by W. C. Ryan
Driscoll smiles as though Harkin has made a passing remark about the weather.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.’
Harkin takes a moment to gather himself.
‘I remember you well enough. Sergeant . . . John . . . Driscoll.’ Harkin is conscious of how hesitant he sounds. ‘They told me in the field hospital that the relief found only me alive.’
Somehow his suitcase is now in Driscoll’s hand and he wishes it weren’t. Its drag on his arm was a tangible thing, and he has the sense that he is not quite tethered to reality without it. On top of which, Driscoll walks with a pronounced limp. Driscoll shrugs.
‘No, me and a few others made it out. It was us carried you back, not the relief. We wouldn’t have left you there.’
‘Thank you.’
Harkin finds that a nervous laughter is bubbling up inside him. He pushes it back down. Driscoll’s smile is polite, but there is something behind it. As though Harkin is missing something still. He wonders what state he was in when they carried him out. With luck he was unconscious.
‘Did many make it out?’ he asks.
‘A few. More than you might have thought. We were back in the trenches within a month. I caught a bullet in my hip soon after that and when I recovered, I was assigned to the quartermaster and light duties. I wasn’t sad to see the back of the trenches.’
Harkin nods and a silence falls.
‘How was the journey down?’ Driscoll asks.
There’s a slight tease to the way the fellow says it and it gives Harkin the jolt he needs. Driscoll is also the name of the man he is meant to be making contact with – the intelligence officer for the local Volunteer battalion. And Sean is, of course, the Irish for John.
‘You’re the Sean Driscoll I’m meant to be looking out for?’
‘The same.’ The man gives him a slanted smile, his pale blue eyes almost kindly. ‘I was always Sean, but the recruiting sergeant wrote down John and I was stuck with it for four years. I work at Kilcolgan. Master Billy asked me to come and fetch you.’
The connection is clear to Harkin now. Somehow no one had thought to mention in the report or his orders that the local intelligence officer happened to work for the Prendevilles, or he might have made it back in Dublin.
‘Well, then. We can talk on the way.’
CHAPTER 7
D
riscoll has a horse and carriage waiting outside – the yellow glow of the station’s lights gilding the black horse’s wet back. Harkin can taste the sea when he breathes in, the salt mixed with the smell of kelp. He remembers the street just past the railings, and the town, but all that can be seen of it now are vague outlines in the grey gloom. Harkin watches as Driscoll ties his suitcase to the luggage rack and then swings himself up awkwardly into the carriage.
If anything, the fog becomes thicker as they make their way slowly through the town – the horse’s hooves sounding like a muffled echo of themselves. The few shops and pubs glow like islands in the mist, while somewhere a church bell rings, its mournful sound seeming to come from behind them one moment, and from up ahead the next. A donkey cart loaded down with milk churns looms towards them from the other side of the street. The flat-capped farmer holding the traces looks in their direction with such a blank expression that Harkin is not even sure that he has seen them.
Perhaps the horse knows the way, because its pace is steady. Time, by contrast, seems to slow. When the gaps between the buildings on either side begin to widen and then begin to be replaced by hedges and low walls, Harkin has no idea how long they have been travelling or how far they have come. He is only conscious that the sway and roll of the buggy is lulling him into something like a waking sleep.
‘There’s a checkpoint up ahead.’
Driscoll barely whispers the words but Harkin feels the tiredness slide away from him in an instant. A barrier has been placed across the road, behind which stand the shadows of greatcoated men, armed with rifles, and the shape of an armoured car. Driscoll pulls slowly on the traces and the horse comes to a halt some ten feet short of the men, still little more than silhouettes. There is a long, silent pause which gives Harkin the opportunity to remember Volunteers he has known who were stopped at checkpoints much like this – then found later in an alley or at the side of some boreen. He reminds himself that he is a former British officer, with nothing to fear.
Unless, of course, Malone has talked.
A large policeman in an oilskin cloak with thick white sergeant’s stripes on his cuffs approaches. His eyes are hard to make out under the brim of his peaked cap, and Harkin finds himself instead trying to deduce his intentions from the hang of his enormous walrus moustache.
‘Good morning to you, Sergeant Kelly.’
The sergeant nods by way of response to Driscoll’s greeting, pushing back his helmet to examine Harkin. His eyes, now that Harkin can see them, are intelligent and not unfriendly.
‘Who is your passenger, Sean?’
‘Captain Harkin. He served with young Mr Prendeville in the war. He’s down from Dublin for the funeral.’
The sergeant regards Harkin calmly.
‘Did you come down on the train, Captain Harkin?’
Harkin is surprised they have not been waved straight through. Harkin uses his officer voice – the clipped, neutral tone expected in the army – to answer.
‘I did, although it’s Mr Harkin, these days. Is there anything I can help you with, Sergeant?’
The sergeant’s helmet is spotted with rain and his face damp, although he seems oblivious to it. His impassive features make Harkin feel uneasy. The usual reaction of the regular police to the discovery that he is a former officer is a degree of deference.
‘Did you meet anyone on the train down, Mr Harkin?’
Harkin examines the sergeant’s face for any evidence of particular intent behind the question, but there seems to be nothing untoward.
‘No one, apart from an old lady who got off in Mullingar. A platoon of Auxiliary cadets got on a few stops later but that was about it.’
‘They’ll be here for District Inspector Teevan’s funeral, I’m afraid to say. Will you be coming to that, yourself, Mr Harkin? To District Inspector Teevan’s funeral, that is?’
The sergeant’s question is unexpected, but the very blandness of its delivery suggests there is a purpose behind it.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t know Inspector Teevan . . .’ he begins, and when he pauses, uncertain how to proceed, the sergeant interrupts him.
‘He was a good man. An Irishman, like all of us. I doubt there will be more than a handful come to see him put in the ground, except those of us who served alongside him. Sean here, for one, isn’t likely to pay him the respect he’s due. Are you, now, Sean?’
Harkin is aware, without looking at him, of Driscoll’s discomfort.
‘You know I have the Prendevilles to attend to and poor Mr Cartwright’s body has to be returned to his family. Inspector Teevan was not the only loss.’
‘That’s true enough. But even if Miss Prendeville hadn’t died, we wouldn’t likely have seen you at Jim Teevan’s funeral. Now would we, Sean?’
The sergeant’s voice is low and Harkin doubts that the men on the checkpoint behind him can overhear the conversation. It might well be that the sergeant doesn’t want them to listen in, and Harkin is struck again by the lack of hostility. He is unsure what to make of it or, indeed, how to react. Should he try to bluster his way out of the situation? In the end he takes his lead from Driscoll, who says nothing.
‘Well, I won’t ask you for your papers, Mr Harkin. I’m sure they’re very impressive. I’ll know where to find you if I need you.’ He turns to Driscoll, his voice lowering still further. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t trouble in the town over the next few days, Sean. I’d stay out of it, if I were you.’ He looks intently at Driscoll for a moment, as if to see if he is taking heed. Then he nods. ‘Give my regards to your mother.’
The sergeant stands aside and calls out for the barrier to be lifted. As they pass, the policemen seem cold and dispirited – as if Teevan’s death has taken the fight out of them. When they are clear of the checkpoint, Driscoll turns to Harkin and nods over his shoulder.
‘My mother’s first cousin. He’s not active against us, if you know what I mean. He does what he’s ordered to, but nothing more than that. That’s the case with most of the old RIC around here. The Auxies and the Black and Tans are a different story.’
‘And Teevan?’
Driscoll considers this for a moment.
‘It wasn’t him the column were after,’ he says, shrugging as if to say that there were no tears shed all the same.
‘Who were they after?’
‘Major Abercrombie. He commands the Auxiliary company in the town. He’s earned a bullet twenty times over. It was him was meant to be in the car.’
CHAPTER 8
T
hey follow the road west and the fog gradually dissipates, leaving Harkin with a view to his right of stone-strewn hills with more gorse than grass, and to the left, through the scattered trees, the occasional flash of white waves along a grey shore, not more than a hundred yards away. The wind is picking up and the sky is low above them, filled with bruised clouds that promise to wipe away the last of the mist.
They travel in silence until they see the blackened timbers and thatch of a still-smouldering cottage built hard up against the road, its whitewashed walls streaked with soot. A small crowd stand around it, sombre and silent as they pass. A woman is crying loudly from within the building, and he can see that a few recovered possessions are piled on a small cart. Some of the men in the crowd nod to Driscoll while others look at Harkin with a cold hostility, one turning away with a comment that is met with a murmur of approval. He can see the bitterness in their dark eyes and gaunt, smudged features, and anger comes from them like the rustle of leaves in a forest. He sits and looks down at the long black coats and flat caps and he knows he looks like the enemy to them, sitting beside Driscoll in his homburg and trench coat.
‘What happened?’ he asks, when they have passed.
‘One of the lads in the column lived there. The woman crying in the house is his mother.’
‘And the son?’
‘Abercrombie and his men took him last night. He was found at the crossroads this morning.’ Driscoll’s tone makes it clear the Volunteer was found dead. ‘Those Auxies on the train will be out tonight as well. A district inspector is worth a half a hundred houses, and woe betide anyone of ours they come across till things calm down.’
The road winds alongside the rocky shore and, after another mile or two, they find themselves following, on the one side, a long strand striped with lines of seaweed and, on the other, Kilcolgan’s high demesne wall. Driscoll nods his head in the direction of a gap where the stonework, undermined by the roots of a tree, has collapsed out onto the verge.
‘You haven’t been here since before the war, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Kilcolgan has changed since then,’ Driscoll says. ‘The last few years have been hard on the place. There’s no money left to keep it up. Just by way of warning.’
Harkin recognises the tall pillars standing either side of the gates, now covered with thick ivy that the carved eagles which top them, wings bunched for flight, will never break free of. Driscoll allows the horse to come to a slow, swaying halt, pulls the brake back and looks over at him. Without a word, they climb down and Harkin follows the limping Driscoll in through the gate.
There was a photograph in the paper of Teevan’s bullet-riddled car leaning into the gate lodge wall, but it’s gone now. All that remains are the white scars where bullets struck the stone, a boarded-up window and a dark stain where the engine’s oil leaked out. The drive leads on through the trees towards the big house, visible through the winter-stripped branches. Its familiar windows stare down at Harkin, mirroring the sea and the shore.
‘Tell me what happened.’
Driscoll walks away from the gate lodge, towards a log that has been pushed to the side of the drive, up against the laurel bushes that line it.
‘They blocked the drive with this.’
Harkin nods, before walking a short distance into the woods. Empty brass cartridges lie scattered among the rotting leaves and moss.
‘The RIC didn’t collect these? When they were investigating?’
Driscoll laughs.
‘Investigating? As far as they’re concerned the case is closed. They took the bodies and the car away and took a few photographs, but past that they didn’t bother much. They know it was us set the ambush and what more do they need to bother with?’
Harkin knows Driscoll is right. In the parts of the country where the Volunteers are active, the RIC are no longer acting as a police force in the way they used to. He turns to look back at their surroundings.
‘Tell me how it happened?’
‘Commandant Egan and the column arrived about an hour beforehand. They secured the gate lodge and took up positions, as well as barricading the road. When the car came in, Teevan must have seen the barrier, because he swerved and hit the wall. There was some return fire but they hadn’t a hope. A neat job if Miss Prendeville hadn’t been in the car.’
Harkin looks around and can see how the ambush played out, where the gunmen were positioned, and can almost hear the fusillade of bullets. He can also imagine Maud’s terror, surrounded by the flash of muzzle fire – the Volunteers close to the car as they would be in a night ambush. He feels a familiar nausea as he imagines the stench of cordite and blood. He walks a few steps away from Driscoll, towards the house, giving himself time to recover.
‘But she survived the attack?’ he says, over his shoulder.
Driscoll nods.
‘So I’m told. Teevan and Cartwright were dead, or as good as. Maud may have been knocked out when the car hit the wall but she was still breathing and there was no visible wound. They made her as comfortable as they could and left her, knowing we’d come down from the house soon enough. A few minutes after they left there was a single shot. I heard it as well.’
‘And it was that shot that killed her?’
‘So it seems.’
‘You said “so I’m told”?’
Driscoll nods, his expression darkening.
‘I wasn’t here when it happened. I was at my mother’s house.’ Driscoll nods towards Kilcolgan. ‘It’s behind the house, past the walled garden. The first I knew of the ambush was the gunfire. If I had known about it, I’d have asked them to get out of it. There’s ten places better they could have done it along the coast road without bringing me into it.’
‘Your mother’s house?’
‘She’s Lord Kilcolgan’s housekeeper. I grew up here. I help out around the place. It suits me. It also allows me to go about the country when I need to for brigade business.’
‘So you’re the intelligence officer but you didn’t know what was going to happen? How did Egan know the car would be visiting Kilcolgan?’
Driscoll takes a deep breath, frowning; as though marshalling his thoughts is an effort.
‘I’m not the only intelligence officer in the brigade. The column had its own intelligence officer, Matt Breen. The other intelligence officers and myself pass on information to them, but the column makes its own decisions as to what targets to attack and when. They don’t consult with anyone. It wouldn’t be practical and it’s more secure that way. I didn’t even know they were anywhere close. I thought Egan was in the hills to the east. Forty miles away.’
‘But it was your information they acted on?’
‘No. Now, I knew Harry Cartwright and Maud were going to play cards at Sir John’s that evening. I also knew Maud was meant to be staying the night and coming back in the morning. Cartwright was getting the early train to Dublin, so he would come back that evening if someone would give him a lift, but I didn’t even know Teevan and
Abercrombie would be at Sir John’s, let alone that one of them would be driving. But the column knew. Even if I had known about it, it’s not something I’d have passed on to them. I’d never have put the Prendevilles at risk. Never. On top of which, it’s not good for my health to have the column shooting up Auxies on my doorstep, drawing attention to me. Last, and not least, the Auxies are currently based in the old poorhouse in the town and they don’t much like it. There have been several offers to rent Kilcolgan from his Lordship as an alternative. His Lordship would have taken the money long ago, only for Maud being opposed, and an ambush at his front gate might well be the thing that would have pushed him into doing it.’
‘And will he take the money now?’
Driscoll shrugs.
‘Who knows?’
Harkin thinks back to the conversation with Kelly at the checkpoint. If Kelly knows about Driscoll, as he seems to, then others might as well. He presumes Driscoll is aware of the danger he’s in and he wonders why he hasn’t gone to ground, at least for a week or two.
‘So who did tell the column about Abercrombie?’
‘Breen had an informant who passes us messages to him through a priest in the town.’
‘Who is this informant?’
Driscoll puts a hand to his chin, running a thumb along its length.
‘I don’t know. Breen kept his identity to himself. If you ask me, it’s likely it’s an RIC man. The information we get from him includes details of troop and police movements in this part of the county, as well as warning of the big sweeps. It’s helped Egan stay out of the way a fair few times. My guess is he’d have to be a sergeant, at least, to have the information he gives as early as he passes it on – but the truth is it could be anyone. There’s never been a question of money or anything, as far as I know. Whoever it is, they seem to be straight and they must have been informed of Abercrombie’s movements.’
Harkin thinks back to the checkpoint and the sergeant’s warning.
‘Might it be Kelly?’
Driscoll shrugs once again.
‘I think Kelly would have come to me rather than Breen. Because of the connection.’
