The Irish Inheritance: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

by M J Lee

  'Mr Hughes, I...' With that final order, the line went dead and she was left speaking to a buzzing noise.

  'You're going to Dublin?'

  She jumped at the sound of the voice. Paul had crept into the kitchen while she was on the phone. He was standing beside her, staring straight at her.

  'Just for a couple of days, the job...'

  'Have you forgotten we have a dinner with my boss on Friday?'

  'It's Tuesday, I'll be back by Thursday evening. Don't worry, there will be plenty of time.'

  She leant forward to kiss him. He stepped back.

  'This is important to me, Jayne. He's been pushing me for this dinner. I think he wants to tell me something. A promotion, maybe.'

  'That's wonderful, Paul...'

  'Don't screw it up, Jayne. I've been waiting for this for a long time. I deserve it.'

  'I won't. I'll be back in time. Just two nights in Dublin so I can crack this case.'

  The window in the kitchen shattered with a sharp crash. Something hard thudded against the far wall and rolled on to the floor.

  Instinctively, they both ducked down beneath the counter.

  Jayne moved first, her training taking over. She ran at a crouch to the wall next to the shattered window, crunching glass as she did.

  She stood up and peered out through the broken window.

  Nothing.

  She looked back into the kitchen. Paul was just popping his head above the counter. Glass lay everywhere, covering the wooden floor. In the middle of the room, a half-brick lay all on its own. Around it, a rubber band and a folded sheet of paper.

  Crunching more glass beneath her feet, she picked up the brick. Probably came from the skip at the end of the road, she thought. She pulled off the rubber band and opened the sheet of paper.

  The words were written in stark black, block capitals.

  LEAVE IT ALONE.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dublin. April 24-26, 1916.

  From the roof of the GPO, Michael could see most of Dublin laid out at his feet. A small parapet ran round the outside where he and the rest of the company could hunker down, leaning their backs against it and talk about life, their families, and what would happen after the revolution.

  There wasn't much sniping on those first few days. A few shots occasionally came their way from the direction of Trinity College.

  After the first encounter with the Lancers, there was no sign of any British troops for a long time. Michael was certain they would come but not sure when. The lads would be ready when they did, and the Brits would find a warm welcome from the roof of the GPO if they ever stepped out on to the street below them.

  In those early days, they didn't have much to do. Michael and Fitz had helped out equipping a first aid centre in an old sorting office. They used beds requisitioned from Clery's, the department store across the street.

  'Well, at least if I die, it's going to be the most comfortable death I'll ever have,' said Fitz as he plumped up one of the pillows. 'A man could die happy on one of these beds.'

  'Less talk about dying, Fitzgerald,' said Bulfin quietly.

  'Could I take one of these home with me after the revolution?' This was from a Dubliner who lived in the slums, one of Connolly's men.

  'You will not,' ordered Bulfin, 'these are to be returned to Clery's once we've finished with them. A free Ireland doesn't steal other people's property.'

  'More's the pity. You could make a fair few wee ones with the help of these springs.' The Dubliner jerked his hips backwards and forwards lustily. Bulfin marched out of the first aid station without answering.

  The rest of the time they spent up on the roof looking over Dublin. They were fed from time to time. A canteen had been set up in the basement and the Cumann na mBan girls came round with warm, milky tea in big steel pots.

  About seven o'clock on the first evening, they had their first meal.

  'Would any of youse boys like a bit of stew?'

  Fitz woke up from his position against the parapet and stared at the young woman who had asked the question. She was tall, wearing a green hat that made her appear even taller. Two long tendrils of curly hair drifted past either side of her face, framing the liveliest blue eyes.

  'I said, would any of youse men like a bit of stew?'

  'We heard you the first time. And you might want to keep your head down, there's a sniper over there on the roof of Trinity.'

  Instinctively, the woman ducked her head.

  'Will you stop it, Fitz,' Michael said, 'he hasn't fired in over an hour and he couldn't hit a barn door from five yards away. Don't go scaring the young woman.'

  She coughed and stood up straight smoothing down her clothes. 'I'll ask youse for the last time, would anybody like stew?'

  Fitz grabbed his mess tin and stood up. 'From a fair Colleen such as yourself, it would taste like the elixir of the gods.'

  'Three things, Mr...?'

  'Fitzgerald. Declan Fitzgerald.'

  'Well, Mr Fitzgerald. Firstly, I'm not a 'fair Colleen'. My name is Bridget and I'm a tram driver from Ballsbridge. Second, I didn't make it so I'm not sure how good it tastes, but all the other men are having a plate and nobody has died so far. And thirdly, if you want an elixir of the gods, I suggest you take a wander over to Guinness's. It's just over there, not far.' She pointed over to the famous brewery with her free arm. 'Now, will you be wanting the stew or not?'

  Fitz held out his mess tin and she began to ladle some of the thick brown stew into it.

  'Will you be wanting more?'

  'Not yet a while, this will do me fine for now.'

  'Good, for a moment there I thought youse was going to eat me out of house and home. Anybody else?'

  Michael stood up and held out his mess tin. As he did so, there was a shout of 'Will you look at that?' from one of the lads.

  They leant over the parapet and looked down into O'Connell Street. The smallest man they had ever seen was carrying a naked mannequin over one shoulder and pushing a dog cart with his other hand. Inside, the dog cart was piled high with assorted clothes, pots and pans and a large aspidistra.

  'What's he doing?' asked Bridget.

  'They've been looting the stores since this afternoon. We're supposed to stop them but I don't have the heart,' said Fitz.

  The small man was joined by two children, both no older than seven and neither wearing shoes. One of them carried a giant rocking horse in his arms, and the other a collection of feathered hats. The small family struggled on down the street with their load, watched by the men high up on the roof of the parapet.

  'I hope they make it home,' said Bridget.

  'So do I.' Fitz stared at her and she looked down at her stew.

  'Well, I'm off to see if others want feeding. Can't stand here gassing with youse all day.' She walked away towards the exit.

  'Will you bring me more, later?' shouted Fitz.

  'I will if there's any left. And I'll see if I can find some elixir of the gods, just for you,' she shouted back over her shoulder without looking at him.

  When she was gone, Fitz carried on looking at the space where she had vanished from view. 'I'm going to marry that woman.'

  'Oh, Fitz, the only man I know who brings romance to the middle of a revolution. Can't you stop thinking of women for just once in your life.' Michael poked him in the shoulder.

  'I'm serious, I'm going to marry that woman.'

  'Away and eat your stew. There'll be plenty of time for romance later, we've the Brits to get rid of first.'

  Fitz ladled a large spoonful of stew into his mouth. 'Not bad. Now, if you don't want yours...'

  * * *

  The rest of the evening passed peacefully, broken only by the occasional sniper's bullet and the explosions of fireworks looted from a store further up the street. When the first Catherine Wheel went off, they had all reached for their guns, expecting an attack at any minute.

  One of the men pointed towards where a crowd had gathered. S
uddenly, the centre of the crowd erupted with an explosion of light: greens, reds, whites and blues, all vivid colours, followed at the end by a loud screech.

  'Will you look at that? We're in the middle of a revolution and they're setting off fireworks.'

  There was the crackle of a string of bangers, men jumped out of the way as the small explosions landed in the middle of them. Michael stood up and watched the crowd. Small circles of sparklers were being held by children, brightening in one place, only to fizzle out after thirty seconds, followed by another bright light in another section of the crowd.

  The men on top of the roof watched this display for about twenty minutes, until the fireworks were exhausted and the crowd began to drift away.

  'That was a fine show. The noise would wake Boru himself. Scared the death out of me.'

  'Wait till you hear the sound of bullets whistling past your ears. Then you'll know the meaning of being scared.' Bulfin had appeared silently on the roof. 'Better get your heads down, lads. You'll be needing the sleep later.' He detailed a few men to keep watch whilst the rest hunkered down against the parapet.

  Michael couldn't sleep that first night though. How could he? Finally, they had risen against the Brits just as Wolfe Tone and the United Irishmen had done over one hundred years ago.

  He listened to the sounds of the Dublin night from the roof. The crack of breaking glass as the people looted the shops. There was an echo of firing from the South but he couldn't be sure where it had come from. The stream of curses and swearing as somebody was robbed of a treasure he had just looted.

  A quiet Dublin night, like many others before it. But this time they were in charge. They held the GPO, they controlled the city.

  The following morning a rumour went round the men on the roof like pox in a brothel.

  'The Germans have landed.'

  'Where?'

  'Kerry,' said one.

  'No, I heard it was Ballina in Mayo,' said another.

  'It's neither,' said a third man, 'they've landed in Tralee. I have it from the man himself.'

  They all nodded their heads. Tralee it was then. When would the Germans get to Dublin and what would the Brits do?

  All speculation was ended by Willie Pearse later that morning. 'No German landings have been reported,' he stated.

  'And what about the risings in the rest of the country?'

  'We haven't heard anything yet. There seems to be confusion. O'Neil's advertisement in the paper stopped people from mobilising. We're trying to communicate with the West at the moment.'

  'Aye, it nearly stopped me. I would have spent the day at Fairyhouse, except for Michael here,' said Fitz.

  'What about the arms? Have they landed yet?'

  'There's been no news. We'll know when we know.'

  'Is there anything you can tell us?' This from the man with the Dublin accent.

  Willie Pearse smiled. 'There is. We control the centre of Dublin and we've got men over at the Four Courts, The South Dublin Union, Jacob's Factory, Mount Street Bridge and Boland's Mill. If the Brits come across, they'll get a roasting.'

  All the men gave a cheer. 'Now, I want you to meet Jimmy Black. We're expecting an attack from the Brits any moment, so he's going to show you how to use the grenades.'

  A tall man with bandy legs and a rolling gait stepped forward, obviously a man who knew the back of a horse from the front.

  He held up a round tin with a small metal nipple sticking out of the top. It was the size and shape of a cocoa tin. 'This 'ere is a fuckin' grenade. It ain't a very good fuckin' grenade. I'd much prefer a fuckin' Mills Bomb or one of the German's fuckin' stick grenades.' He spoke with an educated British accent, but an accent interspersed with swearing as if using the foulest words somehow made him one of the people. 'But it will do at a fuckin' pinch.'

  One of the men, I think it was Colm Murphy, put his hand up. 'What's it for?'

  'What's it for?' repeated Jimmy Black. 'It's for blowing the fuckin' bastards up, that's what it's for. And believe you fuckin' me, when those bastards attack this fuckin' place, you're gonna be glad you 'ave a few of these fuckers to lob down on them. Now, you may have guessed I spent most of my life in the fuckin' Army.'

  Fitz stuck his hand up. 'And which Army is that, would you be telling us?'

  'The British Army mate. Jesus, when you were suckin' on your mother's tit, I was blowing up stuff all over the world. The Boers didn't know what fuckin' hit them.'

  One of the Maynooth men who had come in that morning put up his hand. 'Would you be careful of your language? There's no need to swear or take the Lord's name in vain.'

  Jimmy Black stared at him. 'Don't fuckin' swear? Are my ears hearin' right? You have half the British Army waiting to throw a ton of trouble your way, and you're worried about my fuckin' language. Jesus H. Christ. You want to live through this or do you want to die like another fuckin' martyr?'

  The man from Maynooth who two days ago had probably been living in the seminary kept his mouth shut.

  'Good.' Jimmy Black shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if he were still up on a horse and was trying to change direction. 'Well, staying alive is easy.' He scratched his long patrician nose with a claw-like finger, pausing for dramatic effect before speaking again. 'You have to kill the fuckers before they fuckin' kill you. Clear?'

  The men nodded their heads.

  'This is how you do it. You see this here metal bit. It's called a percussion cap for the clever bastards among you.' Here, he stared pointedly at the man from Maynooth. 'Now after you've hit it, you've got three seconds before this little fucker goes off.' He swung his arm above his head to strike the percussion cap on top of the parapet. 'Do be careful, ladies. If this goes off while you're still holding it, you can say goodbye to giving yourself the one-hand shuffle or dancing the doodle.' He brought the head of the grenade down on top of the parapet. A metallic crack rang across the roof of the GPO. 'Now, you have to count to three. One...two...three...and then you throw it away. Preferably towards a crowd of British soldiers.'

  He held out the tin can at arms' length.

  Everybody stared at the can for a second and, seeing that Jimmy Black wasn't going to throw it away, ducked down or turned their heads away, desperately looking for cover from the nails and assorted bits of metal when it exploded.

  'Oh, I forgot to tell you, I removed the explosive from this one,' said Jimmy with a smirk. 'Any questions?'

  Fitz put up his hand once more. 'Could you show us again, to be sure? But, take us through it a bit more slowly this time.'

  * * *

  The rest of the day passed quietly, like that dull time as the clouds began to form on the horizon before an immense storm.

  They had helped a couple of men from Liverpool set up a radio transmitter on the roof.

  'See, said Fitz, 'Even the Brits are here fighting with us.'

  'I ain't no Brit,' growled the man from Liverpool.

  Fitz didn't answer, instead he turned to stare at the two flags that waved in the Easter breeze at the corner of the roof. On the left over towards Henry Street, the Tricolour with its stripes of white, orange and green fluttered wildly. While on the right, the green flag of the Irish Republic clung to the flagstaff, its heavier fabric unstirred.

  'No, there ain't no Brits anymore, not in Ireland at least.'

  The man from Liverpool nodded, tucked the spool of wire under his arm and slowly played it out down the stairs.

  As he did, a shot rang out from across the street. Michael heard the whine of a bullet, followed by the spark as it ricocheted off the stone of the parapet. Everybody jumped to their posts.

  Down below, the looters ignored the shots, carrying on down Sackville Street with their new possessions.

  'There's smoke over towards Cathedral Street. I think Lawrence's is on fire.' Michael pointed out over the parapet. A column of black smoke was reaching up towards the sky, getting thicker with every passing second.

  'It's started,' s
aid Fitz pulling back the bolt of his rifle.

  For the rest of the evening they stayed alert, nobody slept.

  The sounds of looting still drifted up from the streets below, but less now, as if all the good stuff had already been stolen. There were fewer people on the streets now, the excitement of the first day having died down.

  Occasionally, people did approach the front door and shout at the men guarding the windows. Most of the time, it was curses but Michael heard one old lady very clearly as she shouted up at them.

  'I've come to post a letter.'

  'The GPO is closed. Haven't you heard there's a revolution going on, missus?'

  'And what's that got to do with me? I'm only after wanting to send some money to me sister in Limerick.'

  'Away with you now, the Post Office is closed.' A different voice, an officer's voice this time.

  'But how's my sister going to get the money?'

  This time no answer.

  Michael looked over the parapet. The old woman was still standing there, an old black shawl covering her head. He couldn't see her face but he could hear her voice, the voice of Ireland.

  'Well, the least youse fellas could do...' she eventually said, '...is throw me out a few stamps.'

  A few seconds later a stone flew out of the window with an envelope wrapped around it. 'Now be off home with you.'

  She bent down to pick it up. 'Thank you lads, and may the blessings of God be on ye.'

  She ambled off down Sackville Street in the direction of the river. Michael watched her slow progress till she vanished around a corner. He couldn't help but think of his mother. What would she think of him now? She probably wouldn't approve.

  'How could you fight in Dublin with your brother suffering in France?'

  He had no answer except there never was a good time to rebel against any government. The only right time was now.

  He turned to Fitz. 'What the hell are we doing, Fitz?'

  'Making history, Michael.'

  He touched the book nestling in his pocket. Would the United Irishmen be proud of them? He hoped so.