An Irish Hostage

by Charles Todd

  But I could guess. I’d seen Eileen brushing out her dark hair before going to bed, long strokes that gave it a black sheen.

  Satisfied, he gave one last look around, shook his head at the destruction, tucked sheet and painting under his free arm before making his way back through the house.

  I ran back to the horses, nearly stumbling on the rough ground. I was holding both reins and stroking the white blaze on the nose of my mount when the light went out in the cottage, the door opened, and Terrence stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

  “I told you to stay on your horse,” he said roughly.

  “I was tired of sitting in the saddle. Besides, it was easier to keep them quiet.”

  He looked around us in every direction. There didn’t appear to be anything to worry him, but I thought it had become second nature for him to be sure there was no threat. He helped me mount, then stowed his burden in the leather bag behind his saddle.

  “What is that?” I asked him, gesturing toward the bag. “What did you take?”

  “That’s none of your affair, woman.”

  “It is if you took it from a murder scene. That makes me an accessory. And so I have a right to know.”

  He hesitated, then answered me. “It is something that belongs to me. It has nothing to do with that man’s death. I just didn’t want the police to find it and draw the wrong conclusions. We’re always the villains, we Irish. Wait and see. The Constabulary will turn out every shed, barn, and household in the days to come. And use whatever they find however it seems best to them. Never mind Fergus’s murder.” Swinging himself into his saddle, he touched his horse with his heel and we moved off.

  “Is that his name? Fergus?”

  “Fergus Kennedy. His mother was English, she died when he was eighteen. Before he came to live here.”

  “You seem to know him fairly well.”

  “I did. I liked him.”

  He couldn’t have killed Fergus Kennedy, could he? Surely if he had, and thrown the body into the sea, he’d have collected that painting before leaving here. But then I couldn’t be sure just when the man had been killed and put into the sea. And for that matter, they could have met somewhere closer by.

  We fell silent. Traveling through the night, sometimes near the sea, more often inland. Ten miles? Twenty? I couldn’t be certain how far away that cottage was, because we’d never ridden in a straight line, the coast here was so irregular. My instinct said closer to twenty.

  I was thinking about why Terrence had taken me into the village, had insisted that I accompany him to the harbor, and now had made certain I was with him tonight. It was most certainly not the pleasure of my company that he wanted. Was he just trying to make certain nothing more happened to mar Eileen’s wedding?

  Or was I simply there to help him cover his tracks, as Captain Jackson would have described it?

  Chapter Six

  We didn’t speak the rest of the way to Eileen’s house. And when we reached the place where he’d kept the horses earlier, he said only, “Get down and go in. I’ll see you safe to the door before taking these to the barn.”

  “Thank you. Good night.” I began to walk briskly toward the house, once more turning toward the rear and the kitchen door before I reached the point where Granny might see me. All was quiet, and I slipped into the kitchen, carefully shutting the door behind me.

  A voice in the darkness spoke, and I nearly leaped out of my shoes.

  “Bess?”

  It was Major Dawson, and judging where his voice was coming from, he was sitting at the table.

  Collecting my wits, I said softly, “You couldn’t sleep, either?”

  “No. Niall is next door to me, and he snores loud enough to wake the banshees, whatever they may be.”

  I smothered a laugh, but he was continuing in a more serious tone. “You shouldn’t be wandering about alone in the dark. You don’t know the grounds. You only just got here today—yesterday.”

  “I walked down to the meadow. Where I’d landed. I needed to think, and I didn’t wish to keep Eileen awake.”

  “The priest—O’Halloran—came looking for Terrence. The last of the searchers had reported in. Still no sign of Michael. I heard the knock and came down. The priest has called it off for tonight. The men are weary, he said, and need rest.”

  “Do you believe him? That there was no sign of Michael?”

  His voice was tired as he said, “We have no reason to doubt O’Halloran. But then we have no way of knowing where he stands in regard to Michael serving in the British Army.”

  “I don’t think he approves of it. I wonder—is Eileen’s grandmother someone Father O’Halloran wouldn’t particularly wish to cross? Is it like England here, and the living is in the hands of the squire or someone else of importance in the village?”

  I could hear his sigh. “I have no idea how that works here. As for crossing her, I’m already in her black books simply for being English, and that’s unpleasant enough.” There was the slight scrape of his chair as he rose, adding, “We ought to be in bed. You might wish to go up the back stairs. Two of us using the main staircase might cause talk.”

  “Good night.” I opened the door and started up the steps in the dark, feeling my way. He waited, and then closed the door when he thought I was safely at the top. I slipped into Eileen’s room, which was almost at the head of the back stairs, undressed in the dark, and got quietly into bed beside her. Only then did I hear the Major’s door shut softly.

  It was nearly half an hour later when I barely heard the distant sound of an aircraft, riding high in the night sky. I was just falling asleep, but I’d been half listening for it.

  I woke early, a little after sunrise, and dressed quietly. Eileen was deeply asleep, a reaction, I thought, to the stress of yesterday.

  Closing the door gently, I went down the back stairs with my boots in my hand, and in the kitchen quickly pulled them on and did up the laces. Then I let myself out the back door.

  The morning was cool, and there had been a heavy dew. I had to hold up my skirts so that it didn’t wet my hems as I walked close to the house and then cut across the lawns down to the stile.

  My handkerchief lay where I’d left it last night, and with my back to the house, I hurriedly stuffed it into my pocket. Standing there, looking out across the meadow, I could see a scattering of wildflowers, some of which I recognized. And beyond, the stand of trees. The grasses were still flattened where the Captain had landed and taken off again. And I noticed something lying there that seemed a bit out of place.

  Without hurrying, I walked across the meadow, listening to the early birdsong, seeing a flash of color here and there where the birds were feeding on the seeds.

  I was near enough now to realize that I hadn’t been wrong. There was something just ten paces farther on, half hidden where it had fallen.

  I was still more or less strolling along, and when I reached the spot, I stopped, as if only just seeing what was there.

  It was a bit of paper wrapped around a stone, the ends twisted together and tied off with a length of twine.

  I bent down, picked it up, dropped it in my pocket, and kept walking, finally turning and heading back toward the house.

  I was halfway back to the stile when I saw that someone was standing in the shadows by the side of the house, watching me.

  It was Terrence.

  He started toward me, and for an instant I considered dropping the paper and stone under the stile as I went over it. But how long had he been watching? If he’d seen me pick it up—and I didn’t have it with me when he questioned me—what then?

  I had to trust that whoever had written the message had taken into account the possibility that it might be found by someone else.

  And so I left it where it was.

  And wondered, as I kept walking toward him, if Terrance too had heard the aircraft in the night.

  We met on the lawns beside the house, and he simply held out hi
s hand.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the stone and paper.

  Terrence smiled, then started to take it from me.

  I snatched my hand away and said crossly, “It’s mine. I’ll read it first.” Without waiting for an answer, I struggled with the knot in the twine. Impatient, he pulled out a pocketknife and, reaching out, cut it.

  I unfolded the paper, dropped the stone by my foot, and began to scan what was written there.

  “Aloud,” Terrence ordered.

  Giving him as angry a look as I could muster, I began to read.

  Dearest Bess,

  Has Michael been found? Do you need rescue? I can only hope that all is well and that you aren’t already repenting your decision to stay on. If you need help, you know I’ll do everything I can to get you safely out of there.

  Yours always,

  Arthur

  “Who,” Terrence was asking, “is Arthur?”

  “Captain Jackson, of course! The pilot who brought me here.” I’d already seen the signature before I’d begun to read, and I was ready for his suspicions. “We met in Paris. During the war.” That was true, actually: the peace treaty hadn’t been agreed upon, much less signed. I looked up, meeting his intent gaze. “He thinks he’s in love with me.” I hoped Arthur would forgive the lie.

  “And are you in love with him?”

  I shook my head. “He’s a good friend. I like him immensely. But no. I’m not in love with him. He’s an American. He’ll soon be going back to his home.” I was fairly sure that the Captain’s accent had been noted. I was still on safe ground.

  He held out his hand, reading the note for himself, to see that there was nothing I’d left out—or changed. No hidden message, no secret code.

  Giving it back to me, he said, “And do you need rescue?”

  “I don’t know,” I challenged him. “Do I?”

  He laughed. And started back to the house. Turning slightly, he waited for me to walk with him.

  “He can drop all the love letters he wishes,” Terrence said as we walked on. “That’s the thing about an aircraft. It can drop—but it can’t pick up, can it?”

  “It can land,” I replied.

  “Yes. So it can. I’m famished. Have you had your breakfast?”

  “No. I needed a walk to clear my head. And I saw the message. Did you hear an aircraft last night? It must have flown over while we were at Fergus’s house.”

  “I expect it did.” He held the kitchen door wide for me, and I went inside.

  Although I had offered to make breakfast, Terrence pointed to a pot on the cooker. “Porridge,” he said, and set about heating it up and serving it to me.

  Eileen came down while we were eating, and I could see how much worry had already changed her face. It was drawn, thin, and what little color she had left came from crying. I expect that not finding me beside her in the bed we shared had frightened her.

  “There you are! Any news?” she asked, looking from one to the other of us.

  “They were out at first light. The searchers. There hasn’t been time for them to be reporting in,” her cousin told her. “You must trust them to do their work.”

  “Where could they have taken Michael? And why?”

  “My darling girl,” he said gently, “if I knew the answer to that, he’d be sitting here having a wedding breakfast with you. I’ve tried all my sources. So far, there’s nothing.” He glanced at me, then turned back to her. “If it’s the English, they’ve kept very quiet about it.”

  “But why would they want Michael?” she asked. “He’s got nothing they want. He wasn’t even here in ’16. And if it’s to draw you out, surely they’d know where to find you by now. Someone would tell them, even if Michael didn’t.”

  “Someone would betray your cousin?” I asked Eileen, surprised.

  “There’re factions.” It was Terrence who answered. “Some I don’t hold with. They’re out for blood. They’d betray their own mothers, if it advanced the Cause.”

  “Then you aren’t safe here? How can you protect us?” I demanded.

  “Because they won’t defy me openly. Not yet. But I too have spies. I’ll hear, if there’s to be trouble.” His face was suddenly grim.

  He and Eileen began discussing where the searchers had been, and where they were looking today. “And there’s the Constabulary coming,” she added, reminding him.

  “True enough. Bess here can tell them she was there when the body was pulled from the water, that I’d taken her to the village in the hope that she could help the poor man. She can tell them that I was here at breakfast, but left to join the search for Michael. All she can tell them, being a stranger here herself, is that I was heading north. She saw me leave. Which she’ll be doing in ten minutes’ time.”

  And that was precisely what happened. I saw him walk off toward the stables and outbuilding, and then ride out, toward the north. At least that was the direction he was going, when he trotted steadily toward a small orchard. After that, of course, I couldn’t have said . . .

  I went upstairs while Eileen took breakfast to her mother and grandmother, and I put the message away in my kit. Where anyone who searched my belongings could easily find it. My love letter from the pilot who had brought me here.

  Only, though it was signed Arthur, I had recognized the handwriting. And it wasn’t Captain Jackson’s. Simon Brandon had written that note for him.

  The only “code,” I thought, was in that last line: If you need help, you know I’ll do everything I can to get you safely out of there.

  I also detected the Colonel Sahib’s hand in the writing of that letter—it was there in the word repenting. When we were in India, it was sometimes a code word for searching. Was my father already trying to discover if the Army had taken Michael?

  But how Simon, who was very English, was going to be there to get me out of Ireland, I couldn’t imagine.

  It was more likely that he would find himself in as much trouble as I might be in. And that wouldn’t do at all. It would mean my father would have to send in the cavalry, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Still, the thought was comforting.

  That done, I went downstairs to await developments. I had a feeling that the quiet of the morning wasn’t going to last.

  I was right.

  It was a little after ten when someone pounded on the house door.

  Eileen and I were in the front room. She had been showing me some of the things in her trousseau, and she looked up expectantly, but I put out my hand. “If it was news, they would knock, not hammer at the door. Go and answer it. They might have come for Terrence.”

  Casting a frightened glance at me, she straightened her shoulders and went through to the entrance. I shut the parlor door and stood close enough to the crack to hear what was happening.

  Eileen said, “Good morning—”

  A harsh voice demanded, “Terrence Flynn, if you please.”

  But before Eileen could answer, Granny spoke from the stairs. “My grandson isn’t here. You can search wherever you like. It won’t do you any good, I can tell you that now.”

  “This is in reference to a dead man pulled out of the sea close by the harbor.”

  “I know about the dead man. He had nothing to do with us. My grandson has gone to search for my granddaughter’s missing fiancé. Half the village is out looking for him.”

  “Mrs. Flynn—”

  “I’ve said what I wished to say. Good day to you.”

  “Mrs. Flynn, we’ve also come to speak to your house guest. A young woman from England,” the man pressed on doggedly.

  “She’s no guest of mine.”

  I heard a door slam somewhere upstairs, and then after a moment’s hesitation, Eileen must have allowed the Constable to step into the entry.

  There was nothing for it. I had to admit him. There was no time to do anything but find a chair and sit down in it.

  He came through the door and nodded to me, but Eile
en didn’t follow him into the room. She shut the door quietly, and I thought I heard her going up the stairs.

  The Constable’s deep voice had indicated a larger man. Instead he was only of medium build, with brown hair and cold hazel eyes that focused on me and didn’t leave my face. As if I’d vanish when he blinked. I gestured to a chair on the other side of the room and then said, “My name is Elizabeth Crawford.”

  He took out his notebook and wrote something in it.

  I knew very little about the Royal Constabulary. Only that they were mostly Catholic, in a primarily Catholic land, and the Law outside Dublin. It and a few other large towns had their own police force. But what the Constabulary’s politics were, which side they had taken in the recent political upheavals, I didn’t know. And therefore, I would have to walk carefully.

  “You have come to Ireland for a wedding, as I understand.”

  “I have.” I didn’t know what resources he might have, and so I was afraid to lie. But it was imperative to keep him or anyone else away from my father’s connection with the Army.

  “Where is it you live?” He was writing my answers down in his notebook.

  “I have a small flat in London.”

  “How do you make a living?”

  “I was told I was too strong-minded to be a teacher. And so I became a nursing Sister. I’m presently on leave from a clinic for the long-term wounded.”

  “English soldiers?”

  “Welsh—Scottish—English. I treat patients, not their countries.”

  “Where do you come from? What part of England.”

  “A cousin lives in Kent, and I go to her on holidays and the like.”

  He looked up. “Your parents are deceased?”

  “Retired.” I could see where this was going, and so I added, “He was a civil servant in India. When that dreadful outbreak of cholera occurred in Lahore, he took his retirement and brought his family home. He thought I would have better opportunities there.”

  “You aren’t married?”

  There. He was distracted from my father. “Sadly, no.”