The Winter Guest

by W. C. Ryan

  Lord Kilcolgan appears at the door of the drawing room, a silhouette against the faint light that comes from within. When he speaks his voice is calm, but firm.

  ‘Come in to us, Charlie. Leave our guests to their walk.’

  Harkin can see Billy standing behind his father, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette in his mouth. Even in the darkness, Harkin is aware that his friend is observing the scene with a focused intensity.

  ‘Leave them to their business, Charlie,’ Billy says, when his sister turns towards them.

  The warning is clear. For a moment Harkin finds Billy’s detachment more than a little surprising, although he is glad to not involve him. After all, all of this business is Prendeville business. Charlie stands aside, her dark eyes coming into focus as he passes her. There is fear there, but not for herself.

  For him, he thinks.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ he says in an attempt to reassure her. But the words sound false.

  Outside the sky is clear, a crescent of moon visible to the west. The broad swathe of the Milky Way snakes across the sky, illuminating the home meadow which shines silver with the remnants of the earlier rain. There is a strange silence that is broken only by the sound of the gravel underfoot.

  ‘Are you armed?’ he asks Vane.

  ‘As it happens, I am.’ Vane opens his coat to show Harkin an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster.

  Harkin holds up his arm and waves towards the trees and a familiar figure comes out from under the overhanging branches, walking towards them across the home meadow.

  ‘Would that be your colleague, Mr Bourke?’

  ‘The very same. If we travel some of the way in his motor car, we can be there more quickly than Abercrombie might expect. Which may give us an advantage.’

  They go out to meet Bourke, and Vincent looks quizzically at them when he approaches.

  ‘Should I be worried?’ he says, indicating Vane.

  ‘Any other evening,’ Harkin says. ‘But not tonight. Have you your picks with you, Vincent?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Harkin says.

  *

  They drive without lights, coasting the last part of the journey and parking the car on the Kilcolgan side of the rise in the road, on the other side of which Ballynan is located. The plan, such as it is, has been agreed on the short drive. As soon as the car is parked, Vane and Bourke set off through the fields to approach the house along the coast, leaving Harkin to come at the house from the road, where he will be expected. Bourke hangs back for a moment before he leaves.

  ‘Take as much time as you can,’ he says in a whisper. ‘It may take us a while to get there along the coast. We’ll be as quick as we’re able.’

  ‘I’m hoping he won’t shoot me straight away. There will be some chat first. He’s going to want to know where his report is, for a start. Then he’ll shoot me.’

  Bourke raises his eyebrows.

  ‘So don’t dawdle,’ Harkin says. ‘And keep an eye on him.’

  Bourke looks after the major, and spits on the ground.

  ‘I’ll be keeping two eyes on him.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a while, then.’

  Harkin watches as the two men make their way briskly towards the line of gorse bushes that mark the edge of the low cliffs. They soon disappear out of sight. Harkin checks his watch. He is to give them ten minutes to get into position and then begin his own approach. He stands there, looking up at the stars, so numerous in the clear, rain-washed night that the whole sky seems to shine. His insignificance in the vastness of the universe seems strangely reassuring, given he is waiting to walk over the hill to his possible death. It occurs to him that in a normal life – the life that had been mapped out for him before the war – he might never have experienced this heightened awareness of his own physical presence, nor the awareness of its fragility. It is as though, at times like this, his senses attempt to cram as much as possible in to his last moments, if that is what they are to be.

  If, God willing, he survives until the morning, he promises himself a life of only mild excitement.

  Harkin’s train of thought is broken by a noise from the direction of Kilcolgan. He turns to face in that direction, listening, but whatever it is he has heard, it is not repeated. He tries to recreate the noise in his mind; it sounded like the low, irregular beat of a drum, even though it only lasted a few seconds. He is almost convinced it is his imagination, heightened by the situation he is in. He looks down at Moira Wilson’s lodge and wonders if the memsahibs are awake, waiting for her return. Then he remembers the warmth of Moira’s body against his and finds that he is blinking a stray tear from his eye. Without another thought, he turns and begins to walk slowly across the crest of the small hill.

  *

  The lights are still blazing at Ballynan, and the house reminds him of an ocean liner, placed as it is against the backdrop of the bay. Harkin is surprised he is so calm. His fingers, for a change, barely shake when he decides to have a last cigarette to keep him company on the short distance that is left to his destination. He takes the cigarette case that Maud gave him in a happier time from his breast pocket, removing two cigarettes. He takes a moment to look at the inscription on the inside, the one he never looks at these days.

  I will always be with you. M.P.

  He thinks back to the events of the last few days and wonders if it might be true – that Maud is walking with him towards the house in which a man waits to kill him. He hopes so.

  He replaces the case where he found it and lights one of the cigarettes. Soon he is inhaling smoke. He stands for a moment, wondering if the servants might come back from the town and interrupt them, but decides it is too early for them yet. He sighs. If Harkin has one regret, it’s that he didn’t anticipate that the major would think to use Moira.

  He can see Sir John’s blue Daimler, but no other cars – which is, he thinks, a good sign. If there had been another car, it might have meant Abercrombie had brought some of his own men, presumably just as implicated as he is by Teevan’s report. Harkin walks slowly towards the entrance portico, without rushing, becoming aware that the silhouette of a man is watching his progress from one of the ground-floor windows. For a moment, he thinks he hears that strange drumming noise from the direction of Kilcolgan, only closer now, but he doesn’t stop to listen. He recognises the silhouette as belonging to Abercrombie, and feels a surge that is almost electric course through his body. He checks himself, conscious that he should appear calm and relaxed when they meet; his breathing is short but in control. His feet have not faltered in their rhythm and are still moving forwards – the left one, then the right one. He feels an ill-defined nausea, but nothing that he can’t manage. Then he is at the door and he uses the butt of his first cigarette to light the second, takes a deep breath and presses the bell.

  Abercrombie opens the door carefully, using it as a shield and covering Harkin with what looks like a Colt automatic pistol.

  ‘Mr Harkin. Good of you to come.’ The major scans the surroundings behind Harkin. ‘And apparently alone. Very satisfactory. We don’t want the whole world knowing our business, do we?’

  ‘That’s not very patriotic,’ Harkin says, nodding towards the Colt. ‘I would have thought you would be the type of man to buy Empire goods only.’

  Abercrombie smiles and opens the door a little further, waving Harkin in.

  ‘Gallows humour. Anyway, the Colt is an excellent weapon and excellence is always to be admired and sought after. Most importantly, it does an awful lot of damage at close range. As you may well find out should we not come to a satisfactory arrangement. Come in and turn to face the wall.’

  Harkin does as he’s told and stands there, his hands above him while Abercrombie frisks him quickly and thoroughly, pocketing Maud’s small automatic without comment.

  ‘Please,’ Abercrombie says, standing back and gesturing towards the library. ‘The others are waiting for you.’
>
  It is the third time in the last few days that Harkin finds himself in Sir John’s library and he hopes it will be the last, before it occurs to him there is a good chance it will be his last time in any room. The room is unchanged, except that a pale Sir John Prendeville, carrying a chrome-plated revolver as though it is infected, is standing beside the desk where Harkin stood before, while Moira sits in a hard-backed, wooden chair in front of him. Sir John looks up at Harkin as he enters and he shakes his head slowly, as though in disbelief that it should have come to this.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Harkin asks Moira, and is rewarded with a quick smile.

  ‘I’m fine. The chair is not the most comfortable, I have to say. I am sure other kidnappers are more considerate to their victims.’ She turns to examine Sir John with contempt. ‘Sir John feels dreadful about everything, however, and that is making me feel much better.’

  ‘Sir John Prendeville,’ Harkin says. ‘The champion of Home Rule, one of the original founders of the Irish Volunteers . . . and a British spy.’

  Sir John says nothing, although it seems to Harkin that he becomes paler still.

  ‘He is a very good spy,’ Abercrombie says, his tone amused. ‘Malleable, which is always a useful quality from an intelligence point of view.’

  Harkin’s attention is on Moira, however, who has turned to look at him intently, as though searching for a sign from him. He notices she is not wearing her monocle and, for some strange reason, it is that more than anything which causes him alarm. Harkin reminds himself he has to keep this conversation going for as long as possible if the others are to reach them in time.

  ‘He must have been very malleable to murder his own niece.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Maud,’ Sir John says, his voice hoarse. ‘I had nothing to do with her death.’

  Harkin turns back to Abercrombie, who seems amused by the turn in the conversation.

  ‘Not directly, perhaps,’ the major says, shrugging. ‘Direct responsibility lay with me. Although when he told me she knew he was working for us, he should have known I would have to deal with the matter, one way or another.’

  Harkin raises an eyebrow.

  ‘You were the one who set up the ambush, through Father Dillon?’

  Abercrombie smiles, as though impressed. ‘Bravo. You have been busy, haven’t you? The original intention was to be waiting with my men for the rebels, but then I changed my mind.’

  ‘Why?’ Harkin still finds it hard to believe that the major could have arranged the execution of not only Teevan, but his old comrade Cartwright.

  ‘Why not? Teevan was weak, and a constant hindrance in our battle with the local rebels. Removing him has removed that hindrance. It was unfortunate about Cartwright, but you’ll know that leadership in war requires making decisions that cost men their lives. Maud Prendeville was an unexpected addition to the mix. I didn’t know she would be in the motor car.’

  ‘So it wasn’t to do with the report he wrote?’ Harkin is more than a little sceptical.

  ‘There was that, too,’ Abercrombie admits, with a smile that seems almost abashed. ‘You’ve read it, I take it, so you’ll understand why I needed to prevent it being passed on. My methods may not be . . . how shall I put it? . . . palatable – but they are effective. You fight fire with fire, bullets with bullets, terror with terror. A war is not the time to be talking about legalities, even if I doubt the Commissioner would agree with me entirely on this point.’

  ‘You think you’re winning this war?’

  Abercrombie considers the question before shrugging.

  ‘I have no intention of losing it, that’s for certain. However, as you suspect, my primary intention was to recover Teevan’s report from the car. To my surprise, I couldn’t find it on his person, even though he had shown it to me earlier in the evening. Then I found it in Miss Prendeville’s evening bag. I was confused by that, but now I realise, thanks to your revealing the existence of another copy, that he must have been working with her to make it public.’

  ‘And you felt you had to kill her?’

  Harkin’s anger causes a vein in his forehead to pulse. He sees Moira give him a warning look.

  ‘I hadn’t expected her to be in the car. My understanding was that she would be staying the night here. On the other hand, I knew this fool –’ Abercrombie indicates Sir John with a dismissive inclination of his head – ‘had given her an opportunity to unravel all the time and effort we had put into the arms shipment deception, when we were on the point of pulling off a great coup. I was considering what to do when she woke up while I was retrieving the report. She recognised me and so I shot her.’ Abercrombie shrugs, a slight hint of regret apparent in the gesture. ‘It was unfortunate, but I think I can live with the guilt.’

  Harkin turns his gaze to Sir John.

  ‘Was that what you were arguing about, earlier in the evening?’

  Sir John looks at Moira, as though deducing who Harkin’s source must have been. Harkin, meanwhile, is straining to listen to any sounds of approach from outside the room, hoping against hope that Vane and Bourke will arrive in time.

  ‘I overheard you,’ she says, with a hint of defiance. ‘If I’d known what you were about, I’d have come in and spat in your face.’

  Sir John looks as though he would like to be sick. It takes him a moment to gather himself. Time enough for Harkin to realise that Sir John and Abercrombie won’t allow Moira to live and that her death will be his responsibility.

  ‘She confronted me about my relationship with Abercrombie. She had found some notes from the major in my desk. I shouldn’t have kept them. I never intended for her to be caught up in the whole mess. It was one of my conditions for agreeing to co-operate. I was being blackmailed. I had no choice.’

  ‘Because your reputation needed to be protected? Did you think about Maud’s reputation when you seduced her?’

  Moira looks at Harkin, her shock readily apparent. When he nods his confirmation, she turns to Sir John.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Sir John says, almost desperate. ‘We grew close when Arthur was dying. One thing led to another. It was her reputation I was hoping to preserve, not mine.’

  Moira shakes her head in angry disbelief and gives a low moan somewhere between pain and anger.

  ‘You seduced her when she was at her lowest ebb and now she’s dead and you’re alive,’ Harkin says. ‘And then you involved me.’

  His contempt is real enough but he also wants to ensure he has their full attention. He is almost certain he’s heard the slightest sound of a door being opened at the rear of the house. Sir John returns his gaze and it is as though the man is in physical pain.

  ‘I didn’t know he was responsible,’ he says, gesturing towards Abercrombie with his pistol. ‘I thought Egan’s column had killed her and I wanted them punished. I didn’t even know you would be sent down, and I didn’t tell him anything about you. Not until now, at least.’

  ‘When you chose your reputation over my life.’

  Abercrombie smiles, although there isn’t much humour in it.

  ‘It was only when you found his letters to Miss Prendeville that he came looking for my assistance. Of course, I wasn’t averse to dealing with Driscoll in the way he suggested and I thought, since the priest was showing some backbone after Miss Prendeville’s death, that I could deal with him as well. Just in case. My intention was to make it look as though Driscoll had killed him and made a clumsy effort to make it appear like a suicide but you, rather unhelpfully, took the appointment book which meant there was nothing to link him to the death. So I allowed the fabricated suicide to stand.’

  ‘And when did he tell you about me?’

  ‘That you are an IRA intelligence officer? Only this evening. It does seem ironic the IRA were asked to investigate a killing carried out by a policeman. Quite amusing. For me, at least.’

  Sir John’s glum expression tells Harkin all he needs to know. Harkin is listening carefully
now. He is almost certain the others are in the house. He can feel a chill draught coming under the door. He has the sense that Abercrombie is growing weary of the conversation and knows he must give the others as much time as possible.

  ‘I’ll let you have Teevan’s report if you let Mrs Wilson go. She’ll undertake to say nothing about all of this.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Moira asks.

  ‘I’m sure I can reach a satisfactory arrangement with the major.’

  Abercrombie smiles at this. ‘Of course,’ he continues, ‘if Sir John had told me about you earlier, we could have saved ourselves this tedious conversation, and Mrs Wilson’s involvement. I may have killed Driscoll and Dillon and Miss Prendeville, but in each case it has been his weakness that has resulted in my taking the actions I have. Sir John doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s true. His actions and inactions have caused all of this. It must be a great consolation to you to see how upset he is.’

  ‘You’ll promise to say nothing, won’t you, Moira? After all, Abercrombie, no one would believe her even if she did say anything.’ Harkin says, conscious that the time for talking is almost done. He braces himself to rush Abercrombie. He has little chance of success but, if nothing else, it will distract the major for a moment or two.

  Abercrombie points his gun at Harkin’s chest.

  ‘Where is the report?’

  ‘In Kilcolgan. I didn’t bring it with me for obvious reasons.’

  ‘I can’t help wondering if there never was another copy of the report. What if you just caught the tail end of a rumour and decided to use it to draw me out?’ Perhaps he sees the truth in Harkin’s expression because his smile hardens. ‘That was a mistake, Harkin.’

  ‘You promised not to hurt them,’ Sir John says, his desperation clear. ‘Tom is a family friend. As is Mrs Wilson.’

  Abercrombie laughs, and as he does so Harkin is conscious that the handle of the door is turning very slowly.

  ‘The report exists all right. I left it in a sealed envelope with Lord Kilcolgan to be opened in the event of my not returning.’ Harkin notices that Moira has leant forward slightly, bringing her legs under her.