When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  James’s eyes had dark circles of tiredness underneath them. “All right,” he snapped at the driver, “enough of this monkey hunt. Get me back to the Bowens’ place. Dalkey, isn’t it? Allister Bowen gave me the details. Can you find it?”

  The driver glanced at the address on James’s note. “In Dalkey. Of course, sir, it’s not far.”

  “Then get going. Let’s see if this delightful little family can’t cough up something more useful.”

  When they found the house, he instructed the driver and other constables to wait inside the truck. He clanged the bell outside the front porch and waited impatiently as the rain poured from his hat onto his shoulders.

  A girl in a linen cap and apron answered. “Sir,” she said, “may I enquire as to your name?”

  “They already know me,” he answered and marched inside. “Please take my coat, young lady, for it’s wet. And show me to the Bowens.”

  Marjorie, Quentin, Duncan, and Allister were all inside the drawing room. Duncan was first to rise.

  “Well, sir,” he commenced his attack, “of all the damned cheek—”

  “Duncan, sit down and don’t be so tiresome,” Marjorie sighed. She was seated in an armchair by the hearth, a barely touched sherry in front of her. “Detective, come inside. Where’s my son?”

  James glanced enviously at the well-stocked fire. The rain had soaked right through to his skin. “I had rather hoped I might learn that knowledge here, ma’am.”

  “Here?” She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t be so silly, young man. You took him from us last night. Or don’t you recall?”

  “Yes, I know that, Mrs. Bowen. But Adam has, ahem, escaped our custody.”

  Now Allister shot to his feet. “Escaped? But you—I thought—”

  “You sit down too, Allister,” Marjorie snapped. He obeyed. She gazed wearily at her sherry glass. “You’re at pains to find my son, aren’t you, Detective? Is he really so high on your list? Is he really that bad?”

  “He’s a fugitive from justice, ma’am. And,” James flushed at the real reason for his dogged pursuit of Adam, “and he has a colleague of mine with him. I need to find them both. To get answers.”

  “Have you harmed my son?”

  “No. Not really. A little. But he’s a big boy.”

  “I’ll have your head!” Duncan’s temple was bursting with angry veins. “And I’ll have Adam’s too! All of you, you’re a damned scandal.”

  James nodded. “Indeed, sir. Now if I may cut to the point. I can’t find Adam in any of the locations known to me. He’s gone to ground somewhere, and unless you have any ideas, it’s unlikely I’ll find him soon.”

  “You’ve tried his flat?” Allister ventured.

  “Just like I said, Mr. Bowen, I’ve tried everywhere I know. But if there’s anywhere else you can think of . . . ”

  “He could be hiding with his rebel friends.”

  “He could be, Mr. Bowen. I don’t expect you can help me there. But—”

  “Wait,” Allister said, thinking. “What about Uncle Mortie’s house in Clontarf? My uncle Morton is long dead, Detective. Adam may have thought to use his house.”

  Both Marjorie and Duncan turned their eyes on Allister. James ignored the look of disgust on their faces. “Actually, that’s more like it. Give me a moment.” He retrieved a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Clontarf? Where exactly?”

  Allister detailed the location. “And what about your summer house, Mother? It’s near Kilmore Quay, Detective.”

  “Allister,” Marjorie warned.

  “Kilmore Quay?” James scribbled on. “Where’s that?”

  “Wexford, Detective.”

  James sighed. “County Wexford? A bit of a drive. I hope he isn’t that far.”

  Allister leaned forward, thinking furiously. “And Bowen Hall. There’s Bowen Hall.”

  “Very good. Location?”

  “It’s an old family property,” Allister explained, “but it hasn’t been used in over fifty years. You’ll find it on the Rathmichael Road, near Shankill. He’d hardly hide out there, though. It’s a ruin now.”

  Duncan pounded his paw on the mantle. “Allister, why don’t you shut up? Why don’t you just damn well shut up!”

  James glanced through the window at the darkening afternoon, the teeming rain. “We’ll take a look at it.” He finished writing and then smiled. “Well, thank you. This has been most helpful. If you think of anything else,” he inclined his head towards Allister, “you may telephone Dublin Castle or Great Brunswick Street. Ma’am, sirs, you’ll excuse me.”

  Marjorie waited until she heard Lizzie close the door behind him. Then she picked up her sherry glass and drank.

  Allister approached her. “You see,” he insisted, “you were wrong about him. I was right. I told you. Duncan? I told you.”

  “Duncan,” Marjorie said, without looking at either of them. “Speak to Allister.”

  Duncan was breathing heavily, and it seemed to take him a considerable effort to force composure upon himself. He cleared his throat and turned to Allister. “Adam has shamed me. Shamed this family. Shamed our name.”

  “Yes, he has.” Allister bowed. “But don’t worry, he’ll be brought to justice, and people will know that he’s not one of us.”

  “And you . . . ”

  Allister frowned.

  “You, Allister. You have shamed us also. Disgraced us. You and your treachery.”

  “Treachery?” Allister blinked. “Duncan, have you gone mad? Why, Adam is the one who—”

  “Damn and blast you,” Duncan roared. “Adam is in trouble with the law. And I’ll see him dealt with as he deserves. But you!” He clenched his fist. “You sold out your own brother to his enemies. Your own blood.”

  “But he’s a terrorist.”

  “He is blood! Blood and family count above all things. That’s how our lineage was built. You are the first ever, damn your eyes, the first Bowen ever to turn upon his own.”

  Allister’s eyes creased into tears. “But it’s my very family that I did it for! He was never one of us. You know that.”

  “You’re a weasel, Allister. I never thought I’d say it of you. But you’re a weasel.” Duncan walked towards the fire and stared into it. “You have let your family down—badly. And I don’t know if I can stomach a Bowen who’ll sell out another Bowen. I certainly don’t know that I can work with one.”

  Allister’s face turned white. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean—”

  “Boys.” Marjorie rose from her chair. Quentin went immediately to assist her, and for once she didn’t refuse his hand. “Boys, I am tired. I am retiring to my room awhile. You may continue your discussion. And Allister, remember that Duncan is the head of the firm. He will make his decision, and you will abide by it. We all shall.”

  “But, Mother,” Allister swallowed, looking nauseous with confusion. “But I’m the good one, aren’t I? I always tried to be right.”

  “Good evening, boys. If my son is found, please be kind enough to let me know.”

  Quentin helped her along. They closed the door behind them.

  Uncle Morton’s house in Clontarf proved a dead lead. There was a smashed window and three drunken hobos inside, squatting in their own filth. James was tempted to shoot them out of spite.

  “That was a bloody waste of time,” he growled as they marched back outside to the truck. “Next one is Kilmore Quay.”

  “Wexford?” the driver groaned. “That’ll take us all night, sir.”

  “I don’t care,” James retorted. “All night it will take us, if it has to. I want them found. Wait,” he checked his notes again. “There’s another place. Bowen Hall, Rathmichael. That’s on the way. We’ll check that first and then on to Wexford.”

  The truck pulled out of the unkempt avenue of Morton’s house and drove down the coast road, through Killiney and then branching off towards Rathmichael. Night loomed. The rain was a relentless downpour, flooding t
he roads, the sea wind jostling the truck as it picked up speed.

  “Hurry up.” James fingered the pistol in his belt. “Let’s get this damned business finished with. Once and for all.”

  They walked the last quarter-mile after the hackney driver dropped them. Tara gave him the remnants of her purse and apologised that there wasn’t enough.

  “It’s a hospital that that man needs,” the driver warned her and turned his car back to Dublin.

  Adam was barely able to stand now. But he could point. “It’s up there. Between those oaks. I’ll get a fire going, I’ll—”

  “You need to lie down, Adam.” She coaxed him gently, lifting his arm over her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll light the fire.”

  It was a splendid old limestone building, a proud ornament of the eighteenth century. Phineas Bowen. Back when times were good. The long avenue ran with rainwater and the roof was gone, but old buttresses and balustrades still stood proudly.

  Tara hefted Adam as he began to sag.

  “You should sleep. Your big fellow friend will send a doctor. Where shall we go?”

  He wheezed. “The old drawing room is still roofed. I’ve got matches in my pocket, old soldier’s habit. I’ll show you.”

  She led him hobbling into a black room. Using the remnants of ancient furniture and collapsed beams, she managed to light the fire, just how her father had taught her. And with her father’s protective hand now upon her own, she lay Adam down and found a rug to wrap him in. The wind howled through the open windows. The fire crackled to life. Adam breathed hoarsely.

  “We’ll be all right now,” he said once more.

  “I know.” She wiped her eyes. “I know.”

  Larry Mulligan rode out the Shankill Road but could barely see through his rider’s goggles in the ever-intensifying storm. Winds lashed the trees either side of him and pulses of lightning streaked across the sky. He began to fear that he’d taken a wrong turn, but as soon as he pulled into the verge to check his bearings, he spotted a shape ahead, moving faintly through the tumbling sheets of rain.

  It was a man in a sodden coat and cap, pulling a donkey harnessed to a tarpaulin-covered cart. When he saw Mulligan he gave a wave and a wide, toothless smile.

  “Ahoy there. Bad night. Have you broken down?”

  Mulligan shook his head. “I need directions, friend. Bowen Hall. Am I headed the right way?”

  The man blew dubiously through his lips. “You are,” he said, “but that’s only an old ruin. What would you be wanting up there?”

  “Is it much farther on?” Mulligan demanded.

  “About a half-mile or so. There’s two big pillars at the entrance.”

  “I’ll recognise it. Obliged.” Mulligan didn’t wait for further pleasantries but took to the road again, accelerating until the wheels bounced on the ruts opened up by the rain. After what he guessed to be a half-mile, he eased off the throttle again and pulled off his goggles. The single beam from the motorcycle lit the bend ahead.

  There.

  Just a few yards on he saw the entrance to Bowen Hall, the two stone pillars that he had often passed whilst on operations, almost obscured now by wild briars and brambles.

  He’d found them.

  The motorcycle’s engine would be too much of a giveaway, so he stashed it into some cover and then made his way through the entrance, up a steep gradient between groaning trees, onto a flat ridge where he could hear the rush of a stream nearby. With no moon he watched his way carefully, pulling his coat tight to keep the revolver dry. Each fresh howl of the wind was followed by an even more eerie lull, the plash of the swollen stream, the startled hoots of a barn owl. He kept walking. The trees cleared.

  Bowen Hall was worthy of some gothic novel, a wicked, imposing structure that was half-house and half-castle, battle-scarred and aged, and virtually swallowed into the woodland surrounding it. A flash of lightning revealed the remains of arches and mullions and a rather horrific-looking gargoyle perched aside a balustrade. A monolith of darkness. The domain of ghosts upon a wind-blasted hillside.

  Mulligan spat to clear his throat and swore in frustration.

  Then he caught a flicker of light, a mere glimpse only, through one of the shattered windows. Moving closer, he edged between the trees and saw a fire burning in one of the ground rooms.

  Ah, the lovers are keeping warm.

  Lightning flashed again. The thunder seemed to shake the very sky.

  He took out his pistol.

  “Confound this blasted country,” James cursed. “Slow down!”

  The wind and rain drove against the windshield so much so that the driver had difficulty keeping his vehicle straight. “If they’re up in those woods, sir, they’ve had it,” he warned James. “See that lightning, sir. This night is cursed.”

  “I said slow down, you imbecile. We’ll miss the entrance.”

  The driver obeyed. The constables in the back shifted nervously, peering out at the blackening sky, the countryside lit up every few seconds by another fiery streak and a rumble of thunder.

  “Sir!” The driver braked suddenly. “I see someone ahead. Who’s that?” He blessed himself in superstitious dread.

  James opened his door and looked out, blinking against the rain. He saw an old man plodding wearily along, leading a donkey and cart. “You there,” he summoned him. “Bowen Hall. Where is it?”

  The other gazed up at him and touched his dripping cap. “Ach, you’re not far out at all, sir. Another mile or so up the road, on the right.”

  “Good.”

  James was about to direct his driver on when the old man added, “Don’t worry, sir, you’ll not be too far behind him.”

  James turned back. “What did you say?”

  “Why, sir, I’m only after giving directions to the same spot a few minutes ago to another fellow. A friend of yours, sir? He’ll have found it by now.”

  James punched his palm in elation. “Aha! We’ve got them.” He snapped his fingers. “Bowen Hall, go. Hurry!”

  They drove on for a few more minutes, and when they found the entrance James closed up his coat and checked his pistol. Then he paused and glanced round at his men.

  “Now look, I want you all to wait here. I’m going up there alone.”

  The driver stared at him. “But what do you mean, sir?”

  “Damn it, I mean exactly what I said, that’s what I mean.” James opened the door. “I’ll see to this business myself.”

  “On your own?”

  “On my own.” James didn’t elaborate that it was personal. He’d already crossed professional boundaries in making it so, yet he didn’t want his men to follow him. “I’ll be fine. Just keep the engine running. This won’t take long.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but turned to the entrance and walked beyond. Within seconds he had vanished into the rain.

  The shadows twitched. Something moved.

  Tara tried to scream.

  Hands came out of the darkness.

  “No!”

  The hands were upon her, hands on her body, on her mouth and throat. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Shh!” he warned. “Tara.”

  She opened her eyes fully.

  The silvery light of her dream was gone. The room was dark. Rain pounded on the flagstones outside.

  “Where am I? Was I asleep?

  “Ssh,” Adam said again. He was staring into the blackness beyond the door, at the windows around them.

  “Adam, what is it?” She rose up, quickly becoming awake.

  “Stay down.” He rose onto his knees. His hands reached across the ground for a length of splintered wood. “There’s somebody in the house.”

  Mulligan counted the cartridges in his Webley revolver. More than enough. He crept to the western side of the building, his footsteps quieted by rolling thunder. The light was coming from the eastern side where a small fire burned, and so he climbed through one of the windows into another room, taking a moment to let his eyes adj
ust.

  As he went to cross the floor, glass shards cracked and shattered under his hobnail boots. He cursed and stepped away, inadvertently banging his knee against a wooden chair.

  Damn it.

  He waited, his pulse rising, wondering if the noise had reached the two people beyond. Nothing stirred, however. After a minute he crept on, more carefully this time, the pistol poised in his hand. The outer hall was in darkness, but farther on a faint light came from the drawing room.

  He was wrong.

  Somebody was coming.

  He dropped quickly to one knee and took aim.

  Adam thought he had perhaps misheard the noise. The wind was gusting through the open gaps in the house, shaking whatever fixtures remained, and he decided his ears had been deceived. Why would anyone be out here? On a night like this?

  He moved out to the hallway and stared into the impenetrable gloom. His ribs ached and he leaned on the plank of wood for support. There was surely no sense in searching the entire house. They were safe here. They were safe as long as—

  What’s that?

  Something moved far beyond, deep in the shadows down the hallway. Adam couldn’t react fast enough. He saw the flash. He heard the crack of gunfire in his ears. Even as he was thrown backwards, he realised his dreadful error.

  The bullet struck him in the upper chest. He landed heavily on his back, and immediately he felt a vicious, dead weight pinning him down, choking off his air. He gasped and spluttered, hands scrabbling at the ground for grip.

  “Tara,” he croaked ineffectually, then louder, “Tara, run. Run!”

  There were painful scores that had to be settled this night. James carried on up the sloping avenue until he found a monstrous shell of a building at the top, walls half-swallowed in ivy, its roof mostly missing and upper heights scorched black. There was firelight in a ground window at the far end. And there you are. They must have thought they’d be safe here. That no one would find them.

  He took out his revolver.

  Whatever about Tara, and her now criminal actions, young Bowen was not going to escape him again. James advanced by the cracked verges, checking each gaping window he passed, seeing only darkness.