Decline in Prophets (41 page)

“Ed, listen to me… you’ll be fine… just don’t…” He held her tightly trying to still the convulsions.

Clyde watched in horror. He’d got Edna to vomit up as much of the poison as he could—but she was in a bad way. It would be too late by the time they got her to a hospital.

The Mercedes screamed towards them, its headlamps casting the scene into stark brightness. Milton drove straight over garden beds and small shrubs in his haste. At this point Rowland
couldn’t have cared if the poet had driven his beloved roadster over a cliff. Edna writhed and sobbed in agony in his arms.

“Rowly, is your paintbox in the back?” Clyde asked.

“Yes,” Rowland replied too distraught to wonder at the question.

Clyde ran to the car and threw open the luggage compartment. He unlatched Rowland’s paintbox and rummaged through the trays.

“Thank God,” he muttered as he found some sticks of charcoal. He returned to Edna, crushing the sticks in his hand as he went.

“Rowly, I’ve got to get her to swallow this,” he said holding up a handful of roughly crushed charcoal. “I’m not certain, but I think it might absorb some of the
strychnine.”

Rowland was ready to try anything. They pushed some of the black pieces into Edna’s mouth. “Come on, Ed, just a bit more.”

Edna coughed, choking on the dry substance.

“She can’t swallow it like that,” Rowland said, despairing. “There’s water in the car.” He turned to Milton. “With the drinks.” The
Mercedes’ beverage compartment held soda water, a mixer for the spirits.

Milton moved quickly and returned with the bottle.

Gradually they fed Edna the charcoal and washed it down with soda water. The spasms and convulsions continued.

Rowland carried her into the car and they tried to make her comfortable. He had just started the engine when they heard the sirens: Colin Delaney and his officers had arrived. With them, Van
Hook and Wilfred, in the latter’s new green Continental.

“Rowly wait!” Wilfred stayed his brother. “I’ve brought Maguire with me.”

Rowland nodded. Of course Wilfred would think to bring a doctor. God, he hoped it wasn’t too late—it couldn’t be too late. Wilfred Sinclair stood quietly by his brother, as
Maguire did his work.

Maguire was typically dour, but he was gentle with Edna. Clyde told him about the strychnine and what they had done with the charcoal.

“When I was droving, we saved a working dog who had taken rabbit bait that way,” he explained nervously.

The physician accepted the information, giving no indication as to whether they had helped or harmed her with their attempt at remedy. He checked Edna quickly, treated her with something from
his bag, and had her moved into a police car which he immediately dispatched for the hospital. Maguire spoke only to Wilfred before he left… Rowland saw him shake his head. He walked to his
own car. Clyde and Milton followed.

“Sinclair, where do you think you’re going? We’ll need to speak to you.” Delaney left Bryan in cuffs in the custody of his officers as he came after Rowland.

“I’m going to the hospital Col, unless you plan to arrest me.”

The detective started to say something but then he looked up at Rowland Sinclair and changed his mind. “Go—I’ll see you there.”

40

R
owland rubbed his face. The pressure of his palms on his eyes seemed to appease the ache behind them. It was mid-afternoon. The reception room at
St Andrew’s Hospital was crowded with men awaiting news of Miss Edna Higgins. Only her father had been allowed into the private room in which she lay stricken.

“Rowly.” Wilfred Sinclair handed Rowland the jacket which he had discarded sometime before dawn. “Come along, old boy—Detective Delaney wants to talk to you.”

Rowland shook his head. He was not leaving the hospital. Not till he knew Edna was safe.

“He’s just in the next room.” Wilfred motioned towards the matron’s office in which Delaney waited as he gripped his brother’s shoulder. “There won’t be
any news for a while.”

Twenty-four hours. Edna needed to survive the first twenty-four hours before they could be confident that the strychnine would not kill her.

Rowland got up.

Wilfred pushed the jacket at him once again. “Get dressed.” Even under the circumstances, Wilfred did not consider shirtsleeves “dressed”.

Rowland pulled on his jacket. Clyde and Milton played cards listlessly behind him. Hubert Van Hook was in custody. Perhaps it was time to sort matters.

The hospital office was small, cluttered but neat in an overstocked way. Colin Delaney rose to shake his hand.

“Hell of a thing, Rowly,” he said sympathetically.

Rowland nodded. He took the seat to which the detective directed him.

“We’ve spoken to your friend Van Hook,” Delaney started. “But we have a problem with Bryan.”

“What kind of problem?”

Delaney sighed. “I gotta tell you Rowly, a lot of villains are really bloody stupid—they’ll brag about what they’ve done to anyone who’ll listen. Matthew
Bryan—he’s not stupid.”

“What’s he saying?”

“He claims that he was trying to prevent Miss Higgins ingesting the strychnine, when you and your compatriots attacked him.”

“That’s bloody preposterous! Why would Ed voluntarily drink strychnine?”

“Bryan says she killed Isobel Hanrahan in a fit of jealousy over you. Overcome with remorse she confessed to him. Apparently he gave her a penance of fifty-two Hail Marys but, unsatisfied
with the absolution he provided, she decided to take her own life.”

Rowland laughed bitterly. “The idiot still thinks Ed’s Catholic. She wouldn’t know the first thing about making a confession, even if she had cause to do so. I doubt she knows
what a Hail Mary is.” He pushed the hair back from his face. “Ed was never jealous of Isobel in any case—she had no reason to be.”

Delaney looked at him thoughtfully. “Look Rowly, why don’t you come back to the station with me? Sit in on the interview. I think having you there may be exactly what I need to get
Bryan to snap. I’ve noticed he flares up whenever you’re mentioned. If you were to talk to him…”

Rowland shook his head. “I’m not leaving this hospital.”

“What if I have Bryan brought here?”

Rowland shrugged. He needed something to distract him. Edna had been heavily sedated as they waited, hoped, for the tremors and spasms to pass.

And so, an hour later, Rowland Sinclair sat down opposite the man who called himself Matthew Bryan. The latter was in shackles, but otherwise calm. His face was bruised, his front teeth broken.
A rosary was wrapped around his hand. Rowland held Edna’s locket in his.

Bryan’s face broke into a smile.

“I say Rowly, it’s a jolly relief to see you… how are you holding up? You look wretched…”

Rowland stared at him silently.

Bryan sat forward, earnestly. “This has all been a rather appalling misunderstanding. How is Edna?… I wasn’t too late, was I?”

Rowland regarded the man with such loathing that it seemed to chill the unventilated room.

Delaney took a seat beside Rowland.

“You can give it up, Mr. Urquhart,” he said quietly. “We know who you are.”

“We’re all entitled to find God and start a new life, Detective,” the prisoner replied smoothly. He looked at Rowland. “Dear God, Rowly, you don’t believe I would
try to hurt Edna?”

Rowland glanced carefully at Delaney. He spoke slowly, with control.

“Don’t worry, Father, Ed will be awake in an hour or so. I expect she’ll be able to clear this up.”

“Edna’s all right then…” Bryan was only slightly unnerved. “That’s splendid news. I do hope she remembers clearly…”

“Ed confessed, you say? I must say that surprises me.” Rowland kept his eyes on his hands lest they give him away.

“Confession is both a duty and a solace for members of the Catholic faith, Rowly. It’s not surprising that in her darkest moment, Edna would seek absolution as she has done since her
first holy communion.”

“Ed’s a Protestant, Father, and not a very good one at that.”

Bryan’s eyes flickered but he recovered quickly. “I do believe, in her heart, Edna had converted, Rowly… you know yourself she attended Mass on the
Aquitania
. Perhaps
she imagined that she had… she was very distraught, hysterical I’m afraid.”

“I suppose she would be if she killed Isobel,” Rowland replied.

“Don’t be too hard on her, Rowly. She was consumed with love and jealousy… it is for the Heavenly Father to judge Edna, not us. Remember
thy will be done on earth as it is
in Heaven
…”

Rowland interrupted. “Oh I don’t judge Ed. I don’t know why she thinks she killed Isobel but it’s not possible… perhaps she was, as you say, hysterical.”

“I didn’t want to believe she could have murdered Isobel either Rowly, but…”

“Ed was on deck when Isobel was thrown into the harbour—with Milton and Clyde and hundreds of other people. You weren’t on deck, of course, so you wouldn’t have
known.”

Bryan said nothing; his eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps Isobel did jump to her death …” Rowland played with the locket in his hand. “I don’t think she ever got over the death of Orville Urquhart… I
suppose you understand. He was your brother.”

Bryan flinched, just slightly.

“I don’t think Isobel loved Orville.”

“Oh… that wasn’t my impression… Mr. Urquhart seemed to have a way with the ladies.”

Rowland watched as Bryan’s nostrils flared.

“Did Mr. Urquhart recognise you, Father? I suppose he would not have expected to see you in the cloth, without your spectacles?”

Bryan’s voice was brittle. “Orville rarely recognised anyone but himself.”

“So he didn’t know you?”

The rosary strained as Bryan clenched his hand. “No, he didn’t know me.”

“I thought that given his relationship with Isobel you might have had cause to cross paths.”

Silence.

Delaney broke it.

“It’s a shame Father Murphy can’t give us an insight into Isobel Hanrahan’s life in Dublin since they were such friends.” Delaney now took Bryan’s gaze.
“It’s interesting, though… Bishop Hanrahan seems to have no knowledge of any particular intimacy between Murphy and his niece… he thought instead that it was you, Father
Bryan, who she sought when troubled.”

Rowland laughed. “His Grace always did jump to rather ridiculous conclusions, didn’t he, Father?” He turned towards Delaney and waved his hand dismissively. “Ignore the
old fool, Colin—Isobel had no interest in the Father here… I doubt she looked upon him as a man.”

Bryan’s eyes were fixed on the silver pendant in Rowland’s hand. His brow was damp with sweat and his breath ragged. He was decomposing. His words were hoarse. “Do you think
she loved you, Sinclair?”

A smile played on Rowland’s lips. “Why, of course.”

Bryan shook his head. “He was just like you—my dear little brother. Arrogant—it was always all about him.”

Rowland pushed further. “I guess Isobel loved him, too.”

“Isobel didn’t care a toss for him, or you, Sinclair!” Bryan’s accent was suddenly different—its edge harder, more common—he lisped slightly through the
jagged chip of his teeth. “You were a mark, that’s all. Another rich fool.”

“You killed Isobel, didn’t you Father?” Rowland said coldly, unable to hold back any longer. “Didn’t you? And the child she carried. Your child, I suppose, not
Murphy’s. Is that what you were afraid he’d tell me?”

Bryan looked up furiously.

Rowland smiled. His voice remained icy. “God, what am I saying? Isobel would not have taken you as a lover.”

Bryan reacted. Rowland Sinclair had found the soft underbelly of his resentment.

“She played you, Sinclair, and she did it because I asked her to.”

“Then why kill her, you cold-hearted bastard?”

“Because she failed, because she couldn’t stick to the story, because she started having fantasies about home and hearth.” Bryan practically spat the last.

Rowland said nothing. He waited.

Slowly the deacon realised the effect of his words. For a moment there was panic, a desperate search for explanation and then, a chilling resignation, almost a relief. Matthew Bryan had accepted
the noose.

“Isobel couldn’t betray me in the end though, could she?” Rowland said evenly. He felt the need to mount some sort of defence for the murdered girl, to redeem her somehow.

Bryan chuckled, careless now. “In the end she would have watched me kill you, as she did my beloved brother. They’re women, Sinclair. Original sin. Weak, pathetic whores—all of
them. You’ll see eventually… if she survives.” He smiled cruelly, as if amused by the memory of what he had done to Edna. “If she doesn’t, you’ll thank
me…”