by W. C. Ryan
‘Mr Harkin,’ she says. ‘Have you word of my son?’
‘Not yet. I have a car and a driver at my disposal. We’ll go looking for him directly.’
She says nothing, as though waiting for the question he is about to ask.
‘Is there anything you could tell me that might be useful? Any reason you think he might have been taken.’ For a moment he sees a quickly suppressed emotion, which he takes for anger. ‘Anything at all. You can rest assured it won’t be passed on if it is prejudicial to him.’
She looks at Murphy, then Billy, and finally back to Harkin, as though asking each of them in turn what she could possibly tell him.
‘I know he’s an active Volunteer, Mrs Driscoll,’ Harkin continues, wanting to shake her into answering him. ‘Have there been any previous threats to him? From the RIC, or anyone else? Since he lives here, it may be the police think he was responsible for the ambush.’
‘Mr Harkin, my son would never intentionally cause harm to one of the Prendevilles. Above all, not to Miss Prendeville.’
Harkin considers this in the light of the letters.
‘Why Miss Prendeville in particular?’
She sighs, and when she speaks it is like a teacher explaining something to a particularly stupid child.
‘On account of the actions she took during the rebellion.’
The older woman looks at him and for a moment it seems he is the one being interrogated, not the other way around.
‘Are you certain he had no involvement in the ambush itself? That he was with you the whole evening?’
She looks from Harkin to Billy, and then back to Harkin. Her look is one of scornful contempt.
‘My son was well regarded by all who knew him,’ she says in a steady voice, as though reading from a prepared speech. ‘I have no idea what people have said about him but, if you’ll excuse me, I won’t answer any more questions of this nature. If there is any news, I will be in my house.’
‘I meant no disrespect . . .’ Harkin begins to say, but she has already got to her feet and is walking from the room.
He turns to Billy, but his friend is leaning back on the long table, a hand shielding his eyes. Harkin turns to Murphy who, as Harkin watches, drinks the glass of whiskey he has been holding in his hand in one long swallow, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘He’ll turn up. A fine young man. You couldn’t help but know it as soon as you looked at him.’
The doorbell jangles from upstairs but Murphy ignores it.
Then, from somewhere upstairs, comes the sound of a long, wailing scream.
CHAPTER 37
B
illy is moving before the scream ends, running towards the narrow staircase that leads up to the dining room. Harkin follows him and they make their way through the house until they find Lord Kilcolgan in his slippers and a moth-eaten cardigan, standing in front of the still open front door. Sir John is with him and their expressions are grave. A red-eyed, sobbing Bridget is holding Sir John’s hat and umbrella, and it seems the weight of them is almost too much for her to bear. None of them pay any attention to the sudden squall of rain that drives in, spattering the marble tiles.
‘Go down to Mrs Driscoll, Bridget,’ Charlie says, walking towards them from the shadowed hall and assessing the situation. ‘I’ll look after Sir John.’
Bridget bobs her head and puts Sir John’s belongings into Charlie’s waiting hands. They listen to her sobbing as she walks quickly away. The others do not speak, waiting until she has left.
‘They’ve found him,’ Lord Kilcolgan says. There is no need for him to add that Sean Driscoll is dead.
‘Where is he?’ Billy asks, his voice washed smooth of any emotion.
‘At the far end of the long strand, towards town.’
Sir John looks directly at Harkin and, for an instant, it occurs to him that the older man might think he has something to do with Driscoll’s death. Billy steps forwards towards the door, but his father blocks his path. This is a side of the man Harkin has not seen before, because he takes hold of Billy’s arms and pins them to his side, speaking to him with an absolute authority.
‘You will not go down to him, Billy. Mr Harkin will oblige us by attending to Sean. You must stay here, Billy. You must promise me this.’
Billy looks shocked by the fierce resolve in his father but, after a moment, he nods. Harkin sees that his friend’s face is wet with tears.
‘I’ll go down with Tom, Billy,’ Charlie says, putting her arms around him. ‘We’ll look after him. There will be a time and a place.’
‘You know it is for the best, Billy,’ Lord Kilcolgan says. ‘Let Harkin handle the police and whoever else is there.’
Billy leans into Charlie’s embrace. He looks over at Harkin.
‘Thank you,’ Billy says in a whisper, composing himself. ‘I will go to my room.’
Harkin watches him walk along the long hall, his shoulders slumped.
‘It seems Driscoll was a member of the IRA,’ Sir John says into the silence. ‘It appears the police discovered this.’ He looks at Harkin for a moment, gauging his reaction. ‘We must presume they believe he was responsible for the ambush. Perhaps for Maud’s murder as well.’
The others look at Sir John and he seems uncomfortable under their gaze.
‘Where is Mrs Driscoll?’ Charlie asks, as if to change an embarrassing subject. ‘She will have to be told.’
‘I could tell her,’ Sir John says, but Kilcolgan responds to this with an impatient shake of his head.
‘I will. It would be best if you were to stay clear of Mrs Driscoll.’ Then when he sees his brother’s look of confusion, he adds in a softer voice, ‘For the moment. You must see it is my responsibility to break the news to her.’
‘She left to go to her cottage,’ Harkin says.
Kilcolgan nods, turning to walk towards the back of the house without further ado. Charlie looks after him, then turns to Harkin.
‘I’ll get a coat and then I’ll be with you,’ she says. ‘I should call Hugo back as well, if I can get through. He was going to come down, but I don’t think there is any point now.’
Harkin finds himself alone with Sir John, who is once again gazing at him with an intensity that is making him feel uncomfortable.
‘I didn’t kill Driscoll,’ Harkin says.
Sir John gives a strange, tight smile that suggests he is unconvinced by the denial. There is something repellent about his misplaced knowingness.
‘Might your colleague have taken matters into his own hands? I am not complaining, by any means.’
‘Nor did Mr Bourke.’
‘You’ve heard about Father Dillon, I take it?’ the older man asks, almost as an aside.
‘Father Dillon?’
‘He hanged himself . . .’ The older man hesitates. ‘Apparently. Last night or this morning. Before eleven o’clock mass, in any event, as that’s when they found him. Did your man speak to him beforehand?’ Again there is an insinuation that Harkin doesn’t much like. ‘You said that he intended to.’
‘No,’ Harkin says, deciding that their encounter with the priest could be described as many things, but there was no speaking involved. ‘But Driscoll did. Last night at nine o’clock.’
Sir John digests this new information, his face turning a little pale.
‘Do you think Driscoll killed him?’
‘He would seem the most likely person. I don’t understand why, though.’
Sir John considers the question.
‘Does it matter? We know he killed Maud. Perhaps it was the war? One hears things about soldiers being unable to adjust to civilian life. Perhaps he went to confess about murdering Maud and became enraged?’
The older man avoids Harkin’s cold stare.
‘Was Driscoll a parishioner at St Ann’s?’ Harkin says.
‘I wouldn’t know.’
Harkin finds that his hands have balled into fists, and when he hears C
harlie’s footsteps approaching, he is grateful for the distraction.
‘I should come down as well,’ Sir John says. ‘To see the body.’
Harkin shakes his head.
‘I would advise you not to. We don’t want anyone in authority looking too closely into you and your activities.’
It is almost as though he can hear the cogs of Sir John’s mind turning. He nods.
‘Perhaps not.’
Charlie joins them, glancing quickly between them.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Quite all right,’ Sir John says. ‘I shall go and see if Billy needs anything.’
Perhaps it is a trick of the light but as Sir John turns away, Harkin catches the echo of another face. It is a momentary image, more of a suggestion than anything, but it gives Harkin pause for thought.
CHAPTER 38
T
he rain is in their faces on the walk down to the long strand, and Harkin and Charlie barely exchange a word. Harkin is surprised to find he carries sadness at another death on his shoulders like a weight. First Maud, Teevan and Cartwright, then Matt Breen, then the two Auxiliaries shot the day before, Father Dillon this morning, and now Driscoll. It’s hard not to regret another life taken, even if Driscoll may still turn out to be responsible for at least some of those deaths. It’s hard also not to question the necessity of the war they are waging, except that the alternative is almost inconceivable. If Irishmen like him fought a war to protect the independence of smaller European nations, it would be strange indeed if, after their victory, that independence did not extend to their own country.
‘A penny for your thoughts.’
He turns to find Charlie looking across at him, her face wet with rain and the same curiosity in her expression he noticed earlier.
‘I’m not sure they’re worth that much.’
‘How did you know about Hugo?’ The question is almost tentative. ‘Or should I say “Mr Tomkins”? He was a little surprised when he found out it was me on the telephone.’
‘Did you tell him it was me that told you?’
She hesitates before answering.
‘He knew. That was perhaps the most surprising part. As though you two have some shared secret.’
Which is not far from the truth. The question is, of course, why Vane is keeping that secret, if indeed he is.
‘How did you know about Hugo?’ she asks once again.
Harkin stops and turns to face her.
‘Does it make any difference? In the greater scheme of things? I’ll be gone from here this evening.’
‘Because you think Sean Driscoll was responsible for my sister’s death?’
‘I think it’s likely.’
She shakes her head, as though bewildered by his folly.
‘What reason do you think Sean could possibly have had to want Maud dead?’
He takes a deep breath.
‘He was having an affair with her. It must have been something to do with that.’
‘Maud? With Sean?’ Her astonishment is clear. Then she begins to laugh. It’s not a happy laugh. ‘He wasn’t having an affair with Maud, you fool. You have the wrong Prendeville.’
It is his turn to be surprised. It must show, because she laughs again.
‘Not me. Do you really not know? After all your years of friendship?’
He looks at her in confusion for a moment, and then realises that he does know. He has always known, but somehow has chosen not to know. The knowledge that there has always been a private version of Billy which his friend has kept from him has never affected their friendship. He has always known that there has been a place apart to which only Billy has held the key, and Harkin has been happy to let him have that place to himself. But now, in this matter, Harkin sees that his unthinking ignorance has been more like stupidity. He has been so busy ignoring Billy’s secret that he’s missed Driscoll’s secret. Charlie watches him and it’s clear she is following his train of thought.
‘So now you see why my father would not allow Billy to come down to see Sean?’
‘I do,’ he says, and he does. In his state of distress, Billy might well have betrayed himself. A question is nagging at him, however. In fact, a lot of questions are nagging at him.
‘Does your Uncle John know about this?’
She considers the question, her brow furrowing into a frown.
‘It’s possible John might not, I suppose. It isn’t something that has ever been discussed, as you might expect. But we knew. Maud, and I, and Father . . .’ She pauses, brushing a slick of wet hair away from her face. ‘I’ve often wondered if it wasn’t one of the reasons why Father took Arthur’s death as hard as he did. The end of the Prendevilles and all that – which is quite a lot of nonsense, really. John could still have a child. He is not old, by any means, and he is both handsome and rich. I often wonder why he has not married again.’
They turn once again towards the beach.
‘If she wasn’t seeing Driscoll, who was she seeing?’
Charlie glances across at him, surprised, but Maud’s pregnancy remains an undeniable fact. Harkin frowns as he thinks through the possibilities.
‘The school friend she went to Paris with?’ he asks. ‘Do you know her?’
‘I’ve never met her. Her name was Emily, I think.’
‘When did they go to France?’
‘In May. Towards the end of the month.’
Which, if Harkin remembers correctly, is around the time the first payment was made for the weapons. Although he had been under the impression that Sir John had been responsible for taking the money to Paris. Whether Emily ever existed, he has no way of knowing at present but Sir John may be able to provide more information about the mysterious school friend.
‘What about Hugo Vane?’
‘If you’re looking for a possible murderer, shouldn’t he have been within a hundred miles of here on the night in question?’
There is, of course, another possibility – and it is one which makes Harkin question almost everything he has uncovered over the last few days. They are passing the gate lodge and Harkin can see that the boarded-up window has been repaired and a column of smoke is snaking up from the chimney. Even the marks left by the bullets seem to have faded into the stonework. In a few weeks there will be no visible sign of Maud’s passing.
‘He’s coming down,’ Charlie says, as though remembering an important piece of information. ‘He’ll be here tonight.’
‘Vane?’
‘Yes.’
They walk on, out through the gates, and Harkin considers Vane’s imminent arrival and what it might mean for him. Then another thought occurs to him.
‘What is the White Lady supposed to look like?’
The question must have been in his mind all along, but it is only now that they are nearly at the beach that it comes out. Charlie considers the question.
‘I’ve never seen her. I only know she is supposed to signify a death in the family. I suppose she must be white and . . . she is supposed to carry a bouquet of flowers.’
‘What kind?’
‘Roses, I think. White roses. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ he says, his thoughts thick as treacle. ‘Only because Billy said he thought he saw her the night Maud died.’
She nods, then appears to remember something.
‘They say you can smell the flowers.’
Harkin swallows, knowing that if the story is true, then another Prendeville is soon to die.
CHAPTER 39
F
at, intermittent raindrops crater the smooth sand beach as they walk towards where several policemen stand, their oilskin capes and helmets slick with rain. In the middle of the group, Harkin sees Dr Hegarty and, beside him, Moira Wilson. She holds an open umbrella so that her father can make notes and Harkin can see, even from this distance, the glimmer of her monocle. On the ground, Sean lies twisted, a darker patch of sand around his body. Inland, above the bea
ch where the coast road runs, men and women have come to watch – a straggling line of featureless black silhouettes in the grey gloom of the rain.
Sergeant Kelly detaches himself from his colleagues and walks towards them.
‘I shouldn’t go any closer, Miss Prendeville. Perhaps Mr Harkin might take you back up to the house? The body will need to come with us into town anyway, for the post mortem.’
Charlie listens to him politely, then shakes her head.
‘Sean was a friend.’ She walks past him.
Harkin sees Moira turn towards her as she approaches and stretch out her free arm to gather her in. Kelly watches her, before turning back to Harkin. There is something close to desperation in the big policeman’s eyes, out of keeping with his forbidding exterior.
‘I told him to be careful. You yourself heard me tell him so only the other morning.’
‘I did.’
‘I knew what he was up to. I told him it would end badly. I wanted him to get out of here. Go to America or anywhere. There was nothing for him here, but he wouldn’t leave his mother, even with her begging him to get out of it as well.’ His voice cracks. ‘I never had a son of my own. Only daughters.’
‘His father would be grateful you watched over him.’
Kelly looks up at him sharply and Harkin wonders what it is that he has said, but the sergeant relaxes and nods.
‘No doubt.’
‘Do you know what happened to him?’
‘Major Abercrombie is what happened to him. He hasn’t a tooth left in his head, nor a finger or a toe that isn’t broken.’
