An Irish Hostage

by Charles Todd

  He came across the room to put an arm around her shoulders. “You know they have. They’ve lived here all their lives. How could they not?”

  “He can’t have vanished,” she replied. “And yet it’s like something in the old tales.”

  “Gone with the fairies? Fallen in love with a mermaid and followed her into the sea?” he asked in mock horror. “I don’t see Michael doing either of those mad things. You’re his mermaid, his fairy queen. What does he need with anyone else?”

  She smiled, and he squeezed her shoulders affectionately as he let her go. “That’s my cousin,” he said, nodding. “If you don’t keep your heart up, love, how can the searchers?”

  “I know. I know. But it’s wearing, just the same.”

  “Come and help me muck out the stables. Exercise is what you need. You know what Granny says. Idle hands do the devil’s work. And worry is the devil’s work.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Let me fetch my boots.”

  She went into the hall and came back with a jacket and boots. “Do you mind?” she asked us, following Niall to the door. “With the two of us, it will be short work.”

  “Go,” I said, smiling. “Give the donkey a pat for me.”

  And she was hurrying across the back garden to the outbuildings. They were set off from the lawns and the gardens by a tall hedge of fuchsia, the lovely pink and purple flowers dancing in the slight breeze like ballerinas. I remembered just such a hedge in the south of Wales, marking the stairs down to the sea. Here there was an arch in the center, of the same gray stone as the house.

  “Best thing for her,” Ellis said, watching her go.

  “I always thought she might marry Niall,” a voice said from the open door into the passage.

  We turned, surprised to find Eileen’s mother standing there. I’d been under the impression that she never left her room.

  “He’s such a handsome lad. They’d make a fine pair,” she went on.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Flynn,” we said almost in unison, and I added, “Would you care for a cup of tea? I was just about to put the kettle on and make a fresh pot.”

  “That would be lovely. I came down to see if there were any of those little iced cakes left. Cook used to make them especially for me.”

  I didn’t recall seeing any cakes, iced or not. “I’ll have a look.” Had someone brought them for the wedding?

  Setting the kettle on the cooker, I went into the pantry, but just as I’d thought, there were no cakes to be found. Stepping back into the kitchen, I said, “I’m afraid someone has finished them. Perhaps Eileen can be persuaded to make more. Shall I ask her?”

  “Would you, dear?” She walked to the door, looking across toward the stables. “We had horses when I was young. Beautiful ones. My father raced them, and I loved to watch them run.”

  “Where did you live when you were young?” the Major asked, joining her at the door.

  “My father was Harry FitzGerald. We had a house in Dublin for the Season, but we loved the country—the house in Connemara. There were ducks and geese in the pond during the winter, and even a peacock that roamed the lawns. I was terrified of it. Mama told me she’d bought it to remind my father that even the proud peacock had ugly feet.” She laughed, a silvery sound. “She kept him in line, Mama did.”

  “Did the peacock have a name?”

  “Dandy. We called him Dandy. I remember when he lost a feather, Papa gave it to me for my hat. I always called that one Dandy’s hat.”

  “Tell me about Eileen’s father,” I asked.

  “You have only to look at Niall to see how handsome my Eamon was. There’s a strong family resemblance. I fell in love at first sight. My mother didn’t want me to marry him, but I wore her down in the end. She told me I’d rue the day. And sadly I did. He died far too young. I was left with a daughter and a mother-in-law who hated me. I was Anglo-Irish, you see. Dirt beneath her feet, she called us. Bog Irish, I called her. But not to her face, of course.”

  The kettle boiled, and I went to make the tea. I didn’t like questioning her in this way, but she seemed more comfortable in the past than in the present. And I was frankly curious about her. She seemed so out of place here. And I was aware that the circumstances under which she’d lived could have affected her mind more than a little. I couldn’t help but wonder how she had fared when Eileen was away training in England and then posted to France, leaving her to the none-too-tender mercies of Mrs. Flynn the elder.

  As if my thoughts had conjured her up, there was a pounding on the floor upstairs, and the angry voice of Granny came down to us.

  “Where are my slippers? What have you done with them, you goose of a girl?”

  Eileen’s mother turned, alarmed.

  The Major said quickly, “It’s all right. She won’t come down. Bess?”

  “The tea,” I said, leaving him to finish what I was doing, and then taking a deep breath, I started up the stairs, preparing myself to meet the dragon in her own den.

  She was standing in the doorway to her rooms. Her black clothing was well made, but with her hair threaded with iron gray, and her dark angry eyes, there was a harshness about her that spoke to me of disappointments and sorrows that she hadn’t been able to accept.

  “Where’s Eileen?”

  “She is helping Niall in the stables.”

  That didn’t please her. “That’s not work she should be doing. Niall is lazy, he’d get out of breathing if he could find someone else to do it for him. And what use you will be, finding my slippers, I don’t know.”

  “I can but try,” I said, giving her what I hoped was a cheery smile.

  “Don’t gape at me, woman,” she said, and turned back into the room. I hesitated, then decided she wanted her slippers more than she disliked me, and so I followed.

  I realized as I stepped inside the room that she had taken over most of this wing of the house. We were standing in the sitting room, and through the other door was her bedroom. Not only that, but she had taken most of the fine furniture for her own use. There was a dark green patterned carpet on the floorboards, a fine settee and a matching pair of chairs facing the hearth, and from what I could tell, the tile surrounds were Delph, that particular shade of blue, with Dutch scenes of water life and villages. The drapes at the windows were velveteen. And surely that pretty little desk and the matching cabinet had come from Italy? I had seen an olive wood desk in Cousin Melinda’s house that was very similar.

  This then had been the master bedroom, and she hadn’t given it up to her son when he married and brought home his bride.

  It was odd, I thought, that both the Mrs. Flynns had collected their favorite pieces of furniture and left the rest of the house rather bare and plain. And then both had retired to their suites, as each tried to ignore the presence of the other.

  It was as if they had set up separate camps, and expected family loyalties to choose between them. Only Eileen belonged to her mother’s camp, as far as I could tell. And it was not surprising that she wanted to rescue her mother from this stalemate existence.

  “Don’t stand there gawking, girl! Find my slippers.”

  I said, “Where did you last see them?”

  “In my bedroom, ninny. Where else would they be?”

  I went through to the other room and began to search. The slippers weren’t under the bed, nor were they under the chair with the polished cotton skirts.

  From the doorway, Mrs. Flynn said in a very different voice, “You know you are only making trouble for my granddaughter by staying here. Nobody wants you.”

  I straightened, and faced her. “Eileen does. And I have come for her sake. I am sorry if I have displeased you by having to stay in this house, but I made a promise, and I keep my word.” I’d dealt with wounded officers who were far more aggressive than Mrs. Flynn, men accustomed to having their own way and not caring who was standing between them and whatever it was they wanted. It had helped tremendously that I’d grown up in the world of
the Army, and over the years I had seen how my father had dealt with such arrogance.

  Unaccustomed to being crossed, she stamped the floor with her cane. “You, Miss, are impertinent.”

  “I am only telling the truth.”

  “What’s between you and my grandson?”

  Aha! I thought. This is why she asked me to find her slippers. She must surely have seen Eileen running across the back lawns, following Niall.

  I said, deliberately misinterpreting her question, “Niall? I’ve hardly spoken a dozen words to him. He seems very nice.”

  “Not Niall. He knows his place in this house. Terrence is protecting you. Why?”

  “If he’s protecting me at all, it’s for Eileen’s sake. Not mine. He wants to see her happy.”

  “More fool he.” She considered me. “He’s a very attractive man. I can’t imagine what he sees in you.”

  Once more I could feel the hot blood rising in my face. But it was anger this time too, not embarrassment.

  I said, “I am a guest in your house, Mrs. Flynn. I can’t defend myself without being rude. And so I’ll find your slippers, if I may, and leave you in peace.” I turned to look again at the handsome bedroom, with its mahogany bed and tall armoire—

  Crossing the room, I opened its ornate door and saw her slippers sitting just where she must usually keep them, in the space at the bottom where my mother kept her own slippers and shoes.

  “There you are,” I said, making myself smile. “They aren’t lost after all.”

  She was standing in the doorway, between me and escape. I couldn’t leave.

  And she was as angry with me as I was with her. I could see her right hand fingering the black thorn cane as if she would like nothing better than to strike me with it.

  I braced myself, not knowing what was going to happen next. Or what to do if she did attack me. If I tried to defend myself, I could easily injure her—even a light push or a fall could easily break a bone—

  Just then I heard footsteps on the stairs, and Father O’Halloran walked into the sitting room. “Good afternoon—” he began, and then saw me standing in the bedroom.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “Not at all, Father. I was just going downstairs.” I started toward Mrs. Flynn, not sure what she would do.

  But she moved out of my way and let me pass. I nodded to the priest and gently pulled the sitting room door shut as I left.

  My knees were trembling as I went down the stairs. Mrs. Flynn, I knew now, was capable of anything. Including removing her granddaughter’s fiancé from the scene to disrupt a wedding she didn’t want to happen.

  If she had attacked him there in her rooms, would Niall or Terrence remove Michael’s body and bury it—or toss it into the sea?

  Was that why Terrence had taken me with him to see the body—fearing it was Michael, come back to haunt them? And not wanting Eileen to find him that way?

  How had she managed it? Who had been a willing tool? There must have been more than enough willing hands. But would she go so far as to have him killed?

  It was a disturbing thought.

  It was late in the afternoon when the Irish Constabulary returned. Eileen had gone up to our room to rest. The stress of not knowing anything about Michael was taking a heavy toll on her spirits, and I thought perhaps she just wanted to escape from all the conjecture and questions. We’d had a half dozen visitors during the afternoon, all wanting to know if the wedding was still on. One or two of them struck me as morbid curiosity-seekers, because their questions hinted at what she would do if Michael didn’t come back at all.

  I was sitting in the front room alone when the Constable knocked heavily at the door. It was as if he intended to frighten the occupants of the house.

  Since there was no one else about—Major Dawson had gone for a walk, and I hadn’t seen Niall since breakfast—I went to answer the summons.

  The Constable nodded. “Miss Crawford. I have a few more questions, if you please.”

  “Of course.” I led him into the front room and sat down. He remained standing, looking at his notebook, as if deciding what to ask me first. Another technique to frighten miscreants, I thought, watching him.

  Finally, he looked directly at me and said, “Did you come to Ireland to meet Fergus Kennedy?”

  “I have told you. I came for Eileen Flynn’s wedding. To my knowledge the first time I saw Mr. Kennedy, he was lying dead on the mole in the village. I didn’t even know his name or where he was from. Only that he’d been brought in by a fisherman who found him floating in the water. I was asked if there was any hope of saving him, but sadly it was too late.”

  “By declaring straightaway that he was dead, you prevented any further medical assistance being given to him at that time. Ensuring that he would die of his injuries.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Kennedy was dead when he was brought ashore. Had been dead for some time. Nothing I could do—or not do—would change that.”

  “One of the men who helped to carry him to the pub swears Mr. Kennedy tried to speak.”

  I stared at him. So this was why he’d come. Someone was making trouble. Keeping my wits about me, I replied, “And the others? Did they also hear this attempt to speak?”

  He referred to his notebook. “They did not.”

  “Before he was taken to the pub, did Father O’Halloran hear Mr. Kennedy try to speak, while giving him last rites?”

  Again he referred to the notebook, although I was certain he knew the answer. “He did not.”

  “There you are, then. But I should like to know who it is who believes Mr. Kennedy tried to speak—what medical training he might have had.”

  “He’s a musician, I believe.” Back to the notebook. “Shawn Fahy.”

  Careful, I warned myself.

  Shaking my head, I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know who that is.”

  The Constable considered my answer, then asked, “Did you know that Mr. Kennedy was painting a series of portraits of the men involved in the 1916 Rising? In some quarters this would be considered inflammatory. Most particularly to the English. They wouldn’t care for martyrdom.”

  Oh, dear! I was going to have to lie. Or else involve Terrence.

  “There were quite a few people milling about. Talking. I didn’t hear everything they said, I was too busy examining the poor man’s body. I do recall that someone asked if he had any family close by. No one seemed to know if he did or not.”

  There. I had managed to tell the truth and avoid the question.

  Sitting there, my hands folded lightly in my lap, I made myself think of Matron—any of the women who had held that post, all of them formidable. One didn’t lie to them, one took responsibility for one’s actions and either apologized or learned a lesson. I hoped I conveyed that same impression here, that I was being helpful.

  His next question nearly caught me off guard.

  “Major Dawson. How long have you known him?”

  “Since my arrival, yesterday. I hadn’t met him before.”

  “Are you sure of this?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “Did he know Fergus Kennedy?”

  “I have no reason to believe he did, he never spoke of the man to me. But, of course, you must ask him. I was under the impression that like me, he’d never been to Ireland before.”

  We were going around in circles, it seemed to me, while the Constable fished for information. Which seemed to indicate he had no real information of his own to be going on with.

  Based on that feeling, I tried something.

  “We both came here for a wedding. I can’t speak for the Major, but I think it is probably true to say that neither of us would do anything that would upset our hosts, the Flynns. We want to see Eileen happily married and starting her new life, and then return to our own, in England. I am so sorry that your Mr. Kennedy is dead, but my concern is for Michael Sullivan. Unless he returns by Saturday, there will be no wedding, and I don’t k
now how poor Eileen will face that. Or what we are supposed to do then. Stay and support her? Return to England until Michael is found? I wish I knew what to do, how to help. It is worrying.”

  The Constable listened politely. Then he asked, “Could Michael Sullivan have disappeared because he was going to kill Fergus Kennedy, and there would be less suspicion falling on him, if he was already thought to be in trouble of his own?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, shut it smartly, and then said, “I haven’t met Michael Sullivan, but he has waited four years to marry the woman he loves. Do you really think he would have done anything that would stop this wedding? If he planned to commit murder, he’d at least be sure Eileen was safely out of it.”

  “What is it you were about to say—and thought better of?”

  Careful, Bess! I scolded myself. Don’t underestimate this man!

  “I was going to ask if you’d ever been deeply in love. But that would have been rude of me.”

  He regarded me for a moment, then nodded and snapped his notebook shut. “I should like to speak to Major Dawson, please.”

  “I believe he went for a walk. I don’t think he went very far. Shall I call him?”

  “No, thank you. I prefer to find him myself.”

  And catch him unawares? But I made certain I showed no concern. Instead, I rose and escorted him to the door like a proper hostess, even though it wasn’t my house.

  He crossed the threshold and started down the steps to the lawn, but I waited until he had taken ten more strides, being polite—but also scanning the grounds for any sign of Ellis—before I closed the door.

  “Now you’re in the thick of it, young woman,” Granny said from the top of the stairs after she made sure the Constable couldn’t hear us. “Once the Constabulary is after you, there’s no way back.”

  “He only wished to know if I’d ever met Mr. Kennedy when he was alive. But of course I hadn’t. I’ve only just arrived, and the only times I’ve left the house, I was in the company of your grandson, at his request.” I looked up the stairs at her gaunt, crow-like figure. “Did you know him?” I asked innocently. “I just learned he was a painter. Do you have any of his work?”