The Winter Guest

by W. C. Ryan

  ‘You’re sure it was Abercrombie?’

  ‘I know his men’s handiwork when I see it.’

  They stand for a while, the rain falling around them. Harkin glances over to see that two of the policemen have brought down a stretcher.

  ‘I served with him in France,’ Harkin says, deciding he should say something. ‘I was in the same battalion as himself and Billy Prendeville, all through the worst of it. He was a good man.’

  ‘The finest.’

  There is enough resentment in the sergeant’s expression, Harkin decides, to allow him to take a risk.

  ‘That was you last night, wasn’t it?’ he asks. ‘When Abercrombie came to Mrs Wilson’s? Holding him back?’

  The sergeant nods.

  ‘He wants you gone from here – he thinks you are interfering in the investigation of Miss Prendeville’s murder. Inspector Teevan tried to keep him under some kind of control, to explain the reality of the situation to him, but Abercrombie thought Teevan was weak and that the only way to defeat the rebels was with force. He doesn’t understand the country at all. Teevan told me he had written a complaint to the Commissioner. But now he’s gone there’s nothing to stop Abercrombie doing what he wants. He listened to me last night – he might as easily not have.’

  ‘What was he trying to achieve?’

  ‘A warning, I think.’

  ‘Just because I’m looking into Maud Prendeville’s death? Nothing more than that?’

  Kelly nods. Harkin looks once again at Sean Driscoll’s body, now covered with a blanket, and feels a shiver run through him. If Abercrombie had known he was a Volunteer the night before, there is little doubt that he’d be lying in the sand beside Driscoll.

  ‘How did you know I was at Mrs Wilson’s?’

  ‘Abercrombie said we were acting on information received. I know nothing more than that. He didn’t even tell us where we were going until we arrived.’

  Harkin turns this over for a moment. If Driscoll was tortured, that might explain the major’s knowledge of his whereabouts. But if Driscoll told Abercrombie about his being at Wilson’s, then why not tell him he was an IRA intelligence officer down from GHQ? Giving up that kind of information might have saved Driscoll’s life. And ended Harkin’s.

  ‘I understand a Father Dillon was found dead in the town this morning.’

  ‘What do you know about that?’ the sergeant says, a wary note in his voice. Harkin decides to take another, greater risk.

  ‘I know Sean was meant to meet him last night and probably did. I know Dillon was passing information to Matt Breen and the IRA from an anonymous police informer and after Breen’s death, Driscoll was trying to re-establish contact with the informer.’

  The sergeant says nothing for a long while and Harkin is wondering whether he has gone too far, when the sergeant turns to him. He speaks slowly, and every word seems to be weighted with significance.

  ‘According to Major Abercrombie, Father Dillon committed suicide.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that?’

  ‘Did your friend?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The big man? He was around there yesterday and there was a report of a car outside the church this morning. It matches the description of his vehicle. I thought he might have been responsible at first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Father Dillon was working for Major Abercrombie. I thought your friend might have killed him as an informer.’

  Harkin takes a moment to consider all the ramifications of the sergeant’s words, not least of which is the likelihood that the source for the information that led to the ambush was controlled by Abercrombie. He forces himself to stay calm. ‘But you don’t now?’ he says, more to say something aloud than anything else.

  ‘I think someone killed him. It wasn’t suicide. I know a suicide when I see it. Did your friend kill him?’

  ‘No,’ Harkin agrees, speaking slowly, deducing that if Kelly has identified Bourke as an IRA man, then he must have identified him as well. ‘Not least because he didn’t know about Dillon and Abercrombie.’

  ‘I thought not.’ Kelly’s expression is grim. ‘In which case I think the man who killed Sean also killed Father Dillon,’ Kelly continues. ‘So that’s where we are. Murdering priests, whatever their faults, and men like Sean Driscoll.’

  ‘Why was Dillon helping Abercrombie?’

  ‘He had a hold over him.’

  ‘What kind of hold?’

  ‘An altar boy. Inspector Teevan would have handled it quietly. Dillon would have been disciplined by the church. Only Abercrombie had a better idea.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Father Dillon told me. He wanted my help. He was too late.’

  Which would explain the K.R. in the appointment book. If Abercrombie was behind Dillon’s messages, then he must also have known about his meeting with Driscoll. When he speaks, he is talking to himself as much as to Kelly.

  ‘According to Sean, the details of the ambush came through Father Dillon.’

  The two men meet each other’s gaze. If it is possible, Kelly looks grimmer still.

  ‘Did they now?’

  ‘Did District Inspector Teevan tell you anything about the nature of the report he submitted? To the Commissioner? About Abercrombie?’

  The sergeant’s lips tighten. Harkin can see a muscle in his jaw throbbing.

  ‘I don’t know that it was submitted. He thought it was only right to talk to the major first before he did that. To give him an opportunity to explain himself.’

  ‘And when would he have given him that opportunity?’

  Kelly looks away and Harkin sees a reluctance to speak. A reluctance, maybe, to face the implications of Abercrombie arranging an ambush on himself, which was then redirected, somehow, towards District Inspector James Teevan.

  ‘I believe they were to discuss it on the evening of the ambush. At Sir John’s card evening. But whether they did or not, and what happened to the report, I couldn’t tell you. Only that man coming down the beach could tell you.’

  Harkin turns to see Abercrombie walking across the sand, a trench coat belted tight around his waist, a sodden tam-o’-shanter cap angled towards his right shoulder and a cluster of Auxiliaries following him, faces pale above their dark trench coats. The major seems in a good mood, a cigarette dangling from his lip.

  ‘Well, Kelly? Anything to tell me?’

  Kelly might as well be a statue, so immobile are his features.

  ‘The dead man is Sean Driscoll, a staff member at Kilcolgan House. He’s been tortured, then shot several times.’

  Abercrombie glances towards Harkin, as though assessing his reaction.

  ‘Any indication as to why he might have been killed?’

  Kelly walks over towards the uniformed policeman and returns with a wooden board on which has been painted the words: MURDERER, AMBUSHER, TERRORIST.

  Abercrombie takes the sign from Kelly, looks at it for a long moment and then shows it to his men. One or two of them look uncomfortable, but others smile as though at a joke only they are privy to.

  ‘It would seem the murderer of Miss Prendeville was under your nose the whole time, Harkin, and some loyal citizens have taken matters into their own hands. I take it you will be returning to Dublin directly. I’m sure you have some files need filing, or whatever it is one does in an insurance office.’ Abercrombie leans forwards and presses his forefinger slowly into Harkin’s chest. ‘Do you know, I once shot a German right there. He was quite indignant, as though I wasn’t playing by the rules, but it didn’t change things for him. He was dead and I wasn’t. Do you take my point?’

  Harkin holds Abercrombie’s gaze until, eventually, the major smiles and looks to Kelly.

  ‘Why so glum, Sergeant? I thought the Irish were supposed to be a happy-go-lucky race but here you are, yet again, looking like a dog ate your dinner. A treacherous rebel is dead. So why don’t you smile, Kelly? Aren’t you pleased?’r />
  Kelly says nothing, but there is the glitter of steel in the sergeant’s unnaturally calm gaze. Perhaps the major sees it, too, because he gives an uneasy laugh.

  ‘Oh well, be a spoilsport, then.’ The major turns to his men. ‘Come on, chaps, nothing for us here. We can leave this matter in the capable hands of Sergeant Kelly.’

  Harkin watches the major make his way to the two Crossley Tenders that brought him and his men. There is a kind of swagger in the way Abercrombie walks, as though the whole business is some kind of entertainment. He has shown no interest in the man who lies dead behind him – a man he most probably killed – nor engaged with Dr Hegarty or Charlie Prendeville. Harkin turns to exchange a look with Kelly.

  ‘At least he showed up, I suppose,’ the sergeant says.

  Harkin’s curiosity must be apparent because the sergeant nods towards the gate lodge.

  ‘He never even made an appearance when Teevan and the others were killed.’

  ‘But he must have come out when it was reported?’

  ‘He was off on some business of his own that night. The Auxiliaries operate independently from the rest of us, as often as not.’

  ‘It must have been something urgent, surely?’ Harkin knows he is treading a fine line. ‘For him to be called away from the card game?’

  ‘You would think so, but I’ve never heard what it was. The next morning he was off organising a sweep of the countryside and raids and what have you, but not once did he visit the site of the ambush or look in on Inspector Teevan’s widow, or even visit the Prendevilles. Nothing.’ He looks around as Moira approaches. ‘Mrs Wilson. If you’ll excuse me.’

  Kelly raises his fingers to his helmet in salute, and makes his way over to Dr Hegarty.

  ‘What did Abercrombie say to you?’ Moira asks, standing beside him and following his gaze up the beach.

  ‘Nothing to speak of.’ Harkin shakes his head, keeping his attention on the major, who is now standing with his men beside the Tenders. ‘The curious thing was he didn’t even mention last night. It was as though it never happened.’

  ‘He is a murderer.’

  ‘He is. You have to be careful of him, Moira.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Tom Harkin. It’s you we should be worried about.’

  Perhaps Harkin would be worried, were he not a little distracted. He watches Abercrombie until the major pauses momentarily, just before he climbs into the cab of the Crossley, and Harkin finally sees what he has been waiting for.

  ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’ he says, not waiting for Moira’s response.

  He walks quickly up the beach until he reaches the spot where Abercrombie’s recently departed Tender’s tyre tracks are still visible.

  It doesn’t take him long to find what he is looking for.

  CHAPTER 40

  B

  y the time Harkin turns back towards the beach, Driscoll’s covered body has been placed on a stretcher and Sergeant Kelly is escorting the two policemen who are carrying it up to the waiting lorry. Kelly nods to him as they pass each other and Harkin returns the acknowledgement. Moira waits for him, her arms crossed, her monocled eye glittering.

  ‘What was that about?’ she asks, in a sharp tone, nodding towards where Abercrombie climbed into the Tender.

  Harkin isn’t quite sure how to respond, so he holds out his hand and shows her the object it contains.

  ‘Something very interesting.’

  She raises a sceptical eyebrow – curiously, it is the one above the monocle.

  ‘I will half forgive you, in anticipation of your imminent explanation. I take it you’ve heard about Father Dillon? Did you visit him this morning?’

  ‘We did,’ he says. ‘But he wasn’t very communicative.’

  He tells her quickly about what they found at the priest’s house and their subsequent meeting with Egan.

  ‘So where does that leave your investigation?’ she asks.

  ‘This morning it left it with Sean Driscoll as the man who set up the ambush, and who took advantage of it to kill Maud, and then killed Dillon to cover his tracks. But since then I’ve discovered Billy was with Driscoll at the time of her murder and that, in any event, Driscoll wasn’t the one who set up the ambush. So, now I’m not sure where I am.’

  She looks at him, her expression grave.

  ‘One other thing, of course,’ he adds, ‘is I now know for certain he wasn’t having an affair with Maud, as I suspected. How did you put it, now that I recall? “It seems unlikely there was an attraction between them”? And now the poor fellow is murdered and I feel a bit of a dunce.’

  She looks a little guilty.

  ‘He was entitled to his privacy.’

  ‘It is no criticism of you, believe me. If I was in any way suited to this role, I’d have noticed things that now seem obvious. Instead I feel like I’ve blundered about for the few days I’ve been down here, generally making a fool of myself.’

  ‘I thought I told you to avoid stressful situations,’ Dr Hegarty says, approaching them and looking from one to the other with an assessing eye. Behind him, on the road, the police lorry has been loaded with Sean Driscoll’s corpse and Harkin can hear its engine turning over.

  ‘Sergeant Kelly said Driscoll was in pretty bad shape.’

  ‘Indeed. If they have an open coffin there will be trouble in the town. Would you tell his mother that, Miss Prendeville? There’s already been enough in the last few days to last us a while.’

  Charlie, joining them, nods. Harkin notices that the bystanders who lined the road are beginning to drift away now that the lorry is leaving with Driscoll’s body. The waves are also coming higher up the beach, and in half an hour the sea will have cleansed the sand of Driscoll’s blood.

  ‘There should be trouble,’ Moira says, but when her father looks at her sharply, she holds up her hands in surrender.

  ‘It’s been a busy day for you, Doctor,’ Harkin says, changing the subject.

  ‘You’re referring to Father Dillon, I take it.’

  ‘Yes. A suicide, I’m told.’

  ‘So I’m informed.’

  ‘You’re not convinced?’

  Dr Hegarty says nothing. His daughter speaks for him.

  ‘He hasn’t examined him. Major Abercrombie has decreed that since martial law is in effect, and with the situation so troubled, only police-determined homicides will require post mortems.’

  Harkin feels a hard frown tighten his forehead.

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘Whether it is or it isn’t, there’s not much I can do about it.’ Hegarty’s anger is apparent. ‘I could write a letter to someone, I suppose, but the first person the recipient would contact about its contents would likely be Abercrombie. I’m not sure that would end well.’

  ‘Father, I’m sure Mr Harkin didn’t mean to cause you irritation.’

  ‘My irritation isn’t with Mr Harkin, even if he will ignore my medical advice. I am, however, annoyed with that jumped-up rat of a man, Abercrombie, given he is responsible for half the homicides around here.’

  ‘Where is Father Dillon’s body now?’ Harkin asks.

  ‘Already with the undertaker.’

  ‘Could you examine it there, quietly?’

  Hegarty looks at him, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘Is there a pressing reason why I should?’

  ‘There might be,’ Harkin says carefully.

  It seems that Dr Hegarty understands his drift when he nods slowly.

  ‘But you can’t tell me why?’

  ‘It would probably be better if I didn’t.’

  Hegarty thinks about this for a little while, before he seems to come to some sort of a decision.

  ‘Is this to do with Maud Prendeville’s death?’

  ‘It might even be to do with Sean Driscoll’s.’

  ‘I see. Kevin Cunningham, the undertaker, is a friend of mine. I often look in on him on my way home. It would be a purely social call, of course. If I do happen to see t
he body, it will of necessity only be the briefest of examinations, you understand? But a brief examination is often all that is needed.’

  ‘I would be interested to know what you think.’

  ‘Very good. Moira, will I give you a lift back to the lodge?’

  ‘I think I’ll walk up to Kilcolgan. I should go and see Mrs Driscoll.’

  Hegarty seems to take a moment before he sighs, appearing older as his shoulders seem to lose their shape.

  ‘I should come myself, but I must do the post mortem on him first. Tell her I will take good care of him.’

  *

  The rain seems to have slackened slightly as they pass under the grim gaze of the ivy-wreathed eagles that top the pillars either side of the gates to Kilcolgan. The evening is drawing in and it is dark beneath the trees that line the avenue. They do not speak much as they walk. If Moira and Charlie are in the same state as Harkin, they are wet through and cold. On top of which, there is Driscoll’s death and the finality of it. The house, ahead of them, is dark. Not a single light shows, despite the hour, nor even the hint of one.

  When they reach the front door, Harkin and Moira stand in the hallway for a moment, listening for any noise within, puddles spreading around their feet, while Charlie finds some candles. The hall fire is not lit and there is no sign of either Murphy or Bridget.

  ‘I’m afraid we cannot expect the servants to be in a state to perform even the most minimal tasks this evening,’ Charlie says. ‘Tom, once you have got out of those wet clothes, do you think you could light a fire in the drawing room and in the dining room?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘In the meantime, I’ll see what can be arranged in the way of a meal. Moira, will you stay for supper?’

  Moira seems to look his way in the gloom, but Harkin can’t be certain.

  ‘I would like to, of course. But the memsahibs will need looking after, as will Mr Bourke, my other guest. Once I have seen Mrs Driscoll, I will make my way home.’

  ‘Can I at least find you something dry to wear?’

  Moira holds up the hem of her waxed cloak, to examine the sodden dress underneath.