CHAPTER 13

T hough I had begun the week with such high hopes, things only grew worse. First, a district inspector in the RIC was shot and killed outside his home in County Wexford. It was rumored that part of the reason he was executed had been the DI's torment of prisoners who had surrendered after the 1916 Rising, but he'd also been diligent in his persecution of the Sinn Féin and rebels.

Riots broke out in Londonderry along mostly sectarian lines—Catholic nationalists versus Protestant unionists—and lasted for more than a week. Coverage in the newspapers mostly favored the unionists, but of course, with many of them being British controlled and subject to government censorship, that was to be expected. The London-based Sunday Times also recounted a supposed incident where two girls were outraged by members of Sinn Féin when their mother refused to hand over her farm to them. A person no less august than Arthur Griffith, who was acting as president of Dáil éireann in de Valera's absence denied this account, calling it "obviously a vile, infamous and malicious falsehood."

Even so, it brought Miss Kavanagh again to the forefront of my thoughts. I had been at a loss as to how to proceed with the investigation into her assault, and I told Lord French so when I saw him again at the Irish Derby. The three-day race meeting at the Curragh had almost not happened as two hundred of the stable lads had gone on strike over their pay just days before the derby was scheduled to begin. However, the dispute was resolved, and the Irish Derby continued as planned.

Sidney and I had motored down from Dublin, joining the lord lieutenant and several members of his household, as well as a few members of the Irish nobility inside the Royal Stand. We might have boarded the train, but Sidney had been anxious to take his Pierce-Arrow out for a spin in the Irish countryside. The weather being mild and sunny, I wasn't about to argue.

The Curragh was located southwest of Dublin near Kildare, and in fact was known not only for its racecourse, but its horse training in general, as well as being the principal military garrison in Ireland. The garrison where the Curragh mutiny had occurred in March of 1914 when the army corps officers under the command of General Gough had informed the British government that they would not enforce Home Rule within Ulster. After decades of attempts, the bill for Irish Home Rule had been poised to finally pass through both houses of parliament—and in fact, it did in September 1914—despite heated opposition from some of the northern counties which comprised the ancient province of Ulster. But despite Gough and the other officers' blatant refusal to uphold the law they were sworn to protect, the British government took no action against what, in effect, had been a revolt, and instead moved to placate the emboldened unionists in Ulster, suspending the implementation of Home Rule for the duration of the Great War, which had by then broken out across Europe. A law they had yet to implement nearly two years since the armistice, as they were still placating the Ulster unionists.

Much of the current discontent stemmed from that mutiny and the events that followed, a fact that Sidney and I had both heard British officers and soldiers bemoan, cursing Gough and the others for landing everyone in this mess. I had to empathize with those who expressed these views, for they had no choice but to do their duty and make the best of a bad lot. They had no illusions that they would be met with the same leniency and forbearance as Gough and his fellow mutineers if they refused to do their jobs. They knew full well that they would be strictly disciplined if not arrested outright. Having served as an officer of the British army during the war, Sidney was fully cognizant of how British military discipline worked. Or rather, how it was supposed to work.

There were many who would argue the issue was far more complicated than that, and it undoubtedly was. But that did not alter what the average Irishman or average British soldier believed. Or change the fact that the British government had bungled the matter badly. Were still bungling it. Or the fact that politicians still continued to manipulate matters to their own advantage at the expense of the people they were meant to govern and protect.

As the Crown's representative in Ireland, Lord French held the place of honor in the Royal Stand, reveling in the moment. Soldiers from the local garrison had been called out in force, positioned throughout the grandstands and enclosures, ready for any trouble the IRA might have planned to disrupt the event. I noticed quite a few officers, including Dicky Wyndham-Quin, among the race goers within the separate elevated covered stand, which formed the most prestigious viewing point. However, many of them were distracted by debates over the merits of the field of competitors and consumed with placing their bets.

Knowing Lord French was an equally avid horseman, I hadn't anticipated having much of a chance to speak with him on more weighty issues. So I was surprised when he beckoned me over. His gaze lingered appreciatively on me in my cornflower-blue and white georgette ensemble with matching loose-brimmed hat sporting a spray of daisies along its band.

"Have you had a chance to look into that little matter for me?" he asked.

That's when I'd informed him of my interviews with the Kavanaghs and DI Burrows, careful to keep my voice light and even, lest he detect my simmering aggravation at his drawing us into concerns it seemed the Kavanaghs had no desire for us to be involved with.

But Lord French just shook his head sadly. "These rebels and their intimidation tactics. It's diabolical."

"I don't think it's that," I replied flatly, wondering how he'd formed such an assumption about their lack of cooperation from what I'd just told him.

"Oh, I assure you, it is part of it." He patted my knee. "Perhaps you haven't been here long enough to see it, but these blasted shinners and their murder gangs are behind most of the things that are wrong in this country." He scowled, shaking his head, before turning back to me with a sigh. "But I suppose guilt may play some part. After all, Kavanagh initially didn't want to take his position on the committee. I had to convince him."

This explained why Lord French was so anxious to see the perpetrators of Miss Kavanagh's assault prosecuted. I could tell by the deep furrow in his brow that he felt some sense of guilt, too.

"However, I suspect it is more Mrs. Kavanagh's shame you're butting up against than anything. She's a good woman, but like most ladies of her ilk, bound by strict propriety." He shook his head, and I suspected he was thinking of his mistress and his current living arrangements. Mrs. Kavanagh would certainly not approve. "It traps them in such rigid bindings of respectability that they cannot see beyond their own offended sense of order and decorum to recognize that one does not always bring disgrace down upon oneself."

I knew now that he was speaking of her daughter. How Miss Kavanagh had done nothing to invite such an assault. Yet that very fact rocked the core of propriety her mother's life had been built upon. As long as you were righteous and good, and behaved as you should, nothing bad could befall you. Had Mrs. Kavanagh spent even the briefest amount of time in war-torn occupied Belgium, she would have recognized the fault in this logic.

Lord French lowered his voice further. "I would never suggest that her sense of embarrassment and disgrace played a factor in her daughter's decision to take her own life, but . . ." He appeared to struggle with his words. "As I understand it, she did not make life easier on her." His gaze met my own. "And I think she carries a measure of guilt for that. She was so intent on brushing it under the rug while her daughter lived that she cannot allow it to be revealed to the light now that she's dead."

There was a painful yet astute logic in this observation. One I felt was far more credible than any amount of supposed intimidation by the IRA. Though I did wonder where he'd gotten his information. Mr. Kavanagh?

He patted my knee again. "Speak with Mr. Kavanagh alone. I suspect you shall find him more cooperative and communicative then."

I nodded, not being averse to the suggestion, though I was still not convinced it would yield results. But I would confront that when the time came.

"As for Burrows," he continued with a fierce frown, "I'm convinced the entire DMP are duds. If they're not working for Collins outright, then they're essentially in collusion with him. They look the other way, and no more of them get shot."

Given the number of G-Men Collins's murder gangs had already assassinated, it was difficult to fault them for taking the threat seriously. Especially when the British had yet to adopt effective countermeasures. Those who had been threatened or survived previous attempts on their lives, were now either retired or relegated to the walls inside Dublin Castle.

"If I had my way, they'd all be sacked," he declared.

And replaced by Black and Tans, no doubt.

His voice turned bitter. "But I've been overruled. They're Johnstone's problem." He turned to me. "Speaking of which, I've managed to secure you and your husband access to the Castle." His gaze flitted toward where Sidney stood speaking with Lord Powerscourt and another gentleman. "There was some resistance to your presence, but I told them to bugger off. I'm the lord lieutenant, aren't I?" He harrumphed, his impressive mustache quivering.

This proclamation brought a smile to my lips.

"Should they give you any trouble, remind them of that."

"I will," I promised.

"Good. Now, run off and place your bet before it's too late."

I complied, though I had no intention of betting on the horses. Sidney placed only a minor wager on He Goes, winning a modest sum when that thoroughbred thundered across the finish line first. As at any horse race, it was difficult not to get caught up in the excitement of the moment, and I found myself cheering along with the others and smiling broadly as Sidney accepted congratulations from those who had picked other horses to wager on.

I was leaning against the front of the box, laughing at something Helen Wyndham-Quin had said when a face in the crowd below caught my eye. He turned away at nearly the same moment I spied him, so I couldn't be certain of what I'd seen, but I could have sworn it was Tom. I kept my gaze trained on his hat, but so many of the men were wearing the same flat caps that all too quickly I lost him in the milling throng.

There was no cause for alarm, I told myself. Many people had traveled down from Dublin that day for the Derby. Tom could be one of them.

I had not seen him since the day he'd escorted me out of the Wicklow to avoid being caught by Lieutenant Bennett, but then I'd also altered my routine, spending less time at the hotel, and at an earlier hour than previously. Peter still had no news about my "cousin" MacAlister, and he hadn't mentioned Tom to me. But I was still wary of the fellow and his connection to the library on Capel Street.

Sidney brushed my elbow with his fingers, questioning me with a look. Clearly, my sudden interest in the crowd had not gone unnoticed. However, I wasn't about to alarm him with unfounded suspicions. Not when Tom's presence here—if it even had been Tom—could be entirely natural. Instead, I threaded my arm through Sidney's, smiling in reassurance as he led me toward an officer who had hailed him across the box.

I cast my gaze over the crowd one last time and then vowed to push the matter from my mind, accepting a glass of champagne from the steward circulating among the guests.

* * *

Nimble was waiting for us when we returned to Upper Fitzwilliam Street, and from the looks of it, he'd been lumbering back and forth across the entry hall for some time. At our entry, he abruptly pivoted mid-stride, bursting with importance. However, he didn't immediately rush into speech, having been too well trained during his time in the army as Sidney's batman.

"Nimble," Sidney said by way of greeting, eyeing his valet with interest as I set my reticule and gloves on the petticoat table.

"Cap'n," he replied, drawing a swift breath to speak. "Did ye 'ave a good day, sir?"

"Yes. Even won a bit of blunt." Sidney set his hat on one of the hall chairs, then turned and latched the door. "Has Ginny left for the day?"

Nimble nodded. "And Mrs. Boyle has retired to 'er room." It was located off the kitchen. "But she said to rouse 'er should ye wish anythin'."

He looked at me in question before answering. "No, we grabbed a bite to eat near Naas. Let's retire to the parlor then, shall we?"

I led the two men up the stairs to the parlor, where curiously enough a landscape painting of Curragh Chase hung over a satinwood console table. Having now been to the famous plain, I could better appreciate the piece of art. I settled in a chair near the dormant hearth. Hand-painted pole screens from the eighteenth century, which had been used to shield ladies' complexions from the heat of the fire, flanked the fireplace on either side, still ready for use. Rather than sit, Sidney stood with his arms crossed and his hip leaned against the sideboard, as if undecided whether to pour himself a drink. I supposed it depended upon whatever Nimble was so anxious to tell us.

"What is it?" Sidney prompted his valet.

Nimble stood just inside the door, his shoulders stiff and his arms pressed tightly to his side. I'd noticed before how he adopted the habit of many polite, larger men of trying to restrict himself to the smallest space possible, lest he break something, even when standing in a room as expansive and uncluttered as our parlor. Though it could also be a byproduct of the war, having lived in the tight, squat confines of dugouts and trenches.

As always, he was spare with his words. "This came for ye, Cap'n," he declared after removing a letter from his pocket and holding it out to Sidney. His gaze flicked sideways at me. "Or maybe for Mrs. Kent."

I realized then that it was from London and pushed hurriedly to my feet to move toward my husband. True to expectation, the missive was addressed to Nimble in Etta's distinctive scrawl. Finally, word from Max! It was unopened, and I set about tearing the envelope with my fingernail as soon as Sidney passed it to me.

"You weren't curious?" Sidney teased the younger man.

"Nay. I knew what 'twas." He scratched at his hairline on the left side of his face where blisters scarred his pale skin. "Don't know if it means anythin', but I did catch Ginny studyin' it."

I looked up in surprise.

"The outside, anyway." He dipped his head toward the letter. "Don't think she opened it."

No, it appeared untampered with. But that didn't mean her interest wasn't noteworthy.

" Can she read?" I asked, wondering if her presence might prove a problem in the future.

Nimble shrugged, and I allowed the matter to drop. After all, it was difficult to know whether the maid's curiosity stemmed from the origin of the letter or the fact it was delivered to Nimble. I wasn't oblivious to the looks they cast each other's way—or didn't cast each other's way, as it may—when they were both in the same room. For the moment I was more interested in the contents of the letter.

Sidney dismissed Nimble with a soft word while I unfolded the missive. Etta had included a note in her effusive style, agreeing to the subterfuge I'd asked of her, and requesting that any future assistance I desired from her be as demanding as having handsome gentlemen pay her calls in her dressing room. Though, she felt I should urge Max to bring her more gifts. Simply to enhance the deception, of course. I couldn't help but smile at her playful banter, but my good humor swiftly fled when I opened Max's enclosed message.

He confessed his own anger and bafflement at the SIS's redaction of his remarks about the discussion concerning the Irish situation during the cabinet meeting on May 31st. His contact had merely reported that the violence in Ireland had reached such a pitch that several of the cabinet ministers were espousing the idea of some sort of martial law for the entire island. That they'd tacitly agreed that the court system was collapsing. The assizes in many areas had failed utterly, and trials by jury couldn't even be attempted because either jurors declined to take part or the government didn't trust them to bring in a just conviction. Far from praising the courts like the press had, the cabinet instead condemned them. Though I supposed that was only to be expected, as the Dáil was their rival shadow government. Correspondingly, the Royal Irish Constabulary had become increasing demoralized across the country, precipitating the resignation or retirement of many policemen, and necessitating further recruitment to the temporary cadets—or Black and Tans—to shore up the numbers.

While it was true that something like two hundred murders had occurred and yet no one had been executed for the crimes, it dismayed both Max and me the way the cabinet danced around the truth. They insisted that Ireland had a problem with violence, not a rebellion. That their primary aim should be to crush the thugs they alleged were being paid to commit murder and arson. That they struggled to believe that the civil courts could do this via due process because Irish Catholics couldn't be relied upon to rigorously impose justice on revolutionaries.

"Good Lord," Sidney muttered in disgust, having read over my shoulder. "Do they not even listen to their own sources?"

I had to agree. Everything we had read to prepare us before coming to Ireland, and everything we'd witnessed since then, did not support these findings.

"And can you explain to me how you cannot have a rebellion yet have revolutionaries the populace refuses to prosecute?"

I let my hand fall to my lap, shaking my head.

Sidney began to pace. "I'll tell you what, the average soldier, policeman, and officer knows perfectly well this is a rebellion. An armed conflict. A war. Our government is merely batting around semantics for the sake of public image."

Once again, I had no counter argument. Nor was it entirely clear why the Secret Intelligence Service had redacted all this from Max's previous letter. We already knew the civil courts were failing and that the RIC was crumbling, hence the need for the Black and Tans at all. Their opinions of the cause of the problem and proposed solution were frustrating and disheartening, but not so much so that they should have feared us finding out.

"Maybe the SIS censor was simply being too aggressive," I heard myself suggest out loud, already doubting it before the words were even uttered.

Sidney halted before me, staring down at me with a single arched eyebrow that communicated what he thought of that suggestion.

"Then why redact this information?"

He tilted his head in thought. "Maybe there's more to it than Max's informant told him. Or maybe there's more to come that, when fitted into this context, will divulge more than they want you to know."

I nodded, supposing I would have to accept that reasoning. At least, for the time being.

"Whatever the case, we need Max to continue to plumb his informant for information. There will undoubtedly be more to report. And soon." I crossed to the secretaire, intent on writing to tell Max so.

"I'll inform Nimble he has a letter to post at first light. One he should keep concealed until then," he added, obviously thinking of Ginny and the interest she'd shown.