The Blood Dimmed Tide

by Anthony Quinn

  He removed Yeats’ hood and helped him to an empty seat in the shadows, where the four men surrounded him. A judge, an admiral, a doctor and a professor; each of them representing the highest levels of their professions.

  The Ruling Chief handed a glass of brandy to Yeats, who took a drink with a trembling hand. The Chief raised his glass and proposed a toast to the newest guardian of the Golden Dawn. The men clinked their glasses and waited for the colour to return to Yeats’ face.

  ‘What message do you have for us?’ asked the professor.

  All five believed that Yeats was a world-master at fantastical imaginings. Their experiences had taught them that messages and images could well up from a source deeper than the individual memory or subconscious, from a universal store they called the Anima Mundi, the soul of the world. The pool of wisdom offered guidance toward resolving personal dilemmas, as well as bestowing a rich source of imagery for poets, writers and painters.

  ‘The spirits revealed an image to me,’ replied Yeats. ‘A man whipping his own shadow while a blood-dimmed tide advanced towards him.’

  ‘What does it signify?’

  ‘The imminent destruction of civilisation.’ Yeats’ words were hushed but they filled the tapestry-lined room.

  The others fell silent.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the professor.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious what is happening to society? Last night, for instance, I was set upon by two vagabonds. Only the quick assistance of a passing policeman saved me from a violent attack. Further afield the situation is worse. Much worse. Europe is reeling from the effects of war, while in Russia the threat of Bolshevism is on the rise. War has broken out between the sexes. Not only are women doing the jobs of men, but millions will never have husbands. Ireland is on the brink of rebellion and the Protestant Ascendancy has lost its grip. Civilisation and the old order are dying.’

  The five men remained silent. Yeats was a poet, respected for the intensity of his vision. Sometimes, however, the fervour of his words verged on intellectual intimidation. They studied the poet as he sat slumped in his chair. His face was still very white and his eyes had a look of dark desperation. Perhaps the initiation rite had taken its toll on his delicate sensibilities, they decided.

  The professor changed the topic of conversation. ‘We have read your essay on the dissensions of the Greeks and Romans, and we have made our corrections and amplifications.’

  ‘Then you should understand the threat posed by the coming chaos,’ replied Yeats. ‘All civilisations come to an end when they have given their light like burned-out wicks.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said the admiral. ‘But what does a poet know of the modern age and these threats to society.’

  ‘Poets can see things others can’t. Elements falling into place. A design. A shape in the chaos of the age.’

  ‘And what have you discerned?’

  ‘That after an age of truth, mechanism, science and peace comes an age of freedom, fiction, evil and war. Our age has burned itself to the wick.’

  ‘What do you propose we do?’ asked the judge.

  ‘That is a question I keep asking myself.’ Yeats’ eyes glazed over as his thoughts turned inward.

  ‘Perhaps Mr Yeats is correct,’ said the Ruling Chief. ‘Perhaps we should consider the terror that is to come.’

  The doctor interrupted. ‘I fear that we are too timid at wielding our influence and embracing these unfolding events. Like a deferential husband reluctant to consummate his marriage.’ He glanced pointedly at Yeats. ‘What I see in society is not an end but a transformation. This is no accidental pattern. We are witnessing the growing pains of democracy and social conscience. The Order should support these changes, such as the cry for political reform, rather than oppose them. We must join the modern world rather than hark to a dim and glorious past.’

  ‘I’m afraid you are mistaken,’ replied Yeats.

  ‘Enlighten me – how?’ The doctor appraised him with troubled eyes.

  ‘England has become the victim of powerful forces. Accumulated over centuries.’ Yeats’ voice was strained, strident almost. ‘Civilisation does not progress from stage to stage, guided by reason and truth. First we had the outbreak of war with Germany, then the Easter Rising and the execution of its leaders. The whole of Ireland seethes with rebellion, threatening the very fabric of the British Empire. This is no orderly descent from level to level. No waterfall but a whirlpool. A gyre.’

  A brooding silence settled on the gathering. The doctor found himself fixated by Yeats’ haunted-looking eyes. A light sheen of perspiration had formed on the poet’s brow, and his long, delicate fingers still shook slightly as he held his glass. He wondered whether Yeats was ill or suffering from a mental imbalance. It seemed clear that he needed some form of retreat or recuperation.

  ‘Willie, you look drained,’ said the Chief. ‘Is something else preying on your mind? Perhaps it’s this business with the dead girl’s letter?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Yeats voice fell to a whisper. ‘I’ve hardly slept since I learned of its contents. Last night I barely got a wink.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. But there is no need to feel anxious about the matter. As long as we proceed with caution. Where is Mr Adams, our ghost-catcher?’

  ‘At Lissadell House. A safe vantage point on the Sligo coast. One where he won’t be bothered by sinister elements.’

  ‘He has agreed to carry out our instructions?’

  ‘He believes devoutly in the principles of the Golden Dawn.’

  ‘And what about Maud Gonne? Will she obey our instructions?’

  ‘Most definitely not.’ Yeats managed a weak smile.

  ‘She is no longer a believer?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘An atheist?’

  ‘A Catholic.’

  ‘What a pity.’

  The admiral joined in. ‘If Mr Adams manages to make contact with this ghost, there will be dramatic consequences for the Golden Dawn.’

  ‘Do you mean an upsurge in spiritual fervour?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Precisely. Think of the excitement it will cause, not only among members of the Order, but in the hearts of all people who want to believe in an afterlife. We will have thousands knocking on our doors to help them make contact with their loved ones. Mr Adams might soon find his services in great demand.’

  ‘But what if he fails?’ asked the judge.

  ‘We would be open to ridicule and the foundations of the Order undermined.’

  ‘Which is why we must control the situation at its source,’ said the chief, clutching his glass of brandy tightly.

  ‘Whether we like it or not, the news will spread rapidly,’ said the judge. ‘I dread to think of the sensation the press will make of this, if they ever get wind of it.’

  ‘It is vital they don’t. We have had too much criticism from them already. We should not offer them any encouragement.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What age is Mr Adams?’ inquired the judge.

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Isn’t he rather young to be pursuing the secrets of the dead?’

  Yeats seemed to shrink into himself. ‘If he was learning the piano he’d be considered too old already,’ he said.

  ‘But shouldn’t he have a senior member of the Order to guide him?’

  The men whispered among themselves.

  The Chief gripped his walking cane, and spoke, ignoring the look of rising distress on Yeats’ face. ‘Mr Yeats, the Order has decided to entrust you with taking charge of this task. You must return to Ireland and direct Mr Adams as he unravels this mystery.’

  The poet said nothing. He simply rubbed his hand across his temple and eyes.

  ‘A piece of advice, Mr Yeats,’ added the admiral. ‘Be sure not to hand yourself over t
o the first mob you encounter there.’

  Before Yeats could reply, a gentle knock on the door interrupted the proceedings.

  ‘Yes?’ said the Chief.

  The butler peered around the door. ‘There is a gentleman below behaving in a very insistent manner,’ he said in a worried voice. ‘I’m afraid he won’t go away. He’s from the Daily Telegraph.’

  Everyone in the room stiffened to attention. Even the shimmering figures on the tapestries seemed to rouse themselves from the walls and lean into the chamber.

  The butler’s voice was grave. ‘The newspaper would like a statement about claims that members of the Order have become entangled in a murder scandal in Ireland.’

  The Ruling Chief of the Golden Dawn clenched the arms of his chair so tightly his pale knuckles showed right through the skin.

  9

  Ace of Cups

  ‘THIS squalid mud terrace once housed a dozen families,’ declared Denver, flicking his whip at what seemed to be the decaying end of a long dunghill. ‘Rosemary lived with her father in one of the last fragments of a hundred-year-old village.’

  It was raining steadily as we made our way along the back roads to Lissadell House, and my horse kept slithering on patches of wet ground. If Denver had not pointed out the squat cottage I would have mistaken it for a straw-covered hummock and not given it a second glance.

  I dismounted and followed the estate manager as he pushed back clumps of witch hazel and sauntered up a weed-grown path to a half door. The low walls of the cottage had been whitewashed once, but not much had survived the Atlantic winters. The only sign of life was a whisper of smoke rising from a chimney pot sitting half-collapsed in the rotten thatch. The cottage itself was little more than a hovel, hidden from the rest of the estate as though thrust to the back of its consciousness. Briars grappled the lopsided walls, threatening to pull them into a deeper oblivion.

  Denver opened the door without knocking. He did not bother with the usual formalities of an introduction or an apology for arriving unannounced. A voice from within warned us to be aware of the step. We entered a main room barely lit by a turf fire, which flickered and hissed with drops of rain skittering down the wide chimney. I peered into the darkness at what seemed to be the blackened carcasses of ancient furniture.

  ‘Are you sick, Mr O’Grady?’ asked Denver.

  A shape moved by the fire. The springs creaked on a dilapidated chair and an old man rose to his feet.

  ‘No,’ he answered. He watched us silently. I could sense his body stiffen beneath his ragged shirt. A visit from the estate manager was hardly an occasion to be greeted warmly.

  ‘Perhaps we’ve come at a wrong time,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he replied again. ‘You haven’t come at a wrong time.’ There was a further silence.

  Denver walked in and poked at the fire until the dark red embers lit up the dingy cell. Sparks rifled up the chimney and were snuffed out in the thick smoke. The walls hung bare, apart from a calendar showing the shortest month of the year, and a picture of the Sacred Heart, mantled in gloom. Mildewed potato skins covered a wooden table. The only noise was the mindless fidgeting of birds and small creatures in the thatch. I got the impression that the cottage’s one treasure had been forcibly removed and was gone forever.

  ‘I’ve brought you a visitor,’ said Denver.

  Mr O’Grady croaked a few words of muffled welcome and backed away.

  ‘This is Mr Charles Adams from London,’ said Denver. ‘He is conducting an investigation into your daughter’s death.’ His voice was cold and matter-of-fact, as though our visit was a routine piece of business, like a livestock inspection.

  The old man stared at me. ‘What do people from London care about my daughter?’ His voice was edged with soot and damp. He sat down again and watched me from the vantage point of a dark corner, silent, unblinking. Smoke wafted in threads through the thatch and sneaked back into the room, hiding his face.

  ‘Fire away with your questions, Mr Adams,’ said Denver.

  ‘I’ll just stay a moment to warm up.’ He stood with his broad back against the fire. ‘I’ll be on my way when the rain eases.’

  I told O’Grady that my visit was personal rather than part of any official investigation.

  ‘A couple of months ago, your daughter sent a letter to an associate of mine, claiming that she was living in mortal fear for her life. I need your help to shed light on the letter.’

  ‘How do you think I can help?’ He looked genuinely mystified. He seemed unsure if I had come to tease him, or prolong his agony, or whether I really wanted to help solve the mystery of his daughter’s death.

  A clamour of caws echoed down the chimney. Denver and the old man started. I realised I was sharing a room with two tense people. I could understand the old man’s unease but what was making Denver so tense?

  ‘Rosemary was a private girl,’ her father explained, with a hint of agitation in his voice. ‘She kept herself to herself.’

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ whispered Denver, loud enough to be heard.

  The old man fell silent again. Denver studied us for a long moment, and then the sound of the horses whinnying distracted him. ‘I’ll be outside,’ he said.

  As soon as Denver had closed the door, the old man extracted a few lumps of crumbling turf from a bucket and crammed them onto the fire. Abruptly, the light in the room was extinguished.

  ‘Are you one of them?’ he asked.

  ‘One of whom?’

  I could sense his eyes scrutinising me intensely, searching for a faltering, a shift of the gaze, a nervous tic.

  ‘I can see you’re probably not,’ he said eventually. ‘I have to keep a watch for them.’

  ‘For whom?’ Slowly my eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  ‘Agents of the British Admiralty. I was warned to be on my guard.’ He stared at me with more than a flicker of interest. ‘I never heard of a letter. What did it say?’

  ‘She was concerned someone was trying to murder her. Does that surprise you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘How much do you know of what is going on in this country?’

  ‘Practically nothing.’

  ‘Then you have no starting point for your investigation.’

  ‘My starting point is your daughter’s personal life, the people she knew, the things she did.’

  ‘Her private life is not your concern.’

  ‘I only want to know about her private life because she had an inkling that a murderer was targeting her. She’s not the guilty party.’

  He did not take his eyes off me. He watched me warily as though convinced I had been sent to bring him fresh suffering.

  ‘Nothing you tell me will be shared with another soul,’ I reassured him.

  He paused. His black-rimmed eyes stared at me through the turf-smoke.

  ‘Mr Adams, you’re too late. There is nothing left of my daughter’s life to talk about or show you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I burned everything she owned.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was under orders.’ His eyes drifted away.

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘A woman came to my house the day after they found her body. She rode a black horse and said she was from the Daughters of Erin. She was very forceful in her instructions. She warned me that the police might find treasonable material in her bedroom.’

  ‘What did you burn?’

  ‘Pamphlets. Letters. Notebooks of her writing. I didn’t make a list. But the woman was right to warn me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because my daughter was a revolutionary. She was prepared to defy British Rule by whatever means necessary.’

  He spoke with pride, not aggressively, but with a shade of excitement in his heavy eye
s. I wondered how did a servant girl become a revolutionary. Did she join a club, or pay a subscription? Or was she part of a secret society with rituals and a code of silence?

  ‘What treasonable material did you find?’ I asked.

  He considered my question in wary silence. I could understand why the Daughters of Erin might want to hamper an investigation into Rosemary’s death. They were obviously fearful of what stories and names might come to the surface, but why would her father go along with their wishes? There was something both suffocating and confusing about the old man’s grief.

  ‘Rosemary got pulled into politics while working at Lissadell House,’ he explained. ‘She was Constance Gore-Booth’s favourite servant. She accompanied her on all the political rallies. Every day there was a new pamphlet or book to read. The mistress spoiled her with education. Taught her to read and write, and compose letters. I could see the changes in my daughter. She grew hard-headed and serious. A wave of bitterness washed over her heart. Life isn’t as simple as a political pamphlet, but it was pointless telling her so. With every passing week, she grew angrier, until all she could talk about was the rebellion.’

  ‘What do you know of this group, the Daughters of Erin?’

  ‘Only some gossip. I heard rumours of unusual relationships among its members.’ His eyes darted away. ‘Their leaders cut their hair and wear their dresses short, showing their legs right up to the calf. Sometimes they put on trousers and ride horses in twos and threes like the men I used to see riding on the slopes of Ben Bulben with their swords swinging.’

  He leaned forward and poked the fire, setting off a creaking noise that might have been his joints or the chair. Smoke spiralled from the turf and the darkness in the room expanded.

  ‘I asked Rosemary why she should devote herself to a group run by upper-class English women. But she told me that God had chosen them to free Ireland from British Rule.’

  ‘Was there anything missing from her room before you cleared it out? Something that should have been there but wasn’t?’