“Not by wife-bashing!”
“Oh, Michael,” Her precarious calm dissolved at his fierce tone. “He—was savage, Michael. Savage. I never, never, never want to see him again. But what can I do? He’s my husband!”
What Michael wished to do to that husband shocked him, for he did not consider himself a physically violent person. He was reminded of the many times he had fought with the desire to throttle Isabel for her archaic attitudes and insensitivities. But he had never so much as raised his hand to her. For Healey to seize on such a flimsy excuse to vent his outrage on Selina was inexcusable.
“He took the keys to the Lancia when he went out today,” she continued, leaning against him. “I borrowed this banger from the college lad next door to get milk. That’s why the disguise.” Carefully she lifted the glasses from her face. “Monday morning I can tell Kathleen that I got tossed on Saturday. She’d be more likely to believe that anyway. She’s convinced horses are dangerous.” Selina’s voice lifted with an unmistakable ripple of amusement. “Oh, do tell me how Catriona did with Charlie.”
“Second, and she was bitterly disappointed. Where’s Healey now?”
“Michael!” She pushed away from him, her eyes gray with pain and worry. “You’re not to do anything stupid. I’ve underestimated David”—she gave a sadly cynical sigh—”but you’re not to make the same mistake—much less give him any cause to think some of his accusations are true. Oh, Mr. David Healey thinks he’s so very smart, but basically he’s an insensitive, narrow-minded, power-hungry, humorless piece of work, and I won’t let him get the better of me again.” The rigidity of her shoulders, the fervor of her tone, were reassuring to Michael. “Not long ago I told you that I hadn’t any reason to divorce David. I most certainly do now, and I shall phone the solicitor in the morning.”
With that resolution to support her, she sat upright in the driver’s seat again. “I must get back now, Michael. But I desperately needed to see you”—she put her hand on his thigh and gave him a faint smile—”to preserve my sanity. I don’t know where David went this afternoon, but he was on the phone to Murray, so I suspect he’s at Erinwood. I don’t know if he’ll be going North again or not. I devoutly hope so! He looks so . . . so pleased with himself!”
Michael felt a wave of concern for her safety, but she caught the look in his eye and patted his leg.
“I’ll be all right. Please, don’t worry.”
“Oh, my darling!” Michael was overcome by her dignity and took her hand in both of his, bringing it to his lips. “Healey’s up against Cornanagh, too. Don’t be afraid to phone me!”
He eased out of the VW, taking care not to crack his head. The door squeaked on opening and closing.
“Quite a comedown, isn’t it?” Selina said, wryly. The car started willingly, and with one last smile and a wave, she headed off.
Just seeing Michael had done wonders for her, as she had hoped it would. She had wanted him to see what David had done to her; she’d needed the support of someone else’s outrage to fuel her own: to give tacit support to her determination never to endure such treatment again.
Another, deeper reason why she had so desperately needed to see him was to reassure herself that David’s rape had not altered her response to Michael. In fact her feelings toward Michael had altered: now she felt an even greater need for his support and comfort.
Considering her not too clear conscience on the matter of adultery, Selina might have endured David’s brutality as a well-deserved penance. But the manner in which he had conducted his domination over her, the excuse he’d given when finished, had put an entirely different complexion on the matter. He’d had to “show her who’s boss,” he’d said.
David’s treatment of her had also revealed the extent and horror of sexual practices she had only heard whispered of, and his familiarity with such perversities suggested that he had often found “partners” outside his marriage. Indeed, that was exactly how he had treated her—as a prostitute, a public convenience. Selina laughed mirthlessly. To think she had once assumed he was too restrained, too inhibited, to enjoy variations in the sexual act.
She shuddered as she remembered what he had done to her. The memory infuriated her, filled her with a coldness and fury that would protect her from a repetition of such indignities.
She didn’t know much about such injuries, but she fervently hoped she’d be able to straddle a horse in a few days. She needed Cornanagh now more than ever before.
As Michael drove back to Cornanagh, he was seething. There was no excuse for what Healey had inflicted on Selina. More than anything else, he resented being powerless to protect his lover from her legal spouse. Sybil had been on about marital rights and family problems lately, going to meetings with those friends of hers. Now he could appreciate the irony of what she’d said: the Republic maintained that the family was the basis of its society and must be preserved. With the back of the husband’s hand, it would appear. Thank heaven Selina was Anglican—divorce was not the anathema to her that it was to Catholics. She could spend the necessary time in England to file and receive a divorce, and when she was free, he would ask her to marry him—if she’d have him.
He smiled as he made the turn up to Pretty Bush. That was what he deeply desired, a marriage with Selina. God, he hoped she’d agree.
Just as he came up the dip to the Kilquade road, an astonishing cavalcade crossed the T junction: Mrs. Comyn’s venerable Morris Minor leading a positively ancient van. It had the high, straight sides, thin-spoked tires, and small windows of prewar design—and, unless his eyes mistook him, running boards, too! It proceeded at a dignified pace, a speedy twenty-five miles an hour, and he caught up with it just as it turned into the courtyard.
Michael was so intrigued by the van that he took his time joining the Carradyne women welcoming Mrs. Comyn. He grinned as he saw that Philip, Owen, and Mick were equally enchanted by the van, circling it surreptitiously. It glowed with wax, and its paintwork was flawless.
“You are indeed welcome, Mrs. Comyn,” he said when the babble of greetings had subsided. He shook her hand warmly, feeling it cool and dry in his. “You made a safe journey?”
“But of course, Captain Carradyne. Seamus is an extremely cautious driver.”
The gentleman in question now descended from the cab of the van, and Michael decided he could not have envisioned a more suitable driver to match it. Seamus was several inches shorter than Mick, partly from bowed legs and partly from stooped shoulders. He looked like two parts of a man put together: burly in the chest and upper torso and spindly from the waist down. He wore an ancient cap—had he purchased it the same year as the van?—and a brown suit so shiny that Michael wondered the threads were still intact.
“Naw then, sor, I’ll be needing a hand with the es-kit-tor. Would your lads there oblige?”
Michael gave permission even as Philip and Owen started forward to assist.
“A cup of tea, Mrs. Comyn,” Eithne began graciously, “while they unload, and then we’ll see that they have everything placed to your satisfaction in your room.”
“You are most kind. Mrs. Carradyne,” said Mrs. Comyn. She glanced back once just as she entered the house, and a flicker of anxiety crossed her face as she heard Seamus’s voice raised in orders to “be careful, now, lads. You’ll be skinned for so much as a scratch.”
With all the females officiating in the lounge, Michael made an early retreat, far too restless to endure the social amenities. He went to his office and stared at the phone. He wanted so to ring Selina, if only to reassure himself by the sound of her voice. But if Healey answered the phone, it might worsen her situation. He began to pace, then decided it would be better to see how Seamus was progressing. He ran into Philip and Owen in the hall as they were lugging cartons up the stairs.
“She brought enough books to start her own lending library,” Philip said, pausing to lean his box on the banister. “Maybe we should bring up Grandfather’s shelves.” Michael la
ughed and continued on outside.
Seamus was inside his van, folding the tarpaulins that had covered his load. As Michael watched, he took down a small brush and swept the floor, nodding to the Captain in apology as a brief flurry of dust and gravel landed in the courtyard.
“This is a fine van you have, Seamus,” Michael said, tapping the door appreciatively. “In first-rate condition.”
“Thank’ee, sor. Good equipment should be well kept. Deserves it.”
“What year would it be?”
“Why, sor, 1939.”
“And you’re the original owner.”
“Sort of, sor. I was working for Mr. Comyn, God rest his soul, when he bought it, and when he decided to replace it, sure an’ I bought it from him meself. Been with me ever since. And we do the odd bit of carting now and again.”
“Mick, I think this gentleman could do with a cup of tea.” Michael caught the merest flicker of dismay on Seamus’s craggy face. “Or perhaps a pint might go down better. It’s past four.”
“Thank’ee, Captain, sor, the pint’d be more to my liking.” Then he stepped close to Michael, a concerned expression on his face. “Mrs. Comyn is a foine woman, Captain sor, and there are some of us in the village as felt she’d been hard done by. But I can tell ’em now”—a hesitant grin began to brighten the man’s stern features—“that she’ll be grand here. Just grand!”
Michael thought that Elizabeth Comyn had been accorded the finest reference she could possess. Philip and Owen came back with questions about the van and were permitted a glimpse of its immaculate engine before all the men adjourned to the Kilpedder Inn for the promised pint.
Monday morning started out properly, with Mick’s whistle rousing Michael as the old groom made his way up the Ride to the yard to feed the stabled horses and check the field horses. Later, when Michael was having a second cup of coffee and toast with the two girls and Eithne, a strange car pulled into the courtyard and set Tory to barking fiercely. Its occupant did not immediately emerge, and then the horn was honked in a sequence that roused Eithne to her feet with a cry of surprise. She tore out of the house and into the courtyard.
“By God, it’s her Texan,” Michael said, rising from his seat to peer out the kitchen window.
“It is?” Patricia left her place, Catriona right behind her.
“Girls!” Michael cried, grabbing hold of Patricia before she could charge out to greet the visitor. “Let’s give them at least a moment or two alone!”
Before Patricia’s impatience got the better of her, a radiant Eithne escorted Davis Haggerty into the house and introduced him.
Michael decided that he liked “the Texan,” liked his firm handshake, the direct way he returned Michael’s appraising glance, the pleasantries he made on being introduced to the two girls, and his ease of manner in what could only be a trying situation. He especially approved of the man’s tenderness in his treatment of Eithne.
They all adjourned to the lounge, and minutes later Mrs. Comyn came in quietly with a coffee tray and a basket of freshly buttered toast. Michael began to feel better about having a housekeeper, if this was a sample of the service, tact, and consideration he might expect.
They had only just started the coffee when there was an urgent rap on the door and Mick came stomping in.
“Captain, the tack’s been nicked.”
Eithne immediately began to cry. “Oh, Michael, I’m so terribly sorry. It’s all our fault,” she sobbed while Patricia swore under her breath and Catriona looked stricken.
“Don’t be stupid, Eithne,” Michael said angrily, and caught Davis’s look of concern. “Sorry, Haggerty, but it has nothing to do with Eithne. We seem to be in a tit-for-tat situation with a vindictive neighbor. How did they manage to break in, Mick?”
“They pulled the bars right out of the stones, sor, and got in the small window. Allus said that should be blocked up. There’s not so much as a stirrup leather left.”
“Did they get the show saddles in the tack box?”
Mick shook his head. “Only because they couldn’t get it through the window,” he said with sour satisfaction, “and there’s no way of breaking that lock short of shooting it.”
“Thank God for that. You’ll have to excuse me, Haggerty. Likely you’ll want to have a long chat with Eithne.”
But Davis was only moments behind Michael and Mick as they hurried to the yard. Artie was standing there helplessly, as if he couldn’t grasp the loss.
The heavy Chubb lock had not been tampered with, but inside, the ragged outline of the small window, set high in the outside wall, confirmed the point of entry. The bridle and saddle racks, the rail where girths were stored, the hooks for head collars and lead ropes, the bags that held odd pieces of leather tack, the box of stirrup irons—everything was empty. The place had been cleared.
Michael stood, fists against his belt, for a long moment.
“Lemme go up to Fitzroy’s, Captain,” Mick pleaded. “I’ll find ’em, or I’ll beat it out of ’em.”
Michael held up his hand. “We don’t settle this that way, Mick.” He frowned, trying to think as Fitzroy would. “Fitzroy will either try to sell the tack on or dump it in a ditch. I’d be amazed if he’s stupid enough to hide it in a shed on his own property. First, I’ll inform the Gardái.”
Back in the house, he phoned the Gardá station in Newtownmountkennedy and reported the break-in and theft.
“We think they used either a tractor or a Land Cruiser to spring the iron grill on the window,” he told the sergeant. “Someone might just have noticed such early morning traffic. It’s light about four these mornings.”
The sergeant assured him that he’d be down directly and rang off. Then Michael dialed all the evening newspapers and inserted an advertisement, giving crisp details of the more expensive saddles, including the fact that all were marked for easy identification. That would make it much harder for someone to sell the tack on for a quick profit. Still, he rather doubted that Fitzroy intended to sell; the theft was another vengeful act, this time in retaliation for the pranks of the other night. Like the tail cutting, it was meant only to harass. But this time, in stealing items of such value, Fitzroy had committed a crime.
“If Fitzroy took it—and I can’t think who else would—we would have to find the tack on his property before we could have him charged,” Michael said, trying to defuse Mick’s fury before the old man did something dire. “And he’ll know that his farm is the first place we’d have searched.”
“Effing bloody jumped-up tinker,” Mick muttered.
“Which is exactly where we’ll go!” Michael cried suddenly. “Come on, Mick. We’ve a message to run.”
Johnny Cash and some hundred other families of the traveling folk occupied the vast field between the railway and the Shankill road near Ballybrack. During the day the men stood around the bonfires maintained even in summer, while the horses, greyhounds, and children ran wild about the place.
When Michael reached their camp he asked a group of boys for Johnny Cash. One of the lads pointed sullenly to a caravan set off closer to the embankment, where three donkeys stood, hip shot in the sun.
Johnny Cash was sitting on an upturned box beyond his caravan, talking with several other men. A blond woman peered out the open door and said something to him, pointing toward Michael’s approaching car. Johnny rose immediately, and the other men formed a curious ring just out of earshot as he came up to speak to Michael.
“Captain, sor, how be ya? How’s the filly?”
“She’s coming on a treat, Johnny. My niece is riding her out.”
“You’re a grand man, so you are, Captain. Knew you’d bring her right if anyone could.” Johnny touched his cap respectfully again, grinning at the good news. “Now, I’ve a grand gelding, five-year-old, good blood, that I’d give you fer a keen price, seeing as how it’s yourself.”
“Johnny, I’m not buying. I need your help . . . .”
“Someone’s nicked you
r horses again?” A look of indignation flashed across his face.
“No, not this time. My tack. Every strap, stirrup, and bit. I was wondering if you could keep your ears open for someone trying to pass the lot on. All our tack’s branded with a C slash c, so it’ll be easy to recognize.”
“I remember, sor, indeed I do, and very clever of you it was, too. Well, I’ll pass the word, so I will, an’ come an’ tell you anything I might hear. That’s desp’rite bad, sor. You wouldn’t be needin’ the loan of a few saddles, now would you?”
Michael grinned, but not broadly enough to give offense. “I can manage, thanks.” Then he beckoned for Johnny to lean closer. “I’ve an idea who might have nicked the stuff, Johnny. Now it’s only a notion, but it would be something you’d have the better way of checking. So, if you just happened to be up the Newcastle road near a place known as Killaois, you might possibly run across something interesting. Or somewhere nearby, in a ditch or a gorse field, or maybe one of those ruined cottages.”
Johnny straightened, closing one eye and nodding his head. “Sure, now, Captain, sor, I’ll be keeping eyes and ears open, so I will, and bring you the breath of whatever you need to know.”
When they got home, they had a welcome surprise. Artie came charging into the courtyard at the sound of their approach, brandishing a bridle overhead.
“Captain, young Robert Evans found it. In the ditch beyond Woodstock. I told him what happened. I hope that was all right.”
Michael clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. “That’s grand, Artie. And I’m relieved that it’s the Prince’s bridle. Young Robert’ll tell his dad, and Bobbie Evans is a great man for hearing what you need to know from time to time.”
“The bridle was found beyond Woodstock, ya said?” Mick asked, his eyes narrowing. “There we are, Captain, proof!”
The Lady Page 37
