Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  ‘Why do I need a husband? Tell me.’

  Now there’s a question you don’t ask if you’re not just a little interested, Andrew thought. He looked at her carefully across the shining table, taking in the slightly heightened colour of the face, the wide dark eyes, the pride and tension in the set of her chin. He had the impression she might do anything at any moment, and that she would not know what it was until it happened.

  He said: ‘You need a husband for the same reason that every hot-blooded young woman needs a husband. And because …’

  ‘That’s enough. No - a few more minutes, Brophy.’ She waited until the butler went out again. ‘That’s a pretty common, cheap reason. One minute you tell me we’re unique special people, and then you say I need to be mated like a mare. Well, if I want a stallion I can find my own, Andrew Butler, thank you.’

  And look where that led me, she thought. Oh, Sean, Sean.

  ‘And also because you need someone to share the running of this estate with you. Maybe you could do it on your own if you worked at it, but what’s the point?’

  ‘That’s what we pay Ferguson for. There. Poor Andrew, your argument fails on both points. So now what?’

  He sat back in his chair and smiled, and was enchanted to get a smile back. Oh, we’ve moved a long way already, he thought. Just keep playing the game gently now, gently.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘We call Brophy, and have the fish.’

  By the end of the meal they had consumed a bottle of wine between them, and Catherine was quite drunk. They had even laughed together twice: once when he had told her of his early attempts to ride his father’s hunter, and once when she had told him of the ghost she and her brothers had tracked in the west wing, which had turned out to be an equally frightened parlour-maid. There was the sense of a drawn battle, a shared conspiracy, between them.

  They moved back into the drawing room where the fire had been made up to blaze brighter than before. She knelt down and held out her hands to the fire, a slim dark-haired girl in a loose green dress. On the wall above the mantelpiece was a portrait of an arrogant young woman in eighteenth-century clothes, sitting side-saddle on a bay hunter. He said: ‘There should be a picture of you here, too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because time passes and one day you may be a respected matron, but you will never again be quite what you are now.’

  She smiled briefly, and said: ‘If you had started like that, we might have got on a little better before.’

  ‘No we wouldn’t.’ He poured out two glasses of brandy, and was surprised and encouraged when she took one.

  She said: ‘Apart from making absurd proposals to me, why are you here?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You’re a soldier, aren’t you? Why aren’t you busy fighting the mad Irish, like my father?’

  ‘I had some leave due.’ This was not a line of conversation Andrew wanted to follow. He was ready to return to Dublin next weekend, and take up where he had left off before. Within a day or two of that, he hoped to be either totally successful, or dead. Until then, he did not want to think about it.

  Since he was far from sure of coming back, he wanted to seduce Catherine before then. The talk of marriage might become a reality for him later, if he survived. If not, it wouldn’t matter.

  He watched her sip her brandy, and wondered why she had started to drink. She had been very abstemious the night he had first met her in Merrion Square. Was tonight’s binge because of him or that unknown Hans? Certainly she had started with the sherry well before this marriage business had come up.

  ‘So why didn’t you go to Ardmore, if you love it so much?’

  He sighed. ‘Because … because it’s lonely looking at ruins. I will build it up but I need money and someone to do it with me.’

  A silence fell between them. It seemed to Andrew a companionable sort of silence, something he remembered with Elsie. They sat either side of the fire, and stared into the flames. Then she sipped the brandy, and said: ‘Well, I may have the money, but I’m no good at building, you know. As you say, I like excitement, and it’s pretty dull piling bricks on top of each other.’

  ‘You don’t understand. That place is what I fought the war for. It would be a victory to build it up again.’

  ‘And what would you do with it then?’

  ‘Bring my wife home to it. Breed racehorses and sons to ride them.’

  ‘Very dull.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be. I meant what I said, you know.’

  ‘So did I.’ She drained her glass and stood up suddenly. She swayed slightly and held on to the chair back for support. ‘Listen, Andrew Butler, I’m going to bed. Where I will give your proposal the five seconds’ serious thought it deserves, before I fall asleep.’

  He stood up too, like a gentleman. This is the moment, he thought, if there is one. To his surprise, she seemed to read his mind. She wagged a finger tipsily.

  ‘And I am going to bed alone. I can’t think otherwise. But don’t get your hopes up. There is in fact no hope for your stupid plan at all.’

  Oh yes, there is, he thought, as he bowed and watched her make her way across the room towards the door. When she reached the door she even turned back and glanced at him, as though surprised that he had not tried to follow. Oh yes, there is hope all right, young lady. Quite a lot of it, in fact.

  Not tonight, but soon. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. Go to sleep now. And please, dream about me.

  As I shall dream of you.

  28. Military Intelligence

  KEE SLUMPED back in the chair behind his desk in Brunswick Street, and thought. His hands were clasped tightly together under his chin, his legs stretched out in front of him. On the desk were a half-finished, cold cup of coffee, a brown manila folder and the photograph of Sean Brennan.

  The photograph was mounted in a frame with a little folding leg to prop it up. Kee stood it there each morning as an aid to thought. It disturbed him. That wide, confident mouth, smart suit, clean-shaven chin, neatly brushed hair, clear, apparently honest eyes gazing straight at the camera. What could make such a man a murderer, an assassin? Perhaps there was an arrogance in the face too, a mockery, a conviction that he could not be wrong. Sometimes the face infuriated Kee, so that he wanted to slam it face downwards on the table; but he resisted the temptation, as he had resisted, after the first day, the temptation to drive his fist into the real face in the prison cell.

  That was not Kee’s way. He knew it went on, he knew that other men did it, he knew now, since Radford’s death, the powerful urge that made the desire for revenge almost irresistible. It was the smugness of the face, above all, that outraged him. The look that said: ‘I am right to kill you, and you are a fool and a tyrant not to see it. I am one of the best young men of my generation, and the future lies with me.’ And what had that led to? A hole the size of a golf ball in Bill Radford’s face, his brains spattered over a shop window.

  Kee thought of the phrase the lad repeated endlessly during interrogation: ‘I am a soldier of the Irish Republican Army. I refuse to answer any more questions.’ It brought out the worst in him. He wanted to scream at the boy, beat his choirboy face until it was a mass of blood, stick a revolver barrel up his nose until it bled and then see what he answered.

  But he didn’t. Because Kee believed he himself was right and the boy was evil. And he had just enough self-control and intelligence left to realize that once he did those things, he would be playing the game the Sinn Feiners wanted. Reinforcing the stereotype of brutal police tyranny which made these young men seem noble, heroic. Making another martyr to add to the long list the Fenians probably muttered to over their rosary beads.

  His only hope was to bring the lad to court, unmarked, and with such evidence of his guilt that no jury could fail to convict him. Which was where the manila folder came in.

  The manila folder contained a forensic report on Brennan’s gun. It was a German Parabellum automatic, firing 9-mm ammunit
ion; Kee knew that already. The pistol had been carefully cleaned, so it was not possible to say when it had last been fired. Four of the bullets in the magazine clip were copper-cased, round-nosed ones; the other four were flat-nosed with a nickel casing. When these bullets had been fired in the laboratory, they had developed six grooves on the outside. These grooves corresponded with the grooves in the barrel, which was rifled.

  So far, so good. The flat-nosed bullets, it appeared, had been manufactured like that; the scientist did not think they had been interfered with since. Nonetheless, a flat-nosed bullet would cause immensely greater damage inside a body than the others. They were, Kee thought, outlawed in war. He had read that most of the original ammunition supplied to the Volunteers at the Howth gun-running in 1912 had been of this dum-dum type, and the leaders of those days had refused to issue it. So much had things changed.

  The scientist had also examined a bullet which had been retrieved from Harcourt Street where Radford had died. Two shots had been fired, but only one bullet had been recovered. This bullet, also, was of 9-mm calibre. It was misshapen by its impact with Radford’s body and the wall of the shop, but it was nonetheless possible to observe four or five grooves along its sides, which were exactly the same distance apart as those on the bullets fired in the laboratory.

  Thus it was possible to conclude that the bullets had been fired from precisely the same type of pistol. The scientist regretted, however, that his science had not yet advanced to the state where it was possible to say whether the bullets had come from the same individual weapon.

  Kee pondered this. It was good evidence, but not conclusive. If he had had one witness who had seen Brennan in the area, it would have been almost conclusive. But the witnesses were useless.

  The only other possible evidence was a confession. And that could be got out of the boy only by torture. There was simply no other way.

  Or was there?

  Kee slipped the folder into a drawer, locked it, stood up, and put on his coat. It was not far, and it was a fairly fine day.

  He would walk to Mountjoy Prison.

  Sean was surprised and annoyed to be moved to a different cell. His meditations, his careful self-control, had made him familiar with every detail of the cell he had been in for the last three days. He knew every knothole in the hard wooden bed, the different lumps on the whitewashed stone wall, the graffiti which he had found and added to. He had even begun to take an interest in a spider which inhabited the window recess.

  All these things brought him comfort. Now he had been moved, for no reason, and would have to begin again.

  The cell he was moved to was slightly larger. But it had two beds, one above the other. And there was a man on the bottom bunk.

  The man jerked upright as he came in. ‘What the hell’s this? What’s he doing in here?’ he yelled at the warder. But the door slammed behind Sean without an answer.

  Sean looked at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘They didn’t ask me either. He said something about a new set of arrests and needing the room, that’s all.’

  The man on the bunk was small, with thin pointed ears and straggly hair that stuck up in a peak at the back. He said: ‘It’s not your fault, boy. They brought me here an hour ago. I thought it was the de luxe treatment until you came in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sean said. ‘Will I take the top bunk?’

  ‘Unless you’re one of the hard men who lie on the floor. Not that there’s much difference, with beds like these.’

  Sean climbed up on the bunk. But there was nothing much to see there - just a grey blanket and a space of a couple of feet between it and the stone ceiling. He shuddered, came down again, and perched on one of the two stools.

  The two men looked at each other. ‘What are you in for?’ the man with straggly hair asked.

  ‘I’m in the IRA. They caught me with a pistol in my pocket.’

  The little man stuck out his hand. ‘Daniel O’Rourke, F Company, Dublin Volunteers,’ he said. ‘They dragged me out of bed two weeks ago, in the big sweep after the attack on Lord French.’

  Sean gripped his hand firmly. ‘Sean Brennan. I was in D Company but now I’m in the Squad. I was at Ashtown myself.’

  The sense of companionship, after such a long time alone, was overwhelming. The two men clasped hands and did not let go for nearly a minute. Then, eagerly, impulsively, they began to talk.

  For Kee, it worked like a dream. He sat in the cell on the floor above, with the technician who had set it all up. In front of him, on the table, the reels of magnetized piano-wire steel turned slowly. The technician had assured him that the modified Poulsen telegraphone would record everything that was said. Whether it did or not, Kee could hear the words of the two men through the loudspeaker in front of it. They were blurred and crackly, but it was still possible to make out what was said. Kee made notes swiftly. The microphone was in the small ventilation grille a few feet above the men’s heads. They were unlikely to see it; the cell was poorly lit at the best of times, and at night they had only a small candle.

  But long before dusk, Sean had admitted to shooting Radford. O’Rourke was delighted: he was proud to be sharing a cell with such a man, he said. In return he detailed all his own most daring exploits. They were not as grand as Sean’s, but they were a lot more interesting than the things he had told his interrogators.

  Kee had only recently discovered these machines, and had not used them before. But he was an instant convert. He would have them installed in every police station in Belfast, he thought. The only slight problem was, would a judge accept it as evidence?

  Davis sat in the upstairs room at Clancy’s Joiners and Decorators. There was no sign in here of any interest in carpentry or wallpaper. Instead, there were three desks, a telephone, and files and books neatly ordered in shelves along a wall. Davis imagined that policemen more inquisitive than he was would have found their contents very interesting. And he knew that Kee would have found his own presence here more interesting still.

  In front of him, Michael Collins paced the narrow floor space between the desks. Every few minutes, his left hand pushed back the lock of black hair which fell forward over his forehead. His right hand was alternately thrust deep into his trousers pocket, and taken out to bang frenziedly against the edge of a desk.

  ‘We’ve got to get him out, Paddy!’ he was saying. ‘The country needs no more martyrs, especially young lads like him. The boy’s put his life on the line for us - we owe it to him to try!’

  ‘The country doesn’t need any more corpses either, Mick,’ said Paddy cautiously. ‘If we do mount a rescue attempt, it’s got to have a ninety per cent chance of working.’

  ‘Of course. And it will. Who do you think you’re preaching to now, Patrick? Wasn’t it me that sprang twenty men over the wall at Mountjoy a year ago? And we lifted de Valera out of Lincoln Gaol. It’s the details that make it all work. Every single detail has to be right. Then all you need is the daring to carry it through.’

  He swung himself impulsively on to a desk, and sat there glaring at them.

  ‘Sure and I agree with you about all that,’ said Daly calmly. ‘We’ve had the armoured car under observation for three days now. It never varies. But what I’m not happy about is these papers.’

  ‘That’s why Dick’s here now.’ Collins looked at Davis. ‘Who would have the authority to call the boy out of his cell?’

  Davis thought carefully. ‘The prison governor himself. Or Kee, who’s running the investigation. And Military Intelligence, possibly, though Kee would be wild about it if they did.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Unless we had an order signed by Lord French, for instance. But there’s no reason for that – they’d be so surprised they might ring up to check.’

  ‘Could you sign for him yourself?’

  This was the question Davis had been dreading. ‘I suppose I could, yes, and they’d almost certainly accept it. But then, how would I account for it? Kee’s conducti
ng the whole investigation himself. He knows I have no reason for removing the boy.’

  ‘So then your cover would be blown and they’d know you were working for us.’ Collins looked at him thoughtfully. Davis wondered what he was thinking. Was it shameful to fear imprisonment, to worry about his pension, to hope desperately that there was some safer way of getting the boy out? Or was Collins thinking that one active soldier like Brennan was worth a dozen undercover police agents? If so, he was wrong - he must be wrong! What I do, Davis thought, has to be worth ten times the contribution of a boy who just throws bombs and pulls the trigger.

  Collins nodded slowly. ‘No, we couldn’t have that, Dick. But can’t you get papers signed by Military Intelligence, perhaps? That would seem to be our best bet.’

  Davis relaxed, relieved. ‘We’ve got copies of that sort of thing, certainly. There’s nothing particularly unusual about the form itself. I can find out who’s the right officer to sign it, too, and copy the signature; but I can’t get you the original. Can you get your printers to mock one up?’

  Collins’ voice was very quiet, gentle, as it always was when asking someone to do something harder than usual. ‘The original is what we need, Dick. Plus a sight of the man’s signature so that we can forge it. Remember, every little detail counts. Surely you can do that for us, now?’

  Davis sighed. There were times when he felt like a piece of grain, ground between two massive granite wheels. The further on he went, the harder were the things he was asked to do. I hope the Republic recognizes the danger I’ve run, he thought. When it’s all over, there should be a special pension and a medal for me alone.

  ‘I’ll try, Mick,’ he said. ‘I have a few contacts in MI. I can’t promise anything but I’ll give it a try.’

  Davis was relieved to find that his contact, Captain Smythe, appeared pleased to see him. He sat at a desk in an office on the second floor overlooking the courtyard of Dublin Castle, his desk a mass of papers from reports of raids in the city last night. He was a thin, intense man in spectacles, with sparse, mousy-coloured hair. He wore a neatly tailored uniform which was stained with ash from a large briar pipe which he was puffing energetically.