England's Janissary

  ‘But you’ve learnt the golden rule of being an Irishman – never trust what the English say. I would have thought you yanks would know that, what with your revolution and all,’ Collins teased. Dalton had been born in America but had moved to Ireland when he was two years old and had grown used to his friend Collins’ ribbing.

  ‘I’m as Irish as the next man!’ Dalton said, smiling mischievously, putting on a broad country brogue instead of his usual middle-class Dublin tones.

  ‘For sure you are,’ Collins replied with a boyish grin, playing up his Cork accent. ‘Especially if the next man is Dev!’ he joked, having a dig at de Valera, the political leader of the rebellion who was another Irish-American. Collins slapped Dalton firmly on the shoulder and both men laughed loudly.

  ‘When you two have quite finished?’ Frank Thornton, Collins’ intelligence chief, said, rolling his eyes. He knew that Collins was always one for loud jokes and boisterous horseplay but Thornton didn’t have much time for it. It was all a bit childish as far as he was concerned but the lads seemed to like it.

  ‘All right, all right, Frankie, what have you got for me today?’ Collins asked his intelligence chief.

  ‘Well, to start with, Brugha is getting pissed off that the lads seem to listen to you more than him!’ Thornton said, referring to Cathal Brugha, the rebels’ minister of defence and nominally in charge of the IRA, who resented the fact that most of its members looked to his subordinate, Collins, for leadership. No one doubted that Collins was the real brains behind the IRA.

  ‘Aw, bugger Brugha!’ Collins declared.

  ‘I’d rather not, old chap,’ Dalton reposted and the two men burst out laughing.

  Thornton coughed. ‘When you two have finished your music hall act, perhaps we could get on.’

  ‘What else then?’ Collins asked. ‘I’ve to be at the Dáil this afternoon, so I suppose we must get on.’

  Thornton nodded. ‘I’ve something interesting from Sean MacEoin over in Longford,’ he said.

  ‘Sure, how is Sean?’ Collins beamed at the mention of his old friend.

  ‘There is a peeler sniffing around your Kitty,’ Thornton said and Collins’ face darkened.

  ‘What do you mean, sniffing around?’ Collins asked.

  ‘It would seem that a certain District Inspector Kelleher has got in contact with Kitty. He wants her to set up some sort of meeting with you!’ Thornton said.

  ‘Does he now?’ Collins snorted. ‘And who does he work for, do we know?’

  Thornton shook his head. ‘No idea. I’ve got some lads looking into it, but I don’t think it’s that snake, Winter, up in the Castle.’ Collins glanced down at the street once more and watched a couple of army lorries clatter by, loaded with bored Tommies off on a raid somewhere, and all because some traitor sold his country for a few measly quid, no doubt.

  ‘So what shall we do with him?’ Collins asked. ‘I’ve contacts enough with the Brits and the Castle – why should I be wanting another?’

  ‘He’s one of you culchie bastards from Cork,’ Thornton added.

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ Dalton laughed. ‘He must be a grand fella?’

  ‘Jaysus, ye cheeky feckin’ jackeen, you,’ Collins chortled, in a broad Cork accent, and turned to Thornton. ‘So, Frankie, what do we know about this District Inspector Kelleher then? Son of English planters gone native, I’ll bet, eh?’

  ‘Like Emmet says, he’s a Corkonian like you, Mick, but a Castle Catholic if there ever was one. His people hail from Macroom where his old fella’s the local GP.’ Thornton flicked through his notebook, looking like a policeman giving evidence at a court hearing. ‘The family live at number eleven, South Square, Macroom. It’s a big family. Good Catholic fella is Doctor Kelleher; he’s bred a load of little west Brits.’

  ‘Someone’s been doing his homework,’ Collins quipped.

  ‘It’s what you pay me for, Mick, when you pay me at all!’

  ‘Ach, away with you, Frankie, you’ll get your rewards in heaven!’ Collins joked.

  ‘In that case, I’ll be happy to wait to draw my wages,’ Thornton replied with a wry smile.

  ‘Go on then, Frankie, what else have you for me?’ Collins asked. Thornton flicked through another couple of pages in his notebook.

  ‘He’s a bit like Emmet here,’ he said. ‘He got a Military Cross in the war, touched by the king’s very hand no doubt!’ He glanced at Dalton, who had received his MC from the king at Buckingham Palace. ‘Public schoolboy is our Kelleher, Castleknock College old boy and plays rugby for Leinster. Rumour has it he’s tipped to play for Ireland next season, if he’s still about.’

  ‘You seem well up on bloody English garrison sports all of a sudden, Frankie,’ interrupted Collins, lightheartedly. ‘Shame, though, this Kelleher fella sounds like someone we could use….’

  Thornton pressed on, determined to finish making his report. ‘Not much hope of that – the man’s a loyalist through and through.’

  ‘So, Emmet, what do you think?’ Collins asked his friend.

  Dalton sighed and bridged his fingers in front of his face before giving his opinion. ‘I know the type, met plenty in the British army. In his mind he’s as Irish as the next man but that makes his sort more of an enemy than the fellas from over the water, if you ask me. At least the Brits are foreigners, but this one – he’s one of our own gone bad.’

  ‘Tell me, Ginchy,’ Collins said, using Dalton’s old army nickname, ‘what do you think?’

  Dalton looked at his friend. ‘I think he’s dangerous. What does Sean think?’

  Collins nodded. ‘Tell me, Frankie, what does the good blacksmith of Balinalee think of all this?’

  Thornton paused for a moment in thought. ‘Difficult to tell, Mick. He thinks that Kelleher might be useful but he doesn’t like Kitty being involved.’

  ‘Aye, I’m not best pleased either,’ Collins replied. ‘How did he know about Kitty and me, eh? I’d like to know who?’

  ‘Come on, Mick, it’s hardly a secret, is it? All of us know about you and Kitty,’ Dalton said.

  Collins nodded. ‘Yes, you’re not wrong there but there are lots of things that we know about each other that are a closed book to the Brits. No, someone’s informed and I want to know who. Frankie, sort it for me, please.’ Thornton wrote a note in his book. ‘Now, back to this Kelleher business,’ Collins continued.

  ‘Could we turn him?’ Thornton asked.

  ‘I can’t be doing with that just yet,’ Collins said. ‘I’ve a big job brewing in the city so the last think I’m wanting is to muck about with a schoolboy spy who’s read Childers’ book and thinks this whole business is some sort of adventure. No, I’ll have nothing to do with him.’ The atmosphere was suddenly leaden.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ Dalton said quietly. ‘The army can always use experienced soldiers.’ Collins looked at Dalton.

  ‘All right Emmet, I’ll leave it up to Sean to deal with. If he thinks that he can turn him, then all well and good. If he can use him, fine. If he can’t, then he has my authority to shoot him.’ Thornton nodded and scribbled another pencil note in his book before putting both in his jacket inside pocket, then stood up and walked to the door. His hand hovered on the handle.

  ‘There’s another fella working with Kelleher called Flynn. Do I get Sean to deal with him too?’ Collins nodded, giving the death sentence he was passing only a moment’s thought. ‘Maybe you know him, Emmet,’ Thornton said. Dalton’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m told that he was in your old regiment, the Dublin Fusiliers. He was given a gong for killing Jerries.’

  Dalton frantically trawled his memory. ‘Ach, you know, Frankie, loads of fellas got gongs in the war and Flynn’s not exactly a rare name in Dublin! There was a Sergeant Kevin Flynn with me when I got my MC,’ Dalton said. ‘I wrote him up for a Military Medal. Surely it can’t be the same fella?’ Thornton pulled out his notebook again.

  ‘This fella is called Kevin too,’ he said.

  ‘W
ell, if it’s the same man then it really is a shame. I quite liked the man, until you told me he was a copper,’ Dalton said.

  ‘Can’t be helped, Emmet,’ Collins interrupted. ‘He’s made his bed now. It’s up to Sean how he deals with him.’ Dalton nodded and Thornton plonked his grey fedora on his head and walked out of the room, banging the door shut behind him.

  ‘You know, I’ve got a sniff that old bastard Winter has brought in some professionals from over the water to give our lads a rough time,’ Collins said, referring to the British intelligence chief in Dublin Castle, Brigadier-General Sir Ormonde de l’Épée Winter, known by his men as ‘The Holy Terror’ because of his boundless energy and enthusiasm for cloak and dagger espionage. ‘My sources tell me that Winter calls them his Cairo gang. Buggered if I know why, but they’re real operators who’ve cut their teeth keeping the Brits’ bloody colonies in order, not like the local boys. Paddy Daly and the squad will have their work cut out dealing with them, so they will, and I’ll need your boys to lend a hand.’

  Dalton nodded. ‘No problem, Mick.’

  ‘We can’t let the Brits get the better of us in the city, Emmet, so when I find out who these people are, and where they are hiding, I’m going to kill them all, every last one. It’s about time the Brits realized that we are serious and eliminating this so-called Cairo gang would send a fearful message to the suits in Whitehall!’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about reprisals?’ Dalton asked.

  Collins looked at him. There was a fire in his eyes that Dalton rarely saw. ‘If they overreact they’ll just be throwing petrol on the fire,’ Collins said. ‘If they kill or burn, sure, even their own newspapers will damn them, let alone the Irish and American press!’ Dalton knew he was right. Collins took another drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in a stamped tin Guinness ashtray on the desk in front of him.

  Outside, tyres screeched on the cobbles below, whistles shrilled, ‘Move! Move!’ voices barked and Collins glanced out of the window. Below, two military lorries disgorged a gang of heavily armed soldiers and they heard the front door splintering under sledgehammer blows. ‘Best be going,’ Collins said calmly, before grabbing his hat and heading for the door, followed closely by Dalton. The house was suddenly alive with shouting, doors crashing and boots clattering on the stairs.

  ‘Break it down!’ came a barked command in a rolling Wiltshire burr and the doors burst inwards as several Tommies surged through it into the deserted room, upending chairs, refilling the empty room with noise. A column of smoke coiled lazily towards the ceiling from a crushed cigarette in an old tin Guinness ashtray and three empty teacups sat abandoned on the table in the middle of the room.

  The soldiers looked suddenly at a loss as to what to do as they stood self-consciously in the empty room, like naughty schoolboys, when a well-dressed man in smart civilian clothes, a detective from the Dublin Metropolitan Police’s G Division, strolled briskly to the table. He looked down at the table and picked up the cigarette butt, examining it closely with obvious disgust. ‘They’ve gone, sir,’ ventured a corporal. The detective dropped the stub back in the ashtray and looked at the soldier in disdain.

  ‘You don’t say?’ he said, before turning on his heel and storming out.

  CHAPTER 22

  M Company HQ, Auxiliary Division RIC, Longford

  IT WAS AN ordinary box of matches and he had thought nothing of it when he had found it in his coat pocket. It was only when he got back to his room and saw the box on his bedside cabinet that he realized that it was not his and it was only when he slid open the box that he found the note. ‘Tell Kelleher to back off or he’s a dead man,’ the note said in a bold, spiky scrawl and Flynn suddenly knew that it must have been the thumbless IRA man who had slipped it in his pocket when he patted him on the shoulder and wished him luck. Classic pickpocket’s diversion, Flynn thought. Cocky blighter, aren’t you, but why would you give me a written warning?

  Popping the note in his pocket, Flynn set off for the officers’ mess to tell Kelleher about the message. It was a short walk to what passed for the officers’ mess, which was in reality a large detached house in the corner of the barracks. At the front door the mess orderly had given Flynn a disdainful look before insisting that he wait on the step whilst he went inside to fetch Kelleher from his afternoon tea in the mess anteroom. ‘Yes? What is it?’ Kelleher asked, brushing toasty crumbs from his lapel with ill-disguised irritation at being interrupted.

  ‘I found this in my pocket, sir,’ Flynn said, handing the inspector the note, and he watched him flick his eyes over it.

  ‘Brief and to the point, I’d say,’ Kelleher observed. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘That fella in the car, the one who lit my fag, he must have slipped it in my pocket when he was talking to me. The thing that worries me, sir, is why would he do it?’

  ‘Who knows,’ Kelleher replied. ‘We’ve probably walked into the middle of some sort of IRA power struggle. They’re always stitching each other up. You know how it is – if two Fenians enter a room, one is bound to form a splinter group! This chap probably doesn’t want MacEoin to get all the glory for setting up my meeting with Collins.’ He laughed at his own joke but Flynn didn’t find it funny.

  ‘So, what are we going to do about it, sir?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kelleher replied.

  ‘I mean, sir, that if the Shinners are squabbling amongst themselves then perhaps it’s best we back off, like the man said. It’s pretty explicit, sir. It says you’re a dead man if you go ahead,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Kelleher replied. ‘If this chap is going against MacEoin then I’m sure he’ll sort him out for us, and if there is a split in the IRA in Longford, then perhaps this is an opportunity to exploit it!’ Flynn went to speak but could see from the look on Kelleher’s face that it would be useless to argue with him. ‘Anyway, this is der Tag, as the Hun would say, the big day. My meeting is tonight at nine o’clock. If I don’t show up then we may as well kiss goodbye to Collins or anyone else taking me seriously again and, besides, my orders are pretty clear. I’ve been told to make contact with Collins and Kitty is the best chance that we’ve got.’ Flynn still didn’t look convinced. ‘Don’t tell me you’re losing your nerve on me, Sergeant?’ Kelleher smiled but Flynn was still not reassured. ‘Go get something to eat. I’ll meet you in the orderly room at six,’ he said as he turned to re-enter the mess.

  ‘It’s still not too late to arrange back-up from M Company,’ Flynn said and Kelleher just looked at him and walked away. ‘Bugger!’ Flynn muttered as he walked off towards the sergeants’ mess for something to eat. After all, you should never go into battle on an empty stomach.

  Later, Flynn sat impatiently in the Orderly Room staring at the clock. It was twenty past seven. He fiddled with a silver florin coin trying to see if he could run it along his hand, twisting it from finger to finger like he’d seen one of his soldiers do during the war, but he failed miserably, conscious that the Auxiliary on orderly duty was watching his pathetic efforts. As usual, Kelleher was late.

  ‘Doing anything interesting?’ asked a bored young Auxiliary seated at the duty desk who’d been awarded a DSO and Mentioned in Despatches during the war.

  ‘Nope,’ Flynn replied noncommittally to the duty officer who had once been a temporary lieutenant colonel in the Royal Artillery and it made him laugh that they were now the same rank. But despite their equivalent status as sergeants, the Auxiliaries were better paid and called Cadet, which was the title used by RIC officers under training – Flynn supposed that went a little way to make the ex-officer Auxiliaries feel superior to mere NCOs. ‘Do you miss the army?’ Flynn finally asked the Auxiliary, who paused and put down his pen, looking at him for a moment.

  ‘I suppose so, but it’s a regular army mafia and there isn’t much room in it for temporary officers like me when the shooting stops,’ he said. ‘Besides, I commanded an artillery brigade but if I’d stayed
I’d’ve dropped back to lieutenant and been lucky to get a troop! No thanks.’

  ‘So how did you end up here?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Problem is there isn’t much work for ex-officers and I sort of missed the excitement.’ He looked at Flynn. ‘And you? Were you in the army?’

  Flynn nodded. ‘Royal Dublin Fusiliers. I was a sergeant. Found it hard to fit back in when I came home so I joined the constabulary. It’s a bit like the army.’

  The Auxiliary smiled. ‘Quite,’ he said, and went back to his paperwork. Flynn looked out of the window; it was dark and he glanced at his watch. It was a German watch, a souvenir of an encounter with a Saxon Unteroffizier. They had blundered into each other in an old trench and Flynn had taken the man’s face and his life with a sharpened spade. He’d also taken the man’s watch and it had served well ever since. It was half past seven. The door flew open and the duty officer jumped in his seat. ‘Do you mind!’ he muttered, neglecting to call Kelleher sir.

  Kelleher ignored the Auxiliary and spoke to Flynn, rubbing his hands together, exuding boyish enthusiasm for his coming tryst in Granard. ‘Well, are you ready to go?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Flynn replied, suddenly feeling very old as he stood up and reluctantly trailed after Kelleher out of the room. Outside, the courtyard was bathed in the amber glow of half a dozen electric street lamps and across the way a Lancia armoured car squatted in the corner. An Auxiliary sat astride its turret whistling tunelessly as he polished a long belt of .303 ammunition, which he fed into the vehicle’s open hatch, and looked up indifferently as the two policemen strolled past before returning to his task. ‘You know, sir, I really do have a bad feeling about this,’ Flynn said, fingering the note in his pocket.

  ‘Sergeant, I know you do, but everything is arranged,’ Kelleher replied, his tone brittle with irritation.

  ‘We could still get these lads—’ Flynn indicated towards M Company’s HQ ‘—to provide back-up. It’s not too late. I mean, if things go pear-shaped, I’m not sure how much help one man will be?’