Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  O'Brien sat in bemused silence as the rest of the details were explained. Lord Averdale was seeing the Prime Minister later to arrange for a special squad of armed men to patrol the grounds. House staff would be placed entirely at Mrs O'Brien's disposal - and although O'Brien would have to stay in Belfast during the week - "Naturally you must come down for weekends. I shall base myself there for a bit anyway," Mark Averdale concluded, "to make sure that everything is in order."

  O'Brien was being treated as a friend, not an employee. He was glad to be on Lord Averdale's side - the man might be ruthless with enemies, but he took good care of his friends. Not only that, but for a man still grieving his own loss to show such consideration for others was quite remarkable in O'Brien's opinion. So he responded with gratitude - and although he did not really consider his family to be in danger, he had to agree that every precaution should be taken.

  So, at eleven o'clock the following morning, a convoy drew away from the O'Brien house. The first and the fourth of the motor-cars contained armed RUC men on special duties. The second, laden with cases, carried young Kathleen O'Brien, her brother Timothy, and their nanny Meg Flint. The third vehicle was so full of cases that there was barely room for Sheila O'Brien. She managed a harassed wave to her husband, then tried to make herself comfortable. Her first reaction to this evacuation had been to call it a needless upheaval - but when it was suggested that the children might be in danger, she had echoed Lord Averdale - "every care should be taken."

  Even so, it was with very mixed feelings that Sheila O'Brien set out on the journey to Keady.

  Liam Riordan, on that very same morning, was also travelling to Keady, though he was making the journey in very different style. Gone were his smart American clothes. Instead he wore a dirty shirt, torn tweed jacket, patched trousers and broken-down boots. The skin on his face and hands had been darkened with dye to give him a weather-beaten look, and three days of grey stubble bristled on his chin. The old trilby on his head was moth-eaten and shabby. But despite his derelict appearance Liam Riordan was a happy man. He had slipped the man-hunt in Dublin and was running free. After three long, wearying years he was on his way home.

  Sitting on the buckboard of an ancient caravan, the paint of which had faded until only patches showed on the woodwork, he flicked the reins at the skinny mare between the shafts.

  Next to him on the buckboard sat Ferdy Malloy, that shadowy link man who flitted back and forth across the border like a crippled moth, forever carrying messages from one IRA commander to another. Yet even for Ferdy this mission was unique - bringing as he was one Riordan to another, a father to his son.

  A large Alsatian loped along behind the caravan, roped to the tailboard - a silent animal, unlike the mongrel which ran free, first in front, then behind, circling and yapping like a sheepdog moving its flock.

  It was their second day on the road. They planned to reach Carrickmacross by nightfall, some twenty miles from the border. Tomorrow evening they would cross to Keady.

  "So let's hear it again," Liam Riordan said, "this business at Brackenburn. You say young Matt planned the whole thing?"

  Ferdy told the story all over again. Not that he minded, he was proud of Matt too, after all at least some of the credit for Matt's involvement belonged to Ferdy Malloy. So the two men discussed the razing of Brackenburn in infinite detail, both pleased that they had a good story to enjoy during the hours of their journey.

  In Dublin behind them, at Killiney Castle and the Green Lounge at St Stephen's Green, training continued for the men who would go to England. Ahead of them, in a row of abandoned cottages near Keady, Matt Riordan was instructing five other young men in the use of explosives. The bombing campaign in England would shortly begin.

  That same morning, Sean Connors was being given something of a lecture by Dinny Macaffety - "Will I say it again Sean? He'll understand fine if you sit down and talk to him. That's all it needs -"

  "It's not as easy as that," Sean said, shaking his head.

  "Will I talk to him then?"

  Sean sighed. He wished he had not told Dinny about going to London. Dinny had seized the idea - "That's a wonderful plan, Sean. We'll make you London correspondent for the Dublin Gazette." They had decided that a week ago, and Sean had thought to tell his father that night. He had waited up, but his father had been out with the Gardai until dawn, searching for Liam Riordan. When finally he arrived home, grey with tiredness and frustration, Sean had lacked the heart to mention it. By which time Dinny had written to half of Fleet Street. Now Dinny was receiving replies from friends and ex-colleagues, all of whom promised to keep an eye out for Sean. "Sure you're like them fine. The English are grand. It's the bloody British Empire that's so all powerful stinking awful."

  "If only they would catch Riordan," Sean grumbled. "I can't leave the Da now, with Riordan still loose and maybe an IRA rising -"

  "A rising now is it? And how can that be with half the buggers rotting in Dev's jails?"

  Sean stood up and crossed to the office window. "You know what they're saying out there," he said, nodding down at the street. "Riordan's not back for the good of his health. Something's up."

  It was true. Dev's policy of stiff sentences for IRA men had brought a certain calm. The danger of another civil war would always remain, with hundreds of embittered IRA men north and south of the border, but the prospects of a continuing peace had improved. At least it had until Liam Riordan returned to Dublin.

  "The Riordans always were a wild bunch," Dinny said. "People will have enough sense to ignore them."

  But Sean felt otherwise. Every day detectives reported IRA men missing from their homes, their whereabouts unknown. They were gathering somewhere. And every night Pat Connors came home exhausted.

  Dinny changed the subject. "Will we tell him about London tomorrow then? On his birthday?" He rose awkwardly, hampered by his plastered leg, and hobbled across to the new mahogany bookcase. "I tell you this," he chuckled, "I'll not be able to stop myself getting among these books if you leave them here much longer."

  Sean smiled. It was his birthday present for his father, the first expensive gift he had been able to give him. Dinny had helped choose the books, and they had bought the bookcase in Switzers. Pat Connors had already accepted his son's invitation to a birthday lunch at The Bailey tomorrow - but the present would come as a complete surprise. Sean crossed the room. "Do you think he'll really like it, Dinny?"

  "Sure he'll be delirious, and why not. Wouldn't any father alive be proud to accept such a gift from his son."

  Sean hoped so. He cherished his father's love. It was the most important thing in his life, far outweighing his plan to go to London, though he struggled to combine the two. The prospect of London excited and saddened him at the same time. Exciting because London was a bigger world ... but sad because he would be leaving his own world in Dublin. Not that life in Dublin was without change. Brigid's place was no more - Tomas and the family had already left for Liverpool, their departure hastened on Pat Connors' advice - "Riordan just might try to harm Tomas. After all, this business between us started because of what Riordan did to Tomas's family." So arrangements were made and Tomas and the family had left on the first stage of their journey to Australia - all except Michael who had opted to remain, and was now working at the Gazette.

  "Hey," Dinny said. "Cheer up. You're standing there like it's the end of the world."

  Sean blinked out of his reverie.

  "Will you take yourself off and let me get back to work," Dinny continued emphatically. "The owner might call me by my first name these days, but he'll play merry hell if this paper doesn't get printed."

  Sean met Dinny's grin with a shy one of his own - "I'll be away then. I'll bring the Da in around midday tomorrow, then we'll all go off to The Bailey for lunch."

  Dinny waved at the bookcase. "I can't wait to see his face."

  Neither could Sean, but Dinny's remark about the end of the world had disturbed him. It staye
d on his mind ...

  Chapter Fourteen

  Matt awoke in the cottage at Keady. He stretched and yawned, luxuriating in the sense of anticipation. Then he rose from the primitive bed. It was cold in the room. He rubbed his hands briskly, stepped into his boots, and clumped across to the window. The morning looked clear. It would be a fine day, Matt decided happily.

  "Careful at that window," warned a voice.

  Matt swung round to see Dougan in the doorway. "By God, there's nothing about," said Matt. "Even the rabbits are asleep."

  Dougan had been on watch through the night. He shrugged, "There's a wet of tea below if you want it."

  The terrace of five cottages was set into a hillside so densely wooded that the buildings were invisible from the lane. Bushes and undergrowth ran wild, so that even the doors opened into brambles and hawthorns. The cottages at either end were in partial collapse, but the three in the middle were habitable. Matt was using one as a store for explosives and the other two for accommodation. Each cottage contained two rooms, one built on top of the other. The IRA men had removed bricks from the interior walls to provide access from one cottage to the next.

  Downstairs Matt filled a jam jar with tea and walked into the cottage next door. His eye fell on the newspapers which Jimmy Traynor had delivered yesterday. "Five thousand pounds reward" screamed the headline, above a reproduction of a crayon sketch drawn by his mother.

  The sketch had worried Matt. The RUC had obviously raided his home. Traynor had promised to call on his mother today to set Matt's mind at rest - so he could only wait anxiously for news. Meanwhile he was pleased about the reward. Not only was Brackenburn to his credit, now there was a reward on his head. He was making a reputation. His father would be impressed.

  "Matt," Dougan hissed through the gap in the wall. "There's a car just gone down the lane."

  Matt hurried back into the other cottage and joined Dougan at the window. The lane led up to the manor house, less than a mile away. The big house had never presented a problem before - it was left empty most of the year, apart from a housekeeper and a gardener. The IRA had used the cottages five times in ten months without being disturbed. But yesterday a whole party of people had descended on the manor house.

  "Someone from the village I think," Dougan said, watching the car "maybe delivering the papers, or groceries perhaps."

  Matt was not willing to take chances - especially today when Ferdy was arriving with his father. "Put the fire out," he told one of the others who had gathered at the window, "in case someone sees smoke from the chimney."

  Dougan groaned. The cottages were cold and damp. It would be chilly without a fire. But he did as he was told. People no longer argued with Matt.

  Two hours later, Sheila O'Brien awoke up at the manor house. A maid drew back the curtains. "It's a grand morning Mam. The children are at their breakfast already. I've brought your tea, and the papers have arrived from the village, so I've set one on your tray. Would you be wanting anything else?"

  A drowsy Sheila O'Brien raised herself on one elbow and looked at the unfamiliar bedroom. As her whereabouts registered, she snuggled back under the sheets. So many strange things were happening that a chance to reflect in solitude was not to be missed.

  Her mind immediately turned to Lord Averdale, whom she had met yesterday for the first time since his tragic loss.

  She had tried to express her condolences, but he brushed them aside - apparently more concerned to show her the house. The procession went from room to room, but diminished in numbers because a servant took Nanny and the children on a different route - and by the time Lord Averdale ushered her into her bedroom she was alarmingly alone with him.

  He only stayed a few minutes, to show her the view from the windows. Perhaps he was merely being a good host - yet Sheila O'Brien sensed an undercurrent which she was unable to define. She felt nervous, more than ever when he stood so close to her that she could smell the pomade on his hair, a faintly familiar scent she had encountered elsewhere.

  "I've instructed the kitchen about dinner tonight," he said. "Naturally I shall leave it to you in future, but I thought on your first day ... well I hope you don't mind."

  How could she mind? It was his house. She started to express her thanks, but he waved them aside. "I shall call for you at eight," he said - and then left, before she could say that calling for her was quite unnecessary.

  She spent the afternoon exploring the gardens with the children - and thinking about Lord Averdale. This house was smaller than Brackenburn and lacked architectural distinction, but it was still very large - and in a peculiar way he seemed to be making her Lady of the Manor. Even the servants sensed it, as was obvious from their attitude. It was as if she was to live at Keady permanently, instead of for a few days.

  She played with the children for an hour after their tea, then Nanny took them to bed and it was time to prepare for dinner. Her clothes had been pressed ready for her. She bathed and changed, feeling rather nervous and wishing that Eoin were with her.

  Lord Averdale knocked on her door precisely at eight o'clock - and offered his arm as they walked down the stairs. She was tantalised by the scent of his pomade. She knew it from somewhere, but couldn't place where ... not that it mattered, in fact even to be aware of it proved how nervous she was. But her nervousness diminished as the evening progressed ... he was considerate and amusing and really quite charming. "You must call me Mark," he said. "After all, titles are too formal if we are to live under the same roof." So she had responded by asking him to call her Sheila - but he surprised her by shaking his head. "No, I shall call you Kate. That is how I think of you."

  He had refused to explain. "My secret," he chuckled, "at least for the time being."

  His obvious pleasure relaxed her, far more than she would have thought possible. Perhaps being called Kate helped - as if she were acting a part - she was not Sheila O'Brien, married with two children, but a mysterious woman called Kate, mistress of this huge house, with Lord Averdale as an admirer. And he was her admirer. She was left in no doubt about that. Admiration was in his every glance. Altogether it was an extraordinary evening - quite different from what she had expected. She was quite light-headed by the end of it, what with the wine and the firelight ... and his attentiveness.

  He had escorted her back up to her bedroom and paused in the doorway, his eyes inspecting the room behind her, as if anxious for her comfort. When he bowed to kiss her hand she had caught the scent of his pomade again as he turned quickly away, wishing her sweet dreams as he went down the stairs.

  After such a long and eventful day she had slept soundly through the night - and when the maid roused her with the morning tea it took a while to collect herself.

  She reached for the tray on the bedside table. Suddenly she stopped, one hand on the teapot and her eyes on the newspaper. But it was not the headlines about the man-hunt for Matt Riordan which startled her. It was that scent! She could smell it. His scent, Lord Averdale's pomade! Her eyes flew to the door. Closed, as was the door to her dressing room. She looked wide-eyed around the room - and then relaxed back onto the pillows. It must have lingered from last night, when he had stood at the door, or even from earlier when he had shown her the room. Odd, but she knew it from somewhere. It was distinctive. Perhaps at Brackenburn, although she had not thought of the great house ...

  She gasped. Suddenly she knew She choked with fright, staring at the chaise longue across the room. The studio in London! There was no mistaking that scent. It had been strong under the arc lamps. That was why it was familiar!

  Mark Averdale had already finished his morning tea. He sat in his dressing-gown, admiring the photographs of Kate. He smiled as he returned them to the artist's case. Soon he would have much more than photographs. O'Brien would arrive from Belfast tonight. His presence would deprive Mark of the pleasure of dining with Kate alone, but his presence was necessary. Much was to happen over the weekend. Mark was to announce O'Brien's next importan
t commission - a three-month trip to Africa to settle the Bowley estates. It was another promotion - and O'Brien could travel in confidence, knowing that his wife and family were safe at Keady. Yes, Mark decided, it promised to be a memorable weekend.

  Liam Riordan, however, was not in such a good mood. An axle had given way under the ancient caravan and neither he nor Ferdy Malloy could effect a repair. They might have abandoned the caravan but for the five Lee Enfield rifles and the five hundred rounds of ammunition concealed under a heavy tarpaulin. Even so it was tempting to leave the caravan at the side of the lane and walk the rest of the way. The border was only fifteen miles away. But Liam Riordan had spent much effort to get the rifles this far - and Catholic lives depended on them over the border. They had to make an alternative plan.

  Finally they unloaded the rifles and concealed them in dense undergrowth a mile outside Castleblayney. Then they walked alongside the mare as it pulled the tilting caravan into the town in search of a blacksmith.

  Travellers and tinkers are common in Ireland. Tradition says they are the descendants of those who survived the great famine, when hordes of people roamed the country in search of food. Thousands died on the waysides, their mouths green from eating grass. Those who lived were resourceful enough to forage for themselves. Stealing and scavenging became a way of life - their only way of life - but some of their descendants live the same way. So they are greeted with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion - sympathy because "there but for the love of God go I", and caution because it is well known that tinkers rarely pay for anything.

  So when Liam Riordan and Ferdy Malloy brought their caravan to a halt outside the forge in Castleblayney, the blacksmith greeted them with cautious good humour. He inspected the axle and agreed to mend it, if they could pay. Could he see the colour of their money? So they showed him and he worked - and an hour later they were on their way again, back the way they had come to recover the Lee Enfields.