The events at Listowel and Tudor’s restrained reaction are on the public record if not well known. What follows is not public knowledge and is based in part on stories that still circulate in the rural country west of Limerick Town. The author of this document urges that the attempt to reconstruct the story be read with caution.
Apparently two nights later something happened that changed Tudor’s mind completely and turned him into a killer. It also sent him down the path which would make him a lonely horseman riding the stony hills of Newfoundland.
He motored north from Listowel towards the Shannon Estuary. His plan was to visit Lady Augusta Downs, the widow of Colonel Sir Arthur Downs V.C., a young officer on his staff who had died when the Ninth had held the line at Cambrai. Maybe he had come to Listowel as a pretext to visit her. More likely, he felt he had to face down the mutineers. When he discovered that Castle Garry was only twenty miles away from Listowel, he decided that it would be appropriate to make a call on her even though it was late and a fierce storm was blowing in off the Atlantic. He had greatly admired Down’s courage and recommended him for his Victoria Cross. It does not appear that he had ever met Lady Augusta, though probably he had seen her picture. Since he was an upright British officer and Lady Augusta was nobility, he probably had more or less honorable intentions. Or told himself that.
Lady Downs was a McGarry, the last of a great Munster landowning family which had converted to the Church of Ireland during penal times, as many others had, so as not to lose their land. Their Big House, Castle Garry, a late-eighteenth-century manor, was out on the Shannon Estuary south of Limerick. The family, which by intermarriage and education had become more AngloIrish than Irish, was nonetheless popular with their tenants who did not hold a religious change two hundred years old against them. Sir Arthur was petty English nobility from Cornwall, a likeable young man, by all accounts, who endeared himself to the local Irish by learning how to play Irish football. When they brought his body home from Flanders, the Catholics in the area mourned as much as the few Protestants. The parish priest, rather in violation of the Church’s rules at the time, said a Mass for the repose of his soul. Naturally, Lady Downs attended in the front row. All in all, the situation in the McGarry lands was quiet, peaceful. The lads were not active that far out in West Limerick. There was no animosity between the Land Lady and her people. Castle Garry was a long way off everyone’s beaten path.
One can imagine what was on the mind of Major General Henry Hugh Tudor as his car, followed by a lorry of soldiers, picked its way down a muddy country road in the rain and the fading light of a long spring day.
It is fair to assume that he did not want to be in Ireland. At that time no English general in his right mind would want to risk his career in that sinkhole. Even less did he want to fight a guerrilla war for which he had no experience. Why had he accepted the assignment? Perhaps because his good friend Winston asked him to. Perhaps because, like many officers who had fought in the trenches, war was the only reality in which he felt comfortable. Perhaps because he wanted to get away from a marriage that had turned unhappy. That his wife did not stand by him later suggests that relationship was probably in trouble even in 1920, as were so many of the other marriages of men returning from the war.
Remember that he had shaken hands with each of the mutinous constables back in Listowel, a very soldierly thing to do by British standards. He was still at that moment a decent man who could respect his enemies.
When his little convoy turned east at Trabert—where the car ferry across the Shannon is now—he had the Estuary on his left as they plowed down the dirt road. They left the rain behind for a few moments and saw the waves seething on the Estuary in the lightning which cut across the sky. I know that because I looked up the Limerick weather for that night.
When they finally turned up the road through the park to Castle Garry, he saw a scene which would change his life forever. The outbuildings around the manor house were on fire. The fire had spread to one wing of the castle itself. The sea was roaring behind the castle, its huge waves illumined by the flames. A mob was smashing windows and throwing furniture out of the house. Several men, servants presumably, were lying dead on the ground. Lady Augusta, in her nightdress, was tied to a tree. Women were pelting her with mud.
Something must have snapped inside of General Tudor. He could have subdued the rabble, led by a handful of rag-tag Irish volunteers—mostly local thugs—by a few shots over their heads. However, the young woman was the wife of an English officer, a hero, and a friend of Tudor’s. The men and women who were destroying her home and threatening her life were less than human. He ordered his men to fire into the crowd.
Six men died, three of the rebels, who were from below in Kerry, and three local youths, all of whom it would later develop had far too much of the creature taken. The rest of the crowd fled into the night and the oncoming rain storm. His soldiers rounded up five prisoners, all of them men. Tudor gave the order for their summary execution.
It is not unreasonable to assume that Tudor and Lady Augusta became lovers that night as the storm which had put out the fires raged above them in the battered manor house. Surely they were lovers soon after.
Garrytown, the local village, was a long way from Dublin and a long psychological distance from Limerick. A report was issued that the British Army had won a major pitched battle in West Limerick, a victory which would mark the beginning of the end for the IRA. A British Army patrol had come upon an IRA mob assaulting Castle Garry. The soldiers had driven off the mob and saved the castle. Three servants at the castle had been killed, as had ten armed IRA men. None of the local people disputed this account, not very loudly at any rate. The McGarrys were, as I have said, a popular family, indeed one which had for many years been sympathetic to Irish freedom. The Garrytown version was that a group of criminals from Kerry had stirred up trouble in a local pub, accusing the local men of being cowards.
“Good enough for the lot of them,” Garrytown said with something like relief. Arson and murder, assassination and reprisals, were now commonplace in the Irish countryside. Later on, everyone had good reason to want to forget the horror.
Somehow a story developed about his love affair with Lady Augusta in which he was depicted as a rapist. The events at the end are obscure. Just before Dev and Lloyd George agreed on a cease-fire in the autumn of 1921, an IRA flying squad from Kerry returned to Garrytown looking for revenge. They encountered a detachment of Cadets at Castle Garry, protecting Tudor’s whore as they claimed.
We will probably never know what happened that night. According to the folk story, which may not be accurate in all its details, the castle was set afire again, the Cadets, who knew that the lads were coming, had no trouble routing them. Somehow, during the battle Lady Augusta was shot and killed, perhaps by accident, perhaps not. Her charred body was found in the ruins several days later, the very day, in fact, that the truce was announced. According to legend, Hugh Tudor had ordered her death. There never was any proof, but by that time the English were willing to believe anything about him.
It was two Kerrymen who tried to kill him in Palestine in 1925. Depending on who you believe, the British government informed him that they could no longer guarantee his safety. So he left the army and went to Newfoundland, where some of his old mates from the Royal Irish Constabulary would protect him. It’s hard to believe that the British Army really forced him out, whatever his reputation. Churchill was out of power and would remain out of power till the next War, but he certainly had enough influence to protect Tudor. Perhaps he wanted to escape to a place where he could forget and be forgotten. The attempt on his life in Palestine may not have been an official IRA hit but a personal grudge. Anyway, for forty years he was a forgotten man—by everyone, family, old friends, and old enemies. Clearly he liked it that way.
—12—
“QUITE A story,” I said as I gave the document to the Commissioner. “Your man indeed has the skills of a storyt
eller, though I suspect that he is a woman.”
Commissioner Keenan sighed. “We can’t hide much from you, can we, Dermot? … Keep the document. Show it to herself if you want.”
“As if I had any choice.”
He laughed and then waved his hand as if the whole story were a bit of a bore.
“A little mystery from the backwater of Irish history, hardly worth repeating, eh, Dermot? But tragedies like that have been part of Irish life for centuries. That they are so numerous does not mean that they were not painful and often deadly for the poor people who were involved.”
I sighed.
“Maybe there won’t be any more of them,” he continued. “Maybe we won’t need a Special Branch in the new Ireland.”
“How does Kevin O’Higgins fit into this story?”
“The Kerry Brigade of the Irregulars, as the Free State called the IRA, wasn’t much good at fighting. They concentrated on burning down houses and shooting people in the back. The Free State Army swept them away without so much as a single pitched battle. They were for the most part a group of young louts who used the ideals of the republic, one and indivisible, as a pretext for criminal burning, killing, blackmail, and loud pub talk. When Kevin took over after Collins’s death, he knew that he had to stamp out such groups all over Ireland if anarchy wasn’t to prevent Ireland from becoming a democracy. Stamp them out he did. In a sense he succeeded where Tudor had failed. He argued that Ireland would be a better place without the Kerry Brigade. The Free State soldiers swept up the lot of them, and then there was no more Kerry Brigade, except for the three men who shot Kevin. That was the end of it for them, too. Kevin’s forgiveness overwhelmed them.”
“They forgot about Hugh Tudor?”
“Or figured he wasn’t worth hunting down. Perhaps if he had returned to England they might have gone after him.”
“Not much of a connection between Tudor and O’Higgins.”
“Except that the executions of the remnant Kerry Brigade, five men, by the Free State Army were in front of the ruins of Castle Garry. Like someone was sending a message.”
“And the message was?” I asked.
“That’s what we don’t know … though if Hugh Tudor had not ambushed the ambushers that night in 1921 the Kerry Brigade might have simply faded away. It was kept alive by its own need for revenge.”
Back in our room after I had scanned the two police documents into my HP Omnibook, I wondered if I had learned anything that was pertinent to Nuala’s waking dreams. I didn’t know what to make of the story of Hugh Tudor, Augusta Downs, and Kevin O’Higgins. I didn’t see how there could be any connection between the first two and the third. Tudor was gone from Ireland and Augusta was dead by the time Higgins replaced Michael Collins as the strongman of the Free State Government. Both Tudor and O’Higgins were targets of Kerry revenge. That was the only link between them, and it seemed thin. How could it have anything to do with Nuala’s experiences on the plane or at Booterstown? Or with the attempted kidnapping yesterday?
It made no sense, not at all, at all.
Why would the Deputy Commissioner of the Garda Siochana waste much of his morning telling me that tale, other than for the sheer love of spinning a yarn? Indeed, a couple of mostly unrelated yarns?
Perhaps because he didn’t like the obscurities in his story and thought that we might be able to clarify a few of them.
And maybe find a connection between them and the clumsy attempt to kidnap us?
Maybe.
It struck me that none of it was any of our business. After the concert we should fly out to Galway to see Nuala’s parents, cancel our visit to Glenstal Abbey till another day, and catch the first plane from Shannon to Chicago.
Except who was the girl that, in Nuala’s interlude on the airplane, did not start the fire?
I glanced at my watch. She should be home from her rehearsal soon.
Then the Adversary intruded into my life again.
ISN’T IT ABOUT TIME, BOYO, THAT YOU ADMIT THAT YOU’RE NOT THE GREAT BIG MACHO LOVER THAT YOU PRETEND YOU ARE?
“What do you mean by that?”
WHEN IT COMES TO PASSION, YOU’RE ABOUT AS DYNAMIC AS A FIRECRACKER.
“You gotta be kidding!”
ALL RIGHT, YOU SCREW THE GIRL WHENEVER YOU WANT AND SHE DOESN’T SEEM TO MIND.…
“I make love with her.”
CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT … YOU FIGURE THAT BECAUSE YOU’VE READ THE BOOKS ABOUT WHAT TURNS WOMEN ON AND BECAUSE YOU’RE GENTLE AND CONSIDERATE WITH HER YOU ARE THEREFORE A SKILLED LOVER. THAT’S A LOT OF BULLSHIT AND YOU KNOW IT.
“I know no such thing!”
THEN HOW COME I KNOW IT? I’M A PART OF YOU, EVEN IF YOU LIKE TO PRETEND THAT I’M AN OUTSIDE VOICE.
“I never claimed to be an experienced lover!”
DAMN GOOD THING!
“Go away! Don’t bother me!”
He ignored my orders.
LOOK, YOU EXPERIENCE SEXUAL RELEASE WITH HER AND SHE’S PLEASED ABOUT THAT BECAUSE SHE ADORES YOU. BUT YOU CONTROL THE WHOLE EXERCISE. IT’S A NICE, NEAT LITTLE EXCHANGE WITHOUT ANY RISK AND WITHOUT MUCH PASSION.
“I don’t agree!”
LOVE IS ABOUT ABANDONMENT, he went on implacably. REAL PASSION THROWS ASIDE NOT ONLY CLOTHES BUT INHIBITIONS. NO WAY DO YOU DO THAT. YOU PRETEND THAT YOU’RE UNINHIBITED, BUT YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A BLAND COCKTAIL OF INHIBITIONS.
“You want me to be violent.”
I WANT YOU TO BE PASSIONATE.
“What’s that mean?”
WELL, LET’S TRY, FOR STARTERS, OUT OF YOUR MIND WITH DESIRE.
“I don’t want to hurt her!”
NO WAY YOU’RE GOING TO DO THAT!
“I don’t believe in violent lovemaking!”
THE WAY GOD DESIGNED YOU HUMANS, IS THERE ANY OTHER KIND? ANYWAY, LET’S NOT ARGUE ABOUT WORDS. CALL IT VEHEMENT, IF YOU WANT. THE POINT IS, DERMOT MICHAEL COYNE, THAT YOU ARE AN INNATELY CAUTIOUS MAN. YOU DON’T LIKE TAKING CHANCES. YOU DON’T WANT TO TAKE CHANCES WITH THAT ONE. YOU ARE AFRAID OF THE ENERGIES YOU MIGHT UNLEASH IN HER. MAYBE SHE’LL BE TOO MUCH FOR YOU, HUH?
“No way! Besides, I wasn’t cautious last night, was I?”
PROVES MY POINT. ONLY WHEN SOME OUTSIDE FORCE TURNS YOU ON DO YOU BECOME PASSIONATE. WHY DON’T YOU GIVE THE GIRL A CHANCE?
“You want me to act like a wild man?”
PARDON ME FOR LAUGHING! DERMOT COYNE A WILDLY PASSIONATE LOVER? YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING!
“I could be if I wanted to.”
YOU’RE AFRAID TO TRY, AFRAID THAT SHE MIGHT REACT THE SAME WAY.
“I’m not afraid of her!”
THE HELL YOU’RE NOT!
I turned him off.
But he had scared me. Usually the Adversary appealed to my dark side. He had just done that again. But maybe he was right. Maybe …
I tried to stop thinking about it.
Still the fantasy of a wild “ride” with herself in which we both abandoned our inhibitions was not without appeal.
And what would she really be like if I unleashed all her womanly passions?
The possibilities were delightful.
And scary?
Yeah, well, I’d concede that to the Adversary.
With considerable effort, I turned my attention back to the story of Henry Hugh Tudor.
Where had I heard about McGarry before?
Recently.
Was that one of the places we were supposed to stay? Perhaps when we visited Glenstal Abbey?
Where had the woman put our reservations? I was not to be trusted with them because I might lose them—a not completely unreasonable assumption.
I rummaged around the room hunting for them. Drat! Why did she have to be so neat!
Then reason took over. She would put them in the small shoulder bag she carried. Where was it?
Undoubtedly hanging in the closet!
Brilliant, Holmes!
I opened the bag and there, sure enough, on the very top were our tickets and reserv
ations.
We were scheduled to stay three nights at a certain Castlegarry, Garrytown, County Limerick!
Yikes!
I reordered the reservations, put them back in the bag, zipped it up, and hung it on the closet hook.
This was not a good idea at all, at all. If I told her about Commissioner Keenan’s story, she would insist that we had to stay there. If I didn’t tell her, she would want to know why I wanted to cancel—and be gready displeased that I had hidden evidence. Watson had to tell the truth to Holmes.
I remembered a book about Irish castles converted to hotels I had seen in the gift shop of the hotel. I raced down to the lobby, searched for the book, and finally found it behind an Irish financial news magazine. There was indeed an entry for Castlegarry (sic).
Castlegarry, Garrytown, County limerick
This spacious and comfortable late-eighteenth-century manor house is one of the finest castle hotels in the west of Ireland. Located on a cliff over the Shannon Estuary and complete with an eighteen-hole golf course, Castlegarry is a warm, friendly house with eight expansive guest suites and one honeymoon suite directly facing the estuary. The chef is reputed to be the best in the west of Ireland and Tonia and Paddy MacGarry, the hosts, are delightful conversationalists. No one will regret resting a few days in this lovely and historic setting.
Historic setting indeed. At least two firefights and a dozen or so murders. Perhaps lots of ghosts—Irregulars, Black and Tans, Anglo-Irish gentry, maybe even Henry IX. Haunted casties were popular with tourists. Why weren’t such assets listed for Castlegarry? Perhaps Tonia and Paddy wanted to stress the warmth and the cooking and the golf course. Perhaps the ghosts were a little too scary.
I was willing to bet that the proprietors were from the Catholic side of the clan, recusants of one sort or another. Hence Mac had replaced Mc. Time does sort things out, doesn’t it?
I walked slowly back to our room. The mist outside the windows was “soft” again. The only thing I could do was level with Nuala Anne about the castle. We would doubtless stay in the honeymoon suite, which was probably the master bedroom where Hugh Tudor and Augusta Downs consummated their illicit love.
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