The Blood Upon the Rose (43 page)

‘Thanks,’ Sean said. ‘Will I take the top bunk?’

‘Unless you're one of the hard men who lie on the floor. Not that there’s much difference, with beds like these.’

Sean climbed up on the bunk. But there was nothing much to see there - just a grey blanket and a space of a couple of feet between it and the stone ceiling. He shuddered, came down again, and perched on one of the two stools.

The two men looked at each other. ‘What are you in for?’ the man with straggly hair asked.

‘I’m in the IRA. They caught me with a pistol in my pocket.’

The little man stuck out his hand. ‘Daniel O’Rourke, F Company, Dublin Volunteers,’ he said. ‘They dragged me out of bed two weeks ago, in the big sweep after the attack on Lord French.’

Sean gripped his hand firmly. ‘Sean Brennan. I was in D Company but now I’m in the Squad. I was at Ashtown myself.’

The sense of companionship, after such a long time alone, was overwhelming. The two men clasped hands and did not let go for nearly a minute. Then, eagerly, impulsively, they began to talk.

For Kee, it worked like a dream. He sat in the cell on the floor above, with the technician who had set it all up. In front of him, on the table, the reels of magnetized piano-wire steel turned slowly. The technician had assured him that the modified Poulsen telegraphone would record everything that was said. Whether it did or not, Kee could hear the words of the two men through the loudspeaker in front of it. They were blurred and crackly, but it was still possible to make out what was said. Kee made notes swiftly. The microphone was in the small ventilation grille a few feet above the men's heads. They were unlikely to see it; the cell was poorly lit at the best of times, and at night they had only a small candle.

But long before dusk, Sean had admitted to shooting Radford. O'Rourke was delighted: he was proud to be sharing a cell with such a man, he said. In return he detailed all his own most daring exploits. They were not as grand as Sean's, but they were a lot more interesting than the things he had told his interrogators.

Kee had only recently discovered these machines, and had not used them before. But he was an instant convert. He would have them installed in every police station in Belfast, he thought. The only slight problem was, would a judge accept it as evidence?

Davis sat in the upstairs room of the Clancy’s Joiners and Decorators. There was no sign in here of any interest in carpentry or wallpaper. Instead, there were three desks, a telephone, and files and books neatly ordered in shelves along a wall. Davis imagined that policemen more inquisitive than he was would have found their contents very interesting. And he knew that Kee would have found his own presence here more interesting still.

In front of him, Michael Collins paced the narrow floor space between the desks. Every few minutes, his left hand pushed back the lock of black hair which fell forward over his forehead. His right hand was alternately thrust deep into his trousers pocket, and taken out to bang frenziedly against the edge of a desk.

‘We’ve got to get him out, Paddy!’ he was saying. ‘The country needs no more martyrs, especially young lads like him. The boy’s put his life on the line for us - we owe it to him to try!’

‘The country doesn’t need any more corpses either, Mick,’ said Paddy cautiously. ‘If we do mount a rescue attempt, it’s got to have a ninety per cent chance of working.’

‘Of course. And it will. Who do you think you’re preaching to now, Patrick? Wasn’t it me that sprang twenty men over the wall at Mountjoy a year ago? And we lifted de Valera out of Lincoln Gaol. It’s the details that make it all work. Every single detail has to be right. Then all you need is the daring to carry it through.’

He swung himself impulsively on to a desk, and sat there glaring at them.

‘Sure and I agree with you about all that,’ said Daly calmly. ‘We’ve had the armoured car under observation for three days now. It never varies. But what I’m not happy about is these papers.’

‘That’s why Dick’s here now.’ Collins looked at Davis. ‘Who would have the authority to call the boy out of his cell?’

Davis thought carefully. ‘The prison governor himself. Or Kee, who's running the investigation. And Military Intelligence, possibly, though Kee would be wild about it if they did.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Unless we had an order signed by Lord French, for instance. But there's no reason for that – they’d be so surprised they might ring up to check.’

‘Could you sign for him yourself?’

This was the question Davis had been dreading. ‘I suppose I could, yes, and they’d almost certainly accept it. But then, how would I account for it? Kee’s conducting the whole investigation himself. He knows I have no reason for removing the boy.’

‘So then your cover would be blown and they’d know you were working for us.’ Collins looked at him thoughtfully. Davis wondered what he was thinking. Was it shameful to fear imprisonment, to worry about his pension, to hope desperately that there was some safer way of getting the boy out? Or was Collins thinking that one active soldier like Brennan was worth a dozen undercover police agents? If so, he was wrong - he must be wrong! What I do, Davis thought, has to be worth ten times the contribution of a boy who just throws bombs and pulls the trigger.

Collins nodded slowly. ‘No, we couldn’t have that, Dick. But can’t you get papers signed by Military Intelligence, perhaps? That would seem to be our best bet.’

Davis relaxed, relieved. ‘We’ve got copies of that sort of thing, certainly. There’s nothing particularly unusual about the form itself. I can find out who’s the right officer to sign it, too, and copy the signature; but I can’t get you the original. Can you get your printers to mock one up?’

Collins' voice was very quiet, gentle, as it always was when asking someone to do something harder than usual. ‘The original is what we need, Dick. Plus a sight of the man’s signature so that we can forge it. Remember, every little detail counts. Surely you can do that for us, now?’

Davis sighed. There were times when he felt like a piece of grain, ground between two massive granite wheels. The further on he went, the harder were the things he was asked to do. I hope the Republic recognizes the danger I’ve run, he thought. When it’s all over, there should be a special pension and a medal for me alone.

‘I’ll try, Mick,’ he said. ‘I have a few contacts in MI. I can’t promise anything but I’ll give it a try.’

Davis was relieved to find that his contact, Captain Smythe, appeared pleased to see him. He sat at a desk in an office on the second floor overlooking the courtyard of Dublin Castle, his desk a mass of papers from reports of raids in the city last night. He was a thin, intense man in spectacles, with sparse, mousy-coloured hair. He wore a neatly tailored uniform which was stained with ash from a large briar pipe which he was puffing energetically.

‘Good to see you, Dick. What can I do for you, old chap? You sounded pretty cagey on the phone.’

‘We have to be, now. For all I know there’s a Shinner working on the exchange in Brunswick Street.’

‘God forbid. It’s high time you fellows moved in here. After the death of your assistant commissioner I’d have thought they’d put that at the top of the priority list.’

‘I hope they do,’ said Davis. He took off his overcoat and hung it with his hat on the stand by the door. There was an agreeable fug in the room from the fumes of Smythe’s pipe and the blaze of a little coal fire in the grate. ‘It’s getting far too dangerous in the city.’

‘Quite. I take my hat off to you fellows for sticking it out.’ Smythe leaned back in his chair and puffed more energetically at his pipe than ever. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

‘Well, two things really.’ Davis had worked this out very carefully in his mind before he came here, but it still seemed to him unlikely that he would succeed. He could see the pad of order forms on Smythe’s desk, half hidden by a spreading pile of papers, with the vital rubber stamp beside it. He and Daly had consulted the printer of
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with a similar order form that Davis had borrowed from police files. The printer had told them that the memo pad could be forged easily enough - Davis had a blank sheet of the same type of paper in his pocket - but that the official Dublin Castle stamp, with the complicated swirling lines of its imperial heraldic crest, would take days to get right. An approximation could be mocked up more quickly, but men who were used to seeing the real thing could easily spot it. If there was any doubt, the prison governor would probably have two or three documents franked by the genuine stamp lying around on his desk, to compare it with. As Collins said, details were vital.

So Davis had to get hold of that stamp. And to do that, he had to distract Smythe. Get him out of his own office.

He said: ‘The first thing is, Kee thinks he’s arrested one of Radford’s killers.’

‘Get away! So soon! Damn good show, what!’

‘Surely. Name of Brennan - Sean Brennan. But we want to pin as much on him as we can, obviously. So I was wondering if I could check through your files and see if you’ve got anything under that name, or if he figures in connection with any of the other members of Collins's squad.’ Davis nodded hopefully at the two large filing cabinets at the back of the room.

Smythe puffed thoughtfully. ‘Hm. I suppose there’s no harm. Forgive me for being cautious, training I suppose. Still, you’ve helped me in the past. Yes, go ahead - so long as I’m here and you don’t take anything away. What’s the other thing?’

‘The other thing is this.’ Davis reached inside his jacket pocket and passed over an envelope. Inside were a number of documents in Michael Collins's own handwriting. There was a letter to the commandant of the Kilkenny Brigade of the Volunteers, complaining about the lack of recent reports and action; there was a list of possible people in the Kilkenny district who should be approached for contributions to the Loan; and there was a copy of orders apparently sent to the commandant of the adjoining brigade, authorizing him to attack a particular police barracks on the border of the two districts during the coming week, alone if necessary, or with the cooperation of the Kilkenny Brigade if it could be obtained. The date for the attack was not mentioned, but suggested routes for approach and escape were discussed.

Smythe read with interest, and growing astonishment. At the end he took his pipe out of his mouth, and fumbled for the ashtray, without taking his eyes off  the papers.

‘Great Scott!’ he said. ‘Wherever did you get these?’

‘One of the few loyal postmen took them out of the mail and handed them on. They’re getting so cocky they use the regular postal service these days. It didn't pay off this time.’

‘So they’re genuine, you think?’

‘Absolutely. So far as I can tell.’ Certainly the paper and the handwriting were genuine. Davis knew that, because he had seen Michael Collins write them himself. The information in them was another matter. The names and addresses of those who were likely to contribute to the Loan were in fact composed of those who had annoyed the Kilkenny Volunteers; and a covering letter had been sent out to the two commandants, ordering them on no account to attack the police barracks in question for at least two weeks. No doubt the RIC in the barracks would have a few sleepless nights, and might draft in reinforcements. So other barracks should be attacked, the ones the reinforcements might have come from.

‘That’s marvellous,’ said Smythe. ‘Can I keep them?’

Davis appeared to hesitate. ‘Unfortunately, no. Not everyone is happy about our just handing over information, you know. But I don't see why you shouldn’t make copies. One good turn deserves another, after all.’

This was the crucial point which Davis had been banking on. Smythe was a meticulous officer, very keen to keep all his paperwork in order, and fascinated by technical gadgets. On previous visits he had proudly shown Davis his photographic copying machine: a camera mounted at the precise distance to take perfect pictures of any form of written document. He had explained how to calculate the different levels of lighting dependent on the shade of the paper and blackness of the ink, and demonstrated his small portable darkroom and developing equipment.

‘A perfect copy in under twenty minutes!’ he had boasted enthusiastically. ‘Or ten copies if you want. Amazingly useful. If I ever leave the army I might set up in business to mass-produce smaller versions of this, for the office of the future.’

All this equipment, Davis knew, was in a room at the other end of the corridor. He looked at Smythe, and waited.

It worked like a charm.

Smythe got to his feet, grinning with enthusiasm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘No problem with copies here. Do you want to come along and watch?’

Davis glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I’d love to, but I don’t have a lot of time. Do you mind if I …?’ He nodded at the filing cabinets.

‘Yes, of course. Go ahead. Just mind you put everything back neatly, won’t you. If you need any copies, just ask. My eye! This’ll be a feather in our caps, and no mistake.’

When he had gone out, Davis waited a few moments, then opened the door softly to check that everything was quiet in the corridor outside. It was. He shut the door, walked swiftly over to the desk, took the forged order out of his pocket, inked the rubber pad, and pressed it on to the paper carefully. The coat of arms of Dublin Castle stood out clearly. On impulse, he took a genuine sheet of paper, and stamped that too. Why use forged paper at all, if I don't need to? he thought. Then he folded both sheets, put them back in his pocket, and began to search through the filing cabinets. He didn’t particularly need information on Brennan, but there was bound to be something interesting in these records, all the same.

When he came back, Smythe was delighted. He had the originals under his arm, and he held three wet, shining photographs by his fingertips.

‘There you are, see - perfect! Not a word you can't read! Did you find what you wanted?’

‘A few things, yes.’ Davis showed a page of notes he had made. ‘Nothing decisive, but it all adds up.’