When Shadows Fall (23 page)

“At once, Prime Minister,” Churchill promised. “I’ll see to it personally.”

“Good. Dear me, let’s just hope to goodness it’s the right decision. We are either about to save Ireland, or we’re about to open up a new hell.”

Tara made sure of her surroundings, checked the number on the massive oak door, and knocked once. It was the first time she’d seen the upper floors of Dublin Castle.

“Enter,” commanded a voice beyond.

She let herself in and found James leaning back in a leather armchair, his feet on the desk. “Ah, Tara. You got my message. Thanks for popping in.” He removed his feet and straightened up. “This won’t take a minute.”

His upgraded office had varnished panelled walls, oil paintings, potted plants. A blissful contrast to her own dusty cavern below. “Yes, James. Is there anything wrong?”

“Tara, I want to put a proposition to you.”

She looked at him with some alarm, and he laughed.

“Not like that. No, I’ve been summoned to London for an important series of meetings concerning the Irish situation. It should be frightfully busy, and alas, I was never assigned a secretary after my superior left. How’s your shorthand? Can you operate a typewriter?”

“I was trained to do both. Why?”

“I’ve spoken to your staffing heads here in the Castle and,” he inclined his head, “they’ve agreed to your temporary transfer for the duration of the London meetings. That is, if you yourself agree.”

She frowned. “My transfer? What do you mean?”

“It would be a promotion, of course,” he went on, “with an increased salary for the period of your reassignment. And I dare say the experience won’t harm your future prospects in the civil service.”

Tara was taken aback. The offer was as unexpected as it was casually made. Considering their friendship, working directly for him might be strange. Especially if, as she suspected, James had notions that went beyond a friendship. “I don’t know what to say, James. I’m not sure . . . ”

“No doubt you’ll miss the cut-and-thrust of the stationery office,” he sighed, “plus dear old Colleen’s company too, of course. But you’d be doing me a huge favour. And you’ll get to see London, won’t you? Ever been there before?”

She shook her head.

“It’s the finest city in the world. You’d adore it.”

“But I know nothing of your work. I wouldn’t be suitable.”

“Nonsense. You will simply organise my notes and briefings, take records for me. I could do it myself but it would take up too much time. All the other attendees will have secretaries with them, so you’ll not be lost for company.”

She found herself tempted. Never before would she have imagined such a proposition from the higher echelons of Dublin Castle. Yet her doubts remained. “Why me, James? You could easily find someone more experienced to take with you. Why single out me?”

James smiled. He was his usual unruffled self, with his pomaded bronze hair, his flawlessly gorgeous face. “Because I know you,” he reasoned. “I simply couldn’t deal with the tedium of vetting candidates at such short notice. I know your reliability, and I know I can count upon your discretion. It makes perfect sense. So you accept?”

Excitement stirred in her. London, a place she’d only ever seen on postcards. When could she ever hope to see it otherwise? And all on a promotion, too.

“Well,” she averted her eyes, “there would be an important condition.”

“Anything,” he declared.

“If I am to be your secretary, I must address you as Mr. Bryant from now on. Not James.”

His expression soured. “Oh, I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“I would have to insist upon it. This is a professional assignment, and that’s exactly how I would treat it.”

“Fine,” he waved a hand, “call me whatever you like. But it’s a yes?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t resist a smile. “It’s a yes. Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Bryant.”

James beamed, chuffed as a schoolboy. “You won’t regret this, Tara. I’m going to give you an experience to remember for the rest of your life. London, dear old London, I can’t wait to introduce you two!”

When Adam returned from his lunch to Bowen & Associates, Lydia handed him a small sealed envelope.

“This message was left in for you awhile ago, Mr. Bowen. He didn’t give his name.”

Adam regarded it warily, checking to ensure she hadn’t opened it. “A man? What did he look like?”

“About twenty or so. Thin, with a freckly face.”

Rourke
, thought Adam, slightly miffed at the ease with which they’d found his place of employment. “Thank you, Lydia. Was there anything else?”

“No, sir.” She looked at him hopefully. “Would you like a cup of coffee, sir?”

“I’m fine for now. Where’s Duncan?”

“They’re both at meetings.” Lydia made a motion of pushing a tress of her glossy hair behind her ear. “It gets so quiet here sometimes.”

“Hmm? Yes, I imagine. Anyway, thanks for that.” He strode upstairs, closed his door, and opened Rourke’s message.

It wasn’t going to win a poetry prize:

The billiards room, tonight, six.

The billiards room, he presumed, must be that of the
Wild Geese
. Mick Collins had been vague about his future employment, but now, mere days later, Adam had received his summons.

He finished up work at half-past five. Duncan hadn’t returned but Allister was downstairs now. Adam could hear his voice as he put on his coat and walked out to the landing.

“Mr.
Bowen
.” Lydia’s voice was louder than normal, a strange, strangled pleading to it.

“Come now,” Allister was murmuring. “This is the third time I’ve asked. You can’t say no forever.”

“I can’t go for a drink tonight, Mr. Bowen. I have to go home, to my parents.”

“They’ll hardly miss you for a few hours—”

Adam cleared his throat and descended the steps. Allister was hunched over Lydia’s desk, their faces inches apart, though Lydia was evidently straining to increase the distance.

“Adam!” Allister pulled back and scowled. “What are you doing, skulking back there? Were you eavesdropping?”

“Eavesdropping on what, old boy?” Adam asked innocently.

Allister’s face reddened. “On nothing. It was a private conversation. Are you leaving now?”

“Yes. It’s heading for six.”

“Then just go.”

Adam gazed at him a moment, then he nodded to Lydia. “You’re leaving too, Lydia? Come along then, I’ll walk you to the tram.”

Relieved, she followed him out, and once he waved her off on the tram, he continued on foot. The night skies were clear and starlit. An edge of cold touched the streets. He found a cab to take him to the
Wild Geese
and let himself in. Brawny dock workers off their shift lined the bar, and the air stank of meat pies and sweat. The youth behind the bar, whose name Adam couldn’t remember, gave him a nod and gestured to the billiards room. Adam called a pint of Guinness and went inside.

“Shut the door, if you please, Mr. Bowen.” Michael Collins was already sitting on the edge of the billiards table with a map, some newspaper cuttings, and a photograph spread across it.

“How’s it going?” Adam greeted him self-consciously. “Sorry, I should have shouted you a drink.”

“Never mind that. I want to have a little chat. How do you feel about a small bit of travelling?”

Adam looked at him. “I thought I’d done enough travelling. What for?”

“Have a seat. Martin will bring your drink in.” Collins pushed the photograph across the table to him. “Do you recognise that ugly brute?”

The photo was of a British officer, swagger stick in hand, tall and raw boned and somewhat harsh of countenance. Adam shook his head. “Can’t say I do.”

“Major Dirk Ripley of the Third Battalion Cameron Highlanders.” Collins glowered at the picture. “As ruthless a butcher as Britannia’s ever sent to these shores—and that’s taking in some desperate company. One of our boys in Wicklow shot dead Ripley’s predecessor in a raid some time ago, an officer called Tanner, and Ripley’s been with the regiment in Munster since, treating the province as his own private shooting estate. He’s behind the torture and execution of dozens of folk, both our lads and innocent locals. They say his favourite hobby down there is to travel the countryside in an open touring car, using farm labourers in fields as target practice for his fowling piece.” Collins coughed and spat. “You read about the big bust up near Skibbereen last week?”

“I read something about an engagement. The newspaper said the area was an IRA hotbed.”

Collins scoffed. “That Brit parrot-piece the
Irish Times
said it was an IRA hotbed. It was no such thing. Ripley wanted to scare the surrounding villages so he made an example. He makes war on women and children without qualm. They even shot dead a priest for extra sport.”

“A bad apple, so.”

“For sure. And according to my source at the Castle, a bad apple who will soon be heading to London for a meeting with the war chiefs.”

“Sounds like you have ears in all the right places.”

“Well, this is a terribly tough fellow to get at,” Collins grumbled. “We’ve tried, but he’s surrounded by security day and night. But if he goes to England, it’s likely his guard will ease a little, being on friendly soil. I can get his travel schedules and train numbers, as it seems all of the Irish contingent will be journeying together—detectives, army brass, secretaries. And that is where we might have an opportunity.”

Adam nodded warily. “So what’s my involvement?”

“You know London, don’t you? How well do you know it?”

“London? I was there after demobbing. And I stayed awhile. I liked it, actually.”

“Fine city, fine city,” Collins agreed. “And I’ll wager you can still handle a gun.”

“I had one in my hand for four years, yes. But I’m sure you’re not short of gunmen. What is it you want me to do?”

“It’s quite simple,” Collins told him and began tidying up the maps and documents off the table. “I want you to go to London, and I want you to shoot and kill Major Dirk Ripley.”

Duncan closed his eyes briefly, shook his head, and leaned back on his armchair. “You know what, Adam? You have me baffled. I’d almost think you didn’t
want
to work here at Bowen’s. More time off? I gave you time off a few weeks ago.”

Adam shifted his feet by the doorway. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Impossible. It’s out of the question.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have started working for you so soon. I have, oh, loose ends to tie up.”

“Loose ends, is it?” Duncan snorted in contempt, then he sighed. “Look, I do want you here, Adam. And I want you to do well. But you’ve not got off to the best of starts, to be quite frank. And another absence is hardly likely to help.”

“I know all that. But I can’t succeed here until I’m fully committed to it, Duncan, and right now I have other matters to deal with.”

“Such as?”

“Nothing you’d like to be bothered with. Give me a few weeks, please. And after that, hopefully, things will have fallen into place.”

Duncan was not placated. “This isn’t a labour exchange I’m running, you know. You can’t just pop in and out on a whim, seeing what suits and what doesn’t. I expect dedication from my team.”