by Paul Reid
James pursed his lips. “It looks a little swollen. Can you walk on it?”
“Yes. It’s not as bad as I first thought.” Tara modestly relowered her skirt over her ankle. “I didn’t imagine it, you know.”
“I never said you did,” he replied. “All I’m saying is, you don’t know for certain that it was Mulligan. It could have been mistaken identity, or somebody lost, or—do forgive me—just some peepy man having a leer at you.”
They were in James’s office upstairs in Dublin Castle, Philip Black’s old room. Tara went to the window and sighed. “It was Mulligan. Him or one of his cronies. I’m sure of it.”
“But why wouldn’t he have shown himself?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that, if he’s trying to scare me, it’s working.”
“You should have let me bring you home.”
“No.” She shook her head. “This is my own problem, James. I’m the one who shot him.”
James sighed and rose from the armchair. He joined her at the window. “You mustn’t worry. I have men hunting Larry Mulligan as we speak. Once he’s rounded up and in custody, this will all be over.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“And it shall be. Now,” he smiled, “I have something that may prove a distraction. Have you got a decent frock at home?”
She stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“Something dressy. There’s a gala night on next Friday at the Gresham Hotel, a benefit night for war widows. I’ve been invited to a table by one of my father’s old army friends. Myself and a guest, that is.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t look so terrified. How about it?” He winked. “Should be a rather grand occasion, actually. All the well-heeled show up to these things. Food and wine and as much dancing as you can trip over.”
“I don’t think so, James. I’m not in the mood.” Despite her misgivings, however, she found herself tempted. But unsure. “I can’t think it would be appropriate. You and me.”
“Oh, tosh. You’ll be there as my colleague. Ever been to the Gresham?”
She shook her head.
“It’s a veritable palace. King George has stayed there, in fact.”
“Really?”
“I’ve no idea. Probably.”
She laughed. After all the worry and sleepless nights, it sounded like a welcome diversion. “James, what would I even wear? My clothes are—”
“Ah. That’s not a problem, my dear. How about you and I award ourselves an extended lunch break today and take a stroll down Grafton Street? I hear Switzer’s has the latest fashions in from London and Paris.”
London and Paris. She couldn’t resist his infectious enthusiasm. “Hmm. Well, maybe . . . ”
“Wonderful!” He clapped his hands. “Then that’s settled. You, me, and the Gresham Hotel. And a night to remember!”
It was approaching eight o’clock and the Dublin evening was cool. Adam had arrived home a few hours before, and now he locked the door to his flat and walked up Leeson Street, struck by the city’s quiet calm and contradiction. It could be Kensington or Fifth Avenue or some other leafy suburb, yet hours earlier there had been a gun battle two blocks away between the IRA and the army, with seven men killed. Amazing it was how the place could revert to indifferent normality with such ease. Dublin might be a city of armoured cars and curfews, but it still had its theatres and taverns, weddings and wine parties, and life carried doggedly on.
He’d reached a grim realisation in Tipperary after seeing the woman’s murder. Those who had killed Timmy Hannigan, they were here in Ireland now and they were here to stay, and the murder of innocents would continue as sure as the Germans would have razed Europe to the ground if they hadn’t been stopped. If it took violence to defeat violence—well, Adam had already embraced that concept with his attack on the British sergeant in Tipperary.
Davy Byrne’s pub was busy. A mob of inebriated dockers were belting out songs in throaty voices, spilling beer and grinning like schoolboys. Adam made his way down to the far end of the bar, where a customer sat alone. The man saw Adam and signalled for service.
“Well, Lieutenant. How’s it going?”
“I told you, I’m not—”
“You’re right.” Colum Rourke grinned apologetically. “No more ranks, then. It’s plain old Adam from now on.”
“That’s better.”
“So, that information I gave you, was it any use? Did you make it to Tipperary?”
“I did.”
“And?”
Adam told him everything. Rourke whistled softly. “Jesus, Adam. That was you? I always knew you was a wild fellow. I read in the newspapers about that sergeant being abducted, but I never realised you were the scoundrel behind it.”
“At least I made the paper.”
“They’ll have a bounty on you yet. Attempted murder.” Rourke pushed two coins across the bar. “And Timmy’s family—a raw deal, wasn’t it?”
“You knew. Before you sent me. Didn’t you?”
“Jesus, no. How would I? Anyway, Tobin behind the bar said you called last night, asking for me. Was there something you needed?”
Adam paused, staring glumly at his hands. “Let me say at the outset, Rourke, that I’m no terrorist. I’m not out to guillotine the king. But I figured out who my enemy was back in the war. I’m only accepting that now.”
“The German was your enemy.”
“Christ, he was, the filthy, empire-grabbing pig. But he wasn’t alone. I found another enemy.”
“I’m afraid that enemy has followed you home. In fact, he never left these shores.”
“I know. And I’m not going to ignore that fact anymore.” Given recent British treatment of people, he wondered why he had ever gone to fight for them at all.
The landlord placed two pints of Guinness in front of them. Adam tipped the glass to his lips and took a long sup before wiping the cream from his mouth. “Excuse my manners. Sláinte.”
“Cheers.” Rourke saluted him but didn’t drink yet. “What exactly is it you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. But what I heard and saw in Tipperary, it can’t go on. I can help. I’d like to help.”
“We’ve plenty need for helpers, all right. Depending on how committed they are.”
“Like I said, I’m no terrorist, but I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty either. God knows, I’m used to dirty hands.”
“Oh, it may take a little more convincing than that.” Rourke glanced round the noisy bar and leaned his head to Adam’s. “If you want to follow up this conversation, then there’s somebody you have to meet. Until then, however, we’ll enjoy the fire and the pints. The fiddle player is about to start up a melody, and I’ll wager that fine-looking redhead over there will give us a song before the night is out.”
23 MARCH 1918. Mam me hands are shaking so much I can hardly write this. I love you Mam but I cant do it anymore. I cant fight. I wish I was home with you, but I’m scared I wont make it back. I want you to see all the words I’ve wrote for you, so I’m going to give this diary to a man who will make sure you get it. The lieutenant, I have wrote about him loads of times and I’ve been under his command four years now Mam. He’s a good man. Do you know what I actually carried him to a hospital myself Mam, to make sure he was okay. He would have done the same for me. By the way Mam, his name is Adam.
Adam closed the diary and rubbed his tired eyes. Morning was drifting towards afternoon and weak beams of sunlight fell upon the couch where he lay. He got up, made coffee, put the diary away, and decided that Quentin must be fretting about his car by now.
It was late afternoon by the time he arrived in Dalkey. White-crested waves slid across Dublin Bay and boomed against the cliffs as he parked up and wandered to the front door. Lizzie admitted him and said that Quentin and Marjorie were in the drawing room.
“Shall I announce you, sir?”
“That’s all right, Lizzie, I’m not the Sultan of Zanzibar.” Knocki
ng once on the carved oak door, he let himself in.
Quentin was asleep in an armchair by the window, a novel open on his lap and his face peaceful in the soft firelight. A voice at once purred.
“Goodness me, is that my son who has just swaggered in looking like a South Seas pirate?” Marjorie was sitting at the sewing table with her embroidery and iced eyes and a small glass of sherry.
Adam bowed. “Hello, Mother. I see you two are keeping busy.”
“You could have shaved, Adam. Have you returned the motorcar?”
“I have, Mother.”
“Good. We’ve been inconvenienced without it. I missed Prudence Farrelly’s garden party in Howth yesterday. She’ll not look kindly upon the spurned invitation.”
“My apologies, Mother, and I won’t make a habit of it. This was important.”
“Well, explain that to your brother. Duncan is perturbed at you taking time off work so soon. You’ll have to make it up to him, if you take your future at Bowen and Associates seriously.”
“Oh, indeed I will, Mother. And I do. Take it seriously.”
“You shall stay for dinner.” It wasn’t an offer but a statement. “I’ll tell Lizzie to prepare for an extra mouth. Now, you did take good care of the Ford, didn’t you?” She put away her needles and rose up. “Oh, and before I forget, there was a letter for you the other day. Nobody will have your new address, of course. It’s there on the writing desk.”
“A letter? From who?”
“Dear me, Adam, I hardly read your private post. Here.” She handed him a small, gold-embossed envelope and then went out to criticize the servant.
Curious, Adam took up a letter opener and split the seal.
MR. AND MRS. BERNARD LAIDE
POLITELY REQUEST THE COMPANY OF
LIEUTENANT ADAM BOWEN AND GUEST
At the Benefit Night for War Widows and Orphans
Organised by the Holland Charitable Trust
At the Gresham Hotel, 21-22 Sackville Street, Dublin 1
On 25 March 1920
EVENING DRESS PREFERRED
RSVP: 4 EDMONTON TERRACE, BLACKROCK, CO. DUBLIN
When the night of the ball arrived, Adam thought it ironic how these charity events always brought about such self-indulgent displays of wealth. The front of the Gresham Hotel on Sackville Street had been decorated with red carpet and marble flower pots, Waterford Crystal lamps and Union Jack bunting. Guests arrived in drays and hackneys, men in officer’s uniforms and crisp tuxedos handing their womenfolk down to the paving, delicate heels lowered one after the other, bright, smug smiles, diamonds and cufflinks, and fashionably crimped hair.
On first seeing the invitation he’d swore he’d never go. Such nights were for the uppers of society, not the poor luckless souls they purported to represent. He imagined a roomful of military types, full of brandy and thumping each other’s shoulders in bonhomie, their women like exquisite ornaments, smiling dazzlingly and vacantly, complimenting each other’s style with scarcely concealed jealously. Adam would have had none of it.
But the Laides, who were paying for the table, were parents of a rugby teammate of his from Trinity College. Stephen Laide had made the rank of captain in the war, but there’d been no triumphant return home. He met his end on the Turkish beaches, the bloodbath of Gallipoli, Winston Churchill’s calamitous bungle of 1915.
Out of respect, or probably guilt, Adam responded to the invitation with a yes, though he declined to bring a guest. Who would go anyway? Ever since the war he’d found himself short of companions. And by choice, too. It hadn’t been like that before.
His group met in the hotel’s bar, a Palladian room floored with marble and sinkingly-soft carpet, already reeking of perfume and cologne. Bernard Laide was a stooped, thin man with sharp cheekbones and unfashionably thick whiskers. He greeted Adam with a handshake.
“Delighted you could make it, dear boy. You remember my wife, Eleanor?”
Introductions were done. The other guests included three couples, and Adam was self-conscious now at having come alone.
“You haven’t married yet, Adam?” asked Eleanor Laide. “How old are you, twenty-five, twenty-six?”
“Twenty-five,” he answered. “And no, not married.”
“I hear you’re working with your brother Duncan now. A solicitor.” She nodded approvingly at the others. “Actually, you might remember our daughter Isobel from when you used to pal around with Stephen. She’s teaching in Greystones. Actually, she’s not married either.”
There were conspiratorial smiles and winks in the group. Adam forced a smile.
“You must pass on my best regards.”
“Indeed we will, Adam. Indeed we will.”
After they had posed for a photograph, Bernard Laide beamed at his gathering. “Well, now. We’re all here, so shall we go through to the dining room?”
Tara gazed at the giant chandelier that cast splintered light over the immaculately polished ballroom floor. Cream-clothed tables had been set with walnut candelabra and silver cutlery, and the waiters were delivering water carafes and bread baskets. Most of the guests had already taken their seats.
“For the last time,” James bemoaned, “you’re fine. What on earth is the matter?”
She’d begun to tug at the silk neckline of her dress again, trying in vain to pull it higher. “I don’t know, James. I just feel so . . . so bare.”
“It’s the fashion, Tara. It’s what all the ladies of London and New York are wearing.”
“It’s little I know of New York or anywhere else. You should have let me buy something more suitable.”
“This is suitable,” he insisted. “And may I say, you look absolutely exquisite, my darling.”
“James.” She frowned at his endearment. “Don’t. Please. I’m nervous enough as it is.” This was their first outing together, and though James looked relaxed, she still felt slightly uncomfortable.
“Well, can’t blame a fellow for trying. Anyway, try to at least appear to be enjoying yourself. The colonel’s wife is giving you queer looks.”
Their invitation had come from Colonel Louis Guthering, retired, late of the Ninth Devonshire Regiment. Another dusty relic from the old man’s era, as James had described him to Tara, with an Eton education, Wellington and Sandhurst training, and the manners of a hog.
As his wife was a supporter of the Holland Charitable Trust, Guthering had grudgingly agreed to come over to Ireland for a few days and pay for a table, though besides James, he couldn’t be bothered with inviting other guests.
“I met your father only last week,” he informed James. “We had a bit of golf in Kent. He’s bearing up something tremendous, like the old war-dog he is.”
“It makes me very happy to hear that, Colonel,” James assured him.
Tara didn’t know what to make of Guthering. At her introduction he had nodded with a “Miss” before turning his attention back to James, as if she’d simply been some picture or ornament he’d been obliged to acknowledge. His wife, a tiny, bird-like creature with a look of perpetual anxiety, leaned across and touched her hand.
“Tell me, dear, how do you find Dublin? Some folk say it’s a huge change from London, but I must say I find it rather delightful. Oh, I do love the Irish. And their little ways.”
Starters were being served, mussels and pumpkin soup, roast squab and cress. The band had commenced with Elgar’s “Quintet in A minor,” a springy deliverance that soon warmed the ambience of the crowd.
“I can’t profess to know Dublin very well,” Tara admitted. “I moved here only a year ago, from Wicklow.”
“It’s a world from London,” Guthering grumbled, fixing the plate of shellfish with a murderous glare. “Hooded gunmen on every street corner. I say, here!” He spun round and grabbed a passing waiter’s coattails. “Look at these, boy!”
The youngster peered at the creamy flesh of the shellfish. “Sir? I’m not sure what—”
“The infernal things are gone off
, man. Look at them!”
“Sir, I can assure you, all of the fish served on the premises is bought fresh.”
“Why, you impudent swine.” Guthering went to rise from his seat but his wife laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“Dear, I’m sure the fish is fine. You shouldn’t finish the entire plate anyway, it upsets your tummy.” She looked up at the waiter. “That will be all, thank you.”
The waiter left and the colonel turned his eye on Tara. He directed his words to James, however. “Mm, maybe you’ve got it right this time, my boy. God knows your record in women is shabby, much to your poor father’s shame. But this one seems presentable and a good-looking face. Tell me, will you wait until you’re back in London before you get married?”
Tara spluttered on a half-chewed piece of mussel.
“Ho,” James quickly intervened. “The colonel misunderstands. Tara and I are not, you know, not in that kind of relationship. She’s here as my work colleague.”
“Work colleague. Bah! A woman’s place is in the making and the warming of the home. Is that not right, my darling?”
“Yes, dear,” his wife answered.
Guthering topped up his glass and then James’s. “Bring some decent wine the next time, you Irish lout,” he snapped when the waiter passed again.
James’s eyes slid to Tara’s, and he shrugged. What can I do? he mouthed silently.
I want to go home. Her lips didn’t move but her expression said it all.
Adam watched the myriad heads of the ballroom, bowed over the plates or else flung back at some roaring witticism.
“Your meat’s all right?” The woman sitting next to him, the accountant’s wife whose name he couldn’t remember, enquired politely.
“Hmm? I mean, oh yes. Capital stuff.”
“You’re from Dalkey, I heard Bernard say?” She smiled. “Pierce and I are from Kerry. Killarney, to be exact. Pierce does the books for a lot of the merchants down there.”