Death on the Holy Mountain (30 page)

‘What do I do if see anybody coming out, sir? Do I arrest them?’

‘No, no, not yet,’ said Powerscourt hastily, ‘just keep watch for now. Johnny and I are going to see if we can get a sight of the place. We’ve got binoculars but the
person with the best view is going to be young Bradshaw up the hill.’

Powerscourt and Fitzgerald made their way back down to the road and turned left away from the entrance. After a hundred yards or so the trees thinned out and they saw another lake in front of
them. ‘Look, Francis,’ said Johnny, pulling his friend off the road. ‘That lodge must be very near the edge of this damned lake. If we follow the reeds in the water to the end of
the lake and round to the other side we should be able to get a sight of the place. We might have to go right round through one hundred and eighty degrees but it would be worth it,
surely.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Powerscourt.

It was just after five o’clock in the afternoon. There were about four hours of daylight left. The cross-country journey round the lake was not difficult. Occasionally the ground turned
soft and boggy and the mud level crept slowly up their trousers. Powerscourt kept glancing back over his shoulder to check whether he could see Butler Lodge. If he could see it, somebody in Butler
Lodge could see him. But most of the time all he could spot was the lake and the mountains behind it. Now they were further away he was struck by the steep rise of the mountain behind the house. It
seemed to shoot up out of the lake at an angle of about sixty degrees. Then they came to another wood and Johnny Fitzgerald pulled out his glasses. He inched his way to a gap between the trees.

‘Not yet, Francis,’ he whispered, ‘can’t be far to go now.’

After another hundred yards he looked again. He motioned to Powerscourt to pull out his binoculars. The two men lay on the ground fiddling with their apertures. Through them, across the lake
they could see the side of what must be Butler Lodge. It was a handsome Georgian building, well-proportioned, looking, Powerscourt thought, about the size of a decent hotel. There were great
windows looking out over a well-kept lawn down to the lake. Behind it the mountains shot up towards the sky. And, coming in a regular flow from two of the chimneys, smoke was rising to mingle with
the pure air of Connemara.

Cathal Rafferty spent three afternoons in a row watching the Head Gardener’s Cottage. He didn’t think Protestants would change their routines for the pilgrimage to
Croagh Patrick. Nobody came. Nobody went. He wondered if the two young people were going earlier, or maybe later. He thought of playing truant from school one afternoon so he could begin his vigil
around lunchtime, but decided that another beating from Brother Riordan and another summons for his parents to attend the school was too high a price to pay. One part of Father O’Donovan
Brady’s instructions he had successfully carried out. Through a cousin in the town who worked part time in the kitchens up at Butler’s Court he had learned that the young man was called
Johnpeter Kilross and that he was single, and the young woman was Alice Bracken, married, with her husband away in India or some other foreign part. Cathal felt the Father would be pleased with
him. He did not know what appealed to the priest about this kind of information. He supposed he was curious, like himself. For young Cathal had been thinking a lot about what he had seen through
the bedroom window. He couldn’t make any sense of it. Why were they taking all their clothes off unless they were going to have a bath – he knew that the gentry went in for baths
– and he hadn’t seen any sign of one of those things.

So here he sat, in the last lesson of the Monday after Reek Sunday, listening to Brother Riordan droning on about the rivers of Ireland. Quite what use it would be to anybody, acquiring
knowledge of these waterways, Cathal had no idea. The bloody man was sticking a great map all over the blackboard now with these damned rivers marked on it. The Shannon, the wretched fellow was
saying, pointing halfway down his map. Were they even now setting off for the Head Gardener’s Cottage, ready for the fray? The Liffey, running into Dublin, serving Ireland’s greatest
city, Brother Riordan blathered on. Perhaps they were in the cottage already? Perhaps they were beginning to take their clothes off and he, Cathal, was not there to see it. The Lagan, which flows
into the sea at Belfast Lough – did the man never stop talking, even for a minute? – and nourishes many of the great industries of that northern city. And now? Here Cathal’s
imagination failed him. Only reality would do, and reality was half an hour or more away when the last bell of the day would be rung and the boys would be free to leave.

Then Father Riordan did a terrible thing, quite against all the rules in Cathal’s view. He took down his map, told his class to take out their exercise books, draw a map of Ireland in
outline and fill in the routes of the three rivers they had been discussing. Not so, Cathal thought. You, Brother Riordan may have been discussing these rivers. We, the boys, have not. It was a low
trick asking people to fill in a map of Ireland when they mightn’t have been paying full attention. The Brother should have said at the start that the class would have to do an exercise. Then
they would have tried to pay attention. Desperate glances were exchanged all around the room. Anybody whose map was deemed unsatisfactory, Brother Riordan declaimed from his desk, would have to
stay behind after school.

Cathal opened his exercise book. Page after page contained harsh comments from Brother Riordan. ‘Poor,’ ‘Very poor,’ ‘Why were you not paying attention in class?
See me after school.’ Cathal often felt that his progress through the place was marked out by the critical remarks in his exercise book and the lashings of the strap. It wasn’t fair. He
opened a new page and began to draw what he thought was an outline map of Ireland. It wasn’t too bad, except that the south-western section, which should have been filled with the long inlets
of Kerry and Dingle, had turned out completely round. And the north was square, completely square like the top of a biscuit box. The Shannon, on Cathal’s page, began life at the top of the
square and flowed into the sea south of Belfast. The Liffey entered the Atlantic Ocean north of Galway and the Lagan was a pathetic dribble which seemed to begin at Wicklow and terminate at
Waterford. Cathal looked at his map. There was, he felt, something not quite right about it. And here was Brother Riordan, strap in hand, coming to inspect his work as most of the class filed out.
The Christian Brother looked carefully at the map. His finger ran experimentally down his strap. His face turned red. ‘Get out!’ he shouted at Cathal. ‘Get out of my sight!
You’re so stupid it’s a waste of time trying to teach you! Get out now!’ Cathal needed no second invitation. Before the Brother had finished his tirade he was out of the door and
heading at full speed for the demesne.

When he reached the Head Gardener’s Cottage he tiptoed round the front to look for any signs of life. All seemed quiet. Then he went on the detour that brought him behind the hedge close
to the bedroom window. He thought he could hear sounds coming from inside. There was a gap in the curtain once again. Very slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself by a sudden movement, he
rose to his full height and peeped in the window. Nobody had any clothes on. The pair of them were as naked as the day they were born. The man seemed to be lying on top of the girl and jolly
uncomfortable it looked too. Cathal dropped down slowly behind his hedge. He thought the young man might have been looking out of the window. He ran back to Butler’s Cross as fast as he
could. After all, he reflected as he went, he had a good start. Anybody trying to follow him would have to put their clothes on first. Surely, he said to himself, this has to be worth another five
shillings from Father O’Donovan Brady. Maybe even ten.

Powerscourt and Fitzgerald watched Butler Lodge for almost an hour. The smoke continued to pour regularly from the chimneys. The only human they saw was a young man who came
out of the front door and returned five minutes later with a bundle of logs. There was no sign of any women. Powerscourt crept back into the wood and beckoned to his friend.

‘What do you think, Johnny?’

Fitzgerald pulled his Daniel O’Connell memorial bottle out of a side pocket and took a tentative swig of the clear liquid. ‘I think they’re in there, Francis. I really do. I
know we haven’t seen any of the ladies, but I wouldn’t let them out of the house if I could help it. Christ, this stuff has got a kick in the tail. At first sip you think it’s
lightly spiced water or something like that. Then it tries to knock your head off. It reminds me of some Polish vodka a fellow gave me once. It was so powerful the authorities banned its
manufacture altogether in case it killed off half the population of Poland.’

‘I agree with you, Johnny, I think they’re here. I wish I knew what to do tomorrow, mind you. I hope that bloody hotel has got a telegraph.’ Powerscourt rubbed his leg, stiff
from lying by the edge of the water. ‘Could you stay here for a while, and keep watch? I’m going back to see if young Bradshaw has spotted anything up that damned mountain. I’ll
see you in the hotel about nine o’clock.’

Powerscourt found himself wondering what the cuisine would be like in Butler Lodge. If the kidnappers were all young men of the age he had seen so far, the bill of fare might not be too
elaborate. He speculated about how Lucy would survive on a regimen of ham and eggs for five days or so. He had to climb some way up the hill before he found Bradshaw. The young man had veered off a
couple of hundred yards to the right to find a better view.

‘Have a look for yourself, sir,’ he grinned, handing over the instrument. Powerscourt now had the back view of the lodge. He saw part of the drive leading up to it and the woods
stretching out on either side. On the far side of the lawn he thought he could see a small river, flowing into the lake. Two of the rooms on the first floor were visible, one of them with a window
open to let in the evening sunshine, but his eyesight was not good enough to spot a person inside. He asked the young man if he had seen any female inhabitants of the house on the upper floor, but
Bradshaw shook his head.

‘Keep watching for half an hour or so and then make your way to the hotel,’ Powerscourt said, patting the young man on the shoulder, and he set off to find his other watcher. Jones
was so well hidden that Powerscourt walked past him twice before he realized Jones was there. ‘Nobody’s gone in, nobody’s come out, nothing at all, sir,’ he said.
Powerscourt asked him to watch for another half an hour and then make his way to the Leenane Hotel. He wondered if they should take turns to watch the house through the night but he didn’t
see what purpose would be served. As far as he knew the kidnappers were not yet aware that there was a rescue mission at the gates.

Later that evening, after enormous helpings of Irish stew, Powerscourt outlined his plans for the following morning. Operations were to begin at first light. He and Johnny were going to watch
the road leading from Leenane to Butler Lodge, at a safe distance from the house. Bradshaw and Jones were to maintain a similar vigil on the other side. Anybody who looked as if they were going to
the place of captivity was to be seized, and any messages taken from them. Prisoners, Powerscourt explained, were to be taken to a secure room in the basement of the hotel which was fitted with a
great many locks. It was, the hotel keeper explained, where they had concealed contraband in days gone by.

‘I don’t know,’ Powerscourt said to Johnny after the two young men had gone to bed, ‘how long it will be before those thieves know we are here. Not long, I
shouldn’t think. Even if we intercept all the messages coming from Westport or wherever enemy headquarters is, it’s going to leak out of here somehow. I shouldn’t be at all
surprised if the hotel isn’t supplying them with food. I’ve sent a message to the authorities saying I think we’ve found them. I’ve asked for reinforcements, twenty men,
police or soldiers I don’t care, but I don’t suppose they’ll get here until the afternoon at the earliest.’

Johnny took another swig of his stout. His bottle of Daniel O’Connell memorial liquid seemed to have been reserved for emergencies. ‘Do you have a plan to get them out, Francis?
It’s going to be bloody difficult.’

‘I’m just trying to make it up as we go along,’ Powerscourt said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt. ‘I keep thinking about those two women and what they must be
going through. I keep thinking about Lucy too, and how I should feel if she was locked up down there in Butler Lodge.’

As he went to sleep that night Powerscourt reminded himself that there were now two days left until the expiry of the deadline, two days to spring Mary Ormonde and her sister Winifred from the
grasp of their captors. And while he knew that they only had value as long as they were alive, he was unsure how the terms of trade would change once the deadline had expired.

Low cloud lay over the mountains the following morning. The party of four rode past Killary Harbour, Ireland’s only fjord, snaking its way back into the hills and forward to the sea. We
may as well hang a banner round our necks saying rescue mission come to Butler Lodge, Powerscourt thought, as a few of the locals peered out of their windows to watch them go by. Whose side would
these people be on? he wondered. He suspected the loyalty of the inhabitants would not be with them. An hour and a half after they had set out Jones and Bradshaw brought the first catch of the day,
a defiant young man of about twenty years.

‘This is the fellow we saw on the road yesterday, sir,’ said Bradshaw, ‘or at least it’s the same horse. It had a little cross of white in the middle of its head.
We’ve left the horse tied to a tree up the road.’

Powerscourt looked at the young man. Was this the enemy he had been wrestling with all these weeks, a lad scarcely more than twenty who had barely started shaving?

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

The young man said nothing.