by Charles Todd
Only this time, it wasn’t a portrait of Eileen.
These were paintings that were a part of the series I’d been told that Fergus Kennedy had been working on. These were smaller studies, just the faces of two men, to be the pattern for the larger work he was doing.
One was Michael Collins, the other Padraig Pearse. I recognized them from the newspapers I’d seen about the Rising and its aftermath.
They were beautifully painted, each man given both human and heroic treatment, the sort of thing that had taken great skill on the part of the artist, bringing them to life on the canvas. Eye-catching. The sort of thing that would be part of a grand mural or a fine memorial.
Only these weren’t going to be a part of anything, anymore.
Someone had taken a knife to the faces, stabbing them in the throat and eyes.
Behind me, Eileen gasped.
The Constable was grinning maliciously.
“There were found in your valise. Do you recognize them?”
“I have never seen them before,” I said forcefully, and this time there was no trouble with my voice. I heard it, firm and certain and most certainly mine. “They do not belong to me, and never have.”
“You took them from the late Fergus Kennedy’s studio. After you had killed him.” He was ushering me out the door.
“I have never been in his studio. How could I have taken them? More to the point, why should I have killed a man I’d never met?” There must have been the ring of truth in my voice, but he ignored it.
I was led out the door with the Constable’s grip on my arm with his free hand, and the spare horse was being brought up by his fellow officer.
Behind me Eileen stood in the shadows of the passage, looking stricken.
And as I mounted, over our heads a window opened, and I heard Mrs. Flynn’s voice clearly as she called, “Good riddance. I always said she was trouble.”
The window came shut with a bang as she watched me being led away.
Chapter Seventeen
As we rode down the drive to the lane, I couldn’t remember when I’d felt so alone.
I knew nothing about Irish law or what rights I might have.
Nor could I be sure that Eileen would find Terrence and tell him what had just happened.
Surely Simon would find out what had happened—but what could he do? I didn’t think Travelers had any rights before the law.
I said, keeping my voice steady, “Why would anyone in his right mind think I would kill a man I’d never met?”
“Because he was working on the memorial, and he had to be stopped. Who would suspect a British Sister of working for the British Government?”
“I came here for a wedding, as you well know.”
“For a woman you hadn’t seen in how many years? Yes, that was good thinking. No one would suspect you.”
“Your time would be better spent on finding the people who abducted and nearly killed Michael Sullivan. Who presently have Major Dawson, for that matter. Don’t you care about them?”
“We are searching.”
I wanted to comment on that as well, but I had to be careful. I was his prisoner. And I didn’t wish to disappear . . . Did prisoners disappear out here in the last fringes of Ireland? Far from Dublin and anyone’s watchful eye?
And who had put those damaged portraits in my valise? I hadn’t looked in it for a day or so, my clothes were hanging up and Eileen’s medical kit at hand, in the event Michael needed something. It could have been anyone. Even the priest, who had visited the house today—while I had gone out to the gardens, offering him a perfect opportunity.
There was a whole host of possibilities. The priest, Niall, Mrs. Flynn the Elder. And although I didn’t want to think it, even Terrence himself.
All that was put aside as I noticed we hadn’t turned to the right as we reached the lane that led into the village. Instead, we’d turned left, away even from the main road, keeping to the lane in the other direction.
I’d expected to find myself in a cell in Killeighbeg. But, of course, I remembered too late that there was no police station in the village.
Where were we heading? I felt a sweep of cold fear running down my spine.
“Where are we going?” I asked my escorts, keeping any note of panic out of my voice. I didn’t trust this man.
But he shook his head.
“I have a right to know where I’m being taken,” I demanded more sharply.
“Next village.”
It must have been only eight or nine miles away, as it turned out, but it stretched out like an eternity. I wasn’t dressed for riding and I had trouble keeping my skirts decently spread around my ankles. Occasionally at first I glimpsed the sea to my right, or was it an inlet? The grass was scrubby and overgrown, no farms or meadows, as if the sea came up often enough into this stretch to keep the land sour. It wasn’t that far from the spinney and the pond where the Major was taken. I wondered if this was where they’d brought up their boat—if the land was firm enough to walk across or to pull one up.
On my left, there was a farmhouse in the distance, low and whitewashed. As we waded across a little stream, I could just see four or five brown cows asleep under a tree.
We hadn’t taken the road that Terrence and I had traveled to find a chemist and buy medicine for Michael. This was more a country lane. But the village, when we came to it, was hardly larger than Killeighbeg. Still, it had a tiny police station and a single cell in the back of it.
I had tried not to be nervous, but when I dismounted and was taken inside the station, I was beginning to feel anxious. Eileen might tell her cousin I’d been taken, but who would know where I was? Surely this wasn’t the usual place to take prisoners? This tiny station?
While I waited with his silent companion, the Constable conferred with his opposite number there, a small dark-haired man, and I was led back to that single cell.
It smelled of urine, stale sweat, and cigarette smoke, among other things I tried not to identify, and when I sat down on the single cot as the heavy door was swung shut, the blanket smelled of horses. I tried to ignore the bucket in the corner of the opposite wall. There were no windows, the only light coming from the small grille in the cell door. I didn’t mind the dark, but this meant I wouldn’t know what time of night or day it might be, unless I asked.
Resigning myself to the inevitable, I tried to think positively, and tell myself that someone would get me out of here. Eileen—Terrence—even Maeve Flynn, perhaps. Surely they would have a solicitor. Unless of course he was in Dublin and had to be sent for. That could take longer. At least someone other than Mrs. Flynn Senior had seen me taken away. I wasn’t sure she would say a word. But Eileen would. Surely . . .
Time passed.
The day had been warm enough, and sunny. But suddenly the world around me shook as a clap of thunder seemed to break just overhead. And I discovered that the cell leaked. A rivulet of water soon came trickling in one corner. It reminded me of something. I remembered reading Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo when my governess wasn’t looking. Edmond Dantès had dug his way into the next cell. That wasn’t possible here, even as the puddle of water spread across the floor. I didn’t want to, but I brought my feet up under me on the cot, to keep them dry.
There was another clap of thunder, not as close this time, and the storm must have moved away. The trickle soon stopped but the water stayed. And it was rather chilly in here now as the temperature dropped with the storm. I hadn’t brought a wrap with me.
I refused to let my spirits droop. I could just see scratches on the walls, as if other residents had counted the days of their incarceration. Surely they’d take me to Dublin tomorrow. I wouldn’t be left here for very long. And I was English, surely that would make a difference.
I was beginning to feel drowsy. It must be fairly late.
And then the light from the Constable’s desk went out, and I was plunged into darkness. The building was quiet around me.
&
nbsp; What were a Constable’s hours? Eight to eight? Or was it later? I remembered our Constable in Somerset making evening rounds before he turned in, walking the village streets to be sure that all the doors were safely locked. But did he come back to the station afterward—or go on to his home?
I hadn’t eaten, and no dinner had been brought, although the very thought of eating in here turned my stomach. I’d have been happy for a cup of tea, however.
The night grew even quieter, and I found myself dozing. I didn’t want to put my head down on the blanket—sitting on it was disturbing enough—and I was afraid to lean it against the wall, not knowing what else lived in my cell. Lice, spiders, other insects. Instead I cradled it on my knees.
Sometime later, a light bloomed in the square that was my cell doorway, nearly blinding me, and I heard raised voices, but not what they were saying.
This went on for several minutes, and then footsteps approached my cell. Had they remembered my meal? I’d be grateful for that tea. It was one thing the English and Irish shared, tea.
The key turned in the door, and it swung open. The Constable stood there, scowling. “It seems you’re to be released.”
“Am I?” I said, quite surprised.
“The rightful killer has been found.”
He didn’t seem to be very pleased about it.
My thoughts were already running ahead. Had Terrence been arrested in my stead?
And then a second thought pushed the first from my mind.
Had arresting me been a ruse to bring Terrence out of hiding? He’d promised me protection, and he might well have come forward because he’d given his word. Even if he wasn’t guilty.
Would they jail and try a National Hero?
He had enemies who would be happy to see it. And there were the English.
He’d been safe enough in Killeighbeg—for a long while. But now the jackals were gathering . . .
I followed the Constable down the short passage to the main room, and was shown to the door.
I stepped out into darkness, smelling of fresh rain.
As my eyes readjusted, I saw that the man holding a pair of horses was Terrence, and a wave of relief swept me.
“I’m so very glad to see you,” I said, smiling. “I don’t know how you managed this, but I am grateful.”
He moved forward and helped me mount, then handed me a coat. As I pulled it on, I was thankful for the warmth. It wasn’t mine, but it didn’t smell of the odors I’d come to know all too well in that cell.
I was about to ask him more about how he’d managed this miracle, but he shook his head.
“Not now.”
I suddenly realized my jailer hadn’t known who he was. In the darkness, his hat pulled low, he could pass as Niall.
We turned our mounts west and passed out of the village in silence, and it wasn’t until we were well away from there that I felt I could speak. Even so, I kept my voice low.
“The Constable told me the killer had been found. I was afraid it might be you they’d caught, using me as bait to bring you out of hiding.”
“No. Not from lack of trying, all the same. I didn’t come forward. Instead I passed the word through someone else.”
I was about to say I was glad to hear it—and then tired as I was, the penny dropped.
“You knew who the killer is? But how? Who?”
He was short with me. “I was in a very tight corner.”
“I’m sorry. But for my own safety, I ought to know who killed Fergus Kennedy. After all, I’ve been in a cell, accused of just that murder.”
“It’s best if you stay out of this affair. Let it go.”
I did. For now.
It was late when we reached the stable yard and I dismounted. Terrence looked at me sharply. “Are you all right?”
“Tired. Hungry. Grateful to be safely home. I’ll be fine.”
“There’s cold chicken in the pantry.”
“Thank you. I’ll look for it.”
I said good night and walked quietly toward the kitchen door to the house, hoping to slip in and go directly to bed after a quick raid in the pantry.
The chicken was there. Even though it was close on three in the morning, I found a knife and put some slices on a plate, with slices of bread and a little cheese. Filling a glass with water, I took my meal back to the kitchen and was just sitting down when Niall came in.
He stopped short. “I didn’t think to see you tonight.”
I had a mouth full of roast chicken. Swallowing, I said, “I expect they were tired of my company.”
“No, I mean, I didn’t think the news could travel that fast.”
“What news?”
He sat down, reached over, and helped himself to a slice of chicken from my plate. “Sorry, I didn’t get my dinner, either. No, really, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” I didn’t mean to snap but I was tired and cross with everyone.
“There’s been a lot of excitement in the village tonight. Or is that last night?” He shook his head. “Whatever. The Constable came racing into town, and word got out that he’d made a mistake in arresting you. He was looking for Kennedy’s killer, and as mad as a nest of hornets. Not the sort of man to enjoy playing the fool. He was so certain you were his killer.”
“Well, I’m not his killer—or anyone else’s. I’d never even heard of Fergus Kennedy until someone identified him when his body was brought in.” I was tempted to tell him what I thought of the Constable, then bit my tongue. Niall wasn’t to be trusted . . .
The Major had told me that. And I’d believed him.
Niall helped himself to another slice of chicken and the last piece of the cheese. “Why didn’t you put the kettle on? Both of us could do with a cup of tea.” He reached into his pocket and took out a flask. “There’s even a little whiskey for it.”
“I’m a nursing Sister, not a cook.”
“No.” He sighed. “More’s the pity.” Wiping his fingers on the tea towel that had been folded neatly and left on the table, he got up.
“You haven’t told me your news,” I said.
“I’ve told you. The village was in an uproar. The Constable was mad as hell and turning the place inside out.”
“If he was looking for the singer, he’s recovering from being so ill. Are you telling me he killed Kennedy? I’m not surprised. He’s what Si—what Terrence would call a nasty piece of work.”
Niall shook his head as he walked to the door leading to the back stairs. “Either you aren’t listening, or prison has addled your brain. They were turning the village inside out searching for that damned tinker. You’d think that gaudy caravan of his would be easy to find.”
I nearly choked on the sip of water I’d taken. “The Traveler? I don’t understand. Why would he kill an artist?”
Niall shrugged. “I have no idea. Terrence put him on to the man. Informed the Constable that he’d been in the house twice and could easily have hidden evidence in your room. I never liked him, I thought he was far too handy with his fists for a Traveler. They’re usually sly, going for you when your back is turned.”
“Did—did they catch him?” It was difficult to keep my voice steady. I was so very tired, and this on top of everything else, was such a shock.
“Not yet. But they will. And when they do, I hope they knock him about for a bit. Teach him a few manners while they’re at it.” He turned and ran lightly up the stairs.
I sat there.
I had to do something. I had to find Simon before anyone else did, and warn him. There was no time to wash my face or sleep for an hour—
I got to my feet and started for the door, my hand was actually on the latch when it occurred to me. Or perhaps it was a sound from the back stairs. I didn’t know.
If I go out to search for Simon, knowing him as well as I did, I’d very likely find him.
And lead them straight to him.
How do they know I know him? I asked myself.
It
didn’t matter. If I left this house tonight, Niall would follow me, or Terrence, to see where I was going.
I opened the door, stepped out for a few seconds, looking up at the sky and taking deep breaths of the cool night air. Then turned around again, and stepped back in the kitchen.
Niall was standing in the doorway to the stairs.
“I thought you might have decided to put the kettle on.”
“No,” I said quietly. “I can still smell that awful cell. I need to breathe a little clean air. Then I was going to look in on Michael and Eileen.”
I shut the door, then walked to the door into the front room. But when I opened it, I could hear the normal breathing of the two people lying on the pallet on the floor. I shut the door again, softly.
“They’re all right. I was worried,” I said. Then I crossed the room and waited for him to step aside.
“Good night,” I told him. And went up the stairs to my room.
But not to sleep. To sit on the edge of Eileen’s bed and wait for the dawn. To listen for the soft call of a Somerset dove that never came.
I washed off the smell and feel of that cell in cold water, put on clean clothing, and went down for breakfast.
Except for Molly, the kitchen was empty.
She stared at me as if I’d grown a second head overnight, and I smiled. She blushed to the roots of her hair, and turned away.
“I’m all right,” I said. “A little tired but none the worse for wear. And I am not guilty of murdering anyone.” I let her absorb that and then asked, “What’s the gossip in the village?”
She was busying herself pouring me a cup of tea. “I don’t listen to gossip.”
“Of course you do. Everyone does. What are they saying about the turn of events? That the English nurse was arrested, and then let go?”
“Yes, Sister. And that the tinker was taken up in your place.”
As casually as I could, I asked, “And was he taken up?”
“I don’t think so. They found his caravan, but not him.”
It was difficult to hide that gaudy caravan. And such a relief to know Simon was still free.