CHAPTER 21

N ancy spotted me before I saw her, raising her hand to wave at me from a table by the windows. I'd intended to arrive before her, but a cordon the Tans had erected over O'Connell Bridge had hopelessly snarled traffic. The impediments and searches weren't entirely unexpected given the number of IRA attacks on RIC barracks in the counties to the south and west over the past few days. In County Kerry they'd even tried to use a cannon they'd confiscated at an old castle to blow a hole in the side of one RIC post. The speeches made the day before, on Orangemen's Day, by staunch Ulster Protestant unionists like Edward Carson had only enflamed the situation.

However, I'd failed to anticipate the Crown Forces would take action that day in Dublin. I'd been forced to abandon the tram I'd been riding and walk the rest of the way to the tea shop located on a side street near Christ Church Cathedral, where Nancy and I had agreed to meet. I'd let her choose the place, given she would be taking her lunch hour from the Castle.

The shop appeared to still be doing a steady business even though it was after the rush of midday. I squeezed past a pair of matrons with wider skirts than my own, pulling my hands from my pale gray kid leather gloves as I hastened toward her.

"Apologies. A thousand apologies. I know you're on the clock."

She waved this apology away, swallowing the bite of food in her mouth. "Given that, I hope you don't mind that I already ordered. I didn't want to be stuffin' my gob whilst tryin' to chit-chat."

"Of course not," I replied, having been less surprised to find the tray of sandwiches and little cakes and a pot of tea already at the table than she might have realized. But then, my friends who had worked in the various military intelligence sections during the war and I had rarely stood on ceremony in such matters, each of us being almost too busy to eat, let alone wait about on friends to place our order. We'd come and gone from the table we frequented in the restaurant near Whitehall, designated by the government for our use, happy to snag ten minutes to catch up amidst the frenzied pace of our covert work. Those few stolen moments each day were what I'd missed most when I'd been sent out of London and into the field.

I poured myself a cup of tea while Nancy selected another sandwich from the tray. In many ways, her job was much the same as mine had been during the early years of the war, and given the current state of affairs, I imagined things at Dublin Castle were just as hectic. "Thank you again for meeting me," I told her. "I know it probably wasn't easy, especially after everything that's happened over the past few days."

She brushed a strand of dark hair that had loosened from its pin away from her temple. "You mean the article in the Freeman . Sure, and all, but I don't really have much to do with all of that. Though it certainly caused quite the hubbub among the brass."

I took a sip of tea, lest I blatantly ask what she was involved with. That was not something to be asked outright. Although, she didn't seem averse to discussing what went on at the Castle. "Colonel Winter in a hubbub. I think I'd like to see that."

She grinned. "Stop by the Castle today and ye just might. He's not happy with the press coverage of Smyth's denial."

Everyone had, of course, been anticipating a firm denial that the incident at Listowel had ever occurred. Smyth and the British government could hardly do otherwise. So whether truthful or not, many members of the press as well as the general public had been poised to doubt it.

"Rather na?ve for him to expect differently," I couldn't help but remark. Particularly given the outrage it continued to cause across Great Britain and America.

"I think it offends his sensibilities to be questioned."

"Now that I believe," I said, selecting a sandwich for myself—cucumber and watercress.

"The girls enjoyed your quip," she told me before taking a drink. Her eyes twinkled over her cup. "I told my cousin, too, and he nearly snorted water out of his nose when I told him you'd expected the colonel's forked tongue to dart out at any moment and clean his monocle."

"He must be familiar with Winter as well, then."

"Oh, aye. He's got quite the reputation. Speakin' of which . . ." She set down her cup, eyeing me shrewdly. "Word is, ye worked for British Intelligence durin' the war."

I met her gaze evenly, careful not to show my surprise that this rumor was being bandied about. But then again, O had revealed as much to Inspector General Smith and Mr. Wylie during our confrontation. There was no telling who else he might have told. Apparently, the letter of the Official Secrets Act didn't apply to him. Only when he deemed it necessary.

Bearing this in mind, I played coy. "Is that a question or merely a statement?"

"It's whatever ye wish it to be," she countered, drawing a smile to my lips.

"Well, considering the fact that if I say no, you'll just think I'm following protocol, and if I say yes, I would be in violation of the law, there's really no point in me answering, is there?"

"Ah, but if it wasn't true, you wouldn't be concerned about saying yes, would ye? They can't prosecute ye if it's a lie."

I shook my head at her teasing logic. "Except the moment I say yes"—I glanced about me furtively—"I suspect the colonel would jump out of hiding from under that table or wherever he's burrowed into the walls, and shout, aha! "

Nancy's grin turned wicked. "More like, S-s-stop right there! "

We laughed.

"Now, that was too good of an impersonation," I jested, narrowing my eyes playfully. "I'm on to you, now. You're really spying for him, aren't you?"

Her laughter shifted in timbre as she seemed to fumble for a response. "You've got me there. Couldn't resist his monocle." Her eyes glinted mischievously as she seemed to recover herself. "Or his forked tongue."

"Ugh!" I replied, making a disgusted face, at which she laughed even harder. "Now I can never make that jest again."

Her cheeks had reddened, either from amusement or embarrassment at having made such a quip. Perhaps both. Either way, I was still ruminating on her stumble at my jest about her spying. Though it was possible her reaction had been in relation to the nature of her work. If she worked in the intelligence office in some capacity, as her familiarity with O seemed to suggest, that remark might have hit a little too close to home. Whatever the case, she was more than she seemed. That much I was sure of.

A waitress interrupted to bring us a fresh pot of tea, and when Nancy glanced at the watch affixed to her bodice, I realized my time with her was running out. She would have to return to the Castle soon, and I hadn't yet broached the subject I'd hoped to. But how best to do it? Perhaps her natural curiosity about me was the answer.

"I will say that I do miss my war work sometimes," I confessed as I poured myself another cup. "I suppose that sounds silly," I added, allowing chagrin to infuse my voice. "But it was nice to feel that I was doing something worthwhile. That I was helping." While the self-consciousness was feigned, the sentiment was certainly real. "I suppose that's why I still dabble in inquiries for other people."

"I can understand that," she replied. "It is rather nice to feel useful."

She turned to peer out the window, obviously internalizing what I'd said. I was about to prod at why this seemed so profound to her when she turned to ask me a question first.

"Are you involved in any inquiries now?"

"One," I confessed. "A young lady who was assaulted and had her hair forcibly cut. It drove the poor girl to commit suicide."

"How terrible," Nancy murmured, crossing herself almost unconsciously.

I nodded, leaning across the table as I lowered my voice. "The people who asked me to look into the matter believe the IRA are responsible, but I don't think so."

Her eyes were wide and clearly intrigued. "Really? Do you know who?"

I glanced surreptitiously about me, smiling absently at a man who had just risen to his feet at a table across the shop. "A British soldier she was stepping out with," I whispered. "A real nasty piece of work named Delagrange."

She blinked in recognition. "I think I know who ye mean. He works for Intelligence."

"That's him."

Her face screwed up in outrage. "He's been flirtin' with my friend Eileen, but I've been warnin' her there's somethin' wrong about him."

"The trouble is, an intelligence officer allegedly interviewed a footman who witnessed the end of the attack. Supposedly the footman recognized the assailants as being members of the local IRA brigade. Then rather suspiciously, he left their employ." I tapped my fingernails against my teacup. " I think Delagrange was that intelligence officer, and the footman noticed him. So he threatened the fellow somehow, forcing him to quit. And then Delagrange made up the entire statement to direct suspicion away from himself."

"Then you need to talk to the footman," Nancy declared enthusiastically, now invested in the outcome.

"I do, but I don't know his surname, and I've been essentially banished from the Kavanaghs' home. I think Delagrange has threatened them in some way, too," I explained, omitting the part about Mr. Kavanagh's possible culpability in the lieutenant's potentially fraudulent malicious-injury claim. I narrowed my eyes, staring into the distance. "If only I could get my hands on the incident file the commissioner kept referring to when we met with him. I'm sure it has the footman's full name and possibly his address." I tilted my head as if having a sudden thought. "I wonder if the detective inspector who was assigned to the case can get a look at it." I frowned. "It's doubtful, given the fact the Castle seemed to be keeping the intelligence officer's findings specifically from him. But I suppose it's worth a try."

Truthfully, it was worth a try, and I was a little aggravated at myself that I'd not thought of it until now. I'd written off DI Burrows as useless the moment Johnstone had told us his man was unaware of the interview that intelligence officer had undertaken with the footman. But perhaps I'd been too hasty. It was worth attempting another conversation with him.

More pressingly, I couldn't tell whether my observations had any effect on Nancy. I couldn't very well come out and ask her to take a look at the file, but I'd planted the seeds of the idea and given her all the information she needed to find it, should she wish to. I'd also hopefully given her sufficient motivation to want to. I disliked that I was manipulating her, but for a good cause, I reminded myself.

I grimaced in apology. "And there I've gone and lowered the tone of our entire conversation."

"'Tis alright," she assured me. "I need to be gettin' back to the Castle anyway."

"Oh," I said sadly, meaning it. "Of course."

"But let's make plans again," she said, rising to her feet. "Maybe next week. The cinema?"

"I'd like that," I assured her.

"Grand! I'll ring ye."

I departed soon after, intent on tracking down DI Burrows. This meant venturing closer to O'Connell Bridge and the Tans' barricades than I would have preferred, even in my own guise, but Great Brunswick Street Police Station was the most likely place where Burrows could be found. Or at the very least, they could direct me to where he'd gone.

Traffic at College Green and along Westmoreland was still snarled. The smell of exhaust and sun-warmed bricks and pavement clogged the air, and I found myself wishing I'd chosen less restrictive garments. The creamy gold silk and sapphire-blue-accented ensemble might have been flattering but it wasn't the most conducive to long strolls in the summer sun.

A cart carrying produce had attempted to divert the wrong way down College Street and the driver was now arguing with a pair of DMP constables trying to remedy the situation. I scanned the participants and onlookers for any sign of Burrows, and nearly collided with a man stepping out of Kennedy and McSharry.

"Pardon me," the man exclaimed as he clasped my upper arms, righting us both.

I was about to nod my head in acknowledgment before hurrying on when he addressed me by name.

"Verity Kent."

I halted, my ears ringing as I turned to peer up into the striking, but treacherous face of Captain Lucas Willoughby.

A slow grin spread across his features, obviously pleased to have astonished me. "Fancy meeting you here." Whether he'd intended it or not, I heard the mockery in his voice.

"Yes. Fancy that," I drawled, knowing full well he must have expected to find me here. In Dublin, that is. Not along Westmoreland Street.

After all, he worked for Ardmore, and I'd known there was no hope of preventing Ardmore from finding out where we'd gone. Really, it had only been a matter of time before Willoughby was sent to monitor us. Or perhaps Willoughby had been here before us, monitoring the phosgene cylinders and arranging whatever plans Ardmore had for them. The truly shocking thing was that we hadn't run into each other before now.

But perhaps that had been by design. After all, the last time I'd seen Willoughby, he'd killed one man; fatally wounded another; and threatened to shoot Sidney if I didn't hand over a report Ardmore had desperately wanted. Only when I'd called his bluff, and thrown the report into a cottage one of the men had set on fire before Willoughby could stop me, had he relented and walked away. Just following orders. Ardmore's orders. Who for some reason wanted me alive, so we could continue to play his twisted game of cat and mouse.

A former pilot and Naval Intelligence officer who had been stationed in Palestine for at least part of the war, Willoughby had now been back in northern climes for almost a year. As such, his once sun-bleached hair had darkened to a honey blond and his tan had faded to a British rose.

"You've been spending too much time indoors, Captain," I observed somewhat acidly.

He arched one of his brows sardonically. "Yes, well, I don't have friends who own as fine a stable as your husband does."

This was clearly meant to alarm me, but I was perfectly aware that some of Sidney's sporting pursuits had been published in the gossip sheets here in Dublin and even London. He could just have easily learned this from reading those.

" Do you ride?" I asked him.

"Of course."

But the look I returned was meant to indicate there was no "of course" about it. A barb directed at his insecurity over his upbringing, for he'd been raised within spitting distance of the aristocracy but made to understand that he would never genuinely be a part of it. Perhaps it was unworthy of me, but I rather enjoyed seeing that I'd gotten under his skin as he scowled ferociously.

I turned to peer into the window of the clothing store from which he'd emerged. It often catered to British officers—current and former—so his patronage wasn't surprising. Sidney might have even shopped there. It didn't tell me anything useful about his presence in Dublin either. Such as where he was staying or who he was associating with. But there was likely some crossover between his and Sidney's acquaintances, particularly within the military.

It was only because I'd looked toward the window that the reflection of a man across the street caught my eye. He was too far away to see clearly, but he was watching me and Willoughby, and he seemed somewhat agitated. I was tempted to turn and look at him, for he seemed somehow familiar, but I knew the moment I did he would disappear in the crowd of pedestrians. Such was my interest, that I nearly missed what Willoughby said next.

"I understand you recently lost a friend and colleague."

My gaze shifted abruptly to meet his, at first not comprehending, and then realizing he was speaking of Alec.

"My sincerest condolences."

It was difficult to tell whether he was being earnest or if he was mocking me again, so I ignored the remark and the insidious apprehension that Willoughby might know something I did not. There were enough lies and half-truths swirling about my former cohort without adding Willoughby's, no doubt, disingenuous ones.

When I turned back to the reflection in the window, the man watching us had shifted so that I could no longer see him. I darted an annoyed glare at Willoughby before turning to walk away. However, he wasn't finished taunting me.

"Mrs. Kent," he called, quickly catching up with me. "Won't you allow me to offer my escort." He glanced about us, perhaps having also sensed we were being watched. "Haven't you heard how unsafe the streets are these days?"

"Perhaps for the likes of you," I retorted, refusing to be intimidated by the suggestion.

But he merely smiled when I refused this proffered arm, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Oh, now, there you have it wrong."

I glowered at him in confusion.

"I'm perfectly safe."

What he meant by this, I didn't know. Did he think he was impervious to an assassin's bullet or incapable of being caught unawares? Or did he mean the IRA wouldn't dare to touch him? But why? Because of something he knew? Because of his association with Ardmore?

Whatever the truth, I knew better than to think he would tell me. So I kept my questions to myself and lengthened my stride. "Regardless, I do not require your assistance. Good day , Captain Willoughby."

This, at least, seemed to deter him, as he fell back. However, when I turned the corner, he was still standing where I'd left him, watching me.