Long Time Coming (17 page)

‘He may tell you to mind your own business.’ Swan smiled coolly at the lawyer.

‘He may indeed.’ Quilligan sighed. To Swan’s surprise, he did not appear to have taken the slightest umbrage. Perhaps he had already concluded that his brother would reject his advice. Perhaps his brother had always done so. ‘I’ll be able to let you know how he responds on Sunday.’ He whipped off his glasses and stood up. ‘Can I tell Isolde you’ll definitely be coming?’

‘Yes.’ Swan rose. ‘You can.’ They shook hands. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

‘So will we, Mr Swan.’

A suspicion that had grown on Swan during his walk to Ardal Quilligan’s office hardened into a certainty on the way back. He loitered by the bus stops outside the GPO, as if contemplating a journey to the suburbs. So did the scruffily suited chain-smoker he had noticed dogging his footsteps earlier. The man moved on when he did, only to stop again when Swan paused to admire the view from O’Connell Bridge. Linley had predicted Moynihan would set a tail on him and here he was, large as life. Swan wondered if Moynihan had instructed the man to make himself conspicuous. If so, the reason was clear. Swan had been freed. But he had not been forgotten. And he was not to be allowed to think otherwise.

Over coffee and an idle perusal of the
Irish Times
at Bewley’s in Grafton Street, Swan came to the conclusion that his best response to Moynihan’s tactic was to pretend he was unaware of it. He was, after all, an innocent man. Tailing him would only substantiate his story. He would affect a lordly indifference.

The consequence was that he was no longer sure whether he was being followed or not when he reached the Shelbourne. And the matter was briefly blotted from his mind by the surprise of seeing Miles Linley emerging from the hotel as he approached.

‘Looking for me?’ Swan called.

‘Cygnet, old fellow.’ Linley clapped him on the shoulder as they met. ‘No. I’ve just been settling a VIP in at your very own home from home. But bumping into you is undeniably opportune. Can you spare me a few minutes?’

‘I think I could probably squeeze you into my hectic itinerary.’

‘Excellent. Let’s step over to the green.’

St Stephen’s Green was a haven of summery ease, with assorted Dubliners feeding the ducks or lounging on benches, relishing the warmth of the sun. Linley set off on an ambling circuit of the ornamental lake and Swan fell in beside him.

‘Who’s the VIP, then?’ he asked, mildly curious as to the mystery man’s identity.

‘I shouldn’t really say. I wouldn’t want word to get round.’

‘You’re the only person I know in the entire city.’

‘Really? We’ll have to put that right. One of my many onerous responsibilities is organizing the legation cricket team. We have a match on Saturday and, as usual, I’m struggling to raise an eleven. Fancy a game? I could lend you some whites.’

‘Well, I …’

‘You were quite the budding Hobbs at school, as I recall.’

‘That’s not how I recall it.’

‘Be that as it may …’

‘All right, all right. I’ll turn out on Saturday.’

‘Capital. You’ll enjoy it. And you’ll meet a few people, some of them perfectly decent sorts.’

‘You haven’t told me who the VIP is yet, Linley. Don’t think you’ve put me off the scent.’

Linley laughed. ‘Perish the thought.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘But careless talk, etcetera, etcetera. There’s an ugly customer bringing up our rear who looks uncommonly like a none too subtle Special Branch surveillance officer.’

‘He’s been following me all morning.’

‘Really? Hold on here.’

Linley spun on his heel and strode towards the man in the shabby suit, who stopped in his tracks. Linley reached him in half a dozen strides. There was a murmured conversation. Shabby suit’s expression moved from poker face to something suggestive of a sudden onset of biliousness. He scowled briefly in Swan’s direction, then turned and plodded away, back the way they had come.

‘What did you say to him?’ Swan asked as Linley rejoined him.

‘I said following a member of the British Legation during a hush-hush ministerial visit to Dublin was a serious breach of diplomatic protocol and would he kindly bugger off ? He’ll be back on your tail sooner or later, I don’t doubt, but for a while at least you’ll be left in peace.’

Swan smiled. ‘Thanks a lot. That’s another favour I owe you. So, the VIP’s a government minister, is he?’

‘Malcolm MacDonald. Son of Ramsay. Currently Minister of Health. But in his previous incarnation as Dominions Secretary he’s supposed to have hit if off with de Valéra. He’s been sent over to have yet another shot at persuading Dev to bring Éire into the war. A complete and utter waste of time and effort in my opinion, but we must show willing. So my boss tells me, anyway. Now, I’m glad you feel even deeper in my debt, Cygnet, because there’s a little something I’m hoping you might agree to do for me.’

‘What is it?’

‘A matter of extreme delicacy.’ Linley grinned. ‘That’s what it is.’

They left the ornamental lake behind and struck out along the perimeter path round the park. Linley pitched his voice at a confidential mid-point between normal speech and a whisper. The ‘little something’ he was hoping Swan would do for him evidently merited greater secrecy then the comings and goings of the Minister of Health.

‘I’m in love, old fellow. That’s the long and the short of it. But the path of true love, etcetera, etcetera. She’s Antrobus’s secretary. He’s number two at the legation. She’s also married, which is the bugger of it. Husband in the Navy. I needn’t tell you what it would do for my career prospects if I was discovered to be cuckolding a serving naval officer. But the fact of the matter is that we adore each other. We want to spend time together. But it’s damnably tricky. She shares digs with a couple of other secretaries. I lodge with my boss in Donnybrook. We can’t be seen out on the town. What we need is …’

‘A love nest?’

‘Exactly. That’s
exactly
what we need. Somewhere we can—’

‘No need to spell it out, Linley. I catch your drift. Tell me, you and …’

‘Celia.’

‘Right. You and Celia. Do you see a long-term future with her? Or is it just that you can’t keep your hands off her?’

‘We can’t keep our hands off
each other
, since you ask. Anyway, I don’t know about the future. A divorce could be messy. I can’t look too far ahead with a war on. It’s complicated. What isn’t complicated is that we can’t go on like this. Something’s got to give.’

‘Cold baths could be the answer.’

Linley shot Swan a daggered look. ‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Cygnet.’

‘All right. What can I do to help?’

‘I thought you’d never ask. An opportunity’s come up. Furnished rooms to let. Just round the corner from here, as a matter of fact. Close enough to the legation, but not
too
close. If I rent them there’s always the risk word will get back. But if someone else rents them … and lends me the key …’

‘Someone you can trust who isn’t in the diplomatic community would suit, I suppose.’

‘He would. Perfectly.’

‘We’d better take a look at this opportunity, then, hadn’t we?’

They left the park and walked back past the Shelbourne round into Merrion Street. On the other side of the road was an imposing terrace of Georgian town houses, not all of them in imposing condition, facing the spectacular baroque dome of what Linley told Swan had originally been the Royal College of Science. They paused to look in through the colonnaded entrance. A fountain was playing in the courtyard. An Irish tricolour was fluttering next to the dome. A couple of studious-looking young men were walking up the steps beneath it. And a policeman was standing guard over the approach to the northern wing of the complex.

‘Government Buildings, they call it now,’ said Linley. ‘Though University College still have the use of part of it. Dev’s probably lurking in there even as we speak, pondering just how resounding a no to deliver to MacDonald. The RCS was the last public building we gave the Irish before independence. God knows what slum they’d be housing their Taoiseach in but for the gift of some decent British architecture. But never mind that. Walk a little further with me and direct your gaze across the street.’

They moved on to the corner of Government Buildings. The Georgian terrace ended opposite them, where it met the railinged greenery of Merrion Square.

‘The Duke of Wellington was born over there, at number twenty-four,’ Linley continued. ‘The house had a better class of resident then. Now it’s all dentists and solicitors and servants’ agencies. But that means plenty of toing and froing, which is just the kind of camouflage I’ve been looking for. The widow Kilfeather, who lives at number twenty-eight, also owns number thirty-one.’ It was the door of number thirty-one, adorned, like its neighbours, with decorative columns, architrave and fanlight, that they were standing opposite. ‘A surveyor has the basement and ground floor. A chiropodist has the next two floors. The top floor, however, is currently vacant. And furnished for a private tenant.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’

‘But why do I want it?’

‘Let’s walk on while I answer that question.’

They crossed an alley leading to the rear of Government Buildings and headed north, with further Georgian terraces flanking Merrion Square to their right and a sweeping lawn backing on to a large mansion to their left. ‘Leinster House,’ Linley explained. ‘Seat of the Dáil.’ High railings barred access and another policeman was in evidence at the gate. Neutrality, it appeared, required a deal of protection. ‘You could attend one of their debates if you have a spare afternoon and a taste for windy rhetoric.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Of course, as an elocutionist, you might take a professional interest in the deputies’ varying methods of delivery.’

‘Elocutionist? What the devil are you talking about?’

‘I thought you might tell Mrs Kilfeather that’s what you did for a living. It would account for you having visitors from time to time: strangers seen on the stairs by other tenants. But invent something else if elocution doesn’t sit well with you.’

‘You’ve gone into this very carefully, haven’t you?’

‘Well, Cygnet, in my experience, Burns had it all wrong. It’s
actually the
worst
laid schemes of mice and men that gang aft a-gley.’

‘When do you want me to broach my interest in the accommodation?’

‘ASAP. I have the address of the agent. As long as you don’t haggle – and since I’m picking up the bill there’s no need to – Mrs K will welcome you with open arms, I’m sure. A well-spoken, smartly turned-out chap such as yourself is just what she’s looking for. She’ll probably insist on a minimum of three months, with one of them paid for in advance. So, all you have to do is smile, write out the cheque and pocket the keys.’

‘You realize I’m not going to be in Dublin for three months, Linley. Not even for one.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Once you’ve set things up, there’ll be no problem. Simply send a regular cheque to the agent and I’ll keep you recompensed. If you’re worried about it, I’ll pay you a lump sum.’

Swan glanced back towards the house where he was shortly to become an absentee tenant. ‘I hope Celia’s worth all this.’

‘Oh, she is.’ Linley chuckled. ‘I can assure you of that.’

The agent was as helpful as might have been expected, given Swan’s stated willingness to pay the rent demanded. A telephone call cleared the way for an afternoon appointment with Mrs Kilfeather. Swan spruced himself up, made sure he was on time and decided to refrain from smoking to cement a favourable impression.

As it transpired, Mrs Kilfeather was not a lady of censorious disposition. A big-bosomed, bun-haired woman of sixty or so, she greeted Swan with briskly businesslike amiability. He had been unable to devise a plausible alternative to Linley’s suggested occupation, but Mrs Kilfeather remarked only, ‘There are plenty round here who could profit from elocution lessons,’ before inviting him to view the top-floor flat at number 31.

It comprised a sitting-room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, the sitting-room and bedroom facing Government Buildings, the bathroom and kitchen looking out over the rear gardens and
courtyards of neighbouring properties. The furnishings were homely if scarcely stylish and some were in less than pristine condition. Flock wallpaper and framed hunting scenes did not conform to Swan’s idea of a sympathetic domestic environment, but his requirements were hardly relevant and he suspected Linley and the seductive Celia would not be troubled by the odd frayed lampshade. The mattress of the double bed responded with well-sprung firmness to his prod, with the barest hint of a squeak. That, he felt sure, they would appreciate.

‘I’ll take it,’ he announced, when the tour of inspection was complete.

‘You know I’m insisting on monthly terms, Mr Swan?’ Mrs Kilfeather responded.

‘Yes, yes. That’ll be fine.’

‘The previous tenant paid weekly, but he left without so much as a day’s notice, so I thought it best to revise the arrangement.’

‘I quite understand.’

‘If you get any post for the man, throw it away. He left no forwarding address. Henchy was his name.’

‘Sounds an inconsiderate fellow.’

‘You have that right, Mr Swan. But I can see you’re a gentleman, unlike Mr Henchy. So, welcome to Merrion Street.’

‘Thank you kindly. I’m sure I’ll be … very comfortable here.’

Linley was already waiting for him when Swan strolled into the Horseshoe Bar at the Shelbourne shortly after six o’clock that evening. He was looking surprisingly nervous, as if fearful that Swan had somehow botched the negotiations with Mrs Kilfeather. But his face lifted when Swan deposited the keys to the flat on the table next to his whisky and soda.

‘Well played, Cygnet,’ he said, smiling wolfishly. ‘Consider all debts discharged.’

‘Glad to have been able to help, Linley. We Old Ardinians must stick together.’

‘Absolutely.’ Linley pocketed the keys. ‘So, no problems?’

‘None at all.’