The Blood Upon the Rose (29 page)

He thought he had closed that door in his mind and locked it.

Now, quite suddenly, he was faced with an attractive young woman of his own class. A quite remarkably attractive one, in fact. Fairly tall, slender, in a loose green silk dress which showed off a considerable area of neck and shoulder. A hint of a body that was lithe, athletic, overpoweringly feminine.

But it was the scent that really aroused him. She was wearing some kind of perfume that he had not smelt for a very long time, and which took him back, irresistibly, to Elsie, and the way she had unbuttoned a similar, cheaper dress, very slowly and suggestively, and then pulled it down, smiling as he watched, all the way down to her hips …

Something about his gaze caused the young woman in front of him to flush a light pink, and he thought
for Christ's sake, get a grip
- this is a dinner party in Dublin, not a whorehouse.

And this girl’s probably a silly little Irish virgin.

Nonetheless he said: ‘Why are you being rude to me? Are you frightened of my scar?’

And Catherine, who had got quite a shock at the wolfish, yearning look in the man’s eyes as they travelled down her bare shoulders, said: ‘I couldn't care less about your scar. If you join the army you must expect to get hurt, mustn't you?’

Andrew was stunned. No young woman had ever said anything like that to him before. And truly, she did not look revolted. Only challenging, almost deliberately provocative. He said: ‘Why are you being rude, then?’

She shrugged. ‘Because - I don't like the army, I suppose.’

‘So what
do
you like?’

‘Oh, I don't know. Horses, for one thing. You should have been there this afternoon.’

‘Why?’

‘It was a fine day. And I won fifty pounds.’

Andrew laughed. ‘Bully for you. What are you going to spend it on?’

‘Books, perhaps. Or some new paintings for this room. It needs some more, don't you think?’

Andrew looked around the room vaguely. There were several large ancient portraits of noble ancestors, most of them turning a uniform mud colour under many years' exposure to firesmoke and sunlight; and at the end of the room a slightly more cheerful one of a huntsman, with his horse and hounds, sitting proudly in front of a quite phenomenal heap of dead pheasants, ducks, partridges, rabbits and deer. It reminded him of a similar one in the dining room at Ardmore, and for the first time it dawned on him that this young woman might actually own this house one day.

‘Yes, surely,’ he said. ‘What are you thinking of buying?’

‘I don’t know. Something different from these, anyway. Perhaps a portrait of myself by Augustus John. Or a nude man by Modigliani - if he did any men.’

‘Now you're trying to shock me.’

‘Would you be shocked to see a picture of a naked man on the wall? I see plenty of nude women, and I'm told it's fine art.’

‘Yes, but - not in the living room, surely?’

For answer, she pointed across the room to a table by the window. On it was a sculpture, about two feet high, of an athlete throwing a discus. He was clothed only in a flat Grecian sunhat.

Andrew laughed. ‘All right, all right, I have no arguments. Install a life-size oil painting of a male nude over your mantelpiece if you like. I’ll come along and watch the faces of your guests, if I may.’

The laugh had an effect on them both. Catherine thought it attractive - cheerful, manly, a point in his favour. Andrew realized, dimly, that it was the first time anyone had made him laugh like that since - since at least before the fire.

But the ache in Catherine became sharper too. It was foolish to talk like that about naked men. She knew who she would want to model for any such portrait, and it was no one here in this room.

Andrew said: ‘You’re an unusual young woman, Miss - Catherine, isn't it?’

‘Yes. Am I? It’s probably because I'm a medical student, and used to thinking about bodies. Also I’ve spent a lot of time on my own, in the country, so I’m used to thinking for myself. And I’m a Catholic, like my mother. And a nationalist - a Sinn Feiner, in fact. So I would seem unusual to you, I suppose. In fact, I’m hardly suitable for you to talk to at all.’

He had expected a boring evening, full of tedious social chitchat. Not a full-blooded attack from his hostess the moment he came in the door. He looked at her closely, thinking: Why is she doing this? He remembered a nervous young lieutenant who had talked like this to keep his courage up, the night before battle.

He said: ‘Are you afraid of me?’

I would be, she thought, if I met you alone on a dark night, and you were looking for a woman. The eyes - it was the expression in them that set him apart. They were bright, watching her intently, but from somewhere very distant, deep within himself. Yes, I am afraid of you, she thought, but I have to face you down.

She said: ‘I expect I can shoot as well as you.’

Again, he laughed, and this time Sir Jonathan looked over, pleased. He had felt sure that Andrew would be a match for his wilful daughter; he had not guessed she would manage to amuse him.

‘With a pistol, I mean,’ she went on. ‘My brothers taught me to use one when I was twelve. I could outshoot them.’

He said: ‘I’ll take you on, then, one day, and we’ll see. Come to my estate, at Ardmore. The house is burnt down, but I still have a shooting range, and you can bring your own pistol, if you like. But it would have to be for a bet - something serious on both sides. You choose first, and I’ll match it.’

‘All right, then,’ she said. Her eyes held his, boldly. In her stomach, excitement flickered like an adder’s tongue. ‘But first I have to learn a little bit more about you, so I can decide what you would most hate to lose.’

‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow, the scar whitening on his cheek. ‘Ask away then.’

She considered, pleased at the way her policy of aggression was paying off. ‘First, tell me why your house burned down.’

He began to tell her, briefly, but then Keneally announced that supper was served. At the table, it became obvious he would have to tell the whole party. It was a tale which expressed the inner fears of every Anglo-Irish landlord, surrounded as they were by a sea of poverty, envy, and Roman superstition.

Colonel Roberts, recently arrived from England, was appalled. ‘It sounds more like something out of the Punjab than the United Kingdom,’ he said. ‘Are you positive it was the Sinn Feiners who did it? These things can sometimes happen by accident, you know.’

Andrew smiled grimly. ‘All I know is, at least one of them was there on the night, and I’d marched them out of the house at gunpoint two days before. That house had stood for two hundred years before that.’

The solicitor MacQuarry, who, in addition to his moors in Scotland, had an estate in County Wexford, mentioned a similar tale he had heard of a house that had nearly been burnt there; and Simon le Fanu had heard of Unionist farmers' crops being burnt, and the tails of their cows docked in the night.

‘So we have to show them,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Firm government action is the only way, plus a determination on our part not to be intimidated.’ He fixed Catherine firmly with his eye, trying to quell the explosion before it could erupt.

But she had made her views known to the Viceroy; she did not want to fight that fight over again tonight. She was more intrigued to learn about Andrew.

‘Where are you going to live, then?’ she asked.

‘I’ll rebuild the house, one day. Until then, I have a place here in town, and some cottages on the estate where I can camp.’

‘Why not leave, sell it all up, and go to England?’

‘Where to? It’s my home.’

‘Will you have the money to rebuild it?’

‘Not now.’ He looked at her coldly, with more distaste than before. She wondered what she would do if her own home were burnt down. But then it was not her own home yet; not until she had an approved husband. I wonder if I look like a good catch to you, she thought; a young girl with lots of money and a compliant father. And a Sinn Fein lover in the slums.

Ex-lover.

The talk drifted on, to the political situation and what Lloyd George should do. There was talk of English recruits coming over to strengthen the police; of a thorough overhaul of Dublin Castle; of how the Home Rule Bill might defuse it all. To her father's great relief, Catherine let it drift over her. It's all a charade, she thought, there's no point in arguing with them. Words mean nothing. Sean is right, action is the only way.

And that will mean death, and war, and burning all over the country. Do I want that?

I want Sean.

I'll go back and find him again. I was crazy to walk out like that. It's what we do that matters. What we do when we're together, not what we say.
Oh Sean, I need you
.

Andrew had been watching her, fascinated by her proud slender beauty. For much of the time she seemed withdrawn, drifting away inside herself. At the end of the evening he said: ‘You went very quiet, young lady. I thought you might argue with us, if you are a nationalist, as you say.’

‘There’s no point. Words change nothing. Only action does.’

‘True.’ Just as failed action only makes things worse, Andrew thought. What would this girl be saying now, if Michael Collins had kept his appointment yesterday? He shrugged and said: ‘Well, what’s it to be?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your prize. If you win the shooting match.’

‘Oh, that.’ She had forgotten all about it.

‘Yes. It has to be something serious, remember.’

She wondered how to put him off. The man had interested her for a few moments, no more. She had no intention of going out to the country with him for some bet. But she didn't want to back down. So she said: ‘All right. If I win, your ruined house belongs to me. How about that?’

His lips tightened. This girl is lethal, he thought; she only strikes at the heart. She watched him coolly, her eyes wide, dark, distant.

He said: ‘That’s a big bet, young lady. I shall have to think what to take from you in exchange.’ He held her gaze for a moment, then turned abruptly and went down the steps into the street. ‘I’ll let you know in a few days,’ he said. ‘Better practise your shooting.’

Then he was gone, crossing the square quickly, his heels clicking on the pavement. She stood on the doorstep and watched for a moment, wondering if a young man in a flat cap would appear under the streetlight on the corner, where she had kissed Sean.

But there was no one there.

16

IT WAS QUIET in the library. Davis always treasured his visits here; it was like dropping into a pool of silence, after the glare and bustle of the streets outside. Here there was only the flicker and rustle of pages, like leaves in the wind, and the breath of whispered, apologetic conversations.

He came here regularly. He had acquired a reputation, in the force, as being something of a reader; apart from cars it was his main interest, so far as anyone knew, outside his work.

The young man behind the counter had seen him coming. At the moment he was dealing with an insistent old woman, who wanted the definitive book on wedding etiquette, and refused to be satisfied with the only one he could find. Davis met his eyes, briefly, then picked up a book idly, resigning himself to wait.

As he read, he took a copy of the transcript of Radford's interview with the German officer and slipped it between the pages, like a bookmark. It was, he thought, very disturbing. In the first place, the raid had foiled what might have been a highly successful arms purchase for the Volunteers. In the second place, the police now knew all about it, and would no doubt use it as evidence to convince the higher command that far tougher measures were necessary against the IRA.

This man Radford was becoming a menace. He was too effective; he made Davis nervous. Not only had he found out about the Brendan Road rendezvous; he had got all this information out of the German in a couple of days. He must be a powerful interrogator, Davis thought; and his mouth went dry for a moment as he imagined himself sitting across the table from the Ulsterman, not as a colleague, but as a suspected traitor.

The old lady was satisfied at last. She left, clutching a large volume open at a page full of illustrations of wedding dresses and veils. Davis looked around him, and then stepped up to the counter. He smiled at the young man, and passed him the book. The report stuck out a fraction of an inch from the end of it.

‘Would you put that one back on the shelves for me?’

‘Surely, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?’ As he spoke, the young man bent down and put the book into a rack under the counter, deftly abstracting the paper as he did so.

‘Not at the moment. How are things here?’

‘Peaceful enough. But we've a couple of new volumes in that might interest you. I made a note of them. Here.’

He passed over a folded sheet of paper. It said, simply:
‘Need to see you. Donegan’s, tonight. D.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘They look very interesting.’

He wandered slowly away to the shelves on engineering and transport, chose a book at random, took it to the counter to be issued, and walked out.

Donegan’s was a small tobacconist's in Aungier Street, halfway between Dublin Castle and St Stephen's Green. It was the sort of place where men were dropping in all day for cigarettes and a chat; like the kiosk that Thomas Clarke, the first signatory of the Republic, had had in Parnell Street before the Rising. But, as Davis knew, more came out of Donegan’s than tobacco. In the little room at the back, there was a complete printing press, where the republican newspaper,
An tOglach
, was printed.

Davis hoped he was the only member of the DMP who knew this.

As he stepped inside, the proprietor, Donegan, looked up with a cheerful grin.

‘Ah. Mr Davis, would it be? There was a fellow here looking for you just now. Wait now while I close this door, would you?’

He locked the door behind Davis, and then led him through to the room at the back. Here, two men sat quietly reading. One was Patrick Daly and the other was Michael Collins himself. Collins got up quickly, and pumped him by the hand.