Irish Cream

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “He said it was a rifle shot, didn’t he?”

  “He did,” I replied

  “Who in the village would have a rifle?”

  “I doubt that the Ribbonmen would. They use clubs and old pikes and the occasional revolver.”

  “Do you know who the Ribbonmen are, Dick?”

  “Not really. They’re a small and shifting group, I expect. I could guess whether a given man might be a member but I might easily be wrong.”

  “I’m not asking you to violate any secrets.”

  “All I know is what my people tell me, one way or another. They’re afraid of the Ribbonmen. So they do not speak to me about them.”

  He nodded.

  “He may have been a bad man. I will be careful about my new agent. Still, I cannot let the murder of one of my people go unpunished.”

  “Or at least uninvestigated.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “Of course … How deep is the hatred against us here?”

  “Fairly deep but mostly passive. I have found myself thinking, however, that should there be another rising, this region could be as dangerous as the Khyber Pass.”

  “I have considered the same thing. Perhaps I should return to England with my wife and child.”

  “I doubt that you are in danger at the present … How is your wife keeping?”

  “She’s fine. I’m taking her to Dublin next week for her confinement. I told her about my Indian family, by the way. Her reaction astonished me.”

  “Ah?”

  “She wept for the poor Indian woman and for me and prayed for them. Not what I expected. Mary Margaret is much more sophisticated a woman than I would have thought.”

  Her reaction was what I would have expected. Rob confused sophistication with compassion, the latter of which most women possess in an unlimited supply.

  We arrived at the parish house at dawn. Mrs. O’Flynn was waiting for us.

  “Your Reverence, milord,” she said, nodding her head in respect, “you both look like you need a cup of tea.”

  Lord Skeffington, who was always respectful of women, leaned over from his white stallion and kissed her hand.

  “I need to see my wife even more, Mary Catherine. However, thank you very much.”

  “There will be a wake this afternoon, Your Reverence?”

  “There will. Up at Widow Cudahy’s house.”

  “And a Christian burial?”

  “He died a son of the Church.”

  I dismounted and gave the reins to my groom, who had appeared as he always does when I return, no matter the hour of the day or night. The mare neighed in delight. A toothless man of indeterminate old age, Phelan seemed to be able to read the minds of horses.

  “She’s a grand little girl isn’t she, Your Reverence?”

  “She’s all of that,” I said, patting the horse’s head. She neighed again.

  “And what will happen to herself?” Mrs. O’Flynn asked when I returned to the house.

  “Mrs. Cudahy?”

  Who else?

  “Yes, Your Reverence.”

  “Lord Skeffington promised her Tim Allen’s pension. He’s a man of his word.”

  She sighed.

  “He is indeed … Will Your Reverence take some breakfast?”

  “Maybe later. I fear I must take some sleep first.”

  Naps, I firmly believe, are an indulgence. However, there are times when we have no choice but to indulge ourselves.

  “Would you tell the sexton to begin the digging of a grave.”

  “Yes, Your Reverence. I have already told folk that there will be no Mass this morning. They understand.”

  “What do people say about the Widow Cudahy?”

  “Women are very sympathetic.”

  They would be of course.

  My sleep was deep and troubled, though when I awoke, groggy and confused, I could remember no dreams. I suspected that Mrs. O’Flynn and Mrs. Cudahy and Mary Margaret Skeffington were confused as one person in them.

  14

  “THERE ARE men waiting for you outside, Your Reverence,” she told me when I finally stumbled into the parlor.

  I went to the door. Three bearded and unkempt fellows, solemn and somber and hats in hand, stood in poses of grim determination.

  “Lynch, Joyce, Regan,” I said, remembering their names.

  “You’ll not be burying that heathen in consecrated ground,” Joyce began.

  “Which heathen, Mr. Joyce?”

  “You know the one I mean.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  I was in truth spoiling for a fight. I would not be intimidated by these ignoramuses.

  “That bastard Tim Allen.”

  “He got what he deserved.”

  “That woman deserves a horsewhipping.”

  “And you stalwarts from the Ribbonmen are the brave Irish patriots who will do it … I warn you she’s under Lord Skeffington’s protection.”

  “We’re not Ribbonmen … We speak for the whole townland.”

  “I rather doubt that.”

  “We won’t let you bury him in consecrated ground.”

  “I’ll make that determination without seeking your advice. I warn you not to interfere with the rites of the Church. I’ll read you out from the altar if you do. And as for Mrs. Cudahy, you know as well as I do that the women of the parish, no matter what they might have said about her in the past, will protect her now.”

  “It ain’t right,” Lynch grumbled.

  “I’ll be the one to determine what the Chuch thinks is right in this community. Now, gentlemen, I bid you good afternoon.”

  I slammed the door in their faces.

  Mrs. O’Flynn stood behind me in the parlor.

  “Well, Mrs. O’Flynn?”

  “They’re blatherskites, Your Reverence.”

  “Ribbonmen?”

  “They’d like to think they are.”

  Later in the afternoon as I rode up to the wake, under a serene blue sky and a bright sun, I stopped at the police barracks.

  “Sergeant Kyle, there have been threats to interfere with the burial tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m not surprised, Your Reverence.”

  “Lynch, Joyce, and Regan.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me either. The real Ribbonmen would not interfere with a rite of the Holy Church. They’re all good Catholics. I’ll keep an eye on them fellas.”

  “Do you think the Ribbonmen killed Tim Allen?”

  “If they didn’t, it was not for want of talking about it. Still, they’d not be wanting to battle Lord Skeffington. They’re afraid of him, as well they might be.”

  “And they don’t have rifles?”

  “Not as I know, Father.”

  “They also threatened to horsewhip the Widow Cudahy.”

  “Their own women would horsewhip them if they tried, not to say the real Ribbonmen.”

  I did not ask who the real Ribbonmen were. When the inspector came down from Belfast I didn’t want to know.

  It was a small and quiet wake. A couple of Rob’s men stood outside, hunting guns in the crook of their arms. Inside Lord Skeffington himself, grave in his red coat and medals, and a couple of servants stood at the wall. Several women sat near the Widow Cudahy, grim and graceful in her black dress and dry-eyed. They were, I noted, the influential women of the village, including my housekeeper and her daughter.

  There were tiny jars of poteen on a sideboard, but no one was drinking. Yes, a different kind of wake. I led the Rosary in English out of deference to Milord Skeffington.

  “Thank you for coming, Padre,” he said, shaking my hand.

  “You sound like we’re in the Khyber Pass.”

  “I feel that way.”

  “So you ride over in your red coat to defy the Ribbonmen?”

  He smiled thinly.

  “You understand the British military mind all too well, Dick.”

  “And that’s what a V.C. looks like.” I
nodded at his chest.

  “It wasn’t courage that won it for me, Padre. It was damned foolishness.”

  “Threats have been made to interfere with the burial. I doubt that anything will come of it. Sergeant Kyle will have some men there.”

  “And I’ll send some of my men … We’ll be on our way to Dublin tomorrow.”

  “With an escort to the train?”

  “You think it’s necessary?”

  “I think it would be wise.”

  He nodded.

  “A safe trip to you and herself and a happy return.”

  He shook my hand firmly and smiled.

  “I’m sure that it will be very happy.”

  I offered my hand in sympathy to the Widow Cudahy and nodded to the womenfolk. Ordinarily they would be horrified that a priest had shaken hands with a scarlet woman. However, in their collective and implicit wisdom they now expected that I would. Or should.

  It was a long way from the Cardinal in Dublin.

  I winked at Eileen O’Flynn, who winked back.

  Her mother had not asked my permission to come to the wake. She knew that I didn’t expect her to. Even if I had, she would not have asked.

  Branigan stopped me on the way back to my house. Naturally.

  “They don’t like burying him in sacred ground, Father.”

  “I expect they don’t. Nonetheless, I make those decisions. They don’t.”

  “There could be repercussions.”

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  When Mrs. O’Flynn brought me my tea that evening, she said, “It was good of you to come to the wake, Father.”

  “I was happy to see the women of the townland committing themselves to the protection of Mrs. Cudahy.”

  “There’s none of us who think the same thing couldn’t happen to us.”

  “Especially if they are attractive.”

  She didn’t reply. I hardly expected she would.

  It was a most unusual exchange between us. Somehow I exulted in it.

  There were no untoward events at the sparsely attended burial. I took it upon myself to make a few remarks, which I was sure would be carried to the farthest ends of the parish.

  “There are none of us,” I said, “who do not need forgiveness and none of us who are beyond it. Jesus came to tell us about God’s forgiveness—not that we had to earn it but that it was there for the asking, for the taking. At every graveside we understand forgiveness. If it wasn’t for that, none of us would ever join God and Jesus and Mary in heaven. So today we pray that we will find the forgiveness that God offers us and that Tim Allen will soon enjoy the fruits of that forgiveness.”

  When I left the burial site, my parishioners that were there turned their heads. Good enough for them. They knew what kind of a man I was. They ought not expect that I would back away from a confrontation.

  The Cardinal would have said that my words smacked of Lutheranism. I would have replied that we had preached that doctrine long before Luther.

  Sean Toole shook my hand afterwards.

  “Nicely said, Father. Some in the clerisy would think you spoke heresy. You and I know that you did not.”

  “Thank you, sir … I’m surprised to see you here. Did you know the man?”

  “No, Father, I did not. Save by reputation. I assume that handsome woman in black is his paramour.”

  “The Widow Cudahy.”

  “And what will happen to her?”

  His eyes inspected her, delighting in every detail.

  I had done the same thing, almost any man would. However, I had done it much more discreetly.

  “Lord Skeffington has promised her Tim Allen’s pension.”

  “Has he now? With any encumbrances?”

  “I hardly think so. He is, as you know, well married to a lovely young wife.”

  “Who, I am told, is with child … Still the English have a long imperial history of discreet polygamy with captive peoples.”

  “Not for a couple of centuries here.”

  “Quite correct, Father, quite correct … Is it true that His Lordship appeared at the wake last night in his full regimentals, complete with his V.C.?”

  “Indeed.”

  “One must give them due credit for the style in their follies … Doubtless you wonder why I join this pathetic little group of mourners?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is a historic event. Despite all the provocation, the Irish rarely sanction traitors from within. Perhaps because they understand the temptation.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It will be interesting to see how the occupying power behaves as well as the people in the townland.”

  “They will send down a horde of constables and an inspector from Belfast who act like they know everything and in fact will know nothing. They will blame the Ribbonmen …”

  “Who don’t own rifles.”

  “Precisely. They will try to persuade some of the local people to give false witness. Failing that, they will go back to Belfast.”

  “It would be different if the lord had been shot.”

  “There’d be redcoats everywhere.”

  “Yes, indeed. That, however, is most unlikely to happen.”

  “I would hope not.

  It was a strange conversation. I would remember it later.

  I had more immediate problems.

  At both Masses on Sunday, the congregation was silent during the hymns before and after Mass, Irish-language religious hymns that I had resurrected from the past. They averted their eyes from me at sermon time as I denounced refusal to forgive.

  I stood solemnly outside the church after the Masses, as I usually did. No one offered to greet me, except for some of my close friends.

  “They are fools, Your Reverence,” Mrs. O’Flynn said.

  “More likely afraid of the Ribbonmen.”

  “Afraid of one another. They will get over it.”

  “I hate them all,” the good Eileen insisted. “I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.”

  “You didn’t understand my sermon, Eileen.”

  “Yes, Father. I’m sorry. Can I say that I dislike them?”

  “That is certainly your privilege.”

  Two days later the police from Belfast arrived, led by the dour, lugubrious Inspector Crawford.

  The day of his arrival he called on me.

  “We meet again, Reverend Lonigan.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “It is obvious that the Ribbonmen are responsible for this horrible crime.”

  “Is it?”

  “You of course know of the Ribbonmen in your parish.”

  “I have heard that such a group exists. I often think they are phantoms—like the faerie.”

  “We have here a very real murder, Reverend. Do you seriously propose that it was committed by the faerie?”

  “I rather propose that everything is blamed on the Ribbonmen, like the older folk blame everything on the faerie. That is no proof that the Ribbonmen actually exist save as a fantasy, much less that they murdered Tim Allen.”

  “You had problems with Mr. Allen, did you not?”

  “Despite past problems, I buried him in consecrated ground.”

  “Your people tell you everything, do they not, Reverend?”

  “They only tell me what they want me to know.”

  “Surely they’ve hinted to you who the killers are.”

  “They have hinted no such thing, Inspector. I am not about to become an informer for the Royal Irish Constabulary .”

  “They must know, however, must they not?”

  “In truth, I doubt it. You will question them, of course. However, I very much doubt that you hear anything but vague allusions. You may be able to bribe some of them to perjure themselves against their enemies, but I think not. That would be very dangerous behavior in this part of Ireland.”

  “You know men named Lynch and Joyce?”

  “Those are common names in this part of Ireland, Insp
ector, as I’m sure you know.”

  He glanced at his notebook.

  “Pat Jim Lynch and Jim Pat Joyce.”

  “I am familiar with them.”

  “To the best of your knowledge are they Ribbonmen?”

  “I know nothing about that. If they are, the other Ribbonmen are fools.”

  He closed the notebook thoughtfully.

  “I am told that you are a close friend of Lord Skeffington.”

  “I am not sure that I deserve that honor.”

  “This has been a terrible tragedy for him.”

  “His lordship is a former military commander, as I’m sure you know.”

  “We wonder if he is in jeopardy here.”

  I sighed.

  “I think not, Inspector. He is well liked here as a generous lord. His wife is adored. Many other lords here on the outer edge of Ulster might be in danger. Yet I can guarantee nothing.”

  “If you knew of a plot which threatened him, would you intervene?”

  “I certainly would.”

  “Even if you learned of it in the confessional?”

  “You should know better than to ask that question, Inspector.”

  He shrugged, put on his absurd hat, and left the parish house. Doubtless he fancied himself a stern inquisitor, a man of the law who could easily trap the superstitious parish priest. It had been simple to cope with him. I wondered if the young lad who had been listening outside my deliberately open window would report the conversation accurately.

  I review in my mind a list of men in the parish who might have guns that could have been used to kill Tim Allen. I don’t have one, as I do not approve of hunting—or fishing for that matter. Dr. McGrath has a veritable arsenal. Finbar Smith, the storekeeper, has an old weapon from the Crimean War which probably does not work. His Lordship possesses a whole rack of weapons that he rarely uses. I assume that Sean Toole keeps guns in his aerie up in the hills. Obviously Sergeant Kyle has access to weapons. With the exception of the sergeant and Milord Skeffington, they all have the touch of the Fenian about them, though no particular reason to want to kill Tim Allen.

  There doubtless were others in the village and the townland who owned or could find weapons if they wanted to badly enough, including perhaps some of the phantom Ribbonmen. However, the parish would know about them even if they didn’t discuss the subject.