Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  At first it was too cold to sleep there. For a long time he lay, watching the grey dawn light creep through the curtains, and thought of Ardmore. Tomorrow, he thought, before I go to Dublin I will ask her again. And then when Collins is dead I will have the money to rebuild Ardmore and we will sleep in my mother’s room together and she will bear my sons.

  You and I are too much alike, Catherine O’Connell-Gort. I won’t let you back out now.

  31. A Nasty Surprise

  IN THE morning Catherine woke up early and wondered for a moment where she was. The room was the same but there was something missing from it. Then she turned and saw the pillow crushed beside her own and remembered.

  She got up, ran a bath, and brushed her hair in front of the decorated mirror in the bathroom. This is where I had my great idea, she thought. I look just the same. I am the same, really, it doesn’t touch you much inside if you don’t let it. All that’s a myth.

  But although she smiled she felt like weeping and kept thinking of Sean. I’ve abandoned him, she thought. I’ve abandoned all that now.

  She went downstairs to the breakfast room. There was no one there. She gazed out of the window at the rain sweeping in from the sea. Raindrops were splashing like smoke on the stone paths in the garden, and the wind was lashing the bent shrubs and bushes this way and that. But far out to sea a pale sun was shining on silvery-grey, white-capped waves, and she could see the edge of the dark clouds coming nearer. She thought she would go out for a ride later, when the storm had passed.

  Brophy brought her bacon and eggs, and she ate hungrily, scanning the headlines of the Irish Times, which he had laid out in front of her. She had glanced at him anxiously when he brought it, but it was all right, he was his usual avuncular, cheerful self. There was no hint of shock or disapproval in his eyes.

  It’s all fine, Catherine thought, it’s all right. My body isn’t hurt and my mind is clear and everything is straightforward now. He made love to me and it was coarse and brutal, like the pig of a man he is. But in its way it was thrilling too, in a quite different way than with Sean. Like riding a new skittish hunter for the first time and being thrown; frightening but compulsive too, so you want to do it again and control it. Perhaps I was like that for Sean. Forget Sean. I was right – it’s a medical thing like an inoculation in reverse. The second man immunizes you against an obsession with the first and brings health. I can do it with Andrew again if I like, whenever I like, or not at all if I don’t want to. It’s my life again, I’m free and in control.

  She realized Andrew would probably ask her about marriage again, and she wondered if every night would be like that, or whether she could tame him. She had led him to her bed, after all; now she knew what to expect. But anyway there was no hurry; it didn’t seem an important problem at the moment.

  The rain was easing off. Andrew seems to be sleeping late, she thought, with a secret smile. He must be tired. She poured herself some tea, buttered some toast, and scanned the newspaper idly. A headline caught her eye.

  SINN FEINER CHARGED WITH RADFORD’S MURDER

  TRIAL LIKELY IN TWO WEEKS

  A sick, fluttery feeling invaded her stomach. She bent her head closer to read.

  Dublin Castle confirmed yesterday that a man has been charged with the murder of Assistant Commissioner Radford of the DMP, who was murdered in Harcourt Street last week. The accused man was named last night as Sean Brennan, aged 20, a medical student at University College, Dublin. It is understood he was arrested in Merrion Square last week, and is currently being held in Mountjoy Prison.

  The government is anxious to bring the case to court as soon as possible, and the trial is scheduled to take place within the next two weeks. Assistant Commissioner Radford was shot at point-blank range in Harcourt Street, and eye-witnesses at the time reported that two armed men ran off into a side street ....

  There followed details of what little was known of the murder, but Catherine did not read them. She was too shocked. She put the paper down, her hand shaking. Sean must have been charged yesterday, perhaps while she was lying in her bath thinking of seducing Andrew. They probably tortured him, beat him until he confessed. Perhaps last night, while Andrew and I were …

  And if they find him guilty, he’ll hang.

  ‘Ah, there you are! Good morning.’ It was Andrew. He came in, walked round to her side of the table, and kissed her neck.

  She shrank away. ‘No. Please don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ His hands stroked her shoulders softly. A few minutes ago she might have liked it. Now it seemed a violation.

  ‘Leave me alone, please.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ This was worse than he had thought.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I’m sorry, it’s not your fault. Just something I read in the paper, that’s all.’

  ‘Really? What is it? Show me.’ He sat down facing her across a corner of the table, and poured himself a cup of tea.

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  He drank the tea thoughtfully, and stared at her. More monkey tricks. He had thought at least this morning she would be pleased, happy as he was. Instead, here was the old arrogance back again. Did she think she could summon him to her room at night, and then slap him in the face the next morning?

  He said, mildly enough: ‘You say there’s something printed in the paper and yet it’s none of my business?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, to hell with it. Look there then, if you must.’

  She flung the newspaper across, pointing to the article. He read it. ‘So?’

  ‘So?’ She pushed her chair back and walked to the window, running her hands distractedly through her hair. ‘So Sean Brennan was my lover and now he’s going to hang.’

  ‘Oh.’ Andrew couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt ill, wasted, as though his blood had turned to ashes. As he had felt the day after Ardmore had burnt, when he had gone back to stare at the smoking ruins. And, just like then, something small began to smoulder within himself, and he knew that later, when he had recovered, the anger would flare and consume him.

  He said, stupidly: ‘He was your lover? When?’

  ‘In Dublin. We were students at UCD together.’

  ‘And you did - let me get this straight, Catherine.’ He stood up suddenly, strode to the window, and spun her round to face him. ‘You did with a dirty little Sinn Feiner what you did with me?’

  She stared at him, then shook her head. ‘Please, Andrew!’

  ‘Don’t please Andrew me! I want to know! Did you?’

  ‘Yes!’ She stood quite still and glared at him, then relented slightly. ‘It was all over before I came down here. That was why I came.’

  His face was very grim and hard, like her father’s when she had done something wrong. But there was pain there, too, in the lines round the eyes. She looked away; she didn’t want to see that. At least Andrew would live; he wasn’t going to hang.

  She walked to the door at the far end of the room and said: ‘I’m going back to Dublin. I’ve got to see him.’

  Andrew stared at her. ‘Why? You said it was all over. And if he’s a murderer, for Christ’s sake!’

  She looked at him wearily. ‘I loved him.’

  ‘And you don’t love me?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Andrew! Look, I’m sorry. I said I loved him, not that I love him now. And if he’s going to die ...’

  Very carefully he said: ‘I thought after last night that you must feel something for me as well.’

  ‘Oh …’ She shook her head, trying to remember the feelings she had brought into this room, only a few minutes ago. Then she walked back down the room and took his hand. ‘I didn’t make any promises, Andrew, did I? Anyway I don’t want to talk about that now. I just want to go to Dublin and see Sean.’

  ‘I may as well come with you then. I was going tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘If you like.’ She didn’t like it but she could see no way of resisting.

  ‘I’ll get David Ferguson t
o run us down in the car. There’s a train about eleven.’

  When she got to her room there was a maid there, cleaning out the ashes from the grate. The maid asked if she should go but Catherine told her to carry on. Then she flung a few clothes and books into a bag and sat distractedly at her dressing table staring into the mirror. Her face was slightly paler than usual, the eyes wider and darker-ringed, but otherwise there was little to show the pain and guilt she felt. No tears, just that sick, empty feeling inside.

  The maid interrupted her thoughts. ‘Is this yours, my lady? I found it on the floor beneath that chair.’

  It was a folded, typewritten letter. The first time Catherine read it, it made no sense at all. She forced herself to concentrate and read it again.

  Dail Eireann

  c/o The Mansion House

  Dublin

  14th January 1920

  Count Manfred von Hessel

  Lambert Hotel

  Dear Count von Hessel,

  I have received your proposal which is, on face value, very interesting to me. I will meet you within the next few days. The arrangements will be made by the bearer of this, whom you may trust absolutely.

  Michael Collins

  Minister of Finance.

  Catherine was stunned. What on earth was it? Michael Collins! A letter signed by him, here at Killrath! And to Manfred von Hessel - who could he possibly be? And how could it have got under a chair in her bedroom? No one came in here except herself and the servants, and she doubted if most of them could read.

  So how? She had a sudden vision of Andrew coming into her room, grinning lecherously as he looked at her, and throwing his jacket casually across the chair before he undressed behind the screen. It could have fallen out of the pocket. It must be his.

  But …

  She tried to focus her bruised mind on the problem. There was something wrong here. Terribly wrong.

  Andrew was an army officer, he must hate and despise Collins, and the letter was not addressed to him. So how could he have it? He must have stolen it from someone. He must be a spy, a member of the British Intelligence Service. That’s it, she thought. That’s why he’s an army officer but doesn’t wear uniform. That’s why he works with Father. That’s why he won’t tell me what he does.

  Oh, God, I haven’t just betrayed Sean with another man. I’ve betrayed him with a bloody spy!

  She sank her head in her hands, and then realized that she couldn’t cry, because the wretched housemaid was still busying herself with the grate. She took a deep breath, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and began to brush her hair.

  She couldn’t meet her own eyes in the mirror. I’m a fool, she thought. I try to break free and I just tangle myself more in a net. If I give this letter back to Andrew I’m colluding in his bloody spying. Anyway, why should I?

  What was the letter about, exactly? She read it again, carefully. It didn’t make much sense. A meeting, a proposal, trust the bearer. And dated 14 January, more than ten days ago, so the meeting must have taken place already. Perhaps Andrew had tried to catch this Hessel, whoever he was, at the Lambert Hotel.

  Then she noticed something else, at the foot of the letter, a light pencilled scrawl. Breedan - what did it say? - Brendan Road.

  It meant nothing to her. Then a memory surfaced in her mind - something she had read in the newspaper a week or two ago. Hadn’t there been a police raid in Brendan Road? Yes, that was it - a raid on a house, and someone had been arrested. But who?

  She turned to the maid. ‘Molly?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘You know the old newspapers. Do you know what Brophy does with them each day?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, miss. Uses them to light fires, mostly. The rest he keeps in a heap out the back of the kitchen, I think.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It suddenly became very important to try to find the article, and trace the name of the man who had been arrested.

  My God, perhaps Andrew did this - Andrew betrayed him! Was anybody killed? She couldn’t remember.

  David Ferguson hadn’t turned up with the car yet. She left her bag in the hall and hurried through to the kitchen.

  The newspapers were where Molly had said, in a cupboard at the back of the kitchen. The cook looked at her curiously, but Catherine took no notice. Most of the newspapers were torn, bits missing. It probably wasn’t here. She spread them out on the floor. 15th January, 16th January - no, nothing. Ah, here it was - Saturday, 17th January. She read eagerly, hurriedly.

  POLICE RAID ON HOUSE

  GERMAN ARMS DEALER CAUGHT

  COLLINS ESCAPES AGAIN

  Shots were fired yesterday in a police raid on a house in Brendan Road, Donnybrook. Acting on information received, detectives from the DMP G Division raided the house which was believed to be a headquarters for the Sinn Fein ‘murder gang’. After an exchange of shots, all of the occupants except one escaped by the back door.

  The arrested man appears to be a former German officer, who had apparently come to Dublin in the hope of selling arms to the IRA. He is currently being interrogated in Dublin Castle, and is then likely to be deported, with a strong protest from the Viceroy.

  Our correspondent understands that the police were particularly disappointed in this raid, as the house is believed to be one frequented by top members of the so-called Sinn Fein ‘government’, including Mr Michael Collins, and it is quite possible that the German officer had gone there in hopes of meeting him. Mr Collins, however, was not arrested.

  She was right, then: if the German officer was called Hessel, then Andrew must have betrayed him. That was why he had this letter in his pocket. But when had he got it? Before Hessel read it, or after? And how would he get hold of such a thing? Catherine had no idea.

  She walked back into the hall and found Andrew waiting, with David Ferguson standing beside him, holding a suitcase.

  ‘I’d hoped we’d have you here for a little longer this time, Miss Catherine.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a pity, David, but I’ve got to get back. Look after Grainne for me, will you?’

  The rain had cleared as she had expected, and it was a beautiful, cold, clear morning with a light wind. Ideal for a ride. The tide was far out, and a few small figures of coracle men trudged across the shining wet sand, looking like beetles with their boats upturned over their heads.

  The drive into Galway was silent, strained. Catherine sat beside David in the front seat, staring out of the window. David tried to carry on a shouted conversation with Andrew in the back, but in the end the noise of the car and Andrew’s brief dismissive replies discouraged him, and he fell silent.

  Not until they had settled into a first-class compartment, and the train had begun to pull slowly out of Galway station with a whistle and chunter of thick, black smoke, did they begin to speak. Catherine handed him the letter.

  ‘I think this must be yours,’ she said.

  She watched him closely as he read it. It didn’t take long - clearly he had seen it before. He put it in his pocket and glanced at her with affected unconcern. ‘Yes.’

  She waited a full half-minute for an explanation. Then, when none came, she said: ‘Who is von Hessel?’

  The reaction this time was slightly more than when he had first seen the letter. His eyes held hers, very cold and steady, but he could not quite control the whitening of the skin, the general overall increase in the tension of every facial muscle. Parts of the scar went red, by contrast. An interesting medical observation, she thought.

  He took his time before answering, as though weighing all the implications. ‘Von Hessel was a German officer. Ex-officer. He tried to sell guns to Collins. He was arrested and deported.’

  So he was the man in the newspaper. ‘And that letter?’

  ‘It’s to do with my work.’

  Another long silence. Fields with bare, leafless trees flashed past the window. A herd of ponies galloped madly, startled by the train. A steward pushed a trolley down the corridor
and opened the sliding doors. ‘Coffee, madam? Sir?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Catherine smiled sweetly. She felt cool: angry, but in control. When the steward had gone, she stirred cream into her coffee and said: ‘You’re a British spy, Andrew, aren’t you?’

  Andrew was trying desperately to work out what to do. Last night he had thought he could master the girl; this morning she not only seemed indifferent to him, but had found out something that could endanger his whole plan, if she understood it. She had a Sinn Fein lover, no doubt she had other contacts in the movement. It was bad, but not disastrous. She didn’t know that he was von Hessel, and was planning to meet Collins again.

  He said: ‘I’m like your father, I work in Military Intelligence. Does that make me a spy?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘That’s because you have different political views. I support the Union, and the rule of law.’

  Catherine ignored that. She was beginning to enjoy her role as interrogator. She said: ‘Von Hessel was arrested by the police, not the army. Did you get hold of that letter before the arrest, and give it to the police, or did they give it to you afterwards?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I can’t tell you things like that.’

  ‘Only, if you got it before, then it means you must have known von Hessel - in fact you must have shown it to him yourself. And if it was afterwards … I can’t see what you would need it for afterwards, can you?’

  Andrew laughed. Neither of them thought the laugh sounded very relaxed or convincing. ‘Look, Catherine, you’re not a detective, so don’t try and play at being one. The fact is, this letter has been left in my pocket by mistake, when I should have thrown it away. Von Hessel’s been deported. I don’t need it - look.’

  He took the letter out of his pocket, lit it with a match, held it between finger and thumb until it was burnt, and ground the ashes to powder under his shoe. ‘There. End of mystery.’