The Blood Dimmed Tide

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘The last time you were together what did you talk about?’

  ‘I can’t answer that question.’

  ‘Because you’re not allowed to?’

  She stepped away, afraid of confiding a secret. I felt a twinge of sympathy. I too was a member of a clandestine society, and understood how difficult it was not being allowed to reveal secrets.

  ‘Why did Rosemary wade out into the bays along this coast? Was she trying to drown herself?’

  She snorted. ‘She was collecting shells for our art classes.’

  ‘Even at night?’

  ‘She took a lamp. We often went in pairs.’

  ‘In case one got into trouble?’

  ‘Of course. Especially at night.’

  ‘What about the night she died?’

  ‘We were supposed to meet up at Raghly Harbour. When I got to the pier there was no sign of Rosemary, but I saw a group of fishermen loading barrels onto a horse and cart. A man was watching over them, writing in a big ledger. He was wearing some sort of uniform, like a soldier or sailor.’

  ‘Smugglers?’

  ‘Who knows? This part of the coast is famous for them.’

  ‘What was the weather like that night?’

  ‘Moonless. With patches of thick fog. Perfect conditions for smuggling. Is that a part of your investigation now?’

  ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘Why? I thought you were only interested in the invisible world.’

  ‘I’m dedicated to finding Rosemary’s murderer, and I doubt that he’s invisible.’

  ‘This place is smothered with murderers,’ she replied. ‘They hide in their grand mansions and behind the uniforms of the Royal Irish Constabulary.’ I glimpsed a flash of contempt in her eyes but her voice maintained its amiable tone. ‘By the way, you can have these back now.’ She handed me Rosemary’s letter and a small loosely tied brown parcel. ‘I removed them from your coat before you mounted the horse.’ She watched as I stuffed them into an inner pocket. ‘I thought the parcel contained some sort of poison or explosive chemical. However, Maud says it is edible hashish. A drug used by poets to summon visions. She told me Mr Yeats takes it so he can watch the leopards play on the moon.’

  ‘I use it for purely medical reasons,’ I said quickly. ‘To fight off fainting fits.’

  ‘Well it looks and smells disgusting.’ She stepped towards me. ‘Tell me, Mr Adams, what sort of creatures do you look for on the moon?’ She stared at me with an insolent smile, watching closely how I took this carefully administered dose of indignity.

  I tried to answer the question, but the proximity of her slender body left me groping for an answer. The moon’s luminous face seemed to grow closer, sharpening her inquisitive features.

  ‘Why aren’t you looking at me? You’ve avoided looking at me all night.’

  I hesitated at telling her the truth, that I had been imagining what the contours of her body looked like during the entire blind horse ride through forests and along surf-pounded beaches, absorbing every physical movement of her lithe body with the concentrated avarice of a man finding himself unexpectedly in the middle of a room full of treasure.

  ‘I want you to stop looking for invisible things like ghosts and creatures on the moon. I want you to imagine me. Look at my face. Remember my features.’

  The wind carried the churn of the distant surf in snatches. I wondered had I heard her correctly.

  ‘You don’t see me.’ She looked at me sadly, as one looks at the mad or afflicted. ‘Tell me the colour of my eyes.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I mumbled.

  The top buttons of her mannish-looking coat had come undone. I could see the tender boundary of skin between where her hair ended and her dress began. A few drops of sea spray glistened on her slender collarbone. Behind her, the tabular shape of Ben Bulben was the deepest possible shade of violet. Its darkness seemed immune to the silver tint of the moon and the misty light of the sea. A mysterious darkness to be penetrated. I thought of how far I was from London, and how different and constrained city life was to this strange territory of ghosts and gunmen and alluring women dressed in disguises. A whole minute passed before either of us said anything. From the horse came a low jingle, and a glint of metal. Along the shore, wraith-like shapes dissolved in the sea-spray.

  ‘My eyes are green as the sea,’ she said. ‘Now, I want you to look for a birth-mark on my shoulder.’

  The moon glided through a corona of cloud. Its light rippled across the waves and surged across her face in a silver stream. She struck a pose and smiled coquettishly. I stepped backwards.

  Her voice hardened. ‘These are instructions from Maud Gonne,’ she said, pressing herself closer to me. ‘Your continued freedom in this country will depend upon on them.’ Her dark hair fell around her cheeks, which were slightly flushed with anger.

  ‘I don’t understand why my life might be dependent upon a birthmark.’

  ‘You’re so dense.’ The coldness of her response was like a blow to my face. ‘If the police find out you were with the Daughters of Erin tonight, your presence in this country will no longer be tolerated. They’ll throw you onto the next boat, or worse, lock you up in their darkest cell. If they interrogate you, tell them you spent the evening with me on this beach. I have a strawberry shaped birthmark on my left shoulder. You tried to take off my blouse but I scratched your face and ran off.’

  I glanced into her eyes, but felt overwhelmed, as though I had stepped up to a treacherous brink. Like the face of every other woman I had stared at, her features became a mirror for looking inwardly at myself. I saw ghosts of my own vanity and anxiety, arrogance and lust, all springing from the bewitching light of her sea-green eyes.

  ‘What are you searching for?’ she asked.

  At that moment, the moon disappeared behind a cloud and her face was hooded in darkness.

  ‘Don’t you know it’s a waste of time trying to prove the existence of something that cannot be seen or touched?’ Her voice floated in the night. ‘Trust only what your fingers tell you is real.’ Her body, tense and supple, brushed against mine.

  I lifted my hands and felt the sharp point of her chin. My fingers kept moving, committing to memory the curve of her lips, the snub of her nose, the soft lines of her eyelids. I saw her face, but this time in the world of the imagination. My fingers burned with desire. I knew that as soon as the moon reappeared the picture in my mind would disappear and my fingers lose their sensitive feeling. My hand dropped to her neck and slender shoulders. Immediately, her body tightened and a sharp set of fingernails raked the skin of my cheek.

  The moon returned. The patch of sand in front of me lay empty. She had jumped onto her horse.

  ‘I came to Sligo to help,’ I told her. ‘I’m not your enemy.’

  ‘The person who summoned you is beyond helping,’ she replied.

  ‘That is true. Will you contact me again?’

  ‘It depends. Perhaps the Daughters of Erin will need help from you in the future.’ She swung her horse around. ‘Don’t take my rebuke personally. I liked it when you touched my face.’

  ‘I haven’t forgiven you for pick-pocketing me,’ I shouted, but already her horse was galloping off across the beach and into the breaking surf.

  I walked back to my accommodation, deep in thought. I found myself in a situation for which few could adequately prepare themselves. Little of what I had learned in my studies, secular or occult, or from my own upbringing and family, was of any use. I certainly did not feel like a ghost-catcher, or a sorcerer, or a spy, or proficient in any role requiring subterfuge and guile. I was just the same person as ever. A confused young Englishman, valiantly searching for evidence that there might be an afterlife, who now found himself straggling after the ghost of a dead woman and meddling in the dark tinderbox of Irish politics.

 
In the doorway of the gatehouse, a man stood smoking a cigarette. With surprise, I found myself staring into Denver’s interrogating eyes. He frowned without speaking, devoid of the casual ease which he usually emanated. His eyes sparked with a dangerous light as though he was about to lash out in anger.

  ‘I thought you’d be in your bed after such a tiring day,’ he said. His jaw moved slightly and his neck muscles strained. His nose wrinkled. ‘Is that you?’ He was talking about the smell. My clothes reeked of horse sweat.

  ‘I was in the stables. Checking on the horses.’

  He pushed his belligerent unblinking face into mine.

  ‘Where’s Clarissa?’

  I told him I had no idea where she was.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ve already told you. I’ve just returned from the stables.’

  ‘That’s right. You reek of horses.’

  ‘Why do you ask? Is she missing?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is that I no longer care what happens to her.’ Now it was his turn to lie. He seemed to struggle with something inside himself. To regain control he pulled a newspaper from inside his coat and thrust it into my hands like a baton.

  ‘Have you read the news?’ he said with a smirk. He was slowly regaining his superior manner.

  ‘Is this what you’ve been waiting in the dark to show me?’

  A small smile tugged at his lips. ‘Some newspapers will stop at nothing to widen their circulation. Read it and see.’

  It was the previous day’s edition of The London Times. The front page was dominated by stories about the aftermath of the Bolshevik uprising in Russia and the progress of British troops in France. On the third page, my eye caught the headline: ‘Mr Yeats’ Ghost-catcher Arrives in Sligo under a Magical Obligation’. The article boasted an exclusive interview with myself, which I deduced had been cobbled together from scraps of conversation overheard on the mail boat to Sligo. It also carried a misleading explanation of occultism and a scandalous history of the Golden Dawn. I felt a rising heat colour my cheeks as I read on.

  ‘Expressing contempt for Christian justice and the efforts of His Majesty’s police force in Ireland, Mr Adams has declared he intends to secure a full confession from the still-at-large murderer by employing his paranormal powers. However, in spite of his magical gifts, he spent most of the sea journey to Sligo languishing with sickness, and appeared so queerly dazed as to have little cognizance of his surroundings or company.’

  ‘You should avoid any further publicity in this matter,’ warned Denver.

  ‘And how do you suggest I manage that?’

  He gave me a cold stare. ‘By dropping your investigation. Completely. You’re attracting trouble the way a magnet attracts iron filings.’

  ‘You pay me such compliments.’

  ‘Only because you have such special talents.’ He stepped backwards revealing a broken door. ‘While you were away, your bedroom was burgled.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’

  He grew hesitant. ‘Yes.’ A pained look fell over his features. ‘I followed Clarissa after you left the dance. I thought there might be something going on between the two of you. I saw the way she looked at you in the conservatory. She came here and forced her way through the front door.’

  ‘This is the last place I would expect to find her,’ I said truthfully.

  ‘She was in your bedroom going through your suitcase. When I confronted her, she told me the truth. That she belonged to the Daughters of Erin. They’ve instructed her to keep an eye on you.’ He glared at me as if I had been responsible for bringing out the worst in his fiancée. ‘For months, I had been discounting the rumours about her. However wilful and selfish my fiancée was, I could not believe she would betray her country, her own people.’ His voice lowered to a confidential level. ‘Which is why I have broken off our engagement.’

  ‘Perhaps you never took the trouble to find out who she really was.’

  His face grew pale. He tried to speak but failed.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Report her to the police. Don’t worry, she won’t be back to disturb you. At least not tonight.’

  The door of the gatehouse lay slightly ajar. I stepped inside and locked the door behind me. I felt uneasy. I stood in the hallway and looked into the rooms, listening as if the burglary might still be in progress. The distant sound of crows settling down to roost formed an unruly backdrop to the silence of the house. I went into the bedroom and saw that my suitcase had been emptied. Clothes and books lay strewn across the floor.

  By the time I settled to bed my mouth was dry and my chest hurt. To quell my excitement, I unwrapped the bitter cake of hashish and ingested a sizeable amount with a greediness that was completely alien to pleasure. I slid under the covers and heard the restless sound of the sea return. I fell asleep like a shell creature dropping off a rock into a churning ocean, falling through an underwater darkness that flared with a thousand fluttering shapes. The face of Issac gazed up at me with vacant, billiard-ball eyes, and mouthed something, but his words were lost in my ceaseless tumbling.

  13

  Three of Cups

  CAPTAIN Oates experienced his flight from terror as a dreamless passage through derelict mansions, rocky cliffs and gurgling tides, with the dead girl’s haunting breath always on his neck. He spent wild mornings stumbling over rock pools and under steep cliffs, or in the hinterland of overgrown estates, searching for a new hiding place. He still had his wits about him, whatever people thought, but his mental apparatus had served him poorly. He realised that now. Straightforward military intelligence was useless against the adversary he faced. God might have been of assistance, but he had turned his back on Him, after witnessing the sight of soldiers’ bodies stacked like countless sandbags in the trenches of Verdun and the Somme.

  Nevertheless, he had almost cried out in prayer when he first saw the ghostly figure of Rosemary O’Grady, gasping and struggling as if she were drowning in air. From the start, he had tried to rationalise what was happening. The spirits are people like ourselves, a housemaid with the second sight had once told him. Earthbound souls who believe they are still alive, but are condemned to repeat over and over again the painful moments of their death. They should be treated like guests and offered hospitality and sympathy.

  He had grown used to the ghost’s presence, and that of her companion spirits, the swaying forms of their bodies, their anguished cries, and the wailing drift of their voices as they cried out his name, driving him out each morning to the sea-whipped extremities of the Sligo coastline. There his mind took refuge in the sound of the drowning surf.

  It frightened him greatly that he was able to feel their deathly cold hands. He had run up against them in his panic the previous night; light, delicate hands, but substantial all the same, and ice-cold, pushing him to the side as he tore through the darkness. That night had been the worst in a succession of cruel hauntings that seemed designed to test his fragile sanity. It had finally dispelled the lingering possibility that the whole thing might be taking place inside his head.

  He had sat huddled over a fire in a single room cabin at the back end of an overgrown estate, when, shortly after midnight, the wind picked up and rattled through the cabin with the sound of rotten bones knocking together. And then something fragrant and sweet hung in the air, along with the laughing sound of young women’s voices. But what women would be abroad at such a time in the night, or in such a place? He sidled to the left of the fire, where an angled mirror gave him a view of the door, allowing him to see who was entering without them noticing him. Immediately, he pulled his head back. The ghostly faces of several young women had appeared upon the mirror’s surface, their eyes darting in all directions, as though they too were using it as a window to peer into the room.

  He lay down and pretended to be asleep, watching with apprehe
nsion through his half-closed eyes.

  Slowly, a group of cloaked figures filled the room like vapours, hovering over his prone body. The sound of their whispering made his blood chill.

  ‘If he’s guilty, he must be punished.’

  ‘Rosemary must be avenged.’

  ‘Dear Captain, do not resist.’

  ‘Is he trying to hide from us in his sleep?’

  ‘He dare not run again.’

  ‘He is wicked to the core. I can see it in his face. Wicked and guilty.’

  ‘Then let’s trap him in this nightmare. Paralyse him in his sleep.’

  ‘Make him one of us.’

  ‘Let’s take him now. Sweet man, it is time to come with us.’

  He was so overwhelmed with fear that he dared not draw a breath. Their voices were low and seductive, but cruelty rang through their sweetness with the harsh clang of metal. He thought helplessly of escape but at the same time the tenderness of their voices made him burn to stay.

  Their whispering stopped, and then he heard a commotion in the air, a frantic beating of sticks and something softer like feathered wings, closing in around his head. Then the prodding began, so sharp it felt like a series of bites. On his head, and then his limbs and chest. He heard the sound of laughter, female and exultant. Half-mad with fear, he squirmed on the floor. When the prodding became too intense to bear, he jumped to his feet and brushed by their soft forms, feeling their cold hands propel him out into the darkness. He fled into the night, running for his life and his reason.

  ‘Give me the sea as a hiding-place,’ he kept saying to himself as the darkness enclosed him. How else was he going to survive these haunted nights?

  14

  King of Cups

  WITH no other mode of transport than a rusted bicycle, I gave myself more than an hour to get to the railway station on time, but convoys of army vehicles had blocked the roads, and I was rerouted a mile around the town of Sligo. I rode through narrow streets packed with people and traffic. The atmosphere was weighted with dread and expectation. Rain glittered on the Union flags which flew tirelessly, decking every flagpole in sight, practically blindfolding the shops and gaunt-faced townhouses. It was market day, and pushing against me was a mixed bag of farmers with thick beards and smoking pipes, cattle dealers with shrewd dark faces, and a regiment of sales girls swaying to work in long black skirts. Even the statue of Queen Victoria, sitting on her plinth in Market Place, seemed a challenge to my presence. In the main square, a band of RIC men posted notices warning the Daughters of Erin that if they launched any further operations, serious military reprisals would be made. The notices ended with the slogan God Save the King.