The Blood Upon the Rose (34 page)

He would write them a really harsh letter, complaining of their lack of security. He would be outraged that Collins hadn't kept his appointment on time. He would demand better security, and better guarantees, in future.

So that was what Andrew had done. He had written a letter on a sheet of paper embossed with his grandparents’ German address; and early this morning, before leaving to catch the train, he had delivered it to Sir Jonathan in Merrion Square.

Sir Jonathan had been surprised. ‘Why are you giving it to me?’ he had asked.

‘Two reasons. First, because I'm not a professional forger and I need you to find one. I want the correct German postage stamp put on it, a perfect facsimile of a German franking mark. Can that be done?’

Sir Jonathan had only hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, I think so. There’s a fellow called Smythe in the Castle who’s obsessed with that kind of thing. He’d make a perfect job, I’m sure.’

‘Good. Only for heaven’s sake make sure he keeps his mouth shut. I don’t want anyone to know about this unless they need to. Neither do you, I suppose.’

‘No,’ Sir Jonathan had agreed. ‘And the other reason?’

‘I want the letter inserted into the incoming international mail. Can that be arranged?’

Sir Jonathan tapped the letter against his palm. ‘I don't see why not,’ he said. It was addressed to
Mr Michael Collins, c/o Dail Eireann, The Mansion House, Dublin
. The Sinn Fein postal workers would abstract it, and pass it on to an address which neither of them knew. ‘When do you want it posted?’

That was the hard part. ‘I think about two weeks from now,’ Andrew said. ‘That should give Hessel time to get back to Germany and return. Can I stay down at Killrath until then?’

‘Of course. My dear chap, the place is yours.’

A car met him at the station in Galway. The chauffeur, a slim young man of about eighteen, took Andrew's only suitcase and threw it carelessly in the boot of the large bull-nosed Morris.

‘My name’s David Ferguson,’ he said, without being asked. ‘My father’s the agent here. I expect Sir Jonathan told you. We more or less run the place for him while he’s away.’

‘No, he didn’t say.’

‘Did he not? That’s strange.’ The young man steered the car carefully through the crowded streets. ‘I’m sorry about all this. It’s market day today. We’ll get out on the open road eventually.’ He waited while a jam of horse-drawn carts, cars, and two large motor lorries sorted itself out. ‘Sir Jonathan said you were in the Guards with him in France.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Jolly good show. I’d have gone too, if I’d been old enough. Though it can’t have been much of a picnic, especially the last year, I suppose. Did you get the face wound there?’

‘Yes.’ Andrew did not want to make conversation, especially about the war. But he could see some response was necessary. As the traffic eased, and they drew out of the town, he said: ‘Tell me about Killrath, then. What should Sir Jonathan have told me?’

It was a fortunate question. The young man, clearly hurt by Andrew’s initial monosyllabic response, brightened instantly.

‘Ah, well, it’s one of the great houses of the district, no question. The first part of it was built in 1656, by Sebastian Gort - one of Cromwell’s men, a colonel, I think. He took the land from the O’Flahertys - there was a great tribe of them round here then. They were mostly killed or pushed out to the islands in the far west. But the house itself was all extended in the 1720s. That’s the part you can see today. They had a German-born architect, I think. Has Sir Jonathan not told you any of this?’

‘No, no. He didn’t mention it. How big is the place?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Thirty-odd bedrooms, I suppose.’ Much bigger than Ardmore, then, Andrew thought. He hadn't considered this. ‘And the estate?’

‘Well, it’s quite large. About 80,000 acres, though half of that’s bog and mountain. There are thirty moderate-sized tenant farms, a hundred or so crofters, and we run the rest. That’s what my father spends most of his time doing. It’s a lot of work.’

‘I imagine so.’ Andrew remembered the wide-eyed, insolent young woman and her silly shooting match. ‘And - forgive me - is Miss Catherine the heir to all this?’

The young man glanced at Andrew speculatively, then returned his eyes to the road as they negotiated a series of steep bends. ‘Unfortunately, yes. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against her, of course, but she had two brothers who were both killed in the war. The elder one, Richard, he was always expected to succeed Sir Jonathan. A lovely chap, he was. Taught me to ride when I was eight. I felt really sick when I heard.’

The car had been climbing for some time, winding through a series of small lakes and little rocky mountains. As they came to the top of a rise they could see the broad Atlantic on their left, blue and grey under high cumulus clouds. There was a rocky coast, dotted here and there with little islands. Inland, there was a mixture of poor farmland and bright-green bog.

‘Another three miles or so yet. The estate proper begins at the side of the mountain there.’ David Ferguson pointed some distance ahead. ‘That's the O’Connell part of it, anyway.’

‘The O’Connell part?’

‘Yes. The O’Connells have always been the other main family round here, apart from the Gorts. They’re Roman Catholics, you see, native Irish. God knows how they managed to hold on to their land all that time, through the penal laws and everything, but they did. Clever lawyers, letting one of the family pretend to convert, sheer tenacity - I don't know how, but they did. Then about forty years ago the last couple of O’Connells had only one child - a daughter, Maeve - and Sir Jonathan married her. That’s why it’s called the O’Connell-Gort estate. There was a terrible fuss at the time, I think: the O’Connell grandparents wanted the children brought up as Catholics, but they weren’t - not the boys, anyway. I think Miss Catherine still is, of a sort. It upset their mother. I wonder sometimes if that’s why she went mad, you know, in the end.’ The young man shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose Sir Jonathan would want me to talk about that.’

‘Probably not.’ It's a whole world of its own, Andrew thought. They were passing through a rocky area of little fields, laboriously enclosed by stone walls, with small one- or two-roomed farm cottages dotted here and there amongst them. Paddy Daly would have trouble tracing me here, he thought. Nonetheless, there might easily be sympathies for Sinn Fein.

‘Have you had any troubles out here?’ he asked.

The young man shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. A few of the smaller farmers have had their cattle maimed, that’s all. But the RIC are still pretty much in control, thank God.’

He looked as though he would have asked about the situation in Dublin, but at that moment they swung over another ridge of small hills, and there was Killrath in front of them. It was a long, square, three-storey building on a low headland, facing southwest over the Atlantic. The sun was low in the west, far out to sea, and the red light was reflected off the windows like flame. For a second Andrew caught his breath, as he remembered the fire at Ardmore; but this was beauty, not destruction. A stepped garden led down towards the cliff in front of the house, with a sort of ornamental pond, and rows of low, windswept trees planted to give protection from the gales. At the foot of the headland was a long, wide, sandy beach stretching for miles. It was low tide, and there was no wind. The hard wet sand gleamed in the reflected sunlight, and little sparkling breakers curled and broke into floods of orange and gold. In the distance, the minuscule figure of a fisherman was pulling his tiny coracle ashore.

David Ferguson glanced at his passenger proudly.

‘Welcome to Killrath, Mr Butler,’ he said.

18

HE WASN’T IN the tenement. When Catherine turned up there, a slatternly woman met her on the stairs and told her about the police raid. The woman wore an old stained dress and torn slippers, and was feeding a baby at her breast as she spoke. Two other children with bare bottoms tugged at her skirts and crawled around her feet. She looked frightened, bitter, and suspicious.

‘They dragged us out of our beds in the middle of the night. With guns and steel helmets, they were. Laughing at us till I thought me last day had come. But it was your Sean they were interested in, that’s all they would ask about. And himself long gone, God rot ‘em!’

The woman shivered, and looked at Catherine's fine coat with something between contempt and envy. ‘Left you, has he? They’re all the same. You drop him, girl, he’s not worth it.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

The woman laughed, throwing back her scrawny head and showing a line of brown, rotten teeth. ‘You think he’d be after telling the likes of me? You’ve a lot to learn, girl. Why? Left you a bun in the oven, has he?’

‘No, of course not.’ Catherine flushed, fumbled in her purse and held out a pound note. ‘Here. I’m sorry you were troubled. Buy some food for the children.’

The gift made her feel worse rather than better. As she came out into the street she felt eyes on her all around; children, mothers hanging washing across the street, unemployed men smoking on doorsteps. She had not come here in the daytime before; it was a bad mistake. She didn't feel safe until she was back in the main thoroughfare of Amiens Street.

The relief from openly staring eyes was immense.

She did not notice the tall young detective, twenty paces behind on the opposite side of the road. He never stared. Whenever possible, he watched her reflection in shop windows. Sometimes he strolled ahead of her, guessing which way she was going.

Foster knew her quite well now. He wasn't surprised when she went to the university. Sean wasn’t there, either. Foster saw her talking to Professor O’Connor after a lecture. The professor shook his head. Catherine gave him a letter.

She spent a couple of hours in the library and then she went home. Foster knew that sooner or later she would come out and go to Parnell Square.

So he hung around outside her house, and waited.

Sean wasn't at the Irish class in Parnell Square, either. Catherine sat through it in a daze, unable to concentrate. She hated herself for sending the letter, but she hadn't been able to sleep until she'd written it. All it said was:

Sean,

I need to see you again so we can talk. It's too cruel to end like this. I had good reason to lose my temper but I wish I hadn't, now.

Catherine.

The third sentence had cost her three hours of bitter self-reflection. She didn’t often apologize, and she didn’t intend to make a habit of it now. There had been a much longer letter explaining how she really felt, but she had torn it up and thrown it in the fire.

Love is like a physical addiction to tobacco, she thought. People try to give it up but they say they can't because it hurts too much. He’s a vain, stupid boy but I can’t stop thinking about him and the longer this silence goes on the more it hurts.

She went to the university again next day. The Professor had no message. Dejected, she went home in the afternoon to study.

She sat in her room and found she was drawing a series of curves on her lecture notes which reminded her of Sean's buttocks. She scribbled them out irritably, and tried to concentrate.

I thought taking a lover was something to do with freedom, she thought, but it’s not. It's got more to do with slavery.

Keneally, the butler, knocked on the door. He had a disapproving frown on his face.

‘There is a young man to see you, Miss Catherine. One of your fellow students, he says.’

‘Yes? Well, what’s his name?’

‘A Mr Brennan, Miss Catherine.’ Keneally sniffed. It was clear there was something quite unsuitable about the visitor.

‘Well, go on then. Show him up! I’ll meet him in here!’

When Keneally had gone she found she had already stood up to welcome Sean and had knocked a pile of notes fluttering to the floor. I mustn’t look eager, she thought. Especially not in front of the servants.

But I can’t help it, I love him! And he’s here!

Outside, Foster could not believe his luck. Brennan had simply stepped out through the gate of the park in the square, crossed the broad street, knocked on the front door, and gone in.

He knew the young man was Brennan because he had taken his cap off before he knocked, and Foster had had a clear sight of his face. It was just like the photograph. There was no doubt at all.

He wondered what to do now. I’ve got to get this right, he thought. There’ll never be a chance as good as this.

The simplest thing is to go up to the house and arrest him there. What will happen?

I’ll knock, the butler will open the door, and I’ll explain who I am. He’ll be surprised, but he’ll let me in. I'll tell him Brennan is an IRA murderer.

He won’t believe me.

He’ll make some kind of fuss and want to ask Miss Catherine's advice, or we’ll have a long argument in the hall, or he’ll want me to ring Dublin Castle and speak to Sir Jonathan. One way or another Brennan will hear the noise, and be warned.

Then there’ll be a shooting match inside the house. I don’t know my way around the house and probably Brennan doesn’t either, but Miss Catherine does and she may help him. The servants will be flustered and get in the way.

It’s too risky. Easier to arrest him when he comes out. He’s not very big; if I get a grip on him I should be able to hold him, snap the handcuffs on.

But I can’t stand right outside the house, or he’ll see me and go out the back. And if I stand too far back, I may have to chase him. Then he’ll disappear in the streets and get away, or there’ll be a shooting match and passers-by will get hurt.

I need support.

There was a telephone box just down the road, opposite Leinster House. Foster rang from it.

Davis answered.

‘Who? Kee? The poor man’s just fallen asleep on the bed in his office. I’'ll wake him if you like but he’s not been asleep for two days. Can I take a message?’