Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (42 page)

“Dinner, Mister Speed?”

“Thank you for offering. Shayna and I are ravenously hungry. We’ll also be staying for a while. It’s unsafe to return to my hotel due to the probability of awkward police questions or a bullet in the back of my head and I don’t wish to confront either of them at the moment.”

Deveron slowly shook his head. “Dear me, Mister Speed, you have a remarkable knack of landing yourself in despair.”

“Not intentional, I can assure you.”

Deveron protested that I should take Shayna along with me when I informed him that I’d a few things to sort out before I returned to Baltimore to face unknown resistance. I put him firmly in his place and told him I would be conducting my business alone. I never mentioned I was going to Cork City. I didn’t want the cunning sod to have me followed.

I considered that my next line of action was a private matter and would be done with the least of embarrassment to the recipient of my enquiry. That’s if any relatives of the Jimmy McCracken family still lived around Cork.

I parked the Roadster on a pay car park and went in search of the registrar office for birth, deaths and marriages in South Mall. I entered the building and approached the reception desk. I displayed one of my charming and cheeky smiles to the middle aged woman with a face like a Sergeant Major and built just as solid. I explained my predicament, the importance in tracing the whereabouts of the McCracken family, and were there any living relatives still in the area where I could be directed to.

I got a stern look in return and her reply was straightforward and typical of a pompous twit.

“It is against company policy to divulge confidential information to any one unless they have a perfectly good reason or have a direct family connection. Are you a family member? We would require proof of your identity.”

“I have no family connections.” There was no need at this stage to be dishonest as it would serve no useful advantage. I showed her the ring and pointed to the name engraved. “It’s my intention to return this piece of valuable jewellery to the family of the inscribed name.”

She mellowed as she gazed at the sparklers. “Rather expensive looking.”

“I’ve no idea of its true value, just interested in returning it to its rightful owner.”

“I would advise you to contact the local Garda.”

“I don’t think they would be much help on the matter, it’s not exactly a missing person’s case. I would be willing to leave the ring in your custodial safety if you could guarantee it reached the right owner. I’ve no other intentions other than an honourably one.”

I was lying through my teeth. I had niggling questions that I wanted to ask the right McCracken’s

“I’m very sorry, Mister-Ah?”

“Speed, Shackleton Speed.”

“I would like to help, Mister Speed, but I can’t go against company policy. And neither can we accept responsibility for returning property to the rightful owner.”

I’d hit an invisible brick wall in the form of stubbornness and I’d no argument over the matter just because she didn’t know how to flex a rule or two. Our short intimate meeting was cut even shorter when she blanked me to answer the telephone. I made to leave, not wanting to push hard and draw attention to myself, when another receptionist beckoned me over while iron drawers had her back turned.

I got a strong smell of cheap scent when she leaned over the counter. In a whispered voice, and maintaining a constant check that she wasn’t under observation, she said, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I know a lady by the name of Millie Malloy. Her mother died six months gone. Her mother’s surname was McCracken. She might be able to help. Millie runs a craft shop in Corn market Street.”

*

I was glad to get the information because it meant I hadn’t had a wasted journey. I went straight to Corn Market Street, a tight pedestrian through-fare, all vehicles prohibited. Brightly painted shops gave Corn Market Street a sort of magical avenue. I found Millie’s Crafts, a sea-blue painted shop filled with an assortment of wares. The shop attendant standing behind the counter, a red haired girl with a freckled complexion with a nice smile, was far too young to be the proprietor.

I said, pleasantly, “Could I possibly speak to Millie?”

“She’s in the back baking. Who shall I say wants her?” She spoke with a strong Northern Ireland accent.

“Shackleton Speed. Tell her it concerns a piece of jewellery that I have in my possession which belongs to a member of the McCracken family. I believe Millie’s nee name was McCracken.”

“I’ll only be a moment.”

I nodded my thanks and watched her disappear into the rear of the shop. I hummed a tune to break the boredom while I waited for the girl’s return, thinking how nice it was to be in an area where trust was highly thought of, since I could have quite easily ransacked the shop and till and be on my way in half the time it took her to return from the back.

My quest looked promising when she returned, because she had an inviting smile which indicated that I’d been successful with my request.

“Come through to the parlour, Mister Speed.”

I went behind the counter and followed her through. The smell of freshly baked bread grew stronger as we entered an old fashioned kitchen. The podgy built woman I saw washing her hands in the pot sink had long dark hair lined with wisps of grey and tied back in a ponytail that hung down as far as her lower spine. She wore a white apron over a flowing flowery patterned cotton dress.

She looked directly at me and said, in a soft Irish voice, “Mister Speed is it?”

The suspicion in her tone matched the suspicion distorting her eyebrows. Her grey blue eyes appeared watery. At first I thought she maybe upset, only that notion was soon squandered by the strong whiff of onions that suddenly invaded my nostrils as I approached her.

“Yes. Shackleton Speed, but please, call me Shacks.”

She clinically wiped her hands on a towel and gestured me to the kitchen table. “Please, sit down, Shacks. How can I help?”

I sat, took the ring from my pocket and showed the piece to her in the hope she might recognize it instantly. She didn’t. Her blank expression told me the ring meant nothing to her.

She eased into a chair opposite me. “A very beautiful ring, Shacks. What has it to do with me?” She smiled. She had a nice smile, too. “I’m a little too old for the proposal lark.”

“Better than that, Millie,” I said. “I think this ring belongs to a Jimmy McCracken. I’m led to believe your maiden name was McCracken?”

I was expecting her to start asking a pile of awkward questions on how a complete stranger should have a dossier on her, but she didn’t. If anything she was a little confused by it all.

“Before I married I was a McCracken.”

“Is the name Jimmy McCracken familiar to you?”

She stared at me shell-shocked. She said slowly, deliberately, “My father’s name was Jimmy.”

“Maybe then I’ve found the right place. Does this ring look at all familiar to you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“And your father; would I be able to speak to him?”

“I haven’t seen my father since I was a child, Shacks.”

“Have you any ides on the whereabouts of your father?”

“No. According to my mother, God bless her soul, he left home one late July morning in 1944 and never returned, deserted us, my mother often reminded me. He hasn’t been seen since. I was a year old when he went. I suspect he went off to fight in the war and was killed in action, that’s why he never returned. Quite frankly I can’t remember him being part of my life at all. There’s a saying: what you don’t have you don’t miss! Of course my mother could have told you more about him, but unfortunately, she passed away a short time ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You can’t beat the old age syndrome; the wear and tear. It happens to all of us eventually. What makes you think the ring belonged to my father?”

“I can’t be sure it does, Millie. That’s why I need to know more about his background. If he is the right person, then you’re the rightful heir.”

“How did you come by the ring, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s an extremely long and complex story to explain properly. And I’m not sure if I have all the right pieces to fit together to make any sense of it all.”

“If it is my father’s ring, I think I’ve a right to know.”

“In due course, Millie, you will be told everything that you need to know. I promise. You’ll have to trust me. First I need to ask you some questions if that’s all right with you, Millie?”

She smiled. “You have beautiful blue eyes, Shacks. I have a tendency to believe people with blue eyes.” She paused a moment, as if she’s remembered something of importance. “There’s an old trunk upstairs in the attic. It was my mother’s. It’s where she kept all my father’s personal belongings. She couldn’t bear to part with his things. We could start there though I’ve no idea what’s inside the trunk. I’ve never really found the time to look to be truthful.”

“There’s no time like the present.” I prompted.

“You’re right, Shacks. Follow me.”

We climbed two flights of creaking stairway and passed through a small door. She blindly located and flicked on the light switch. The attic was illuminated by two pendants at either end of a spacious well maintained storeroom filled with a collection of bric-a-brac, different sized cardboard boxes, piles of neatly stacked newspapers and the inevitably scary headless corpse that doubled as a seamstress’s dummy you can always find hiding away in any attic.

Millie crossed to the far corner of the room and dragged out a large hand carved wooden trunk. I marvelled at the craftsmanship, such detailed carvings delicately etched into the wood and worth a hefty price in today’s antique market.

I said, “Did your mother ever mention what your father did for a living?”

She knelt beside the trunk and opened the lid as she talked. “Yes, I remember asking as a child. I suppose it was a natural thing to ask questions about your own father when you can only imagine him as a shimmering mirage. He was a stonemason and builder, my mother told me. He’d a degree in engineering too. I saw evidence of that when I came across his certificate when I was sorting out my mother’s personal papers a while ago.”

“That accounts for it then,” I said, thinking aloud.

“You know what happened to my father, Shacks?”

I didn’t want to tell her the full story just yet in case I was wrong and I’d gotten the wrong McCracken family. I said, “No, not exactly. I found this ring amongst ruins on Clear Island near Baltimore.”

“It doesn’t prove it belonged to my father.”

“I feel confident I’ve found the right place with you, Millie.”

“Oh look!” She squealed like an excited child. “There’s a pile of journals here.”

She removed the black books one by one with mild inspection, ten in all. Each dated. They spanned from 1934 to 1944. She began reading the 1934 journal.

“It’s written in gaeltacht,” she said.

I couldn’t contradict her on that as the writings I could see had the same unappealing look for deciphering as Japanese writing. Both had me baffled. I said: “Do you know what’s written there?”

She started speaking a strange dialect.”

“I guess you do, Millie. Sorry I doubted you.”

“My mother insisted I learned and spoke our ancestral voice.”

“I don’t wish to pry but what exactly did you say?”

She smiled. “I’ve met a very nice man today!”

I smiled and thanked her.

She began translating the first page. “It’s a motto: I serve no King, nor Kaiser: I serve nothing but a free Ireland forever.”

Frigging pathetic cultural prattle! I thought.

She quickly flicked through the pages, only stopping at certain chapters to read a few lines. Sometimes she cringed at certain paragraphs. I guessed she’d found that she was reading a horror story.

Journal by journal she flicked through the pages trying to understand the significance of what she was reading and again only stopping at certain paragraphs of morbid interest. It was at one point when her body stiffened and she couldn’t hide her shock that she’d found something disastrously sinister.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

She said slowly, almost apologetically, “Merciful God in heaven! My father was the IRA Commander of Southern Ireland. I always believed he was a good Catholic. What did he become?”

I tried to be gentle with the truth. “A freedom fighter, from what I can gather.”

Tears dribbled slowly down her cheeks “A terrorist and a murderer. These journals are confessional submissions on paper.”

“It does seem to point in that direction,” I said, though I couldn’t be sure unless she read word for word to me.

You had to give Jimmy McCracken a certain amount of credit for a man obsessed with murder. He’d obviously been a prolific writer, though I found it confusingly strange why he should want to write the incriminating material down on paper, not unless he thought victory would always be his. And then again there many murderous minds throughout history that had the same idea in the name of fame. I suppose Jimmy McCracken was no different than the rest of the idealists for world domination.

Pushing things along, I made a suggestion. “The 1944 journal was obviously his last commitment, perhaps if we read through the last chapters properly it might tell us the last moments before your father disappeared.”

“Why not, Shacks. I can’t see it doing any harm” She flicked the pages to the final chapters and continued the translation with fluency. “Met German spies Harrington and Lodge for the final time.” She stopped reading and looked up at me. “This gets worst.”

“Don’t concern yourself too much Millie. It’s all in the past. What we learn today goes no further than you and me and this room. I promise. Please, read on.”

She nodded and carried on with her narration. “He’s written: I’ve convinced them to switch the rendezvous with the Jap sub to Roaring Water Bay, half a mile, South West from Cape Clear. They accepted my story that the Garda Siochana had discovered the possibility of a smuggling gang operating in Galway Bay and that the Irish Home Guard were preparing an ambush to trap the perpetrators. Both, Harrington and Lodge agreed that changes had to be made urgently. After they contacted the submarine and their task was completed, I did them in. My protector, Saint Brendan holds them safe from discovery.”