by W. C. Ryan
‘I don’t believe you.’
Sir John takes a step forward. ‘This isn’t what we agreed.’
Sir John lifts his pistol towards Abercrombie, who responds by taking a small black automatic from his pocket, a little larger than the one he took from Harkin earlier, and pointing it at the older man.
‘I warn you . . .’ Sir John says, but the old authority has gone.
Abercrombie, with a shark’s smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, turns to examine him.
‘Shall I tell you what the story will be, Sir John?’
‘What story?’
‘Harkin came here with Mrs Wilson to confront you about your betrayal of Sean Driscoll, amongst others. Unfortunately they shot you. But then I arrived on the scene and killed them after a desperate battle. This is the pistol I used to kill Maud Prendeville. The same type of bullet as will be found in your body. The gun will be found in Mrs Wilson’s dead hand, linking her to the murder of Maud Prendeville. I feel strangely certain I will uncover papers that will show Mrs Wilson to have been a long standing rebel, determined to punish Maud Prendeville’s treachery. There are a few loose ends need tidying up but, all in all, I think it will be enough to stand scrutiny.’
There is a loud report, deafening in the enclosed space, and Sir John looks at Abercrombie in stunned surprise, then down at the small hole that has appeared in his chest, soon joined by another. Abercrombie quickly turns his attention to Harkin firing with the Colt. Harkin is already moving, however, aware from the corner of his eye that the door to the library has now opened wide to reveal a figure standing there, gun outstretched. Harkin feels the bullet whip past his ear, so close he feels the heat of its passing, and he moves in closer, intending to rush Abercrombie, conscious that Moira is out of her chair and seems to have the same intention. Abercrombie fires again, this time with the pocket pistol he’d shot Sir John with. Harkin feels an explosion of pain in his chest, and, as he falls backwards, finds himself looking up at the moulded ceiling.
And then there is nothing.
CHAPTER 49
‘H
e’s coming round.’
‘He’ll be all right, I think.’
The voices seem to come from a great distance, but Harkin thinks the speakers must be closer than that. There is a great weight on his chest, a pressure mixed with pain. Someone is holding his hand, squeezing it, and he thinks he recognises the strong, slender fingers. He opens his eyes to find Vincent Bourke’s face looking down at him, large and concerned, alongside Moira. He decides the fingers are more likely to belong to her.
‘I don’t think I am all right,’ Harkin whispers.
‘I don’t doubt it. Someone just shot you in the chest.’
‘That might account for it.’
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news.’
‘What’s the good news?’
‘You’re going to be fine. Just a bruise.’
Harkin tries to understand what Bourke is saying. He remembers Abercrombie’s small pistol pointing at him.
‘But I was shot in the chest.’
Harkin searches out Moira’s gaze. He can see echoes of fear in her eyes, but also something like happiness. She squeezes his hand.
‘That’s where the bad news comes in,’ Bourke says. ‘You need a new cigarette case.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Harkin manages to whisper. ‘I was very attached to it.’
‘Well, now there’s a bullet attached to it instead.’
Bourke holds up Maud’s cigarette case, with a flattened grey lump embedded in its centre. He thinks back to the inscription. Perhaps Maud was with him, after all.
‘I don’t suppose the cigarettes are smokable,’ Harkin asks, to mask an almost overwhelming surge of emotion. Bourke rewards him with a smile.
‘Thank you,’ Harkin says.
‘For what?’
‘Coming in time.’
‘About that,’ Bourke says. ‘We weren’t here in time.’
Harkin changes his focus to the man standing behind Moira. Billy Prendeville looks down at him, his face pale.
‘I listened into the call from Father’s study. I thought it best to ride after you. Lucky I did. Lucky also that Moira knocked him off balance before he finished the job.’
‘One cannot always be ladylike,’ Moira says, with an attempt at a smile. ‘Fortunately Billy shot him before I descended to fisticuffs.’
Harkin looks from one to the other. Both of them look shaken by the violence. As well they might be. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and is not sure the simple words are quite enough, but can’t think of anything else to add.
‘You can’t see it from the road but there’s no easy way through along the cliffs,’ Bourke says. ‘We had to climb down to the beach and then back up. We were just coming in the back of the house when the shooting started.’
‘And Abercrombie?’
‘Dead,’ Billy says in a dull tone, but he has walked out of Harkin’s view.
‘We need to get out of the house.’ Harkin hears Vane’s voice, although he can’t see him. ‘Mr Bourke, if you could go and fetch your motor car. I doubt Mr Harkin can walk that far.’
Harkin doubts he can walk any distance at all. He sees Bourke nod and then the big man is gone, clearing his view.
‘I thought you were dead,’ Moira says.
‘I would have been if he’d shot me with the Colt. How is Sir John?’
Moira looks behind her as if to check and Harkin, realising the older man must still be clinging to life, tries to roll on to his side, feeling the pain instantly.
‘Can you help me up?’
Vane leans down beside him and with Moira’s assistance, along with Harkin’s best efforts, they manage to get him to his feet. He looks around the room. Abercrombie is lying in a pool of blood beside an overstuffed armchair, his arm still outstretched, clutching the small pistol in his hand. Harkin leans down to take it from his dead fingers but Vane takes his elbow.
‘Leave it. It all makes sense. They argued, there was shooting, they both died.’
Harkin turns to see Sir John lying on the ground beside the desk, blood bubbling in his mouth. He may not be dead, but it will not be long. Billy kneels beside him, holding the older man’s left hand in both of his. As Harkin approaches, Sir John looks up at him, his eyes already losing their colour. His face is yellowing, the skin tightening across his skull.
‘I’m sorry for all the trouble,’ the older man manages to say.
The transition from life to death is quick. One moment Sir John Prendeville is there; the next he is not, and all that is left is his body. After a few moments, Billy places his uncle’s hand back over his chest and stands to his feet.
Harkin wants to say something, but what is there to say?
*
They wait for Bourke outside the house, Harkin being supported by Moira. When the car comes over the hill, Harkin notices that the horizon to the east is tinged with orange. He finds himself pondering what it could be, as it’s another nine hours till the dawn. The answer comes when Vincent Bourke leans out of the car’s window and addresses Billy.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Prendeville,’ he says, his face grave, ‘but Kilcolgan is on fire.’
CHAPTER 50
B
y the time they reach the burning building, the fire is well established and there is nothing to be done but get out what can be got out. Harkin, his ribs grating against one another within his chest, assists as best he can. Lord Kilcolgan strides the long hall, pointing the helpers towards what should be saved and what can be left. His decisions are practical. Furniture, when it can be moved, is taken. Books are scooped up, entire shelves at a time, and run out to be left with everything else. Portraits of more recent Prendevilles are taken; the more ancient are left. The fire is spreading quickly from the kitchen where it has been set, streaking up the rear of the building so that parts of the upper storey are already alight, but the front of the house is still relative
ly untouched. Sir John’s servants, returning from the town, join Murphy and the others in their efforts. As the fire spreads, the long central hall is once again lit as it must have been in the old days, and stuffed animals and the fans of pikes and swords are no longer strange shadows in the dark.
The rescued belongings are collected into a growing pile about fifty yards from the house, lit by the spreading flames. Harkin sees Billy help Pat Walsh carry out a full-length portrait of Maud, and she is left leaning against a long table to watch Kilcolgan burn.
Through snatched conversations, Harkin hears of how the column had arrived not long after Billy left for Ballynan. How Egan had told Lord Kilcolgan, with some pretence of regret, that the house could not be tolerated as an Auxiliary barracks – Maud Prendeville or no Maud Prendeville. How the Volunteers meanwhile, by now well practised in the art of arson, had poured petrol from jerry cans around the kitchen and the lower level and wished them luck with rescuing what they could.
The Prendevilles seem stunned in the orange light, even as they run again and again into the building to bring out photographs and silver and whatever else that holds some worth to them, of whatever kind. He sees Mrs Driscoll, running out with an armful of tablecloths and linen. When the police arrive there is some talk of attempting to bring the conflagration under control, but the talk is brought to an end by a shower of glass from a window on the upper storey that is blown out by a torrent of fire. Soon, the heat and the swirling embers make entering the building impossible, and the crowd stands back to watch in silence. By the end, every window spews up fire until, with a great groan and a volcano of flame, the roof collapses inwards.
Harkin finds himself standing beside Bourke at the back of the ring of onlookers. Bourke’s hair is singed and his face black with smoke. He coughs into his sleeve as Vane approaches.
‘Gentlemen,’ he says.
‘Is this where you tell us to be on our way?’
‘I think it’s for the best. The bodies will be found soon, if they haven’t been already. The sooner you are well clear of here, the better. If there is a closer examination of the circumstances then questions may be asked.’
Harkin sees Billy watching them from a distance. He nods when Harkin catches his gaze, then turns away.
‘I’ll meet you at the car, Vincent.’
The big man nods and turns to walk away. Harkin turns back to Vane.
‘Thank you for this evening. Perhaps we’ll meet again some time. In happier circumstances.’
‘Perhaps.’
It takes Harkin a little while to find Moira. She bears, like many of the others, the marks of the battle with the fire.
‘We have to leave.’ He sees how her mouth sets into a stubborn downward curve.
‘And so you’ve come to say goodbye?’
‘I’ve come to ask you to come with me, if you’re willing.’
EPILOGUE
T
he ship’s whistle blows loud and long and Vincent Bourke looks at his watch.
‘I’ve only a few minutes.’ He reaches inside his pocket to produce a large envelope. He hands it to Harkin. ‘The boss wanted to be sure you had something to get you on your feet.’
Harkin lifts a corner of the envelope’s flap and looks inside. He raises his eyebrows. It contains a thick wad of American currency as well as a sheaf of smaller envelopes.
‘I thought we were short of cash.’
‘Well, maybe he found some down the back of the sofa.’
‘Give him my thanks.’
Bourke nods at the envelope that Harkin is placing inside his pocket.
‘There are some letters of introduction, as well. People who can help you. Most in New York and Boston, but other places too. You’ll be looked after. When things quieten down . . .’
‘I’ll come back.’
‘Or not. You’ve done more than most.’
Bourke grips Harkin’s hand and squeezes it.
‘Maybe I’ll see you over there myself at some time.’
‘You’ll be welcome.’
‘In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on your place – make sure Billy Prendeville doesn’t wreck it.’
‘Thanks, Vincent. I’m grateful for everything.’
*
They lean against the rail of the ship, watching as the gap widens between the hull and the quay. Above them, the ship’s whistle sounds three long notes and, in response, the crowd that is gathered to bid the ship farewell waves and cheers. Harkin can’t hear them over the churning roar of the ship’s engines, but he can see their open mouths, the happiness and the sadness and all the other emotions that go with parting. He can even make out Vincent Bourke, standing to one side, and watches as he raises a hand in final farewell and turns to walk back to the car in which he came. A hand slips in carefully between Harkin’s elbow and his still-bandaged chest, taking a hold of his bicep.
‘Well, Mr Smith?’ Moira asks, leaning in to him.
‘Well, Mrs Smith?’
Moira gives a small curtsey.
‘Smith,’ she says, smiling, ‘is a blank page of a name. I think it suits us. We can write our own story on it.’
He nods, then frowns, looking across the dockyards towards Belfast and the mist-shrouded hills beyond it. Black columns of smoke rise from the terraced streets in places. There has been rioting during the night.
‘Will we miss the place?’ he asks, thinking he will not. Not like this in any event. Perhaps when things have changed.
‘I don’t think so.’ She raises a hand to his cheek. ‘You might miss it if you were unhappy in our new life, but I don’t think that will happen. Come down when you’re ready and I’ll show you how I intend we should go on.’
Then there is a flash of teeth and she is gone, swaying her way along the crowded deck, knowing he will be watching her.
When she has disappeared down the companionway, Harkin turns back to look down once again at the crowd of onlookers and well-wishers that line the quay. He doesn’t know what or who he is looking for, but he has a feeling that he is missing something. He scans the faces, even as they are becoming less distinct – even as some of them turn away. Then in the shadow of the long shed he sees her, little more than a shadow herself. He knows she is not there – cannot be there – and yet there she is. Maud Prendeville. And she is smiling. He watches her until she merges into the gloom of the grey morning and is no longer visible – if she ever was.
Then Harkin turns away from the city and the land and makes his way down to the cabin.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
T
his novel is a work of fiction, intended to entertain and, perhaps, inform along the way. It may well be that students of the Irish War of Independence will note similarities between this novel’s characters and well-known historical figures but, while those similarities are not completely coincidental, the characters remain entirely fictional creations. Similarly, the events you’ll find within these pages never took place in the way I have represented them and the locations are also largely invented.
This novel, as with all of my novels, owes a great deal to the support, enthusiasm and incisive direction of my editor, Sophie Orme, for which I’m very grateful. I would also like to thank Ciara Corrigan, Jenna Petts, Nick Stearn, Bill Massey, Steve O’Gorman, Jon Appleton and the rest of the team at Bonnier Books. Finally, I would like to thank my agent, Oli Munson and his assistant, Florence Rees, for all their efforts on my behalf.
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If you enjoyed The Winter Guest, then don’t miss . . .
Winter 1917. As the First World War enters its most brutal phase, back home in England, everyone is seeking answers to the darkness that has seeped into their lives.
At Blac
kwater Abbey, on an island off the Devon coast, Lord Highmount has arranged a spiritualist gathering to contact his two sons who were lost in the conflict. But as his guests begin to arrive, it gradually becomes clear that each has something they would rather keep hidden. Then, when a storm descends on the island, the guests will find themselves trapped. Soon one of their number will die.
For Blackwater Abbey is haunted in more ways than one . . .
Available now
First published in the UK in 2022by Zaffre
This ebook edition published in 2022 by
ZAFFRE
An imprint of Bonnier Books UK
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Copyright © W. C. Ryan, 2022
Cover design by Nick Stearn
Cover illustration by Ed Bettison
The moral right of W.C. Ryan to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-83877-152-2
Hardback ISBN:978-1-83877-150-8
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