The Winter Guest

by W. C. Ryan

  ‘Quite a lot,’ Harkin says, drawing out the words. ‘In fact, one of the few things I am certain of is that Sean Driscoll did not kill Maud. Nor, as it happens, was he responsible for the arranging of the ambush.’

  Sir John’s mouth opens and then closes.

  ‘But the letters . . .’ he says, after a moment. ‘Maud’s pregnancy. The timings of the evening. His murder of Father Dillon. It certainly seems conclusive to me.’

  Harkin allows the contempt he feels for the man to seep into his smile.

  ‘No,’ he says, once again drawing out the word. ‘Shall we start with the letters? Letters which you – also a Sean when it suits you to be a little more Irish than usual – claim were written by Driscoll. Except that they weren’t. I presume that’s why you removed them from their hiding place in Maud’s bedroom earlier today. When you said you were going to comfort Billy. Only you never did comfort Billy.’

  Harkin can see how Sir John hesitates, no doubt wondering whether to lie about taking them, before eventually deciding to acknowledge the act.

  ‘I took them to protect Maud’s reputation. I would have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘Maud’s reputation? Or yours? If the letters came from you rather than Sean Driscoll, then I can see how their becoming public knowledge wouldn’t exactly enhance your reputation. I know the disgust I feel for you, a man I once respected, taking advantage of his vulnerable niece in the way you seem to have attempted and most likely succeeded, is profound.’

  There is something plaintive in Sir John’s attempt at outrage.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was her uncle. I’ve known her since she was a child. I would never have sent her letters of that nature.’

  Harkin leans forwards, catching Sir John’s gaze once again and holding it. Then he turns to pick up the half-written letter from the desk and holds it out to him.

  ‘Is this your handwriting?’

  Sir John nods as he takes it, his face almost white. Harkin takes the letter Mrs Driscoll gave him from his inside pocket and holds it out so that Sir John can examine it.

  ‘This is Sean Driscoll’s handwriting. It bears no resemblance to the handwriting in the letters Maud received. Your handwriting, on the other hand, is identical.’

  ‘Your memory is defective. The letters are in his handwriting.’

  Harkin smiles. There is a thin sheen of sweat on Sir John’s forehead and his mouth is slightly open, revealing clenched yellow teeth. It looks more like a dog’s snarl than the perplexed smile he presumes Sir John intends.

  ‘Shall we do a comparison?’

  Sir John opens his mouth to answer but Harkin interrupts.

  ‘Ah, but no, you’ll have burned them, won’t you? As soon as you scuttled back here from Kilcolgan. Or at least, that’s what you’d say in a court of law, isn’t it?’ He imitates Sir John. ‘Mr Harkin, a decorated war veteran and a man I hold in the highest regard, has been subject to the psychological strains of prolonged war service. I can only suspect this has led to his memory being at fault in this matter.’

  ‘Tom,’ Sir John says, gravely, ‘I didn’t write those letters. Whatever you may think, Sean Driscoll wrote them. I promise you this. Naturally I deny having written them because I didn’t write them.’

  ‘Which brings me to the next item of evidence.’

  Harkin produces Maud’s automatic pistol. He watches Sir John’s eyes grow wide as he finds himself staring down the barrel of the little weapon before Harkin shifts his hold so that the gun sits flat in the palm of his hand.

  ‘You recognise this little beauty, do you? It’s a four-bullet French pocket automatic, an unusual weapon that fires a .25 calibre bullet. Identical, as it happens, to the one that was taken from Maud’s skull.’

  ‘I’m not sure what your point is, but I have never seen this gun before.’

  ‘That’s strange, because I found it in Maud’s desk alongside the letters you wrote. I wondered if she associated the gun with the letters, because they came from the same person, which is why she kept them together. I mentioned it’s French, didn’t I? And that it was manufactured last year? You couldn’t buy this in Ireland, that’s for certain – not these days. But you were in Paris last May for the early negotiations of the shipment. Of course, by complete coincidence, so was Maud. Am I wrong?’

  Harkin’s assertion about Sir John having been in Paris at the same time as Maud was as much a guess as anything but Sir John’s slight hesitation is all the confirmation he needs. By the time Sir John gathers himself sufficiently to deny the accusation, it is too late.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest but this is all nonsense.’

  Harkin doesn’t even bother answering.

  ‘So we have your love letters and your joint trip to Paris. And then we have Maud’s pregnancy, which you are so keen to suppress any public knowledge of. You would have me believe the child must have been Driscoll’s, but there are some practical reasons why that is very unlikely. The most important of which is that Sean Driscoll was homosexual.’

  Harkin allows himself another cold smile. Indeed, there is a pleasure to be had in watching Sir John squirm.

  ‘You’ll remember that the identification of Driscoll as the father of Maud’s unborn child was entirely based on him being the author of the missing letters. Of course, if the letters were written by you, that puts a very different perspective on the business.’

  If possible, Sir John becomes even paler, but he seems to gather his strength, perhaps believing that if this is all Harkin has to offer, then he is safe.

  ‘If you persist with this insane series of allegations, I will have to contact your superior.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re thinking about the shipment and how important you are to us strategically.’ Harkin sounds almost bored, as if he has been reminded of a not very good joke. ‘However, our people strongly suspect the arms shipment is known about by the authorities. Where does that leave you, Sir John? I would say it leaves you in a very difficult position. What with you being such good friends with Major Abercrombie. The same Major Abercrombie who, lest we forget, is running around the countryside murdering anyone he feels like, including one Sean Driscoll. A murder, some might think, that suited you very well.’

  When Sir John speaks, he speaks quietly, a shard of ice in each word, and Harkin has to admit he is very nearly convincing.

  ‘Your superior is aware of my contact with Abercrombie. It has always been considered essential that I maintain the public persona of a committed loyalist. As for your suggestions about the authorities being aware of the shipment, I suspect this is another figment of your imagination. Finally, the idea I had anything to do with the murder of Sean Driscoll is preposterous and deeply offensive. I demand you withdraw it.’

  Harkin regards Sir John calmly, then shrugs.

  ‘Perhaps the boss did suggest you keep in contact with Abercrombie . . .’ Harkin pauses, conscious that his next piece of information must be let slip with complete precision. ‘Although, having read Teevan’s report on the man, you would think anyone in their right mind would stay well clear of him.’

  Sir John can’t help himself.

  ‘What report is this?’

  ‘Teevan wrote a report for the Commissioner of the RIC concerning Abercrombie’s many criminal acts. There was a copy in Maud’s desk. Teevan must have given it to her for safekeeping.’

  Perhaps Sir John has forgotten he is playing the part of affronted innocent, because there is no hint of his earlier outrage.

  ‘And you have this report in your possession?’

  ‘Back at Kilcolgan. I’ll take it with me to Dublin in the morning. I’m sure the boss will have use for it.’

  Sir John considers this possibility for a moment and Harkin sees the first hint of suspicion.

  ‘You’ve never mentioned this report before. Nor indeed that ridiculous pistol.’

  ‘Why would I? I was only ordered to engage with you on the ma
tter of Maud’s death.’

  Sir John looks momentarily bewildered but he seems to shake himself out of it. He remembers his role and Harkin is pleased to see it.

  ‘All of this is mere supposition and coincidence. It is absolute nonsense and deeply offensive. As for the report, it is none of my affair.’

  Harkin nods, as though agreeing with Sir John.

  ‘What about this for another coincidence?’ he says, almost as an afterthought. ‘Your car was seen in town last night at the same time Sean Driscoll went missing and Father Dillon was murdered. Obviously, if I’d questioned Driscoll about the letters, he would likely have been able to establish his innocence and to indicate their real author, so it’s curious he was murdered so soon after their discovery. Likewise, Father Dillon might well have revealed, under the pressure I would have been forced to apply, the identity of the source whose information led to the ambush. The fact that both of them were put beyond my reach, shortly after you were informed we would be questioning them, is suspicious. In any event, it will be up to the boss to decide what to do next.’

  Sir John makes as though to speak but Harkin stands, buttoning his coat.

  ‘Good evening to you, Sir John. No need to see me out, I know the way.’

  At the door Harkin turns back. He feels a momentary regret, but suppresses it.

  ‘There is something else you should know,’ he says. ‘Sean Driscoll was your son. There never was a Mr Driscoll. His mother, another vulnerable young woman you took advantage of, hid the date of his birth so you wouldn’t suspect. I wonder what people will think if that information becomes common knowledge. Given the circumstances.’

  Sir John’s expression is one of blank amazement, but Harkin takes no pleasure from it – rather, a sense of guilt. He turns on his heel and makes his way quickly through the empty house, leaving behind him only the echo of his footsteps.

  Bourke is waiting in the car.

  ‘Well?’ he says, starting the engine.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Harkin says, allowing himself to relax at last. ‘But I think so.’

  *

  About half a mile along the road towards Kilcolgan, Bourke reverses the car into a narrow boreen from where it can’t be seen from the road but they, on the other hand, can see who comes and goes with ease.

  ‘We could be waiting here all night.’

  ‘Not that long, I shouldn’t think.’

  They sit in companionable silence, smoking. Sure enough, ten minutes later the sound of a motor car is heard from the direction of Ballynan, being driven at speed. A short time afterwards there is the flash of its lights as it drives past their hiding spot.

  ‘I couldn’t make it out,’ Bourke says. ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  ‘Certain of it.’

  They finish their cigarettes and then Bourke drives Harkin to Kilcolgan.

  CHAPTER 46

  H

  arkin is on time for dinner, as it turns out, although he no sooner sets foot inside the house than Charlie, who seems to have been waiting for him, ushers him towards the dining room.

  ‘I need someone to open the wine. You do know how, don’t you?’ she says, taking his trench coat and hanging it on a hook beside the hall door.

  ‘I think I remember.’

  Seeing that Harkin is still wearing his hat, she takes it and places it on a side table. She nods down the long, dark hall in the direction of the dining room.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she says, gesturing with the oil lamp she is carrying, and marches him briskly along to their destination. Their progress is interrupted by the jangle of the telephone. Charlie turns to look at Harkin.

  ‘Could you answer?’

  ‘Of course,’ Harkin says and finds his way, in the dark, to the small telephone room. He lifts the ear piece and wonders, for a moment, what to say.

  ‘Kilcolgan House?’ he says, after a moment’s indecision.

  ‘Harkin?’ Dr Hegarty’s voice is gruff.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is as you thought. If you need to know more, you’ll have to come to see me. I can’t talk about the matter over the telephone.’

  ‘Of course, I understand.’ He would say goodbye, but there is a click as the doctor disconnects.

  Harkin makes his way to the dining room, with only the glow of light from under its door to guide him. The long table has been laid, at one end, for five, leaving the rest of the table empty. Ten minutes later, with the wine opened and the fire tended to, there are only four seated at their places: Harkin, Charlie, Billy and Lord Kilcolgan.

  The room is lit by a scattering of candles, predominately clustered at the end of the table where they are sitting, and two oil lamps on the side table on which is arranged a buffet of sorts. Despite Harkin’s fire, the room retains its customary chill and Harkin regrets not having worn an extra vest. He finds that he is shivering intermittently but it occurs to him that this might not be due solely to the temperature. The day, after all, has been a bewildering series of events and emotions, with death and fear in plentiful supply, not to mention the numerous revelations and his own confusion. Now, for a moment or two, he is standing aside from the momentum of it all. Perhaps this is why he feels a wave of exhaustion sweep through him. He places his knife and fork back on the table when they rattle briefly on his plate. He breathes deeply for a while, until he regains some sort of composure. He looks up to find that the others are watching him. He smiles.

  ‘Just a chill. I’m sure it will pass.’

  The meal is made up of whatever Charlie has been able to throw together. Harkin looks at his plate of cold ham, boiled potatoes still in their skins, and boiled eggs still in their shells. He has eaten far, far worse and the wine, as it happens, is superlative. A 1900 Château Latour that is as good as anything Harkin has ever drunk.

  ‘I found it in the cellar, an entire case of it,’ Charlie is saying, before adding, with some sympathy, ‘Murphy can’t have known it was there.’

  ‘Where is Murphy?’ Lord Kilcolgan asks, looking towards the kitchen staircase. He has had to help himself from the side table and appears to be still affected by the novel experience.

  ‘He is . . .’ Charlie pauses while she considers how to continue. Eventually she decides on a suitable word. ‘Incapacitated.’

  ‘A shame,’ Kilcolgan says, his brooding air of discontent broken for an instant by the briefest of smiles. ‘And Bridget?’

  ‘Also incapacitated,’ she says, before adding, after a moment’s thought, ‘Although in her case, solely by grief.’

  ‘I see.’

  Kilcolgan’s voice is low, his eyes momentarily pained. He looks around the table, as though searching for a change of subject.

  ‘Well, Harkin? Is your investigation concluded?’ he says, before seeming to remember who Harkin’s investigation concerned. Even in the half-light, it is clear that he wishes he could withdraw the words.

  Harkin, however, is barely listening. The room, lit as it is solely by candles and oil lamps, appears distorted. The faces of the living Prendevilles, sitting around him, and the dead Prendevilles, looking down from the paintings that line the walls, seem to crowd in on him. Something about the sensation of being surrounded in this way triggers a vivid recollection of a dugout in France he entered after a shell exploded outside its entrance. He remembers how his torch played around the underground space, over the cluster of men sitting around on empty ammunition boxes, hunched forwards so that their heads are almost touching the mess tins they had placed on the empty wooden wire reel they used as a table. Everything in the dugout had been covered by a thin layer of chalk dust so that the soldiers, frozen in place, seemed like pale sculptures. The torch beam moved around, as though of its own accord, to other soldiers looking down at the diners from the bunks that lined the wall. One of them was still smiling, a broken tooth black in his open mouth. The soldiers were all dead, killed by the concussion wave from the explosion. Yet they had seemed so alive, even though Harkin could smell
the rot already.

  The image is so clear that his head jerks back, his nostrils inhaling sharply, and for a moment Harkin is almost overwhelmed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ a voice asks. He cannot tell who it belongs to.

  ‘Quite all right,’ Harkin says, feeling as though he is coming up for air. He looks around and sees the faces of the living Prendevilles once again – orange half-moons in the candlelight, their features indicated by deep shadows. ‘I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else. What was it you asked?’

  Kilcolgan looks at him, his mouth turned down.

  ‘I was asking whether your inquiry was concluded, but it really isn’t important.’

  Harkin looks at Lord Kilcolgan, his brain slowly catching up.

  ‘No,’ he says, still finding it hard to breathe. ‘Not quite. I think it will conclude tomorrow. Or perhaps tonight.’

  Perhaps the Prendevilles are too polite to ask what he means, or perhaps they are worried about what he might say.

  ‘Very good,’ Lord Kilcolgan says, eventually, and makes it sound like a full stop.

  ‘Father,’ Billy says, when the silence continues, ‘I think I should go to Dublin for a while. Tom says I can stay with him until I find my feet. The change would do me good.’

  Harkin watches as Charlie’s eyes turn first to her father and then to Harkin. There is a half-suppressed desperation in her expression, perhaps at the thought of being left in the house on her own. Kilcolgan looks from his son to his daughter, and then back again. He sniffs.

  ‘We will all be leaving,’ Kilcolgan says, matter-of-factly. ‘At least for a while.’

  His children’s expressions are hard to read in the candlelight. Lord Kilcolgan addresses some cold ham on his plate, ignoring them.

  ‘The government have made another offer to rent the house from us. Greater than before. More money for a year than we’d get if we sold the place, lock, stock and barrel. That’s if anyone would even buy it, the way things are. What’s more, they’ll insure it against damage and loss and put it back in proper order afterwards.’