Long Time Coming (16 page)

‘Why did he abandon the cause, exactly?’ I enquired disingenuously.

‘Yeah, he’s the only Easter Rising veteran who signed himself out of wartime internment,’ said Rachel. ‘I’d like to get to the bottom of that.’

‘There’s nothing I can tell you about the workings of his conscience,’ came Sir Miles’ tight-lipped reply. ‘Now, if you—’

‘How did you and Lady Linley first meet?’ I asked, relishing the sense I had that we were beginning to get under his skin.

‘Is that really any of your business?’

‘No,’ said Rachel, forestalling any sarcastic answer I might have come up with. ‘It isn’t. And we absolutely respect you and your wife’s right to privacy, Sir Miles. I wouldn’t want to press either of you to discuss issues you’d rather not.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Sir Miles looked faintly mollified.

‘It was actually primarily in the hope of seeing some of Desmond Quilligan’s paintings that we came here.’

‘As I said, you’ve had a wasted journey. My wife sold her brother’s paintings years ago.’

‘All of them?’ He must have caught the incredulity in my voice.

‘Yes. Every last damn one of them. Second-rate stuff they were, anyway. We didn’t get much for them. Virtually had to give them away.’

‘Didn’t Lady Linley want to keep at least one or two as a memento of her brother?’

‘Obviously not, young man. Otherwise she would have done. I didn’t force her to dispose of them, though I can’t say I was sorry she did. Some people are best forgotten. Desmond Quilligan was such a man. That’s my last word on the matter. I’m sure your … thesis … will be an excellent piece of work, Miss Spelling. We won’t expect a mention in the acknowledgements. Now, if you don’t mind, I have roses to prune.’

He’d already herded us halfway to the front door. Now he opened it and stood back, inviting us to leave. Our time was up. Rachel rolled her eyes at me and headed out.

‘How long ago were you knighted, Sir Miles?’ I asked as I passed him.

‘In 1968. When I retired.’

I paused on the threshold. ‘Retired from what?’

‘The Diplomatic Service.’

‘A well-deserved award, I’m sure. Did you have any sensitive postings in your time?’

‘One or two.’

‘Ever get sent to Ireland?’

‘Yes.’ His eyes narrowed.

‘Ah. That’ll be how you and Lady Linley met, then. You might as well have said.’ I smiled at him. ‘An interesting choice of wife for a career diplomat: the sister of an IRA terrorist.’

‘Is the Mini yours?’ he asked Rachel, looking straight past me. Why he should suppose it was hers rather than mine was unclear. Perhaps he thought a Mini no car for a man.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Take the drive slowly, would you? I don’t want gravel kicked up on to the lawn. It plays havoc with the mower. And the first cut of the season’s due any day.’

‘I’ll go carefully.’

‘You do that.’ His gaze switched back to me. ‘Good afternoon to you both.’

*

We pulled into a gateway half a mile or so along the road, from where we could look back at Hatchwell Hall. Rachel said nothing as she smoked a cigarette and stared towards the distant house. Eventually, I broke the silence.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think he’s a pompous sonofabitch and she’s got what she always wanted – and what she deserves.’

‘You didn’t like them, then?’

‘
Sir
Miles and
Lady
Linley? No. Was I meant to?’

‘We forgot to ask about Ardal.’

‘They wouldn’t have told us anything if we had – certainly not how to contact him. They were about as forthcoming as a pair of clams.’

‘Do you believe they’ve sold all the paintings?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because saying they have was the quickest and easiest way to get rid of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if
Sir
Miles was already on the phone to Yale, checking up on me. Actually, I hope he is. I want him to worry. It’ll be good for him.’

‘We didn’t come here to put the wind up Sir Miles.’

‘No. But it’s better than nothing.’

I wasn’t sure Eldritch would agree with Rachel about that. From his point of view, we had nothing to show for our visit: no lead on Ardal; no sight of the paintings; no progress on any front. It didn’t feel quite so bad to me, though I couldn’t have explained why exactly. Perhaps it was that the Linleys’ defensive reaction to our enquiries was a form of proof in itself. We were on to something.

Rachel offered to drop me at the Ritz when we made it back into central London through a grey, traffic-snarled dusk, but I opted to travel with her all the way to Islington, confessing I was in no hurry to face Eldritch with our news. She took pity on me, as I’d hoped she would, and suggested I have supper at the flat. I didn’t need any persuading, as must have been obvious to her. She left a note for
Marilyn saying we’d be back for dinner and we walked round to their local for a drink. To my surprise, the Linleys’ stonewalling hadn’t dented Rachel’s optimism in the slightest. She seemed, indeed, in a mood to celebrate.

‘Thanks for everything, Stephen,’ she said, chinking her glass against mine as we settled at a table.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’ I asked, genuinely puzzled.

‘I’ve made more progress in constructing a case against the Brownlow estate in the past thirty-six hours than I have in thirty-six months. That’s down to you.’

‘We can’t prove anything against the Linleys, Rachel,’ I cautioned her. ‘Not a thing.’

‘No. But we know who they are, don’t we? Simon Cardale won’t have bargained for that. It means we can put more pressure on him. I’ve met him a couple of times and he’s always been … nervily defensive. Next time, his defences might not hold.’

‘When will next time be?’

‘The sooner the better, I reckon.’

‘I’ll see what Eldritch says.’

‘OK. But I’m not about to let slip whatever advantage we have. You can tell Uncle Eldritch that from me.’

‘Maybe I won’t have to.’

‘Maybe not.’ She lit a cigarette and smiled when I accepted the offer of one. ‘Marilyn hates me smoking in the flat. I have to come here to puff away over my’ – she raised her eyebrows in preparation for her attempt at an English accent – ‘
half a bitter
.’ We both laughed at her effort. Then she frowned at me mock-solemnly. ‘Listen, Stephen. I’d better come clean with you. Marilyn, like all my friends, thinks I’m crazy to be plugging on with the Brownlow case. So, don’t mention where we’ve been or why, will you? My story is you’re some good-looking guy I picked up in the Royal Academy. We’ve been to Stonehenge for the day.’

‘
Stonehenge?
’

‘It popped into my head when I was on the phone to her.’

‘And did we enjoy ourselves?’

‘Well, I did. What about you?’

*

Marilyn Liebermann was a much closer approximation to the all-American girl than Rachel, with blonde flick-ups, a big pink-lipped smile and a generous figure. She expanded the supper menu to accommodate three without difficulty and was mercifully incurious about the wonders of Stonehenge. I had the impression she was delighted her friend had finally done something as conventional as bringing a man back for a meal. In fact, it was a relief to chat idly about music, politics and our varied life stories, to be reminded there was a world beyond the mystery Eldritch had lured me into. And there was no reason I couldn’t return to that world whenever I chose. Unless Rachel Banner was a reason.

I’d rather hoped I could avoid Eldritch until the morning. It was more than late enough when I reached the Ritz for him to be asleep, although whether sleeping was something he did much of I wasn’t entirely sure. In the event my uncertainty on the point was only reinforced – and my choice in the matter effectively removed – by the note he’d slipped under my door.

‘
Come and see me when you get in, whatever the time. I’ll be waiting up. We have much to discuss. E.
’

It is a sunny morning of beguiling warmth in Dublin. Eldritch Swan ambles north along O’Connell Street, smoking a cigarette and savouring the sweetness of the contrast with yesterday morning, which he began in a cell at Dublin Castle. He is in ample time for his appointment with Ardal Quilligan and confident their meeting will go well. He realizes, however, that he cannot afford to take anything for granted. Trams and buses are filling and emptying in orderly fashion at their stands beneath Nelson’s Pillar, the admiral watching them benignly from his stony perch. The city is going about its business at a calm and leisurely pace. But it has not always been thus. Swan is passing the General Post Office and there are bullet holes in the columns of its façade to remind him that in 1916 this was a scene of pitched battle. Glancing up at the building, he imagines Desmond Quilligan, rifle in hand, staring out defiantly from one of its windows twenty-four years earlier. The past and the future hold many surprises. And the wise man, as Swan fancies himself to be, must be prepared for them.

But some contingencies are simply too improbable, not to say incredible, to be prepared for. Never in his wildest imaginings would Swan suppose that twenty-six years from now he will be standing in the dinner queue at Portlaoise Prison when the inmate behind him whispers in his ear, ‘The IRA have blown up your Nelson’s Pillar in Dublin, Swanny. What d’you think of that, then?’

*

Ardal Quilligan was as tall as his brother, but narrower of build and humbler of bearing. Sleek-haired and bespectacled, neatly moustached and trimly dressed, he had acquired a palpable air of reticence and caution along with his legal training. He sat at his desk in a small, book-lined office overlooking Rotunda Gardens, carefully studying the document Swan had handed him, while Swan himself watched the smoke from his cigarette curl and spiral in the sunlight that streamed through the open window behind him. The hoof-clop and wheel-rumble of a horse and cart passing by in the square merged briefly with the clacking of typewriter keys in the next room. Then Quilligan laid the document down in front of him and plucked off his wire-framed glasses. His lengthy perusal was at an end.

‘This undertaking has the effect of granting my brother unfettered access to his son,’ he said, enunciating his words slowly and precisely. ‘You understand that, I assume.’

‘I do. As does Mr Cardale.’

‘It commits my brother to nothing in return.’

‘Mr Cardale will ask him to perform a small … artistic service … as an expression of his … appreciation.’

‘What service might that be?’

‘It would be agreed between them. I’m not privy to the details.’

‘But my brother already has some idea of what it might be?’

‘He seemed to have, yes.’

‘And is willing to perform it?’

‘Apparently so.’

‘Signing himself out of internment is no small matter, Mr Swan. It involves renouncing principles he’s held dear all his life. He’ll become a pariah to the men he’s served and suffered with.’

‘But he’ll know his son. And his son will know him.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And wouldn’t you welcome such a renunciation, Mr Quilligan? I’d imagine it must cause you some … professional embarrassment … to have a brother in prison.’

Quilligan coloured at that. Swan had ventured on to sensitive
territory. The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘Internment is not imprisonment, Mr Swan. It’s a … political matter.’

‘It looked and smelt and felt like imprisonment to me.’

‘Possibly, but—’ Quilligan broke off and took a calming drag on his cigarette, studying Swan as he exhaled. Then he slid the document across the desk to him. ‘We digress. And I’ve no wish to detain you. The undertaking is entirely satisfactory in form and content. I’ll visit my brother and tell him so.’

‘When will you go?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘And how long before …’

‘I’m not sure. I have no experience of such procedures. The Department of Justice isn’t exactly noted for its administrative alacrity. A week at least, I should say. More likely two. Possibly longer. I’ll keep you apprised, naturally. Where are you staying?’

‘The Shelbourne.’

‘Your wait will be a comfortable one, then.’ A smile hovered warily beneath the moustache. ‘A nice holiday from the war for you.’

‘So people keep telling me.’

Quilligan swung round in his chair and crossed his legs. He ran a hand down over his knee. He seemed nervous, unsure of himself. ‘About the boy, Mr Swan. My nephew. You’ve met him?’

‘Yes. And I took a snapshot for your brother to see. Would you like to see it yourself ?’

‘Thank you, yes. That’s … kind of you.’

Swan took the photograph out of his wallet and passed it over. ‘He’s a bright lad.’

‘Is he, though?’ Quilligan put his glasses back on and studied the child’s face. ‘He’ll be breaking a few hearts when he’s grown to manhood, I should reckon. Just like his father.’ He sighed and handed the photograph back. ‘My sister worries for him, Mr Swan. I know she’d like to see this and ask you about him. We’ve neither of us children of our own, you see. And our only nephew, little Simon, is being raised to be a perfect English gentleman. It saddens me, of course, but Isolde takes it harder. Women do, don’t they?’

‘If you want me to talk to her …’

‘I was hoping you might agree to. We have a house in Ballsbridge. Well, it’s the house we were born in, actually. Desmond too. Would you come to tea on Saturday?’

‘I’d be happy to.’

‘Let me just …’ Quilligan took out a pocket diary and frowningly consulted it. ‘Ah, no, I can’t do Saturday, now I come to look. What about Sunday?’

‘I have no plans at all for the weekend, Mr Quilligan.’

‘We’ll say Sunday, then. Would four o’clock suit?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Perfect.’ Quilligan withdrew a small pencil from the spine of the diary and made a note of the engagement, then carefully replaced the pencil and put the diary back in his pocket. Every move he made, it seemed to Swan, and by inference every word he spoke, was closely considered. He was altogether a close man. ‘One other thing, Mr Swan …’

‘Yes?’

‘Lord knows my brother has had his troubles. Many, you might feel, have been of his own making, though I could debate that, given the bitter and frequent intrusions history has made into the lives of Irishmen of our generation. But however grim his present situation may seem to you, there are in reality worse things he could be by far than an IRA internee. I wouldn’t want to bear any responsibility for him yet becoming one of those worse things. The scale of the concession Mr Cardale is offering worries me, I can’t deny it. And I shall tell Desmond so. You ought to be aware of that.’