CHAPTER 12

S omething had happened during the time since I'd returned home after seeing Mr. Finnegan at the bank. Something that had made the populace on edge and brought the Black and Tans out in force. I noticed them as I approached the Wicklow Hotel on foot, taking a somewhat circuitous route past the Gaiety Theatre and South City Market. Since our visit to Kidd's Back, I'd decided that it was best to avoid Grafton Street the next few days and to deviate my path more often in general, lest I draw undo notice.

I didn't know whether something particular had happened—whether Collins's murder gang had shot another policeman, or the IRA had made another raid for arms like the one at King's Inn or ambushed the Crown Forces—and I didn't dare ask anyone. On the tram, I might have overheard snatches of conversation, but having taken it that morning, I'd decided it wasn't worth the risk, lest someone note the similarities between Verity Kent, social darling, and Dearbhla Bell, the Irish woman from County Antrim searching for her cousin. So I hurried on, highly attuned to those I passed and conscious of those who might be highly attuned to me.

I didn't bother to hide my nerves, as the women like the one I was attempting to portray all eyed the lorries speeding through the streets bristling with Tans, their weapons pointed outward like the spines of a hedgehog, with unease. Sometimes it seemed to me that the drivers were trying to hit pedestrians. The wider, busier streets risked being cordoned off for enforced searches, but there was also safety in numbers. Whereas in the narrower, quieter streets one risked being caught alone with a Tan or two on foot patrol. However, by keeping my head down and shoulders hunched, and affecting a shuffling, shambling stroll entirely unlike my generally graceful, confident stride, I'd found I could typically pass by without drawing their notice beyond perhaps their satisfaction in my fear and my acknowledgment of their power over me.

Of course, there was always the risk that in allowing my anxiety sway, it would cause me to make a thoughtless error in truth. But my anger over C's actions in censoring my letter still burned in my gut, muting my apprehension, but perhaps also making me more reckless than normal. Otherwise, I might have turned back after noting the general atmosphere of the city. However, I'd waited three days to seek out Peter again at the Wicklow, and I refused to wait another day to learn if he'd discovered anything.

As I neared the hotel, striding down the narrow pavement of Wicklow Street, I could see a cluster of Tans at the junction with Grafton Street ahead and praised myself for my forethought in choosing not to approach the hotel from that direction. However, my celebration was short-lived as it became evident that they were making some sort of search of the entire street, progressing building by building. Regardless, there was no turning back now. Not without drawing suspicion. So I hastened inside the unassuming building, finding it more crowded than usual. Clearly, I wasn't the only one seeking refuge from whatever trouble was brewing without.

Weaving my way through those milling about in the lobby and restaurant, I was pleased to discover a stool still open at the bar. It wasn't at the end, as I preferred, but near enough. I smiled tightly at the handsome man with a fresh complexion and a cleft in his chin who had turned to me with interest as I settled in my seat, then looked away pointedly, not wishing to be drawn into conversation. At least, not with him.

Peter was busy at the other end of the bar, so I pulled a small book of Psalms from my handbag. Though I'd found that the act of reading usually did little to discourage men from trying to talk to me, once they discovered my choice in reading material, it deterred a good portion of them. Unfortunately, this handsome fellow was not one of them.

"Aye. Confrontin' that lot outside 'tis enough to make anyone want to turn to the Good Book." He gestured with his head toward the door, making a lock of light brown hair fall over his brow.

I acknowledged that I'd heard his remark with a look, but said nothing in response, returning to the words on the page before me.

He leaned closer, and I did my best to ignore him. Though his softly worded, but emphatic decree of, "Excellent choice," made it difficult to do so.

My eyes focused on the words I'd only been pretending to read, discovering I'd flipped to the pages of the fifty-eighth and fifty-ninth Psalm. I found myself wondering to which he referred, for one was a prayer for vengeance and the other a prayer for deliverance from enemies. Either might apply, but they said very different things about the person invoking them. I was about to risk asking the man what he meant when Peter bustled over.

"Miss Bell," he proclaimed. "'Twasn't sure I'd see ye today, what with all the commotion."

"Dearbhla, please," I reminded him, having asked him to call me as much during our last conversation in hopes that the familiarity would help inspire his trust. I'd practiced saying the Irish name often enough that now the pronunciation "derv-la" rolled off my tongue with ease.

He seemed a bit harassed, though I supposed that could be because of all the customers. Even now, a man raised his arm at the other end, signaling him. He nodded, telling the chap he'd seen him, before turning back to me.

"Tuh usual for a day such as this?"

The usual being either a cup of tea or a wee dram of good Irish whisky. But I knew he was referring to the latter. I'd not been able to stomach either the sherry or gin they'd stocked, but Peter knew his whiskeys.

I dipped my head in confirmation, watching as he spun around to collect the bottle from the shelf. Watching his quick movements, I worried my risking the agitation in the streets would be for naught, that Peter wouldn't have time to impart anything he'd learned.

Something of this must have been communicated to him, for as he set the glass before me, he leaned close to tell me in particular, "I'll be back with ye as soon as I help these gents."

For two more men had already raised their hands.

Telling myself to be patient, I lifted the glass and took a small swallow, welcoming the burn as it slid down my throat and spread outward from my belly. I could feel the handsome fellow on my right eyeing me.

"Dearbhla, is it?" he said.

I turned to glare at him, for I certainly hadn't given him leave to use my name.

However, his sparkling eyes revealed he was undeterred. "That means ‘true desire,' doesn't it?"

I'd chosen it because its meaning was a form of truth, just as the meaning of my real name Verity. But that didn't mean I wished to discuss it, no matter how likeable the fellow's expression.

"My name means ‘twin,' though I don't have one." He tilted his head. "Least, none that I was ever told about."

A smile slipped past my lips at this bit of absurdity, making Thomas, or perhaps Tom, grin even broader. Or I presumed that was his name, unless there was an Irish form.

A commotion near the door made us turn our heads, but it was merely a pair of men knocking into something and almost oversetting it. The woman with them scolded them laughingly for their clumsiness. All the same, it had set my heart to beating faster, and increased my urgency to hear whatever Peter had to tell me and depart before the raid reached the hotel.

I turned back to my whiskey, forcing myself to take another sip rather than tossing the entire contents back as I wished. Tom also turned to his drink, some sort of dark stout. Probably a Guinness.

"No help for it now. They'll have set the barricades up at St. Andrew's and Clarendon, boxin' us in, to be sure."

My mouth went dry, but Tom seemed unfazed, tipping back his glass to take a long drink. Or maybe he was just good at feigning it.

"Nothin' for it but to let 'em go about their business," he murmured, and I couldn't tell if he was ruminating for his sake or mine.

"Do ye know what they're lookin' for?" I ventured to ask.

"What else? Shinners."

"Can't find 'em any other way. They keep slippin' through their nets," the older man on my other side interjected in a thick brogue. "So they're takin' to castin' randomly in hopes they'll catch a better haul." He cackled. "'Twon't work. Ole Mick is quicker 'an tat."

Tom smiled but didn't comment.

Meanwhile, I sat twisting the fringe of my shawl. Normally, I would have forbidden such an impulse, but I decided it would be in keeping with Dearbhla's personality. I found myself facing the impending raid with dread. If I were recognized, not only would it ruin my chance to learn anything about Alec's fate, but I also risked incarceration. At least, for a short time. Presumably C would vouch for me if pressed, but there was no guarantee.

My thoughts drifted to C's letter and his admonitions for placing him in such a prickly situation, not only because I'd allowed myself to get in the family way, but also because I'd run into Lieutenant Bennett. As I'd predicted, the missive was focused on ordering me home if I was harboring a little fugitive and warning me to steer clear of Bennett in the future if I was not. He even went so far as to question his own wisdom in allowing me to take on such an assignment, as if I had been the one to contact him when Alec went missing and not the other way around. Given this, my confidence in C was not exactly at high tide.

I also knew there were a number of men within the service who would like nothing more than to see me fail—whether they were aware of my current mission or not—and they were certain to view my detention as confirmation of their own prejudices against the abilities of female agents. C's secretary and my friend, Kathleen Silvernickel, who had taken the dictation and typed out the letter on his behalf, had even risked warning me of who those men might be—though I knew them already—by notating in small letters at the bottom, LB v DT & MD. Lieutenant Bennett via Director Thomson and Major Davis. The fact that Davis, as C's second-in-command and my biggest detractor, was somehow mixed up in this was less of a surprise than it might have been. The last thing I wanted to do was give him validation of his bias. Not when one of my sincerest wishes was instead to make him eat crow. To stuff it down his throat.

No, it was definitely best not to get caught.

And the best way to do that was to follow Tom's advice. Remain calm and let the Crown Forces conduct their search. To panic and attempt to run or conceal myself would only single me out.

I looked up as Peter returned, swiping down the bar in front of me even as his eyes strayed toward the door. "Another?" he asked with a glance at my near empty glass.

I shook my head.

"Right," he murmured, for I never drank more than one. He leaned closer. "Well, lass, I know ye was hopin' for better news." He could barely meet my gaze. "But I haven't been able to turn up anythin'. Not on the name ye mentioned."

"Maybe he used a different one," I suggested, battling my disappointment. That didn't need to be feigned.

"Maybe," he conceded, though he didn't sound optimistic. "I'll keep askin' around. About the name and your description of him."

I nodded, for there was nothing else I could do.

Peter cast a sidelong look at Tom then. One I was hard-pressed to read. Perhaps it was watchfulness, mindful of the man's eavesdropping. But there seemed to be another element to it. Speculation maybe. A hope that perhaps Tom might solve my problem. Not in finding my "cousin" MacAlister, but in giving the baby Peter believed I was carrying a name.

The irony of Peter having assumed I'd come to Dublin to search for MacAlister because I was pregnant, and the fact that Bennett believed I couldn't be there on any sort of assignment precisely because of it, had not escaped me.

Before any more could be said, there was an abrupt shift in the atmosphere. Voices fell silent and bodies stilled. Following Peter's eyes toward the door, I realized why. A group of men dressed in the motley uniform of the Black and Tans had entered the lobby, hesitating for but a moment before fanning out to stand in the various doorways to prevent flight. The two men blocking our immediate exit from the bar area of the restaurant seemed like decent enough chaps, but for their rifles.

We could hear two men speaking with authority in the lobby, and I presumed these were the men in charge informing the employees of the Wicklow of their intentions to search the premises. Much as I wanted to turn to face the bar and focus on finishing my whiskey, I knew that such an act would draw attention when everyone else was watching the door. So I sat stiffly, waiting to see what would happen.

The older man next to me began to cough, the force shaking his entire body when he couldn't stop. I turned to Peter, suggesting a glass of water might help. But when I turned to pass it to the man, it nearly slipped from my grasp. For the man standing in the doorway, issuing instructions to a handful of men, was none other than Lieutenant Bennett.

I may have uttered a curse as I dipped my head, turning to the side, lest Bennett look up and notice me, for Tom's attention riveted on me.

"I take it ye don't approve of that fellow," he said with some levity.

Having given that much away, there was nothing but to brazen it out. I lifted my eyes to meet Tom's guardedly. "He's not what I would call . . . respectful."

It didn't take long for Tom to work out what I was implying, and his humor transformed to something of deliberation and then determination. He lowered his head so that his mouth was close to my ear. "What they'll be lookin' for mostly is single men. And single women they believe they can pester without objection." He paused as if to emphasize his next statement. "But they don't care none about married folk."

I grasped what he was suggesting, though I stifled my own reaction. For as much as I wanted to jump at the proposal, I couldn't help wondering if Tom had ulterior motives. Perhaps he was just as eager for a reason to pass through their inspection unnoted. But then, wouldn't everyone?

In any case, I didn't really have a choice. I couldn't be caught. Especially by Bennett. To pass up Tom's offer would be the height of folly.

So I turned my head to meet his gaze just inches from mine and nodded minutely in agreement, praying no one around us who'd heard Peter address me as Miss Bell would give us away.

Tom slid his arm around my waist, murmuring again in my ear. "Feign distress."

I realized what he meant and angled my body as if I was seeking protection from his. He smelled of soap and something unexpectedly sweet. Between the brim of my hat and his broad shoulders, my features were mostly shielded from view. Behind Tom, I caught a glimpse of Peter scrutinizing us in what I interpreted as silent approval before he hurried toward the opposite end of the bar. There a tall man with dark hair was addressing Bennett and his cohort in a cheerful manner. "Ye look like ye could use a drink."

While they were distracted, Tom ushered me toward the door where the Tans were fanning out to search. "Must we remain?" he asked politely when it was our turn, keeping a protective arm around me. "My wife is understandably unsettled."

The temporary constable must have given Tom but the barest of glances, for the next thing I knew, I was being led through the door and out through the lobby. I looked up as we emerged in Wicklow Street, discovering his prediction had been correct. Barbed wire had been rolled out across the intersection with Clarendon Street, as well as the opposite ends of Wicklow at Grafton and St. Andrew's Streets. Black and Tans milled about with their weapons slung over their shoulders while others worked in tandem with plainclothes men to search the surrounding buildings. I deduced that most of the men in mufti were intelligence officers of some sort, intent on finding wanted rebels, weapons, or any papers or evidence that might prove worthwhile.

I did my best to ignore what was happening around me, but it was difficult when a pair of men to our right were being questioned in strident voices, and another was being shoved as he was marched toward a lorry. A woman's voice raised in distress rang out from the building on the left. If I'd thought it was hard to walk away from the plight of another human being under duress from the Germans in Belgium so as not to compromise myself or our intelligence network, this was worse.

The Tans manning the barricade at Clarendon Street allowed us through with the barest of inspection, and then Tom and I were striding through the small crowd that had gathered to observe the proceedings, muttering angrily to themselves. Tom's arm remained firmly around me until the curve in the lane took us out of sight of Wicklow Street and anyone who might have been watching. Even then, he kept my arm linked with his and I did not shake it off, grateful for the assistance as my knees felt a bit wobbly.

"I couldn't help but overhear Peter say ye were lookin' for someone," he said as we passed a tobacconist, the rich scent of its custom blends wafting out to us. He smiled encouragingly. "I may not be as well-connected as Peter, but I'd be happy to help if I can."

My gait had begun to feel steadier, and I disengaged from him further as I considered his offer. While it was true that it might be easier to find answers with more people asking for them, I also knew very little about the man. Even his ready assistance in helping me escape certain recognition by Bennett—an act which would normally have spoken in his favor—might have been done more for his own benefit than mine. As such, I was wary of trusting him.

But time was crawling by, and we still had no definitive leads on Alec's whereabouts. The longer we stayed in Dublin, the more balled up I became inside. Sidney, as well. With the end of the war, I'd believed I'd left behind a world of military cordons and dodging foot patrols of soldiers, no matter that they were our own boys. As much satisfaction as I'd taken from doing my bit, as much as I'd enjoyed the adventure, I had not relished the terror and mental anguish. Yet here it was all coming back to me, and I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit.

So I inhaled a shaky breath and took a chance. "Aye, my cousin." I explained briefly who MacAlister was and what he looked like, sharing even less than I had with Peter.

When I finished, Tom patted my hand where it rested against his arm. "Like I said, I've not as many friends as Peter, but I'll do what I can."

"Thank ye."

He nodded. "How can I contact ye with what I've learned?"

I'd anticipated this question, and had no intention of sharing my address. "I drop by the Wicklow most days. Or Peter could tell me."

"Aye, but I'd avoid the Wicklow for a few days, were I ye. What with the Tans raidin' it."

Except this seemed counterintuitive to me. Now that the Crown Forces had searched it, they were more likely to leave it alone, at least for a time, and move on to other targets.

"Maybe we could meet somewhere else. Somewhere quieter."

"Where?" I asked, careful to keep my skepticism from my voice.

He appeared to give the matter some thought, but I suddenly began to wonder if it was all a ruse. "A park, maybe. St. Stephens or . . . wait. I know. There's a library. On Capel Street. No one would bother us there."

Except now my instincts were on high alert, for my emergency contact happened to be located at the library on Capel Street. Perhaps he'd only been thinking of the book of Psalms tucked in my bag. Maybe that had been his reason for suggesting a library. Regardless, I was now on guard, and wary of meeting the fellow. But for the moment there was nothing for it but to agree to the meeting in three days' time. I simply wouldn't show.

He offered to walk me the rest of the way home, but I refused, and we parted ways at the intersection with South King Street. However, I lingered for a long time in St. Stephen's Green, not trusting that I wasn't being watched. Then I took a meandering route home.