Blind Arrows Page 14

  Collins gave a simple shrug of his shoulders. ‘I like to think that we rescued her from her venal job at Dublin Castle. A place like that can be worse than prison, a counterforce to all that is good and noble in life. Her story goes deeper than anything I can tell you right now. Lily Merrin was destined to disappear right from the start, long before my men took her boy. It’s a complicated story and perhaps it’s best not to ask too many questions. Understand?’

  ‘How more complicated can kidnapping and blackmail be?’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll find out the answer to that question when you work out why she went missing in the first place. I suggest you take your search back to Dublin Castle, rather than meddling in the financial matters of the Republican Army.’

  ‘You’ve got my every move worked out.’

  ‘This is a game of chess we’re playing, Mr Kant.’

  He was aware of Collins manipulating him, but the feeling did not cause him any anxiety or anger. After all, Collins was a magician, an escape artist. It was almost a form of entertainment.

  Kant would have left at that moment but for the entrance of a man dressed in a threadbare coat and carrying a bulging briefcase. With the collar of his coat turned up against his hollow cheeks, the new arrival surveyed the crowd, his eyes adding and subtracting, multiplying and dividing, seizing upon every detail in the packed bar that might be of use for his secret collection. He caught sight of Collins at the bar, and his eyes lit up as though he had located a surprise windfall.

  ‘Dear Jesus,’ said Collins, scowling, ‘What’s Brugha doing here? Lugging round that bloody briefcase as though it were a suckling pig. Every time I see it, it’s gained a few pounds. Look at him, its wearing him into tatters.’

  Brugha’s briefcase had indeed gained weight, swinging against his thin body, looking as though it was about to break open and spill its hoard of paper scraps. A tall, severe looking man joined Brugha, and they began talking. Brugha’s head and shoulders were bent forward, as though bowed down by the weight of his briefcase.

  ‘Christ, he’s brought Mulcahy with him’, said Collins.

  Mulcahy appeared a little sad, his well-dressed frame hulking over Brugha’s. When he caught sight of Collins, he waved and pointed to a door at the back of the bar.

  Collins put on his jacket and hat, and dived through the crowd after them.

  A hand patted Kant’s arm, almost consolingly, and he turned to see the wire-rimmed glasses of O’Shea, the manager of the life assurance company. A frown criss-crossed his brow and he jerked his head sharply back, indicating that Kant should follow him to the back room. They slipped unnoticed from the bar, and into a tiny hallway, the door creaking shut upon the bawling crowd.

  O’Shea gave the reporter a whispered explanation of what was happening, before they entered the back room.

  ‘Mick is a master at hiding his worries,’ he said.

  A clock on the wall was showing the wrong time. It was as round and blank as Collins’ face, giving nothing away. He and the smartly dressed Mulcahy looked as though they were meeting as part of a business arrangement, while Brugha looked twitchy and unsure. Kant leaned back, made himself oblivious in the smoke and shadows.

  In sharp contrast to Collins and Mulcahy, there was no trace of comfort in Brugha’s clothing and appearance. His jacket was frayed at the edges, his shirt collar patched and worn out. His prominent eyes added to his scarecrow aspect. It struck Kant that Brugha’s outfit had been as carefully chosen as Collins’ soft grey business suit, the French shoes and the hat with its elegantly dented crown. Brugha intended to set an example of a revolutionary leader beyond reproach, one capable of financial discipline, even when luxuries were easily within reach.

  Collins wore a generous smile to show that he had nothing to fear from their company. By contrast, Mulcahy looked sad and dutiful, as if at pains to show he was taking no pleasure in the meeting. He made no objection when Collins sent for a bottle of whiskey from the bar.

  The IRA leader looked up at Mulcahy and said a few words in Irish in a tone of reproach.

  ‘How are the new shoes, Mick?’ replied Mulcahy. He had caught sight of Collins’ expensive-looking footwear.

  ‘They’re pinching a little. Let’s have a drink together Richard.’

  ‘You’ve been avoiding us, Mick.’ He began to draw patterns in the air with his fingers, but the movements were constricted and agitated, as though his hands were writhing against invisible chains.

  ‘Dublin Castle has been hot on my heels. Where’s your glass?’

  ‘I’m off the hard stuff.’ Mulcahy’s fingers strained for greater freedom. ‘These days it’s better to keep a clear head.’

  Collins shouted over his shoulder, ‘Where’s that bottle of whiskey?’

  Brugha stepped forward. ‘I’ve discovered some suspicious discrepancies in how you’ve been managing the IRA funds.’

  Mulcahy watched the two men closely, his fingers moving faster, like delicate counting instruments.

  Collins hit the table with the palm of his hand. ‘A bottle of whiskey,’ he shouted again. ‘What’s that Cathal?’

  ‘I’ve found suspicious discrepancies in your accounts.’

  ‘Suspicious? Don’t we all know you’re the most suspicious man in Ireland, Cathal. If your own mother walked through that door you’d think the British sent her.’

  ‘I’m talking about expenses that can’t be accounted for in the normal running of a war.’ Brugha sat down without removing his crumpled coat.

  ‘What are you running now, an accountancy firm?’ asked Collins. He glanced at Mulcahy with a grin.

  A waiter swung a bottle of whiskey onto the table. Collins was at pains to show his ease, with his left arm dangling over the back of his seat, and his right stretched out holding the bottle.

  ‘Where’s your bloody glass, Cathal?’, he growled.

  Mulcahy intervened. ‘The leaders of Sinn Fein want to be reassured about the finances, Mick. The revolution is entering a whole new phase. We’re preparing for self-government, to run the country. The high-spending days are over. We can’t keep running around like footloose business-men throwing out favours at every turn.’

  Collins stared at Mulcahy’s moving hands, a bewildered frown erupting on his face, as though he had suddenly realised the power their owner possessed. ‘I thought we were fighting a war, not squabbling about petty cash.’

  Neither Mulcahy nor Brugha said anything in response. Collins looked at them as if to say, ‘are you done?’

  Brugha opened his briefcase and removed a thin envelope. ‘This is an unofficial report I have compiled on your management of the National Loan. Next week I’ll be handing it into the ruling council.’ He placed it in front of Collins, who ripped it open and read its contents.

  ‘Is that all you have against me?’ he asked, throwing the letter onto the beer-stained table, his face going pale. He began to drum his feet upon the floorboards. Brugha pushed his seat backwards, while Mulcahy raised his playing fingers, like a priest fending off an attack with a blessing.

  ‘You know nothing about running an army,’ shouted Collins, rising to his feet. He brushed roughly against Brugha. ‘For the last six months you’ve been waging a jealous vendetta against me, ever since I usurped your role as Minister of Defence. You’ve been trampling through my personal life, trying to sniff out scandal. And now you dare to call me an embezzler.’ Blood spurted into his cheeks. ‘You can’t imagine the onerous burden it is to run the IRA’s finances. Never in my life have I come across such cowardice, envy and meanness.’ Spitting out a string of curses, he spun on his heels and barged out of the room, almost taking the door off its hinges in the process.

  O’Shea grabbed the letter, his fingers shaking. He made a visible effort of pulling himself together as he read it. He dropped it back onto the table as though it were a ton weight.
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br />   ‘This scrap of paper will destroy Mick’s career,’ he warned in a low voice. ‘You’re accusing him of mishandling money, and worse, corruption. A volunteer could be shot for less.’

  Even though Mick had left, Mulcahy and Brugha looked wary, as though they were still in the presence of the IRA leader’s heated temper, his force, his capacity for violence. Brugha lifted up his briefcase and turned to leave. ‘I’ve examined the most up-to-date figures for the National Loan,’ he said. ‘There are a number of entries I can’t find an explanation for, and I’m not talking about £10 missing here, or another £50 there. I’m talking about large regular sums of money going missing. Mick has one week to supply me with the full accounts, including receipts, before the ruling council passes judgement.’

  Mulcahy spoke with pale-faced civility. The authority in his voice and soft hands had returned. ‘Mick should know that, if there are discrepancies in the accounting, the ruling council will investigate them with determination. We can’t let this war be run with the mentality of men enjoying an unexpected windfall.’

  When they had left, O’Shea poured Kant a glass of whiskey.

  ‘I have made you privy to an explosive secret.’

  ‘You have my word – I will tell no one.’

  ‘Your promise must be sealed by more than words.’

  Kant nodded. He had already surmised that O’Shea had invited him to the back room in order to secure his assistance.

  ‘Brugha is nothing but a stooge for Dublin Castle,’ explained O’Shea. ‘They’re to blame for this entire mess. British intelligence has been gathering a file on Mick’s spending. They’ve been collecting receipts, investigating bank accounts, raiding offices.’

  Kant frowned. ‘Why are they so interested in his finances?’

  ‘The file they are putting together is political poison. An idea hatched by the Dirty Tricks Brigade. It paints a picture of embezzlement and corruption, millions of pounds flooding in from America, and Mick swept along on their tide.’

  ‘What do they plan to do with the file?’

  ‘They want to make him run.’

  ‘To London?’

  ‘And a peace settlement. It all fits together nicely for them. They want the charges of financial impropriety hanging over Collins so he’ll do a deal quickly. They’re threatening to ruin his reputation, and toss the shreds to the press and his enemies. It’s been done before. Look at what happened to Parnell. The country turned against him when they discovered his affair. Nowadays, a leader accused of corruption will draw a similar public outrage. Brugha doesn’t realise it, but he’s fallen completely into their trap.’

  ‘If Mick is innocent of these charges then he will be able to clear his name.’

  ‘Unfortunately he can’t. For once, he’s unable to produce his meticulously prepared accounts. Earlier this year, the British seized an important set of financial documents and locked them away in Dublin Castle. They include the records Brugha is now querying. He expects every sixpence to be accounted for in spite of the raids. Poor Mick is at a loss as to how the money was spent. He won’t be able to clear his name unless he finds the file.’

  ‘Which is where I come in,’ said Kant.

  ‘Correct. I want you to retrieve the documents from Dublin Castle.’

  ‘What if they are no longer there?’

  ‘Then Mick is sunk, and the British will win the war. Do you have any reason to believe they’re not there?’

  He looked into O’Shea’s eyes. He was not by nature an untruthful man, and he wanted to tell the truth, that he suspected the documents either had been burnt or were sitting in the attic above his bedroom, but something about the agitated look in O’Shea’s face made him hold back.

  ‘No,’ he said, looking him firmly in the eye. ‘This is the first time I’ve heard of their existence.’

  He was beginning to understand the magnitude of the file Lily Merrin had removed from the intelligence archive, and the reason why she had forced it upon him. He felt the deadweight of its political importance. God help her, he thought. She had not asked to have her and her son entangled in such a sinister plot, an enterprise hatched to derail the course of the war. It helped explain why she was still in hiding, lost, beyond help from Dublin Castle, General Stapleton and Mick Collins. It was hard to accept that none of them seemed to care about her plight, especially Collins. He didn’t know for certain if the IRA leader had refined or altered his plans for her, or completely abandoned her.

  The clock on the wall began to chime the hour. Kant looked up and saw that it was still showing the wrong time. The hands indicated 5 o’clock but it could only have been one or two at the most. Somehow, the mechanism was working but the hands were stuck. How long had they remained like that, he wondered. It was another intimation that he was in a world where things did not make sense, where rules and loyalties were casually abandoned. Perhaps Ireland was a country where order and allegiances never existed in the first place, where even the contraction of time and a mother’s bravery were pointedly ignored by everyone.

  SEVENTEEN

  A dinner party was in full swing at Furry Park mansion when Kant mounted the steps to its main entrance. He glanced up at the looming flank of the east wing. Electric lights blazed from the conservatory, illuminating it like a glass cage, revealing a world of immaculately dressed men and women gliding about on a dance floor, sipping glasses of champagne under sparkling chandeliers, their faces absorbed, enraptured, oblivious of the looming dangers to their exalted way of life.

  He rang the bell and waited. In the distance, the sea churned endlessly. A red-stockinged doorman answered his call, eyed him with suspicion, and took him into a little side room, where he was made to wait again.

  He heard the sound of excited laughter in the hall, and then a slender hand carrying a cigarette in a long holder pushed opened the door. A tall, agile-looking woman appeared, wearing a brown, gold-brocaded frock with clinging sleeves. She was carefully groomed, with chiselled features. Her glistening eyes bore a look of disappointment when she saw the strange, hollow-faced visitor standing there, as though she had been expecting someone else.

  At first, Kant thought one of the guests had strayed from the dinner party for a secret assignation. He quickly introduced himself as a reporter from the Daily Mirror, and watched her eyes turn hard and uninviting.

  ‘What justification do you have for gate-crashing my party?’

  ‘I must speak to Moya Llewelyn Davies urgently.’

  ‘Must you, indeed’, she replied sarcastically. From a dining room came the clatter of plates being stacked and chairs slithering back.

  ‘I’m trying to find a missing woman called Lily Merrin.’

  Her shoulders stiffened slightly. ‘I am Lady Llewelyn Davies. What reason do you have to believe I might know the whereabouts of this woman?’ She regarded him with a superior air, as though her presence might be enough to make him retreat and disappear back into the night.

  Kant removed the letter about the widow’s pension and flourished it in the air. ‘I have evidence in this document that you assisted the Republican Army with their finances. You are obviously an acquaintance of Collins. Perhaps you can shed light on his involvement in this woman’s disappearance.’ Kant was careful not to suggest he was blackmailing her with the letter.

  She flinched slightly and the look of suspicion deepened in her face.

  ‘I’m surprised you think it’s worthwhile troubling me with this matter. I might be a supporter of Mick Collins, but I’m not a kidnapper or a murderer.’

  ‘Three women have died and another is missing, and so is her son. I don’t know where they are, but I believe they are in grave danger. Every moment is precious. Which is why I have come directly to you with this letter, rather than report it to the authorities.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ she said, taking the letter from h
im.

  ‘No. I just want to speak to you in private. If you are busy, I can wait here.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  Kant observed her as she read the letter, trying to glimpse beyond the unfriendly manner. He saw awkwardness and impatience, but little surprise or worry.

  She gave him a level gaze. ‘I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.’ She walked back into the hallway. ‘You’d better follow me upstairs. Away from my guests.’

  A butler eyed Kant from the conservatory and turned up the volume on the gramophone player, as though the music was an instrument to blot out unwanted guests. Moya led him up a sweeping staircase and into a library, where she bid him sit on a luxuriously soft armchair.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I should really give a cove like you the marching orders. However, I’m concerned you might bring this letter with my incriminating signature to the authorities.’

  ‘That is not my plan, at all.’

  ‘Perhaps you are trying to trick me into some sort of confession. If my husband were here he would set the dogs upon you and have you horse-whipped, or worse.’ She began to describe the cruel ways in which her husband, Crompton, the Solicitor-General to the post office, had chased off uninvited guests in the past.

  ‘I just want to find out the importance of this letter’. Kant’s chest wheezed as he spoke. ‘It must be important because it has Mick Collins’ signature and yours. But at the moment, it’s meaningless to me.’

  ‘I don’t want to disappoint you, but it’s meaningless to me as well. I haven’t a clue what your letter is about. Mick is always sending me letters and cheques, and I sign them all without looking.’

  ‘Does he coerce you into signing them?’

  ‘No, not at all. I sign them out of boredom, to keep myself from falling prey to drinking or gambling.’ She laughed and for the first time he realised that she was tipsy. ‘My husband is busy in London, and things are very quiet this winter; you know, I’m attending only one dance a week.’ Her eyes widened as her hand trailed through the air. Behind her upper-class veneer of superiority, he detected a recklessness, a willingness to flirt with the unmentionables of high society. He saw how a woman of her wealth, hopelessly exiled on such a lonely estate, would be susceptible to the dangerous charms of men like Collins. ‘Here I am in this big old house full of servants with nothing to distract me. But thankfully, I’ve developed an interest in Irish politics. I’ve discovered there’s something dangerous and addictive about being associated with Mick Collins, the most wanted man in Europe.’