CHAPTER 23

T hough I'd only seen him once, thanks to Alec drawing my attention to him, I'd memorized what I could about Collins. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a sturdy frame, a sportsman, but not a lithe one, more of a brawler. It showed in the particular way he moved. I'd heard him described as handsome many times, but while he wasn't unattractive, I suspected as much of the appeal lay in the mystique of the man and his reputation as in his actual good looks.

On that day, he seemed particularly merry. And well he should have been, given the successful mail raid at the Rotunda and the propaganda coup of the public's outrage over the Listowel Incident. He greeted O'Reilly with a cheerful smile, one hand tucked into the pocket of a rather ill-fitting tweed suit. An old soft hat rested over his thick, dark hair, and a dust-coat was draped over his arm.

Such was my shock at actually catching sight of Collins, I stood stock-still at the corner, watching them like the greenest nitwit. Had either of them bothered to look up, I would have certainly been spotted, but luck was with me, for neither of them did. They exchanged a few words and O'Reilly passed Collins a paper, which he promptly read. Then with a satisfied nod, he moved toward the side of the steps while O'Reilly rode north.

Collins, too, had a bicycle—a rather ancient-looking thing. Not like what you would expect the leader of a rebellion to ride. He mounted it and pulled out into the street, tipping his hat to a pair of constables on the opposite corner, cool as you please, and riding off at a fair clip down the center of Capel Street before I could even consider following. I wouldn't have been able to keep up with him at any rate.

I wondered if the constables knew who he was. I had to think they did. Which meant the Castle was right about the DMP and probably part of the RIC, as well. Collins was hiding in plain sight, the Castle just didn't have the eyes to see him, for he looked like any normal, everyday, respectable businessman. Many of whom pedaled about the city.

But while I'd failed to give chase, I had noted one particular thing about Collins's bicycle. Its chain rattled like old Marley's shackles from Dickens's A Christmas Carol . That was something I was certain I would recognize if I heard it again.

Alec's early reports had also supplied me with another useful piece of intelligence. He'd strongly suspected Collins had kept to some sort of schedule, pedaling about the city to various offices and rendezvous in approximately the same order and routine. If this was true, then he would be returning to the Capel Street library. And when he did, I would be ready for him. Whatever the truth about Alec, whether he was dead or he'd switched sides, he was, unwittingly or not, helping me to get closer to the truth.

* * *

"I found him," I declared softly, dropping into the chair adjacent to Sidney's in the sitting room adjoining our bedchamber. They were positioned next to a window overlooking the garden, and from this vantage I knew that he'd seen me cross the neighboring garden in disguise a short time ago.

Either Sidney had been deeply absorbed in the story he was reading in the newspaper before him or he'd forgotten my intentions, for it took him a moment to grasp what I meant. When he did, the paper crumpled as he lowered it to his lap with a start. "Did you . . . ?"

I shook my head before he could finish his question. "No, I didn't speak with him. And no, Alec wasn't with him." I brightened, refusing to be daunted. "But I found him once, and I'll find him again." I turned my head, narrowing my eyes as I peered into the summer sun streaming through the window. A gentle breeze billowed the curtains inward. "I just need a bicycle."

"Did he see you ?" Sidney asked solemnly.

"Of course not," I retorted breezily, even though I knew perfectly well that was because of blind luck. I couldn't freeze again. And I wouldn't. The shock was over. From now on, I would maintain a clear head.

"Where did you find him?"

I opened my mouth to tell him, but then halted, uncertain if I should.

Sidney's mouth pursed in irritation. "I suppose you think I'm going to turn up there and bungle your chances."

"No. But I know you're thinking about it."

He scowled, but then grunted in concession. I knew him too well.

"Regardless, I need to tell you so you'll steer clear of there for another reason. He was coming out of the Capel Street public library." I arched my eyebrows. "Which happens to be the emergency contact I was given should Finnegan and the Bank of Ireland be compromised." This was something I wasn't supposed to share with him, but I couldn't risk it also being his emergency contact.

Sidney smoothed and folded the paper, setting it aside. "Isn't that also where that Thomas fellow from the Wicklow wanted you to meet him?"

"It is," I replied with a start, having temporarily forgotten that fact. I'd since wondered if he might be working with Collins or someone else among the rebels, but now I was doubly suspicious.

"It could all just be a coincidence," Sidney pointed out. "After all, it is a public library. I'm sure any number of people patronize it, be they republicans or not."

"That may be true, but it's all still a little too convenient for my liking." Or so my instincts told me, and I'd learned early on in my role as an intelligence operative never to discount them. More times than I could count, that maxim had kept me alive.

"What of you?" I asked as he removed a cigarette from his case and lit it. The sight of the battered silver case was always a little bittersweet to me. "Did you stop to see Finnegan?"

He exhaled a plume of smoke. "I did. And you were right. He asked whether you'd shared his suspicions about Xavier switching sides. Seemed quite anxious for us to leave Dublin."

I leaned forward. "I'm telling you, Sidney, something is off . That man has wanted us to leave since the moment we arrived, and while I'm accustomed to being underestimated, this goes far beyond simply doubting our abilities."

"I agree, darling. As such, I think we should steer clear of him and the bank for the moment. There was no correspondence for us today anyway." He rose to fetch a pewter dish from the tea table, tipping his ash into it as he set it on the table next to his chair. "I imagine you heard about the IRA's mail raid at the Rotunda."

I nodded. "Which has got me thinking. It's been some time since we received a letter from Max."

"I had the same thought," Sidney confessed. "And by all accounts, the raiders knew exactly where to go and what to nab, which leads one to suspect they had inside information. Given that there's undoubtedly republicans or at least Sinn Féin sympathizers working for the post office, it could be possible that all of our mail to this address is being intercepted, read, and then forwarded on to us."

"Yet Max's latest letter wasn't."

"Maybe it contains sensitive information."

I considered this possibility. "But I haven't noticed any telltale signs that anything delivered to us through the post had been opened. Max's letter transferred to us through Finnegan, which was censored, yes. But nothing else. And I've been trained to look for such things."

Sidney shrugged. "It's just a theory. Maybe Ryde simply hasn't had time to write. He does have things in his life to concern himself with other than us."

This felt like a mild rebuke, and I scowled, letting him know I didn't appreciate it.

"I saw Bennett and Ames again today," he informed me after taking another drag.

"Well, that explains your testy demeanor," I taunted in return.

This earned me a sharp look. "They have another suspected location where the phosgene might be stored. They asked if I wanted to tag along."

"I have to say, I'm rather relieved to hear someone else is actually looking for it." It certainly eased the pressure on us to find it. "But just so you're aware," I cautioned, "this could be O's way of luring you in."

"With excitement and adventure?" Sidney mocked. The very thing that had lured many of our men to sign up for the war. At least at its start.

"No." I met his gaze solemnly. "The chance to make a difference and prevent further bloodshed."

The cynicism slowly faded from his eyes.

"O knows you're no green recruit. That you require a far headier enticement." One that was much more difficult to turn down. "Not that that's actually what you would be doing once he had you in his employ, but the ‘get a pound of flesh off the rebels' pitch wouldn't have the same effect on you."

Sidney's eyebrows arched, possibly at the scorn now creeping into my voice. "I forgot to mention, someone telephoned while you were out." He pulled a tiny slip of paper from his pocket, and I crossed the small space between our chairs, perching on the arm of his as he handed it to me. "Nimble spoke to them."

Fortunately, his valet was healing quite well, though his face still looked alarming, with a colorful array of bruises. Ginny and Mrs. Boyle continued to coddle him, a fact Nimble seemed embarrassed about, but I'd told him to enjoy it—that, as a man, he was bound to do something to irritate them sooner or later. This seemed to concern the dear even more than the cosseting.

I opened the paper to find a few brief words in Nimble's painstaking hand.

Wick. Croke Park. Saturday at 3.

"It appears we're going to a football match," Sidney observed after I showed it to him.

"That it does," I replied, knowing I wouldn't be able to deter him from accompanying me, and truthfully, I didn't want to. Besides, Wick wouldn't mind. "Just don't wear your Chelsea scarf," I jested. "Then you'll really end up a marked man."

"Different kind of football, darling."

"I know that," I snapped in annoyance. I may not have ever seen Gaelic football played, but I was aware it was distinct from the English version.

When I looked up, I could tell by the twinkle in his eyes that he was baiting me.

"Just for that, maybe I will bat my eyes at Mick Collins when I finally approach him. ‘Oh, you big, strong rebel,'" I cooed, sliding off the arm of the chair.

But I wasn't quick enough, and Sidney pulled me into his lap, locking his arms around me. "No flirting with the rebels," he ordered as I laughed. "Big and strong or otherwise."

I reached up to brush the strand of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead in our tussle back behind his ear, a coy smile curling my lips. "Perhaps if you reminded me why . . ."

I never finished the thought, for he'd already grasped the assignment, his mouth finding mine.

And he did. He most certainly did.

* * *

"Now, this is it !" Wick shouted to me as I stood between him and Sidney in the stands at Croke Park two days later. The stadium lay north of Dublin, just beyond the Royal Canal, between two railway lines and within walking distance of three tram routes. And a good thing, too, for it appeared to be a popular venue.

The pitch was a verdant green despite all the abuse it was taking from the players. I hadn't entirely worked out the rules of Gaelic football yet, but the best I could describe it was a cross somewhere between English football and rugby. The people in the crowded stands seemed enthusiastic about it, including Wick. Even Sidney appeared to catch on rather quickly, joining in the cheering and jeering of the match.

I was having more trouble concentrating due to the two rowdy fellows behind us who were using blistering language. Sidney had looked at me several times now, silently asking if I wanted him to say something, but I shook my head. The last thing we needed was to cause a scene. One in which our Englishness could become a source of contention. Though it wasn't like we hadn't encountered their like in England as well. As long as their flailing hands didn't smack me, I was determined to remain mum.

Though I was beginning to wonder why Wick had asked us to meet him there. Thus far, we'd been unable to discuss anything of pertinence. Not with thousands of screaming spectators surrounding us and Wick wholly absorbed in the match. My puzzled frustration must have been evident, for at one point, Wick finally leaned down to yell in my ear.

"I'm bein' watched."

I turned to him in question, for this had heightened my confusion. Did he mean now?

"Someone from the Castle. Ye heard the Freeman's Journal had their printin' machinery smashed by the British Army after they published that Listowel constable's account?"

I nodded.

"Well, now we're all bein' watched. A lot more closely."

He meant subversive journalists. Those who dared to report the things the British government preferred to censor. Which explained why he'd asked us to meet him at such a public venue. If the intelligence agent had followed him inside, at least they couldn't get near enough to hear what we were saying.

Some of my tension over what Wick was telling me must have been conveyed to Sidney, for he eyed us sideways, clearly wondering what had been said. However, he knew better than to ask for details until later.

I found myself curious how many of the Crown Forces were attempting to blend into the crowd in plain clothes. To be certain, most of the people there were either neutral or supporters of Sinn Féin. I suspected a healthy mix were also IRA, be they active members or allies, of which I was learning there were many. Just in the two days since I'd been trailing Collins—first to the vicinity of Upper Ormond Street, where I'd lost him again, and then to the quays opposite the river—I'd seen the variety of people with whom he interacted, all or most of whom must have known his identity.

At the half, Dublin was ahead of Kildare, much to the crowd's glee, and the rowdy chaps behind us decided to leave the stands momentarily, much to my relief. Wick noted this, arching his eyebrows, but I didn't want to waste time discussing them when we had other matters to address. We resumed our seats on the bench, and he leaned across me so that Sidney could hear.

"The irregularity I mentioned in my note," he said, diving straight to the heart of the matter about Miss Kavanagh's cousin. "Daniel Keogh's body was found at the base of the Forty Steps."

"Where's that?" I asked.

"Just outside the Castle," Sidney answered, grasping something I hadn't yet.

Wick's gaze met his. "'Tis an alley that runs from Castle Street down to Ship Street, where the Castle barracks are located. 'Twas constructed to act as a break between the castle walls and the surroundin' properties. Namely St. Werburgh's churchyard."

Which could have posed a security threat to the Castle.

Wick shook his head. "To be sure, the boys would never have executed someone and left him on the doorstep of Dublin Castle. 'Twould be suicide."

And by "the boys," I knew he meant the IRA. Wick might have referred to them as such in case someone nearby overheard, but I thought it more likely he'd done so unconsciously. Which was something I would have to contemplate later.

I frowned. "But for someone at the Castle, someone for whom it was their turf, so to speak . . ."

Wick tipped his head to indicate he'd had a similar thought. He turned his head as if to survey the pitch. "Ye should also know, they're denyin' involvement."

"The . . . boys?" I used his term.

"Aye. Word is, he was one of their own. And the letter they found with the body, the one on Dáil stationery, 'twas a fake."

"Seized in a raid on the Sinn Féin headquarters," I supplied, thinking of the note DI Burrows had received.

"You've heard of it, then? Aye. Your lad Keogh isn't the first to receive one. The Castle has attempted the trick before to try to sow ferment among the ranks, and this latest crack won't be the last." He spoke with a certainty I couldn't question. Not if the Castle's stock hadn't run out.

Some of the players had risen from the bench to begin batting and dribbling the ball about, and Wick watched them for a moment before turning to me with a sharp glint in his eye. "So what's this I hear about a shipment of phosgene fallin' into the republicans' hands?"

I blinked at him, taken off guard. A fact I was certain Wick had been counting on.

Not so, Sidney. "That's rather concerning," he replied with his eyes still on the pitch.

"Aye." Wick studied us closely. "And I have it on good authority, you're the ones to speak to."

"What would we know about it?" Sidney asked, still playing ignorant, though I had already deduced Wick's game.

Wick's voice hardened. "Now, ye see. That's not how this goes." He turned to me. "Ver knows. I gives ye information, and then ye gives it right back. Just like those lads down there, passin' the ball."

I did know. I'd been waiting to see what favor he requested in return for the intelligence he'd shared. Though I had no idea it would be this.

"We know about the missing phosgene," I murmured. "But not who has it." I glanced at Sidney. "The Castle is alleging they're in the rebels' hands, but we don't know that for certain." I grasped Wick's arm. "And if you print that, true or not . . ."

"It'll be a propaganda coup for the Castle," he replied. His mouth pursed disdainfully, having deduced the same thing Ihad.

"Who told you about it?" I asked, curious who would leak such information and why.

"A contact at the Castle."

I couldn't fault him for protecting his source, but their position at the Castle called into question the motivation behind them telling Wick about the phosgene. Besides which, the only person we could link with certainty to the phosgene was Lord Ardmore, and he worked in some sort of mysterious capacity for the government. We simply didn't have enough proof of that link to be able to present it in a court of law.

More pressing was the location of those phosgene cylinders and the Livens Projector which had been stolen with them. Perhaps Wick could help with that.

"Did they tell you anything more about them? Where they might be? How they got here?" I pressed Wick, curious what else he might know.

He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze following something or someone. "Just that a shipment had fallen into rebel hands, and that you were the person to ask about it." Our eyes locked for a fleeting second, and I could tell he thought I'd lied to him when I'd told him I wasn't here for the rebels. However, there wasn't time to set him straight. Not when he stood to greet a younger man who was hurrying toward us.

It was obvious Wick recognized him, accepting the message the lad held out to him with a softly worded, "Sir." Wick's posture changed as he read it, straightening to alertness.

"Smyth was assassinated in Cork City," he muttered to us abruptly.

Lieutenant Colonel Smyth, the new divisional commissioner of the RIC in Munster, the man at the center of the Listowel Incident.

"'Twas no more than we expected." Wick scrubbed a hand over his face, heaving a sigh. "But still."

I exchanged a look with Sidney. Just the day before when we'd read that Smyth was returning to Ireland after his brief trip to London to debrief the prime minister on the situation, Sidney had expressed his disbelief, and his certainty that they were signing his death warrant. The government had made some excuse about Smyth needing to return to regulate police duty for the assizes, but it was difficult not to be skeptical. After all, if Smyth died, then Lloyd George could claim an inquiry into the Listowel affair was both impossible and irrelevant. It seemed he'd gotten his wish.

"I have to go," Wick declared, gesturing for the younger man—a messenger for the Irish Independent , no doubt—to follow him.

Sidney and I departed soon after. Our reason for being there was concluded, and after the news about Smyth, neither of us was interested in the match any longer. A sense of wariness filled me of what was to come. Particularly if the constables' report from Listowel was true. Had the RIC been privately encouraged to beget violence with even greater violence, to shoot on sight? Only time would tell.