The Blood Dimmed Tide

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘You believe madness overtook her.’

  ‘That might be overstating the case. Perhaps the letter was a melodramatic cry for help.’

  I had hardly to remind Yeats that the Order of the Golden Dawn had an unfortunate tendency to attract thrill-seeking females. It was a consequence of the secret society’s heavy reliance on daggers, swords and incense, as well as cords and chains in its initiation ceremonies. On more than one occasion, the heady atmosphere of its rituals had drawn the order unwanted publicity and even a sexual scandal involving a false initiation rite performed on a sixteen-year-old girl.

  ‘What about the séance tonight? Does that not provide more evidence? More clues?’

  ‘The supernatural influence certainly compounds the mystery.’

  ‘What puzzles me is why she was dressed in a hood decorated with red and black roses.’

  I allowed a pause before replying. ‘What might keep me awake at night is wondering why she died and how her body came to be in a coffin in the first place.’

  ‘But why the two colours of roses?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re symbols.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Emblems chosen by the murderer. A form of signature. A crime as gruesome as murder is sometimes exalted by the killer into a form of ritual.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken Mr Adams. They’re not the killer’s symbols. They belong to me, or rather to the Irish literary tradition. Let me explain.’

  He stood up with that familiar air of a great poet about to sweep me into his aura, a very special aura that contained secrets capable of changing one’s life. ‘Rose is the name of a girl with black hair in Irish patriotic poetry; she is Roisin Dubh, or Dark Rosaleen, and personifies Ireland. De Vere wrote on the same theme, “The little black rose shall be red at last”. The red rose signifies the flower of love that blossoms from the cross of sacrifice. Which is why the Golden Dawn, like the Rosicrucians, has adopted the symbols of the rose and the cross as its emblems.’ He stared at me. ‘Now do you understand why I am so fixated on the red and black roses?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  If Yeats was fixated on the symbol of the rose, then so were substantial sections of the esoteric communities of London and Paris, where interest in occult societies dedicated to such imagery was gaining rapidly by the day.

  ‘Don’t suppose it. Understand it.’

  Although I did not possess Yeats’ crystalline insight into literary symbolism, I could see he needed assistance. If I could not offer pearls of poetic wisdom, I could at least guide him down the practical path of commonsense.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on the facts,’ I suggested. ‘The red and black roses may be nothing more than an incidental detail in this macabre saga. However, it’s possible that whoever placed the hood on her head was trying to communicate something hidden in the same way you use the symbol of the rose in your poetry, or any symbol for that manner.’

  ‘You mean the embroidered hem carries a secret message?’

  ‘I believe it is possible.’

  ‘But for whom? The killer or the victim? Or the person who discovers the body?’

  ‘Or someone else. Perhaps the message was meant for you.’

  Yeats appeared to discount my proposition. ‘You are suggesting we have a murderer who thinks and behaves like a poet writing for an indeterminate and invisible audience. God help us all.’

  He began to pace the room.

  ‘The truth is this dead woman has me in a terrible grip,’ he said. ‘Her letter is too provocative to be ignored.’

  ‘Yet it is tantalisingly bereft of clues,’ I replied. ‘For instance, she doesn’t mention how her suspicions were aroused in the first place.’

  ‘But something has made her morbidly suspicious. Perhaps it was just a vague dread. We’ll never know.’

  ‘I wonder if she shared her fears with anyone else.’

  ‘The letter suggests she kept them secret.’

  ‘Why would she have kept them secret?’

  ‘Because she did not want the person to find out, and that suggests the killer, if there was one, was close to her, or in a position of power and influence.’

  ‘Unfortunately, there are no instruments of science to tell us with any degree of certainty whether the voice we heard tonight was the letter-writer speaking from beyond the grave.’

  Yeats had grown pale again, and he was perspiring.

  ‘What is certain is that we know nothing about this woman, apart from what is contained in this letter and the newspaper report. Nevertheless, she has appealed to the society of the Golden Dawn for assistance.’

  I detected a slight shift in Yeats’ expression, as though he had come to an important point in our discussion. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Unfortunately I cannot return to Ireland in the present circumstances,’ he said. ‘Dublin has become too political and Sligo is too damp at this time of year. Besides, I have important spiritual work to conclude in London. And I’m unable to drop my literary engagements at such short notice.’ He stared at me without blinking. ‘The simple matter is I’m not equipped to cope with such a gruesome incident. You, Mr Adams, however, must have experienced this sort of thing in your medical studies.’

  ‘My course did not include training in how to deal with dead bodies mysteriously found in coffins.’

  Yeats shuffled through his papers, as if he could not be bothered to listen. He handed me the newspaper report and the letter. ‘Mr Adams, I want you to summon all your talent and commit yourself mind and soul to investigating this young woman’s death.’

  I stared at the evidence in my hands. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to be able to do.’

  ‘Naturally, the society of the Golden Dawn will be very keen to hear your findings, and you will receive from its members all the assistance you require.’

  I hesitated to refuse. To perform a task under the behest of the Order of the Golden Dawn was to participate in a grand and secret tradition that was interwoven with the destiny of European civilisation, a tradition maintained by daring avant-garde figures such as the flamboyant mystic Aleister Crowley, who had himself described the cult society as the Hidden Church of the Holy Grail.

  At that moment, my host stood up abruptly, remembering that he had to catch an early train to Oxford to perform a poetry reading at one of the women’s colleges.

  ‘I suggest we leave it at that for tonight,’ he said. Then with profuse apologies for his sudden lack of hospitability, he rushed me out of the house.

  ‘I am very tired and have a great longing for order,’ he whispered as he closed the front door.

  4

  Page of Wands

  THE smell of dinner drifted from the kitchens of the Strand Hotel, a rich meat-heavy smell that provided no comfort to the hungry pedestrians on the street; the grey city-workers, the shop-girls, the servants and tradesmen, most of whom had been surviving for the past three years on meagre rations and what they could extemporise from their depleted larders.

  The previous year, Winston Churchill, Minister of Munitions, had requisitioned the hotel for the duration and set up offices for the Air and Naval departments in the Strand’s former ballrooms and bedrooms. Major Charles Rogers had spent nine months sitting in a deep leather armchair at a desk in Section M studying maps and reams of intelligence reports on Europe’s Atlantic seaboard. When his work was finished, he dined every evening dressed in a dinner jacket under the splendour of crystal chandeliers caressed by clouds of the finest cigar smoke.

  In spite of his elegant surroundings, Rogers found his daily tasks − the allocation of aircraft alongside the various squadrons and shipping convoys to counter the U-boat menace − frustratingly mundane.

  It upset him that military airplanes were still being used by the Admiralty solely as a tactical
weapon, in support of naval activities, rather than as a separate fighting arm. Invariably, the planes were grounded. It soon became apparent to Rogers that in the North Sea, when the moon was right for flying, the weather was probably not. Finding the long periods of desk-bound inactivity almost unbearable, Rogers had applied for a transfer to flying duties himself, but Churchill had little faith in the new-fangled aircraft and was not prepared to waste a first-class intelligence officer on one of them.

  When Rogers had pestered Churchill for a post more suited to his temperament and experience, one a little closer to the action, he was rewarded for his persistence with the additional task of monitoring the movements of Irish Republicans and their sympathisers in London. Principally he was to target the activities of secret societies devoted to the occult, which had been infiltrated by undesirable rebel elements.

  Rogers studied the file that had been handed to him.

  ‘Mystics and Irish folklorists?’ he asked Churchill with incredulity. ‘What has the war effort got to do with this ragtag band of misfits?’ He tried to make his point as forcibly as possible. The Easter Rising might have caused a little local trouble in Dublin, unnecessarily prolonged because the rebels had the bad form to kick-start their revolution on a public holiday, but surely the Admiralty had more pressing problems on its mind. What about the German U-boat campaign and the threat posed by the Kaiser’s High Seas Fleet?

  Churchill grunted and eyed him coldly.

  ‘The Admiralty has learned that the Irish rebels have sent representation to the German high command, urging them to invade along the country’s western seaboard. At the same time, their sympathisers are raising funds and support for Irish independence in this very country. Ignoring them would be akin to falling asleep in a crime-ridden city and leaving the back door wide open. Your task is simple. Here is the list of a very busy little network of rebel supporters. I want you to stop them in their tracks before they can commit treason.’

  Rogers licked his lips and tried to generate some enthusiasm in his voice.

  ‘Sounds straightforward.’

  ‘Of course it is. And remember, our country is engaged abroad in a war to end all wars, but right here, at home in this city, there are dangerous elements just as potent lurking in the shadows, and they are hell-bent on achieving their ghastly aims.’

  Rogers nodded curtly, and Churchill sighed contentedly. ‘By the way, they’re serving Beef Wellington tonight,’ he said. ‘The Admiralty never forgets that it is the stomach that governs the world, rather than the head or heart.’

  By the time Rogers had finished dining on the evening of 12 February, a fog had risen from the stagnant Thames and was pressing down upon the darkened city. He raised his lit cigar to his mouth and savoured the aroma of tobacco as he stood on the steps of the hotel. In the darkness, he heard the sound of someone coughing belligerently.

  Unexpectedly, the figure of one of his spies, a tall, lean Irishman known as Wolfe Marley, emerged from the corpse-white fog. On spotting Rogers, the spy removed his black cap. His crown of thick grey hair bristled in the dripping air, making him resemble a badger that had aggressively poked its head from its lair. He bounded up the steps and joined Rogers.

  ‘Just passing by in the course of my patriotic duty, sir,’ said the Irishman.

  Rogers felt a flicker of annoyance at being approached in such a familiar manner by one of his underlings. He had the impression that Marley had been waiting close by in the fog for some time. For what? For him to emerge from the hotel? The warmth of the Strand and the cigar’s aroma quickly evaporated. The night air tasted damp and cold.

  ‘Do you know where you are, Marley?’ Rogers’ hushed voice emanated hostility. Majors and generals in white shirts and black suits accompanied by women in glittering dresses cautiously manoeuvred around them. Marley was wearing a nondescript coat, held up by a worn-looking leather belt.

  ‘Of course I do. The stench of money and arrogance helped me navigate my way.’ He dipped his bare head in mock respect. ‘Unfortunately, growing up in Ireland has ruined my relationship with the upper classes. I see that they exist in their cocoon of wealth, but I can never seriously respect them, or see a reason for their existence. If all this were taken away by a German bomb should anyone care?’

  Rogers felt tension tug on his face. He grimaced.

  ‘Are you just going to stand here? You look like a tramp.’

  ‘I thought I’d accompany you this evening.’

  ‘Accompany me? Haven’t you other duties?’

  Marley flashed a crooked smile at Rogers, who glared back. The Irishman represented the world of subterfuge and violence, which he tried to sweep from his mind every evening on leaving the hotel. He had assigned Marley the task of watching the movements of Madame Maud Gonne MacBride, the former actress, and the widow of Major John MacBride, one of the executed leaders of the 1916 Rising. Rogers’ department had served her with a notice under the Defence of the Realm Act, placing her under house arrest in Balfour Street. The authorities did not want the charismatic widow to return to Ireland, fearful that once set loose she might stir up the embers of rebellion like a modern day Joan of Arc.

  ‘I hope our grieving widow is keeping you busy,’ said Rogers.

  Marley’s head darted about, taking in the windows of the hotel and the enormous span of the brightly lit dining room. He stared with fierce interest at the departing staff. Compared to their well-fed faces glowing with alcohol, he looked much too gaunt and starved. There was no excess left to his face or body. His eyes were like those of a ravenous fish swimming in a lifeless pool.

  ‘I’ve been searching for her all week,’ said Marley.

  ‘Searching?’ Rogers’ voice grew more clipped. ‘The woman’s under house arrest. And you’re meant to be watching her.’

  ‘Somehow she’s got wind of the hunting dogs following her. Unbeknownst to us, she’s been slipping in and out of her house in the disguise of a Red Cross nurse. The black widow has lost none of her theatrical skills. In fact, now that she has a secret audience they are flourishing.’

  Rogers frowned at Marley. ‘Gonne is an actress. A lover of disguises and masks. What’s so important about this that it couldn’t wait until our next scheduled meeting?’

  Marley flexed his tongue and licked his lips. ‘Last night, I followed her to a house off Edgware Street. There was a séance taking place upstairs.’

  ‘Have you come to warn me that the widow is recruiting ghosts?’ interrupted Rogers. ‘Or perhaps you’re worried she’s using a medium to take commands from her executed husband?’

  ‘William Butler Yeats was in attendance at the séance.’

  A distant horn throbbed from the direction of the Thames. In the fog, it felt like a ghostly vibration.

  ‘So? Everyone knows that Ireland’s most famous living poet is obsessed with ghosts.’

  ‘I believe revolution is starting to interfere with his ghost-hunting. The house he visited was a former safe house for Irish rebels on the run. It’s currently being rented by a man called Theodore Havel, who used to be one of the most successful weapon smugglers in Europe. This is about more than an obsession with the supernatural.’

  ‘Gonne is part of Yeats’ hobby, too. No one has a greater personal interest in that woman. He would go to the ends of the earth to catch a glimpse of her.’

  ‘He’s not that servile or a fool.’ Marley bared his teeth. A look of excitement came over his features. ‘My informants tell me that a plot to bring Gonne back to Ireland is at an advanced stage. Along with a large consignment of weapons from Germany. I believe she poses a very dangerous threat to the nation’s security.’

  ‘And what part does Yeats play in all this?’ Rogers inspected him over his cigar.

  ‘I’m short of information in that regard. We should not forget that Yeats was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood in his
youth. He also had links with several of the traitors behind the Easter Rising. Yeats likes to think of himself as a great benefactor to the Irish nationalist cause. It’s part of his mystical persona.’

  ‘There is no such thing as the Irish Republican Brotherhood anymore. At least not in any form we’re familiar with. That’s the problem with these hot-headed revolutionaries and literary types. Always rowing and forming splinter groups. If Yeats is still involved politically then it’s with the splinter of a splinter group.’

  ‘Yet he’s there in the background. Pulling the strings, I suspect.’

  ‘Nonsense. I know Yeats from the Dorchester Club, and he’s a typical Irishman. There’s no real harm in him. He just can’t choose carefully enough. Not his lovers nor his friends. Nor where his national allegiance lies.’

  ‘Yeats wants it both ways. He wants his English friends to treat him like a fellow Englishman, while Gonne and her Irish rebel friends expect him to behave like a passionate nationalist.’

  Rogers stubbed out his cigar. ‘The department are more interested in watching Gonne. The idea of that mad woman roaming London at large would give my commanders nightmares. Remember she’s meant to be under house arrest.’

  ‘She knows she’s being watched and she’s enjoying it. She abhors anonymity. You could say she’s conducted her whole life in front of an audience.’

  ‘You knew her professionally, didn’t you?’ Rogers’ face sharpened.

  ‘A little. Before the war.’ Marley’s accent changed to that of an actor in a music hall sketch ‘When the ‘Oirish theatre was in its heyday, I treaded the stage day and night at the Abbey.’

  ‘An actor and a spy. Quite a combination. And there was me thinking you were just a second-rate informer.’

  ‘Deception is my game now.’