by Jim Eldridge
‘Market day,’ observed Daniel.
They continued on, past the railway station, before reaching the crossroads. Once they’d crossed the main road to Cork and were heading westward, the noise and bustle of the market and the town was left behind them and they found themselves taking in the vivid greenery of the open countryside, smelling the scents of the wild plants and fruits growing in the hedgerows.
‘The hotel receptionist said Sean Donlan lived in a byre-house,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ve never seen one for real, but I read about them when I was doing my degree. It combines living quarters with a cowshed all under the one roof, the two areas separated by a corridor that runs through the middle, from front to back. On one side are the rooms where the humans live, and on the other side of the corridor is where the animals stay.’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘The Irish families in Camden Town used to speak fondly of them. The heat from the animals kept the house warm in winter.’
‘And smelly from their manure,’ said Abigail doubtfully. ‘I must admit, it always struck me as not very hygienic.’
‘Less hygienic than a family of twelve living in a one-up, one-down terrace back-to-back in Manchester or London, with more people in the cellar, and an overflowing cesspit outside used by all and sundry?’ asked Daniel wryly.
‘Yes, I take your point,’ said Abigail.
As they walked, they became aware that a large number of houses they passed seemed to have been abandoned and fallen into dereliction. When Abigail commented on the fact, Daniel responded with, ‘The result of the famine. Or the Great Hunger, as it was called here in Ireland.’
‘Your Irish roots,’ said Abigail.
‘No, my Irish neighbours,’ Daniel corrected her. ‘Remember I said to Father O’Brien, when I was growing up, Camden Town was at least half-Irish, and that was because of the famine. The potato crop failed and people fled in their hundreds of thousands. England, Australia, America.’
‘But why abandon their homes?’ asked Abigail. ‘Surely they could have grown something else on their land. Or put animals on it.’
‘That was the problem, it wasn’t “their” land. Most of them were tenant farmers. When the crops failed, the tenants didn’t have the money to pay their rent, so the landlords evicted them. Just put them out on the road where they had a stark choice: emigrate or die.’
‘I remember you told me before about a million died and a million emigrated.’
‘There were possibly more,’ said Daniel. ‘The authorities here weren’t very good on record keeping. This area was particularly badly hit, along with the west of Ireland. The port of Queenstown on the Cork coast was one of the main points where the coffin ships departed for America.’
‘The coffin ships?’
‘It was what they became known as, because so many people died on the voyages. They were starving when they got on board, which resulted in many becoming ill with different diseases, and the sea journey was rough.
‘I’ve often thought the worst thing was that while millions starved here, exports of food from Ireland were at their highest. During the famine, thousands of ships left Ireland taking meat and buttermilk and other foodstuffs to England.’
‘I can understand the Irish feeling vengeful. And yet you and I can walk along this road and I feel quite safe,’ remarked Abigail.
‘Not all the landlords were English,’ said Daniel. ‘Some were Irish. Profit doesn’t have a national identity.’
At last they came to a long, single-storey building, the roof covered in straw thatch. The word ‘Donlan’ was painted on a board nailed to a fence.
‘Here we are,’ said Daniel.
They passed through the gate and were heading up the path towards the house, when the front door opened and a young woman came out.
‘Would you be Mr Wilson?’ she asked expectantly. ‘And Miss Fenton?’
Her accent was soft, similar to the receptionist’s at the hotel.
‘Indeed,’ replied Daniel. ‘Would you be Niamh O’Keeffe?’
She smiled. ‘That is me,’ she said. ‘My great-uncle is inside, waiting for you. I’ll take you to him.’
As they entered and followed the young woman into the house and turned to the left, Abigail caught the earthy smell of cattle and horses coming from a partly open door to their right. She caught Daniel’s look, and he winked and smiled at her. After what Daniel had told her about the byre-house, Abigail was expecting the living area to be little more than a stable, so she was taken aback when she entered the living room by the warmth and cleanliness of it. No, it was more than just clean, everything seemed to shine: the ornaments on display on the dresser, the crockery on the table, the wood of the furniture glowed from polishing, as did the iron of the stove and the fireplace. All the cloths, the white linen, the shawls, the coverings, also seemed to shine, giving off the welcoming scent of being recently laundered.
Has this just been done for us? Abigail wondered, awed at finding such pride in the house. But no, she realised, this place, this byre-house, was Sean Donlan’s castle, and he was proud of it.
Donlan was a very small, very thin man in his sixties, and he rose from his armchair to greet them, shaking their hands and welcoming them in Irish in his soft accent.
‘Dia dhuit,’ said Daniel as he shook Donlan’s hand, adding quickly as the man’s eyes lit up in pleased recognition, ‘but I’m afraid that’s the whole extent of my Irish.’
‘My uncle and I thought it might be better if I talked for him,’ said Niamh. ‘He has some English, but he wants to make sure that what he wants to tell you is told properly, with no mistakes.’
‘We appreciate that,’ said Daniel.
‘It said in the paper you were wanting to know about Kathleen Donlan,’ said Niamh.
‘That’s so,’ said Abigail. ‘As you now know, sadly someone killed her soon after she came to Manchester. We feel the reason for it maybe has to do with why she went there.’
Niamh spoke rapidly to Donlan, obviously translating this, but he was already nodding.
‘Yes,’ he said in English. Then he began to speak in Gaelic, his face serious. After every few sentences he paused and looked at Niamh for her to translate what he’d just said.
‘Kathleen was very close to her grandfather, Dermot,’ translated Niamh. ‘Just before he died he asked her to do something – to put right a wrong his father, Michael, Kathleen’s great-grandfather, had done when he was young.’
Donlan said more, and Niamh continued his story. ‘Michael had been a young man in the British army in 1819 and had taken part in quelling the riot at what became known as Peterloo. Just before he died, Michael told his son, Dermot – Sean’s father – on his deathbed of a terrible wrong he’d done. He’d cut down a woman and her baby at Peterloo with his sabre and killed them.
‘Afterwards, he was so distraught at what he’d done that he fled England and came back here to his home townland in Ireland, where he refused to speak about it. He just told people that he’d deserted from the army because of some terrible things he’d seen and he was determined not to go back. He asked everyone locally to swear to protect him if anyone came looking for him, and everyone did. And they carried on doing that even after he died in 1830, although no one ever came looking for him.
‘We didn’t know all what had happened, or that Michael had told his son, Dermot, about the event on his deathbed, or that he’d asked Dermot to go to England and find the family of the woman he’d killed and ask their forgiveness so his soul could rest in peace.’
Daniel and Abigail exchanged looks of surprise at this revelation.
‘And did Dermot go?’ Daniel asked.
Donlan shook his head and said something in Irish, his tone full of sadness.
‘No,’ translated Niamh. ‘Dermot said he would, but then the famine came and suddenly the most important thing was staying alive. Dermot promised himself that once things got better he’d go to England and carry out his father’s wishes.
But, of course, promises that are made fade as time passes: they’ll be carried out next week, or next month, or next year. And when Dermot was on his deathbed, he told Kathleen about the promise he’d made, and asked her to carry out Michael’s wishes.’
‘Why Kathleen?’ asked Daniel. ‘Why not her father, or Sean? They were his sons.’
‘Kathleen’s father, Seamus, died three years ago,’ said Niamh. She halted, awkwardly, then looked towards Sean, who nodded. ‘Sean and Dermot had their differences. They hadn’t spoken for a year before he died.’
‘What about?’ asked Abigail.
‘A cow,’ said Donlan suddenly.
‘A cow?’
Sean Donlan nodded.
‘It died and Dermot accused Sean of poisoning it,’ explained Niamh. ‘Sean would never poison a cow and he vowed he’d never speak to his father again unless he withdrew that accusation.’
Sean burst out with an angry speech, which Niamh translated. ‘He said Dermot was a stubborn man and he refused to withdraw.’ As Donlan added something in a tone that was very bitter and angry, she translated for them: ‘Even when Dermot knew he was dying! He should have said something to Sean!’
‘But he told Kathleen about the promise,’ said Daniel.
‘He did,’ said Donlan, adding something in Irish, which Niamh translated: ‘And now it was her promise. Sean says it wasn’t fair! There was no reason to involve her! She was a lovely girl. Too good-hearted for her own good.’
‘I assume she came to you and told you?’ said Daniel to Donlan.
Donlan nodded, and once again Niamh translated his words. ‘She didn’t know what to do. How to go about it. We didn’t know what part of the army Michael had been in, or who it was he’d killed. It was an impossible thing to ask of anyone. But she was determined. She swore me to secrecy until she’d carried it out, and I promised to say nothing to anyone until I saw her again and she told me it was done. Even then, I wouldn’t have said anything. No one likes to think of the family being tainted with that, which is why it had remained a secret.
‘I gave her the money for her fare to England, and a little bit more to keep her going at first. I gave her a letter to my cousin, Eileen, asking if she could put Kathleen up until she got herself settled. I told Kathleen she’d have to find work of some kind to support herself while she made her enquiries and found out the woman’s name, and who her family were, even if any of them were still alive. Like I say, it was an impossible quest.’
Suddenly they realised tears were on the old man’s face as he muttered something. Daniel and Abigail looked enquiringly towards Niamh, who said, ‘He said it’s his fault Kathleen’s dead. If he hadn’t given her the money for her fare, and Cousin Eileen’s address …’
‘No!’ said Abigail firmly. She reached out and gently took the old man’s hand in hers. ‘You did the right thing. The person who killed her is the one who’s at fault. And I promise you, we’ll find them.’
Niamh and Donlan looked anxiously at Daniel and Abigail as Niamh asked, ‘Does this help find out why someone did what they did to Kathleen?’
‘I think it does,’ said Daniel. ‘I don’t know exactly how, but I feel that someone didn’t want her asking questions about what had happened.’
‘Why? She was trying to do good,’ said Niamh.
‘But perhaps this person didn’t know that,’ said Daniel. ‘But I promise you, once we find out why, we’ll write and let you know.’ He hesitated, then said sadly, ‘We also have to let you know that your cousin, Eileen, was also a victim.’
Niamh looked at him, horrified.
‘She was murdered as well?’
‘I’m afraid she was,’ said Daniel. ‘And we’re fairly sure by the same person who killed Kathleen.’
Niamh turned to Donlan and translated what Daniel had just told her, her voice shaking as she did. Donlan looked at Daniel and Abigail, aghast, then gave a low moan and buried his face in his hands.
‘We’re sorry to bring you further bad news,’ apologised Abigail. ‘But we will catch whoever did it. That we promise you.’
Donlan stood up, his face a mask of misery, and left the room.
‘He’ll be all right,’ said Niamh. ‘It’s the shock. He’s had time to adjust to Kathleen being killed, but this …’ She sighed. ‘I’ll go and see that he’s all right.’
She left the room. Abigail and Daniel looked at one another with unhappy sighs.
‘I’m more than ever convinced about the army connection,’ said Daniel quietly. ‘A descendant of a soldier who was at Peterloo, killing them both to protect his ancestor’s reputation.’
‘But who?’ asked Abigail.
Daniel gave a heavy sigh.
‘As to that, I’m afraid we’re no nearer. There’s a lot more work to be done yet in Manchester.’
They sat, and after a while Niamh appeared, along with Donlan, who took his seat again. Niamh produced cups and saucers and a teapot from the dresser and proceeded to make tea from the cast-iron kettle that had been simmering on the stove. Niamh left the room, then reappeared with four plates, each with a slice of fruit cake. Over tea and cake the conversation became more relaxed, mainly with Niamh and Sean Donlan asking questions about England, and enquiring after relatives who’d moved there, with Daniel and Abigail feeling guilty that neither recognised any of the names they mentioned.
‘By the way, do you know of a man called Con Gully?’ asked Daniel. ‘He was from Kanturk.’
The name obviously registered with both Niamh and Donlan, because Donlan let forth such an angry outburst that Abigail and Daniel didn’t need Niamh to translate his despising of the man, but Niamh added the information that Daniel was looking for. ‘He was arrested in Limerick about a week ago, and he’s now where he ought to be, in jail, in Cork city.’
‘So he didn’t escape to England?’ asked Abigail.
Niamh shook her head. ‘As far as we heard, after he escaped from Kanturk Jail he went west to Limerick and was there until he was caught trying to rob someone.’
Donlan muttered something with great scorn, and Niamh added, ‘Great-Uncle Sean says Gully’s scum.’
‘Yes, he is,’ said Daniel.
There was the sudden sound of rain on the window, driven by a gust of wind, and as they sat there Daniel and Abigail realised that the rain seemed to be settling in, and it would be a long and wet walk back to the hotel for them. Donlan and Niamh realised this, too, because Donlan said something, and Niamh told them, ‘Sean says he’ll take you back to Mallow on his cart. It’ll save you from getting too wet.’
Abigail turned to Donlan and said, ‘Mr Donlan, that is very kind of you, and we certainly accept your offer.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
On the train from Mallow back to Dublin they discussed what they’d learnt.
‘Someone connected with the army killed Kathleen to stop her looking into what had happened at Peterloo,’ summed up Abigail. ‘But why? Everything that happened is public knowledge. And she was no threat to anyone. She was trying to make amends for something that had happened.’
‘But say the killer didn’t realise that,’ said Daniel. ‘Kathleen arrived from Ireland intent on carrying out her grandfather’s mission. But first she needed to find out who’d been killed at Peterloo so she could seek out their descendants, their relatives. She tried the barracks first, but they turned her away. But because of her asking about who the victims were at Peterloo, someone at the barracks misinterpreted what she was after. They thought she’d come to stir things up, perhaps try and extort money from someone in the army who’d been involved in the Peterloo fiasco. Possibly someone who’d killed someone during it, but kept that hidden.’
‘But it was eighty years ago,’ said Abigail. ‘Everyone involved in it is long dead!’
‘Family, then. A grandfather, possibly. Someone whose reputation his descendants are desperate to protect. Desperate enough to kill.’
‘We still don’t know who. It could b
e absolutely anyone. A high-ranking officer at the time, or an ordinary soldier.’
‘Bulstrode knows,’ said Daniel. ‘We have to find a way to get him to talk.’
It was late when they arrived in Dublin. They booked a cabin on the night ferry.
‘It may be only a short crossing, but I’d rather arrive in Liverpool tomorrow morning having had some sort of sleep, even if it’s just a couple of hours,’ said Abigail.
‘I thought you were used to hardship when travelling,’ said Daniel with a smile. ‘All those tales of Egypt, and your journey down the Nile.’
‘Which was on a very palatial boat,’ said Abigail. ‘I checked the forecast for this journey, and they believe the sea is going to be rough. I have been below decks in rough seas, and have observed it is usually awash with other people’s vomit.’
‘What a charming image,’ said Daniel.
The sea journey was rough, and Daniel didn’t get much sleep. The way the boat rolled with the strong waves meant he kept sliding off the bunk, or was crashed against the nearest wall. Abigail, for some reason, had managed to fix herself into a firm place and slept, to Daniel’s envy. The result of her years of experience of long sea journeys to foreign lands, he guessed: Egypt, Palestine, Italy, the Ottoman Empire. The only time he’d previously been on board a ship had been the ferry to the Isle of Wight, and that had been just as nausea-inducing a trip as this one. I must get Abigail to teach me the trick of surviving long, rough sea journeys, he decided.
The sea had been so rough that when they disembarked at Manchester, he still felt unsteady on his feet. Noticing this, Abigail asked, ‘Do you want me to support you as you walk?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Daniel. ‘I shall be all right once my brain has caught up with my feet. At the moment it seems to be going round and round, as if we’re still on the boat.’
‘Lots of big breaths,’ advised Abigail.
Daniel was relieved when they were finally on board the train for Manchester and he began to feel almost normal again. It was mid-morning when they arrived back in the city.