England's Janissary

  ‘Oh, Joe, by the way, in the circumstances I thought that it was best that Mick joined the column,’ MacEoin said, referring to the County Longford Flying Column, the band of full-time IRA men who acted directly under MacEoin’s orders.

  McNamara smiled and Maguire sighed with relief. ‘You’re not wrong. I don’t need to be watching my back on a job.’

  MacEoin nodded and turned to McNamara. ‘Now, Mick, be a good fella and get yourself back next door. If the peelers were to see you, then there’d be no end of trouble.’ McNamara stared angrily at Maguire in naked hostility before nodding his head and leaving the room. ‘Now we’ve got that sorted, can we get back to the business in hand?’ MacEoin asked Maguire. ‘Don’t worry about Mick – he’s a wee bit of a wild one but he has a fearful hatred of the Brits and we need that. Now, we’ve been through a lot, you and me,’ MacEoin continued, ‘what with the rising and all, but times are changing, so they are. The war is hotting up and I think that I might be going on the run, after our little stunt at Gaigue. I’m going to need good men around me. We need to work together, Joe. If we don’t pull together, the Brits will have won.’

  Maguire nodded. He knew that what MacEoin was saying made sense. ‘All right, but next time I want to know.’ MacEoin didn’t like Maguire’s tone but he would let it pass for now. Things had not gone well with Maguire’s battalion since he was elected its leader and MacEoin made a mental note to speak to Connolly about finding a replacement.

  Be very careful, Joe, MacEoin thought to himself, very careful.

  Maguire let go of the gun in his pocket, knowing that shooting either McNamara or MacEoin would be suicidal. He realized that despite their history he really didn’t like MacEoin, with his false charm, but not enough to throw everything away shooting him. The blacksmith put his arm around him and directed him towards the back office. ‘Well, Joe, how was Belfast?’

  CHAPTER 19

  Greville Arms Hotel, Granard, County Longford

  ‘BLOODY RAIN!’ CURSED the drayman hunched under an old oilskin rain cape, puffing on his pipe. Puddles of rainwater filled the potholes and the wheels of the dray sent up gouts of water every time it bounced through one. Water was pooling on the driver’s bench and he felt it soak through the seat of his trousers. ‘Bloody rain!’ he muttered again as the dray lurched heavily through another pothole, soaking the two policemen walking down the pavement. ‘Sorry, Constable!’ the drayman called before muttering quietly, ‘Bloody peelers! Bloody rain!’

  ‘Bloody eejit!’ cursed a sodden young constable as the rainwater began to broach his defences and seep down the neck of his greatcoat, causing his mind to wander to fantasies about firesides and hot drinks.

  ‘Sure, it’s always quiet on a Wednesday afternoon, what with the shops taking stock and all,’ the other constable said.

  ‘You just have to keep an eye out for the traffic. Out here in the sticks these culchie beggars seem to make the rules up as they go along.’ The young policeman looked menacingly after the retreating dray before turning and resuming his stroll back to Barrack Street and the end of his shift. As they passed the Greville Arms, the older constable, Peter Cooney, gave the front door a furtive sidelong glance and then said quietly to his companion in a broad Sligo accent, ‘You’ll not want to be going in there.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ the younger man asked.

  ‘Because it’s crawling with Shinners and they’ll shoot you as soon as look at you. Best be giving it a wide berth,’ Cooney replied. ‘Old Sergeant Campion used to pop his head in every now and then, just to let the Fenians know he had his eye on them.’

  ‘Wasn’t he the fella who shot himself?’ his young companion asked.

  ‘Aye, that he did, but ’twas a terrible accident, so it was. Terrible! He’d put his blasted gun in his tunic pocket to pump up his bicycle tyres and the stupid thing fell out and went off. Poor man bled to death before we could do anything about it. Sure ’twas a terrible business. Some here about say it was just deserts, curse them. He was a hard man was Sergeant Campion.’

  Kitty Kiernan walked past the two policemen without a word. She had no intention of swapping pleasantries with traitors like them and she got the impression that the feeling was mutual. ‘That’s Kitty Kiernan,’ she heard one of the policemen say from behind her. ‘They say she’s Mick Collins’ squeeze. Right vipers’ nest of Fenians the Kiernan family. You’d do well to stay well away, especially if she really is mixed up with Collins,’ she heard, as their voices grew faint and they headed towards the barracks.

  It had never really crossed Kitty’s mind that the police knew about her family’s involvement with Sinn Féin and the IRA or even Mick Collins. Collins, MacEoin and her brother did their best to shield her from what was going on but she wasn’t stupid. She could see the risks that men like MacEoin ran every day for Ireland, which is why she was so pleased that her brother was not an activist. She’d heard MacEoin refer to it as a game once or twice and that they were all players, which had puzzled her at the time but it somehow made sense.

  As she pushed open the pub’s front door, the stink of tobacco smoke, beer and stale people slapped her in the face. She paused as she furled her dripping umbrella. ‘Afternoon, Miss Kitty,’ a gruff voice called from the lounge bar as she unbuttoned her raincoat and headed for the door marked ‘Private’ besides the dark, drink-stained bar.

  Despite the early hour the bar was already beginning to fill with the ‘usual suspects’, mostly workmen popping in for a swift pint on the way home or, in some cases, instead of going home. McNamara, Fitzgerald and Hegarty sat in the corner, nursing dark pints of stout. McNamara took another mouthful of the dark liquid before getting up and following Kitty towards the door.

  ‘How was Dublin?’ a familiar voice asked as she entered the back room behind the bar. MacEoin put down the mug of tea that he was nursing and rose from his chair. ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, Kitty, especially when you’ve been away to see the big fella!’ he said with a smile, referring to his friend and military superior, Michael Collins. ‘Now, tell me, did Mick give you anything for me?’

  Kitty glanced behind her as she heard the door open and saw McNamara step into the room. She looked nervously at McNamara; she didn’t like him much.

  ‘Don’t go minding Mick there, he’s a good lad. So what did Mick give you for me?’ he asked again, his hand outstretched, the very incarnation of charm itself. Kitty drew out a long hat-pin and removed her hat before plonking it down on the table and pulling a small envelope from its lining.

  ‘I’ll be reading that later,’ MacEoin said as he popped the envelope into his waistcoat pocket. MacEoin found Kitty an extremely useful direct line to Collins in GHQ.

  ‘Sean, is it safe for you to be here?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘Sure it is,’ he said confidently. ‘Why do you ask?’

  She told him what she’d overheard the policeman say and MacEoin laughed.

  ‘They’re a bunch of old women without their sergeant and they won’t be setting a foot in here. Don’t worry yourself about it Kitty, darling. The local plods know better than to stir up trouble here. Isn’t that so, Mick?’ he said to McNamara, who nodded in agreement.

  ‘That they do,’ McNamara said.

  ‘You look worried, Kitty, darling,’ MacEoin said reassuringly. ‘Was there anything that happened in Dublin?’ He looked concerned. ‘Is Mick all right?’ he asked, meaning Collins not McNamara.

  ‘Mick’s fine,’ Kitty said. ‘It’s not that … it’s …’ she stuttered.

  ‘It’s what?’ MacEoin asked. ‘Take your time, Kitty, tell me what’s happened. If someone has done anything to you, just give me their names and I can get the boys to have a word with them.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that that will be necessary,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure whether it is trouble but it was the strangest thing. There was a man at the station …’ Kitty paused. She was a pretty girl and MacEoin watched her closely. If someone had taken a
fancy to her, he could understand that but he also knew that the mere mention of Collins’ name would have been enough to send any would-be suitor scuttling for cover. But Kitty wasn’t stupid and MacEoin knew she wouldn’t have mentioned Collins to a total stranger.

  ‘So, what did this man want?’ MacEoin asked, flashing Kitty a reassuring smile as he gestured for her to sit. ‘Was it some fella trying to get you to walk out with him?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No, it was not,’ she replied. ‘He said that he was a policeman and that he wanted to talk to Mick!’

  MacEoin’s eyes narrowed as he churned this information around in his mind. ‘Well, Kitty, my girl, tell me all about what this shoneen wanted with you.’ He paused and asked finally, ‘Tell me, was he alone? In fact, tell me everything that he said.’ Kitty sat down and began to speak.

  The platform had been thick with billowing grey smoke mixing with the damp air, filling the empty platform with a fine smog, as the train hissed to a halt at Newtonforbes station and a lone porter, clad in the green livery of the Midlands and Great Western Railway, reluctantly emerged from the snug warmth of the ticket office to assist any alighting passengers with their baggage.

  The stationmaster had glanced at his fob-watch. The train was more or less on time and Kitty stepped lightly from the dark crimson second-class carriage onto the platform and placed her floral carpet portmanteau at her feet. She noticed that she was the only passenger on the platform. ‘Afternoon, miss,’ the porter said politely, in his thick Longford accent, and he tapped the peak of his cap subserviently, anticipating a tip. ‘Take your bag for you, miss?’ Kitty smiled.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said and the porter picked up her bag and turned towards the station exit and the bus stop outside. The shops were already shut or closing and two young men lounged in an open-topped car, chatting. She didn’t recognize either of them but they were obviously waiting for someone. The porter placed her bag down at the bus stop and she gave him some money. ‘Thank you, miss,’ he repeated, touching his cap again before scurrying back to the comfort of the ticket office and a warming cup of tea no doubt.

  She noticed the men stop talking and the nearest, a dark-haired man in his early twenties, got out of the car and began to walk across the street. She was rooted to the spot when she realized that the man was walking towards her with steady purposeful strides. Maybe MacEoin had sent someone to collect her from the train, she thought, but somehow she had a niggling feeling that that was not the case and that the man was not a friend. She tried hard to bite back on the fear that was welling up inside her; besides, she knew that she would never outrun the men and so she watched his approach like a cornered gazelle watches a ravenous lion.

  Then the man was in front of her and with a boyish grin he doffed his hat, exposing a mop of dark, wavy hair. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Kiernan. It is Miss Kiernan, isn’t it?’ he said. It was obviously a rhetorical question for he gave no indication that he didn’t already know the answer, and his crisp Irish public-school accent told Kitty that he was unlikely to be one of MacEoin’s boys.

  ‘My name is Philip Kelleher, District Inspector Kelleher of His Majesty’s Royal Irish Constabulary, and if you don’t mind, miss, I’d like to have a little chat with you if I may,’ he said, with forced civility. Kitty knew that it was an order, not a request, and despite his cheery tone there was an edge to his voice that told her she had no choice in the matter.

  ‘What do you want?’ she spat contemptuously. ‘I doubt that I have anything of interest to say to the likes of you!’

  Kelleher smiled warmly, unfazed by her spleen. ‘Au contraire, Miss Kiernan, au contraire,’ he teased, his dark eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘I believe that you could tell me quite a bit that would be of interest, especially as you have just been visiting a certain Mr Collins over in Dublin, eh, what? I’m sure I’d be fascinated by that.’ He smiled when he saw her visibly blanch at the mention of Collins’ name.

  How much did they know? she thought. How did he know that she had just been to visit Collins? Did the Brits know where he was? Had she endangered him? She could feel the panic rising once more like the tide.

  ‘Oh, please don’t worry, Miss Kiernan, your secret is safe with me,’ he chirped as he gestured towards the waiting car. ‘Please, allow me to give you a lift home to Granard.’ And placing his arm around her shoulder, looking to all the world like he was greeting his girlfriend, he steered her gently towards the waiting car. She was trapped and she knew it. The driver sat silently behind the wheel and only spared her a cursory glance. She noticed how pale his grey eyes were before he resumed scanning the street. His scarred face was blank and emotionless. Kitty shivered involuntarily.

  ‘After you, miss,’ Kelleher said politely as he helped her into the car and the driver started the engine. She thought again about running but her body language must have been obvious and Kelleher placed a firm hand in a vice-like grip on her shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you, miss,’ Kelleher said with a smile and helped her into her seat.

  ‘You’ll get nothing from me,’ she said defiantly and to her intense irritation Kelleher just smiled.

  ‘That depends,’ he said, running his eye over her body and leaving the sentence unqualified, as she looked nervously at the inspector. There was a hint of menace in his charming voice and now she really did feel afraid. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to the driver and the car crunched into gear and lurched off down the road. For a few minutes Kitty and Kelleher sat in silence. She tried desperately not to look at the inspector but, uncomfortably, she felt inexorably drawn to him. ‘Well, Miss Kiernan, don’t look so worried, it’s not like I’m going to shoot you or anything!’ he finally said. ‘Believe me, if that was what I wanted you’d already be dead and, besides, I don’t shoot women. Not unless I have to,’ he quipped in a tone that was hard for Kitty to tell whether he was joking or not.

  ‘What do you want?’ she finally said through gritted teeth. ‘Am I under arrest then?’

  ‘Oh no, far from it, so please, just sit back, enjoy the ride, as they say, and listen to what I have to tell you. I have a message for you that I want you to pass on to Collins, and please don’t insult my intelligence by claiming that you don’t know him. I know you do and I know that you have just been with him in Dublin.’

  Kitty stared at Kelleher; she was trying to work out who this Kelleher was or even if it was his real name and what he was after. She knew that there were policemen out there who sympathized with the cause; even Mick had told her that he had contacts in the army, the police and the civil service, so why couldn’t this policeman be a potential recruit? Surely, if he meant her or Collins harm, he wouldn’t have just walked up to her, bold as brass, and said hello the way he did? The man began to intrigue her and she had to admit that she found him attractive to look at, even if he was probably a traitor to Ireland.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she said, trying to sound calm, in control, ‘be about your business and then be on your way, Judas.’

  ‘Charming,’ he laughed before continuing. ‘It’s quite simple really, Miss Kiernan. I have powerful friends in the Castle and over the water in London too and they want me to make contact with Collins. Now I know, and you know, that you are in regular contact with the man, so to speak, so let him know what I have just said.’

  Kitty looked at him, aghast. ‘And you think that even if I did know Michael Collins that he’d risk meeting you just because I asked him to?’

  ‘You know, Miss Kiernan—’ He smiled again, like a shark ‘—you’ll never know unless you ask him, will you?’ Suddenly the car lurched to a stop and Kelleher leant across her, slightly too close, and slipped open her door. ‘I think this is your stop, Miss Kiernan,’ he said, ‘and believe me when I say it’s been my pleasure.’

  She stepped onto the pavement and the grey-eyed driver handed down her portmanteau. Neither spoke. ‘Remember, Miss Kiernan, please pass on my message. It’s very important and don’t worry about gettin
g in touch. I’ll find you.’ He doffed his hat once more and hopped back into the passenger seat of the car, then it spluttered off into the dampening evening.

  ‘And that, Sean, is what happened on my way home,’ Kitty said as she finished her tale and turned back to face MacEoin who was still gulping down the last of his tepid tea. ‘Do you know anything about this Inspector Kelleher?’ she asked him.

  MacEoin shook his head and shrugged. ‘Never heard of him,’ he lied. ‘Don’t you worry yourself, Kitty, darling, I have a few contacts in the constabulary and I’m sure I can find out who he is. Mick—’ He turned to McNamara ‘—get on to it for me, will you? Get the lads to ask around. I want to know everything there is to know about District Inspector Kelleher.’

  ‘Will do, Sean,’ McNamara said, and left the room.

  MacEoin looked back at Kitty and smiled reassuringly. ‘He said he’d be in touch?’ She nodded. ‘Good,’ he continued. ‘There might be some mileage in this. Best we let the big fella know about it. See what he has to say. He’ll not be pleased that the peelers have been bothering you, so he won’t. You done good, Kitty, my girl. You let me know as soon as you hear from this Kelleher fella again. As soon as, mind you, as soon as. Until I know what this peeler is up to, I think that we should tread very carefully around this Mr Kelleher of yours, very careful indeed.’ He patted the envelope in his pocket and touched the peak of his flat cap with his thumb and index finger. ‘Be very careful, Kitty. If this fella is up to no good, then he’s a dead man, is young Inspector Kelleher, so he is.’ And he was gone.

  Kitty sat back in her chair, thinking about the handsome young policeman with his dark eyes and boyish grin. It really worried her that Kelleher seemed to know so much about her and that she knew almost nothing about him – but maybe that would change in time. What worried her even more was that she did not really know whether she was looking forward to meeting him again or not.