But the blacksmith was puzzled. Never had he known travellers who were unable to mend their own wagons, neither had he met tinkers so ready to part with their money. His suspicions were aroused. And when he went for his lunch an hour later, his suspicions were confirmed. The picture of one of the tinkers was on the front page of his paper. "Liam Riordan still sought in Dublin" - ran the headline, but the blacksmith knew better. Liam Riordan was eighty miles from Dublin, and close to the border.
Sean was in Dinny Macaffety's office, proposing a toast to his father, when the news came through. The bookcase and fifty new volumes had already been unveiled. Dinny roared with exuberant laughter - "Did you ever think you'd see a politician lost for words?" he shouted, as pleased as Sean with their surprise. Not that Pat was speechless long, words poured forth in a torrent. He picked up one book after another. "Dear God', look at this ... and this ... Sean, you devil, what can I say? Wouldn't the National Library itself be green with envy."
He hugged Sean, while Dinny laughed and waved his arms. For a moment Pat was almost in tears. Not because it was the most expensive gift he had ever received - but because of love for his son. "Dear God, if only Finola were here!"
Then Pat recovered enough to swing round on Dinny, "Wouldn't you believe he got me here on false pretences - my own son, we'll go to The Bailey says he -"
"We are," Sean tugged his arm, "I mean we will - as soon as you've finished Dinny's whiskey."
Then the Gardai arrived, two inspectors and a man in plain-clothes. For a minute. Sean saw no significance in their arrival - not even when they took his father outside for a private word. Nothing could spoil Sean's happiness. From now on, he vowed, we'll do this every year ... have a party, and I'll be able to give him something he likes. Whatever he likes!
"Wasn't I telling you. he'd be delirious?" Dinny laughed. "Wasn't I right? Did you ever see a happier man?"
But when Pat came back into the room he looked different, the laughter had gone from his face. "Riordan has been sighted," he said bluntly. "On his way to the border by the sound of it." He spoke directly to Sean, "I'm sorry, I'll have to go. There'll be no peace in Ireland with him still on the streets."
Sean was suddenly clammy with sweat. He shivered. The nightmare. He had almost forgotten the thin face, white with hate, leaning down from the carriage window.
"Now?" Sean said blankly. "You mean you've got to go now? On your birthday?"
Pat managed a wry smile, "I'll be back tonight. Could you manage dinner instead, do you think?"
"I'm coming with you," Sean said quickly. He swung round to Dinny, "Sorry about -"
"No -" Pat started, but Sean cut him short. "Come on," he said thickly. "Let's get this over with."
One inspector was already making for the stairs. His colleague cast an urgent look at Pat, but Sean brushed him away, almost dragging his father. "Come on, we've lived with this nightmare long enough."
A few minutes later they were in the back of a Wolseley saloon, marked all over with Garda insignia. An identical car drew out behind them. It was exactly one o'clock as they began their race to the border.
Pat Connors was too old a warrior to resist the thrill of the hunt. How many times in the old days had he careened along like this, with the enemy sighted at last. He rapped out questions by the score, listening with scowling intensity to an account of the caravan and its occupants. Garda along the border had already been alerted. A detachment of troops from Monaghan was on its way to cordon off the whole area. But the border with Armagh was riddled with a thousand back lanes ... Riordan could be making for any one of them.
"He'll have guns on board," Pat guessed correctly. "Sure why else would he have taken a chance like that. Riordan is carrying a cargo, he needs that caravan, otherwise he would have dumped it by now."
The plain-clothes detective turned from the front seat, "The smithy saw no sign of guns -"
"Did you imagine he would?" Pat pulled a face. "Riordan would have dumped them, and gone back after. It's a stroke of luck for us. Fetching them will cost him time, another hour maybe."
"If it is Riordan," said the driver.
"It's him," Pat said grimly and braced himself as the car skidded into a bend. "By God, I swear it's Riordan at last."
Pat Connors guessed right about Riordan's movements, but he was wrong about one thing. Collecting the hidden arms had cost Riordan more than a hour. Not until three o'clock was the caravan loaded again. Riordan was back on the road, still fifteen miles from the border.
"We'll not go through the town," Riordan decided. "Let's skirt east and get round that way."
Ferdy was doubtful. "It will take longer."
Liam Riordan shrugged. "Time is not the enemy, being recognised is."
Ferdy thought about that. Going into Castleblayney had been a gamble, but it had paid off. Nobody had challenged them, the caravan was repaired, the precious rifles were under the tarpaulin. But Liam was right to be cautious. "We could double back if you like," Ferdy suggested. "Head for Crossmaglen maybe. It's nearer -"
"No. That's the nearest point on the border. Anyone looking for us would expect us to cross there."
Ferdy nodded, "Aye, besides we'd have twenty miles to travel in Armagh if we cross there. Twenty miles of B Specials instead of Garda who'll look the other way if you ask nicely."
"Along the barrel of a gun you mean," Riordan said with a grim smile.
Ferdy shrugged, "Or with a fistful of money. I've done it both ways."
Riordan chuckled and slapped the reins across the mare's back. The animal broke into a reluctant trot. The mongrel dog raced ahead, barking with excitement, and Riordan laughed again at the thought of his son waiting at Keady.
Nobody was laughing at Keady Manor. Sheila O'Brien had spent the whole morning trying not to panic. That scent! What did it mean? Eoin would laugh at her. She flinched at his imagined sarcasm. Few Ulstermen dressed their hair with pomade, but in London ... well, what would you expect? And at a photographer's studio of all places. Eoin would laugh himself silly.
So she had tried to talk herself out of the idea. Even so the worry had lingered. Then she remembered. Lord Averdale (she still couldn't think of him as Mark) had arrived back from Dublin on Black Friday - Dublin, not London! He could not possibly have been in the studio.
Oh the relief! Thank goodness she remembered that before making a fool of herself. Eoin might have been angry.
The day improved after that. Part of the morning had been spent with the house-keeper, who seemed determined to treat her as the new Lady of the Manor. Then she had lunched with the children in the nursery, both of whom were full of excited chatter about their morning's explorations. Nanny seemed delighted with Keady as well. She was quickly making herself at home. It seemed that only Sheila had misgivings ...
She wondered why? Lord Averdale had been charming last night - and her suspicions about his pomade had all been absurd. Yet something made her uneasy - something was wrong. She had expected him to be mourning for his wife. Instead he had been witty and entertaining ...
Finally she decided there was nothing to do but let the weekend run its course. Her doubts would sort themselves out by Sunday. Perhaps Eoin would decide that the emergency in Belfast was less dangerous than he had imagined. Perhaps they could all go home again ...
The day which had started with such a fright, gradually settled down. After lunch she returned to her room to change into her smartest frock. Eoin had promised to be at Keady for tea - he should arrive at about four o'clock. So by three she was ready - her hair shining and her smile radiant. She went in search of the children, anxious that they too would be tidied up in time for Eoin's arrival. She found Kathleen on the terrace, listening to Nanny reading a story. Apparently Timothy was still exploring the grounds. Mother and daughter linked hands and went to find him together.
But half an hour later, after searching and calling over every inch of the gardens, they had not found Timothy. Stifling her annoyance S
heila O'Brien returned to the house and handed her daughter over to Nanny, with instructions that Kathleen was to be washed and changed without further delay. Then she went through the house, looking for Timothy.
From four-fifteen onwards every servant in the house was looking for the boy. Lord Averdale emerged from his study to ask what the commotion was about. He listened gravely, then went directly to the rooms above the stables which had been converted into a barracks for the armed guards.
By five o'clock the search was on in earnest. Men fanned through the house and grounds in every direction. Four walked down to the wrought iron gates at the end of the drive, intending to examine the lane outside.
Behind them Sheila O'Brien fought to control her panic. She had been annoyed to begin with - then embarrassed by Lord Averdale's involvement. But by five o'clock - as she walked uncertainly towards the big iron gates - she was terrified that something had happened to Timothy.
A mile from the gates, all work had ceased in the derelict cottages. Matt Riordan had ordered his men into an upstairs room where they talked in nervous whispers. Matt himself stood at the window and watched the boy draw steadily nearer. They had been watching him for nearly an hour - ever since he emerged from the gates. He had not caused immediate alarm, after all the abandoned cottages were almost invisible from the lane. Most people passed by without realising they were there. So a young lad out for a stroll presented no threat - if he stayed on the lane. But that had not happened. Instead the boy had explored the verge and then advanced deeper into the wood, so that now he was less than ten yards away, and every step brought him closer.
Matt swore under his breath as the boy disappeared behind a tree. He must have seen the cottages. What would he do? Ignore them, walk on past, go up the hill and deeper into the wood?
Suddenly the crash of splintering glass sounded downstairs. Matt caught a fleeting glimpse of the boy dodging from one tree to another, his arm still raised from hurling a stone.
"The little bastard," Dougan hissed. "That was a window -"
"He's seen us -" Paddy Cullen began in alarm, but Matt stopped him. "No, relax, it's just a kid throwing stones. He'll go away in a minute."
It was quiet for a moment. Then footsteps crunched on the gravel beneath the window. Dougan clutched Matt's arm - "Let me chase him away."
Matt shook his head and signalled for silence. The men crouched, holding their breath, listening intently. Footsteps progressed to the cottage next door. Matt stifled his alarm. He thought it's only a kid, maybe Dougan's right, if we chase him off that will be an end to it. But the boy had come from the big house. Suppose he went back and said men were camped in the cottages? Suppose others got curious ...
Beneath them a door creaked on protesting hinges.
"Jaysus," Dougan hissed. "Will you listen to that."
The boy had entered the cottage next door. He would find the supplies - potassium chloride, two glass carboys of sulphuric acid - he would see the hole in the wall and perhaps climb through. Matt flinched as he remembered leaving two rifles in there! His heart thumped. He wished Ferdy were here - Ferdy always knew what to do - but Ferdy was on the road somewhere, bringing Matt's father over the border.
Next door a tin can fell to the concrete floor with a hollow clang.
"Matt!" Dougan hissed. "For God's sake, do something!"
Every eye turned accusingly on Matt. But what could he do? Dougan was right, they should have chased the boy off and risked the consequences. But now ... if the boy saw the rifles ...
"We'll have to hold him," Matt whispered, horrified by the prospect of keeping the boy captive while they finished their business.
A sudden crash echoed below, followed by a scream of fear.
"Matt, for God's sake -"
Matt was already moving to the door. He raced downstairs, heedless of the noise, and rushed to the opening in the wall. The smell of acid was everywhere. He scrambled into the next cottage. An old table had collapsed, trapping the boy's legs. He lay screaming, clawing the floor in agony. A glass carboy had smashed, drenching his legs with sulphuric acid. Matt splashed through a great puddle. He slipped and flung his hands forward as he fell. He rolled over, wincing with pain as acid burned the flesh of his hands. The boy's screams filled the air.
Matt rose to his knees. With a great heave he pushed the table back, then lurched to his feet, dragging the child upright with him. Eyes streamed from the stench of acid. The boy gasped for breath, then doubled into a paroxysm of coughing as he clawed desperately at his legs. Acid hissed on skin and clothes with spirals of vapour. The boy regained his breath and screamed with pain. Matt's cheek smarted from splashed acid. Then Dougan leapt through the opening and began dragging them back into the other cottage.
The boy's screams had to be stopped. Matt did the only thing possible - he swung a punch, but the blow was mistimed - the boy staggered back more frightened than ever. Dougan steadied himself then struck hard. The boy's knees buckled as he fell backwards into Matt's arms.
They removed his shoes and peeled the remains of woollen stockings from his legs. The flesh was horribly ulcerated. Skin bubbled into blisters even as they watched. Fissures of lacerations burned down his calves. One gory ankle was open to the bone.
"Dear God!" whispered Cullen in horror.
Matt's hands were on fire with pain. He splashed cold tea on his fingers and over the boy's legs. The cottages lacked piped water. Earlier they had drawn water from the stream near the lane, then boiled a can over the fire. But now the can was empty in the cold hearth. The boy groaned and whimpered as he returned to consciousness.
"He's in a hell of a mess!" Dougan turned from the boy and looked questioningly at Matt.
Without thinking Matt rubbed his chin with his forearm. He grunted with pain as blisters burst on his skin. They had to bathe their wounds. Even so Matt hesitated, guessing that the boy's legs needed more than bathing. Urgent medical attention was needed if his legs were to be saved, perhaps if his life were to be saved. Holy God, what a mess!
"We'll have to break camp," Matt said, reaching a decision. "I'll get this kid down to the brook. Ferdy should be along any minute -"
"Suppose he isn't -"
"He must be here soon. I'll douse the boy in the stream, then leave him outside the entrance to the big house -"
"You'll be seen -"
"What else can we do?" Matt snapped desperately. The pain in his hands was unbearable. He swung back to Dougan. "You come with me. Cullen, take a man with you down to the lane. Stop the first car that comes along. We'll need to get away in a hurry -"
"What about your Da and Ferdy?"
"One of us will have to stay behind. Hide out and wait for them. Come on, bring all the rifles, leave everything else."
Precisely at that moment Liam Riordan and Ferdy Malloy reached the crossroads up the lane. On the crest of the hill behind could be seen the pursuing Wolseley Garda car. Keady village lay three miles ahead, with Keady Manor a mile or so to their left. Liam jerked the reins and the mare took the left-hand fork at a trot. Ferdy was shouting - "We've crossed the border - but Liam the bastards are still coming."
The caravan rattled and bounced down the lane. Ferdy pointed to a break in the trees a hundred yards ahead. "Pull off the road there. Quick, whilst we're out of sight. Get under cover, for God's sake!"
Liam lashed the reins across the mare's back.
Ferdy kept his eyes on the break in the trees. The abandoned cottages must be very near. Help would be ready and waiting. Liam Riordan and Ferdy Malloy were almost home!
The police car swooped down the hill. The driver braked hard into the crossroads. The cat and mouse game played in the back lanes of the border country was almost over. Only the half-blind Ferdy Malloy could have avoided the road blocks with such skill. The caravan would have escaped completely but for a chance sighting - even now only one car was left in the hunt.
Pat Connors shouted, "Don't turn right. I could see that way. They
didn't turn right."
"That's Keady in front. We've crossed the border," the driver swung round to face Pat. "There will be hell to pay if we show ourselves in Keady."
Pat stared past the driver. The road into Keady was tree-lined and straight. Surely the caravan would still be in sight?
"Turn left," he said, gambling. "Damn and blast, we were almost on top of them. Turn left!"
The other policeman turned in his seat - "Pat, we've crossed the border! The British will -"
"To hell with the British! Turn left. Do as you're told, for God's sake!"
The driver reversed the car, then turned the wheel, indecision in his every movement. Coming towards them from Keady was a smart brown and cream Alvis. It purred to a halt at the junction, with the obvious intention of following them down the lane towards Keady Manor.
"Put your foot down!" Pat roared.
He lowered the side window and raised the Webley revolver from his lap.
Tall trees flanked both sides of the lane. Upper branches met to create a leafy tunnel. The police car gathered speed as it went into the bend.
In the Alvis, Eoin O'Brien was surprised to see a Garda car this side of the border. He wondered if the driver had lost his way, especially as the lane led only to Keady Manor. But O'Brien paid little attention. He had enjoyed the drive down from Belfast and was looking forward to the weekend. It was an auspicious occasion, to be spending a few days with Lord Averdale - their mutual dependence augured well for the future. Despite occasional reservations, O'Brien was pleased with the way things were going. What Lord Averdale needed now was a long trip abroad plenty of sunshine to help him recover from his recent tragedy. O'Brien nodded to himself. He would raise the matter over the weekend, perhaps suggest that Lord Averdale make an extended trip to the Bowley estates in Africa. Now that would be the very thing. Relaxed and smiling, O'Brien eased his foot from the accelerator and put the big Alvis into the bend.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 112