by W. C. Ryan
‘Did any cars pass earlier in the evening? From the direction of Ballynan House?’
Walsh considers the question.
‘None. I’m sure of it. The first car that came from that direction was Inspector Teevan’s.’
CHAPTER 43
H
arkin and Bourke walk down to the beach. It is dark, but there is enough light to make out the white of the waves on the shore, and across the bay there is a solitary light against the low hills. Harkin wonders what it can be, so bright that it can be seen from so far away.
‘Why did you ask him about how the killer walked?’
‘Driscoll had a limp,’ Harkin says.
‘I thought we’d ruled him out.’
‘It didn’t hurt to check. If Walsh could hear the creak of a boot, he would have noticed a limp.’
‘So, what do you make of it?’
‘I have a theory.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s tenuous.’
‘Tenuous, is it?’
‘I’m not certain of it.’
‘I know what fucking tenuous means.’
Harkin takes a moment to order his thoughts.
‘If Kelly is right about Dillon being in the major’s pocket, then we have Abercrombie setting up an ambush on himself. Which would be strange if we didn’t know, also from Kelly, that Teevan wrote a report about Abercrombie’s activities shortly before his death – and that the report has gone missing. It could be that the report would have finished Abercrombie’s career, maybe even landed him in prison. Abercrombie knew Teevan would be at Sir John’s card evening. Perhaps he suggested they should talk about the report and that Sir John’s house might be the place to do this. Moira Wilson says they went off together earlier in the evening and they were both angry afterwards. Perhaps Abercrombie decided that if the meeting didn’t go well, he could be called away, knowing it would mean Teevan would drive Cartwright home. If it went better than expected, he could be waiting for Egan and his men with all the Auxies and peelers and soldiers the town could muster. He could have ambushed the ambush.’
‘But it didn’t go well, and so he sent Teevan and Cartwright into a trap knowing our lads would be waiting for them?’
‘It would have been a neat way to get rid of Teevan. There wouldn’t have been any investigation if it hadn’t been for Maud, and there wasn’t much then. Even if men from the column had been arrested, none of them knew the source of the information that led to the ambush. The only link was Matt Breen, and he was killed a couple of days afterwards. When Father Dillon was murdered, the link was severed completely.’
‘But Kelly knows.’
‘I don’t think Abercrombie is aware that Dillon told Kelly what was going on. Given the sergeant is still alive.’
‘And what about Cartwright? Weren’t Abercrombie and him supposed to be pals?’
‘They served in the same battalion but Cartwright didn’t come here to see Abercrombie, he came here to see Billy Prendeville. Maybe it was just a coincidence that Abercrombie turned out to be here.’
‘So Abercrombie left Ballynan House in his motor, called away by a telephone call, but Walsh says the car never passed the gate lodge. You think he parked it somewhere and walked over to watch the fun?’
Harkin considers the possibility.
‘It could be. When I walked in from the back gate this afternoon it was deserted. The chances of anyone noticing a motor car there would be slim if he coasted it in, or he may have left it somewhere else altogether. If I’m right, he wanted to be there when the ambush took place, firstly to check Teevan was killed and also to get the report. I’m guessing the searching Walsh heard was Abercrombie looking for it.’
‘So why did he kill Maud Prendeville?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t even know why she was in the car. There are a lot of things I don’t know. But if Maud was involved in the shipment, and the shipment is known about by the authorities, then perhaps that’s the reason she was killed. Or it could be something else altogether.’
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘I want to have a conversation with Sir John Prendeville. But first I want to talk to Mrs Driscoll. Will you drive me over to Ballynan House a little later?’
There is a moment’s silence, then a grunt.
‘Is something wrong?’ Harkin asks.
‘It’s only Sir John drives a blue Daimler.’
‘So?’
‘I saw a blue Daimler in town the night Sean Driscoll went missing. The night Abercrombie came to shoot up Mrs Wilson’s lodge. He knew you were staying there, because I told him when I dropped over your letter to him.’
CHAPTER 44
H
arkin leaves Bourke waiting with his car by the gate and walks back to Kilcolgan, skirting the house, now with light colouring at least some of its windows. He makes his way along the small cobbled lane that runs beside the walled garden and leads to Mrs Driscoll’s house. Somewhere out in the darkness, the same owl hoots once again. There is a sense of expectation about the place. Harkin remembers the quiet along the line in the half-light before the dawn of an attack, the tension in men’s faces and the absence of birdsong or any noise except, off in the distance, the whirr of an aeroplane’s engine. The knowledge, as he looked around at his men’s faces, that many of them would be dead before the hour was out. There is the same anticipation here.
The two storey red-brick house in which Mrs Driscoll lives has a small garden around it, bounded by a low wall and chest-high hedges, and even in the dark, he can tell that it is well maintained enough to be a rebuke to the tumbling-down untidiness of the big house not much more than a hundred yards away. The curtains are pulled tight in the windows, but they are edged by light. Harkin stands outside the door and listens once again. Even the breeze has died away to nothing here. There is only the sound of his own breathing and the murmur of conversation from inside. He lifts his knuckles, rests them against the cold wood for a moment and then knocks twice, each knock like a pistol shot.
The person who opens the door is Moira Wilson, wearing her hat and coat. She reaches up a hand to his face, her palm against his cheek. She searches his face for an instant. He wonders what he must look like, standing here . . . death stalking him.
‘I’m on my way out. She is expecting you.’
‘Is she?’ he asks, surprised.
‘She said you would have questions and she says she has answers for you. Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ He hopes he is telling the truth.
‘Take care of yourself, Mr Harkin,’ she says, smiling, and touches his face again.
‘And you too, Mrs Wilson.’
Inside, Mrs Driscoll sits beside the small range, with Bridget alongside her. She is wearing a black dress that runs from a high collar down to black polished shoes. Her face is pale against her clothing. Seeing him, Mrs Driscoll leans forwards and places her hand on Bridget’s knee.
‘Go up the house and see if there is anything needs doing, Bridget. Mr Harkin will sit with me for a little while.’
When Bridget has left, it occurs to Harkin that he has cleared the house of everyone except himself and its owner in a matter of moments. It is warm, so he takes off his hat and trench coat and places them on a hook beside the door.
‘Mrs Driscoll, I wanted to apologise again for earlier.’
She examines him. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her face is composed and she seems, despite the news of her only son’s death, to be calm. She points to the chair from which Bridget recently rose.
‘Mr Harkin, please sit down.’
When he is seated, they examine each other for a few moments.
‘Mrs Wilson told me you were expecting me,’ he says, an opening that allows her to decide how the conversation will progress. She inhales deeply, as though summoning all her energy.
‘I’m guessing, by now, you know my son had nothing to do with the death of Miss Prendeville. I presume you also know s
ome other things about him as well.’
‘I do.’ He is careful to keep his voice as neutral as he can.
Mrs Driscoll looks into the fire that glows in the range’s grate. After the persistent cold both outside and in the big house, Harkin finds the heat coming from it to be a welcome novelty.
‘He was with Master Billy. That night. He wasn’t with me.’
‘So I understand.’
‘Of course, I couldn’t tell you that at the time and I didn’t think it would make any difference to your enquiries. But it seems it did.’
‘You weren’t the only one who misled me about that evening. Everyone did, in different ways. Some more so than others.’
‘I suppose we all thought it was obvious no one from Kilcolgan could have been responsible for Maud’s death but, then, you aren’t from Kilcolgan so how were you to know?’
‘That’s probably right.’
She sighs.
‘I never wanted him to go to the war. It changed him.’
Harkin isn’t sure what to say to that. He opens his mouth to mumble some platitude, perhaps something along the lines of it having changed all of them, but she speaks before he can gather the words.
‘He should never have come back,’ she says, in a low voice. ‘He should have gone to London or America. Anywhere but here. Billy Prendeville as well.’
‘I’m sorry it came to this.’ Harkin is conscious of the complete inadequacy of his words.
Mrs Driscoll shakes her head, her mouth opening once or twice to speak, but seemingly unable to do so. She does not meet his gaze. After a while, he shifts in his seat.
‘One of the reasons I thought Sean might have been responsible was because I found some letters – intimate letters – in Maud’s room. They were from someone called Sean. I thought it must be your son.’
She nods slowly.
‘Would you have any of Sean’s handwriting, by any chance? I know the letters aren’t from him but I may need to prove it at some stage.’
She stands and walks over to a small dresser, opening one of its drawers. She takes papers out and looks through them before selecting a letter and bringing it to Harkin. He knows immediately that the handwriting is different from that of the letters to Maud.
‘May I keep this until tomorrow?’
She nods. Her wariness is not hard to detect.
‘As I understand it, your marriage to Mr Driscoll was a very short one.’
He thinks back to the way Kelly behaved when Harkin had mentioned Driscoll’s father and wonders if he is on the right track. It takes her a short moment to react, but when she looks away to avoid his gaze, he knows his half-suspicion is correct.
‘I noticed earlier today, a passing similarity between Sir John and Sean. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’
She looks up at him now, and her composure seems to return to her.
‘It occurs to me,’ he says, choosing his words carefully, ‘that Sean might have been named for someone. That the other Sean – or John, to give the name its English form – might be the man who wrote the letters to Maud. Strange as that might seem. I wondered if “Sean” might be a name this man uses privately.’
She nods once more, unsurprised by his suggestion, or so it seems. She draws herself up a little straighter in her chair, still looking at her knees.
‘He was named for Sir John Prendeville and, yes, I gave him the Irish version of his name, because it is one he uses privately. I did it because Sir John is his father.’ She regards him calmly. There’s no shame in her expression or, indeed, any emotion that he can detect. ‘It was my big secret. My parents helped me to go away to a cousin in Dublin when I knew I was pregnant. I hid the date of Sean’s birth so no one would suspect. Sean mainly took after my family in looks so most of the Prendevilles did not know he was their own kin, although I think his Lordship had a suspicion.’
‘Billy didn’t know.’
She looks away from him.
‘That was my big mistake. I closed my eyes to it until it was too late. Even if I’d realised in time, I don’t know would I have told Sean. The lie was so old by then it was almost more real than the truth.’
‘There was no Mr Driscoll.’
‘No.’
‘And Sir John, of course, has no idea.’
She laughs a bitter laugh.
‘No. He can’t see anything past himself. He’s always been that way. I doubt he even remembers ruining me.’
‘What about Maud? The letters appear to be love letters, although I only saw one side of the correspondence and have only read one letter. Sir John seems to have retrieved them now, so I don’t know anything for certain.’
Her forehead develops the furrows of a deep frown.
‘They had some secret between them.’
Harkin considers this, remembering that there is also the matter of the arms shipment.
‘What makes you think there was a secret?’
‘I would see them talking from time to time – very serious and careful not to be overheard. I thought it must be something to do with politics, so I didn’t think too much of it.’
‘Perhaps it was. But perhaps Sir John wanted it to be something more?’
She considers this, her mouth slowly twisting into an expression of distaste.
‘It’s possible. I wouldn’t put anything past him. And Miss Maud, the last few years, was a little vulnerable, which I think he would have seen as an opportunity, even with her being his niece. He is no stranger to hypocrisy. I blame him for Sean joining up. He was always in the paper, giving speeches. How Ireland would win Home Rule on the battlefields of France. Not him, of course. He had to stay at home to mind the home fires.’
This so chimes with Harkin’s view of his former employer that he has to take a moment to let the rage it sparks subside.
‘I am sorry for bringing up old memories,’ he says, when he is calmer.
She says nothing, only shrugs.
‘What will you do now?’ Harkin asks, looking around the small room. Empty now, he suspects, without the anticipated presence of her son.
‘Moira Wilson says I can go and work for her if I want. I think I’ll take her up on it. The Prendevilles can look after themselves.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harkin says, and he means it with all of his being.
CHAPTER 45
B
allynan House is a blaze of light against the black ocean behind it. All of the lower windows are lit, as well as several of those on the upper storey. Light spills out on to the gravel semicircle in front of the building where Bourke has stopped the car. It seems almost profligate.
‘The wonders of electricity,’ Bourke says, rolling down his window to spit out onto the ground. Harkin takes a deep breath, preparing himself.
‘I’ll need taking back to Kilcolgan afterwards. But I won’t be long.’
Bourke nods with a scowl.
‘I’m like a taxi driver. I should be charging you for waiting time. Charging someone, anyway.’
‘Vincent?’ Harkin says in a quiet voice.
Bourke casts a suspicious glance in his direction.
‘What?’
‘I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad it’s you who is watching my back. Sincerely.’
Bourke looks momentarily confused, then smiles with something very much like pleasure.
‘Go on, go and hold that fecker’s feet to the coals.’
Harkin does as he’s told. He is, to his surprise, calm. Almost unnaturally calm. He has decided on his course of action and while he is not certain how the evening will end for him, at least the decision is made. Now it is only a matter of executing his intentions as well as possible.
He doubts this state of calm will persist till morning, however.
Harkin pushes the brass button beside the door, listens to the electric buzz and waits, feeling for Maud’s small automatic in his pocket. To his surprise, it is Sir John Prendeville himself who opens the door. The older
man stands there, momentarily confused. It does not look as though Harkin’s arrival is a pleasant surprise.
‘Tom,’ he says, warily. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’
‘We need to have a word,’ Harkin says, putting a little bit of menace into it.
Sir John nods and leads him to the library, telling him as they walk that the servants have the evening off to attend the rearranged dance in the town. The room is unchanged since Harkin’s last visit, except that there are some sealed envelopes and a half-written letter on the partner’s desk which fills one end of the room. Harkin walks over and examines them. They are not the letters from Maud’s writing desk but the handwriting is identical. He doesn’t bother taking off his trench coat. He doubts he’ll be staying long.
‘What news do you have for me?’
Sir John’s voice is almost querulous. Harkin turns to face him and it is clear that Sir John is not his usual confident self. These last few days have worn away some of his sheen. Harkin can even detect something akin to alarm in the older man’s expression and it pleases him. Shaking Sir John’s sense of well-being is entirely the point of this visit.
‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ Harkin says, leaning back on the desk and folding his arms across his chest.
Sir John seems to gather himself for a moment, no doubt surprised to be ordered around in his own house. Then he walks to the chair nearest Harkin and sits down with the air of a man who had intended to do that very thing all along.
‘You’ll be pleased to hear my investigation is largely concluded. I will be leaving Kilcolgan tomorrow morning.’
Sir John nods gravely and if he is relieved, he conceals it well.
‘I see. Thank you for letting me know. I will tell your superior I am satisfied the matter is now resolved.’
Harkin allows the silence to extend, all the time holding Sir John’s gaze with a deliberate intensity. Eventually the older man looks away.
‘I’m not sure the matter is resolved, though, is it?’ Harkin says, lowering his voice to a growl.
Sir John makes a good attempt at appearing nonplussed.
‘I don’t understand. You have established Sean Driscoll killed Maud and he is now dead. What else is there to be resolved?’