Women of Courage (113 page)

Smythe read with interest, and growing astonishment. At the end he took his pipe out of his mouth, and fumbled for the ashtray, without taking his eyes off the papers.

‘Great Scott!’ he said. ‘Wherever did you get these?’

‘One of the few loyal postmen took them out of the mail and handed them on. They’re getting so cocky they use the regular postal service these days. It didn’t pay off this time.’

‘So they’re genuine, you think?’

‘Absolutely. So far as I can tell.’ Certainly the paper and the handwriting were genuine. Davis knew that, because he had seen Michael Collins write them himself. The information in them was another matter. The names and addresses of those who were likely to contribute to the Loan were in fact composed of those who had annoyed the Kilkenny Volunteers; and a covering letter had been sent out to the two commandants, ordering them on no account to attack the police barracks in question for at least two weeks. No doubt the RIC in the barracks would have a few sleepless nights, and might draft in reinforcements. So other barracks should be attacked, the ones the reinforcements might have come from.

‘That’s marvellous,’ said Smythe. ‘Can I keep them?’

Davis appeared to hesitate. ‘Unfortunately, no. Not everyone is happy about our just handing over information, you know. But I don’t see why you shouldn’t make copies. One good turn deserves another, after all.’

This was the crucial point which Davis had been banking on. Smythe was a meticulous officer, very keen to keep all his paperwork in order, and fascinated by technical gadgets. On previous visits he had proudly shown Davis his photographic copying machine: a camera mounted at the precise distance to take perfect pictures of any form of written document. He had explained how to calculate the different levels of lighting dependent on the shade of the paper and blackness of the ink, and demonstrated his small portable darkroom and developing equipment.

‘A perfect copy in under twenty minutes!’ he had boasted enthusiastically. ‘Or ten copies if you want. Amazingly useful. If I ever leave the army I might set up in business to mass-produce smaller versions of this, for the office of the future.’

All this equipment, Davis knew, was in a room at the other end of the corridor. He looked at Smythe, and waited.

It worked like a charm.

Smythe got to his feet, grinning with enthusiasm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘No problem with copies here. Do you want to come along and watch?’

Davis glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I’d love to, but I don’t have a lot of time. Do you mind if I …?’ He nodded at the filing cabinets.

‘Yes, of course. Go ahead. Just mind you put everything back neatly, won’t you. If you need any copies, just ask. My eye! This’ll be a feather in our caps, and no mistake.’

When he had gone out, Davis waited a few moments, then opened the door softly to check that everything was quiet in the corridor outside. It was. He shut the door, walked swiftly over to the desk, took the forged order out of his pocket, inked the rubber pad, and pressed it on to the paper carefully. The coat of arms of Dublin Castle stood out clearly. On impulse, he took a genuine sheet of paper, and stamped that too. Why use forged paper at all, if I don’t need to? he thought. Then he folded both sheets, put them back in his pocket, and began to search through the filing cabinets. He didn’t particularly need information on Brennan, but there was bound to be something interesting in these records, all the same.

When he came back, Smythe was delighted. He had the originals under his arm, and he held three wet, shining photographs by his fingertips.

‘There you are, see - perfect! Not a word you can’t read! Did you find what you wanted?’

‘A few things, yes.’ Davis showed a page of notes he had made. ‘Nothing decisive, but it all adds up.’

‘That’s it exactly.’ Smythe put the gleaming photographs on his desk, gave him back the original letters, and picked up his pipe to relight it. Between puffs, he went on: ‘One thing I learned … as intelligence officer … nothing so small you can ignore it … all pieces of a jigsaw that comes together in time.’ When the pipe was fully lit he took it out of his mouth, glanced at it critically, and waved the match up and down vigorously to put it out. ‘By Jove, Dick, on days like this I begin to feel the tide is turning and we’ve got these swine on the run. Don’t you know?’

‘Maybe.’ Davis picked up his notes and prepared to go. ‘We have good days and bad days.’

‘Course. But you’ve got this lad Brennan, and we’re going to make hay in Kilkenny. And there’s this German plot. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re seeing the last days of old Michael Collins, you know. Off to join the old pantheon of Irish heroes in the sky, what? High time, too.’

Davis paused as he shrugged on his coat. ‘What German plot?’

‘Oh, don’t you know?’ Smythe’s eyes twinkled, as if he had half expected this response. He puffed at his pipe tantalizingly. ‘No, probably you wouldn’t. All hush-hush. Forget I spoke.’

‘But what … ?’

Smythe tapped the side of his nose. ‘No, sorry, old chap. Absolutely top secret, all under wraps. Shouldn’t have mentioned it. Just keep your eyes peeled over the next couple of weeks, and you may get a nice surprise. Big thing, I promise you. But don’t breathe a word.’

Davis was intrigued. He turned over in his mind whether he should stay, and try to press the man to explain himself. But he decided against it. He had got what he came for, and that was more than enough. Not only that, but Smythe still trusted him. That was something to store up for the future.

Still, he thought, as he walked briskly across the Castle yard, why a
German
plot?

There was a connection there somewhere. But a connection with what?

When Sean awoke, Catherine was standing at the basin washing herself. She had her back to him, and she was quite naked. She bent forward and scooped water out of the bowl to wash her face, and then her neck and behind her ears and under her arms. He wondered if she were soaping her breasts but he couldn’t see that. Her movements were very brisk as though she were in a hurry to be clean. It was so cold in the room. The fire had died down and her breath steamed. She must have goose pimples everywhere, he thought, how can she bear the cold? He tried to get up but he couldn’t persuade himself to move; he was too warm in the bed and his erection was as hard as a rock. Then she lifted her leg to put her foot in the bowl and wash her leg and he knew it must be a dream because he had never seen her do anything like that. He had not even seen her wash before. But before he could wake up she turned round. Drops of water were running off her body like tears but her face was smiling. Her hair was damp around her face, her eyes shone with happiness, and she stretched out her dripping arms to embrace the man who stepped from the shadows behind Sean.

Sean could see nothing of this man in his dream except that he was fully clothed. His big male hand gripped her naked buttock and her face, which Sean could see over the man’s shoulder, laughed with pleasure.

He woke up then, sweating.

He did have an erection and he was lying on a hard bed under a grey blanket with a grimy stone ceiling eighteen inches above his head. There was an unpleasant stench in the room, and a snuffling grunt from the bunk below him which Sean recognized as being the sleeping sounds of O’Rourke. There was grey light in the small barred window to his right. It was the beginning of another day in Mountjoy Gaol.

Sean was sleeping fully clothed to keep warm. As he moved, the letter in his breast pocket crackled. She should’t have written to me, he thought, then I wouldn’t have had these dreams. He thought of tearing up the letter and stuffing the bits into the foetid chamberpot under O’Rourke’s bunk, but he couldn’t do it. That was the trouble: it was a link with the outside, with the life that might have been.

She has every right to go to someone else, he thought. I had my chance - I had her, even, as much as any man could have - and I rejected her. If I had behaved differently I would have had a right to be jealous. For the last two days, since he had received the letter, he had relived in his mind everything that had happened between himself and Catherine. He had wanted to blame her but there had come a time, late last night, when he had realized that it was unjust. She would almost certainly have stayed by him, if he had wanted her to.

The trouble was that it was only now, when he knew he was going to die, that he could admit to himself how much he needed her.

He had realized he was going to die yesterday when Kee had charged him with the murder of Assistant Commissioner Radford. The Ulster detective had been quite cold, hard, correct, with the light of utter certainty in his eyes.

‘You have the right to stay silent if you choose,’ he had said. ‘But anything you do say will be taken down and used in evidence. The trial should take place next month.’

Kee had been quite calm, watching Sean intently to see what his reaction would be. Sean had been stunned.

‘How do you know that?’ he had said.

‘You admit it then?’

Kee had been sitting, while Sean stood to attention in front of him. The young detective, Foster, had been standing behind Kee, watching Sean. Sean had looked from one to the other of them, searching for words. Why not admit it? he thought. It was an act of war – I’m proud of what I’ve done. But he wanted to live, too.

So instead, he had said: ‘What evidence do you have?’

‘Forensic evidence. The bullets in your gun match exactly those taken from the body of Radford.’

‘I don’t believe you. That’s impossible to prove.’

‘We’ll see about that in court. Do you want a lawyer?’

‘I’m a soldier of the Irish Republic. I don’t recognize British courts in Ireland.’

‘You’ll get a lawyer anyway. Even back-street murderers are entitled to a fair trial.’

‘It wasn’t murder, it was an act of war! He had a gun, too.’

There had been a long, shattering silence. Kee and Foster had stared at him, and Sean began to realize what he had said.

Kee had asked, quite gently: ‘How did you know he had a gun, Sean?’

‘I read it in the newspapers.’

‘I see.’ No one in the room believed that. It had been a sort of relief to Sean that they now all accepted what had happened. He thought of the confessional, the relief that came after admitting sins, the welcome back to the fold of humanity.

‘Who was the other fellow with you?’

It was the wrong question. At that moment Sean might have admitted the killing if he had been asked directly, but he would not betray a colleague. There was no answer.

Kee sighed. ‘There’s just a couple of things that still puzzle me about this, Sean. How could you be sure you’d shoot the right man? It was a foggy night - you could have killed anyone. How could you be sure what he looked like, and which hotel he was staying in?’

Kee had not expected answers to these questions, and none had come. But he had planted them deliberately in Sean’s mind, so that later, when he was back in his cell, he would think about them.

And then discuss them with O’Rourke.

Kee’s plan nearly failed. For most of the afternoon, Sean and O’Rourke debated whether it was really possible to prove that a particular bullet had come from a particular gun. Neither knew, but both doubted it. But the only way Sean would be able to challenge such evidence would be to accept a lawyer and recognize the existence of the court. That Sean refused to do. None of the martyrs of 1916 had done it: he could not do it now, when the Republic was even more in being than then. The British legal system would win, therefore, by default.

‘But since I did it anyway,’ Sean said, ‘I suppose it doesn’t make much difference.’

There had followed a long silence while he had considered how he would die. O’Rourke, sensing the direction of his thoughts, began to talk of the heroism of the earlier martyrs: of Thomas Clarke, who had sighed with relief when he knew he would not have to endure another long prison sentence; of the Pearse brothers; of MacDonagh, who had died ‘like a prince’; of James Connolly, white with pain from his smashed ankle, who had had to be sat up on his stretcher to be shot. All of them had faced the firing squad with pride. Sean would be hanged, like Robert Emmet in 1803.

Upstairs, Kee yawned, and drummed his fingers on the table with frustration. It was not until five thirty in the afternoon that he heard Sean say: ‘At least they’re puzzled about one thing.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘How I could recognize Radford and know what time he would go back to his hotel.’

‘How did you?’

Sean laughed. ‘One of his own bloody detectives, that’s what. He identified the fellow for us. He’ll do the same for Kee before long, I bet you.’

O’Rourke was delighted. ‘You mean we have our boys right in there among the peelers?’

‘We do that. Not that I like the fellow all that much, mind. He did the job for us, all the same.’ He paused, and then, to Kee’s intense frustration, added: ‘But you’d best keep quiet about that, Dan. It must be a dangerous business, and if the word got out they’d be setting up the devil’s own hunt for the boy.’

‘Surely,’ O’Rourke agreed. ‘Me lips are sealed. And if you don’t tell me his name, I couldn’t pick him out if they stuck pins in me, could I now?’

And with that, Kee had to be content.

29. Prison Visit

L
IEUTENANT ALAN Wilson sat in the front seat of the Peerless armoured car and picked his teeth. It was a difficult operation, for the front seat was narrow and cramped, and the driving of Private Garside, beside him, was never of the smoothest, but it expressed his boredom and contempt for the situation in which he found himself.

He had joined the army two years ago, just in time to see a month’s action in France before the armistice. Since then, army life, which he had hoped would give him opportunities for excitement and adventure, had deteriorated into an ever more dispiriting round of training, bull, and routine. He had hoped to be sent to Mesopotamia, where there was still action of the traditional sort, with the Imperial Army sorting out rebellions of colourful, factious tribesmen. He might have seen the Pyramids, made love to a belly dancer, driven his armoured car full tilt across the desert in pursuit of fleeing Arabs on camels. That would have been something to write home about, he thought. Instead, every morning at ten thirty, he drove half a mile along the North Circular Road to collect a dead cow.