CHAPTER 19

I arrived at the Kavanaghs' door at perhaps the most inauspicious moment of the day. But then, of course, I'd planned it that way. Rain poured from the sky, racing along the edges of the streets toward the gutters and drumming insistently against the dome of my umbrella. Though that didn't stop the Kavanaghs from pretending not to be home.

I'd seen the telltale twitch of the curtains in the drawing room window after my card had been sent up. The maid's pink cheeks when she delivered their lie only confirmed it. I smiled at Mary reassuringly, letting her know I understood. It wasn't as if I hadn't expected it. Still, when I'd seen the sky darkening and smelled the approaching rain, I'd thought to take a gamble.

It had failed, and now my hem was wet despite my raincoat and buckle galoshes, but all was not lost. Mostly thanks to Ginny, who had proved more forthcoming with information this morning than she had any other. When I asked her about the homes in the area, she proved to be familiar with most of their owners and staff. Some deft questioning yielded the probable identity of the young lady I'd seen watching me and Mrs. Gardiner from her window. Miss Fiona Fairbanks.

Miss Fairbanks lived with her parents and two siblings in the house across the street and two south from the Kavanaghs. Her mother was a veritable stickler for propriety, much like Mrs. Kavanagh, and prided herself on being deeply religious, though her staff said she only knew ten Bible verses altogether, and those had been stitched onto samplers placed throughout the house. Ginny had smiled impishly, revealing a charming gap between her front teeth, when I'd correctly guessed that a number of them were from Proverbs.

Hearing all this and deducing that, as the middle child, Miss Fairbanks was likely straining against her mother's rigidity—particularly as it applied to what had happened to her friend—I took another gamble. I strode away from the Kavanaghs, ostensibly to return home, but then halfway down the street, crossed to the other side to double back. I stopped long enough at the Fairbanks residence to deliver my card and a note into the hands of one of the staff, and then continued north to the Pepper Cannister church.

Once I'd wrangled open the overly large door and stepped inside, I discovered it to be quiet and dry. The interior was deep, but not wide, with two balconies running along the sides and a number of stained-glass round-topped windows.The central window depicted the martyrdom of St. Stephen, for whom the church had been named. I wandered for a time, and spoke briefly to the vicar, who told me Mount Street, in the middle of which the church stood, had once been the place where criminals were executed, and so had been named Mount for the mounting block before the gallows. Whether this was true or not, it seemed a rather morbid name for a street. When I suggested as much, he told me Misery Hill lay just a few blocks north.

Following this history and geography lesson, I settled into a pew near the middle of the right side, allowing ample space for Miss Fairbanks to join me if she appeared. I'd begun to fear my ploy had not worked, that her grief and curiosity would not prove enough of an inducement, when I heard the swish of fabric hurrying down the aisle.

She paused beside the pew, gazing down at me, her expression one of half terror, half triumph. "Mrs. Kent?"

"Yes."

"I'm Miss Fairbanks," she stated, as if there were any doubt and I might be here waiting for someone else.

"Won't you have a seat."

She looked at first as if she might refuse, but then she removed her own raincoat, draping it over the end of the pew, and sat down beside me with a thump. I took the opportunity during this flurry of movement to study her.

She was a pretty girl, if not as beautiful as Miss Kavanagh had been. Her copper hair was neatly tied up with ribbons and pins and her face was sprinkled with freckles I suspected her mother despaired of. I sincerely hoped she didn't make her daughter take milk baths, thinking that would make them go away. Her nose was upturned and her teeth had a slight overbite, but she presented a tidy, restrained picture.

She pleated the fabric of her azure skirt as she stared straight ahead. "You said you wanted to discuss Miss Kavanagh."

"As I understand it, the two of you were friends."

She nodded, her face rippling with pain.

"Then I'm sorry for your loss," I told her sincerely.

She swallowed, but her voice still shook when she spoke. "You know, you might be the first person to tell me so." She turned to look at me then, a single tear trailing down her cheek.

My heart went out to the girl. How lonely she must be in her grief.

I extracted the handkerchief tucked in my sleeve. "Here, my dear." I patted the hand resting in her lap as she dabbed at her eyes with the opposite. "It is difficult to lose a friend. Sometimes more difficult than losing family, for we choose our friends, don't we?"

"Or rather they choose us." She tried to smile, but it emerged more as a grimace.

"Quite," I said, understanding what she was trying to convey. "I take it your family was not as sympathetic to Miss Kavanagh after what happened to her." It was not difficult to guess when the girl had not been consoled for her grief.

Her lips trembled and her brow creased as she struggled to withhold her tears. "No." She inhaled a raspy breath, before remarking angrily. "Mother . . . she said it must have been her own fault. And after . . . after she died, she said . . ." She hiccupped. "She said . . ."

I pressed my hand to hers, halting her. "I think I can guess what she said."

There were people who deemed that those who committed suicide automatically went to hell, but I had to believe that God was more compassionate than that.

She sniffed and nodded.

"But Miss Kavanagh was in extreme emotional distress, wasn't she?" I pointed out.

"Yes," she sobbed.

"Then I don't think we can say she was in her right mind."

"Maybe." Her voice trailed away along with her thoughts, and I wondered if she was thinking of something particular.

"Did she talk to you? After the assault?"

She turned to look at me, but I could tell her gaze wasn't completely focused on me.

"Were you allowed to see her?"

She blinked, coming to herself. "I snuck over to see her. When my parents were away."

"And did she tell you anything? Did she recognize her attackers?"

Her voice grew tight. "They wore masks."

"Yes, but she might have heard them speak. Or perhaps she smelled something distinctive."

"I . . . I don't know. She didn't say anything to me," she insisted, but her sudden agitation suggested otherwise.

"Miss Fairbanks," I said, and then repeated myself, waiting for her to stop wringing my handkerchief between her fingers and look at me. "You understand I'm only here to help." I peered at her earnestly. "I was asked to look into her assault, to figure out who did this to her. To ensure that whoever hurt her can never hurt anyone else. I think Miss Kavanagh would want that, don't you?"

She nodded tentatively.

"But I can't do that if no one will tell me what they know."

She sniffed again. "I . . . I don't know who attacked her. Not for sure."

"But you know something. Something that makes you suspicious of someone." I could see in her eyes that I was correct. "I'm not asking you to tell me that you witnessed who did this to her. I'm only asking you to tell me what you did see, or observe, or hear, or were told. During the day of the assault and the days before and after. Anything that might, just might be pertinent. Can you do that?"

She nodded, lowering her eyes to her lap as if to gather herself. But as the seconds ticked by, still she hesitated, and I wondered if she was afraid of someone. Not her parents, surely. Not sufficiently anyway, or she would never have snuck out of her house to meet me.

Then I recalled something about the day I'd seen her watching me from her window.

"Does this have something to do with Lieutenant Delagrange?"

She startled, turning to look at me with wide eyes that then turned to pleading. "Be-before we left the soiree that night," she whispered. "Kitty told me that the lieutenant had asked her to meet him in her garden after her parents went to bed. She . . . she was thinking about agreeing. But only because she had been planning to break it off with him," she hastened to add as if I might think the worst of her. "And she thought that might be a good time."

Alone. In her garden. In the dark.

I had to question Miss Kavanagh's naivete, but that didn't make any of what happened to her her fault. Though it did better explain why she had been out there in the first place.

"When you saw her after the assault, did she tell you whether he'd been there? Did she say if he was her attacker?"

She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "And I didn't ask."

Something, it was clear, she regretted. Would probably regret to her dying day, no matter what I said.

We sat silently for a time, side by side, as she grieved, and I contemplated the probability of the attacker being anyone other than Delagrange now that I knew he'd asked Miss Kavanagh to meet him in her garden that night. It would explain why he'd been so intent on warning me away. Though I was still baffled as to his motive and why Mr. Kavanagh seemed wary of him. I supposed he might have suspected Miss Kavanagh's intent to end their relationship, and so he'd made plans to punish her, but that seemed rather extreme. There must be more to it. Something to do with that malicious-injury claim he'd filed.

And as for that testimony Earnán the footman had supposedly given, that had no doubt been reported by Delagrange. Reported and sanctioned and repeated to me by Johnstone, despite the fact they knew about Delagrange's threats against me. Threats concerning the Kavanaghs. How had that not raised red flags? Delagrange had probably intimidated Earnán into quitting the Kavanaghs employ as well, just to cover his tracks.

It was all beginning to fit together in my mind, but that didn't make it proof the courts would accept. Miss Fairbanks's statement was but one piece. There was much more to uncover if we were to bring Delagrange and his accomplices to justice, starting with tracking down Earnán.

Once Miss Fairbanks had herself more in hand, I asked her to contact me if she thought of anything else, anything at all. "Even the smallest seemingly insignificant detail could prove to be important."

She nodded, and then insisted on leaving first. It was only as she was pushing through the overlarge door that I recalled I'd forgotten to ask her about Miss Kavanagh's nurse. I'd wanted her impression of her, but the girl was rattled enough without me chasing after her.

A few minutes later when I did follow her out onto Mount Street, I discovered the rainstorm had moved off, leaving behind but a muzzy drizzle. Determined to make the most of the day now that the heavy rain had passed, I set off for the Bank of Ireland. It had been some time since I'd spoken with Mr. Finnegan, having allowed Sidney to handle our affairs there. I hadn't precisely been avoiding the bank manager after our last awkward encounter, but I certainly hadn't been eager to seek him out. However, armed with the knowledge from Wick's latest message, I was curious to hear Mr. Finnegan's opinion.

The note had been delivered by a newspaper errand boy that morning. With his typical brevity, Wick had written No bog body found, letting me know Tom's report of such had either been fictitious or so secretive that not even Wick could discover the details. He'd also given me a name, and I could only presume it was Miss Kavanagh's cousin, the one Mrs. Gardiner had mentioned had been killed by the IRA and made an example of. But Wick had made a notation. Daniel Keogh–irr . I deduced the irr must be an abbreviation for "irregular," and this was Wick's way of telling me there was something odd about Mr. Keogh's death. Well, odder than it already was.

I'd dashed off a note, asking for more information or another meeting. But the errand boy had already run off and I had hesitated to send Nimble off on such a task while he was still recovering. He'd moved more slowly about the house that morning, and I could tell he was in pain, but he refused anything offered to him for it. Ginny and Mrs. Boyle had taken to cosseting him, and I was grateful. So for now the note still rested in my pocket, along with another for Nancy O'Brien at the Castle.

After speaking with Miss Fairbanks and realizing how imperative it was that I found Earnán, the footman, I was doubly glad I'd already composed a letter to Nancy asking her to meet me for drinks. If there was some way Nancy could get a peek into that file I'd seen on Johnstone's desk—female staff were always being overlooked—and I could convince her to do so, maybe she would find Earnán's full name and current address printed there. It was a long shot and a big favor to ask of her, especially on such a slim acquaintance, and I felt a bit slimy initiating a friendship with such ulterior motives, but such was the nature of intelligence work. It wasn't the first time I'd been forced to go to such lengths.

Upon reaching the bank, I was forced to cool my heels for a short time, enjoying a surprisingly good cup of Earl Grey tea one of the clerks brought me while I waited. When I was finally shown back to give Finnegan my latest report for C, he apologized for the delay, but I brushed it aside as inconsequential. After all, he was conducting actual business here in addition to his role for C. However, I didn't fail to note how anxious he seemed. It was clear something had happened to overset his customary composure.

"I've but one piece of correspondence for you," he informed me as he unlocked the cabinet where he stored them.

"Thank you," I replied as he passed it to me after closing and relocking the drawer.

I eyed him curiously as he stood stiffly by his desk, as if waiting for me to either say something or leave. At one point, he even rocked back on his heels.

"Was there anything else?" he finally prompted. "Have you uncovered something?"

"For a time, I thought I had," I admitted, actually starting to feel unnerved by his behavior and the strangled tone of his voice. "Someone reported that the body of an alleged spy had been sunk in a bog to the west."

"Oh?"

"But I've since learned it was false. Are you quite alright, Mr. Finnegan?" I asked, unable to continue to ignore his strange conduct.

"Yes. Yes, of course," he insisted. When I continued to scrutinize him, obviously unconvinced, his shoulders crumpled. "No, Mrs. Kent. No, everything is not alright." He sank down in his chair. "Everything is definitely not alright."

I perched on one of the armchairs opposite, watching as he removed his round spectacles and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Perhaps I can help?"

He laughed humorlessly, drawing a frown to my face. "Don't misunderstand me. It's nothing to do with your abilities. It's only . . ." He heaved a weary sigh. "Why couldn't you have just gone back to London when you were told?"

I straightened in affront, but his voice was more mournful than accusatory. Whatever he had to say next, I was not going to like it.

He replaced his glasses, looking up at me resignedly. "There's evidence that MacAlister has switched sides. That he's working for Collins himself. And that's why he disappeared and severed all communication. He feared we were on to him."

My shock upon hearing this was not as great as I expected. Which only made me angry, not only at Finnegan, but at myself. "What evidence?" I demanded.

He shook his head. "I'm not authorized to share that with you, but surely you can see some of the pieces beginning to line up. He vanishes, no trace to be found. And yet the IRA make examples of spies and touts. He leaves behind multiple messages, telling you to go back to London, to stop looking for him." He paused. "That is what he left for you in his safe deposit box, isn't it?"

I scowled.

"A plea for you to return home. I imagine he even appealed to your husband. Right there, he risked revealing himself, all because he cares for you and doesn't want to see you come to harm searching for him." He tilted his head in thought. "Though, I suppose he might also have wished to preserve your memory of him as a hero rather than a traitor."

This struck me square in the chest.

His lips quirked self-deprecatingly. "I suppose that's why I was so reluctant to tell you. I wanted to preserve that memory for you, as well. Sentimental of me, I guess. But there's enough harsh reality to go around in this world. Especially these days."

"This is madness!" I finally managed to reply. "He's no traitor. Why, if you knew what he did during the war . . ." I broke off before I said too much. "I don't believe it."

"You will," he replied with a calm implacability that unsettled me. "You're a highly intelligent woman, Mrs. Kent. You'll begin to put the pieces together." His sympathetic gaze seared like fire. "You already are."

My hands flexed around the arms of the chair, wanting to hit him, to choke him. To make him stop spouting these lies.

"Go back to London, Mrs. Kent. This is no place for you. Not when Collins must certainly have you and your husband on his watch list."

I narrowed my eyes, for this felt like a threat.

"He may have restrained himself thus far for MacAlister's sake, but that won't last. Not if you keep digging. Not when they've given you every chance to back down. Those G-Men who were assassinated only received one warning, you know." His fingers tapped a rapid staccato against his desk. "This source who told you a spy had been sunk in a bog." Ending his rapping abruptly, he reached into this desk to extract a cigarette case. His eyebrows arched as he removed one, closing it with a snap. "Who do you think sent him?"

It was no more than I'd suspected, no more than I'd feared, but still it enraged me. The very idea!

Finnegan lit his fag and took a drag, before exhaling a long plume of smoke. It appeared to settle his nerves, which had been jangling since I'd entered his office. "For the sake of yourself and your husband, and any remaining affection you hold for MacAlister, go home, Mrs. Kent." He pointed with this cigarette hand vaguely toward the east. "To London."

This last statement was more than I could endure, so before I said something I would regret, I jumped to my feet and charged out of the office. Fighting tears of fury, I crossed College Green, leaping gingerly over the puddles in the pavement. I paused in the middle of the traffic island, next to the statue of Irish politician Henry Grattan, unconsciously echoing his stance with his hand lifted toward Trinity College as I pressed mine to the limestone pedestal on which he stood.

My thoughts raced, whirling through my mind faster than I could catch them. Alec, a traitor?! It seemed impossible.

And yet . . . not.

Alec had always gone his own way, sometimes imprudently. But after the lengths he'd gone to for his country during the war, I couldn't believe he would suddenly abandon all that for the likes of these rebels who were certain to fail against the might of the British Empire in their ultimate quest for a republic. Or could I?

A sickening uncertainty filled me as I lifted my face to observe my surroundings. The impressive fa?ades of the immense buildings with their limestone pillars, the bustling traffic of trams and bicycles and carts, the hodgepodge of humanity, from ladies in silk and lace to dirty children darting about in flat caps and short pants. Two Black and Tans stood on the opposite corner, hailing to their comrades in a military lorry as it trundled past, kicking up dirt and heedless as always of those around it who scampered to get out of its way with looks of both trepidation and loathing stamped across their features.

I wasn't blind or oblivious to the problems here, to the failings of the British government, and the simmering resentment of the populace. The Irish might be considered British citizens, but always second or third class. Over my shoulder loomed the Bank of Ireland, which had once housed the Irish Parliament, but they'd lost even that with the Act of Union. They'd played the game of politics to get it back, and even though they'd succeeded, there was still no Home Rule.

When they'd forced the issue by electing those who vowed to refuse to take their seats in Westminster and instead create their own Dáil éireann, their own parliament in Dublin, the government had reacted by proscribing it, their political party, and numerous other Irish organizations of national importance. The rebels had sent delegates to the Paris Peace Conference, asking the American president to acknowledge their rights to exist as a small nation, in accordance with the statements he'd made in his Fourteen Points, but they'd been all but ignored and told to wait to address his League of Nations—something that it was now uncertain the American Congress would even approve joining.

The ambushes and raids and burnings of RIC barracks, and the murders of policemen, I could not condone. But I also accepted their necessity when one was fighting an intelligence war. From the rebels' standpoint, they could either take out the British sources of information or wait to be picked off one by one and see the revolution crumble like every rebellion before it. There was no other option. It was a bloody, but necessary, strategy.

Having had their eyes blinded and ears deafened, the British government's solution had seemed to be to lash out indiscriminately. To recruit demobilized soldiers from the war who were desperate for work and use them to fill the shrinking ranks of the RIC and send them into the cities and countryside to police a population who was hostile to them. Time and time again, I was reminded of scenes from Belgium, of the Germans' mistreatment of the citizens of the countries they occupied. But in this case, it was us , the British, who were doing the mistreating. We were the Germans and the Irish were the Belgians.

Alec and I had both risked life and limb, time and time again, to not only ensure the Allies' victory but to see Belgium liberated. How could we not see the parallels in this situation and feel betrayed? Terribly, terribly betrayed. For what was the use of principles and high morals if one was not prepared to expect them of oneself?

So maybe, maybe Alec had switched sides. Maybe he was working for Collins. Or maybe he'd merely pretended to switch sides.

I pushed away from the statue angrily. Maybe wasn't good enough.