Death at Christy Burke's

by Anne Emery

  Abigail appeared at first glance to be a little girl, but a closer look suggested she was in her early thirties. She had wavy brown hair pulled up in clips at the sides, small brown eyes, and a pale, thin face. Brennan had the urge to march her out of the office for a good, hearty pub meal. But he was there to seek help, not to offer it. They found seats in one of the large, brightly lit reading rooms on the first floor.

  Brennan looked around him at all the heads bent over papers. “British history. It’s all here, I expect,” he said.

  “It’s all here,” Abigail agreed in a plummy English accent. “From the Domesday Book, our first survey in 1086, right up to the present day. We have sixty-nine miles of shelving up there.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “People come from everywhere to do research. Fascinating documents on file here, as you might imagine.”

  “Yet there are some things the public is not allowed to see.”

  “Precisely. Some things they will never see; some things are embargoed till well into the future.”

  “Till everyone who might be implicated is dead.”

  “That’s one reason. Political sensitivities too.”

  “Right.”

  Brennan cast his mind over the cover story Monty had devised for him: he was Detective Inspector Jack McGuire, investigating a series of sensitive incidents involving Eddie Madigan, and the police had received information that Madigan may have been in England at the time of one or more of the incidents. He, McGuire, had been assigned . . .

  He smiled at the young woman across the table. “My name is Brennan Burke. My uncle has a pub in Dublin, and the pub has been targeted with a series of disturbing messages. It may remain a fairly harmless case of vandalism, or it may escalate to something more serious. We don’t know.”

  “A pub. I don’t quite see how I can help you, Mr. Burke.”

  “We think the messages are aimed at one of the regular patrons there, a man who got into a spot of trouble here in your office. There’s a story going around about this fellow, and your name came up.”

  She looked away from him. A party of researchers or perhaps tourists entered the reading room, led by a stunning young woman, tall and dark-haired. She spoke to the group quietly as she pointed out the amenities. She would have been more suited than little Abigail to playing the role of temptress. But Mr. Burke was not distracted. He had eyes and ears only for Abigail Howard.

  “What we heard was that four or five years ago this man from Dublin got into some difficulties here.”

  It was clear from the expression on her face that Abigail knew perfectly well what he was talking about. Good, for two reasons. One, Brennan might not be wasting his time after all. And two, he wouldn’t have to mention Special Branch and then not be able to follow up with a sensible explanation.

  “I assume you’re talking about David. I haven’t had many experiences in which foreign men have come into the office and attempted to suborn me in the exercise of my duties.”

  “Right. That pretty well confirms what we heard about David, that he made an effort to . . . suborn you, as you said.” Of course Brennan had no idea what “David” had done.

  “Force me, more like. Seduce me, cajole me, coerce me, in that order.” Small and frail she might appear, but Brennan sensed a steely character underneath.

  “Could you tell me a bit about it, Abigail?”

  “I’d be more than happy to. I have no loyalty to him, for reasons that will become obvious. And if there are messages directed at him in some drinking hole, well, good. I hope the story gets round. Serves him right. Though I have to say I’m a little surprised to hear that this would be a mark against him in a Dublin pub; it’s a wonder they haven’t raised a monument to him, or written a drinking song to commemorate his deeds. I’m sorry if that sounds offensive, Mr. Burke.”

  Brennan waved it off. “Tell me.”

  “It happened just after I began working here. He started coming in, the man I knew as David Stephens, which I later realized was not his real name. I still don’t know what his real name was. But I expect you do.”

  She waited, but Brennan did not enlighten her. He was not about to inform on Madigan by name — no informers in the Burke family — so he waited her out.

  After a few seconds, she resumed her story. “He came in requesting documents about India.”

  “India.”

  “India, Africa, then Scotland and Wales.”

  “What was he trying to do with all of that?”

  “Throw us off the scent, that’s what.”

  “I see.”

  “His real interest, as if I mightn’t have guessed from the accent, was Ireland. But no, I shouldn’t say that. We have people from all over the world here, to see papers on the most arcane subjects, not necessarily about their home countries. Scholars researching any number of subjects. So I had no reason really to doubt that he was pursuing studies relating to these other places. David always carried a little case with him, with pens, notebooks, and that sort of thing. He read and jotted down notes. Completely immersed in his work. Except when he would take a cigarette break. In addition to his research,” she said, making a face, “he also expressed an interest in me.”

  “Ah.”

  “I was new on the job, young . . . and unattached, which he was quick to suss out. He was older, and more experienced in these matters. He offered to treat me at the coffee shop, so I said yes. A couple of times. And I joined him on the odd smoke break. It was funny. He had a lighter that showed Sir Winston Churchill smoking his cigar; when you turned the lighter a certain way, the cigar appeared to burst into flames, but Sir Winston’s expression didn’t change a bit. Of course it seemed so much wittier because I was smitten with David.” She pressed her lips together and looked down. “Young and foolish.”

  “How did he treat you on those occasions?”

  “Wonderfully, at the start. And why wouldn’t he be the soul of consideration, when he was after something?”

  “Sure, I see what you mean.”

  “He was handsome in a way. Not a cinematic type, but attractive in sort of a rough-and-ready way, I guess I’d say. And he had some riveting tales to tell, about fighting the IRA in Ulster. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know!”

  She stopped speaking when the stunning brunette stopped by the table and told her some of the staff were meeting after work for a drink; would she like to come along? Yes, she would. Then she got back on track.

  “One day, he asked me out to lunch. We talked about my work. He seemed to be fascinated by the enormous collections of papers we had, priceless documents of great value. He asked what was kept where, that sort of thing. What about records that were still embargoed, papers dealing, for instance, with our relations with the Irish early in the century? The Anglo-Irish War, he meant, 1919 to 1921. Well, I gave him a general idea of where things were. Why not? It’s not as if he could get at them! They’re not for release, and we don’t have people roaming through those collections. Everything in the building is secured. Then the conversation turned more personal. He talked about himself and asked lots of questions about me. Getting to know each other, you know how it is.” She peered at Brennan, then looked down at the table. “He asked about my flat, and I said it was a tiny little place nearby, and that I could walk to work. He leaned towards me and put his hand over mine. ‘Why don’t we go there?’ he said. ‘What? Now?’ I asked him. And he said he’d like to see it; it would allow him to know me better, and all that rot. I’m embarrassed to say I fell for it. So we left the restaurant and walked to my flat. He took my hand as we walked. I saw one of the other girls in the neighbourhood and she gave me the eye, and I have to admit I was chuffed to be seen with him, an older man taking an interest, that sort of thing. Well, we got to my flat and I showed him around, which took all of thirty seconds, it’s so small, and that’s when he really started to work on me.�
�

  Brennan kept quiet and waited for her to continue.

  “He had one thing on his mind,” she asserted.

  Brennan nodded as if to say Boys will be boys.

  “He pulled me close to him and kissed me . . .”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Only, I pulled away. I didn’t want it to happen then, not when I knew I would be late going back to work and would be distracted about that. But more than that, it wasn’t a good time . . . for personal reasons.”

  Brennan had no need to hear those reasons.

  But Abigail went on with her story. “You’re going to laugh. But the problem was what I had on. Just workaday clothes and, well, a pair of granny bloomers, great cotton things that were clean, of course, but grey from repeated washing. Well, enough said; it was not the way I had envisioned the seduction scene with me and David. If I’d known, I’d have made a bit more of an effort with my hair and makeup and underthings and all that. You know.”

  “Sure. I know.”

  “So I put him off. But he wasn’t deterred. Oh, he backed off physically but he spoke to me in very affectionate terms. And then he got to the point. He wondered if he and I could stay on in the office some evening so he could carry out his researches without being rushed. If I could just get him into the room with the Anglo-Irish records . . . my presence in the room would guarantee that nothing would go astray. But no, I most certainly could not stay on after hours and sneak him into the room!”

  Eddie Madigan had obviously underestimated Abigail Howard if he thought she would succumb to charm or threats, and place her career in jeopardy.

  She continued, “His reaction was almost one of panic, for lack of a better word. He tried to bribe me then, with money. Wouldn’t I love a larger, more suitable flat? I could scarcely believe what was happening. When I rejected his every effort, he apologized, tried to mollify me, and finally left the flat with a promise to make up for the awkwardness he had caused.” She was silent for a few seconds as she looked around the room. “Well, that didn’t happen. There was no sign of him for two or three days, until he turned up again late one afternoon. He greeted me coolly, then sat and began reading, and I went about my duties. Just before closing time, he came to me and brought up the lunchtime fiasco and asked me to tell him straight out whether I was really interested in him or was just leading him on! If anyone had been doing any leading, it was him. And not for the reasons I might have been hoping for. I reminded him that he was the one who had insisted on coming to my flat. Anyway it escalated into an argument, and he stormed out! Threw his papers on the desk and left in a fit of pique.”

  “What sort of papers was he looking at that day?”

  “I think they were about Scotland. Battle of Culloden, perhaps. Whatever they were, I dutifully refiled them and finished my work and went home. It was not till the following day that I found out what he’d been up to.”

  “And that was . . .”

  “He hadn’t really stormed out at all. He’d set the whole thing up, planning to cause a scene about our earlier encounter. Then he could pretend to be miffed about it, and stalk away. I wouldn’t wonder where he was; I would know he had left the building in a huff. But in fact he hadn’t stormed out in a fit of passion! He’d stayed on in the building, armed with the information he had managed to worm out of me before things went sour, the information about the records and where they were kept.”

  As Abigail told her story, Brennan tried to imagine the scene. Madigan hiding in the jacks until the office shut down for the day, peering out to see if the coast was clear, sneaking into the corridor, trying to find his way to the storage area where the sensitive Irish records were kept under embargo, looking over his shoulder to make sure he was not spotted by a security guard, feeling acutely anxious. Would he find the right area? Would he be able to get into the room? Would he be caught before he could steal the papers he wanted? Would an alarm go off? Was there any hope of escape? Abigail wasn’t sure exactly what happened, but it seemed Madigan — “David” — tried to break into the storage area with some kind of housebreaking devices he had smuggled in with his pens and notebooks. So there’s Madigan fumbling at the door with his burglary tools, frustrated and fearful, in a lather of sweat, and suddenly an alarm shrieks and puts the heart crossways in him and jolts him into the air.

  “I don’t know what happened after that. I believe he was arrested, but I don’t think there was a court case. As far as I know, some kind of arrangement was made. Somebody said they traded him for a criminal or a terrorist in Ireland who was wanted over here. At any rate, he was bundled out of the country. Back to Ireland. They would probably love to get their own hands on those papers. Maybe they sent him over to do their dirty work!”

  “Who?”

  “Who knows? Their Secret Service? Special Branch? That lot in Ulster? Even the IRA, for all I know! I don’t know who he really was, and I can’t say I care. What I do care about is that we have a very effective security system in place here, and the system worked. We caught the bastard!”

  Mirabile dictu! The excursion to the Public Record Office had not been a wasted effort after all. Brennan had met with success, most unexpectedly; he would have to think it all through. Later. He put it out of his mind for the rest of the afternoon, as he walked around London and took in the sights of the great city.

  Now, as evening descended, he had a most pleasant event ahead of him: dinner with his sister Molly at her flat. He stopped in at his room, washed up a bit, called Molly on the phone, then made the short walk to her place in Gower Street. She was standing outside the enormous white stone and red brick building when he arrived. Molly was the eldest in the family, not quite two years older than Brennan, but the two of them could be mistaken for twins. They were both tall and had black hair with silver strands at the temples, dark eyes, though his were black and hers a deep blue, and similar features, including a typically Irish curve of the upper lip and a somewhat beaky nose. She broke into a big grin when she saw him approaching.

  “Bren, my darling, it’s pure bliss to see you!”

  “Same,” he said, kissing her cheek and enfolding her in his arms. He held her for a long time before releasing her.

  “Come on up. I’ve got dinner on.”

  She led him up the stairs to her modest second-floor flat, with its tiny sitting room and kitchen, bright with the early-evening light coming through the west window. Her few bits of furniture had the patina of age, and the walls were fitted with bookshelves nearly up to the ceiling. She opened a press, pulled out a bottle of John Jameson, and poured them each a shot. She handed Brennan his and sat with her own in hand.

  “You’re welcome to stay over, as I told you on the phone, but I know you might find it a bit cramped. I took this place when Neville and I parted company. Close to the university, but space is at a premium.”

  “No, I’m perfectly content at the Harlingford. What are you cooking? It smells wonderful.”

  “A jolly old English fry-up. Organ meats and all that.”

  “I said it smells wonderful, not like an abattoir.”

  “Farfalle al sugo rustico.”

  “With lamb?”

  “With lamb.”

  “Brilliant! Why don’t I go out and get us a bottle of red?”

  “No need. I have quite the wine cellar here, which boasts a couple of bottles of excellent plonk you brought here on your last trip.”

  “Oh?”

  “You said a good Barolo should be allowed to age.”

  “Well! Bring it on.” He looked around.

  “It’s in the cupboard under the sink. If I had the space for a wine cellar, or even for a decent wine rack, I’d have to pay two hundred pounds more a week!” She bent down, rummaged about, then produced the Barolo. She opened it, and left it on the counter to breathe.

  “So,” she said, when she got se
ated again, “wouldn’t you know I’d be off on a field trip the summer you’re on this side of the Atlantic? Otherwise, I’d have gone over to join you in Dublin.”

  “I know, but at least you’re here now. How long will you be in London?”

  “Just this week for a conference. Then I fly back to Monserrat for my research.”

  “How did you manage to snag that assignment?”

  “Purely academic reasons. You’ve heard the expression ‘publish or perish.’ I’m due to produce another article. So I searched and searched for a topic that would connect Irish history with a tropical climate.”

  “I thought your area of expertise was women warriors in Ireland.”

  “Sure it is, from Queen Maeve to the Cumann na mBan and the IRA.”

  “Have they taken the struggle to the southern hemisphere for some reason?”

  “Em, no, they haven’t. So I’ve had to seek out new areas of study.”

  “What did you come up with?”

  “Irish slavery in the Caribbean.”

  “Will you be studying us as slaves or slaveholders?”

  “Both. Though, with respect to the former, the term ‘servant’ is preferred!”

  “Well. That should prove interesting.”

  “It should. But if it doesn’t, if I don’t find anything new to say on the subject, who cares? I’ll just shove my paper in a drawer. The point is to get me down there in the sun!”