CHAPTER 14

T he following morning, I had another missive for Nimble to deliver, as well, though this one in person. Determined to fulfill my obligation to Lord French, I dashed off a note to Mr. Kavanagh requesting a private conversation with him. I still wasn't convinced he would share more with me than before, but I decided the matter couldn't be dropped until I tried at least once more. Then, if still no new information had come to light, I would inform Lord French that I'd done all I could.

I was debating what route I should take that day in my disguise and whether to risk a visit to the Wicklow when Nimble returned with Mr. Kavanagh's urgent response. His wife was visiting her sister in Glasnevin for the day, and he would be happy to receive me if I was able to come before three. Upon reading this, I wasted no time in donning gloves and a smart hat with part of the brim rolled up and the other half flat, setting out on foot for Herbert Street.

It was but a short distance, though I tucked an umbrella under my arm in case the overcast skies signaled rain. As usual, Baggot Street bustled with trams, bicycles, pedestrians, and the occasional motorcar or horse cart. Though today, one half of the pavement was also taken up by a group of soldiers in uniform strolling down the opposite side of the street deeper into the city. As they were laughing and jesting with one another, their hands thrust into their pockets informally, I suspected they were at ease rather than intent on some duty. Probably bound for the theaters and pubs and other entertainments offered on Sackville Street and the area around College Green. They'd no doubt come from Beggars Bush Barracks a short distance away, beyond the canal which circled the city. But that didn't make the disturbance their presence caused any less.

Dubliners purposely avoided sharing the pavement with them, dodging traffic to cross to the other side. One young woman who had been walking and reading at the same time became particularly anxious to cross once she noticed them, nearly stepping into the path of an oncoming bicycle. I supposed she feared being labeled a totty or a tart, as I'd heard that girls who even dared to walk on the same side of the street as British soldiers, let alone fraternize with them, were called.

I wondered if Katherine Kavanagh had faced the same stigma. Though she had been part of a different social class. One tied to the Anglo-Protestant Ascendancy who had controlled Ireland for hundreds of years, and still did, despite their being in the decided minority across much of the island. This was something the republicans were certainly trying to change. Hence the reason for some of Ulster's unrest, as the counties clustered near Belfast were the only ones where Protestants were in the majority.

Given the manner in which the soldiers' very existence seemed to agitate the populace, I expected the reasons for my own tension were derived from those around me. However, as I turned the corner into Herbert Street, leaving all of that behind, the sensation lingered. Was I being followed?

I glanced about me as unobtrusively as possible, but even on this quieter street there were too many pedestrians to tell. Especially if the person tailing me was well trained. This street was mainly residential, so my favorite tactic of observing the reflections of those behind me in the large glass windows at the front of many shops would not work, and neither would my shoe trick. Being close to my destination there was nothing for it but to carry on.

The door to the Kavanaghs' home was opened just seconds after I knocked, so there was no chance to turn and naturally survey the street. The same maid as before led me up the stairs and past the family portraits hanging along the wall to the drawing room. This time it was empty, but the maid promised Mr. Kavanagh would be along shortly.

Before she could hurry away, I halted her. "Wait, please."

She turned back toward me in surprise.

"I should have said before, during my last visit, how sorry I am for your loss, as well." I'd noted how young the maid was and decided that if Miss Kavanagh possessed the reputation her mother had claimed, then she'd likely been kind to the staff as well. "I imagine you were quite fond of her."

"Oh, aye. All of us was," she exclaimed earnestly. "For somethin' like that to happen to someone like her." Her eyes glinted with unshed tears.

"Did no one see anything?"

She shook her head. "We're not allowed out of our rooms after curfew. Madam is very strict about that. 'Specially with us maids. Ernie only went to investigate cause he thought he heard a scream."

"Ernie?"

"Aye. Well, Earnán. But Madam makes us all go by the English version of our names. So Earnán is Ernie and Cathal is Charles. I'm Mary, so that didn't have to change."

I blinked, surprised by the amount of information she was willing to share, after DI Burrows had been stonewalled. But then Mrs. Kavanagh—or Madam, as Mary called her—wasn't here to silence her. "Is Ernie the . . . footman?" I guessed.

"Aye. First footman."

I nodded in understanding of the importance of that distinction, particularly to the staff.

She tipped her head to the side. "Or rather, he was. He quit a month ago."

"Not long after Miss Kavanagh was assaulted?"

"Aye, but it's not what ye think," she insisted. Her eyes were suddenly wide with regret.

"What do I think?"

"That he were somehow involved. 'Twasn't like that. Ye should've seen how upset he was. He was right fond of Miss Kavanagh. Blamed himself for not investigatin' sooner when he first heard the noises. Rattles and scuffles and the like. Thought they were scavengers pickin' through the refuse."

"He told your employer all this?"

"Aye." A furrow formed between her thin brows. "And they told him to forget it."

Now, why on earth would they do that? Why wouldn't they want him to report it to the authorities? Were they afraid they would assume what Mary had worried I had? That Ernie was the culprit. Or had Ernie seen more than Mary realized? Something they'd not wanted him to share.

Her head snapped toward the stairs where a soft thud had come from, as if someone had dropped something. She flushed. "I . . . I should go now, ma'am. I'll be wanted."

"Just one more question," I said as she began to back away. "Do you know where Ernie went?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, ma'am."

I nodded once and she hurried away to scuttle down the stairs, the white mob cap covering her hair bobbing with each step.

Once she'd disappeared from sight, I turned to enter the drawing room, contemplating how I might track down this Ernie. Or rather Earnán. I should have asked her for his surname.

I crossed toward the window overlooking the street, frowning to myself. I'd occasionally heard of people making their staff members adopt a different name than the one they'd been given, but usually that was because there was more than one maid with the same name or because their name was long or difficult to say, so they opted for a shortened form of it. But this was the first I'd heard of someone forcing their staff to use the anglicized version of their names. Though, somehow, I suspected it was more common than I realized.

The drapes over the windows had already been drawn to allow the muted daylight to lighten the room, and I allowed my gaze to sweep down the length of the street from one end to the other, as far as I could see. A few people strolled along the pavement in either direction, but none of them seemed to be paying much attention to the Kavanaghs' home, except . . . there! At the corner near St. Stephen's Church, there was a man loitering near the lamppost. He was dressed respectably in a brown three-piece suit and derby hat, and might have just been waiting for a friend, but for the glances he cast periodically toward the Kavanaghs' house.

I narrowed my eyes. He might have been one of Collins's men, but there was something about him that screamed British army. His posture, perhaps, or his mannerisms. And while it was true, there were plenty of former British soldiers, particularly from the Irish Guard, who sympathized with and might have joined the republicans in their efforts to overthrow the British, I didn't think that was the case here. This chap had received some sort of training. British Intelligence training. So why was he following me? Had my ruse with Bennett not worked as well as I'd hoped?

"Mrs. Kent," Mr. Kavanagh hailed me before I could come to any satisfactory conclusion. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Not at all," I said as he clasped my hand briefly before gesturing for me to take a seat on the sofa while he claimed the French provincial chair next to it. "Thank you for seeing me, and on such short notice."

He dipped his head sharply, an unspoken acknowledgmentof our collusion to converse without his wife's interference. "I'm not sure what else I can tell you."

Having noted the effect candor had on him before, I opted to employ it again. "I'm not sure either. But when Lord French asked me what I'd learned, he indicated there might be things you were withholding for the sake of your wife's feelings. It was he who suggested that I speak with you privately."

Mr. Kavanagh didn't appear pleased by this insight, but what man would? He rubbed his finger back and forth over his white mustache in deep thought before finally relenting. "He's not entirely wrong. Mrs. Kavanagh . . ." He seemed unable to put into words his wife's objection to discussing their daughter's assault and death.

"Understandably," I assured him.

His eyes glinted with gratitude. "What do you wish to know?"

"The night of the attack . . . I understand that it occurred in the garden. That she'd gone out to clear her head. Were there no witnesses? None of the staff?" I paused, wording my last question carefully so as not to get Mary into trouble. "Who found her?"

His pallor grew wan and his lips bloodless. "Ernie, our footman, found her. After her attackers had already fled. No one else saw or heard anything." He looked up distractedly toward the hearth, the wall of which adjoined the next townhouse. "Not even our neighbors."

"Then Ernie didn't hear or see anything?"

"No." His brow furrowed. "And before you ask if you can speak with him, you should know he gave notice some weeks ago. And I don't know where he's gone."

Except I already knew that the footman had heard something. It was a scream that drew him out to the garden in the first place. Why would Mr. Kavanagh lie about this?

"What about your daughter? What did she tell you?"

He shifted in his seat, crossing the opposite leg over his knee. "Not much. She was in shock, you understand. And the men wore masks." He scraped a hand down his face. "The look on her face when we found her." He screwed his eyes shut. "And when . . . when . . ." He shook his head.

"When what?" I pressed, but he shook his head harder.

"She was never the same," he finally replied in a dull voice.

But there was something else. Something he wasn't telling me. Just as there had been something Mrs. Kavanagh had stopped herself from saying the last time I visited. Something about how she'd never caused them a moment of trouble except for whatever she'd stopped herself from uttering. After speaking with Lord French and hearing more about Mrs. Kavanagh's rigid propriety, I'd started to wonder if the words she'd not uttered related to the trouble her assault had caused them. That she'd realized how poorly the thought would reflect on her. But now I wondered if it was something else entirely.

Mr. Kavanagh's head hung low. "And it's all my fault."

"Because of the commission investigating malicious injury and damage claims?" I asked, curious where exactly the source of his guilt lay. "Or because you allowed a British soldier to court her? This Lieutenant Delagrange."

For some reason this question seemed to distress him. "No, no. Delagrange is an upstanding fellow. Quite the decorated officer."

But the more he protested this, the more I doubted it. It left a cold feeling in my gut.

He pushed to his feet, pacing agitatedly toward the window and back. "No, it's that dashed commission. Why did I ever agree to be on it?"

"You've received threats?"

He nodded.

"From the IRA?"

His gaze darted to me and then away. "From the rebels," he clarified, perhaps thinking I was testing him since the British government refused to acknowledge they were an army. "From Sinn Féin."

"Because they believe the commission's rulings are unfair?"

He scowled. "And they resent the Irish ratepayers being made responsible for paying the claims."

"Ridiculous considering the fact they're supporting the very men causing those damages," a voice proclaimed from the doorway. It belonged to a British gentleman with dark eyes and even darker hair, which contrasted with his pale skin. The same gentleman I'd seen from the window monitoring this house. The same gentleman I suspected had been following me.

He swaggered forward. "One would think that would motivate the potato-eaters to turn in the murderous thugs, but they've never been very bright."

I frowned, taking an instant dislike to the fellow—whoever he was—and his offensive language. Though Mr. Kavanagh's startled reaction to his presence was more than interesting. It told me who the visitor likely was before the maid ever spoke.

"My apologies, sir," Mary said, dipping a curtsy. "Lieutenant Delagrange insisted on comin' straight up."

"It's alright," he assured the maid. "Of course, he's always welcome."

But the look on Mr. Kavanagh's face was far from welcoming. In fact, I would have described it as dismaying. A dismay that Delagrange plainly took pleasure in.

Just as he took pleasure in allowing his gaze to rudely rove over my figure. "I hope I'm not interrupting," he declared.

"Of course, not," Mr. Kavanagh stammered. "Have you been introduced? Mrs. Kent, allow me to present Lieutenant Delagrange," he hastened to say before the question could even be answered.

"Charmed, I'm sure," I responded sardonically.

Delagrange's smile broadened to reveal even more of his teeth, putting me in mind of a lion waiting to devour its prey. But I was no gazelle to be taken down. It was clear that I would get no more from Mr. Kavanagh with Delagrange present—precisely his intent, I was sure—and I hadn't the least desire to spar with the fellow. So instead, I opted to disengage.

Pushing to my feet, I moved toward Mr. Kavanagh, offering him my hand. "I've taken up more than enough of your time," I told him with a soft smile, which appeared to catch him off guard as much as Delagrange's abrupt arrival.

"Thank you for coming," he murmured.

"Please convey my condolences once again to your wife."

He blinked. "I will."

With that, I swept past Delagrange with the barest nod. The brute no doubt viewed my departure as a retreat, and therefore a victory. I'd discovered long ago that men often saw things in such childish terms. Let him think so, even though the truth was he'd disclosed far more by revealing himself and barging into my meeting with Mr. Kavanagh than anything I had done or said.

For one, his mufti attire all but confirmed my suspicions that he was part of the intelligence branch. For another, he was a posturing buffoon, puffed up on his own self-consequence, which suggested he was a rather green agent. He'd not yet experienced enough to confront his own fallibility or to appreciate the importance of stealth. Those agents out for glory and recognition never lasted long.

I shook my head, thinking of the intelligence officers in Kidd's Back and Cairo's Café and all the other places they were known to frequent. If we were able to uncover such a thing so easily, then you could bet that Collins and his men had also. I'd seen his right-hand man Tobin with my own eyes entering Kidd's Back. Those agents were arrogant fools. Fools who I feared would come to a bad end.

But the most important thing Delagrange had divulged washow anxious he was for me not to converse with Mr. Kavanagh. For why else would he have charged into the drawing room rather than wait patiently for me to emerge? This was a mistake. For while Delagrange had interested me before, especially after noting Kavanagh's reaction to my mention of him, it was not to the degree he did now. Now, I was determined to learn just who Delagrange was and what he was so intent on hiding.

Emerging from the Kavanaghs' home, I paused a moment to adjust my gloves. Which was just long enough apparently for their neighbor, who must have been watching for me from her window, to step out her door and call to me.

"Mrs. Kent. Oh, Mrs. Kent."

She waved me closer, and I approached hesitantly, wary of the fact she might simply be nosy. But then again, sometimes nosy neighbors had their uses.

She was a pleasantly rounded woman a few years older than Mrs. Kavanagh, with a somewhat florid complexion. She'd hastily pulled a shawl over her shoulders, clasping it before her. "Forgive me," she declared with a genial smile. "But when I saw ye there, I just had to introduce myself. I'm Mrs. Gardiner." Her eyes strayed to the house I'd just departed. "I'd no idea the Kavanaghs had such glamorous friends."

I smiled tightly, debating how to answer her. Fortunately, she was the type who didn't require one.

"Callin' to pay your respects?" She clicked her tongue in empathy. "Such a sad business. When I heard what had happened to poor Miss Kavanagh, why ye could've knocked me over with a feather."

"It's all very shocking," I agreed before artfully prompting, "and so frustrating that the police haven't been able to find more witnesses to help them locate the culprits."

"Oh, aye! And believe you me, I compelled my staff to come forward with any information they felt might be helpful. That they should feel free to inform me if they felt too intimidated to speak to the police, and I would convey it on their behalf." She shook her head, a mannerism I was to quickly learn she favored. "But alas, none of 'em saw anythin'."

"Has the neighborhood experienced many disturbances from the republicans?" It seemed quiet at this end of Herbert Street, tucked away from the wider, busier thoroughfares with road bridges over the canal, but appearances could be deceiving.

"Nay. 'Tis one of the things that makes it so shocking." A shrewd glint entered her eyes. "But they say Miss Kavanagh was targeted. Because of her father."

She clearly hoped I'd remark on this, but I redirected the conversation. "I just met the fellow she was stepping out with. Lieutenant Delagrange."

"Oh, aye. Quite handsome, isn't he?"

I supposed. Though his demeanor left much to be desired.

"So sad. He was quite fond of her, as I understand." She peered over my shoulder toward the Kavanaghs' home, her expression seeming sincere, but there was something in her voice that alerted me to conflicted feelings. Or perhaps her thoughts had already moved on to other matters, for she sighed. "That family has seen more than its fair share of tragedy these last few years."

"You're speaking of their son who died in the war," I deduced.

"Aye. And their nephew."

"The one who also served?" I asked, remembering Mrs. Kavanagh's remarks about how he'd returned a changed man.

Mrs. Gardiner's gaze shifted to meet mine, like a bloodhound, able to smell my interest. "The same." She leaned closer. "He was killed by one of those murder gangs."

I stiffened in surprise, and she nodded.

"Left a note with his body and everythin'. Apparently, he was some sort of informant."

I supposed for a woman bound by such strict conventions, her nephew getting himself murdered, regardless of the circumstances, was enough to earn Mrs. Kavanagh's disapproval.

"When did this happen?" I asked.

"Oh, a few months ago." She considered the question. "March maybe. Or April." She shook her head. "I do know Miss Kavanagh took his death hard. Poor girl."

I understood what she was saying. That this also helped explain the young woman's despair and perhaps contributed to her taking her own life. I realized then that I didn't know how Miss Kavanagh had done it. It was an incredibly delicate question. One that there had never been an appropriate opening to ask in either of the charged conversations I'd held with her parents. But perhaps the neighbor might know.

"How did she do it?" I murmured softly. "How did she take her own life? As I'm sure you can appreciate, they don't wish to discuss it."

"Of course, of course," Mrs. Gardiner replied. "'Twas a bottle of pills. Some sort of sleeping medicine, I believe." She arched her eyebrows in criticism. "Something the nurse they'd hired to care for her should never have left where she could reach it."

Yes, that did seem like a terribly elementary mistake.

Having uncovered everything I felt I could and perhaps satisfied some of the neighbor's curiosity, I excused myself, continuing south down Herbert Street. I'd noted a young woman watching us from a window across the street, and debated whether I should detour toward her home. It seemed maybe she had something to tell me as well. But when I turned to look directly at her again, she shrank away from me.

Or maybe it was from the man who called out my name, hurrying to catch up. It took all of my self-control not to groan in irritation at the sound of Lieutenant Delagrange's voice. Apparently, the eejit didn't know when to leave well enough alone.

I didn't pause or break stride, but Delagrange didn't take the hint, reaching my side soon enough. "I suggest you keep your distance from the Kavanaghs in the future."

"Oh, yes? Why's that?" I asked in a bored voice. Truly, his behavior was becoming terribly predictable. I practically had to stifle a yawn.

"Because it's distressing to them. So, if you know what's good for you . . ."

I couldn't withhold a sigh at this last remark—such a cli-ché threat—and Delagrange broke off, perhaps in surprise. "You do know who asked me to speak with them in the first place?" I inquired, straining to maintain my patience.

This query was met with silence, leaving me with reluctant curiosity as to whether he didn't know or if he had simply failed to think his actions through.

Sadly, the predictability continued as he doubled down. "I suggest you ignore Lord French's flights of fancy. Everyone knows he's nothing but a figurehead. Couldn't get the job done in France, and he couldn't get the job done here either."

"Shall I convey your thoughts to him?"

This succeeded in wiping the smirk from his face.

"More pertinently, are you actually suggesting I disregard the wishes of the lord lieutenant—the Crown's representative here in Ireland—be he a mere figurehead, or not?" I scoffed. "You won't last long if you're that politically and socially unsavvy."

He suddenly reached out to grasp my arm, pulling me to a stop, and forcing the people walking several paces behind us to swerve to avoid us. "I am not a man to be trifled with," he snarled, staring down at me menacingly, ignoring the looks we were drawing from passersby.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs, but I refused to be intimidated. "Let go of my arm," I demanded in a low voice.

In response, he squeezed tighter, and I knew I would find bruises there later.

"Or would you rather I scream?"

These were not the streets of German-occupied Brussels. People here would not be afraid to come to my aid. Not when I was a respectable upper-class woman signaling my distress. Even now, from the corner of my eye I could see several people considering interfering.

It took a second longer than it should have for him to realize it, but the lieutenant finally released my arm. I immediately turned away, giving him the cut.

Such was my fury, that I had to force myself to take measured steps down the pavement, nodding in gratitude and reassurance to those still watching us. Truth be told, I would have liked to do nothing more than land the brute on his backside, or knee him where it counts. I could have done it, too. But that would have drawn too much attention and revealed too much about my own abilities.

No, there were better ways to deal with men like Delagrange. A letter from Sidney to Lord French, Chief Secretary Greenwood, and Under-Secretary Anderson, for good measure, would see the lieutenant put in his place and warned away from me. I would have sent a letter to Colonel Winter, Delagrange's more direct superior in Intelligence, but Kathleen had warned me what an oily snake he was. He'd probably approve of Delagrange's methods. Better to go over his head. Or rather, adjacent. Director of Intelligence Thomson would likely have approved as well.

Which reminded me why I had to tread so carefully, and how closely I had to watch my back. Even from the men who should have been my allies.