CHAPTER 16

T he next day, I spent the better part of the morning contemplating our next steps. Once again, the newspapers were filled with reports of RIC patrols being attacked, barracks burned, and a more credible report of a seventeen-year-old girl from County Kerry having her hair forcibly cut and her head tarred simply because two of her brothers were members of the constabulary. There were also accounts of troubling evidence that had emerged in a court case in Derry City of collusion between the British Army and the Ulster Protestant vigilantes during the recent riots that had occurred there, which left me feeling less confident the government would halt the formation of an official Ulster Volunteer Force.

It left me wondering for perhaps the dozenth time why on earth we were in Ireland. Why I hadn't latched on to the excuse Alec had afforded me and returned to London. After a month, we were no closer to finding him, and no closer to uncovering Miss Kavanagh's assailants other than confirmation that they seemed to be members of the local IRA. But Lord French had already suspected that!

I had one last option open to me that I could think of. I'd been resistant to use it given the quid pro quo nature of the man in question, but now I felt I had no choice. So I dashed off a letter to my reporter friend asking him to meet me for lunch sometime in the next few days. Then knowing it was too late for him to respond requesting we meet that day, I climbed the stairs to my self-proclaimed writing room, locking the door firmly behind me, and donned my disguise to set off for the Wicklow. It had been some days since I'd called at the hotel, and I knew I had to stop avoiding Tom, or abandon the strategy all together.

Peter seemed happy to see me, confessing he'd begun to think perhaps I'd gone back to County Antrim, from which I'd claimed to hail. But he still had no news of Alec. "And I have to caution ye," he said in a concerned tone as he leaned against the bar. "That's usually not a good t'ing."

I nodded, understanding what he was saying.

Still I sat, sipping my drink and listening to two men at the opposite end of the bar quibbling over a recent match at Croke Park. Such was my absorption, that I didn't notice Tom's approach.

"Is this seat taken?"

I turned to look at him, recognizing he was giving me the chance to tell him to beat it. Instead, I gestured for him to sit. My senses were on high alert, waiting to see what he would do. I lifted my gaze to the glass behind the bar, anxious to see if he'd come alone or if a cohort was watching us from the other side of the room.

"You've been avoidin' me."

I'd not expected frankness, but then decided I was glad of it, responding in kind. "I have." It helped that Peter was also monitoring us closely, at least suggesting he would step in to assist should I need it.

My candor seemed to surprise Tom as well, for it took him a moment to answer. "I suppose I can't blame ye. You're a stranger to Dublin, and I did come on rather strong. 'Tis your beauty. It fair steals my good sense."

I could tell from the smile he flashed me that he expected this display of charm to melt my defenses. On a less experienced woman it might have worked, for he was handsome and engaging. But I'd faced down more than my fair share of rogues in at least five countries, and I was married to Sidney Kent. It took more than flattery and an appealing smirk to disarm me.

"One can never be too careful," I responded blandly, taking another sip of my tea.

He didn't say anything else at first, as if he expected me to say more. But as Peter set his dark stout before him, he tried again. "Well, I meant it when I said I'd like to help ye." He took a deep drink before continuing, the foam clinging to his upper lip. I expected him to play for time, perhaps attempt to arrange another meeting, but instead he shocked both me and Peter with his next pronouncement. "And I think I may've found somethin'."

My cup clattered into its saucer as I turned, now giving him my full attention. However, the regret plainly writ across his features drained the blood from mine.

"Rumor is there's a man of your description who went by the name of MacAlister buried in a bog in County Kildare."

My stomach pitched, but Tom wasn't finished.

"They . . . they say he was a spy for the Brits. But they may've gotten it wrong," he hastened to add as I turned to clasp the bar, lest I crumble under the weight of this news.

I'd told neither of them he was a spy, which seemed to only add credibility to the report. Was this it then? Had I finally uncovered what had happened to Alec? Were my worst fears confirmed?

Peter sprang into action, the dear fellow, pouring a glass of water and forcing it into my hand. "Here ye are, Miss Bell. Take a drink now. Aye, just like that," he coaxed as I lifted it shakily to my lips and swallowed. "Another one, now," he said, and I complied.

Lowering the glass to the bar and taking a deep breath, I had to admit I did feel better. My vision no longer seemed to fade to a point somewhere in the distance.

"There, now, you just sit here with ole Peter for another minute and then I'll ask one of our porters to walk ye home." I noticed him dart an angry glare at Tom and then toward the far doorway, but I didn't have a clear vantage in the reflection of the glass of who might be standing there. Whoever it was obviously had some connection to Tom and obviously didn't want me to see them.

This, more than anything, helped me recover my equilibrium as my mind turned over the conundrum. Why did the person near the door wish to remain hidden? Was this mysterious someone the source of Tom's information? Was Peter unhappy with them because they'd upset me, or for another reason entirely?

For that matter, how did I know that what Tom had told me was true? Yes, the detail about the man in the bog being a spy had lent it verisimilitude, but if Tom had realized who I was, if he was working with the rebels, then he might have added that for my benefit.

But if that were true, if Alec had still been alive and undetected, having simply broken off contact with his handler, then had I unwittingly placed him in even more danger? I might have very well gotten him killed. The realization was like a splash of cold water in the face.

"Nay," I finally told Peter. "Nay. I'm fine now. 'Twas . . . 'twas just the shock. I'll be alright."

"Are ye sure, lassie?" he asked, scrutinizing me closely as I gathered up my things. "'Tisn't a bother."

"I'm sure." I offered him a weak smile. "But thank ye." I turned to Tom. "And thank ye, too."

"I could walk ye—" he began to offer, but I shook my head.

I still felt a bit light-headed as I exited the hotel, but each step brought more clarity. Enough that I was able to apply my training, making quick turns and doubling back on my route, hopping aboard the tram at the last minute to ensure I wasn't being followed. By the time I'd reached the alley behind our townhouse and passed through the neighbor's gate to begin picking my way across their garden, which was becoming more overgrown with each passing day, I had determined to question everything until it was verified by an independent source. And fortunately, I knew just the person to ask.

* * *

"So ye are in Dublin's fair city," Michael Wickham declared when I arrived at the table where he was already seated in the little restaurant he'd selected, in Dawson Street. He rose to his feet, bussing both my cheeks. "When I received your letter, I thought for certain ye were pullin' my leg. A gin rickey for Mrs. Kent," he told the waiter. "The good stuff."

"Do they have the good stuff?" I asked as I settled in my chair, removing my gloves.

He winked. "Wait and see."

I smiled. If anyone knew where to find a decent bottle of gin in this town, it was Wick.

"But what on earth are ye doin' here?" he demanded. "This is hardly Paris in spring." His voice lowered a notch. "And I thought ye were done with all the skulkery."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I replied blithely.

He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Uh-huh." The twinkle in his eye told me he knew better, but I'd learned it was best never to confirm anything to a reporter. Not even a friend. "Just like ye were naught but a comely English maid concerned for the welfare of her French cousins when I met yet in that field hospital outside Amiens."

By chance, the table we were seated at was but one of about half a dozen, and it was tucked away in the corner near the kitchen, affording us a measure of privacy.

Wick had been injured by shrapnel while reporting on the Germans' 1918 spring offensive while I'd nearly been blown up by a shell delivering a message from HQ about a suspected traitor among a brigade's intelligence staff. I'd been posing as a French refugee, fleeing the Germans' swift advance, but been forced to improvise once it was discovered I was English at the dressing station I'd been taken to before being transferred on to the field hospital. I'd been a bit out of my head, not only from the scrambling my brain had received, but also with grief over Sidney's recently reported death. Wick had proved to be an invaluable friend and also a bolstering hospital mate, as the irreverent Irishman had made me laugh when I'd most needed it.

"I read your article in the Irish Independent last week," I told him. "Incisive as always."

He spread his hands as if to say, It's what I do .

My brow furrowed in concern. "You're not in any danger, are you? I heard the IRA destroyed some print machinery at the Independent some months back when they didn't like an editorial that was published." One decrying an ambush on the lord lieutenant which had happily failed in its objective to kill him.

He shrugged one shoulder. "It comes with the territory." His nonchalance didn't surprise me. It was part and parcel of the dashing, absent-minded figure he cut, with his square-cut jawline, ink-stained fingers, and windblown hair that appeared perpetually in need of a haircut.

The waiter set what appeared to be a credible-looking gin rickey before me and then withdrew. Wick watched me eagerly, waiting for me to take a drink. I almost hated to disappoint him, but in the end, there was no need to. This, indeed, was made with the good stuff.

"Told ye," he declared smugly as he observed my pleased reaction. "And just wait until ye taste their croque monsieur." He closed his eyes, anticipating a delicious taste. And this was a man who was serious about his sandwiches. "Shall I order?"

"Please do," I said with a smile. He'd succeeded in finding me the only palatable gin rickey I'd had since arriving in Dublin. I more than trusted him to order us an appetizing meal.

That done, Wick eyed me expectantly. "Now, darlin'. Not that I wasn't pleased and flattered when I received your note. But tell me what sparked this lunch invitation."

"Perhaps I simply wanted your company," I demurred.

His eyebrows arched in good-natured skepticism, and I relented. "What do you know of the assault on Miss Kavanagh?"

A slight furrow formed in his brow and his eyes took on a bit of a vacant stare, telling me he was sorting through the reams of information stored in his brain to locate the right details. "The King's Counsel's daughter? Serves on some commission. She had her hair cut. Quite brutally."

"That's the one."

He nodded. "I wanted to look into it." His eyes narrowed. "There was somethin' fishy about it. But ole Harrington warned me away." He shrugged. "And then there were other more pressin' stories to pursue."

There always was during wartime. And no matter the British government's petty dickering over the language, this was a war.

"Fishy how?"

"Well, the IRA got blamed almost immediately, if I recall. But the attack occurred in the garden after everyone had retired. Yet some lads from the local brigade just happened to be hangin' about when Miss Kavanagh decided to step out for some fresh air?"

He had a point. The timing was rather suspect.

"And the likes of the Miss Kavanaghs of the world are not the IRA's usual targets," Wick added.

"She was stepping out with a British officer," I observed. And there had been yet another report of forced hair cutting in the papers the day before, this time of a woman in Clonakilty who'd had a gun held to her head as it was done, just because her father and two brothers were in the British Army.

"Many of the young ladies of her ilk are," he countered. "But they're no danger to the local lads, because they don't know anythin' worth passin' on, either accidentally or on purpose."

"Yes, but that commission you recalled her father serving on is responsible for awarding malicious-injury and damage claims," I informed him before taking another sip of my drink.

This gave him some pause as he considered the ramifications. "Aye, 'tis a sensitive subject. Particularly given the fact there's evidence of collusion between the Crown Forces and Castle authorities of false and inflated claims being made."

"What evidence?" I'd heard the rumors, but this was the first time anyone had spoken to me of actual proof.

However, Wick only shook his head. Which told me that he was probably working on a story about the matter and couldn't divulge his sources. It was a story that the government and their censors would take exception to, putting Wick at risk. But then, this wouldn't be the first time he'd been sent to prison for writing a story the authorities disliked.

"Returnin' to the Kavanaghs, 'tis doubtful his role with the commission would be reason enough to provoke such a risky attack on his daughter. Not the least because Kavanagh is one of the most moderate voices on that committee."

I ruminated over this new information, recognizing the logic of his arguments. I had already been harboring misgivings about the matter, and Johnstone's claim that the Kavanaghs' footman had told an intelligence officer that he'd recognized the assailants as being members of the IRA had only increased them. This only brought them bursting to a head. Though I still had one more point to clarify.

Wick spoke before I could mention it. "What's your interest in the matter?"

"The lord lieutenant asked me to look into it," I responded after a brief pause.

One corner of his mouth curled cynically. "My, my. Don't we have some toplofty friends."

I frowned. "It's not like that." I reached out to fiddle with the alignment of the silverware, but once I realized what I was doing, lowered my hands to my lap. "Yes, he asked as a favor, but I mainly agreed because it seemed the girl deserved some sort of justice. If she was distraught enough to kill herself—" I broke off, inhaling a steadying breath. "It must have been bad."

Wick's scorn was replaced by something more sympathetic, something more speculative. "Aye. I'm acquainted well enough with ye to know what a soft heart ye have."

I scowled at him, and he grinned.

"Ye don't hide it very well, love. Though you've got more pluck than an entire company of soldiers combined. 'Tis why everyone adores ye so."

I flushed at this unexpected compliment. "Not everyone. Believe me."

He chuckled. "Aye. Not the ones ye cross."

"Speaking of cross," I said, lifting my glass. "The Kavanaghs' neighbor suggested one of Miss Kavanagh's cousins had crossed the IRA. That he'd been found with a note condemning him as an informant to the British."

Wick's face scrunched in contemplation again, and I could practically see him flipping through the pages filling the drawers of the file cabinet of his mind. "If so, he's not a Kavanagh. Do you know his name?"

"I'm afraid not." It hadn't seemed important at the time, but now I was kicking myself for not asking.

"Hmm. Let me do some diggin'."

I hadn't asked him to do so, but I wasn't about to turn down the offer, even if it cost me another favor in the future. This also led me neatly into my next request.

"While you're doing so, there's another body I'd like you to look into." I set my glass down carefully. "I've been told there are rumors of a body recently being found in a bog in County Kildare. That he was killed because he was a spy."

When my gaze lifted to meet Wick's, I could tell he recognized the significance of this. From the way he scrutinized my features, he might even have guessed that was why I was really here in Dublin. But for once, he didn't prod or tease. He merely accepted me at my word.

"I haven't heard of any bodies bein' found in bogs. Not in County Kildare. The Móin Alúine, I presume. And not recently." His expression turned watchful. "As for the spy bit, neither Collins nor the IRA would miss the opportunity to make a demonstration of such a John." His voice dipped in warning. "Or Jane."

I didn't even pretend not to understand. "That's not why I'm here," I assured him. "I was released from my war work almost sixteen months ago."

His stare only intensified. "That doesn't mean anythin'."

My lips twisted. "Well, in this case, it does."

He must have sensed my growing disaffection with the establishment, but once again he didn't push. "I'll ask around, but I'm fairly certain these rumors—wherever you heard them—are false."

I swallowed, struggling to restrain the immense surge of relief his words had caused me. I'd already shed more than a handful of tears the previous evening when I'd informed Sidney of what Tom had said. I wasn't going to cry again just because Wick had told me he'd probably been wrong. What that said about Tom, I didn't know. Had he purposely misled me, or had it been an honest mistake? Because of Peter's reaction and Tom's connection to the Capel Street library, I was inclined to believe the former, but the truth was, I didn't know.

Our food arrived, and we left off weightier topics while we enjoyed our meals and caught up on each other's lives. But once our plates were cleared, Wick offered me a cigarette, which I declined, before lighting one for himself. He sat back to consider me and my questions once again. "Have you come to any conclusions about Miss Kavanagh's attack?" he asked after blowing a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Truthfully?" I sighed. "No. And I'm at a bit of a loss as to what else I can do," I admitted. "The family hasn't been exactly cooperative. And neither has the detective inspector in charge of the case."

He tapped a bit of ash into the dish at his elbow. "Yes, but her family aren't the only people who may have known the girl well."

I was an idiot. "Of course! At her age she was bound to have friends she confided in, perhaps even more than her parents." I wondered if I'd even seen one of them watching me from the window across the street as I spoke to Mrs. Gardiner. "You are a genius!"

He chuckled, taking one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out. "No, just used to bein' creative about where I find my sources."

Rounding the table, he helped me from my chair, and then escorted me from the restaurant. The day was warm and the sun bright, glinting off the rose window of St. Ann's Church. I expected Wick to confess he needed to return to the offices of the Independent across the river, but he continued to delay, and soon enough I discovered why.

"Far be it from me to turn into one of those frettin' hens, but a word of caution, Ver."

I looked up to find him scanning the street before us rather than peering down at me, something I found far more disconcerting.

"Collins knows you're here."

His tone sent a skitter of alarm down my spine. "You say that as if you know it in fact."

Wick's gaze shifted to meet mine, and I could see that was exactly what he meant. Of course, as a reporter, particularly for a paper that had become more and more disenchanted with the British government, even going so far as to call the Crown Forces an "army of occupation" upon occasion, he had doubtless spoken to Collins and many other prominent Sinn Féiners and IRA leaders at one point or another. Even knowing there was a natural explanation didn't make me feel any better.

"Finish whatever ye came here for and then get out," he urged. "You've friends here, but we can't protect ye forever. Not if ye prove to be a threat."

"I'm no threat," I assured him in a small voice. "And neither is Sidney."

The steely look in his eyes softened. "Even so, mistakes get made. And I don't want you to be one of them."