Women of Courage (102 page)

Andrew took the whiskey and held the cut-glass tumbler thoughtfully between himself and the fire. The flames were refracted into strange orange shapes in the peaty liquid. ‘He was right, too,’ he said calmly.

Sir Jonathan frowned. The arrogant self-assurance of this young man was one of the least attractive things about him. But it was also one of the reasons why he had been chosen for this job. He reminded himself of the medals Andrew had won, the success of his escape from behind German lines, the devastating fury he had unleashed in the trenches. If the man felt fear, Sir Jonathan thought, he seemed drawn to confront it.

Keneally knocked at the door. ‘Mr Harrison, sir,’ he said.

The drab little man with the pebble spectacles came in, carrying a briefcase. He nodded to Sir Jonathan, and held out a hand for Andrew to shake. The hand was soft, clammy.

Sir Jonathan poured him a drink and they all sat down. Harrison leaned forward on the edge of his chair, peering carefully at Andrew. ‘You’ve been unlucky,’ he said.

‘Yes. So was Radford.’

‘Quite. Which makes it more urgent than ever to deal with Collins and his murderers. We wanted this meeting to know what your plans are now.’

‘Now?’ Andrew raised an eyebrow at them both in faint surprise. ‘To go back to Ardmore, that’s all.’

‘But what about Collins?’

‘The German officer, Count von Hessel, has been deported. You don’t expect me to bring him back to life again, do you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? Mr Harrison, these men may be bog Irishmen, but they’re not completely stupid. They’re probably deeply suspicious about the whole story already. What do you want me to tell them - I knocked out my guards at Dun Laoghaire, caught the first train back, and now here I am ready to do the arms deal all over again?’

‘It’s a possibility. We could supply you with a cover story. Plant a tale in the newspapers to say that you’d escaped.’

Andrew thought, and said: ‘No. There would be too many people involved. Somebody would be bound to tell Collins.’

There was a silence. Sir Jonathan asked: ‘So what do you intend to do, then?’

‘Nothing. I tried, the police cocked it up. It’s finished.’

‘And Bill Radford? Don’t you want to avenge him?’

‘He knew the risks. The same could have happened to me.’

Sir Jonathan frowned. ‘I expected more of you than that, my boy.’

Andrew looked at him, and said nothing.

Harrison coughed. ‘Before you, er, decide to drop out of the whole business, something came to my attention the other day which perhaps you should see.’ He fiddled with the locks of his briefcase, opened it, and passed across a slim manila folder with two typed sheets of paper inside. ‘Have a look at those, would you. I’ve marked the relevant paragraphs in the margin.’

The sheets of paper were police reports about an investigation into the deaths of three young men who had been found in the river Blackwater with their car two weeks ago. At first it had been thought they had drowned, but the pathologist’s report showed that one had been shot, one had been stabbed to death, and the third had had his skull crushed by several blows to the head. Two, it seemed, had had some connection with Sinn Fein, but the third had not. The RIC were treating the deaths as murder.

Harrison had marked two paragraphs. The first stated that two of the dead men were connected with another investigation into a fire at Ardmore House, which was now being treated as arson. Servants stated that the men had been seen there on the night in question, and that they had apparently had a quarrel with the owner, Major Butler, some days before. There was therefore some suspicion that these men might have started the blaze.

The second marked paragraph referred to a witness - a Dr Scartan - who had driven across the bridge on the afternoon when it was believed the murders took place. He had met a fisherman there, who was just packing up his tackle to leave. He had had a short conversation with the man, and offered him a lift, but the fisherman had declined. The police were most anxious to meet this fisherman, and Dr Scartan was quite convinced he would recognize him if he met him, or if he saw a photograph.

Andrew read both paragraphs carefully, and then handed the folder back. ‘So?’ he said. ‘I don’t see the connection.’

The huge eyes peered at him carefully from behind the thick spectacles. ‘Well, Mr Butler, the point is really this. The local police are anxious to solve this crime, and it would appear that you, as the owner of Ardmore House, would have had at least some motive for wishing these men dead. Now if Dr Scartan were to see this photograph of you …’ He fumbled in the briefcase again, and brought out a small black-and-white print of Andrew in army battledress, not unlike the one on the wall of Sir Jonathan’s two sons. ‘… together with a description of the wound on your face, then he might possibly identify you as the fisherman. Which would be strong circumstantial evidence to link you with the unfortunate deaths of these three young men. Do you get my drift?’

Andrew sipped his drink, and contemplated him scornfully. ‘It’s hardly proof, though, is it? A decent barrister would make mincemeat of it in five minutes.’

‘I quite agree. In … normal circumstances. But if this case were brought before a jury, say, in the city of Cork, perhaps - there are unfortunately very strong prejudices at present against landlords with an army background, such as yourself, and in favour of what are misguidedly seen as innocent young Sinn Feiners. An Irish jury might not have quite the same grasp on logic and the rules of evidence that you might hope for.’

There was silence in the room. A clock chimed loudly somewhere outside. Andrew said: ‘Are you saying that if I don’t go on with this Collins business, you’ll throw me to the wolves?’

Harrison coughed apologetically. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite as crudely as that, Major Butler, but yes, that is the general idea.’

‘You’re forgetting something. I have a document in my possession which states quite clearly that I will be paid £10,000 for the arrest of Michael Collins, dead or alive. It was signed by Sir Jonathan in the presence of yourself and Commissioner Radford. If I were on trial, I could produce that in court.’

‘That would, indeed, be very embarrassing. Sir Jonathan and I would say it was a forgery, of course, but we would rather not have to. But you see, Major Butler, even if it brought us down, it would scarcely do you any good. One glance at a document like that, and your guilt in the eyes of the jury would be established. And the penalty for murder is still hanging. Even for the murder of Sinn Feiners.’

Andrew looked incredulous. ‘So you are saying that the only way you will save me from hanging for the murder of three Sinn Feiners, is to carry on and murder some more. Is that it?’

‘Precisely, Major Butler. And one Sinn Feiner in particular.’

There was another silence. Sir Jonathan had been looking stern, but increasingly embarrassed throughout the previous conversation. When Andrew glanced at him, he cleared his throat and said: ‘And of course, when you do kill Collins, the reward will be paid in full. You have my word on that. It’s just that we can’t afford any backsliding now, you see.’

‘I see,’ Andrew said thoughtfully. ‘So much for the concept of honour.’

‘Yes, well.’ Sir Jonathan’s face, Andrew noticed curiously, was actually quite red. Clearly this attempt at blackmail wasn’t Sir Jonathan’s idea, Andrew thought. But he’s going along with it, nevertheless. Now I know who’s running the show, anyway.

He turned back to the small, bug-eyed figure of Harrison. ‘And do I have your word that this RIC investigation goes no further, if I agree to carry on?’

‘Of course. We have no interest in harming you, only in defeating the enemy. It’s a war, you see, just a different kind of one. Everyone supports the troops when they’re fighting. But if they turn away, they get shot.’

‘My God.’ What do you know about fighting? Andrew thought
. Or do they have wars under the stones, too, where the slugs are
?

Sir Jonathan interrupted, clearly still embarrassed. ‘Our only interest is in defeating these swine before they ruin the country completely. If Lloyd George would give us martial law, we wouldn’t need this sort of cloak-and-dagger stuff. But he won’t, so it’s up to us to fight the Shinners by their own methods, that’s all. I’m sure you see that, Andrew, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Andrew softly. ‘I see it absolutely.’

‘Good. So you’ll do it?’

‘I’ll carry on, yes. But you can’t expect me to come up with a new plan, just like that.’

‘No, of course not. But you may want to carry on with the one Harrison put to you before? Resurrecting Count von Hessel?’

‘Perhaps. I’ll think about it. But no silly stories about him escaping at Dun Laoghaire. If he comes back, it’s from Germany. And that’ll take time.’

‘In that case it may be best that you drop out of sight for a few days,’ Sir Jonathan said. ‘I was thinking that before you came. We don’t want you seen walking around Dublin if you’re supposed to have been deported, do we?’

‘They may already have seen me,’ said Andrew bitterly. Though on reflection he thought it unlikely; he had been out of the house in Nelson Street only three times since the raid on Brendan Road. Once to buy food, and twice to come here.

‘Let’s hope not. But the longer you stay, the greater the risk. And as Harrison says, it might be unwise for you to go back to Ardmore at the moment. Why not go down to my house in Galway for a few days? There are none of Collins’ men there. You could relax, ride, breathe the sea air. Good shooting, too.’

Andrew did not particularly want to be beholden to Sir Jonathan for a home, but the prospect of staying alone in the house in Nelson Street, indoors most of the time to avoid a chance meeting with Daly, was beginning to pall. And Ardmore was just the contemplation of ruin, and now, it seemed, awkward interviews with the local RIC. At least, if Harrison knew he was in Galway, he couldn’t pressure him for instant results.

‘All right,’ he said gracelessly. ‘Why not?’

Harrison left, but Sir Jonathan asked if Andrew would mind staying behind for half an hour. ‘I have some letters and bills to send to Ferguson, my estate manager at Killrath,’ he said. ‘And with the posts so unreliable as they are, I would be grateful if you could take them with you.’

‘By all means.’ Andrew settled down in a corner to smoke, when the door of Sir Jonathan’s study opened and Catherine looked in. She saw Andrew and hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Father. If you’re busy it can keep for another time.’

Andrew got to his feet - slowly, as though it was a thing he had just remembered to do, rather than an automatic courtesy. She looked pale, he thought, more tired than before, with dark smudges round her eyes that were not artificial at all. He said: ‘No, please don’t leave on my account. I was hoping to see you and pay my respects or whatever one does, after the other evening.’

‘Thank you.’

Sir Jonathan looked up. ‘Catherine, don’t go. I’m just writing a couple of letters for Major Butler to take to Killrath. Could you entertain him for half an hour or so while he waits?’

Catherine was not sure she wanted to be bothered with this. But then, what else was there? With Sean gone, everything seemed drab, wearisome. At least this man had brought a little colour to the other evening, for an hour or so. So she said: ‘Of course,’ took him to the drawing room downstairs, and ordered tea.

There was something incongruous about this man in a flowered armchair. He looked tense, ill at ease, angry. When the muscles of his jaw moved, the livid scar on his cheek writhed like a snake. Catherine had the impression he was far away in his own mind, unaware of her. Keneally brought tea and she poured it, feeling foolish and annoyed by the silences that fell between them. Being a society hostess was a role that bored her, and she particularly hated being forced to do it and then ignored.

‘Well,’ she said suddenly. ‘Have you made up your mind yet?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘About your half of the bet. As I remember, the other night you said I could have your ruined house, Ardmore, if I could shoot better than you.’

She was gratified to see that she had his full attention. The hard dark eyes focused on her coldly. He said: ‘As I remember it was the other way around. You decided you wanted it.’

‘Perhaps.’ She sipped her tea coolly. ‘I can’t imagine it’s worth much now, anyway.’

Not to you perhaps, Andrew thought. Something about her eyes - dark, intense, determined - reminded him of the way Sir Jonathan had looked at him as they discussed their deal upstairs. It annoyed him. These people held all the cards, suddenly.

He said: ‘That house is my life, young lady. It would be stupid for me to bet about it unless you were ready to offer something equally valuable to you in return. Which you aren’t.’

She flushed. ‘Aren’t I? Try me.’

‘All right then.’ Andrew was annoyed now, but the situation amused him, too. At least, if he had to do what Sir Jonathan wanted, he could still take this high-and-mighty girl down a peg or two. He said: ‘Let’s pretend we’re in a fairy tale. If you win, you get the ruins of Ardmore; if I win, you still get them.’

‘What?’

‘As a wife, dear girl. I need one, and you seem to be reasonably well brought up, and able to pour the tea without spilling it. I offer the house; you offer yourself. Then you get Ardmore whatever happens.’

Despite herself, Catherine flushed bright red. Then she laughed. The laugh sounded forced even to her. My bluff has been called, she thought.

‘What’s the matter? My face is so unsightly you wouldn’t even consider it, I suppose.’

‘Oh no.’ She put her teacup down and stood up, feeling the blush mercifully drain away. ‘Your scar is the most attractive thing about you, as far as I can see. It’s not very gentlemanly, though, to compare me to a ruin. I’ll get the pistol now.’

‘Now?’ Surely the stupid girl didn’t mean it?

‘Why not? There’s a small walled garden behind the house. That’ll do.’

Stunned, he followed her out into the corridor. There was a locked cupboard round a corner, which she opened, and took out a Webley revolver. Deftly, she loaded six cartridges into it. ‘Three shots each. We’ll need something for the marks.’ She gave him the pistol, walked through to the kitchen, and came back with two sheets of paper, a pencil, some small nails, and a hammer.