CHAPTER 15

A s the month of June drew to a close, matters in Ireland only seemed to worsen. There had been more raids on RIC barracks, more policemen killed, but this time they were followed with major reprisals by the Crown Forces. In Bantry, County Cork, an invalid was shot dead, and a number of houses and businesses burned. In Fermoy, also in County Cork, where a large military barracks was located, the town was looted and burned, in retaliation for the capture of General Lucas, a brigade commander. Outrage over the worsening reprisals continued to increase, even reaching as far as India, where two companies of the Connaught Rangers mutinied in protest.

Assemblies were held in places like Naas to reinforce support for the dockers and railwaymen who continued to refuse to handle or transport munitions or military and police personnel. New duly elected county councils continued to come out in support of the Dáil éireann, which persisted in meeting covertly despite having been proscribed by the government. While meanwhile in the north, the Ulster Volunteer Force was being revived by officials, a move to reorganize and control the already existing loyalist vigilante groups operating throughout the ancient province. This was a somewhat alarming development, one that the British government would surely put a stop to, leaving the policing to the Crown Forces rather than a transparently sectarian group.

There were also worrying developments in our little corner of Dublin. Peter, the hotelier at the Wicklow, still had no news to share of my "cousin's" whereabouts. Nor did I collect any useful information from the other places I frequented. I was beginning to second-guess my strategy. It seemed I might have more luck in my guise as Dearbhla in the evenings, but it would also expose me to more risk. Plus, Sidney and I were often issued invitations to dinner or the theater or other venues in the evening. Invitations we felt compelled to accept, though I was even beginning to doubt the wisdom of that.

I was also almost certain that Ginny had snuck into my "writing room" one day while I was out. The room she'd been strictly forbidden to enter. I could only hope she hadn't found the hole at the back of the wardrobe and instead had assumed I'd simply left the house without her noticing. Regardless, I'd had to ask Nimble to keep a closer eye on her.

The day Sidney and I finally visited Dublin Castle was not particularly auspicious. Heavy, overcast skies signaled there would soon be rain, and there was some agitation among the population as newsboys on the street corners cried the latest headlines—a failed ambush in Skibbereen and a bombing in Cork City. As we approached the Palace Street gate, the main entrance to the Castle, I could see canvas screens had been erected above the ornate cast-iron gates, presumably as an extra security measure to prevent snipers from neighboring buildings being able to see inside the Castle complex. The bomb-catching meshwork stretched across the archway—of particular importance that day—was being inspected, as were the barbed wire and sandbag protections.

About twenty yards from the gate, a mantrap stood open in the pavement. A swift look down inside showed a pair of Royal Engineers moving about. I was to learn later that the River Poddle ran beneath the Castle walls and that wire entanglements had been erected over the subterranean stream to keep the rebels from gaining access that way. I could only imagine the concern this must have caused the authorities that the IRA might utilize this weakness in the Castle's defenses, either to sneak in or blow it up from below. The underground river also explained the dank smell I soon discovered permeated the place. Water even seeped from the stone walls in places—a fault in its construction.

The gate house to the left of the main arched opening was accessed through a smaller door also constructed of iron, and manned by an assortment of DMP officers and military police. They checked our passes and our names against a list of visitors and then we were allowed to enter, being directed toward the offices housing the headquarters of the DMP. Almost immediately to the right, I noted a long, narrow alley within which a number of men appeared to be milling about. However, my attention was swiftly diverted to the Lower Castle Yard several dozen yards before me.

I was at once struck by the hum of activity. The massive courtyard was filled with armored cars, tenders, and lorries—rows upon rows of them—and even a tank. Some of them rumbled in idle as men tinkered with them, issuing forth plumes of exhaust, but most sat quietly, waiting to spring to life. Meanwhile, soldiers in the all too familiar shades of dark green and khaki gathered in groups, jesting with one another, cigarettes dangling from their fingers, their metal badges and revolvers flashing in the stray beams of sunshine that occasionally managed to penetrate through the clouds. Here and there, civilians and uniformed officers darted between the massive complex of buildings and through a gate to the right, which I presumed led into the Upper Castle Yard.

Most of the buildings were constructed of brick, at least on the exterior: a Georgian remodel, as I understood it, meant to blend with the rest of the city. Directly across the lower yard stood the Chapel Royal and the medieval-looking round Record Tower from which the Union Jack flew. From our vantage, I could just make out the muzzle of a machine gun aimed between the parapets and trained on the Palace Street gate in preparation for any attempted invasion. The other buildings surrounding the yard housed the RIC headquarters, the Treasury Office, the British Army's Dublin Command, a central telephone exchange, a coach house and stables, and the DMP headquarters.

Rather than be caught gawking, Sidney laced my arm with his, guiding us toward the chief commissioner of the DMP's office. However, I found my gaze continuing to stray toward the gate leading into the Upper Castle Yard, or the "Devil's Half-Acre," as it had been dubbed by the Irish after centuries of contentious and sometimes violent British rule. It contained the sumptuous Viceregal State Apartments, the Privy Council Chamber, and the offices of the chief secretary of Ireland and undersecretaries, as well as residences for some of the staff. The intelligence office was also, no doubt, contained within. Not that I wished to see it.

Several of the soldiers turned to watch us as we passed and I flashed them a smile. As I'd been dressing that morning, I'd acknowledged that we couldn't hope to pass unnoticed. Not together. So I'd decided the best thing to do was give them all something to talk about. By doing so, my presence would seem less suspicious. I knew my sage-green gown with frilled skirt and crisscross neckline with lavender accents was both flattering and eye-catching, precisely the combination I needed.

I noticed then a sprinkling of men dressed in plain clothes standing amidst those in uniform, deducing they were either intelligence officers or G-Men. I didn't recognize any of them, so presumably we didn't have a personal history. At least, none of them gave me more than the admiring stares I normally received from men.

A man in the starch-collared DMP uniform, with polished buttons marching up the front of the tunic and a shiny buckle cinched at the waist, greeted us as we entered the chief commissioner's office. He showed us through an interior door to the larger office of his superior. Edgeworth-Johnstone was a sportsman of great prowess, particularly in fencing and pugilism. He'd won numerous titles in his younger days, and still cut a trim and dashing figure now at nearly sixty. His uniform was much like his clerks', albeit with far more gilding and ornamentation about the collar and across the shoulders. He had a flared pyramid mustache and a head of sparse, closely cropped hair, but I came to realize that his most distinctive feature was his heavy, triangular-shaped eyebrows, which emphasized the natural downturn of his lips and made him look like he was perpetually frowning.

He rounded his desk to shake Sidney's hand before clasping mine very properly. "A pleasure to meet you." He gestured for us to have a seat while he resumed his. "I understand you have some concerns for me. Speaking of which . . ." He tapped a folder on his desk with his flat hand, his manner turning more serious. "Your letters were received," he told Sidney. "And your concerns addressed. Lieutenant Delagrange has been warned to stay away from Mrs. Kent." His gaze shifted between us. "Though I trust that's not what this meeting is about."

"No, it isn't," Sidney answered on our behalf. We'd already agreed it would be better for him to probe elsewhere for more information on Delagrange, and also best for him to do most of the talking during this meeting. "As you may already know, the lord lieutenant asked us, as a personal favor, to look into the assault of Miss Katherine Kavanagh."

The commissioner indicated with his head that he was aware.

"We've spoken with Mr. and Mrs. Kavanagh, who are still justifiably distressed, as well as your man in charge of the investigation into the incident—a Detective Inspector Burrows out of Great Brunswick Street—but none of them were able to tell us much." He eyed the other man shrewdly. "Given the importance of Mr. Kavanagh's position, we thought you might be able to tell us more."

Johnstone sank back in his chair, considering us carefully before speaking. "As I understand it, His Excellency is most concerned with apprehending the culprits who perpetuated such a fiendish crime. To that end, I can tell you that a witness was found."

I sat forward in surprise, turning to Sidney as he repeated, "A witness?"

The commissioner nodded, opening the file immediately in front of him on his desk. I arched my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the papers inside.

"Yes. Let's see . . . A footman, it appears. One who worked for the Kavanaghs."

Earnán.

"He stumbled upon the end of the attack, and while he couldn't identify the men's faces because of their masks, he heard enough of their accents and discussion to recognize they were from the local brigade of a republican group that calls themselves the IRA."

I found it interesting that the commissioner was speaking to us as if we didn't already know who the IRA were, as if we weren't highly aware of the intricate ins and outs of the struggle. He closed the file, sinking back in his chair again. I wished I could get my hands on its contents.

"Burrows didn't inform us of any of this," Sidney informed him with furrowed brow.

Johnstone clasped his hands before him. "Because DI Burrows didn't know. This information was obtained by a different source."

The furrows deepened. "Do you mind telling us who, so we might speak with him?"

"I'm afraid that's classified."

Which meant that he was an intelligence officer. Or the tout of one.

"But I assure you their report was quite thorough. I doubt that there's more to be learned from that avenue." The commissioner tapped his thumbs together. "And as I understand it, the footman soon left the Kavanaghs' employ. Too frightened the IRA would retaliate if they learned he cooperated with the authorities."

Definitely Earnán, then, though we still didn't have his last name.

"Could you at least share the footman's name?" I asked. "Or is that also classified?"

His smile was patronizing. "I'm afraid so. Secrecy is of the utmost importance in these sorts of matters, Mrs. Kent." He turned to Sidney. "If you want my advice, leave this matter to us. I've already told His Excellency as much. We'll be on to the culprits soon enough."

With that, we were essentially dismissed.

"I suppose that corroborates at least some of what you learned the other day," Sidney murmured as we descended the stairs.

"But neither Mary nor Mr. Kavanagh mentioned that Earnán had seen the men or heard their discussion," I countered.

"Maybe he was afraid to tell them."

I turned to look into Sidney's expectant gaze, having to cede he could be correct. If the assailants knew that Earnán had heard them, if he'd been frightened enough to leave the Kavanaghs' employ, then he might have been just as eager to protect those he left behind. I frowned, though more often than not, I found that leaving people in ignorance placed them at more risk, no matter how noble your intentions.

We emerged to much the same scene in the Lower Castle Yard, and while I wanted nothing more than to explore the complex further, specifically venturing into the upper yard, I knew we no longer had an excuse to be there. I allowed my eyes to linger on its edifices, racking my brain for some justification.

Which was when I spotted the woman striding purposefully across the yard, a stack of folders clasped before her. A female clerk or typist. One of, no doubt, many who worked in the Castle, performing many of the same tasks I had during my initial months with the Secret Service in London during the war. Applying for such a position would be foolhardy. No one of my social and marital status, not to mention my reputation, would ever be accepted. There was no longer a worldwide war going on and a necessity for such exceptions. And attempting to do so in disguise would be even more imprudent. However, if I befriended one of these women, I might be able to learn more from them or perhaps even be invited on a tour. Such things were done no matter the rules. Though I would have to choose carefully.

When the woman turned to anxiously survey the yard, showing she wasn't quite as self-assured as she first seemed, and then affixed her gaze on me for a few moments, I memorized what I could of her features. She had thick, dark hair and eyebrows, and an aquiline nose. I wanted to be able to recognize her if I ever saw her again.

I was about to turn my back on the yard, when I suddenly felt someone watching me. And not in the complimentary manner of the soldiers milling amongst the military vehicles. Swiveling my head to the right, I caught sight of the individual standing outside the doorway adjacent to the constabulary offices. There was some distance between us, but based on his appearance alone, I knew he must be Ormonde de l'épée Winter, the newly appointed director of intelligence in Ireland and deputy advisor to the police. The fellow looked precisely as if he'd been plucked out of a lineup and cast in his role. Short and dapper, with a monocle set in his eye, an affectation I could only imagine was meant to emulate C, much as his uninspired code name "O."

I recalled again how Kathleen had cautioned me about him during our last briefing before my departure for Dublin. "I'm telling you, Ver, he's probably entirely amoral, and as dishonest as the day is long," she'd declared with a vehemence I'd rarely witnessed from her. "Men seem to like him well enough. Even C doesn't seem to have strong objections to him, despite his being appointed by Thomson. But I'm telling you"—she'd eyed me sharply—"watch your back with that one."

"Is he a lech?" I'd asked.

"Possibly. But I'm less concerned about him grabbing your arse than him blackmailing, betraying, or selling you to the highest bidder. He's already been acquitted of murder once. And I don't think he'd hesitate to do it again if he thought he could get away with it."

Meeting his cold gaze in person for the first time, even across a courtyard, I better understood Kathleen's warning. It did put one in mind of a snake. A wicked little white one.

He didn't approach, and I had no desire for a conversation with the fellow, so I turned away, carrying on past the last streetlamp and out the pedestrian gate.

Sidney waited until we were striding past St. Andrew's Church before speaking. "Who was that unctuous chap with the monocle?"

I smiled at his description, explaining O's role. There was no need to elucidate my reasons for wanting to avoid him.

"I've been told he wants to flood the city with intelligence operatives," Sidney stated evenly. "That more and more are arriving each day."

"They've set up a special training school for them in England," I confirmed.

We crossed George's Street, navigating around a collision between a bicycle and a cart. No one appeared to be injured, though both vehicles would require new wheels. However, the drivers were creating quite a scene screaming at each other in accents so thick I could only make out the occasional curse word.

"But they won't have taught them properly how to blend in," I warned, finishing my thought.

"The other day in Rabbiatti's Saloon, I heard one of them speaking in just about the thickest Cockney accent you've ever heard," Sidney said. "He was commenting on the accent of two other fellows, wanting to know how on earth they'd picked up the Irish brogue, and how he'd been there for over a year and still hadn't been able to master a bit of it."

"Because they were probably Irish," I exclaimed, unable to contain my exasperation any longer. "They were probably Collins's men."

Having startled the woman approaching us, I allowed Sidney to pull me toward the inner edge of the pavement. "It wouldn't surprise me," he said in a low voice.

"During the war, had we sent agents into Belgium and France speaking with Cockney accents, the Germans would have picked them up in a trice," I hissed. "I can't decide whether Thomson and his cronies are so prejudiced against the Irish that they think they're too stupid to even notice the difference, or if they're simply oblivious to the fact that an Irishman is not the same as an Englishman, no matter how hard the government has tried to make that so."

"Either reasoning would fit, it seems to me," Sidney agreed, maintaining a far more even tone than I could manage.

"They're just sending over more targets for the rebels' guns," I whispered in a broken voice. Reckless, dimwitted targets like Lieutenant Delagrange, a man I'd never thought to feel sympathy for.

Sidney pulled me closer to his side, but he didn't try to convince me I was wrong. Sometimes it was better to let the truth stand, even when it smarted.