Merciless Reason (11 page)

Life would not be easy for either Daisy or Tatty in Wildenstern Hall. They too would be driven to defying Gerald and the rest of the family. Sooner or later, one of them would go too far and would suffer for it. A horrible fate awaited any woman who went against the interests of the family. Once again, Nate found himself wondering what his mother had done to incur his father's wrath. Why had she been sent to the asylum, and then to that terrible cell in the attic of Wildenstern Hall?

“They've almost reached the Devil's Ladder, sir,” Clancy declared, bringing Nate back to the mountaintop with a start.

He realized that a chill had settled into his bones as he sat there on the cold stone. Nate turned to look up at his manservant, who had the telescope up to his eye.

“That's too close for my liking,” Clancy added. “We should not tarry any longer. And they appear to have a drawbreath. I think there can be no doubt about it now—they are Gerald's men, and they are dogging us every step we take.”

A drawbreath was an engimal, often used—by those who could afford the expensive creatures—to clean the carpets of manor houses with their wide mouths. But many of them could also track scents better than any bloodhound.

“Not Wildenstern men—probably bounty hunters,” Nate replied, standing up and taking the spyglass in time to see the last man disappear into the mouth of the gully. “But as long as your man from Limerick comes through, we'll have horses waiting for us when we get down to the other side and our new friends won't. We'll put some distance between us and them.”

“Unless they've anticipated us, and sent a man ahead with their mounts,” Clancy muttered. “I suspect this is an uncommon group of manhunters. They move with purpose. This detour may not have been wise, sir.”

“It gave us a clear sight of them,” Nate pointed out.

“We did not have to come miles out of our way, and climb the highest mountain in Ireland to do that, sir,” Clancy replied. “Some might say you were looking for another unnecessary challenge.”

“Oh, might they indeed?” Nate remarked, while putting his book away and slinging his pack onto his shoulders. “Might they not believe that this was all part of my cunning plan, then?”

“They would not know, not being party to this plan to which you refer, sir.”

Nate suppressed a grimace and looked away, feeling a hint of shame at his behavior. True, Clancy was a servant, but he was also so much more.

“I'm sorry I'm keeping you in the dark about much of this, Clancy,” he sighed, looking back at his manservant. “After all we've been through together—all you've done for me—you deserve better than this. But this is a bizarre situation, where knowledge itself is the enemy, even more than Gerald himself. The very nature of his research is the real threat, and the less people know about it, the safer everyone will be. And I'm trying to put all the scattered pieces together, so I can understand my role in all this. You see, it's not just Gerald that we need to be scared of. I'm part of the problem too. I'm sorry that I can't explain why—even to you.”

“There is no need to apologize, sir. If that is your judgment, I trust it completely.”

“Really? I wasn't sure I'd ever given you reason to trust my judgment.”

Clancy had the good sense not to reply. Nate turned away and started walking. One of the things he did not mention was that, having learned the truth about the intelligent particles, he had spent much of the last three years trying to keep their terrible potential from his mind. There were times when he had wondered if it might be better for everyone if he was dead. But learning that Gerald was still alive had put an end to that line of thinking.

So he had resolved to tell Clancy as little as possible, relying on the man's loyalty, as he had for most of his life.

They set off north-west, down the ridge towards Beenkeragh, the next peak. The weathered layer of grass-covered soil was thin here, the jagged protrusions of stone pushing up like teeth through gums. Instead of climbing up towards the next peak, they turned left, scrambling down a dangerous scree-covered­ slope towards a pair of round lakes below and to the west of them; Coomloughra Lough and the smaller Lough Eagher. They were both carrying backpacks heavy with supplies and weapons, and Nate had a short-handled shovel lashed to his. The ground was steep and treacherous, and stones slipped from under their boots, threatening to fall away from under them and send the two men tumbling down the rocky slope. Climbing up these mountains was tough, but it was far more dangerous coming down. A badly twisted ankle could leave a person stranded, and there was little shelter against the harsh elements in these mountains.

After a few near-misses, the two men reached the small valley that held the two loughs. The tops of their thighs, the sides of their knees and the muscles of their backs burned from the exertion. Nate strode to the near edge of Lough Eagher, searching for a distinctive boulder he knew would be there. There was a rough ‘W' carved into the underside of the rock, confirming he was in the right place.

A glance up the hill showed no sign of the men who were following them, but if they were in good shape, they could not be far from the top now. And Nate had no doubt these men were physically able.

Taking out his compass, he counted out a number of paces due east, taking him uphill again until he came to a patch of green grass that hinted at deeper earth. He shook off his pack, untied the shovel and started to dig.

In the past, Clancy would always have insisted he did any manual labor—and Nate would have agreed—but things had changed. This was a very personal moment, and Nate was no stranger to hard graft now. And he had to remind himself that Clancy was getting old. The manservant had struggled up the last stretch of Carrauntoohil, and he was breathing hard now, leaning forward, his hands on his knees. Nate looked at him with concern, but knew the man's pride would not let him slow the pace, or allow Nate to take some of the weight from his pack.

“Remember when Marcus, Berto and I took a trip here years ago?” Nate reminded him as he dug into the hard, stony Kerry soil. “It was before Marcus was due to head off to America to take up the reins of the business there. It was the last time all three of us were alone together as … well, as friends—before we all took our different paths into manhood, I suppose. Anyway, we felt it was a significant time. Berto had brought this little steel strongbox along—Marcus and I didn't know anything about it, but it turned out to be some of our mother's personal effects. Things she had left with Berto before she died.”

Nate stopped digging for a moment, gazing at the ground.

“She and Berto always had a special bond. He was different from the rest of us—and not just because of his … you know, romantic tastes. He was the only one who ever had the nerve—or the bloody-minded stupidity, whichever you want to call it—to defy Father's will. So while we were out walking up on the peak, he produced this box. Mother had not wanted Father to see it and I guess she gave it to Berto after their marriage started to turn sour, though I didn't think of it that way at the time. The point was, Berto wanted us three to bury it out here together—without looking inside—where Father and the rest of the family could never know about it or find it. A kind of ceremony, if you will.”

He prodded around in the fresh wound in the earth until he heard a dull ‘thunk.' Cleaning the last bit of soil away, he knelt down and used his fingers to scrape round the edges of a rectangular shape about a foot long and nine inches wide. Getting a hold, he pulled it out of the ground. It was a steel box, wrapped securely in an oilcloth in an attempt to keep it dry. Rust had crept across the surface of the box, but it was still intact.

Clancy was standing next to him now, watching with interest. The key was wrapped in the oilcloth and Nate picked it out and slipped it into the lock. Miraculously, it still worked. There was a click and Nate opened the lid.

Inside was a bundle of letters tied with string, a curled broken piece of metal a few inches long that appeared to be bronze—what might have been a piece from the rim of a large pot or urn—the folded front page and a few inner pages of a yellowing newspaper entitled
The Nation
, and a woman's handkerchief stained brown with old blood. Nate took out the handkerchief and held it up, frowning as he examined it in the dull light of the overcast sky.

There was also a small tarnished silver flask that, when opened, revealed a clear liquid that was obviously not water. Nate sniffed it, frowning, but was unable to identify it. He held it out to Clancy, who held it up to his nose.

“
Poitín,
sir,” the older man said, pronouncing the Irish word ‘putcheen.' “And from a strong batch, if I'm any judge.”

“What the hell was Mother doing with some of that stuff?” Nate muttered.

Poitín
was Irish moonshine, an illegal form of alcohol brewed using potatoes and sugar. It was one of the strongest drinks in the world, and if distilled badly it was pure poison, which could leave a person blind, or even dead. It was not an appropriate drink for a lady. Nate put the bottle back in the strongbox, shaking his head in confusion. Carefully folding the stained silk handkerchief into his own linen one, he slipped the small bundle into the inner pocket of his jacket, left the rest in the box and closed the lid, putting it away in his pack. He tied the shovel back on and stretched his limbs, rolling his shoulders before pulling the pack on.

Clancy had his spyglass out again, training it on the ridge above them.

“There they are, sir,” he said. “And I daresay they've seen us too.”

“Then it's time to move,” Nate replied. “Let's hope your man is punctual, Clancy. We'll be in sore need of those horses. And there'll be no more detours from here on in. If they like, they can dog us all the way to Wildenstern Hall.”

“I'm sure they look forward to the chase every bit as much as you do, sir.”

XIII

REORGANIZING THE DRAWING ROOM

DAISY SAT AT THE GRAND PIANO
in the light of the huge bay window, playing the tune a little too slowly, and thinking about Nate. She had been more honest with herself about her feelings of late. Ever since the death of her husband, she realized she had become increasingly lonely. Her work, and the mystery of Gerald's grand scheme, had helped distract her from that loneliness, but it was always there now, lying beneath her other emotions.

With a start, she realized what she was playing. It was Chopin's
Nocturne in C-sharp minor.
The tune Berto's manservant had heard being played on a violin, shortly before the man discovered his master's decapitated corpse. The tune Gerald had played to hold Berto in place while he killed him. Daisy swore under her breath and pulled her hands back from the keyboard as if she had been burnt. In a moment of sheer exasperation, she slapped the keys, knocking a jangled bang out of the instrument. The sound of the jarred strings reverberated around the large drawing room. Daisy glared at the piano as if it were the root of all her troubles. She grabbed the book of sheet music that lay on top of the piano and hurled it across the room, the pages flapping like a panicked bird. It struck a tall side-table beside one of the sofas, knocking a vase of flowers to the floor.

Two maids who, by position and posture, had remained invisible just outside the room, moved in to clear up the mess.

“Out!” she snapped at them, pointing at the door as if she were about to send them flying back through it by the sheer force of her thoughts.

In moments, they were gone, cowering outside and holding others back who came to investigate the commotion.

Daisy's fist came down on the keyboard, a clash of ruptured notes, followed by another thump and another. Standing up, she picked up the piano stool and stood foolishly looking at it, unsure of what she was doing. With a gasp of frustration, she put it down again and stared at it. Then, with an almighty shriek of long pent-up emotion, she seized it up again and hurled it through the large windowpane with a crash, watching with satisfaction as it bounced and broke on the paving stones outside.

“Is this a new trend in musical performance?” Elvira asked in her deep nasal voice, rolling up the path in her engimal wheelchair and stopping in front of the unfortunate stool. The old battleaxe's bulbous head turned on its accordion of chins and she aimed her listening horn in Daisy's direction. “I must confess I am more partial to the old-fashioned mode of
sitting
on one's stool.”

“When one reaches your age and stature,” Daisy replied, making no attempt to regain her civilized composure, “I imagine that being forced to sit on one's stool for long periods of time is a daily hazard.”

“Perhaps,” Elvira droned on in her overloud voice, “but neither is it proper to eject one's stool in public, and propel it across the garden.”

“Better out than in, as they say,” Daisy retorted. “I am of a mind to reorganize the drawing room. I suggest you keep your wandering, oversized seat well clear of the window.”

Elvira grunted and tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair. Daisy watched the obese old harpy roll away. That chair had been designed by Gerald for Berto, using a self-propelling wheelbarrow. Daisy had learned not long after that it was the very same engimal that had held her husband down, commanded by Gerald's music, while Gerald carried out the murder. Gerald had since made a ‘gift' of the chair to his mother. Daisy, like most of the family, suspected that the living wheelchair had more to do with impeding her poking nose and her caustic tongue than transporting her bloated backside. It was easier to keep her in her place if one could control the places to which she could go to.

An image of a steel-framed window, looking out of a sealed room in the attic, flashed across Daisy's mind. She was reminded again that there could be a heavy price to pay for any woman who defied the head of the Wildenstern family.

Daisy turned round to find Leo standing right behind her.

“Hello, Daisy!” he said cheerfully, a beam of sheltered innocence lighting up his face. “What happened to the window? Did you break it? How? Mummy and I were with Big Uncle in the mountains! We saw Mister Gordon's new machines!”

“Did you really?” Daisy asked. “Where was that?”

“In the
mountains
, I said, silly!” Leo said impatiently, rolling his expressive blue eyes. “Mister Gordon says we're going to—”

“Now, Leopold, what did I say about our day trip?” His mother spoke up, standing at the door of the drawing room.

“You said it was ‘our little secret',” Leo sighed, as if he felt the time limit had already run out on that particular agreement. “Can't I even tell Daisy?”

“Not even Daisy, my love. Come away from that broken glass, we don't want you to ruin your good shoes.” Elizabeth glided into the room, looking resplendent in a royal blue dress. She settled gracefully onto one of the sofas and laid her hands upon her lap.

“It's a secret,” Leo said, shrugging apologetically to Daisy and then walking over to the piano.

He glanced shyly at Daisy, and with an exaggerated motion brought his right index finger down on one of the keys with a plink. Daisy smiled and came over, playing the first few notes of a tune that started with his choice of note. He tapped out another note, and she followed it with another snippet of a tune.

“Mister Gordon has a piano in the mountains … but with
pipes
,” Leo said softly.

“You mean like a church organ?” Daisy asked.

“Remember what
I said
,” Elizabeth's voice cut across them.

There was a tone in it that sent a chill through Daisy. Leo's face went pale and he swiveled on his heel, trudging away from the piano and sitting down beside his mother on the sofa.

“You know boys and their imaginations,” Elizabeth breathed, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

Daisy held her gaze for a few seconds, but then another voice behind her made her look round.

“Have you seen Cathal?” Tatty asked, standing on the paving stones outside the window.

“No,” Daisy replied. “He wasn't at breakfast either.”

“I need him to help me look for Siren,” Tatty told her. “The little rotter's gone missing again. I swear, it'll go back on its chain for good if it keeps flying off like this. Here, what did you say to Elvira? I just saw her roll past and she … What's that phrase Cathal uses? ‘She had a face on her like a slapped arse.'”

The girl's face broke into a wide grin as she said it—a common expression whenever she uttered some verbal bombshell designed to shock.

“Dear God, Tatty, that's no way to speak.”

“But—”

“And I don't
care
if Cathal says it. He's hardly a shining example of etiquette.”

Tatty gave the shattered window an obvious glance and raised her eyebrows at her friend.

“I'm reorganizing,” Daisy explained again. “Here, I'll help you look for Siren.” A thought occurred to her, and she glanced back at Elizabeth. “We'd better look for Cathal too. I … I wanted to ask him a few questions of … of a scientific nature.”

“Gracious, your life is full of questions!” Elizabeth observed. “Why, you must spend half your life in a state of befuddlement. How bewildering it must be, to be you! Perhaps Cathal suffers from the same malady and he simply wandered off in a fog of his own making, just as Nathaniel did. And speaking of states of confusion, have you begun compiling a briefing for your successor? Don't forget, your new master will be arriving any day now. We wouldn't want you to be unprepared.”

Daisy wondered how many hours a day she spent trying to ignore Elizabeth. Too many, she decided.

“We'll start by looking in the gardens,” she said to Tatty. “Let me get my coat and hat, and I'll join you.”

“Excellent,” Tatty replied. She looked at the spread of shattered glass and broken wood around her and lifted her face up to Daisy again. “Will you be using the door, or shall I wait by one of the windows?”

Daisy laughed, and was about to reply when one of the footmen came into the room. One look at his face told Daisy that their hunt for Siren—and Cathal—would have to be postponed.

The dead body of a man lay somewhere amid the muddy ruins of the three tiny houses. The distraught family had been prevented from digging it out until Detective Inspector Urskin, of the Royal Irish Constabulary, had finished examining the scene. So the broken mess that was the ruined clachan of thatched turf cabins was almost unchanged when Daisy arrived. She spotted Urskin, standing in the shadow of the enormous engimal known as Trom. Opening the carriage door as soon as the vehicle came to a halt, she stepped out into the light spray of rain that was falling, and made straight for the inspector. Tatty was close on her heels, neither young woman bothering to mind her shoes in the marsh-like mud surrounding the site of the wreckage. A footman tried to follow them with an umbrella, intending to find a cleaner path for them to take, but Daisy waved him away impatiently.

There was a hostile tension in the air, and the rain failed to dampen that aggression. Women stood in groups, upset and grieving and bitter. Dressed in ragged dresses and scarves, their feet bare of shoes, they cursed the soldiers and police and the hated Wildenstern family. But the men were quieter, standing with hats in hands, their faces stiff with frustration … and barely restrained violence. Some of these people would once have lived in the cottages that were now no more than a crushed area of turf, stone and wood. Others were here in support, trying to block the army and the policemen from getting to the cabins. Those soldiers and peelers had now created a cordon around the ruined buildings. But the troops had only been there as crowd control—rumor had it that some of the men had connections with the Fenian rebels and might cause trouble. The people being evicted would be prevented from taking refuge with their neighbors, and anyone who took them in would risk being evicted themselves. That was the policy—landlords could not tolerate any unwanted miscreants hanging around after they had been ejected from their homes.

On most estates, the eviction of tenants who could not pay their rent was carried out by ‘crowbar brigades' of bailiffs, forcing the inhabitants out of the house and burning the thatched roof of the building or destroying the cabin itself. The Wildensterns had a more thorough method, one Daisy had been trying for years to bring to an end.

Trom was the type of engimal known as a bull-razer, a creature larger than most of the cottages the tenants lived in. It was a ponderous, dull-witted creature that moved along on rolling tracks, guided by its driver who stood on its back, reins in hand. Trom's jaw jutted out before it like the blade of a giant plough, or the cow-catcher on the front of an American steam locomotive, but much, much bigger. This beast could reduce a peasant cabin to rubble with one unstoppable charge. Daisy had once seen Trom ram a steam train off its tracks. It was both cruel and ridiculous to use a monster such as this against ordinary people's homes.

But Oliver, Gideon's son, was responsible for managing the estates, and he cared little for Daisy's opinions. It was his view that control of the peasant workforce was made all the easier if one could ‘instill a bit of lively terror' from time to time.

Oliver now stood leaning against the edge of Trom's jaw, looking wearily at the gold pocket-watch in his left hand and fingering the waxed tips of his black handlebar moustache with his right. A thug-faced bailiff looked desperately out of place, standing behind him holding an umbrella over his employer's head. Inspector Urskin was writing with a pencil in his notebook, having made a careful examination of the scene in his slow methodical manner. He kept his head bent over the notebook to shield it from the rain. He was a thin-featured man dressed in a long grey coat, a plain blue suit and shoes that were normally well cared-for, but today were caked in mud. A well-used bowler hat sat on his head. The policeman had a crumpled face that made him look older than he was, and his thick lip-whisker—not nearly as well groomed as Oliver's—was a shade lighter than his auburn hair. Daisy and Tatty knew him, and felt reassured by his presence. Urskin was a quietly intelligent man, and one who managed to balance a sound ethical sense with the unpleasant practicalities of his job.

Detective inspectors did not normally attend evictions, so Daisy assumed he had come here for another reason and had now taken control of the scene of the incident. He looked up and raised his hat to her when he saw her approaching.

“Good afternoon, your Grace,” he greeted her in his earthy Midlands accent. “Word travels fast hereabouts, it seems. The accident could only have 'appened half an hour ago. Though, if you don't mind my sayin' it, I am not surprised to see you takin' a personal interest.”