CHAPTER 22

"A re ye tryin' to get me plugged?" Detective Inspector Burrows hissed as he thrust his hat onto his head and stormed out of the Great Brunswick Street Police Station.

I didn't know exactly what the clerk had told him when he'd informed him I was asking to speak with him, but Burrows had barely flicked an eyelash at me as he barreled out of the office and across the lobby. It had taken me a moment to realize I was supposed to follow, so I'd been forced to scramble to catch up with him.

"I told you and your husband everythin' I know," he grumbled under his breath.

"Perhaps, but we—"

He shushed me loudly, cutting me off. "Not here."

I frowned. Not here, but he was allowed to speak?

Despite my aggravation, I managed to hold my tongue, trailing half a step behind him until we reached the quay along the southern shore of the Liffey. From this vantage we could observe part of the ongoing disruption on O'Connell Bridge, which was wider than it was long, as pedestrians and vehicles tried to pass to the opposite side of the river. We moved to the concrete embankment overlooking the steely blue water, turning our backs to the traffic that bustled eastward, seeking another way around the Crown Forces' cordon. But the double-decker trams had no choice but to idle in long lines on their rails waiting for their passengers to be searched. The buildings directly across the river had been destroyed or damaged during the 1916 rebellion, and evidence could still be seen of ongoing construction and repairs.

Burrows adjusted the fit of his coat—this one a brown herringbone—and leaned forward to rest his elbows against the top of the barrier, clasping his hands together. He heaved a dispirited sigh. "Waste of time," he muttered. "Too canny are the men they're most after, to be caught like that. Which just makes it all a right headache for the rest of us." He eyed me askance. "But ye can't tell you English what for."

I didn't challenge this statement, for in many ways he was correct. In any case, I had more important things to discuss, and the inspector seemed at ease enough to let me address them. Apparently, he was more afraid of who might overhear us in and around the police station than out here on the busy public quay. Interesting.

"We spoke with the commissioner."

Burrows didn't react, but continued to watch a lorry as it rumbled past the barricades and into north Dublin. Perhaps he'd been expecting us to go over his head.

"Were you aware that they have a file on Miss Kavanagh's assault?"

Though he didn't stir, I could tell that he was listening.

"That an intelligence officer filed a report saying he spoke with a footman in the household who claimed to have recognized the assailants as men from the local IRA brigade."

His mustache bristled.

"He told us you hadn't been informed. Though I don't understand why."

He turned to look at me.

"You are supposed to be the detective inspector assigned to this case. Yet they let an intelligence officer interfere."

His brow lowered thunderously. "It's—" He caught himself, breaking off before uttering the name I knew must have occurred to him. The only intelligence officer who would hold such an interest in the inquiry.

"It has to be Lieutenant Delagrange," I finished for him. "I think that's fairly obvious. What's not is why they didn't tell you he intervened or allow you to follow up with the footman."

I fell silent, allowing him to ruminate on this while I watched a trio of boats tied up along the opposite quay bobbing gently on the water. On how exactly he and the DMP were supposed to apprehend the men responsible when the descriptions the footman had allegedly given of them were withheld. It was counterproductive. After all, the DMP constables were the ones who knew everyone on their beat and where to find them.

"They don't trust us," Burrows stated gruffly.

"Because of the suspects' connection to the IRA," I extrapolated.

Because there were many who believed that the Dublin Metropolitan Police had yielded to Collins and the IRA. That they were so intimidated by the murder gangs that they'd ceased to be of any use in apprehending them. Not that the DMP had ceased to operate altogether. They still did their jobs in maintaining the peace and stopping common criminals. But in regard to the republicans, they'd adopted a sort of "live and let live" policy. They didn't arrest or identify the rebels to the other British authorities, and Collins kept their names off his murder list. Given the number of DMP men who had already died, and Dublin Castle's inability to protect them, it was difficult to blame them for accepting such an arrangement. At least, I didn't.

"But in this case, I don't think that's the issue," I told Burrows. "Because I don't think the IRA was responsible."

He frowned. "You just said the footman identified the culprits as bein' from the local brigade," he argued, glancing distractedly down river toward the train gathering speed as it left Tara Street Station and crossed the bridge which skirted the Custom House on the rail line headed northeast. Great plumes of steam drifted toward the sky.

"No, I said that Lieutenant Delagrange had said he had."

The pupils in DI Burrows's eyes dilated, telling me he'd grasped what I was trying to convey.

"But no one else has spoken to this footman to verify his report, and rather conveniently, at least for Delagrange, the footman left the Kavanaghs' employ shortly after."

Burrows smoothed his fingers over his mustache as he analyzed this new information.

"You implied you weren't allowed to question the staff?" I said.

"Nay. Everythin' came to me through Mr. and Mrs. Kavanagh."

Who'd seemed to be thinking more of their daughter's reputation.

"Then you didn't meet the footmen? Or learn their names?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Could you gain access to that file the commissioner showed us?"

His lips quirked in wry amusement. "And how exactly would I go about that? If I could even gain an audience with the man." He cleared his throat. "Apologies, sir, but Mrs. Kent says ye have some information on the Kavanagh case you've been keepin' from me. Might I have a look at it?" He chuckled humorlessly. "He'd toss me out of more than his office."

I grimaced, recognizing now that my question had been rather na?ve. "Then, could you ask around, at least? See if anyone knows his surname or where he's gone. His given name is Earnán."

"I can try," he conceded, though he didn't sound optimistic.

I nodded, adjusting the fit of my pale gray gloves. "And I shall try to speak with the Kavanaghs' staff again." Maybe when the Kavanaghs were not at home. "We have to confirm what, if anything, the footman actually saw."

Though I didn't turn to meet it, I was struck by the world-weary expression I glimpsed on the inspector's face out of the corner of my eye. Even his shoulders appeared to droop under his dapper three-piece suit. It made me think back on what he'd said as he'd hustled me out of the police station.

"What did you mean when you asked if I was trying to get you plugged?" When I turned to look at him, I could tell I'd caught him off guard.

"Oh, well, 'tis just a sayin'—"

"I know what ‘plugged' means," I said, halting his feeble attempt to minimize the matter. "And I don't think it was just a general statement on you G-Men keeping your noses out of IRA matters. I heard the tone of your voice." I scrutinized his taut features. "You seemed to have something very specific in mind."

His lips flattened, almost disappearing behind his gray mustache as his gaze strayed toward O'Connell Bridge once again. Black and Tans, in their hodge-podge uniforms with the rifles draped over their shoulders, bayonets affixed and pointed toward the sky, strode from vehicle to vehicle and sorted pedestrians and bicyclists, waving some through while others were prodded and searched.

"I don't want any trouble."

I was about to ask from who when he elaborated.

"I received a message. A warning," he explained in a low voice. "Shortly after I spoke to ye the first time. 'Twas left at my desk at the station." He avoided my eye. "Told me to lay off and stay away from you and the Kavanaghs or I'd end up with a bullet in my brain."

I blinked in surprise. "Yet you're speaking to me now."

He scowled at me. "Aye. And none too happy about it." He glanced over his shoulder, presumably in the direction of the police station. "But better here than there."

An interesting revelation. Clearly, he was suspicious of someone he worked with.

"Who was the message from?" I asked.

He scoffed. "'Twasn't signed or anythin'. But 'twas on Dáil stationery. So who else could it've been but Mick Collins."

I knew Collins and his men often delivered warnings to G-Men, ordering them to lay off their pursuit of republicans, or else suffer the consequences. So this seemed in keeping with their normal modus operandi.

Was I wrong about Delagrange then? Maybe he wasn't to blame. Maybe Miss Kavanagh had gone to meet him in the garden, but he'd never shown up. Or maybe the attackers had heard them talking and assaulted her after Delagrange departed? Either scenario could be plausible. Otherwise, why would Collins have bothered to warn Burrows away? If the IRA wasn't involved, why would they hinder the investigation?

The thought was troubling.

"Unless . . ." Burrows had evidently thought of something, though he didn't like considering it. I waited for him to overcome his reticence.

He grunted. "Word is that some Dáil stationery was taken durin' a raid on the Sinn Féin headquarters late last year. That the Castle has found some . . . strategic uses for it."

Then the warning might not have come from Collins or the IRA, but from those who wanted it to seem like it had. Or it might be exactly as it seemed. There was no way to know for certain. Not yet, anyway.

"If you find out the footman's name, can you send it to me by messenger?"

I could read the hesitation in his eyes. This was supposed to be his investigation, after all. He should be the one questioning the footman. But if the IRA had warned him away, or even if they hadn't, he was in no position to take on Dublin Castle if it was discovered the footman's testimony had been falsified.

"Aye," he agreed. "And you'll let me know what you uncover?"

I assented. After all, he deserved to know who had threatened him. The IRA or a crooked intelligence officer. I wasn't sure which was worse.

* * *

That evening and the following, I expected to catch sight of Willoughby dogging our steps. In the past, that had often been his task, turning up like a bad penny whenever we least wanted him to. But he'd not appeared at either the restaurant or the dance hall, or the dinner party hosted by Moya Llewelyn Davies.

Sidney had cursed quite eloquently when I'd told him how I'd literally collided with Ardmore's henchman on Westmoreland Street. "What is he doing here now?" he wanted to know. But the look we exchanged told me it wasn't necessary to explain.

Ardmore, and consequently Willoughby, never simply flitted about willy-nilly. There was always a purpose to their movements, always a plan. The difficulty lay in figuring out exactly what their machinations were before it was too late to do anything about them. Clearly Ardmore had significant intentions for Dublin, or else he wouldn't have sent his best man. And the most obvious answer to what those intentions were was the stolen phosgene cylinders.

Sidney hadn't heard anything more about their location, either from Bennett and Ames or any of his other contacts, and of course, I'd been distracted by other matters. Most notably, finding Michael Collins. My first two attempts proved rather fruitless, but then the rain had hampered everyone's movements. My investigation into Miss Kavanagh's assault was also stymied until either I uncovered the footman's name or Wick was able to provide me with some information that proved useful.

Meanwhile the raids and ambushes by the IRA continued. One in Dingle, County Kerry, resulted in the death of two RIC constables, and the attack on an RIC bicycle patrol in Foynes, County Limerick, caused the death of another. However, reports were that the RIC in Foynes had not been content to let this murder go unpunished, burning the creamery and other buildings in reprisal.

The Listowel Incident continued to make headlines. It was believed to have played some part in the British Trades Union Congress passing a motion supporting Dominion Home Rule in Ireland and adequate protections for minorities. It had also caused such an uproar at the Labour Party conference that they demanded an investigation into the matter, raising the question in the British House of Commons the next day.

This sparked a lively debate at Moya's dinner table at Furry Park House in Killester, north of Dublin. A number of guests supported the refusal of the House to open the matter for discussion, while others thought such a highly publicized and hotly debated incident should have at least been addressed, if nothing more than to at least make it appear as if it wasn't being swept under the rug. Whatever the truth, the incident was political dynamite, and everyone agreed that the prime minister had no choice but to promise a full investigation. In fact, word was, he'd already summoned Smyth to London to speak with him personally.

I was somewhat skeptical of this full investigation actually happening, or of the results being released. For if Smyth had really said what Mee and the other constables had reported, and if he'd merely been repeating the instructions he'd been given by his commanding officers, then the government could hardly admit it. Not publicly. But politicians often thrived on farce.

In any case, the incident was soon overshadowed. At least in Dublin.

The General Post Office on Sackville Street had been one of the buildings captured by the rebels during the short-lived 1916 uprising, being shelled and burned along with the structures surrounding it as the army fought to take it back. As a consequence, it needed to be rebuilt, and the post office facilities had been moved temporarily to the Rotunda Rink at Rutland Square.

When I boarded the tram in disguise the next morning, bound for north Dublin, I learned that the republicans had raided the postal sorting office at the Rotunda that morning and made off with a number of mail bags. Word was that they'd been the official correspondence bound for Dublin Castle, and this soon bore out to be true. Several days later, Lord French even received a few letters at the Viceregal Lodge stamped with the notice O PENED AND CENSORED BY THE I RISH REPUBLIC . Apparently, the correspondence that the rebels decided they had no use for was simply resealed and dropped in a post box.

This raid caused some a mixture of consternation and alarm. Given the uncertain loyalties of those working for the telephone and telegraph companies, mail was considered the most secure form of communication other than personal contact. And for intelligence agents working covertly or people who wished to share information with the authorities, direct contact with Dublin Castle personnel was too risky. So having their correspondence intercepted was a severe security risk. I could only imagine the amount of valuable information IRA intelligence might have been able to glean from it all depending upon the day's haul, and given the raid's success, it would undoubtedly be attempted again, be it at sorting offices, or holding up mail vans or mail carriages on trains. This could prove a sharp deterrent to potential informants.

But for much of the public not directly affected, the mail raid merely caused general amusement. Even some of the press joined in on the satirical banter. "It would really save time if official correspondence were forwarded direct to Sinn Féin," the Pall Gazette wrote. While the Irish Times remarked, "We seem to be approaching the day when British authority in Ireland will be shaken to its base by the laughter of two hemispheres." This last troubled me, for it smacked of tugging the tail of the tiger, and I feared for some days how the Crown Forces would react to such criticism.

In any case, that morning I was more concerned with finding Collins and hopefully trailing him to a place I could corner him to find out what had happened to Alec. How exactly I planned to do that without getting myself killed, I didn't know, but I trusted inspiration would arise when the moment presented itself. I also trusted that I was too notable a personality for him to actually harm. Collins was nothing if not a man of calculation, be it in his job as finance minister, tasked with raising the national loan, or directing his men who they should assassinate. Thus far he appeared to have calculated correctly who the public would stomach being killed. As such, surely he would recognize he could never present my death in a light that was to his advantage.

I considered whether continuing on to Rutland Square as I'd planned would be best, considering it was bound to be crawling with Crown Forces. In the end, I resolved to continue, but elected to disembark the tram at Nelson's monument, near the granite shell of the GPO, and approach the square via a different route. It proved to be a fortuitous decision.

As I drew nearer to the square, I could see that a crowd had gathered. British Regulars shouldered rifles with fixed bayonets and Black and Tans had formed a perimeter around the area, keeping people back and even hampering the ability of people to reach the Rotunda Hospital. It all seemed a trifle excessive given the fact the rebels had made off with the bags of mail they'd come for a few hours earlier. It was doubtful they intended to return or hamper the investigation after the fact.

I stood along the pavement near the junction with Moore Lane, my back to Devlin's pub, a place I'd begun to frequent. Though the trade there, and the potential to overhear something important, didn't increase until late in the afternoon. Atthis hour, I was more likely to learn something at Vaughan's Hotel along the square. Nevertheless, I lingered in the shade cast by the four-story brick building at my back, watching the crowd and the Crown Forces' display. The day promised to be a warm one. Perhaps too warm for the rough wool coat that comprised my disguise.

I knew Liam Devlin, the publican, stood in the doorway behind me. We'd exchanged nods and I'd offered a smile to his twelve-year-old son, who'd been seemingly sweeping the front walk, but was truly more interested in observing all the excitement. His father had since shooed him back inside. The Devlins had recently moved to Dublin from Scotland, so the pub seemed an improbable fit for a rumored republican hangout, but perhaps that's exactly why it was utilized as such.

Devlin was a talkative man, so I'd heard him address a number of people in his deep, bluff voice, but something about his next remarks made me take notice. "I dinna ken," he told the fellow who'd asked after someone. "But give it to O'Reilly. He'll get it to him."

The name O'Reilly nagged at me like an annoying little brother. It meant something, though for a moment I couldn't recall. And then, like a bolt from the blue, I remembered. Alec's early reports had mentioned that a fellow named Joe O'Reilly often acted as a messenger or courier of sorts for Michael Collins. That the police were prone to overlook him because he seemed so inconsequential.

Well, I decided not to make that mistake. For if Alec had been right, and this O'Reilly was the same one, then the "him" Devlin had mentioned must be Collins.

Careful not to tip Devlin off to my interest, I watched as the fellow he'd been speaking to approached a thin, youthful man a short distance away. He turned his head with a lively movement, revealing a thin, eager, but otherwise unremarkable face. He listened carefully to whatever the chap was telling him and then accepted something from him, tucking it into an inner pocket of his coat. A bicycle leaned against his hip, so it took him a bit of time to navigate through the crowd.

I waited, not wanting to draw suspicion by moving off in the same direction he had gone too soon after him. When he was almost out of sight, I began to tail him, darting glances over my shoulder back toward the Rotunda, as if it still drew my interest and not the man in front of me. At the edge of the crowd, he mounted his bicycle, and might have sped off, losing me, but for the fact he had to adjust the bicycle clips at the hems of his trousers. This allowed me time to draw almost even with him, so that when he rode off, I was not so far behind.

Then began a game of leap-frog, in which he would cycle ahead while I hastened to catch up. He would stop, speaking to someone or entering one building or another for a short time, and I would pull even or slightly ahead before he set off again, passing me. I made note of each face and premises as best I could, intending to return if I didn't spy Collins with my own eyes before I lost O'Reilly. For all I knew, he might have already delivered whatever that man had given him, but entering a shop or abode without knowing what I was walking into would be beyond imprudent, and I'd promised Sidney I would take care.

The moments when I leaped ahead were particularly fraught, as I had no way of knowing which direction he'd intended to go next. Yet, standing about and loitering was out of the question. At numerous points, I found myself wishing I had a bicycle of my own, but taking one of the few I spotted unattended leaning against walls or lampposts seemed too risky and liable to draw the wrong sort of attention.

Twice, I'd thought I'd lost him, only to turn the corner to find his battered old bicycle leaning against a post or to spy him coming out of a bookshop. The third time he drew out of sight, I feared he'd vanished for good. A sickening swirl of disappointment filled me, and I glanced up at the nearest street sign, trying to figure out exactly where I was. Then suddenly he appeared again, coasting out of an alley before looking both ways and crossing Capel Street, intent on something.

Tracking the direction of his movements, I could see that he was headed toward the public library. Before O'Reilly had even reached the other side, I recognized him. The man jogging lazily down the steps. It was Michael Collins.