The Blood Dimmed Tide

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘Why won’t you answer?’ insisted Marley. ‘Are you a Christian?’

  ‘If you mean born again,’ I stammered, ‘then yes I am.’

  Grimes seemed satisfied with my answer but Marley’s face was still dark with suspicion. A part of me felt sick with dread. I was beginning to realise that I had stepped into a labyrinth, a twilight world of secret societies and revolutionaries, dangerous rituals involving young women and mysterious messages left behind by the dead.

  Some kind of night bird screeched nearby. Darkness was advancing. We stood silently and listened. The bird called again.

  ‘Perhaps that’s Rosemary’s ghost enjoying the night air,’ said Denver with a smirk.

  ‘Take your pick,’ replied Marley. ‘Faeries, goblins, witches, or Captain Oates changed into a wolf.’

  ‘What is there to believe or not to believe?’ said Denver.

  Grimes turned to me. ‘I’m getting worried for you, Mr Adams. I have this foreboding.’

  ‘What sort of foreboding?’

  ‘This is not part of the normal society you know. You must be the first Englishman to visit Sligo armed with nothing more than a hastily scribbled alphabet.’

  ‘I have an obligation that I must fulfil.’

  ‘You’re still intent on continuing to pry?’

  ‘I only want to find out what happened to Miss O’Grady.’

  ‘It’s time to start considering what will happen to you,’ said Marley. ‘You have no legal authority to be in this cottage. You don’t know the people of this country. You don’t even pretend to understand the dangerous political situation, which is a relief. You can’t investigate. All you can do is become entangled.’

  ‘Entangled with what?’

  ‘Ireland. Which is darker and more complicated than even Mr Yeats’ poetry suggests.’

  I took back Rosemary’s letter and left the room.

  ‘Be careful with your ghost hunt, Mr Adams,’ called Marley. ‘In my experience spirits are created, not discovered. We the living are but transient shadows. Never for a moment can we trouble the nothingness of the dead.’

  10

  Two of Cups

  WE threaded the horses through dripping trees as an evening mist descended. I could feel the salty warm breath of the sea change instantly to water droplets as it encountered the colder air of the forest. Denver followed well-trodden paths that were recognizable even when shrouded in mist. He seemed to know the forest intimately. A solitary oak loomed in the fog, its frame bare as winter, followed by a thicket of willows furred with spring blossom. A blackbird scolded us from a tier of ivy that threatened to pull down a stately elm. Its gnarled bough made Denver suddenly veer left. He sat proudly on his mare, avoiding conversation or eye contact, as though he were accompanying a prisoner back to his cell. I began to worry that a fog-bound forest might prove an easy place for a ghost-catcher to vanish.

  The prod of his whip in my chest stirred me from my thoughts.

  ‘Hold your horse and be still,’ he said. ‘Look over your right shoulder. Between the branches of the hornbeam.’

  I turned my head as slowly as possible and examined the puffs of vapour swirling like smoke into the hungry void of the forest. The mist snagged around the shape of what appeared to be a skeletal tree, and then I realised I was staring at the thin figure of a man. Sweat banded my forehead, in spite of the cold air. The stranger seemed unaware of our proximity, transfixed by something floating before him in the nothingness. He was dressed in a full military uniform that was black with mud and the decomposing leaves of the forest. The scene was so quiet I could hear the breathing of the horses and the squelching of mud sticking to the man’s boots as he began arranging invisible objects on a mossy tree stump. He held out his hands as if he were inviting a guest to a dinner table. Then he sat down and mimed the actions of serving food.

  He spoke in a clipped English accent. ‘We’re both a bit dishevelled but that can be fixed up later.’ His eyes followed the sinuous movements of a wraith of mist as though it were a warm, living body.

  ‘After we’ve finished eating we could go for a stroll along the beach,’ he added. For several moments, he busied himself at his phantom table, and then he sighed.

  ‘Can’t you talk about anything else,’ he chided. ‘You’ve been wandering endlessly but now it’s time to enjoy the meal and chat about ordinary matters.’

  A look of distress flickered on his pale face. He listened intently, nodding from time to time, until his attention was distracted by the sound of a branch snapping deeper in the forest. He crouched, and, whipping out a pistol, pointed it in random directions. He crept off, disappearing silently into the mist like a submerging sea-creature.

  Denver blew out a relieved sigh. ‘There is proof, if any were needed, that Captain Oates’ wits are out.’

  ‘What do you think he was doing?’ I inquired.

  ‘Dining with the faeries. The locals say anyone who eats their food and drinks their drink is bewitched forever.’

  When we arrived at Lissadell, the house was no longer a stately mansion but a grey wedge shrouded in mist. I glanced up at the looming flank of the west wing. Electric lights were blazing from the conservatory, where a dinner party was in full swing. The effect was as though the walls of mist had creaked open, revealing a fantastical world of immaculately groomed men and women being served glasses of champagne and canapés under sparkling chandeliers. In the distance, the sea churned endlessly. I felt as though I was staring at an illusion, like Oates’ dinner scene, an image invented from the subconscious to fill the murky void.

  ‘You’ve been invited to the dance,’ said Denver abruptly. ‘The Gore-Booths want to meet with you.’

  ‘I have no other plans.’

  ‘This is an invitation you can’t refuse.’

  I followed him with the strong suspicion the summons might be a means to continue keeping me under close observation. Red-stockinged doormen greeted us as we mounted the steps to the marbled entrance hall. Denver looked as though he relished the grandeur of his surroundings.

  ‘Count yourself lucky the Gore-Booths are running out of guests to fill their great halls,’ he whispered. ‘In the current climate, they’d throw a ball for a new litter of pups.’

  Gilded full-length mirrors along the walls ensured I could view more of myself than I had seen in a month.

  ‘Before the war they used to book an entire orchestra for these dances,’ said Denver.

  Strains of gramophone music greeted us as we strolled into a conservatory filled with people moving about and conversing with an exalted air, like figures trapped in a perfect bubble. I recognised the tune from Verdi’s Nabucco. Groups of people turned to stare at me, and I felt like a Hebrew slave marched before Babylonian royalty. I could sense a breathless state of anticipation from the women, while the men regarded me over their trimmed beards and moustaches with suspicion. Slowly, they resumed their conversations.

  ‘That’s it, Mr Ghost-catcher,’ hissed Denver, ‘you’re on your own now.’

  The leading families of the Protestant Ascendancy were gathered before me, still desperately trying to prove they were the country’s finest. They gave off a volatile aroma of power, money and fear. However, Denver’s tour of the abandoned estates had brought home to me the abnormality of their existence in this troubled land. A butler turned up the gramophone, as though the music were a blunt instrument to blot out the sound of something unnerving in the distance, the sound of looming danger. Laced curtains dangled at the side of cracked and boarded up windows. Young women in crisp dresses ran to greet each other with relieved smiles to find they were not the only ones to have stayed behind.

  My nose winced at the odour of damp wood and sour cloth not quite smothered by an artificial fragrance of flowers, and something more sinister, the acrid smell of paraffin. I sensed how important it was to
act as though I did not notice the smell. It was the smell of destruction and decay, and no one in the room wanted to be reminded of it. If the pretence that all was fine and normal broke, then many more would be swept away on boats to England. An elderly couple bravely took to the empty floor. As long as the music played and the champagne flowed, death and destruction might assume an elegant shape, one that they could all bear. More couples joined them on the floor.

  I turned to look for Denver, and found that a pretty, dark-haired woman had grasped him by the arm. He introduced me to Clarissa Carty, his fiancée. Her eyes fully engaged with mine, as she ran her hand along her cheek and throat. She was wearing a white lace blouse, opened at the neck to reveal a necklace with a silver crucifix and a cluster of red gems in the shape of a rose. I had seen a similar necklace before but could not recall precisely where.

  A figure tore itself away from one of the chatting groups. A man in a white dinner jacket with glassy eyes and a slightly brutal mouth stepped towards me with the air of someone about to evict a troublesome tenant. At the last second, he flashed a grin and introduced himself as the sixth Baronet of Lissadell, Sir Josslyn Richard Gore-Booth. Denver had informed me that Sir Josslyn was the first landlord in Ireland to sell his land to his tenants after the Land Act, a decision which explained why the mansion was still intact when so many others had fallen into ruin.

  ‘Glad to see you’ve joined us, Mr Adams,’ said the Baronet. ‘Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the fun.’

  Women in décolleté gowns and men in tuxedos glided behind him. The party might have been in full swing but the crowd seemed distracted. I shook the Baronet’s hand and could not help but notice the sidelong glances and whispers.

  ‘Mr Yeats has informed me you’re here on behalf of his occult society,’ he said. A woman dressed in a sparkling gown of chiffon, who I took to be his wife, appeared at his shoulder. Denver spotted us and hovered at the edge of our company. I kept catching the gaze of his fiancée. At one point, she wrinkled her nose at me.

  ‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said the Baronet. ‘This part of Sligo is the British Empire’s greatest centre for wandering spirits and séances.’

  ‘Sounds more like London at the current time,’ I remarked. ‘One hundred thousand grieving widows have triggered a major upheaval in terms of supernatural agitation.’

  ‘Then why bother to come here if you’re searching for ghosts?’

  A small, attentive group had assembled around the Baronet.

  ‘I’ve come to search for one ghost in particular. That of Rosemary O’Grady.’

  The group fell silent, and I had the uncomfortable sensation of enclosure. There was so much suspicion amongst the guests; I felt it float above their transfixed faces like a battalion of little Zeppelins. The music stopped and the only sound in the room was the clicking of ladies’ shoes deserting the dance floor.

  ‘I hope you haven’t come to cause us trouble,’ said one of the men in tuxedos. He lit a cigar and relaxed into a nearby chair. His tuxedo climbed up his ample belly. ‘I have to warn you that I have a licence to employ twenty emergency men to round up any agitators.’

  ‘Forgive us, Mr Adams,’ said the Baronet’s wife. ‘We are wary of every newcomer to Sligo.’

  ‘We keep a sharp look-out,’ continued the man in the seat, ‘for subversives bent on stirring up the locals. I’ll bet your friend is mixed up in this rebellion.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The poet that draws the King’s pension yet dreams of Irish independence.’ A row of sharp teeth appeared in his beard. His eyes were humourless, alert.

  ‘Mr Yeats skedaddled to London when things got too hot for him in Dublin,’ said Denver. ‘He ran like a rabbit. That’s proof he’s a coward, not a subversive.’

  Sir Josslyn’s wife fluttered her arms in a cloud of chiffon. ‘Come now, let’s hear no more of these serious matters.’ She grabbed her husband by the arm. ‘You haven’t said hello yet to Uncle Montgomery.’

  Sir Josslyn politely nodded in my direction. ‘I hope you have a successful stay here, Mr Adams,’ he said. ‘Duty calls.’

  The circle dissolved and I was on my own again. I spent the next half hour hovering at the fringes of the swaying crowd, until Denver’s fiancée took pity on me. She sidled up alongside.

  ‘I’m wondering why you keep glancing at me,’ she said with a straight face. ‘Do you think I’m a ghost?’

  I returned her gaze. Stately looking couples danced by us with a minimum of movement and speech.

  ‘I could not be more dazzled if you were.’

  She leaned towards my ear as if confiding a secret. ‘This is the last ballroom at the edge of Europe. At the western-most edge of the Empire. All the other ballrooms in this part of the country are empty of everything but ghosts.’

  ‘I thought the environs were lacking in joie de vivre.’

  She grabbed me by the arm. ‘Would you care for a dance?’

  I barely had time to nod. She was quick and lively, holding my left arm with her right, guiding me onto the floor. We locked in with the other dancing couples.

  ‘People are calling you a meddling fool, Mr Adams,’ she said. ‘They’re taking bets that you will be on the next mail boat to the mainland.’

  Her accent was more musical than the upper-class tones that filled the ballroom. It was pure lilting Irish. Somehow, she did not feel the need to anglicise her voice.

  ‘If I were less a fool, I’d be booking my passage now.’

  ‘You’re not a quitter, Mr Adams, are you?’

  ‘I haven’t come on holiday, if that’s what you mean.’ I looked into her eyes, which shone with a fearless light.

  ‘I know someone who’s desperate to meet you tonight,’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. I followed the line of her gaze and found Denver’s glaring figure standing at a table of drinks. Something about her behaviour suggested he might be more her enemy than her lover. ‘Someone who wants to talk to you about the murdered girl.’

  I tried not to flinch. ‘I’m all ears,’ I said.

  ‘Meet me in half an hour at Lissadell beach,’ she whispered.

  It was almost midnight, the mist had lifted and a thin beam of moonlight was enough to guide me to the beach. I stood at the edge of the sea and waited. The only sound was the continual wash and hiss of the waves.

  A soft scuffling sound in the sand made me spin round. A horse and rider appeared out of the night and drew to a halt. The rider’s hand reached down and a cold but courteous voice beckoned me to climb on behind. I stepped backwards, half-stumbling. I had the chilling sensation that what was happening was all wrong, that bearing down upon me was the rider Denver had chased that afternoon. But now, up close, I could see the feminine shape of the rider’s hand, and the outline of a delicate neck. It was a young woman, not a boy. The rider had hidden her hair under a cap, and wrapped a scarf around her mouth, but I recognised the voice of Clarissa Carty.

  ‘We’ve several miles to ride, Mr Adams. Climb up!’ Her cheeks were flushed pink with excitement.

  ‘I’d rather walk.’

  ‘Be reasonable.’ The scarf slipped and I saw a patient smile like that of a mother rebuking an unruly child. ‘We can’t wait about.’

  ‘Where do you propose to take me?’

  She sighed. ‘To a circle of friends. In this country, it’s important to know exactly who one’s friends are. Trust me on this.’

  I clambered onto the horse. I could feel a slick of warm sweat on its flanks. It had been riding for some time. Clarissa slipped her boots out of the stirrups and I felt them dangle by my shins. With her encouragement, I stepped into the stirrups. Then she handed me a hood to wear.

  ‘I’d rather see where I’m going,’ I said.

  ‘It’s in your interests to be ignorant of your destination.’

  ‘Peopl
e will think you’ve kidnapped me.’

  ‘That is the intention. The Admiralty’s spies are everywhere.’

  Reluctantly, I pulled on the hood and adjusted my seat. No sooner had the stirrups taken my weight, than Clarissa pushed into the horse’s undercarriage with her free heels and the animal set off at a brisk canter.

  I remembered the feeling I’d had earlier that afternoon, the thrill of the chase along overgrown paths. The thrill returned, only this time it was undercut by an incipient panic. In my mind’s eye, the horse’s gallop took us on a terrifying journey past crashing waves full of drowning girls, trees haunted by ghosts and mad soldiers, spies skulking behind shadows. When the branches of a thorn bush whipped my hood, I mistook them for sharp, grabbing fingers threatening to pull me into a bottomless grave.

  11

  Queen of Swords

  After an hour of swift and reckless riding, we reached our destination. I pulled off my hood. We had drawn up to a building that was like a small church or schoolhouse. The windows were blacked out with heavy cloth. My eyes, made keen by the darkness of the hood, picked out the small fluttering passage of bats against a gauzy moon. A bell rang out one o’clock from somewhere nearby.

  ‘Make the most of this visit, Mr Adams,’ said Clarissa. ‘It will certainly open your eyes.’

  She led me to a red door with a heavy brass handle. ‘Wait here,’ she advised, while leading the horses to a stable at the side of the building.

  After several minutes, the door opened to the sound of women singing. ‘Ah, my English sorcerer,’ said a voice with a slight hint of mockery. ‘Don’t be shy, Mr Adams. We’re not going to cook you.’ She waved me into a hallway. ‘Men usually feel a little nervous when I introduce them to my handmaidens, the Daughters of Erin.’

  My hostess had recognised me first. She had exchanged her Red Cross uniform for a handsome black velveteen cloak and a more theatrical look, her make-up showing to strongest effect her seductive eyes. It suddenly dawned on me that the tall figure framing the doorway was none other than Maud Gonne. She moved back a little but her eyes invited me closer. What I found most disconcerting about her gaze was the confidence that blazed from within. I stepped into the hallway. Her presence seemed to swell and fill the narrow space.