by W. C. Ryan
CHAPTER 29
H
arkin does sleep well, at first. A solid, black sleep in which there is no horror or memory or indeed anything. This absence of his surroundings and even his own self is how he imagines death must feel, if death can be felt. His waking consists of him leaving the nothingness and becoming aware first of himself, then of the bed and the room and then the nagging sense of an approaching danger.
Before he is even fully conscious, he has pushed back the blankets and has rolled himself out and is standing. The carpet is cold under his feet and the house is silent. He crosses to push aside the curtains to look out, but he can see nothing in the darkness except for the faintest outline of the trees that shield the house from the sea and the suggestion of a mist. He places a hand against the window, hearing the sound of wood against wood as it shifts in its frame, and leans close to the glass, but there is no light to be seen anywhere and even the sea is quiet. But something has woken him.
Then, after a few moments, he hears it. A sound in the distance, and as it grows louder, Harkin becomes certain it is an approaching vehicle. At first he thinks it must be Bourke coming back from the town, but as the noise comes closer, he recognises the distinctive rattle of the Crossley Tender lorries used by the police and army and realises that it is more than one vehicle. No sooner has he come to this conclusion than three sets of headlights cross the rise that separates the guest house from Kilcolgan, searching through the misted hedges and fields like greedy fingers. He hurriedly pulls on his trousers and his shoes and gathers his shirt and jacket in his hands, but they are already almost outside and coming to a halt. Harkin can see the shapes of men jumping down onto the road and fanning out around the house. One of the tenders turns in through the gate, its headlights turning the short drive yellow, and he steps away from the window as they light the room as well. Harkin stands there, thinking about the gun he took from Maud’s room, not because he might use it but because if he is caught with it they will likely shoot him on the spot. He looks around for somewhere to hide it, and then Moira has entered the room and crosses quickly towards him. Her face seems tight with tension in the reflected light, her eyes shining.
‘Have you anything needs taking?’ He can hear her anger, although is not certain whether it is directed towards him or the police outside.
Mutely he hands her the small pistol from his jacket pocket. She weighs it in her hand without comment and then leaves.
‘Harkin!’
The voice comes from outside. He recognises it as Abercrombie’s. Without conscious thought, Harkin crosses to the window and looks down, a part of him attempting to stop the movement but seemingly unable to. Abercrombie is standing in front of the lorry that has turned in, silhouetted by its headlights. He is carrying a revolver in his hand. He imagines the other Auxies and RIC men out there with their guns trained on him. He must make an easy target in his white vest.
Abercrombie raises his pistol and aims it at Harkin, then slowly raises the pistol further and fires it twice into the air. Harkin knows he should move away from the window but, as before, it is as though his body belongs to someone else. He feels a distance from the events that are unfolding around him, uncertain as to what has just passed. He watches Abercrombie as though the major is an actor on a backlit stage. Then he sees a silhouetted figure, who must be Moira, come from the direction of the house and stand in front of Abercrombie, who lowers the pistol and smiles at her. The smile seems to be polite, even gentle, and seems out of place given the shooting. The sense of being a powerless member of an audience watching a perfromance is stronger than ever. Harkin wants to call out to Moira, to tell her to come away, but he is not able to. Instead, someone comes to stand beside Abercrombie and Harkin sees in the headlight’s glare the flash of a sergeant’s chevrons against the dark green uniform of the regular RIC.
There is a pause, during which the sergeant leans towards Abercrombie. Harkin thinks he recognises the shape of Sergeant Kelly, the RIC man who questioned him on the journey from the station, but it could be anyone. If there are words, Harkin cannot hear them. The only sound he can hear is the beating of his own heart and nothing else – not even the sound of the tenders’ engines.
Perhaps someone gives orders then, as the shapes and shadows of RIC policemen and Auxiliaries begin to move through and around the patterns of misted light. He notices that their rifles are slung now, whereas before they were held ready. After a short pause, the semi-silence Harkin finds himself in is broken by the sudden, harsh grind of gears as first one of the tenders and then another drive off. Only the sergeant and Abercrombie are left standing in front of the last tender, facing Moira, their shadows stretching out towards the house, until finally the major nods curtly and the two policemen walk out of the headlights’ glare.
After a moment, there is the metallic clang of the tender’s doors closing. Then the tender reverses down the drive and follows the others along the road to the west.
CHAPTER 30
W
hen the last of the glow from the final Crossley’s headlights disappears over the hill, Harkin makes his way down to the hallway, where a single lit candle sits on a small table. As he descends the last step, Moira Wilson enters, her long hair wild around her shoulders, her face pale. Seeing him, she runs the last few steps and holds up a hand to his cheek. He leans his head into her hand and then he finds he has her in his arms, or perhaps she has him in hers. The only sound in the hallway is the tick-tock of the grandfather clock and the only light the swirling shadows from the candle’s flame. She pushes away from him, her eyes catching a glitter from the candle’s flame.
‘I thought they were shooting at you.’
‘They were just a warning,’ he says, the words sounding calmer than he feels.
She places a hand behind his neck and kisses him.
‘If they were a warning, maybe you should pay some heed to it.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
He wants to say something reassuring, but they are interrupted by the sound of another approaching engine. They look at each other with apprehension for a moment but whoever is coming, it isn’t the RIC.
‘It’s not Abercrombie,’ he says. ‘It sounds more like a motor car. Perhaps it’s Bourke.’
‘I’ll go and get dressed. You can meet him like this, but not me, I don’t think.’
It isn’t Bourke, however. When Harkin walks outside to greet the visitor, it is clear that the motor car is approaching not from the direction of the town but from the west, and when it pulls into the driveway, it is Sir John Prendeville’s blue Daimler, not Bourke’s nondescript Ford. Sir John steps out, pale and anxious.
‘Is everything all right? I heard shooting and drove straight over.’ He looks at Harkin.
Harkin reaches up to rub at his chin.
‘It was nothing. Major Abercrombie came visiting and fired a few shots in the air, that’s all.’
‘Abercrombie?’ Sir John looks along the road that leads toward the town, his concern apparent.
‘Where is Mrs Wilson?’ Sir John says, seeming uncertain for a moment how to proceed but having asked the question, Harkin can see finds himself on safer ground, his indignation swelling him. ‘Is she harmed? And the ladies? I shall report Abercrombie directly to the Commissioner of the RIC first thing in the morning.’
‘The ladies are away playing cards and Mrs Wilson went to get dressed when she heard you coming. I’m sure she’ll return directly.’
Sir John looks at him in confusion and then he sees another emotion enter the older man’s expression. A quick glance towards the doorway.
‘But what are you doing here, Harkin? I thought you were at Kilcolgan.’
‘The boss sent a man down to assist me. I came over to talk to him this afternoon and was taken unwell.’ He can see Sir John is less than convinced and decides to stretch the truth a little. ‘Dr Hegarty insisted I stay here until I felt better and I only woke up when Abercrombie came calli
ng.’
He listens back to his words and is unconvinced. They sound too detailed, too rehearsed. He wouldn’t believe himself and Sir John’s confusion has disappeared, replaced by something more like wariness. He decides on a quick change of direction.
‘Mr Bourke brought you my message?’
‘Yes. Some interesting developments. The letters, for example.’
He can see that Sir John is uncomfortable discussing his niece’s love affair.
‘We have a few moments before Mrs Wilson gathers herself,’ Harkin says. ‘Shall we discuss the matter as it stands?’
Harkin leads Sir John into the dining room, lights one of the oil lamps and places it on a table before sitting down facing the older man. He repeats the information he put in the letter but with more detail. Sir John says nothing until Harkin has finished. His expression is as bland as if he is being told yesterday’s weather.
‘You kept one letter, you say. May I see it?’
Harkin reaches into his pocket and passes the envelope across to Sir John. He notices that his hands shake when he takes it.
‘Is the writing Driscoll’s?’ Harkin asks, once Sir John begins to examine it.
Harkin notices that Sir John’s blue eyes are so pale in the candlelight they might almost be white. He seems to have aged since he stepped from the car.
‘I believe it is,’ Sir John says, after a moment. ‘Would you mind if I keep this? I wouldn’t want it to be circulated more widely and this doesn’t seem to be a matter which we would want to bring to the police, given the circumstances. I will talk to Dr Hegarty, thank him for his discretion so far and do my best to ensure the matter is left there.’
Harkin nods his agreement.
‘What will you do now?’ Sir John asks, his gaze focused on his upturned hands, as though he holds an answer in those long fingers of his.
‘That depends on you. The evidence is mainly circumstantial and, to be honest, confusing. But I think he needs to give an explanation.’
‘I think it is more than circumstantial. He would have lost his job if the matter came to light,’ Sir John says quickly. ‘His mother would have lost hers, also. What is more, it seems clear to me that this RIC source is a nonsense. Driscoll must have known Maud was coming back that night. He set up the ambush and killed her when she somehow survived.’
Sir John’s face sags after he finishes speaking, as though overcome by the horror of it. Harkin notices the older man swallow hard, then he seems to gather himself. When Harkin speaks, he keeps his tone calm.
‘We’ll know more when my colleague has spoken to Father Dillon. Once we have as much information as we can gather, Driscoll will be given a chance to explain himself. Mr Bourke and I will talk to him tomorrow. If we are not satisfied with his explanation, he will be dealt with by a court martial.’
Sir John’s face is white, even in soft light from the lamp. When he speaks it is slowly and quietly, but with a gathering conviction.
‘I am not certain there is a need for something so official,’ he says. ‘His guilt is clear. It would be preferable if it were dealt with much more . . . how shall I put it . . . efficiently. No more talking. No more dragging Maud’s name through the mud.’ He pauses and when he resumes, there is a grating menace to his tone. ‘I would go further. My continued co-operation with your superior and your organisation depends on absolute discretion in this matter.’
There is something repellent to Harkin about the coldness in Sir John’s expression, but he remembers the boss’s instructions about the guns being the most important element of this whole business. He can hear Moira coming down the staircase, approaching the dining room.
‘I will consider your suggestion.’
*
Once Sir John leaves, Moira walks Harkin back to his bedroom and leaves him there, closing the door behind her with a whispered but firm ‘goodnight’.
He stands, thinking, for a moment, and it occurs to him that Sean Driscoll is almost the only person who knew he was here and not in Kilcolgan. It also made the major’s visit all the more suspicious. It’s a thought he decides he will address with Driscoll in the morning, possibly with Vincent Bourke’s assistance.
Eventually he gets into bed and lies there for a while, unable to sleep. He stares up at the ceiling and listens to the waves on the long shore and the sounds of the house. He tries to relax, to slow his heart rate, to trick his body into slumber, but nothing seems to work, even though he is tired. Bone-tired. Eventually, in desperation, he lights the candle and decides to go downstairs to find a book to read by it.
He descends the stairs slowly, not wanting to wake Moira, placing his weight on each step with care. The candlelight barely reaches his feet and he holds on to the banister with one hand, its wood chill to the touch.
He is halfway down the staircase when he has the sense that he is being watched. He stops, lifting the candle higher, looking down into the hallway for a waiting shadow or an unexpected movement, but there is nothing. Yet the feeling will not go away. He stands there, holding the candle aloft, feeling slightly foolish. He takes two more steps down the staircase, before coming to another halt. He takes a moment to breathe, admitting to himself that while his mind is telling him there is nothing to worry about, his body is taking a different view. Adrenaline swirls through his veins like a long electric shock, while the hair on his head and the skin on his shoulders seem both to be stiff with anticipation. He tries to swallow, but he can’t, and all the while his heart is pumping blood around his body at a furious rate, the sound of it so loud in his ears that he isn’t sure he would be able to hear danger approaching even if it were right beside him.
Another step. And now he smells an almost overpowering stench as if something is rotting nearby. He lifts the candle once again, conscious that it is shaking in his hand, the hot wax shaking down on to his bare skin, and looks down to see if there is a vase of decomposing flowers on the side table in the hallway. But the table is clear.
He doesn’t know, afterwards, what makes him look up at this point. He turns slowly on the staircase, the light thrown by the candle advancing slowly along the wall, reaching upwards until he sees the shape of a woman, her features indistinct, standing at the top of the staircase, a long, old-fashioned white dress falling from her bare shoulders, nearly as pale as her face. She holds in her hands a bouquet of white roses, the petals withered almost to brown, and he remembers the story about their smell, which now fills his nostrils, being a warning of death. Transfixed, he realises he can see the wooden panelling on the far side of her.
He swallows, or tries to, and then closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the woman has gone, although the corrupted perfume of the roses remains.
CHAPTER 31
I
t is long after morning light penetrates the half-drawn curtains that Harkin wakes fully. He lies there, thinking back to the night before – to Moira Wilson, and Abercrombie’s arrival, and the terrifying incident on the staircase. At first he is uncertain that any of it was real, but when he looks at his hand it is still mottled by the wax, now stiff and flaking, that dripped from the candle while he stood frozen on the staircase. He has no idea how he returned to his bedroom, and yet he seems to have slept.
He dresses quickly, only pausing when he hears the sound of an approaching motor car, but this time, to his relief, it is driven by the returning Vincent Bourke. They meet in the dining room, where a somewhat subdued Mary has sat the big man at a table with a pot of tea. She leaves with the promise of breakfast. Bourke is unreadable, his demeanour one of jovial bonhomie despite a whiff of stale whiskey on his breath and the air of a man who has not slept much.
‘You stayed the night in town, then?’ Harkin asks, his gaze following Mary as she leaves the room.
‘I didn’t have much choice, what with the peelers on the warpath. I holed up at the hotel.’
‘And Mary?’
‘Anyone would think you were her mother,’ Bourke s
ays, raising an eyebrow in mock affront. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to worry about Mary. She knows all about the likes of me.’
‘You didn’t go to the ceilidh?’
‘There was no ceilidh. The police imposed a six o’clock curfew and it was just as well they cancelled it. Our lads burned out two big houses the evening before in retaliation for the death of Matt Breen, and the Auxies lost two men yesterday up the hills going after them. The Auxies were after blood last night and God knows what would have happened if they’d had a ceilidh to fix their attention on.’
‘Our friend Egan again?’
‘I presume so.’
Harkin rubs his chin with the palm of his hand.
‘It wasn’t only in the town that Abercrombie and his men were throwing their weight about last night.’
Harkin tells Bourke about the major’s visit.
‘Jesus,’ Bourke says, cheerfully. ‘You’re a man in demand. Do you think Vane tipped him off?’
‘I’m not sure. I think if Vane had, though, I’d be dead, so maybe Malone has held firm after all. I think it’s just that Abercrombie doesn’t want me poking around in his business. I’m more worried about how he knew I was here.’
‘One of the Prendevilles?’
‘Or Sean Driscoll.’
Mary returns with toast and two plates of eggs and bacon. Harkin find that he is hungry.
‘Did you talk to Father Dillon?’
‘He wasn’t there,’ Bourke says, through a mouthful of toast. ‘His housekeeper said he would be back later in the evening, but by that stage the Auxies had the place battened down. Anyway, I thought we could visit him on the way.’
‘On the way?’
‘Well, the residents’ bar stayed open and our friend Sean Driscoll came in.’
‘And . . .?’
‘And he said the bold Commandant Egan would be delighted to make your acquaintance. He said if you were to go to the establishment he told you about, you’ll be given directions. Which I took to mean you knew what the hell he was talking about.’
