by W. C. Ryan
He continues to look at her for a while, then he closes his eyes.
CHAPTER 23
T
he next time Harkin wakes, it is because of the light of a new day. He doesn’t open his eyes, not because he is afraid of what he might see – he seems to be past that – but because he wants to avoid the world for a little longer. He listens to the house wake; tasks being performed, people going about their business. At the thought of the day before, his guilt returns. He will have to face the Prendevilles soon enough, but, for the moment, he turns on his shoulder, away from the bright windows and towards the dark of the furthest corner of the room. He pulls the blankets up around him and remembers Maud sitting in her armchair, and how beautiful she was. He finds the strange experience has brought forth memories of their time together that have not surfaced for years. A breathless, laughing run to catch a tram. A dance in some grand Dublin house, her cheek warm against his. A morning they had spent crammed into his single bed in his rooms in Trinity, whispering in case they might be overheard. He allows himself to be taken over by the remembered happiness.
Later, when he wakes again, he is aware that someone else is in the room. He can hear their slow and steady breathing; the slight rasp of someone with a blocked nose. They are close, then a hand lifts his, feeling for his pulse. He opens his eyes to find a stocky, bearded man is leaning over him. One hand has his, while the other holds a silver pocket watch on a chain which he examines.
‘You’re alive,’ the man says, without looking away from the watch.
‘So it seems.’
‘Always better than the alternative,’ the man says, placing Harkin’s hand back on the pillow. ‘How do you feel?’
Harkin’s body feels, he decides, halfway to being a corpse. But his mind seems to be clear for a change.
‘Not too bad,’ he says.
‘You got a good sleep, anyway. Would you like me to help you drink some water?’
‘I can manage, I think.’
He lifts himself up on to his elbow and finds the glass from the night before.
‘Better?’ the man says, when Harkin places the empty glass back down.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Harkin squints up at him. He recognises the voice from his half-memories from the previous day. ‘Are you Dr Hegarty? If you aren’t, would you mind putting my hand back down?’
The man smiles, a flash of teeth in among the beard.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘What time is it?’ Harkin asks.
Hegarty gives Harkin back his hand, and then writes something in a notebook he has open on his lap.
‘Just past eleven. Do you mind if I ask some questions?’
Hegarty takes Harkin’s silence as consent.
‘Has this happened before?’
‘Has what happened before?’
‘A prolonged period of involuntary unconsciousness. Alcohol-related incidents apart.’
‘In the war,’ Harkin says, reluctantly.
‘Concussion?’
‘Everyone at the front suffered concussion at one time or another.’
It was true. High-explosive shells shook the brains inside soldiers’ skulls so hard sometimes they would be found dead, with no visible wounds.
‘Billy told me some of your medical history and I’ve spoken to your doctor in Dublin as well.’
Harkin’s alarm at this is more for his mother’s sake than this. He’s always been careful what he has told the family doctor for fear he would tell his mother. Now he wonders how Hegarty got hold of him. If it was through his mother, she’ll be worried.
‘My mother knows about this?’
‘No. Your employer gave me his details.’
‘Good. She worries about me enough as it is,’ Harkin says, wondering if he spoke directly to the boss or one of the men who actually deals with insurance. Not that it makes any difference.
‘Why is that? That she worries about you?’
Hegarty reminds him of the doctors in Scotland. The steady, persistent questioning.
‘What kind of doctor were you during the war?’
Hegarty smiles, as if pleased with his patient’s perspicacity.
‘I started at the front, in forward dressing stations, but I was really too old for that. As the war proceeded I moved to hospitals in the rear and specialised in what we then called war neuroses. Shell shock, in other words.’
‘And now you’re back being a family doctor in the Irish countryside?’
‘Well, I was always that. The war was a break from it, that’s all.’ He examines Harkin. ‘Does that concern you? What I specialised in during the war?’
Harkin thinks about this, then shakes his head, deciding to lie. It does concern him, and not least because he remembers that this man’s daughter is Moira Wilson.
‘No.’
‘Good. The thing to take comfort from is that I have experience in matters of this nature which may be useful. If you’d like to talk to me, to tell me what led up to this, then I’m happy to listen. And to help if I can.’
Harkin doesn’t know how to respond.
‘What matters are you referring to?’
‘Well, it seems likely that an episode like this has been building for some time. You haven’t been a quiet sleeper here. You served through Gallipoli, the Somme, Passchendaele and God knows where else. I understand you suffered a severe concussion at Passchendaele, but I imagine you had your fair share of similar concussions beforehand. Repeat concussions of this nature can cause lasting physical damage. Aside from which, the experiences you had during the war will have had emotional effects. It may well be that your condition is a combination of the two.’
Harkin shifts uncomfortably in the bed.
‘I can guarantee confidentiality, of course,’ Hegarty continues. ‘I know it is difficult to discuss these things, but in my experience it is often the case that talking to someone like me can help. I think you probably know that.’
Billy must have told him about Edinburgh. Harkin can’t be angry. He would have done the same if he’d seen Billy faint at a graveside. He thinks about the encounter in the Dublin fog, the gassed soldiers in the train, Arthur Prendeville sitting at the dining table, and all the other times he has seen something he shouldn’t be seeing: corpses floating in the Liffey; wounded soldiers strewn across Grafton Street; Maud sitting in her armchair. Even now, looking at Hegarty, he isn’t entirely certain this is happening.
Harkin takes a deep breath, shrugs, then meets Hegarty’s gaze, composing his features into something approaching puzzlement.
‘It’s nothing like that. I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.’
Hegarty smiles once again, sighing in a contented fashion.
‘Very good. I should say Billy told me a little bit about a hospital you both were patients at. Near Edinburgh?’
Harkin is hardly surprised at the confirmation of his suspicions.
‘Which is why I know it’s only insomnia.’
Hegarty’s left eyebrow rises.
‘I’ve no doubt there could be an element of insomnia. On the other hand, if a relapse of some description is taking place it is often a result of stress. What is it you do for a living, Mr Harkin?’
Harkin decides to proceed with caution.
‘I work for an insurance company.’
‘I’d have thought, seeing how your condition has worsened, that you might have a more stressful occupation. Is there perhaps something else in your life that might be causing anxiety?’
Harkin says nothing. He thinks of the clandestine war he has been engaged in – about the things he’s done and witnessed over the last year and a half. Hegarty, meanwhile is examining him intently. It doesn’t take a mind-reader to detect the doctor’s train of thought.
‘My daughter tells me you’re down here investigating Maud Prendeville’s death.’ Hegarty pauses. ‘For your insurance company.’
The implication is unmistakable. Harkin feels as though he
might as well be sitting here with a tricolour wrapped round him, singing ‘The Soldier’s Song’, as far as the doctor is concerned.
‘That’s right.’ Harkin can hear the unease in his voice. He watches as Hegarty’s frown deepens.
‘As a doctor, I would advise you to give up this business. To return to Dublin or, even better, take a holiday in foreign parts. Somewhere far away from the Troubles we find ourselves in the midst of.’
‘And if I ignored that advice?’
‘Well, at least avoid any activity that is likely to agitate you. In addition, I’d recommend regular exercise – at least twice a day. And I’d suggest you remove yourself from this house. The Prendevilles are used to the place, and the place is used to them. The rest of us need to be cautious. I’d not spend the night here for pleasure. Not for a hundred pounds.’
‘I hope not to have to stay too long.’
‘Are you determined to pursue your investigation?’ Hegarty continues, after a long pause.
‘That is my intention.’
Hegarty inhales deeply, as though preparing to dive into an icy lake.
‘Am I right to say you suspect Miss Prendeville was not killed by the rebels? That she may have been killed by someone else?’
‘It’s possible.’ Harkin is reluctant to commit himself once again. ‘There are certainly some questions that need addressing before I’m satisfied one way or the other.’
‘You are probably aware that the local authorities require a post mortem to be performed when a death occurs in this kind of circumstance. The police were reluctant, considering a post mortem to be a formality, but in any event it was carried out. By me. Now, out of consideration for the Prendevilles, my examination was not as invasive as it might have been, because the cause of death was clear. A single bullet entered her skull just above her left eye and did not exit her body. It was fired at close range – there were powder residues around the entry wound, so within two feet, I would say. Not, in other words, by someone firing on the car during the ambush. There was also a separate contusion to the forehead, not caused by the bullet, but more likely by her hitting her head shortly before death.’
Harkin digests this information. It chimes with the column’s version.
‘There is one piece of evidence I thought might interest you in particular.’
Hegarty reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out a small brown envelope, the type used for weekly wages. He hands it to Harkin, who opens it. There is a brass bullet, distorted by impact. It is small in his hand, its weight barely noticeable.
It makes his stomach turn.
‘I took this out of Maud Prendeville’s neck. It was pressing up against the skin. It’s not unusual for a bullet to ricochet around inside the skull and then through the body, and that’s where it ended up. I was able to extract it with a small incision. As you can see, it’s quite small calibre – my guess would be .25. Probably a pocket pistol with an effective range of about the length of this room. I haven’t come across many bullets this size and I’ve extracted a fair few in my time, from both the living and the dead.’
‘Did you show it to Abercrombie?’
‘I’ve sent him my report. Major Abercrombie probably used it to light the fire. I doubt he values any opinion that isn’t his own. With Teevan in charge, there was some hope for the loyalist cause down here. Not anymore.’
Harkin replaces the bullet into the envelope and returns it to the doctor.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. There’s something else. I presume you would be interested in any information that might point towards a motive.’
‘That would be correct.’
‘There is something I left out of the report.’
Again there is a hesitation and Harkin wonders if the doctor is about to change his mind. Instead, he runs a hand across his face and closes his eyes, as if praying. When he speaks, his voice is very quiet.
‘If I tell you this, you must promise me your absolute discretion.’
‘I will be as discreet as I possibly can.’
The doctor nods.
‘I suppose that is all I can ask for in the circumstances.’
Hegarty pauses again, then closes his eyes. When he opens them again it is clear that he has made a decision.
‘Maud Prendeville was pregnant. About three months gone.’
CHAPTER 24
W
hen the doctor leaves, Harkin gets out of bed and walks over to stand beside Maud’s armchair. He looks out at the dark, smouldering grey sky, its clouds rolling over the house in a constant stream. Beneath it, the heavy grass of the home meadow is frosted by recent rain. Harkin takes stock of himself. He feels a little weak but he supposes that is to be expected after a long time in bed. His mind, however, seems sharp enough. It is as though the doctor’s information about Maud has given him a sense of purpose that has papered over, at least for the moment, the sense of unreality and dread that has confused his waking hours these last few days – indeed, weeks.
Maud had not been prudish about these things – she and Harkin had been lovers before the war, after all – but she had always been careful. Her reputation would certainly have been damaged if a pregnancy had been made public – and perhaps also her lover’s? But even if the pregnancy was the reason behind the killing, it still doesn’t explain how whoever was responsible knew Maud was going to be in the car.
Harkin watches as Billy comes into view, walking across the front of the house, a turned-up tweed jacket buttoned tight across his chest and neck and a flat cap pulled down low across his forehead. He swishes at the grass with a blackthorn stick as he goes, each swing sending an arc of grass and water into the air. Even from this distance, Harkin can tell Billy is worried. It occurs to Harkin that perhaps Billy is worried about him.
Harkin turns back to the room. There is a collection of framed photographs on top of the chest of drawers and, curious, he takes a moment to examine them. Almost immediately his gaze falls on a photograph of himself with Maud. They are standing in front of high black railings that separate them from the trees and bushes of a park. It could be Stephen’s Green, but he isn’t sure. He looks young, and Maud even younger. He remembers the afternoon. 1912 – just after he left university.
It still astonishes him, seeing the two of them together. The Honourable Maud Prendeville, the daughter of a lord, mixing with the likes of Tom Harkin – a solicitor’s son and a Roman Catholic. No wonder Lord Kilcolgan never warmed to the idea. Harkin reaches out to place a fingertip on the photograph, touching his younger self. He would like to be back at that moment – to have all that has happened since then to be in a future that might or might not come to pass. It’s not hard to remember, looking at the Maud in the picture, why he loved her – although why she might have loved him is less clear. He seems naive, uncomfortable in his suit and tie, while she seems amused by herself, and perhaps by him as well; there is a mischievous slant to her gaze. They are looking towards the camera with affection and he remembers it was Billy who took the photograph. He remembers how Billy was back then, before the war.
There is another photograph of Maud beside it. She is older in this one, and much changed. She is wearing the dark uniform of the Cumann na mBan, the women’s auxiliary organisation that supports the IRA. He thinks it must have been taken after the 1916 Rising. There is a sombreness to her gaze that he recognises from the trenches, a turn to the mouth that suggests experience, and not all of it pleasant. There is still that intelligence he remembers, but the mischievous amusement is no longer there.
There are photographs of other men and women and he recognises many of them – the makers of an attempted revolution. Some of them are dead, some still living, and then it occurs to him – the bedroom must be Maud’s. There is no other room in the house in which these photographs could be on display.
He looks around at the armchair, remembers the figure sitting in it, staring out at the night, and shivers once again.
What can have possessed the Prendevilles to have put him in here?
Harkin walks slowly to the bed and sits, considering his options. The sensible thing to do, in his condition, is probably to take the doctor’s advice, cut his losses and return to Dublin. He probably has enough, with Hegarty’s information, to confirm to the boss and Sir John that the column’s story is credible. As for the wider world believing in their guilt, the column has broad shoulders. It’s not as though they have been saints this last while. It’s a dirty war and they have all of them, himself included, had to get down in the dirt to scrap it out with the British. If it weren’t for Sir John’s guns, and if Maud had not been one of the survivors of the GPO, no one from the boss on down would have given more than two seconds’ thought to the matter.
He goes to the chest of drawers and picks up the photograph of the two of them together and looks at it once again. The last few years have been full of events outside either of their control, and it occurs to him that Maud’s death is something that perhaps he can control, or at least find some justice for. He remembers Maud from the night before, sitting in her armchair, and the way she looked at him. He presumes what he saw was a manifestation of his imagination. The alternative – that it was some kind of spectral apparition – is a possibility he would rather not consider. In any event, whatever it was, he feels sure there was some kind of communication between them. He knows she is dead – indeed, he’d held the bullet that killed her in his hand only a few minutes earlier – but he also suspects that something passed between them, inexplicable as that may be.
Harkin’s eye falls on the small davenport desk beside the left-hand window – an embossed green leather writing slope on top of a four-drawer pedestal. It must have been where Maud wrote her letters. He looks back to her armchair, remembering the way her gaze shifted when she looked back towards him for the first time, and he feels a sudden sweat chill on the back of his neck. He looks again at the davenport. Logic suggests that if she received any letters, perhaps from a lover, then there’s a good chance that they will have been kept in one of its four drawers. Was it the desk her gaze shifted to? Had she been sending him some kind of message? No police detective has searched this room, but there’s no reason Harkin can’t, so long as no one walks in on him. The morality of the act doesn’t bother him too much. It is the nature of his work these days to pry into other people’s secrets, and in this case Maud is dead and the benefits seem clear.
