The Winter Guest

by W. C. Ryan

  There is no outrage at the suggestion from his children. In fact, there is barely any reaction at all.

  ‘Uncle John might buy it,’ Charlie muses. ‘He’s always thought he would have done so much better with it.’

  ‘I doubt if he would now,’ Lord Kilcolgan says. ‘What with Maud’s death and the IRA burning houses like this up and down the county. He would be mad to. If he has any sense, he’ll shut up Ballynan as well. Wouldn’t you say so, Harkin?’

  Harkin tries to think of a sensible response.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he manages.

  Lord Kilcolgan looks surprised that Harkin doesn’t have a firm opinion.

  ‘The fact is, even all John’s money wouldn’t be enough to bring it back to what it was and keep it that way. And even if it did, it could never be the same with the Troubles as they are. There’ll be a new government in Dublin one way or another soon enough, and we’ll see then what can be done. I am not certain, however, that houses like this will serve any purpose in the future, if they ever did. I doubt the new government will make much effort to preserve them – or us. Quite the contrary.’

  It is as though, by saying it out loud, a weight has been taken off Lord Kilcolgan’s shoulders. He manages a smile.

  ‘Anyway, I signed the lease yesterday. We have a month’s forbearance, but the house and its problems now belong to someone else for the next three years and I, for one, am relieved it’s so.’

  There is silence around the table for almost a minute. Harkin wonders who will be the first to break it and what will they say. Eventually Billy taps his plate with his fork.

  ‘You didn’t boil the egg for long enough, Charlie,’ he says, indicating the yellow yolk that has spread across his plate. Charlie looks across at her brother and gives him a half-smile.

  ‘I did my best,’ she says. ‘And that’s all anyone can do.’

  The silence that follows is broken by the rattle of a motor car’s engine coming up the drive. They listen in silence as the car approaches, then comes to a halt. There is a pause and then the noise of the car’s door being closed. Another long pause, during which no one speaks, and then someone rings the doorbell, which gives a rusty jangle. None of them move to answer it. Meanwhile, the motor car starts up again and drives away.

  ‘He’ll find his own way in,’ Lord Kilcolgan says, almost to himself. ‘People generally do. It is a shame, though. I always think it looks better if Murphy answers the door, ideally sober. But often as not he misses his chance these days. Too slow.’

  ‘We can’t leave Murphy to the Auxiliaries,’ Charlie says, as an aside. ‘Nor Mrs Driscoll.’

  ‘Nor Bridget,’ Billy says.

  ‘Particularly not Bridget,’ Charlie agrees.

  They hear the sound of the hall door being opened and then firmly closed, followed by the march of footsteps along the long gallery. A man’s footsteps. Confident. Sure of their place in the world. No one mentions the imminent arrival but Harkin notices that all eyes are fixed on the door through which he must enter. The arrival is what Harkin has been hoping for, but now that the man is about to enter, he experiences a shiver of concern.

  The door opens with the squeal of an unoiled hinge and Hugo Vane enters, barely visible in the gloom that pervades the far end of the room, although his eyes catch what little light there is, and it seems that he is almost amused.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late. The train was delayed. I do hope there’s some supper left – I could eat a horse.’

  CHAPTER 47

  I

  t is no surprise to Harkin that he finds himself, half an hour later, alone with Vane in a small sitting room, with an oil lamp on the low table in front of the armchairs in which they sit. The fire has not been lit and the temperature would be good preparation for an Antarctic expedition; when he exhales he can see his breath hanging there in front of his face like a small cloud. Vane arranged this encounter so smoothly that he is not sure the Prendevilles have even noticed they have left them. Then Harkin corrects himself. The Prendevilles know who Vane is, and if they don’t know who Harkin is, they probably suspect. They will therefore be intensely aware of every interaction between them. Fortunately there is probably a rule of etiquette that applies in this situation; Harkin suspects it’s frowned on if guests shoot one another within the demesne walls. The beach might well be acceptable, however.

  Vane and he regard each other across the low table, and Harkin wonders if the major is similarly uncertain how to begin. Eventually Harkin takes a deep breath, but it is the major who speaks first.

  ‘Well, Harkin.’ Vane seems more relaxed than he should be. ‘You know who I am and I know who you are.’

  ‘I wondered if you might show up with a squad of police.’

  Vane smiles.

  ‘I did consider it, but I think we have a common interest in bringing Maud’s murderer to justice. I take it you have uncovered evidence she was not killed by your comrades?’

  Harkin feels a moment of relief. It seems his gamble that Vane’s attachment to Maud might lead to cooperation will pay off. ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  It’s a fair point.

  ‘She was not.’

  ‘I suspected as much. It does seem as though there has been quite a lot going on down here. Have you been stirring up trouble?’

  ‘I might have been,’ Harkin agrees.

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘I’ve also been very stupid from time to time.’

  ‘I always think awareness of one’s own faults is a sign of wisdom.’

  Thanks to the oil lamp, Harkin can see Vane clearly, even if the walls of the room are barely visible. There is, underneath the charm, an angry grief that bodes well for their conversation.

  ‘Would you like me to tell you who I think murdered Maud?’

  Vane leads forwards and, while it is as if his face is made of stone, his pupils remind Harkin of the blackest opal.

  ‘That,’ Vane says, ‘is something I should like above all things.’

  Harkin could swear that the very walls of the room come closer in anticipation, as though the ghosts of the house have gathered around them, listening in. He shivers.

  Vane’s gaze does not waver from Harkin’s while he tells his story. He tells him where Sean Driscoll was on the night of the killing, and that Driscoll was not the one who told the IRA about Abercrombie’s movements. He explains how, instead, it was a priest whom Abercrombie had under his control who was used to set up an ambush on the major – and how Abercrombie then sent Teevan and Cartwright into it instead, along with Maud. He tells Vane about the report that Teevan wrote about Abercrombie’s activities, and how the men argued at Sir John Prendeville’s card evening. He confirms that the flying column left Maud alive and how the gatekeeper heard a man in stiff riding boots search the car.

  Vane shows no surprise when Harkin hands him the two cigarette butts he has gathered: one from the ambush site that Abercrombie had apparently not visited, and the other dropped by Abercrombie on the long strand. He listens while Harkin tells him how the cigarettes are a Turkish blend sold under the name Péra by a tobacconist on Bond Street, an establishment Harkin, by coincidence, knows from a leave he spent in London five years previously. It is a brand almost certainly unique to the major in this part of the country. Harkin tells Vane about the letters to Maud, and the brand new French automatic pistol, and how Maud, and possibly Sir John, had recently visited Paris. Harkin tells him about Abercrombie’s visit to Moira Wilson’s lodge the night before – when Sir John was one of only a handful who’d known he would spend the night there – and how Sir John’s car had been seen in the town earlier that evening. Finally, he tells him about the the subsequent disappearance and murder of Sean Driscoll and the purported suicide of Father Dillon.

  Through every word, Vane’s gaze remains unemotional and completely focused.

  ‘To sum up,’ Vane says, when Harkin stops speaking, �
��you think Abercrombie murdered Maud.’

  ‘There is another possibility, of course.’

  ‘Sir John?’

  ‘I think he had some involvement anyway – there is a connection between them.’

  Harkin tells Vane about his visit to Sir John earlier in the evening, and Sir John’s departure immediately afterwards in the direction of the town.

  ‘Sir John is right, of course,’ Vane says. ‘It could all be explained away. Why would he kill Maud, though? Or want her killed?’

  ‘She was pregnant. If it had come out, his reputation would have been destroyed.’

  ‘It’s not that. I knew Maud was pregnant,’ Vane says. ‘I would have been the father. We were to marry, although we hadn’t announced anything. It seemed more sensible, given her condition, to do things quietly. However, Sir John had been her lover and those letters almost certainly came from him. I can’t say I was happy when she told me, but I loved her and found I couldn’t blame her. She was not quite well when it began and she had ended it by the time we met. It was in the past for Maud, if not for Sir John.’

  Vane takes a deep breath and produces a cigarette case from his pocket. He hands one over and Harkin sees a slight shake in his fingers.

  ‘Player’s Navy Cut. Not some Bond Street tobacconist’s attempt at a Turkish blend.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Jealousy is, therefore, one possibility,’ Vane says, through a cloud of smoke. ‘Although I’m curious about these papers Moira Wilson said she and John argued about.’ Harkin detects a precision in Vane’s choice of words that implies some knowledge of the papers in question. ‘Do you have any idea what they might have been?’

  This is the point where Harkin has to risk betraying his cause, even if he thinks it has been betrayed already.

  ‘Am I right in thinking you are aware of some political business Maud was involved in with Sir John.’

  Vane takes a moment to reply.

  ‘What we say here must be between us, as friends of Maud. What I tell you must not be repeated to your colleagues – although it seems some details are already known to them. In the same way, I will not pass on the information you give me. Both of us would suffer if it were thought we had conspired together on intelligence matters. It is bad enough we have shared information about Maud’s murder.’

  Harkin nods slowly.

  ‘I think we are in agreement.’

  ‘Good.’ Vane allows a trail of cigarette smoke to sneak out of the corner of his mouth. ‘If you are talking about the arms shipment Sir John claims to be arranging for your organisation . . . then, yes, it is known about.’

  ‘Did you tell Maud?’

  ‘Yes. She was in great danger, from both sides.’

  ‘Might she have been confronting Sir John?’

  There is something like pain in the major’s expression for a moment, then he nods.

  ‘I think it is very possible. You were right to suspect Sir John accompanied Maud to Paris in May of last year.’ He hesitates, then continues. ‘Some of this I have only become aware of quite recently. It was, for reasons you will understand, restricted to only those who had to know. They were not alone on their journey. We make it a practice to keep an eye on known rebels, even if they do not appear to be active. As a result, it was discovered that Sir John and Maud met with an American arms dealer – a matter of interest to us, as you can imagine. It was also noticed that Sir John and Maud were . . . how shall I put it . . . intimate. Once confronted with the evidence, Sir John was in our pocket and the arms shipment became a means for us to inflict damage on the IRA. Once I became aware of Sir John’s situation, I told Maud most of this and the intention was to extricate her from the mess. However, perhaps she lost patience.’

  Some of this is information Harkin had guessed at, but much is new. He takes his time considering it before answering.

  ‘One thing bothers me . . . If Sir John was at risk of exposure, why did he ask for someone like me to be sent down to dig into Maud’s murder? How does that make sense?’

  ‘An excellent question. It is possible he intended to cause some dissension in your ranks, but I wonder if he genuinely believed the column killed Maud.’

  ‘If Abercrombie arranged the ambush, then he could as easily have been searching for whatever papers Maud argued with Sir John about as for Teevan’s report.’

  ‘Except that he seems not to have known she would be in the car.’

  Harkin considers this, trying to unravel the threads of possibility and probability.

  ‘Maud’s being present may have been a surprise, but if he thought Maud might warn the IRA about the shipment, then the killing may have been opportunistic. I doubt Sir John would have wanted her dead, however, so perhaps Abercrombie didn’t tell him he was the one responsible.’

  ‘It’s possible. Only Abercrombie can tell us for certain. Which brings us back to this evening. What will Abercrombie do, do we think?’

  Harkin shrugs.

  ‘I think he’ll come here tonight to retrieve the report and kill me. Or he’ll try to, at least.’

  ‘Given you are an IRA intelligence officer, I suppose I should let him.’

  ‘That would be your choice to make.’ Harkin wonders whether he should reach for the small pistol he still carries in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Does Abercrombie know you are a rebel?’

  Harkin feels his frown as a tightness on his forehead.

  ‘That’s the strange thing. I don’t think he does. Or, at least, I don’t think he knew this afternoon, and certainly not last night, given I am still breathing.’

  ‘Why do you think Sir John didn’t tell him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps because I used to be his secretary when he was an MP? It’s a question I’ve asked myself as well.’

  Vane exhales another stream of smoke.

  ‘I can clear up one matter. The small pistol you found is not connected with the murder. I gave it to Maud. If she was killed with a similar pistol, it’s a coincidence, nothing more.’

  In the silence that follows, the sound of the telephone’s bell can be heard from the long gallery. They exchange a glance.

  ‘I am not sure,’ Vane says, ‘that Abercrombie will be a predictable opponent. You should go and see what he has to say.’

  Harkin leaves Vane sitting in his armchair and exits the room, telling Charlie Prendeville, when he sees her coming out of the drawing room, that it is for him. The conversation, when he picks up the apparatus, is brief and brutal, although because of the shared exchange, the brutality is masked.

  ‘Harkin?’

  He recognises Abercrombie’s clipped tones.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m with Sir John Prendeville at Ballynan House. Will you join us for a nightcap? Mrs Wilson is here with us. I’m sure we would all enjoy your company. It seems she has grown quite attached to you in recent days.’

  Harkin finds that he is unable to speak at first. But when he does, his voice sounds far calmer than he feels.

  ‘Of course, I shall walk over.’

  ‘Excellent. No later than an hour, please, or we shall be most offended. And you can bring that document you were discussing with Sir John. I should be grateful for that.’

  CHAPTER 48

  H

  arkin’s concern must show when he comes out into the hall, because Vane holds up the oil lamp he is carrying to examine him.

  ‘I take it that was not good news,’ Vane murmurs.

  ‘He is over at Ballynan with Sir John. Moira Wilson is with him.’

  Vane considers this information, frowning.

  ‘Do you think Sir John would allow harm to come to her?’

  ‘Do you think Sir John has any control over Abercrombie?’

  Vane’s frown deepens still further. They are keeping their voices low so as not to be overheard, and it is as though the house is holding its breath so as to better listen.

  ‘No, but what can he do? Ki
ll her? She’s an officer’s widow, a family friend of the Prendevilles.’

  ‘He could leave her at the side of the road with a sign around her neck saying she was a British informer. Or she could just disappear. The RIC might investigate but, down here, Abercrombie is the RIC, at least until a new district inspector arrives. By then there will be ten more reprisals and ambushes that need investigating and she’ll have been forgotten.’

  ‘And if I call out the police or army, the chances are one of his men will warn him.’

  They regard each other glumly for a moment, but the beginnings of a plan are forming in Harkin’s mind.

  ‘He probably doesn’t know that you are here.’

  He examines Vane in the glow of the oil lamp. The major is as inscrutable as ever, but Harkin would be surprised if he is not coming to the same conclusion about the necessity for immediate action.

  ‘Well, Major Vane. I intend to make my way over to Ballynan House and address the matter directly. The question is, what will you be doing?’

  Vane considers the question, the curve of a smile shaping his thin lips.

  ‘I always enjoy a walk after dinner, when the opportunity arises.’

  While Vane goes up to his room to fetch a coat, Harkin walks slowly towards the entrance hall. Charlie Prendeville is waiting, a candlelit face in the gloom, her eyes dark shadows. He wonders if she can have heard any of their conversation. The house is so quiet that noise can travel surprising distances.

  ‘Who was it on the telephone?’ she asks, her question low and urgent. She holds herself like a runner at the start of a race, all angles and tension.

  She might say the same about him, he thinks, aware of the suppressed adrenaline that is coursing through his body.

  ‘No one in particular,’ he says. ‘But Vane and I intend to walk down to the beach before bed.’

  He can hear Vane coming down one of the smaller staircases and Charlie’s questioning eyes move in that direction.

  ‘Is something going on?’ Her voice seems to rise in volume. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Harkin replies. ‘We’ll be back soon.’