‘How did she describe them?’
‘Well, there was only one who spoke and he was a small man, quite slim, “not a big fellow, at all”, that’s what she said. But, of course, you don’t argue with a man holding a rifle, no matter what his size, do you?’
‘And what did he sound like, did she say?’
‘“Pure Cork, a city man, from the flat of the city”, that’s what the cook said. She said he gave her the creeps: that he had a strange sound of him, but she was probably very frightened anyway. By the way, she has a strong west Cork accent herself. Still, she worked for the Woods at Shanbally House for at least twenty years, I’d say and they’d be having lots of deliveries, city men and countrymen. I would think that she knew what she was talking about when she said he had a “flat of the city” accent. So that rather puts paid to your idea, doesn’t it?’
‘Why? It’s possible to mimic an accent. Do you remember Lawrence? He was a terrible mimic. Could be a bit nasty with it, too. Do you remember that butler they had in Coachford House? Lawrence used to reduce him almost to tears by calling down flirtatious and some rather improper remarks over the stairs to the maids in exactly the man’s Skibbereen accent. An accent can be feigned; the stronger the accent, the easier it is to mimic it.’
‘Funny to think of Lawrence as a friar, isn’t it?’ said Lucy. ‘Still, I suppose that he always got very intense about things, didn’t he? Do you remember the summer when he was determined to become the best bowman in the world? He kept practising and practising, until he nearly shot the gardener and his father burned his bow and arrows. I remember how furious he was. And he was a good mimic, wasn’t he?’
Not the only one, thought the Reverend Mother, but she was scrupulously careful never to repeat anything that Patrick said. She pondered his interview with the two men in the antiques shop and his report of how Peter Doyle had put on a Cork city accent. Much easier than a west Cork accent for an Englishman who lived and shopped in the city of Cork. This did sound as if it could have been Peter Doyle. ‘But tell me what the others looked like,’ she said.
‘One very tall man, a fine figure of a man, big chest on him, according to the cook. Another pair, nearly as tall and one just of an ordinary size. That’s really all of what she could remember of them. They were given twenty minutes to grab some clothes, but when she was halfway through stuffing things into a bag, she smelled petrol. She opened her door and saw smoke drifting up the stairs, so she screamed to the other servants to hurry up. When they got downstairs, they saw that petrol had been poured on the Aubusson carpet in the hallway. Someone had thrown a match on it; that’s what she thought, anyway. She said that there was just one man there, then. He was holding a gun and there was a box of matches on the table. Doesn’t make sense, though, does it? If they were going to steal something, why start the fire before they even got the people out of the house? Not that the carpet was worth much, I’d say. It was the same one, that circular threadbare one, as they had in the hall when you and I were young, but still it was very dangerous with a houseful of elderly people.’
‘It was meant to get them out quickly, I suppose,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘Remember wool doesn’t burn very fast. It smokes more than it burns. It just takes one man with gun to usher everyone out; the others were probably in the drawing room, or the library, collecting silver and small items. They would certainly have some sacks with them. Could the cook remember anything about their appearance, colour of hair or anything, when she saw them first?’
‘I asked her about that,’ said Lucy. ‘She said that they had masks on, right over their heads and faces, just a few holes cut out for the eyes and the mouth.’
‘Of course,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘We’ve seen plenty of those over the last few years. An old sock, usually. It would conceal the hair too, unfortunately.’ She thought about Jonathon Power’s dark blond hair. Few Irish people had hair of that colour. The fair-haired of Ireland were mostly a pale red gold in colour. ‘So nothing but the height and the stature to identify them,’ she said aloud.
‘That’s right. One quite short and slim, one ‘ordinary’, two tall and one very tall.’
‘So the three tall men could have been Robert Beamish, Tom Gamble and Jonathon Power. The “ordinary” one was probably the bank clerk. I haven’t seen him, but I would say that the man who gave the orders sounds just like Peter Doyle.’
‘Except for the flat Cork accent.’
‘He was an actor, remember,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘I’m no mimic, but I expect that it is easier to mimic an extreme accent, than it would be to mimic a fairly neutral one. And, of course, if you pronounce all of your “th” sounds as a flat “t”, all your “e’s”, as “a’s”, then you are halfway there. Peter Doyle, by all accounts, was a talented actor so it would not be difficult for him to play the part of a masked gunman.’
Lucy said nothing. To the Reverend Mother’s slight amusement, she gave a furtive glance over her shoulder as though to check that no one had entered the room. Lucy, though probably from the relative safety of a chauffeured car, had witnessed raids and street battles over the last few years, but there was something about this cold-blooded threat of violence and robbery from seemingly respectable people that seemed to frighten her. She sat very still for a moment and then seemed to come to some decision.
‘And now Dominic is dead,’ she remarked. ‘You do realize that he is probably dead because in his clever way he worked this out. He saw the Japanese Arita hawk, remembered it. He must have remembered it, mustn’t he? Or did someone drop him a clue?’ Lucy gave the Reverend Mother a sudden, sharply inquisitive glance.
‘Did you know that the word “clue” – it used to be spelled C L E W – meant a piece of string, rather like the thread used by Theseus to guide him out of the labyrinth. I think it was Edgar Allan Poe who used it first in our modern sense, and then Wilkie Collins popularized it,’ said the Reverend Mother. Not for anything would she betray Lawrence’s confidence about Dominic’s penitent who was involved in crime. In her own mind, though, she thought that it would be an extraordinary coincidence if that confession did not have something to do with Dominic’s surprising visit to the premises of Morrison’s Island Antiques Shop. ‘That’s interesting about the word “clue”, isn’t it?’ she asked blandly.
‘Not very,’ said Lucy. ‘And I think you are just trying to put me off. You always think that you must know best. That’s the trouble with clever people. And just you remember this, Dottie; one can be too clever for one’s own good. It’s never safe to meddle in other people’s affairs. You have a word with this young Patrick of yours. Tell him, in confidence, of course, that you suspect those people in the antiques shop are up to mischief, that they are dressing up as IRA men and burning down houses in the Republican name, having first of all taken a few sack loads of silver, some pictures and some furniture, of course. Tell him all that and even tell him your reasons for believing it, if you like. But stop there, Dottie. I’m warning you. This is not safe. It’s all very well being a martyr, but I’m sure that having a hatpin stuck into your ear is not a pleasant experience.’
‘No, indeed,’ said the Reverend Mother, glad to have an opportunity of agreeing one point. Lucy, of course, was right. This Peter Doyle might be a very dangerous man.
EIGHT
WB Yeats:
‘You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet, far thing.’
When Eileen arrived at the convent on Sunday night, she found that the Reverend Mother was waiting patiently in the small chapel at the back of the convent. The Sunday evening show had overrun with lots of demands for encores, so she was relieved to find the door of the chapel unlocked. Eamonn had gone like the wind down quays and across bridges and then she had run at full speed down the little lane to the back gate. She was still panting when she opened the door.
The R
everend Mother was sitting on a small chair beside the altar, not fingering her rosary beads, nor reading her prayer book, just sitting, very still, looking tired and old, thought Eileen, when she rushed in. How old was the Reverend Mother? No one knew. She had been old when Eileen’s mother was a child and no one seemed to remember the time before she held command on St Mary’s of the Isle. Poor old thing, thought Eileen, with a rush of compassion as she went quickly up the aisle
‘I’m sorry that I am late, Reverend Mother,’ she said quietly as she reached the nun. She sat down on the altar steps and looked up into the face of her former headmistress. Yes, she thought, even more lined than usual, just as though the structure of the pale skin had somewhat collapsed from sheer exhaustion and lack of sleep. The green eyes had discoloured patches under them.
‘What’s the matter, Reverend Mother?’ she asked.
The Reverend Mother seemed visibly to rouse herself. ‘No, you’re not late. I remembered afterwards that you would be performing tonight. Of course, you would have to change after the show, so it’s kind of you to spare the time to come to see me,’ she said with an audible effort at her usual briskness. ‘Sit here, Eileen. I read a very nice review about you on the Cork Examiner. They praised your voice and I’m not surprised. I can remember you singing ‘Panis Angelicus’ here in this very chapel.’
And then the Reverend Mother fell silent, a brooding expression on her face. Eileen sat on a kneeling hassock at her feet and began to feel alarmed. The Reverend Mother had been like a rock to her in life, never changing, never unsure, never upset by anything. Never totally predictable, of course, suddenly tossing a question or an uncertainty back upon you, but always a fund of information and common sense. Now, for the first time, she seemed uncertain and tentative. She looked down on Eileen with a puzzled and drawn expression on her face.
‘Tell me about the group, about these people, these people that you are with for the light opera performances. What is it that they call themselves, the Merrymen, that is right, isn’t it?’ she said.
Eileen took her cue. The Reverend Mother wanted to talk about something, to ask her something, but she didn’t want to do it immediately. She was postponing, prevaricating, something that she was against in the normal way of things, but she certainly did not look well tonight. Something was troubling her very much. Eileen exerted herself to divert and to distract.
‘I could write a novel about them,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘In fact, Jane Austen would have had fun with them. Do you remember Mansfield Park and the theatricals, Reverend Mother? You gave it to me to read and we discussed it afterwards. I never liked it as much as Pride and Prejudice or Emma. I loved Emma! But I keep thinking about it these days. They’re a weird crew, that crowd, those Merrymen, as they call themselves.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
Eileen pulled herself up at the quietly spoken words. There was a time when both she and the Reverend Mother had shared a dream that Eileen would sit a scholarship for the university. They had practised over, and over again, for the interview that was given to the top candidates. ‘Never waste a word; this is not a chat’, the Reverend Mother had advised and now she remembered that recommendation and she scanned through her mind for the relevant details about each one of those people who had decided to spend their leisure hours putting on shows for the people of Cork. Reverend Mother had a reason for her question. This was not just an effort to distract herself from her troubles.
‘Peter Doyle is the one who decides everything,’ she said carefully. ‘Jonathon Power is a sort of partner to him in the antiques shop, I think, but during rehearsals, Jonathon says very little, except about the stage sets and the costumes – they have a cupboard full of cloaks, and gowns and uniforms and suits, all that sort of thing. Jonathon is very artistic, but I’d say that Peter Doyle is definitely in overall charge. And then there is Miss Gamble. You might know her, Reverend Mother, as she is the headmistress of a girls’ school, though she’s a Protestant, of course. She’s sort of like a headmistress with everyone, because the others are all inclined to joke and to fool around, but she’s very nice, really. Quite motherly with us all, brings sandwiches, and makes us drink milk after the performance to soothe our throats. She’s very nice, really,’ she repeated, thinking of how kind Miss Gamble had been to her and how careful to choose a costume that would suit Eileen’s black hair and grey eyes. ‘And she’s right to keep everyone in order,’ she added and blushed a little as she remembered some of the fooling that went on with those high-spirited young men trying to amuse the two unmarried girls, and the third married one, as well. The Reverend Mother would definitely not approve of that. Hastily she went on with her character sketches. ‘There’s her brother, the barrister, Tom Gamble. He’s very wild. Drinks a lot. I saw him knock back almost a bottle of whiskey one night. He offered me a lift home, but I refused and I was glad afterwards when I saw his car go zigzagging down Sullivan’s Quay. I thought that he would end up in the river. He’s a Protestant; they’re all Protestants, except for James O’Reilly who works in the Savings Bank. He’s a Catholic, I think. Well, he must be. I was surprised when I saw him go into the Holy Trinity Church one day last week. And he was a long time in there. I know because I was waiting for a friend and it was a good half hour before he came out again.’ She stopped. There had been a flash of interest from the Reverend Mother’s eyes. However, she said nothing so Eileen went on with her sketches, visualizing each one of the singers and looking for words to bring them to life.
‘And then there’s Robert Beamish. He’s the oarsman, wants to be part of the team for the Olympics. He’s a bit mad, but very good fun. Drinks a lot, too. Just like Tom Gamble. These two are great friends. And James O’Reilly’s wife, Rose. She’s one of the three little maids. She’s very pretty, dark hair and dark eyes. I got my hair cut when I saw how much short hair suited her. And, of course, Anne Morgan, who is the principal lady, Yum-Yum. She’s fun. She’s a teacher of music in Miss Gamble’s school. She has a lovely voice. She’s engaged to Robert Beamish, though I think that she’s keener on Peter Doyle. He’s a real ladies’ man.’ Flirted with everyone, even Eileen, herself, she thought, but then moved on quickly.
‘The Mikado has been a great success for them, Reverend Mother, and that’s good because they had to spend a lot of money on costumes. They did Trial by Jury last season and that was just everyone dressed in a suit, except for Anne Morgan who was the woman, the plaintiff. And, of course, Tom Gamble borrowed all the wigs. Wish I had been in it. It would have been fun to dress up as a member of the jury.’ She decided not to tell the Reverend Mother that she had tried on the suit, an old one of Peter Doyle’s and rather enjoyed strutting around in it.
The Reverend Mother nodded. Her face was brooding and sad. Eileen began to feel slightly alarmed. The nun was normally so brisk and so assured. Why had she summoned her former pupil? Why was she so interested in the people in the musical society? Whatever it was, Eileen knew that she couldn’t stay long; her mother worried about her. Oddly, she worried more now that Eileen was back home and under her care again, than when she had been living with a crowd of Republicans, in a house miles from the city. What time was it, she wondered. She had no idea. Perhaps someday she might be able to afford a watch. All of her fellow actors possessed one. However, she listened carefully to the Reverend Mother’s reminiscences, spoken so quietly that it almost seemed as though the woman was speaking to herself.
‘It’s strange, Eileen,’ she said, ‘that Tom Gamble has forsaken the religion of his father, Judge Gamble, who was a Catholic, to join that of his mother, who was a Protestant. Almost like, in reverse, the two Capuchin priests, Prior Lawrence and Father Dominic, the two Alleyn brothers. I knew them, these two priests, when they were young, you know, Eileen. They also were children of what they call a “mixed marriage”. It was a strange arrangement in those days – that the girls should be brought up in the religion of the mother and the boys in the religion of the father. It
was an agreement that had been hammered out between both churches, but I know of many cases where it has not worked.’
‘The mother probably had more influence over the children,’ said Eileen wisely. She had never known her father who had gone off to England as soon as he had made her mother pregnant. ‘My mother had a great influence over me; she taught me to be a Republican, although she denies it now,’ she added and the Reverend Mother smiled.
‘You’re quite right,’ she said with a quick return to her usual briskness. ‘The mother’s influence can be very strong. That is very true. In the case of the Gambles, as well as the Alleyns. Now I mustn’t keep you. I know that you must be very tired after your night’s performance. I just wanted to ask you one question and if you don’t know, it may be that the young man who is riding his motorbike up and down the lane will know the answer to it.’
Eileen blushed a little. ‘He’s just going to give me a lift back to my mother’s place, Reverend Mother. He’s been having a bit of trouble with his engine. That’s why he has to keep revving it.’
The Reverend Mother ignored this. ‘This is what I want to ask you about, Eileen. You see, I used to know people who lived in a house in north Cork,’ she said. ‘It was called Shanbally House and it was burned down almost a year ago. I wonder whether the name means anything to you, but I see that it does, doesn’t it …’ The Reverend Mother broke off, but in the candlelight, her eyes shone very green, very questioning.
‘It wasn’t our crowd that did that, that burned down that place, Reverend Mother,’ said Eileen immediately. ‘I remember all the fuss about it in the newspapers, saying that it was a terrible atrocity. I remember that Eamonn and some of the other boys had a good go at Tom Hurley, wanting him to deny it in the Cork Examiner, but he refused. He was saying, “Who cares who did it? Why should we bother if someone saves us the trouble? The whole lot of those ascendancy houses should be burned down, in any case. They burn our places. We burn theirs. That’s how it will go until all thirty-two counties of Ireland are free.” That’s the way that Tom Hurley goes on! He has no decency about him.’
Beyond Absolution Page 11
