by Tim Vicary
Sir Jonathan had been in his army uniform. His riding boots echoed on the bare floorboards. Catherine had worn a bright, defiant red dress with high button boots. She sat on one of the beds and swung them, looking at him.
He said: ‘You know Sarah - Mrs Maidment - is dying. She has cancer of the lungs. She has a few more months, that’s all.’
At least she’ll be thinner, Catherine thought, viciously. But she said: ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well. I . . . I’ve thought of marrying her, you know. We’ve discussed it.’ He looked at her for a reaction but there was none visible. ‘She has two children, grown-up boys. By her husband, of course, they are no relation of yours. They are all quite poor.’
Catherine looked away from him, out of the window. Her mother had been dead for less than a year. She still loved her father but she despised him, too, for what he had done.
‘Mrs Maidment’s sons are no responsibility of mine but they are decent fellows. Both did their bit in the war; one lost an arm. Neither has a job yet - are you listening to me?’
She had got up and walked to the window. It was so painful to hear. Without turning round she said: ‘Yes, Father.’
‘If I married Sarah, they could inherit this house, and my part of the estate. It would be a reward for virtue. But they are not my family, and you . . . are.’
She turned to face him. ‘I see. You think I don’t deserve to inherit?’
She was tall, and the lift of her chin made her, though she did not know it, both desirable and terrifying to most young men. To her father, the look reminded him of his wife, as she had been when he loved her. Before she had become ill, and mad, and impossible to live with. Before he had left her for the comfort of Sarah Maidment. Catherine looked to him like Maeve’s ghost, come back to haunt him.
‘You never expected to become a great heiress, and you never would have done if your brothers had not given their lives for their country. You would not have been poor, but …’
‘Land-owning is for men?’
‘Yes.’ They looked at each other coldly. He thought how like Catherine’s eyes were to her mother’s - dark, passionate, compelling. But there was a determination in them too, a strength that Maeve had never had. There was something in them that he saw in the mirror each morning. It unsettled him.
After a long pause he said: ‘The fact remains that you are flesh of my flesh. Our family has owned Killrath for three centuries, and this house for half that time. That stability is the whole basis of this country.’
‘Still?’
‘Still.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I know you have other ideas, but I hope and pray they will change. Listen, my dear. I want to make a bargain with you.’
It had been a great surprise. For the last year of her mother’s life, Catherine and her father had scarcely spoken. She blamed him so much for her mother’s death; she did not think he could care for her at all. When the interview had begun, she had been prepared to be disinherited entirely.
‘I will not marry Sarah, and I will settle the whole estate on you, on three conditions.’
‘I see. And what are they?’
‘One: that you help me restore this house, and reside in it for at least half the year. That should not be too hard.’
She looked around the desolate room. ‘No. Just wearisome. But worthwhile, I suppose.’
‘I’m glad you think so. Second: that you run the Killrath estate in trust for your own children. It will not be yours to sell off in bits and pieces for some mad revolutionary cause. I will not have that. You have the whole thing, or none.’
‘It seems you want me to have none of it. Is that legal?’
‘I can make it so.’
‘And the third condition ?’
‘That you marry a man of my choice.’
‘What? Father, that’s absurd!’
‘It is not. It is the system that has prevailed for hundreds of generations, and it is a good one, particularly where large estates are concerned. You will need a man to help you, and he should be someone born to the task. I am not a fool, you know - I won’t choose a monster.’
‘No? Father, you’re a monster yourself!’ She walked across the room, and her mocking laughter echoed from the bare walls. It sounded hysterical; but then, it was a mad situation. ‘You can’t just use me to breed, like one of your mares! I’m a woman, you know, a person in my own right! It’s a new century, those ideas are gone. I can even vote - do you know that?’
‘Not until you’re thirty. By then, you may have changed your ideas. If so, I can change my will.’
‘And my career? My studies at UCD?’ At the time of the conversation she had only just got her place. It was the one thing she had fought for, all those years alone at Killrath. Her career was like a beacon in a storm to her. Something that would give her light to understand the physical side of her mother’s illness; and the independence to ensure that such a mental collapse would never happen to her.
‘I don’t object to that. Though you might be better advised to study economics than medicine. In a way, I . . . I suppose it is an achievement for a young woman to think of such study at all.’
She stared at him. With a shock, she realized there was a hopeful, slightly appealing look in his eye. He really meant these things kindly. ‘Father, you are . . . antediluvian! You realize you cannot force me to marry anyone?’
‘No. Perhaps I put it badly. Of course you can have a say in the choice.’
‘A say in the …’
‘But I must give my permission. If you marry without it, you will be disinherited.’
‘What about Mother’s estates?’
‘She died insane. Therefore they are all mine.’
‘And if I do not marry, and have no children?’
‘That would be a pity. Catherine, you are nineteen now. You cannot marry without my permission until you are twenty-one. I think it is reasonable to say that you must be married by then.’
‘Reasonable!’
‘It is a natural thing; it will happen anyway. As for children, that is in the hands of God.’
‘Oh yes? It may have to be, with the husband you choose!’
‘That is hardly a ladylike response, Catherine.’ He paused. ‘Do I take it you refuse my conditions, then?’
There had been a long silence. She had considered him, a grey-haired, slightly stooped figure in his khaki uniform. A pillar of an establishment that was completely out of touch. He was standing in the centre of the room, almost exactly where he had called her out to dance with him, all those years ago. She had worshipped him then. It was hard to make the connection.
She had a choice. To defy him, cut off all connections with her childhood, go out into the world to make her way on her own merit. Part of her believed that was the right thing to do. She believed she would do it, when she was older. As a girl she had dreamed of selling her share of the estate, to build a hospital and work in it as a doctor. But to struggle to qualify as a doctor without money - that was a cold, lonely decision, forced on her like this. For all her idealism she knew little of the world. Only that without wealth, she would have the power to change nothing.
Difficult though her father was, he was her only family now, as she was his. His was an awkwardness she understood, and believed she could work with. The conditions were really a bluff to hide the weakness of his own position. In a few months Sarah Maidment would be dead, and the connection he had with her sons would begin to wither. Besides, whatever he said, he could not force her to marry anyone.
And she did want, very much, to restore this house to something of its former position. To reclaim it, in memory of the mother who had danced here, so long ago.
So she had agreed.
And now, ten months later, the dining room was again furnished with a long shining table and carpets. They had taken down the old wallpaper, with its war poems and graffiti, and replaced it with something less grand but serviceab
le. Several pictures had been brought down out of the loft and re-hung. There was a dresser, a silver service, and a black-leaded fireplace. They employed a butler, a cook, three maids, and a manservant.
It was very empty and quiet in the house. The three maids, the butler and the manservant had a room each on the fourth floor, and the cook slept in a room beside the kitchen. The hall, the grand dining room, and a drawing room took up the rest of the ground floor; on the second floor there was a library, a large sitting room, her father’s office, dressing room, bedroom and bathroom; and on the floor above, two spare bedrooms and a suite of rooms for Catherine.
To Detective Inspector Kee, as he arrived on the morning of 20th December, it seemed extravagant.
The butler showed him into the dining room, where Catherine was finishing a solitary breakfast. Her father had already left for the Castle.
Catherine rose to welcome him. She was wearing a bright-blue woollen dress with a white lace collar, a few inches below the knee, as the fashion was now. If he had met her in the street he would not have thought her unusual, but her self-assurance in this large room, and her clear resemblance to the woman in the twelve-foot-high oil painting on the wall, slightly unnerved him. He was also puzzled by the odd, incongruous fact that the university lists had revealed her, unlike her father, to be a Catholic. Perhaps that, too, had something to do with the handsome woman in the portrait.
Catherine saw a solid, burly individual in a drab raincoat and heavy boots, with a square determined face and short moustache. A typical stolid policeman, she thought, all method and no imagination. She regarded the interview as an amusement, a formality. She smiled politely, like a good society hostess.
‘Can I offer you coffee, Inspector?’
‘No, thank you, miss. I’ve had my breakfast. I’ve come to ask you some questions about the shooting the other day.’
‘Yes? I doubt if I can help very much. It was all a bit of a blur, I’m afraid.’
‘Nonetheless, we think we’ve got some idea who did it. You’re a student at University College, I understand.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I’ve been checking the lists there. You’re registered as a first-year medical student.’
A feather of fear brushed the soft hairs on the nape of her neck, as though the man’s boots had blundered over her grave. Or Sean’s. She gazed at him coldly, noticing for the first time the intelligence of the eyes in the solid, square, working man’s face.
‘That’s right.’ She sipped her coffee, to give herself time. ‘I don’t quite see …’
He held out a photograph. ‘Do you know this fellow?’
It was Sean, of course. She should have known. A fresh-faced, proud smile, collar, tie, very neat slicked-down hair; a photo that might have been taken on prize day at school. This detective was a Belfast man, an outsider - how could he have got hold of Sean’s photo so quickly? Her coffee cup rattled in the saucer as she put it down. Kee noted the reaction with interest.
‘Yes, I ... may do.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘Oh, he’s just another student at the faculty, I think. I’ve seen him there in lectures. I don’t know him very well.’
‘Did you see him on Friday? At Ashtown Gate?’
‘No.’ A vehement shake of the head. I’m not Judas, you know.
‘What sort of chap is he, this Simon Brennan?’
‘Sean. It’s . . . Sean Brennan, not Simon.’ Catherine spoke more slowly, as she saw it had been a trick, and the hairs rose again along her spine. Have I betrayed him already?
Kee said: ‘Yes. Sorry. Sean, then.’
‘I don’t know. I told you. I don’t know him very well.’
‘Well enough to know his name.’
She sighed. This man must be dismissed before he uncovered more secrets. She made her voice frigid, like that of her mother bored by some tedious tenant. ‘Yes, well, that doesn’t mean much, does it? Look, Inspector, I don’t want to seem rude, but it’s not very likely that a medical student would be throwing Mills bombs at the Viceroy, is it? We’ve got too much reading to do, for a start.’
‘I agree it’s not likely, miss, but I regret to say we’ve quite a lot of evidence to show that it happens. Not everyone behaves as they should, these days.’ He picked the photograph up, as though to put it back in his pocket. Then he changed his mind, and held it between his fingers on his lap, facing her, so that she had to see it or look away. ‘It must have been quite an upsetting experience for you, being in the car. You might easily have been killed. We’re very interested to talk to this young lad, you understand. Would you … be likely to be seeing him again?’
She blushed. There was no disguising it. She could feel the warm flush spreading up from her neck, round behind her ears and into her cheeks and forehead, in a way that it had not done for years. In a hopeless attempt to hide it, she stood up and walked to the door.
‘I really couldn’t say, Inspector. Certainly not before next term, anyway. It’s the vacation now, you know.’
‘Yes.’ Kee stood up too, intrigued. But he did not immediately accept her implied invitation to leave. ‘And of course you don’t meet him at any other time?’
‘No, I do not. As I say, I hardly know him.’
‘Fair enough.’ Kee folded the photograph and notebook into his pocket. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, miss. It must be an unpleasant memory. But if you do think of anything more, you’ll give me a ring, won’t you? Here’s my card.’
She took it, and showed him out.
Now isn’t that interesting, Kee thought as he walked away. Nothing is what it seems in this godforsaken city. Here’s a young woman with more money than a hundred decent families, her father a personal friend of the Viceroy, no less; and she gets shot at and nearly murdered in his lordship’s car by a band of bloodthirsty hooligans. Does she show fear? No - that’s breeding for you, perhaps; they’re used to being sniped at from childhood. Does she show anger, or a desire to know why we haven’t caught the devils? No, not a word. Does she show shock when I show her the photograph? Yes - but she’s not shocked as she ought to be, because such a nice young man could be suspected of such a thing. Oh no. She was shocked because I knew about him, that’s all. She was quite prepared to believe he might have done it.
He thought about the blush. It had been quite charming, quite overwhelming, quite damning. At the very least it meant that she entertained strong feelings for the young man. Of course, the feelings might all be on one side - he might know nothing about them. But on the other hand, she might already be quite involved with him. They were both young, after all, and good-looking, on the same university course. Such things happen all the time.
But if so, young lady, Kee asked himself, why did you not show anger at the thought that he might have been one of the murder gang? Or is that the sort of behaviour you expect from your suitors? Even when you yourself are in the car?
So what happens now, he wondered. Clearly, he was not going to be very popular if he told Sir Jonathan that his own daughter might be involved with one of the suspects. Equally clearly, it would be sensible to put a watch on this young lady, to see where she went in the next day or so, and who she met.
His main problem was to put himself in the mind of a young female Catholic Anglo-Irish aristocrat, who was apparently consorting with militant republicans. For Kee, a middle-aged Protestant Belfast docker’s son, that was a little hard to do.
When Kee had gone, Catherine leaned with her back against the solid front door, feeling that dreadful telltale blush slowly fade. The butler came into the hall and looked at her questioningly. She came to, and shook her head.
‘It’s all right, Keneally,’ she said. ‘I showed him out myself. It was the police asking about the shooting.’
‘Yes, Miss Catherine. Have they caught anyone?’
‘No. Not so far as I know.’ She walked past him, up the main stairs, which one of the maids was brushing busily. It was
hard to know from Keneally’s tone what he thought. Would he be glad if some of the Volunteers had been caught - and hanged? For they would surely be hanged, if they were caught and convicted of this. She did not know. As for what he would think if he knew that his young mistress was in love with one of them … well, butlers were paid to be discreet. That would be a test for him, wouldn’t it?
Nevertheless, it was not something she wanted her servants to think about. They were all much older than her, and could hardly be expected to approve of a thing like that. She climbed the great staircase under its ornate plaster ceilings to the first floor, and continued up a slightly less grand one to her own rooms. She shut herself in her sitting room to think.
It was a large, comfortable, untidy room. When she had moved back into the house she had chosen it as a retreat, and that was what it still was. The servants were allowed in only to light the fires, and when she specifically asked them. There were two desks on either side of the window, one cluttered with the accounts and papers for running the house, the other with her essays and lecture notes. In between the two was a long green window seat, which was what she had chosen the room for. She could sit here in the sunshine, and read, or gaze out over the little park in the square and remember what it had been like before the war. For this was the room in which she had slept - or stayed awake, entranced - in those magical times of her childhood.
For the rest, there were several glass-fronted bookcases, some lemon-coloured armchairs, an ottoman, and a number of pictures of lakes, beaches, horses and mountains in Galway, to remind her of Killrath, her other home.
But now, she hurried to the window seat, to see if the detective was still in the square.
He had gone, but the confusion he had left behind him remained.
Sean’s act - the bullets through the car window, the blood, the headlong flight through Phoenix Park - had been heroic, romantic, exhilarating. She had felt no fear at all then. But the policeman in her own breakfast room this morning, his big hand holding Sean’s photo on his knee, made her feel sick inside. This was no game now, it was real. If her republicanism was anything more than fine words, she had to help Sean now - protect him from those big hands that had held his photo so casually.