‘No, there is more than friendship between you. I knew something had happened to Liam when he returned from London, but I had too much on my mind to pry into the truth of it then. I should have made it my business to find out. You are a married woman, Lady Caroline, living in a world of carriages and servants. This “friendship” you talk about can bring nothing but trouble to Liam.’
‘Liam is an Irishman, Mrs McCabe. Trouble is his heritage. Soon he will be entering Parliament and seeing much more of this “world” you say I live in. It could well become his world, too, if he wishes. I can help him, Mrs McCabe. I will help him. I will also do my best to ensure he is not hurt. I fully understand your anxiety for him, but please trust me. We are both concerned for his well-being.’
Confirmation that her suspicions had been well founded left Norah McCabe with a tight knot of unhappiness inside hen ‘You and I are interested in Liam’s well-being for very different reasons,’ she said. ‘I am thinking of his future happiness.’
‘Then we need never quarrel, Mrs McCabe. Liam’s happiness is very important to me, too.’
Eugene Brennan had sent a swift messenger to Caroline. It was not until three days later that two detectives from London arrived at Kilmar in a shabby coach, accompanied by three nervous constables from Dublin.
The senior detective confirmed that he was talking to the right party and politely asked if he might enter the McCabe cottage, taking off his hat as he greeted Norah McCabe. While he and his colleague were in the cottage, the Irish constables crowded in the doorway, nervously eyeing the silent but hostile fishermen who quickly gathered in the narrow street outside.
In the kitchen, the detective took a stiff-papered document from an inside pocket of his long coat.
‘Liam McCabe,’ he said loudly, ‘I have a warrant here ordering me to arrest you and produce you at Bow Street Court, in London, to answer to a charge of embezzling monies received by you for the famine relief fund set up by one Eugene Brennan.’
‘I never saw any money. As far as I am aware it was only promised at the meetings I addressed and was paid direct into the fund later.’
‘I will record that reply, sir, but nothing you say alters the fact that I must take you back to London with me. You may bring a few comforts, but I will be obliged if you put these handcuffs on without making any fuss.’
‘If you want no trouble, then you’ll put those handcuffs away again.’
Norah McCabe stood in the centre of the room and wagged a finger vigorously at the detective.
‘My son has already told you he saw no money that didn’t belong to him. He is no thief. Had he wanted to run away he could have done it three days ago when we were told you were on your way. It was his own idea to wait here and go to London to prove his innocence – though God only knows why; there’s little enough justice to be found there for an Irishman, Having made his own decision, there is no need to secure him. If you hope to leave here without finding more trouble than you can handle, you will accept the truth of that. There are many men in Kilmar angered enough already by what you are doing. Put those things on Liam’s wrists and you’ll be lucky to leave here alive.’
The constables in the doorway exchanged fearful glances. They had not wanted to come to Kilmar without an escort of militiamen. The fishing communities had a reputation for protecting their own.
The senior detective tucked the handcuffs through the belt of his trousers, from whence they had come.
‘I’m obliged to you, ma’am. My duties are always easier when there is goodwill and understanding all round. I hope your son is able to prove his innocence and return home to you quickly.’
The detective meant every word. He had been a detective for enough years to recognise an honest man when he met one. But he also knew that in Liam’s case honesty might not be enough to secure an acquittal. The order to arrest this fisherman had come from a much higher authority than was usual in such cases.
Chapter Thirty
London in June 1846 was suffocatingly hot, and in the unventilated cells beneath the police station at Great Scotland Yard Liam spent an uncomfortable and sleepless forty-eight hours. He was questioned by the detectives for most of the daylight hours and it developed into a frustrating and repetitious ritual. Liam’s answers never differed. He knew nothing of the finances of the famine fund. He had taken no money. He had been given no money. He had been brought to London to talk of the horrors he had seen, and he had talked. There was nothing more he could say.
Then Eugene Brennan came to the police station and arranged for Liam to be bailed out of police custody. Liam had never been so happy to be looking up at the clouds of an approaching summer storm. It seemed that all London was waiting for rain. In the carriage on the way from the police station Eugene Brennan constantly mopped his brow with a damp limp handkerchief, and as they talked Liam looked out through the open carriage windows at the sullen faces of the too-hot Londoners walking along their narrow airless streets.
The two men talked about the trial. Eugene said they would appear before a magistrate toward the end of the week and could expect to go before a judge at the London Sessions before the month was out.
‘We are privileged prisoners, Liam,’ said the old politician. ‘It is not unknown for common criminals like ourselves to languish in prison for longer than a year awaiting a trial. We are being hurried before the court with an eagerness that is almost indecent.’
Eugene Brennan chuckled, and Liam looked at him in astonishment.
‘It amuses you that we are to be tried for a crime about which we know nothing?’
Eugene Brennan stopped chuckling and looked at Liam seriously. ‘No, my boy, it doesn’t amuse me. It pains me greatly, but it will hurt others more, you can be sure of that. Before this trial is over those behind it will be wishing they had never heard of Liam McCabe and Eugene Brennan and the famine relief fund.’
‘Those behind it?’ echoed Liam. ‘Do you mean this is a deliberate attempt to discredit us – or you?’
‘That is exactly what I mean – but ask me no more questions. We are innocent. You know it and so do I. By the time this trial is over, all Britain will be aware of it, too.’
‘That may be so, but it will put an end to my chance of becoming a Member of Parliament.’
‘Put an end to—? Good heavens, Liam, this court case will put you straight into the House of Commons. There will not be a voting Irishman – or an Englishman, come to that – who won’t know the name of Liam McCabe.’
Liam wished he had the confidence of his companion. He was very worried about the outcome of the trial. The two days he had spent in police custody had demoralised him. He was a man who cherished his freedom and loved the outdoors. Locked in a tiny cell with no natural light coming in, and being totally dependent upon others for every necessity of life, was an alien and terrifying experience for him. Like many other strong and active men, Liam hated to rely upon others for anything.
The carriage turned into a narrow cobbled alley and speech became impossible for a while as teeth were clenched against the violent movement of the vehicle. After a hundred yards of this bone-juddering motion, the alley opened out upon a crowded dingy square and the carriage stopped outside one of the shabby terraced houses.
‘Here we are,’ said Eugene Brennan with relief. ‘This is my home. You will be staying here while you are in London. It may not be as grand as your last lodgings, but it’s comfortable. You’ll need to carry your own bag inside. I employ only one servant and she will do nothing but the cooking and cleaning. Go on in; there’s a friend waiting to greet you. I’ll follow in a minute or two, when I have settled up with the driver.’
Liam knew who the ‘friend’ was the moment he stepped inside the gloomy hall. Caroline’s perfume was as distinctive as its wearer.
Caroline was sitting in the small lounge reading a book but she jumped to her feet and rushed to embrace Liam when he entered the room. He felt ridiculously pleased to see her
again and held her to him, grinning like a half-wit until she eventually pushed him away. Taking both his hands in hers, she looked up at him.
‘My poor Liam, you look so tired. Was it terrible in your cell?’
Liam doubted whether he was as tired as she. Strain and tension shared a place on her face and her skin had an unhealthy pallor.
In Ireland he had deliberately kept her at a distance, her husband a dark shadow between them, but he cared for her very much and was concerned for her health.
Sensing a subtle change in his attitude toward her, Caroline put a hand up to his face, but at that moment the street-door slammed shut and Eugene Brennan called to them from the hall. When he entered the room they were standing with a respectable distance between them.
Caroline gave the old politician a greeting only marginally less affectionate than the welcome she had given to Liam. She kissed him on the cheek as she hugged him to her, and Eugene Brennan beamed happily.
‘I knew you would rescue Liam, Eugene, but you were only just in time. I arranged with your housekeeper to have dinner ready for half-past six. I guessed Liam would be ravenous after two days in that horrible place. We hardly have time for a drink before dinner will be ready.’
She smiled at Liam. ‘Save a drink for me. I must go to the kitchen to see what is happening.’
When she had left the room, Eugene Brennan poured out three generous measures of whiskey and handed one to Liam.
‘Lady Caroline is a very special kind of woman. A little too independent and self-willed for my taste, but an exceptional girl for all that.’
‘She is all those things.’ Liam was embarrassed at discussing Caroline under Eugene Brennan’s unwavering gaze, and the MP nodded knowingly.
‘She is very fond of you, Liam – but you don’t need an old man like me to tell you that. You know all about it yourself.’
Eugene Brennan neither expected nor wanted a reply, but he had a word of warning to add to his observation.
‘Be discreet in your friendship with Lady Caroline, Liam. A court-case is not likely to damage your parliamentary career – certainly not one held in an English court. Win it and you will have gained yourself a hundred votes in Ireland, but get involved with a married woman and you will lose a thousand. You can’t afford to do that at this end of your career. Leave it until you are my age. By then you will be happy to give away a thousand votes, just to have folk think such a thing of you.’
Eugene Brennan chuckled, but Liam knew that he had just been given a serious warning. He accepted it without comment and asked the politician why he had no wife. It was an unthinking question and one Liam immediately regretted asking.
Eugene Brennan carried his drink to the window and gazed out at the shabby square, where the first heavy drops of rain were beginning to fall.
‘I once had a wife, Liam. We were married after being childhood sweethearts for as long as I could remember. We lived in Wexford Town in those days, although I spent much of my time in Dublin and my wife would come with me. Then, in ninety-eight, she was pregnant and could no longer travel with me. That is how we came to be parted when the “glorious” rebellion broke out. In Wexford my wife witnessed the fighting and the atrocities committed by both sides. She herself was not physically hurt, but the sight of such wanton slaughter made her ill. She lost the baby only a month before it was due to be born. She never recovered from that blow, Liam. She wanted a child so much. She just wasted away and two years later she died. There was nothing I could do to help her. I was still younger than you are now, Liam, and I was a widower.’
Eugene Brennan took a drink, half-emptying his glass.
‘I am seventy years of age, Liam, but I remember her as though all this happened only yesterday. I remember how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and how sweet her hair smelled when we were caught in the rain and sheltered beneath a tree. The strange thing is, I can never remember her tears, but I know there were a great many.’
The long-threatened storm had broken now and thunder grumbled above the rain-washed slates of London.
‘Somehow I never found the time to marry again. I suppose it could be said I married Ireland.’ Eugene Brennan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I could have done worse.’
Downing the remainder of his drink, Eugene Brennan turned to look at Liam as a sibilant flash of lightning fragmented the sky behind him, followed by a crashing peal of thunder. When it rolled away, Eugene Brennan said, ‘Now you understand why I am opposed to any form of violent action. Such a course is usually advocated by those with the least knowledge of its effects. War and rebellion are not all glory and green flags. They cause death and suffering and misery. Our victory will be a much greater one if it can be achieved without adding to the burden that Ireland already carries.’
Some of the vitality drained from Eugene Brennan, and as he stood staring morosely down at the empty glass he twirled in his fingers his shoulders sagged wearily.
‘No doubt my young opponents within the Association would be able to use what I have just told you to their own advantage. They would say I am getting old and allowing a personal tragedy of many years ago to cloud my judgement. Perhaps they are right. There are many times now when I want to give up what I am doing. To return to Wexford Town and walk with the past until I am a part of it myself.’
‘I am sorry, Eugene.’ Apologies seemed totally inadequate. ‘I didn’t know about your wife.’
‘Few people do,’ shrugged the old politician. ‘And fewer would really care if they did.’
He smiled sadly. ‘Ah well! There’s nothing like an old Irishman for enjoying the sorrows of the past – but my nose is telling me something of the joys of the present. I think that delicious smell means dinner is ready, my boy.’
The magistrate’s hearing was a mere formality. The magistrate expressed his view that Liam and Eugene Brennan had a case to answer and he committed them for trial at the London Sessions.
During the days that followed, Liam was taken to the House of Commons to meet some of Eugene Brennan’s fellow-Irish MPs. They were polite enough but, in spite of Eugene’s assurances, Liam suspected, did not regard the charges against the veteran politician lightly and were concerned lest they were thought to be involved.
Caroline was a constant visitor to the accused politician’s house and, although Eugene Brennan rarely left Liam and Caroline alone together, they regained much of the warmth that had been missing from their relationship for a long time.
Occasionally, the three of them would go out for a carriage ride, enjoying the view from Hampstead Heath, or sampling the pleasures of a fair at London Fields. One evening they took a box at the theatre to see a new comedy. But most of the time they remained in Eugene Brennan’s small house, playing cards and talking.
Eventually the day of the trial arrived, and it proved to be grey, wet and unseasonably chilly.
‘I hope this is not an omen,’ said Liam, shivering with cold and nervous anticipation, as he and Eugene Brennan left the house.
‘It will be a grey day for someone,’ grated the old MP as he climbed stiffly into the carriage. ‘But I don’t think it will be us.’
Settling himself in his seat, he leaned forward, both hands resting on the silver handle of his walking-stick.
‘Don’t worry about a thing, Liam. I will be conducting our case. You have only to answer my questions clearly and honestly. Remember, when you give a speech in Parliament very few people outside the House are interested in what you have to say. Speak from the dock in a criminal court and the public hang on your every word. There is no place like it for promoting a good cause, or putting forward a political point of view. We must make the most of our opportunity.’
Eugene Brennan chuckled happily, and an incredulous Liam realised that the politician was actually enjoying the thought of appearing in court. He wished he could share his pleasure, but the charges against them were far too serious.
Liam’s apprehension increased wh
en they arrived at the forbidding court-building and surrendered to their bail. As Eugene Brennan was conducting their defence, he was permitted to remain in the court-room. Liam was taken down a narrow stone staircase and lodged in the dungeons below the building. He shared a communal cell with a dozen other prisoners who had been brought there from London’s prisons and who carried with them an unhealthy prison smell. The offences they had committed ranged from pickpocketing to murder. One of the accused murderers was unquestionably insane. The poor demented man was secured hand and foot with heavy chains and threshed about on the floor in a frenzied passion, screaming obscenities at creatures only he could see.
It came as a relief when Liam’s name was called and he was led from the cell to the court-room above.
The large high-ceilinged room was packed with men and women who were by no means hostile to the two men on trial. When Eugene Brennan joined Liam briefly in the spike-rimmed dock there was an outbreak of cheering from the public gallery. The stern-faced judge silenced them by banging on the bench before him with a wooden gavel. When he could make himself heard, he left the members of the public in no doubt about the action he would take should they repeat the outburst.
Liam and Eugene Brennan were jointly charged with embezzling money from the Irish famine relief fund and using it for their own purposes. After the charges had been read and the two men in the dock had declared forcefully that they were not guilty, Eugene Brennan was allowed to leave the dock and the prosecution opened their case.
Prosecuting counsel told the court that this was a case where two men, one being in a position of high responsibility, had preyed on the emotions of kind-hearted people. They had persuaded the gullible to part with their money and then creamed off part of it for their own use. It was, prosecuting counsel stated, a felony of the most despicable kind. The money had been collected to help the starving thousands in Ireland and was donated largely as a result of an appeal by Liam McCabe. The two accused men knew that every shilling they took from the fund represented the difference between life and death for some sick and starving child.
The Music Makers Page 28