioningthem,issuspicious.Inanyevent,itwillbeuptothebosstodecidewhattodonext.’
SirJohnmakesasthoughtospeakbutHarkinstands,buttoninghiscoat.
‘Goodeveningtoyou,SirJohn.Noneedtoseemeout,Iknowtheway.’
AtthedoorHarkinturnsback.Hefeelsamomentaryregret,butsuppressesit.
‘Thereissomethingelseyoushouldknow,’hesays.‘SeanDriscollwasyourson.ThereneverwasaMrDriscoll.Hismother,anothervulnerableyoungwomanyoutookadvantageof,hidthedateofhisbirthsoyouwouldn’tsuspect.Iwonderwhatpeoplewillthinkifthatinformationbecomescommonknowledge.Giventhecircumstances.’
SirJohn’sexpressionisoneofblankamazement,butHarkintakesnopleasurefromit—rather,asenseofguilt.Heturnsonhisheelandmakeshiswayquicklythroughtheemptyhouse,leavingbehindhimonlytheechoofhisfootsteps.
Bourkeiswaitinginthecar.
‘Well?’hesays,startingtheengine.
‘We’llsee,’Harkinsays,allowinghimselftorelaxatlast.‘ButIthinkso.’
AbouthalfamilealongtheroadtowardsKilcolgan,Bourkereversesthecarintoanarrowboreenfromwhereitcan’tbeseenfromtheroadbutthey,ontheotherhand,canseewhocomesandgoeswithease.
‘Wecouldbewaitinghereallnight.’
‘Notthatlong,Ishouldn’tthink.’
Theysitincompanionablesilence,smoking.Sureenough,tenminuteslaterthesoundofamotorcarisheardfromthedirectionofBallynan,beingdrivenatspeed.Ashorttimeafterwardsthereistheflashofitslightsasitdrivespasttheirhidingspot.
‘Icouldn’tmakeitout,’Bourkesays.‘Areyousureitwashim?’
‘Certainofit.’
TheyfinishtheircigarettesandthenBourkedrivesHarkintoKilcolgan.
CHAPTER46
Harkinisontimefordinner,asitturnsout,althoughhenosoonersetsfootinsidethehousethanCharlie,whoseemstohavebeenwaitingforhim,ushershimtowardsthediningroom.
‘Ineedsomeonetoopenthewine.Youdoknowhow,don’tyou?’shesays,takinghistrenchcoatandhangingitonahookbesidethehalldoor.
‘IthinkIremember.’
SeeingthatHarkinisstillwearinghishat,shetakesitandplacesitonasidetable.Shenodsdownthelong,darkhallinthedirectionofthediningroom.
‘Comeon,then,’shesays,gesturingwiththeoillampsheiscarrying,andmarcheshimbrisklyalongtotheirdestination.Theirprogressisinterruptedbythejangleofthetelephone.CharlieturnstolookatHarkin.
‘Couldyouanswer?’
‘Ofcourse,’Harkinsaysandfindshisway,inthedark,tothesmalltelephoneroom.Heliftstheearpieceandwonders,foramoment,whattosay.
‘KilcolganHouse?’hesays,afteramoment’sindecision.
‘Harkin?’DrHegarty’svoiceisgruff.
‘Yes.’
‘Itisasyouthought.Ifyouneedtoknowmore,you’llhavetocometoseeme.Ican’ttalkaboutthematteroverthetelephone.’
‘Ofcourse,Iunderstand.’Hewouldsaygoodbye,butthereisaclickasthedoctordisconnects.
Harkinmakeshiswaytothediningroom,withonlytheglowoflightfromunderitsdoortoguidehim.Thelongtablehasbeenlaid,atoneend,forfive,leavingtherestofthetableempty.Tenminuteslater,withthewineopenedandthefiretendedto,thereareonlyfourseatedattheirplaces:Harkin,Charlie,BillyandLordKilcolgan.
Theroomislitbyascatteringofcandles,predominatelyclusteredattheendofthetablewheretheyaresitting,andtwooillampsonthesidetableonwhichisarrangedabuffetofsorts.DespiteHarkin’sfire,theroomretainsitscustomarychillandHarkinregretsnothavingwornanextravest.Hefindsthatheisshiveringintermittentlybutitoccurstohimthatthismightnotbeduesolelytothetemperature.Theday,afterall,hasbeenabewilderingseriesofeventsandemotions,withdeathandfearinplentifulsupply,nottomentionthenumerousrevelationsandhisownconfusion.Now,foramomentortwo,heisstandingasidefromthemomentumofitall.Perhapsthisiswhyhefeelsawaveofexhaustionsweepthroughhim.Heplaceshisknifeandforkbackonthetablewhentheyrattlebrieflyonhisplate.Hebreathesdeeplyforawhile,untilheregainssomesortofcomposure.Helooksuptofindthattheothersarewatchinghim.Hesmiles.
‘Justachill.I’msureitwillpass.’
ThemealismadeupofwhateverCharliehasbeenabletothrowtogether.Harkinlooksathisplateofcoldham,boiledpotatoesstillintheirskins,andboiledeggsstillintheirshells.Hehaseatenfar,farworseandthewine,asithappens,issuperlative.A1900ChateauLatourthatisasgoodasanythingHarkinhaseverdrunk.
‘Ifounditinthecellar,anentirecaseofit,’Charlieissaying,beforeadding,withsomesympathy,‘Murphycan’thaveknownitwasthere.’
‘WhereisMurphy?’LordKilcolganasks,lookingtowardsthekitchenstaircase.Hehashadtohelphimselffromthesidetableandappearstobestillaffectedbythenovelexperience.
‘Heis…’Charliepauseswhilesheconsidershowtocontinue.Eventuallyshedecidesonasuitableword.‘Incapacitated.’
‘Ashame,’Kilcolgansays,hisbroodingairofdiscontentbrokenforaninstantbythebriefestofsmiles.‘AndBridget?’
‘Alsoincapacitated,’shesays,beforeadding,afteramoment’sthought,‘Althoughinhercase,solelybygrief.’
‘Isee.’
Kilcolgan’svoiceislow,hiseyesmomentarilypained.Helooksaroundthetable,asthoughsearchingforachangeofsubject.
‘Well,Harkin?Isyourinvestigationconcluded?’hesays,beforeseemingtorememberwhoHarkin’sinvestigationconcerned.Eveninthehalf-light,itisclearthathewisheshecouldwithdrawthewords.
Harkin,however,isbarelylistening.Theroom,litasitissolelybycandlesandoillamps,appearsdistorted.ThefacesofthelivingPrendevilles,sittingaroundhim,andthedeadPrendevilles,lookingdownfromthepaintingsthatlinethewalls,seemtocrowdinonhim.SomethingaboutthesensationofbeingsurroundedinthiswaytriggersavividrecollectionofadugoutinFranceheenteredafterashellexplodedoutsideitsentrance.Heremembershowhistorchplayedaroundtheundergroundspace,overtheclusterofmensittingaroundonemptyammunitionboxes,hunchedforwardssothattheirheadsarealmosttouchingthemesstinstheyhadplacedontheemptywoodenwirereeltheyusedasatable.Everythinginthedugouthadbeencoveredbyathinlayerofchalkdustsothatthesoldiers,frozeninplace,seemedlikepalesculptures.Thetorchbeammovedaround,asthoughofitsownaccord,toothersoldierslookingdownatthedinersfromthebunksthatlinedthewall.Oneofthemwasstillsmiling,abrokentoothblackinhisopenmouth.Thesoldierswerealldead,killedbytheconcussionwavefromtheexplosion.Yettheyhadseemedsoalive,eventhoughHarkincouldsmelltherotalready.
Theimageissoclearthathisheadjerksback,hisnostrilsinhalingsharply,andforamomentHarkinisalmostoverwhelmed.
‘Areyouallright?’avoiceasks.Hecannottellwhoitbelongsto.
‘Quiteallright,’Harkinsays,feelingasthoughheiscomingupforair.HelooksaroundandseesthefacesofthelivingPrendevillesonceagain—orangehalf-moonsinthecandlelight,theirfeaturesindicatedbydeepshadows.‘I’msorry.Iwasthinkingaboutsomethingelse.Whatwasityouasked?’
Kilcolganlooksathim,hismouthturneddown.
‘Iwasaskingwhetheryourinquirywasconcluded,butitreallyisn’timportant.’
HarkinlooksatLordKilcolgan,hisbrainslowlycatchingup.
‘No,’hesays,stillfindingithardtobreathe.‘Notquite.Ithinkitwillconcludetomorrow.Orperhapstonight.’
PerhapsthePrendevillesaretoopolitetoaskwhathemeans,orperhapstheyareworriedaboutwhathemightsay.
‘Verygood,’LordKilcolgansays,eventually,andmakesitsoundlikeafullstop.
‘Father,’Billysays,whenthesilencecontinues,‘IthinkIshouldgotoDublinforawhile.TomsaysIcanstaywithhimuntilIfindmyfeet.Thechangewoulddomegood.’
HarkinwatchesasCharlie’seyesturnfirsttoherfatherandthentoHarkin.Thereisahalf-suppresseddesperationinherexpression,perhapsatthethoughtofbeingleftinthehouseonherown.Kilcolganlooksfromhissontohisdaughter,andthenbackagain.Hesniffs.
‘Wewillallbeleaving,’Kilcolgansays,matter-of-factly.‘Atleastforawhile.’
Hischildren’sexpressionsarehardtoreadinthecandlelight.LordKilcolganaddressessomecoldhamonhisplate,ignoringthem.
‘Thegovernmenthavemadeanotheroffertorentthehousefromus.Greaterthanbefore.Moremoneyforayearthanwe’dgetifwesoldtheplace,lock,stockandbarrel.That’sifanyonewouldevenbuyit,thewaythingsare.What’smore,they’llinsureitagainstdamageandlossandputitbackinproperorderafterwards.’
Thereisnooutrageatthesuggestionfromhischildren.Infact,thereisbarelyanyreactionatall.
‘UncleJohnmightbuyit,’Charliemuses.‘He’salwaysthoughthewouldhavedonesomuchbetterwithit.’
‘Idoubtifhewouldnow,’LordKilcolgansays.‘WhatwithMaud’sdeathandtheIRAburninghouseslikethisupanddownthecounty.Hewouldbemadto.Ifhehasanysense,he’llshutupBallynanaswell.Wouldn’tyousayso,Harkin?’
Harkintriestothinkofasensibleresponse.
‘Iwouldn’tknow,’hemanages.
LordKilcolganlookssurprisedthatHarkindoesn’thaveafirmopinion.
‘Thefactis,evenallJohn’smoneywouldn’tbeenoughtobringitbacktowhatitwasandkeepitthatway.Andevenifitdid,itcouldneverbethesamewiththeTroublesastheyare.There’llbeanewgovernmentinDublinonewayoranothersoonenough,andwe’llseethenwhatcanbedone.Iamnotcertain,however,thathouseslikethiswillserveanypurposeinthefuture,iftheyeverdid.Idoubtthenewgovernmentwillmakemuchefforttopreservethem—orus.Quitethecontrary.’
Itisasthough,bysayingitoutloud,aweighthasbeentakenoffLordKilcolgan’sshoulders.Hemanagesasmile.
‘Anyway,Isignedtheleaseyesterday.Wehaveamonth’sforbearance,butthehouseanditsproblemsnowbelongtosomeoneelseforthenextthreeyearsandI,forone,amrelievedit’sso.’
Thereissilencearoundthetableforalmostaminute.Harkinwonderswhowillbethefirsttobreakitandwhatwilltheysay.EventuallyBillytapshisplatewithhisfork.
‘Youdidn’tboiltheeggforlongenough,Charlie,’hesays,indicatingtheyellowyolkthathasspreadacrosshisplate.Charlielooksacrossatherbrotherandgiveshimahalf-smile.
‘Ididmybest,’shesays.‘Andthat’sallanyonecando.’
Thesilencethatfollowsisbrokenbytherattleofamotorcar’senginecomingupthedrive.Theylisteninsilenceasthecarapproaches,thencomestoahalt.Thereisapauseandthenthenoiseofthecar’sdoorbeingclosed.Anotherlongpause,duringwhichnoonespeaks,andthensomeoneringsthedoorbell,whichgivesarustyjangle.Noneofthemmovetoanswerit.Meanwhile,themotorcarstartsupagainanddrivesaway.
‘He’llfindhisownwayin,’LordKilcolgansays,almosttohimself.‘Peoplegenerallydo.Itisashame,though.IalwaysthinkitlooksbetterifMurphyanswersthedoor,ideallysober.Butoftenasnothemisseshischancethesedays.Tooslow.’
‘Wecan’tleaveMurphytotheAuxiliaries,’Charliesays,asanaside.‘NorMrsDriscoll.’
‘NorBridget,’Billysays.
‘ParticularlynotBridget,’Charlieagrees.
Theyhearthesoundofthehalldoorbeingopenedandthenfirmlyclosed,followedbythemarchoffootstepsalongthelonggallery.Aman’sfootsteps.Confident.Sureoftheirplaceintheworld.NoonementionstheimminentarrivalbutHarkinnoticesthatalleyesarefixedonthedoorthroughwhichhemustenter.ThearrivaliswhatHarkinhasbeenhopingfor,butnowthatthemanisabouttoenter,heexperiencesashiverofconcern.
ThedooropenswiththesquealofanunoiledhingeandHugoVaneenters,barelyvisibleinthegloomthatpervadesthefarendoftheroom,althoughhiseyescatchwhatlittlelightthereis,anditseemsthatheisalmostamused.
‘I’msorryI’mlate.Thetrainwasdelayed.Idohopethere’ssomesupperleft—Icouldeatahorse.’
CHAPTER47
ItisnosurprisetoHarkinthathefindshimself,halfanhourlater,alonewithVaneinasmallsittingroom,withanoillamponthelowtableinfrontofthearmchairsinwhichtheysit.ThefirehasnotbeenlitandthetemperaturewouldbegoodpreparationforanAntarcticexpedition;whenheexhaleshecanseehisbreathhangingthereinfrontofhisfacelikeasmallcloud.VanearrangedthisencountersosmoothlythatheisnotsurethePrendevilleshaveevennoticedtheyhaveleftthem.ThenHarkincorrectshimself.ThePrendevillesknowwhoVaneis,andiftheydon’tknowwhoHarkinis,theyprobablysuspect.Theywillthereforebeintenselyawareofeveryinteractionbetweenthem.Fortunatelythereisprobablyaruleofetiquettethatappliesinthissituation;Harkinsuspectsit’sfrownedonifguestsshootoneanotherwithinthedemesnewalls.Thebeachmightwellbeacceptable,however.
Vaneandheregardeachotheracrossthelowtable,andHarkinwondersifthemajorissimilarlyuncertainhowtobegin.EventuallyHarkintakesadeepbreath,butitisthemajorwhospeaksfirst.
‘Well,Harkin.’Vaneseemsmorerelaxedthanheshouldbe.‘YouknowwhoIamandIknowwhoyouare.’
‘Iwonderedifyoumightshowupwithasquadofpolice.’
Vanesmiles.
‘Ididconsiderit,butIthinkwehaveacommoninterestinbringingMaud’smurderertojustice.Itakeityouhaveuncoveredevidenceshewasnotkilledbyyourcomrades?’
Harkinfeelsamomentofrelief.ItseemshisgamblethatVane’sattachmenttoMaudmightleadtoco-operationwillpayoff.‘Whydoyouthinkthat?’
‘Otherwiseyouwouldn’tbehere.’
It’safairpoint.
‘Shewasnot.’
‘Isuspectedasmuch.Itdoesseemasthoughtherehasbeenquitealotgoingondownhere.Haveyoubeenstirringuptrouble?’
‘Imighthavebeen,’Harkinagrees.
‘Goodman.’
‘I’vealsobeenverystupidfromtimetotime.’
‘Ialwaysthinkawarenessofone’sownfaultsisasignofwisdom.’
Thankstotheoillamp,HarkincanseeVaneclearly,evenifthewallsoftheroomarebarelyvisible.Thereis,underneaththecharm,anangrygriefthatbodeswellfortheirconversation.
‘WouldyoulikemetotellyouwhoIthinkmurderedMaud?’
Vaneleansforwardsand,whileitisasifhisfaceismadeofstone,hispupilsremindHarkinoftheblackestopal.
‘That,’Vanesays,‘issomethingIshouldlikeaboveallthings.’
Harkincouldswearthattheverywallsoftheroomcomecloserinanticipation,asthoughtheghostsofthehousehavegatheredaroundthem,listeningin.Heshivers.
Vane’sgazedoesnotwaverfromHarkin’swhilehetellshisstory.HetellshimwhereSeanDriscollwasonthenightofthekilling,andthatDriscollwasnottheonewhotoldtheIRAaboutAbercrombie’smovements.Heexplainshow,instead,itwasapriestwhomAbercrombiehadunderhiscontrolwhowasusedtosetupanambushonthemajor—andhowAbercrombiethensentTeevanandCartwrightintoitinstead,alongwithMaud.HetellsVaneaboutthereportthatTeevanwroteaboutAbercrombie’sactivities,andhowthemenarguedatSirJohnPrendeville’scardevening.HeconfirmsthattheflyingcolumnleftMaudaliveandhowthegatekeeperheardamaninstiffridingbootssearchthecar.
VaneshowsnosurprisewhenHarkinhandshimthetwocigarettebuttshehasgathered:onefromtheambushsitethatAbercrombiehadapparentlynotvisited,andtheotherdroppedbyAbercrombieonthelongstrand.HelistenswhileHarkintellshimhowthecigarettesareaTurkishblendsoldunderthenamePérabyatobacconistonBondStreet,anestablishmentHarkin,bycoincidence,knowsfromaleavehespentinLondonfiveyearspreviously.Itisabrandalmostcertainlyuniquetothemajorinthispartofthecountry.HarkintellsVaneabouttheletterstoMaud,andthebrandnewFrenchautomaticpistol,andhowMaud,andpossiblySirJohn,hadrecentlyvisitedParis.HarkintellshimaboutAbercrombie’svisittoMoiraWilson’slodgethenightbefore—whenSirJohnwasoneofonlyahandfulwho’dknownhewouldspendthenightthere—andhowSirJohn’scarhadbeenseeninthetownearlierthatevening.Finally,hetellshimaboutthethesubsequentdisappearanceandmurderofSeanDriscollandthepurportedsuicideofFatherDillon.
Througheveryword,Vane’sgazeremainsunemotionalandcompletelyfocused.
‘Tosumup,’Vanesays,whenHarkinstopsspeaking,‘youthinkAbercrombiemurderedMaud?’
‘Thereisanotherpossibility,ofcourse.’
‘SirJohn?’
‘Ithinkhehadsomeinvolvementanyway—thereisaconnectionbetweenthem.’
HarkintellsVaneabouthisvisittoSirJohnearlierintheevening,andSirJohn’sdepartureimmediatelyafterwardsinthedirectionofthetown.
‘SirJohnisright,ofcourse,’Vanesays.‘Itcouldallbeexplainedaway.WhywouldhekillMaud,though?Orwantherkilled?’
‘Shewaspregnant.Ifithadcomeout,hisreputationwouldhavebeendestroyed.’
‘It’snotthat.IknewMaudwaspregnant,’Vanesays.‘Iwouldhavebeenthefather.Weweretomarry,althoughwehadn’tannouncedanything.Itseemedmoresensible,givenhercondition,todothingsquietly.However,SirJohnhadbeenherloverandthoselettersalmostcertainlycamefromhim.Ican’tsayIwashappywhenshetoldme,butIlovedherandfoundIcouldn’tblameher.Shewasnotquitewellwhenitbeganandshehadendeditbythetimewemet.ItwasinthepastforMaud,ifnotforSirJohn.’
Vanetakesadeepbreathandproducesacigarettecasefromhispocket.HehandsoneoverandHarkinseesaslightshakeinhisfingers.
‘Player’sNavyCut.NotsomeBondStreettobacconist’sattemptataTurkishblend.’
‘Thankyou.’
‘Jealousyis,therefore,onepossibility,’Vanesays,throughacloudofsmoke.‘AlthoughI’mcuriousaboutthesepapersMoiraWilsonsaidsheandJohnarguedabout.’HarkindetectsaprecisioninVane’schoiceofwordsthatimpliessomeknowledgeofthepapersinquestion.‘Doyouhaveanyideawhattheymighthavebeen?’
ThisisthepointwhereHarkinhastoriskbetrayinghiscause,evenifhethinksithasbeenbetrayedalready.
‘AmIrightinthinkingyouareawareofsomepoliticalbusinessMaudwasinvolvedinwithSirJohn?’
Vanetakesamomenttoreply.
‘Whatwesayheremustbebetweenus,asfriendsofMaud.WhatItellyoumustnotberepeatedtoyourcolleagues—althoughitseemssomedetailsarealreadyknowntothem.Inthesameway,Iwillnotpassontheinformationyougiveme.Bothofuswouldsufferifitwerethoughtwehadconspiredtogetheronintelligencematters.ItisbadenoughwehavesharedinformationaboutMaud’smurder.’
Harkinnodsslowly.
‘Ithinkweareinagreement.’
‘Good.’Vaneallowsatrailofcigarettesmoketosneakoutofthecornerofhismouth.‘IfyouaretalkingaboutthearmsshipmentSirJohnclaimstobearrangingforyourorganisation…then,yes,itisknownabout.’
‘DidyoutellMaud?’
‘Yes.Shewasingreatdanger,frombothsides.’
‘MightshehavebeenconfrontingSirJohn?’
Thereissomethinglikepaininthemajor’sexpressionforamoment,thenhenods.
‘Ithinkitisverypossible.YouwererighttosuspectSirJohnaccompaniedMaudtoParisinMayoflastyear.’Hehesitates,thencontinues.‘SomeofthisIhaveonlybecomeawareofquiterecently.Itwas,forreasonsyouwillunderstand,restrictedtoonlythosewhohadtoknow.Theywerenotaloneontheirjourney.Wemakeitapracticetokeepaneyeonknownrebels,eveniftheydonotappeartobeactive.Asaresult,itwasdiscoveredthatSirJohnandMaudmetwithanAmericanarmsdealer—amatterofinteresttous,asyoucanimagine.ItwasalsonoticedthatSirJohnandMaudwere…howshallIputit…intimate.Onceconfrontedwiththeevidence,SirJohnwasinourpocketandthearmsshipmentbecameameansforustoinflictdamageontheIRA.OnceIbecameawareofSirJohn’ssituation,ItoldMaudmostofthisandtheintentionwastoextricateherfromthemess.However,perhapsshelostpatience.’
SomeofthisisinformationHarkinhadguessedat,butmuchisnew.Hetakeshistimeconsideringitbeforeanswering
‘Onethingbothersme…IfSirJohnwasatriskofexposure,whydidheaskforsomeonelikemetobesentdowntodigintoMaud’smurder?Howdoesthatmakesense?’
‘Anexcellentquestion.Itispossibleheintendedtocausesomedissensioninyourranks,butIwonderifhegenuinelybelievedthecolumnkilledMaud.’
‘IfAbercrombiearrangedtheambush,thenhecouldaseasilyhavebeensearchingforwhateverpapersMaudarguedwithSirJohnaboutasforTeevan’sreport.’
‘Exceptthatheseemsnottohaveknownshewouldbeinthecar.’
Harkinconsidersthis,tryingtounravelthethreadsofpossibilityandprobability.
‘Maud’sbeingpresentmayhavebeenasurprise,butifhethoughtMaudmightwarntheIRAabouttheshipment,thenthekillingmayhavebeenopportunistic.IdoubtSirJohnwouldhavewantedherdead,however,soperhapsAbercrombiedidn’ttellhimhewastheoneresponsible.’
‘It’spossible.OnlyAbercrombiecantellusforcertain.Whichbringsusbacktothisevening.WhatwillAbercrombiedo,dowethink?’
Harkinshrugs.
‘Ithinkhe’llcomeheretonighttoretrievethereportandkillme.Orhe’lltryto,atleast.’
‘GivenyouareanIRAintelligenceofficer,IsupposeIshouldlethim.’
‘Thatwouldbeyourchoicetomake.’Harkinwonderswhetherheshouldreachforthesmallpistolhestillcarriesinhisjacketpocket.
‘DoesAbercrombieknowyouarearebel?’
Harkinfeelshisfrownasatightnessonhisforehead.
‘That’sthestrangething.Idon’tthinkhedoes.Or,atleast,Idon’tthinkheknewthisafternoon,andcertainlynotlastnight,givenIamstillbreathing.’
‘WhydoyouthinkSirJohndidn’ttellhim?’
‘Idon’tknow.PerhapsbecauseIusedtobehissecretarywhenhewasanMP?It’saquestionI’veaskedmyselfaswell.’
Vaneexhalesanotherstreamofsmoke.
‘Icanclearuponematter.Thesmallpistolyoufoundisnotconnectedwiththemurder.IgaveittoMaud.Ifshewaskilledwithasimilarpistol,it’sacoincidence,nothingmore.’
Inthesilencethatfollows,thesoundofthetelephone’sbellcanbeheardfromthelonggallery.Theyexchangeaglance.
‘Iamnotsure,’Vanesays,‘thatAbercrombiewillbeapredictableopponent.Youshouldgoandseewhathehastosay.’
HarkinleavesVanesittinginhisarmchairandexitstheroom,tellingCharliePrendeville,whenheseeshercomingoutofthedrawingroom,thatitisforhim.Theconversation,whenhepicksuptheapparatus,isbriefandbrutal,althoughbecauseofthesharedexchange,thebrutalityismasked.
‘Harkin?’
HerecognisesAbercrombie’sclippedtones.
‘Yes?’
‘I’mwithSirJohnPrendevilleatBallynanHouse.Willyoujoinusforanightcap?MrsWilsonisherewithus.I’msurewewouldallenjoyyourcompany.Itseemsshehasgrownquiteattachedtoyouinrecentdays.’
Harkinfindsthatheisunabletospeakatfirst.Butwhenhedoes,hisvoicesoundsfarcalmerthanhefeels.
‘Ofcourse,Ishallwalkover.’
‘Excellent.Nolaterthananhour,please,orweshallbemostoffended.AndyoucanbringthatdocumentyouwerediscussingwithSirJohn.Ishouldbegratefulforthat.’
CHAPTER48
Harkin’sconcernmustshowwhenhecomesoutintothehall,becauseVaneholdsuptheoillampheiscarryingtoexaminehim.
‘Itakeitthatwasnotgoodnews,’Vanemurmurs.
‘HeisoveratBallynanwithSirJohn.MoiraWilsoniswithhim.’
Vaneconsidersthisinformation,frowning.
‘DoyouthinkSirJohnwouldallowharmtocometoher?’
‘DoyouthinkSirJohnhasanycontroloverAbercrombie?’
Vane’sfrowndeepensstillfurther.Theyarekeepingtheirvoiceslowsoasnottobeoverheard,anditisasthoughthehouseisholdingitsbreathsoastobetterlisten.
‘No,butwhatcanhedo?Killher?She’sanofficer’swidow,afamilyfriendofthePrendevilles.’
‘HecouldleaveheratthesideoftheroadwithasignaroundhernecksayingshewasaBritishinformer.Orshecouldjustdisappear.TheRICmightinvestigatebut,downhere,AbercrombieistheRIC,atleastuntilanewdistrictinspectorarrives.Bythentherewillbetenmorereprisalsandambushesthatneedinvestigatingandshe’llhavebeen
‘AndifIcalloutthepoliceorarmy,thechancesareoneofhismenwillwarnhim.’
Theyregardeachotherglumlyforamoment,butthebeginningsofaplanareforminginHarkin’smind.
‘Heprobablydoesn’tknowthatyouarehere.’
HeexaminesVaneintheglowoftheoillamp.Themajorisasinscrutableasever,butHarkinwouldbesurprisedifheisnotcomingtothesameconclusionaboutthenecessityforimmediateaction.
‘Well,MajorVane.IintendtomakemywayovertoBallynanHouseandaddressthematterdirectly.Thequestionis,whatwillyoubedoing?’
Vaneconsidersthequestion,thecurveofasmileshapinghisthinlips.
‘Ialwaysenjoyawalkafterdinner,whentheopportunityarises.’
WhileVanegoesuptohisroomtofetchacoat,Harkinwalksslowlytowardstheentrancehall.CharliePrendevilleiswaiting,acandlelitfaceinthegloom,hereyesdarkshadows.Hewondersifshecanhaveheardanyoftheirconversation.Thehouseissoquietthatnoisecantravelsurprisingdistances.
‘Whowasitonthetelephone?’sheasks,herquestionlowandurgent.Sheholdsherselflikearunneratthestartofarace,allanglesandtension.
Shemightsaythesameabouthim,hethinks,awareofthesuppressedadrenalinethatiscoursingthroughhisbody.
‘Nooneinparticular,’hesays.‘ButVaneandIintendtowalkdowntothebeachbeforebed.’
HecanhearVanecomingdownoneofthesmallerstaircasesandCharlie’squestioningeyesmoveinthatdirection.
‘Issomethinggoingon?’Hervoiceseemstoriseinvolume.‘Issomethingwrong?’
‘Nothing,’Harkinreplies.‘We’llbebacksoon.’
LordKilcolganappearsatthedoorofthedrawingroom,asilhouetteagainstthefaintlightthatcomesfromwithin.Whenhespeakshisvoiceiscalm,butfirm.
‘Comeintous,Charlie.Leaveourgueststotheirwalk.’
HarkincanseeBillystandingbehindhisfather,hishandsinhispockets,acigaretteinhismouth.Eveninthedarkness,Harkinisawarethathisfriendisobservingthescenewithafocusedintensity.
‘Leavethemtotheirbusiness,Charlie,’Billysays,whenhissisterturnstowardsthem.
Thewarningisclear.ForamomentHarkinfindsBilly’sdetachmentmorethanalittlesurprising,althoughheisgladtonotinvolvehim.Afterall,allofthisbusinessisPrendevillebusiness.Charliestandsaside,herdarkeyescomingintofocusashepassesher.Thereisfearthere,butnotforherself.
Forhim,hethinks.
‘We’llbefine,’hesaysinanattempttoreassureher.Butthewordssoundfalse.
Outsidetheskyisclear,acrescentofmoonvisibletothewest.ThebroadswatheoftheMilkyWaysnakesacrossthesky,illuminatingthehomemeadowwhichshinessilverwiththeremnantsoftheearlierrain.Thereisastrangesilencethatisbrokenonlybythesoundofthegravelunderfoot.
‘Areyouarmed?’heasksVane.
‘Asithappens,Iam.’VaneopenshiscoattoshowHarkinanautomaticpistolinashoulderholster.
Harkinholdsuphisarmandwavestowardsthetreesandafamiliarfigurecomesoutfromundertheoverhangingbranches,walkingtowardsthemacrossthehomemeadow.
‘Wouldthatbeyourcolleague,MrBourke?’
‘Theverysame.Ifwetravelsomeofthewayinhismotorcar,wecanbetheremorequicklythanAbercrombiemightexpect.Whichmaygiveusanadvantage.’
TheygoouttomeetBourke,andVincentlooksquizzicallyatthemwhenheapproaches.
‘ShouldIbeworried?’hesays,indicatingVane.
‘Anyotherevening,’Harkinsays.‘Butnottonight.Haveyouyourpickswithyou,Vincent?’
‘Always.’
‘There’sbeenachangeofplan,’Harkinsays.
Theydrivewithoutlights,coastingthelastpartofthejourneyandparkingthecarontheKilcolgansideoftheriseintheroad,ontheothersideofwhichBallynanislocated.Theplan,suchasitis,hasbeenagreedontheshortdrive.Assoonasthecarisparked,VaneandBourkesetoffthroughthefieldstoapproachthehousealongthecoast,leavingHarkintocomeatthehousefromtheroad,wherehewillbeexpected.Bourkehangsbackforamomentbeforeheleaves.
‘Takeasmuchtimeasyoucan,’hesaysinawhisper.‘Itmaytakeusawhiletogettherealongthecoast.We’llbeasquickaswe’reable.’
‘I’mhopinghewon’tshootmestraightaway.Therewillbesomechatfirst.He’sgoingtowanttoknowwherehisreportis,forastart.Thenhe’llshootme.’
Bourkeraiseshiseyebrows.
‘Sodon’tdawdle,’Harkinsays.‘Andkeepaneyeonhim.’
Bourkelooksafterthemajor,andspitsontheground.
‘I’llbekeepingtwoeyesonhim.’
‘I’llseeyouinawhile,then.’
Harkinwatchesasthetwomenmaketheirwaybrisklytowardsthelineofgorsebushesthatmarktheedgeofthelowcliffs.Theysoondisappearoutofsight.Harkincheckshiswatch.Heistogivethemtenminutestogetintopositionandthenbeginhisownapproach.Hestandsthere,lookingupatthestars,sonumerousintheclear,rain-washednightthatthewholeskyseemstoshine.Hisinsignificanceinthevastnessoftheuniverseseemsstrangelyreassuring,givenheiswaitingtowalkoverthehilltohispossibledeath.Itoccurstohimthatinanormallife—thelifethathadbeenmappedoutforhimbeforethewar—hemightneverhaveexperiencedthisheightenedawarenessofhisownphysicalpresence,northeawarenessofitsfragility.Itisasthough,attimeslikethis,hissensesattempttocramasmuchaspossibleintohislastmoments,ifthatiswhattheyaretobe.
If,Godwilling,hesurvivesuntilthemorning,hepromiseshimselfalifeofonlymildexcitement.
Harkin’strainofthoughtisbrokenbyanoisefromthedirectionofKilcolgan.Heturnstofaceinthatdirection,listening,butwhateveritishehasheard,itisnotrepeated.Hetriestorecreatethenoiseinhismind;itsoundedlikethelow,irregularbeatofadrum,eventhoughitonlylastedafewseconds.Heisalmostconvinceditishisimagination,heightenedbythesituationheisin.HelooksdownatMoiraWilson’slodgeandwondersifthememsahibsareawake,waitingforherreturn.ThenheremembersthewarmthofMoira’sbodyagainsthisandfindsthatheisblinkingastraytearfromhiseye.Withoutanotherthought,heturnsandbeginstowalkslowlyacrossthecrestofthesmallhill.
ThelightsarestillblazingatBallynan,andthehouseremindshimofanoceanliner,placedasitisagainstthebackdropofthebay.Harkinissurprisedheissocalm.Hisfingers,forachange,barelyshakewhenhedecidestohavealastcigarettetokeephimcompanyontheshortdistancethatislefttohisdestination.HetakesthecigarettecasethatMaudgavehiminahappiertimefromhisbreastpocket,removingtwocigarettes.Hetakesamomenttolookattheinscriptionontheinside,theoneheneverlooksatthesedays.
Iwillalwaysbewithyou.M.P.
Hethinksbacktotheeventsofthelastfewdaysandwondersifitmightbetrue—thatMaudiswalkingwithhimtowardsthehouseinwhichamanwaitstokillhim.Hehopesso.
Hereplacesthecasewherehefounditandlightsoneofthecigarettes.Soonheisinhalingsmoke.Hestandsforamoment,wonderingiftheservantsmightcomebackfromthetownandinterruptthem,butdecidesitistooearlyforthemyet.Hesighs.IfHarkinhasoneregret,it’sthathedidn’tanticipatethatthemajorwouldthinktouseMoira.
HecanseeSirJohn’sblueDaimler,butnoothercars—whichis,hethinks,agoodsign.Iftherehadbeenanothercar,itmighthavemeantAbercrombiehadbroughtsomeofhisownmen,presumablyjustasimplicatedasheisbyTeevan’sreport.Harkinwalksslowlytowardstheentranceportico,withoutrushing,becomingawarethatthesilhouetteofamaniswatchinghisprogressfromoneoftheground-floorwindows.Foramoment,hethinkshehearsthatstrangedrummingnoisefromthedirectionofKilcolgan,onlyclosernow,buthedoesn’tstoptolisten.HerecognisesthesilhouetteasbelongingtoAbercrombie,andfeelsasurgethatisalmostelectriccoursethroughhisbody.Hecheckshimself,consciousthatheshouldappearcalmandrelaxedwhentheymeet;hisbreathingisshortbutincontrol.Hisfeethavenotfalteredintheirrhythmandarestillmovingforwards—theleftone,thentherightone.Hefeelsanill-definednausea,butnothingthathecan’tmanage.Thenheisatthedoorandheusesthebuttofhisfirstcigarettetolightthesecond,takesadeepbreathandpressesthebell.
Abercrombieopensthedoorcarefully,usingitasashieldandcoveringHarkinwithwhatlookslikeaColtautomaticpistol.
‘MrHarkin.Goodofyoutocome.’ThemajorscansthesurroundingsbehindHarkin.‘Andapparentlyalone.Verysatisfactory.Wedon’twantthewholeworldknowingourbusiness,dowe?’
‘That’snotverypatriotic,’Harkinsays,noddingtowardstheColt.‘IwouldhavethoughtyouwouldbethetypeofmantobuyEmpiregoodsonly.’
Abercrombiesmilesandopensthedooralittlefurther,wavingHarkinin.
‘Gallowshumour.Anyway,theColtisanexcellentweaponandexcellenceisalwaystobeadmiredandsoughtafter.Mostimportantly,itdoesanawfullotofdamageatcloserange.Asyoumaywellfindoutshouldwenotcometoasatisfactoryarrangement.Comeinandturntofacethewall.’
Harkindoesashe’stoldandstandsthere,hishandsabovehimwhileAbercrombiefriskshimquicklyandthoroughly,pocketingMaud’ssmallautomaticwithoutcomment.
‘Please,’Abercrombiesays,standingbackandgesturingtowardsthelibrary.‘Theothersarewaitingforyou.’
ItisthethirdtimeinthelastfewdaysthatHarkinfindshimselfinSirJohn’slibraryandhehopesitwillbethelast,beforeitoccurstohimthereisagoodchanceitwillbehislasttimeinanyroom.Theroomisunchanged,exceptthatapaleSirJohnPrendeville,carryingachrome-platedrevolverasthoughitisinfected,isstandingbesidethedeskwhereHarkinstoodbefore,whileMoirasitsinahard-backed,woodenchairinfrontofhim.SirJohnlooksupatHarkinasheentersandheshakeshisheadslowly,asthoughindisbeliefthatitshouldhavecometothis.
‘Areyouallright?’HarkinasksMoira,andisrewardedwithaquicksmile.
‘I’mfine.Thechairisnotthemostcomfortable,Ihavetosay.Iamsureotherkidnappersaremoreconsideratetotheirvictims.’SheturnstoexamineSirJohnwithcontempt.‘SirJohnfeelsdreadfulabouteverything,however,andthatismakingmefeelmuchbetter.’
‘SirJohnPrendeville,’Harkinsays.‘ThechampionofHomeRule,oneoftheoriginalfoundersoftheIrishVolunteers…andaBritishspy.’
SirJohnsaysnothing,althoughitseemstoHarkinthathebecomespalerstill
‘Heisaverygoodspy,’Abercrombiesays,histoneamused.‘Malleable,whichisalwaysausefulqualityfromanintelligencepointofview.’
Harkin’sattentionisonMoira,however,whohasturnedtolookathimintently,asthoughsearchingforasignfromhim.Henoticessheisnotwearinghermonocleand,forsomestrangereason,itisthatmorethananythingwhichcauseshimalarm.Harkinremindshimselfhehastokeepthisconversationgoingforaslongaspossibleiftheothersaretoreachthemintime.
‘Hemusthavebeenverymalleabletomurderhisownniece.’
‘Ididn’tkillMaud,’SirJohnsays,hisvoicehoarse.‘Ihadnothingtodowithherdeath.’
HarkinturnsbacktoAbercrombie,whoseemsamusedbytheturnintheconversation.
‘Notdirectly,perhaps,’themajorsays,shrugging.‘Directresponsibilitylaywithme.Althoughwhenhetoldmesheknewhewasworkingforus,heshouldhaveknownIwouldhavetodealwiththematter,onewayoranother.’
Harkinraisesaneyebrow.
‘Youweretheonewhosetuptheambush,throughFatherDillon?’
Abercrombiesmiles,asthoughimpressed.‘Bravo.Youhavebeenbusy,haven’tyou?Theoriginalintentionwastobewaitingwithmymenfortherebels,butthenIchangedmymind.’
‘Why?’HarkinstillfindsithardtobelievethatthemajorcouldhavearrangedtheexecutionofnotonlyTeevan,buthisoldcomradeCartwright.
‘Whynot?Teevanwasweak,andaconstanthindranceinourbattlewiththelocalrebels.Removinghimhasremovedthathindrance.ItwasunfortunateaboutCartwright,butyou’llknowthatleadershipinwarrequiresmakingdecisionsthatcostmentheirlives.MaudPrendevillewasanunexpectedadditiontothemix.Ididn’tknowshewouldbeinthemotorcar.’
‘Soitwasn’ttodowiththereporthewrote?’Harkinismorethanalittlesceptical.
‘Therewasthat,too,’Abercrombieadmits,withasmilethatseemsalmostabashed.‘You’vereadit,Itakeit,soyou’llunderstandwhyIneededtopreventitbeingpassedon.Mymethodsmaynotbe…howshallIputit?…palatable—buttheyareeffective.Youfightfirewithfire,bulletswithbullets,terrorwithterror.Awarisnotthetimetobetalkingaboutlegalities,evenifIdoubttheCommissionerwouldagreewithmeentirelyonthispoint.’
‘Youthinkyou’rewinningthiswar?’
Abercrombieconsidersthequestionbeforeshrugging.
‘Ihavenointentionoflosingit,that’sforcertain.However,asyoususpect,myprimaryintentionwastorecoverTeevan’sreportfromthecar.Tomysurprise,Icouldn’tfinditonhisperson,eventhoughhehadshownittomeearlierintheevening.ThenIfounditinMissPrendeville’seveningbag.Iwasconfusedbythat,butnowIrealise,thankstoyourrevealingtheexistenceofanothercopy,thathemusthavebeenworkingwithhertomakeitpublic.’
‘Andyoufeltyouhadtokillher?’
Harkin’sangercausesaveininhisforeheadtopulse.HeseesMoiragivehimawarninglook.
‘Ihadn’texpectedhertobeinthecar.Myunderstandingwasthatshewouldbestayingthenighthere.Ontheotherhand,Iknewthisfool—’AbercrombieindicatesSirJohnwithadismissiveinclinationofhishead—‘hadgivenheranopportunitytounravelallthetimeandeffortwehadputintothearmsshipmentdeception,whenwewereonthepointofpullingoffagreatcoup.IwasconsideringwhattodowhenshewokeupwhileIwasretrievingthereport.SherecognisedmeandsoIshother.’Abercrombieshrugs,aslighthintofregretapparentinthegesture.‘Itwasunfortunate,butIthinkIcanlivewiththeguilt.’
HarkinturnshisgazetoSirJohn.
‘Wasthatwhatyouwerearguingabout,earlierintheevening?’
SirJohnlooksatMoira,asthoughdeducingwhoHarkin’ssourcemusthavebeen.Harkin,meanwhile,isstrainingtolistentoanysoundsofapproachfromoutsidetheroom,hopingagainsthopethatVaneandBourkewillarriveintime.
‘Ioverheardyou,’shesays,withahintofdefiance.‘IfI’dknownwhatyouwereabout,I’dhavecomeinandspatinyourface.’
SirJohnlooksasthoughhewouldliketobesick.Ittakeshimamomenttogatherhimself.TimeenoughforHarkintorealisethatSirJohnandAbercrombiewon’tallowMoiratoliveandthatherdeathwillbehisresponsibility.
‘SheconfrontedmeaboutmyrelationshipwithAbercrombie.Shehadfoundsomenotesfromthemajorinmydesk.Ishouldn’thavekeptthem.Ineverintendedforhertobecaughtupinthewholemess.Itwasoneofmyconditionsforagreeingtoco-operate.Iwasbeingblackmailed.Ihadnochoice.’
‘Becauseyourreputationneededtobeprotected?DidyouthinkaboutMaud’sreputationwhenyouseducedher?’
MoiralooksatHarkin,hershockreadilyapparent.Whenhenodshisconfirmation,sheturnstoSirJohn.
‘Itwasn’tlikethat,’SirJohnsays,almostdesperate.‘WegrewclosewhenArthurwasdying.Onethingledtoanother.ItwasherreputationIwashopingtopreserve,notmine.’
Moirashakesherheadinangrydisbeliefandgivesalowmoansomewherebetweenpainandanger.
‘Youseducedherwhenshewasatherlowestebbandnowshe’sdeadandyou’realive,’Harkinsays.‘Andthenyouinvolvedme.’
Hiscontemptisrealenoughbuthealsowantstoensurehehastheirfullattention.Heisalmostcertainhe’sheardtheslightestsoundofadoorbeingopenedattherearofthehouse.SirJohnreturnshisgazeanditisasthoughthemanisinphysicalpain.
‘Ididn’tknowhewasresponsible,’hesays,gesturingtowardsAbercrombiewithhispistol.‘IthoughtEgan’scolumnhadkilledherandIwantedthempunished.Ididn’tevenknowyouwouldbesentdown,andIdidn’ttellhimanythingaboutyou.Notuntilnow,atleast.’
‘Whenyouchoseyourreputationovermylife.’
Abercrombiesmiles,althoughthereisn’tmuchhumourinit.
‘ItwasonlywhenyoufoundhisletterstoMissPrendevillethathecamelookingformyassistance.Ofcourse,Iwasn’taversetodealingwithDriscollinthewayhesuggestedandIthought,sincethepriestwasshowingsomebackboneafterMissPrendeville’sdeath,thatIcoulddealwithhimaswell.Justincase.MyintentionwastomakeitlookasthoughDriscollhadkilledhimandmadeaclumsyefforttomakeitappearlikeasuicidebutyou,ratherunhelpfully,tooktheappointmentbookwhichmeanttherewasnothingtolinkhimtothedeath.SoIallowedthefabricatedsuicidetostand.’
‘Andwhendidhetellyouaboutme?’
‘ThatyouareanIRAintelligenceofficer?Onlythisevening.ItdoesseemironictheIRAwereaskedtoinvestigateakillingcarriedoutbyapoliceman.Quiteamusing.Forme,atleast.’
SirJohn’sglumexpressiontellsHarkinallheneedstoknow.Harkinislisteningcarefullynow.Heisalmostcertaintheothersareinthehouse.Hecanfeelachilldraughtcomingunderthedoor.HehasthesensethatAbercrombieisgrowingwearyoftheconversationandknowshemustgivetheothersasmuchtimeaspossible.
‘I’llletyouhaveTeevan’sreportifyouletMrsWilsongo.She’llundertaketosaynothingaboutallofthis.’
‘Andwhataboutyou?’Moiraasks.
‘I’msureIcanreachasatisfactoryarrangementwiththemajor.’
Abercrombiesmilesatthis.‘Ofcourse,’hecontinues,‘ifSirJohnhadtoldmeaboutyouearlier,wecouldhavesavedourselvesthistediousconversation,andMrsWilson’sinvolvement.ImayhavekilledDriscollandDillonandMissPrendeville,butineachcaseithasbeenhisweaknessthathasresultedinmytakingtheactionsIhave.SirJohndoesn’twanttoadmitit,butit’strue.Hisactionsandinactionshavecausedallofthis.Itmustbeagreatconsolationtoyoutoseehowupsetheis.’
‘You’llpromisetosaynothing,won’tyou,Moira?Afterall,Abercrombie,noonewouldbelieveherevenifshedidsayanything.’Harkinsays,consciousthatthetimefortalkingisalmostdone.HebraceshimselftorushAbercrombie.Hehaslittlechanceofsuccessbut,ifnothingelse,itwilldistractthemajorforamomentortwo.
AbercrombiepointshisgunatHarkin’schest.
‘Whereisthereport?’
‘InKilcolgan.Ididn’tbringitwithmeforobviousreasons.’
‘Ican’thelpwonderingifthereneverwasanothercopyofthereport.Whatifyoujustcaughtthetailendofarumouranddecidedtouseittodrawmeout?’PerhapsheseesthetruthinHarkin’sexpressionbecausehissmilehardens.‘Thatwasamistake,Harkin.’
‘Youpromisednottohurtthem,’SirJohnsays,hisdesperationclear.‘Tomisafamilyfriend.AsisMrsWilson.’
Abercrombielaughs,andashedoessoHarkinisconsciousthatthehandleofthedooristurningveryslowly.
‘Thereportexistsallright.IleftitinasealedenvelopewithLordKilcolgantobeopenedintheeventofmynotreturning.’HarkinnoticesthatMoirahasleantforwardsslightly,bringingherlegsunderher.
‘Idon’tbelieveyou.’
SirJohntakesastepforward.‘Thisisn’twhatweagreed.’
SirJohnliftshispistoltowardsAbercrombie,whorespondsbytakingasmallblackautomaticfromhispocket,alittlelargerthantheonehetookfromHarkinearlier,andpointingitattheolderman.
‘Iwarnyou…’SirJohnsays,buttheoldauthorityhasgone.
Abercrombie,withashark’ssmilethatdoesn’treachhiseyes,turnstoexaminehim.
‘ShallItellyouwhatthestorywillbe,SirJohn?’
‘Whatstory?’
‘HarkincameherewithMrsWilsontoconfrontyouaboutyourbetrayalofSeanDriscoll,amongstothers.Unfortunatelytheyshotyou.ButthenIarrivedonthesceneandkilledthemafteradesperatebattle.ThisisthepistolIusedtokillMaudPrendeville.Thesametypeofbulletaswillbefoundinyourbody.ThegunwillbefoundinMrsWilson’sdeadhand,linkinghertothemurderofMaudPrendeville.IfeelstrangelycertainIwilluncoverpapersthatwillshowMrsWilsontohavebeenalongstandingrebel,determinedtopunishMaudPrendeville’streachery.Thereareafewlooseendsneedtidyingupbut,allinall,Ithinkitwillbeenoughtostandscrutiny.’
Thereisaloudreport,deafeningintheenclosedspace,andSirJohnlooksatAbercrombieinstunnedsurprise,thendownatthesmallholethathasappearedinhischest,soonjoinedbyanother.AbercrombiequicklyturnshisattentiontoHarkinfiringwiththeColt.Harkinisalreadymoving,however,awarefromthecornerofhiseyethatthedoortothelibraryhasnowopenedwidetorevealafigurestandingthere,gunoutstretched.Harkinfeelsthebulletwhippasthisear,soclosehefeelstheheatofitspassing,andhemovesincloser,intendingtorushAbercrombie,consciousthatMoiraisoutofherchairandseemstohavethesameintention.Abercrombiefiresagain,thistimewiththepocketpistolhe’dshotSirJohnwith.Harkinfeelsanexplosionofpaininhischest,and,ashefallsbackwards,findshimselflookingupatthemouldedceiling.
Andthenthereisnothing.
CHAPTER49
‘He’scominground.’
‘He’llbeallright,Ithink.’
Thevoicesseemtocomefromagreatdistance,butHarkinthinksthespeakersmustbecloserthanthat.Thereisagreatweightonhischest,apressuremixedwithpain.Someoneisholdinghishand,squeezingit,andhethinksherecognisesthestrong,slenderfingers.HeopenshiseyestofindVincentBourke’sfacelookingdownathim,largeandconcerned,alongsideMoira.Hedecidesthefingersaremorelikelytobelongtoher.
‘Idon’tthinkIamallright,’Harkinwhispers.
‘Idon’tdoubtit.Someonejustshotyouinthechest.’
‘Thatmightaccountforit.’
‘Doyouwantthegoodnewsorthebadnews?’
‘What’sthegoodnews?’
‘You’regoingtobefine.Justabruise.’
HarkintriestounderstandwhatBourkeissaying.HeremembersAbercrombie’ssmallpistolpointingathim.
‘ButIwasshotinthechest.’
HarkinsearchesoutMoira’sgaze.Hecanseeechoesoffearinhereyes,butalsosomethinglikehappiness.Shesqueezeshishand.
‘That’swherethebadnewscomesin,’Bourkesays.‘Youneedanewcigarettecase.’
‘That’sashame,’Harkinmanagestowhisper.‘Iwasveryattachedtoit.’
‘Well,nowthere’sabulletattachedtoitinstead.’
BourkeholdsupMaud’scigarettecase,withaflattenedgreylumpembeddedinitscentre.Hethinksbacktotheinscription.PerhapsMaudwaswithhim,afterall.
‘Idon’tsupposethecigarettesaresmokable,’Harkinasks,tomaskanalmostoverwhelmingsurgeofemotion.Bourkerewardshimwithasmile.
‘Thankyou,’Harkinsays.
‘Forwhat?’
‘Comingintime.’
‘Aboutthat,’Bourkesays.‘Weweren’thereintime.’
HarkinchangeshisfocustothemanstandingbehindMoira.BillyPrendevillelooksdownathim,hisfacepale.
‘IlistenedintothecallfromFather’sstudy.Ithoughtitbesttorideafteryou.LuckyIdid.LuckyalsothatMoiraknockedhimoffbalancebeforehefinishedthejob.’
‘Onecannotalwaysbeladylike,’Moirasays,withanattemptatasmile.‘FortunatelyBillyshothimbeforeIdescendedtofisticuffs.’
Harkinlooksfromonetotheother.Bothofthemlookshakenbytheviolence.Aswelltheymightbe.‘Thankyou,’hesays,andisnotsurethesimplewordsarequiteenough,butcan’tthinkofanythingelsetoadd.
‘Youcan’tseeitfromtheroadbutthere’snoeasywaythroughalongthecliffs,’Bourkesays.‘Wehadtoclimbdowntothebeachandthenbackup.Wewerejustcominginthebackofthehousewhentheshootingstarted.’
‘AndAbercrombie?’
‘Dead,’Billysaysinadulltone,buthehaswalkedoutofHarkin’sview.
‘Weneedtogetoutofthehouse.’HarkinhearsVane’svoice,althoughhecan’tseehim.‘MrBourke,ifyoucouldgoandfetchyourmotorcar.IdoubtMrHarkincanwalkthatfar.’
Harkindoubtshecanwalkanydistanceatall.HeseesBourkenodandthenthebigmanisgone,clearinghisview.
‘Ithoughtyouweredead,’Moirasays
‘Iwouldhavebeenifhe’dshotmewiththeColt.HowisSirJohn?’
MoiralooksbehindherasiftocheckandHarkin,realisingtheoldermanmuststillbeclingingtolife,triestorollontohisside,feelingthepaininstantly.
‘Canyouhelpmeup?’
VaneleansdownbesidehimandwithMoira’sassistance,alongwithHarkin’sbestefforts,theymanagetogethimtohisfeet.Helooksaroundtheroom.Abercrombieislyinginapoolofbloodbesideanoverstuffedarmchair,hisarmstilloutstretched,clutchingthesmallpistolinhishand.HarkinleansdowntotakeitfromhisdeadfingersbutVanetakeshiselbow.
‘Leaveit.Itallmakessense.Theyargued,therewasshooting,theybothdied.’
HarkinturnstoseeSirJohnlyingonthegroundbesidethedesk,bloodbubblinginhismouth.Hemaynotbedead,butitwillnotbelong.Billykneelsbesidehim,holdingtheolderman’slefthandinbothofhis.AsHarkinapproaches,SirJohnlooksupathim,hiseyesalreadylosingtheircolour.Hisfaceisyellowing,theskintighteningacrosshisskull.
‘I’msorryforallthetrouble,’theoldermanmanagestosay.
Thetransitionfromlifetodeathisquick.OnemomentSirJohnPrendevilleisthere;thenextheisnot,andallthatisleftishisbody.Afterafewmoments,Billyplaceshisuncle’shandbackoverhischestandstandstohisfeet
Harkinwantstosaysomething,butwhatistheretosay?
TheywaitforBourkeoutsidethehouse,HarkinbeingsupportedbyMoira.Whenthecarcomesoverthehill,Harkinnoticesthatthehorizontotheeastistingedwithorange.Hefindshimselfponderingwhatitcouldbe,asit’sanotherninehourstillthedawn.TheanswercomeswhenVincentBourkeleansoutofthecar’swindowandaddressesBilly.
‘I’msorry,MrPrendeville,’hesays,hisfacegrave,‘butKilcolganisonfire.’
CHAPTER50
Bythetimetheyreachtheburningbuilding,thefireiswellestablishedandthereisnothingtobedonebutgetoutwhatcanbegotout.Harkin,hisribsgratingagainstoneanotherwithinhischest,assistsasbesthecan.LordKilcolganstridesthelonghall,pointingthehelperstowardswhatshouldbesavedandwhatcanbeleft.Hisdecisionsarepractical.Furniture,whenitcanbemoved,istaken.Booksarescoopedup,entireshelvesatatime,andrunouttobeleftwitheverythingelse.PortraitsofmorerecentPrendevillesaretaken;themoreancientareleft.Thefireisspreadingquicklyfromthekitchenwhereithasbeenset,streakinguptherearofthebuildingsothatpartsoftheupperstoreyarealreadyalight,butthefrontofthehouseisstillrelativelyuntouched.SirJohn’sservants,returningfromthetown,joinMurphyandtheothersintheirefforts.Asthefirespreads,thelongcentralhallisonceagainlitasitmusthavebeenintheolddays,andstuffedanimalsandthefansofpikesandswordsarenolongerstrangeshadowsinthedark.
Therescuedbelongingsarecollectedintoagrowingpileaboutfiftyyardsfromthehouse,litbythespreadingflames.HarkinseesBillyhelpPatWalshcarryoutafull-lengthportraitofMaud,andsheisleftleaningagainstalongtabletowatchKilcolganburn.
Throughsnatchedconversations,HarkinhearsofhowthecolumnhadarrivednotlongafterBillyleftforBallynan.HowEganhadtoldLordKilcolgan,withsomepretenceofregret,thatthehousecouldnotbetoleratedasanAuxiliarybarracks—MaudPrendevilleornoMaudPrendeville.HowtheVolunteersmeanwhile,bynowwellpractisedintheartofarson,hadpouredpetrolfromjerrycansaroundthekitchenandthelowerlevelandwishedthemluckwithrescuingwhattheycould.
ThePrendevillesseemstunnedintheorangelight,evenastheyrunagainandagainintothebuildingtobringoutphotographsandsilverandwhateverelsethatholdssomeworthtothem,ofwhateverkind.HeseesMrsDriscoll,runningoutwithanarmfuloftableclothsandlinen.Whenthepolicearrivethereissometalkofattemptingtobringtheconflagrationundercontrol,butthetalkisbroughttoanendbyashowerofglassfromawindowontheupperstoreythatisblownoutbyatorrentoffire.Soon,theheatandtheswirlingembersmakeenteringthebuildingimpossible,andthecrowdstandsbacktowatchinsilence.Bytheend,everywindowspewsupfireuntil,withagreatgroanandavolcanoofflame,theroofcollapsesinwards.
HarkinfindshimselfstandingbesideBourkeatthebackoftheringofonlookers.Bourke’shairissingedandhisfaceblackwithsmoke.HecoughsintohissleeveasVaneapproaches.
‘Gentlemen,’hesays.
‘Isthiswhereyoutellustobeonourway?’
‘Ithinkit’sforthebest.Thebodieswillbefoundsoon,iftheyhaven’tbeenalready.Thesooneryouarewellclearofhere,thebetter.Ifthereisacloserexaminationofthecircumstancesthenquestionsmaybeasked.’
HarkinseesBillywatchingthemfromadistance.HenodswhenHarkincatcheshisgaze,thenturnsaway.
‘I’llmeetyouatthecar,Vincent.’
Thebigmannodsandturnstowalkaway.HarkinturnsbacktoVane.
‘Thankyouforthisevening.Perhapswe’llmeetagainsometime.Inhappiercircumstances.’
‘Perhaps.’
IttakesHarkinalittlewhiletofindMoira.Shebears,likemanyoftheothers,themarksofthebattlewiththefire.
‘Wehavetoleave.’Heseeshowhermouthsetsintoastubborndownwardcurve.
‘Andsoyou’vecometosaygoodbye?’
‘I’vecometoaskyoutocomewithme,ifyou’rewilling.’
EPILOGUE
Theship’swhistleblowsloudandlongandVincentBourkelooksathiswatch.
‘I’veonlyafewminutes.’Hereachesinsidehispockettoproducealargeenvelope.HehandsittoHarkin.‘Thebosswantedtobesureyouhadsomethingtogetyouonyourfeet.’
Harkinliftsacorneroftheenvelope’sflapandlooksinside.Heraiseshiseyebrows.ItcontainsathickwadofAmericancurrencyaswellasasheafofsmallerenvelopes.
‘Ithoughtwewereshortofcash.’
‘Well,maybehefoundsomedownthebackofthesofa.’
‘Givehimmythanks.’
BourkenodsattheenvelopethatHarkinisplacinginsidehispocket.
‘Therearesomelettersofintroduction,aswell.Peoplewhocanhelpyou.MostinNewYorkandBoston,butotherplacestoo.You’llbelookedafter.Whenthingsquietendown…’
‘I’llcomeback.’
‘Ornot.You’vedonemorethanmost.’
BourkegripsHarkin’shandandsqueezesit.
‘MaybeI’llseeyouovertheremyselfatsometime.’
‘You’llbewelcome.’
‘Inthemeantime,I’llkeepaneyeonyourplace—makesureBillyPrendevilledoesn’twreckit.’
‘Thanks,Vincent.I’mgratefulforeverything.’
Theyleanagainsttherailoftheship,watchingasthegapwidensbetweenthehullandthequay.Abovethem,theship’swhistlesoundsthreelongnotesand,inresponse,thecrowdthatisgatheredtobidtheshipfarewellwavesandcheers.Harkincan’thearthemoverthechurningroaroftheship’sengines,buthecanseetheiropenmouths,thehappinessandthesadnessandalltheotheremotionsthatgowithparting.HecanevenmakeoutVincentBourke,standingtooneside,andwatchesasheraisesahandinfinalfarewellandturnstowalkbacktothecarinwhichhecame.AhandslipsincarefullybetweenHarkin’selbowandhisstill-bandagedchest,takingaholdofhisbicep.
‘Well,MrSmith?’Moiraasks,leaningintohim.
‘Well,MrsSmith?’
Moiragivesasmallcurtsey.
‘Smith,’shesays,smiling,‘isablankpageofaname.Ithinkitsuitsus.Wecanwriteourownstoryonit.’
Henods,thenfrowns,lookingacrossthedockyardstowardsBelfastandthemist-shroudedhillsbeyondit.Blackcolumnsofsmokerisefromtheterracedstreetsinplaces.Therehasbeenriotingduringthenight.
‘Willwemisstheplace?’heasks,thinkinghewillnot.Notlikethisinanyevent.Perhapswhenthingshavechanged.
‘Idon’tthinkso.’Sheraisesahandtohischeek.‘Youmightmissitifyouwereunhappyinournewlife,butIdon’tthinkthatwillhappen.Comedownwhenyou’rereadyandI’llshowyouhowIintendweshouldgoon.’
Thenthereisaflashofteethandsheisgone,swayingherwayalongthecrowdeddeck,knowinghewillbewatchingher.
Whenshehasdisappeareddownthecompanionway,Harkinturnsbacktolookdownonceagainatthecrowdofonlookersandwell-wishersthatlinethequay.Hedoesn’tknowwhatorwhoheislookingfor,buthehasafeelingthatheismissingsomething.Hescansthefaces,evenastheyarebecominglessdistinct—evenassomeofthemturnaway.Thenintheshadowofthelongshedheseesher,littlemorethanashadowherself.Heknowssheisnotthere—cannotbethere—andyettheresheis.MaudPrendeville.Andsheissmiling.Hewatchesheruntilshemergesintothegloomofthegreymorningandisnolongervisible—ifsheeverwas.
ThenHarkinturnsawayfromthecityandthelandandmakeshiswaydowntothecabin.