CHAPTER 8

T he following morning, though we didn't have far to venture, we were almost late to our appointment with the Kavanaghs. They lived on Herbert Street, not far from St. Stephen's Church, or the Pepper Cannister, as it was fondly called, on account of the steeple's shape. Their home was typical red-brick Georgian, though I had little time to observe more than that before being hustled inside out of the rain.

I had only myself to blame for the lingering queasiness in my stomach as we were shown up the stairs to the drawing room. And I supposed the flask of gin Lieutenant Lawrence's latest deb, Sally, had brought with her to the dance hall to spike our lemonades. I'd allowed my relief at finally making progress with the hotelier in gathering information about Alec to eclipse my better judgment. While I hadn't drank past the point of insensibility, I'd nonetheless been glad Sidney had been with me to ensure I hadn't let anything sensitive slip.

Sally, on the other hand, had taken her quest for forgetfulness a bit too far. She was a lovely girl, but if she wasn't careful, her carousing with British soldiers might land her in serious trouble. Trouble like Miss Kavanagh had faced. I wished now that I'd been more responsible and tried to temper Sally. She might very well have ignored me, or called me a flat tire, but I still should have tried.

Photographs covered the wall to the right at the top of the staircase. Recent family portraits, I surmised, from the clothing and hair styles. At the center of the collection hung a respectable family with a father, mother, daughter, and son. To the left, the daughter—a young woman of perhaps eighteen—gazed back at me. Her eyes seemed to convey she held a secret. Or perhaps that was merely my whimsy. Perhaps she was merely amused by the photographer. From the shading, I suspected her eyes were blue and her hair dark. The young man to the right of the family portrait—the brother—exhibited the same coloring, looking handsome in his khaki uniform for the Irish Guard. I wondered if he'd made it back from the front. It would be far easier if he had.

The maid waited patiently while I studied the photographs and then gestured for us to enter the room at the front of the house. A man and woman—the father and mother from the central photograph—rose to their feet as we entered. Much like Mr. O'Shaughnessy, the city recorder, Mr. Kavanagh boasted white hair and a mustache, though his were neatly trimmed. He was tall and slim just like his wife, and while her dark hair was now threaded with gray, I could see that I'd been correct about her children's coloring, for they'd inherited it from her.

They both moved as if they were swimming through syrup, as if the weight of their collective grief had somehow changed the viscosity of the air. I felt my own blithe and limber movements slow in response, the muscles along my back and shoulders even straining to keep a proper posture.

"Thank you for coming," Mrs. Kavanagh told us as we sat in a pair of French provincial chairs set at right angles on opposite sides of the sofa from which they'd risen. However, I could tell from her tightly clasped hands and the speaking look she gave her husband that she was purely being polite.

Obviously, someone had overstepped, and I could only assume it was Lord French. He'd insinuated that the Kavanaghs had requested his help, but if that was true, I suspected that was in the form of his pressuring the police, not enlisting the aid of a war hero and his intrepid wife, no matter that we'd been splashed across the newspapers a time or two for solving crimes. I had no desire to intrude on these people's grief or to make it any worse, but now that we were here, we could hardly retreat without saying something.

"We are not what you expected." The words were out of my mouth before I could think better of it, deciding there was enough duplicity to go around these days without our adding to it.

Sidney seemed as surprised by my words as the Kavanaghs, though my tone had been kind.

"I don't know what you mean," Mr. Kavanagh began at the same time his wife said, "We mean no offense."

I held up my hand to stay their words, even as they exchanged abashed looks. "None taken. I suspect what you were hoping for was something—or rather, someone—more official. Whereas we are just trying to do a good turn since Lord French asked us to speak with you."

"Yes, I see that now," Mrs. Kavanagh confessed. Her hands carefully smoothed the black fabric of her skirt over her lap. "But I don't see that there's anything you can do."

I smiled softly. "Then why don't you simply tell us about your daughter?" I glanced over my shoulder in the direction we'd come. "Was that her photograph by the stairs? She's a beautiful girl."

"Yes. She was," her mother replied, her gaze fastened on the wall dividing the drawing room from the corridor as if she could see through it to the pictures hanging there. "Sweet tempered, too. Always kind and looking out for others. Never caused us a moment of trouble." She turned briefly to her husband. "Except, well . . ." She shook her head, carrying on as if she'd not spoken those words, though I was curious what she'd stopped herself from saying. "Katherine loved flowers."

"Primroses, especially," Mr. Kavanagh contributed.

His wife nodded, her voice shaking as she continued. "And poetry. And music." She gestured toward the doors open to the adjoining room. "She was an accomplished pianist."

I could see the Dublin box piano situated along one wall near the windows.

"She would play for hours every day." Mrs. Kavanagh's voice was barely more than a whisper, and as her words fell away leaving only silence, I could sense the physical ache the absence of her music caused them. It was like a tangible presence, a void that the piano's runs and chords had once filled. It made the air almost unbearable in its stillness, so I sought to fill it.

"Did she have many friends?"

Mrs. Kavanagh seemed almost startled by the question. "Oh, yes. More so when she was younger. But she was always well-liked."

Mr. Kavanagh reached over to clasp his wife's hand. "She took her brother's death hard," he said, confirming my fears. He turned to Sidney. "Passchendaele."

It was all that needed to be said. For there had been some battles so horrific, so ravaged by casualties, that one word was all that had to be uttered.

My eyes immediately riveted to my husband, alert to any signs of distress. Because I knew Sidney had been at Passchendaele as well. That he'd lost nearly his entire company and barely survived himself. That it still haunted him. I suspected it always would.

I could see the strain that Mr. Kavanagh's pronouncement caused Sidney. I could tell how rigidly he held himself, how he struggled to master and mask his reaction. My initial instinct was to go to him, but I knew that he would not thank me for it, so I stayed put.

Finally, he swallowed, the cords of his neck working hard. "Was he part of the First or Second Battalion?"

"The First."

Sidney nodded, and clearly this meant something to him, but he did not explain.

Mr. Kavanagh exhaled a weary sigh. "And her cousin returned changed."

All of our men had returned changed. How could they not, after everything they'd witnessed?

"For the worst," Mrs. Kavanagh muttered in the direction of her feet.

This remark surprised me, though perhaps it shouldn't have. For every person sensitive to the struggles our returning soldiers had faced there was another who either failed or refused to understand why those men couldn't simply leave the war behind. That, or they had been too blinded by the propaganda our government had spread to grasp how unspeakably appalling it all had been. Mrs. Kavanagh had lost her son, so it was natural that she might feel some resentment and a corresponding lack of sensitivity to the struggles of those who had returned. Nonetheless, it still shocked me to hear her voice it out loud.

Unless my assumption was false, and her nephew returning changed had less to do with shell shock and the general disillusionment of war than another factor.

Mr. Kavanagh rested his hand over his wife's, squeezing it, perhaps to recall her to whom she was speaking. By this gesture alone, I knew I would get no further information about it. That is, if there was any more to be gained other than confirmation that she was a grieving mother.

"We understand she was stepping out with a British soldier," Sidney remarked. "Was he part of the Irish Guards as well?"

"No," Mr. Kavanagh replied. "Delagrange is stationed at the Castle. Special assignment."

Which could mean any number of things. After all, there was a company barracked at Dublin Castle that served several purposes, and there were any number of specialized units also based there. The headquarters of the DMP and RIC were even located within the castle walls. But I couldn't help but note that someone detailed to intelligence work might describe their position in just this way, especially since the service had been reorganized under new leadership based at the Castle.

Whatever the truth, it would behoove us to find out more about this Delagrange. And now that we had his name and base, it would be much easier.

Mrs. Kavanagh closed her eyes, her head still bowed. "The lieutenant was devastated when he heard what was done to her. Katherine . . . she didn't want to tell him. But it wasn't as if she could hide it." She looked up, glaring at the ends of my bobbed tresses where they curled beneath the brim of my cornflower-blue hat. It was obvious she disapproved. "I'm sure things are different in London, but here in Ireland, we women do not cut our crowning glories."

I could feel both men watching me, as if anxious how I would respond to such an implied insult. But I was not about to take a grieving mother, who had recently lost both her children, to task. Especially not when what she'd said was true. The trend for bobbed tresses, which was still almost exclusive to the young and fashionable even in London, had yet to spread to Dublin. Otherwise, the IRA would not have adopted the policy of cutting women's hair to shame them into compliance. Not only was it a deeply personal invasion of their body autonomy, but it also marked them, almost like a scarlet letter.

Of course, it grated that the underlying notion of Mrs. Kavanagh's condemnation was the implication that by simply choosing to trim my own hair I was tarring my respectability. However, she was far from the first person to inform me both directly and indirectly that they found my hairstyle too forward or mannish. Even my own mother had made her opinion clear on the matter.

Nevertheless, I liked it short. I liked the ease and freedom of its upkeep, of no longer being bound to a dressing table bench for untold hours every week while a maid swept it up into one coiffure or another. I liked how smashing it looked with the new styles of hats coming out of Paris. Styles which were not suited to mounds of hair affixed at the crown or along the nape of the neck.

But I told Mrs. Kavanagh none of this. She didn't want to hear it. Only to make her point that any modest, self-respecting woman, as her daughter had been, would have been shamed by the act of having their hair cut. And ashamed to let her beau see it thus. While the entire notion infuriated me, my feelings would not change the facts of the matter at hand.

"And how did Lieutenant Delagrange react?" I asked steadily, refusing to be bated.

"He was naturally outraged on her behalf," Mr. Kavanagh answered. "I . . . I had to make him see reason when it seemed he was bent on retaliating at random in kind." He glanced at his wife. "Katherine was particularly agitated by the notion."

Which spoke well of her. She didn't want any woman to face the same ordeal she had, even if they were friends and family to whoever her attackers had been.

"Did Delagrange listen?" Sidney asked.

Mr. Kavanagh glanced at his wife's profile. "We never heard of any such reprisals."

But would they have been reported? Such crimes often went unreported out of fear of the public disgrace they unfairly brought on the women. I imagined this was doubly so in cases where it was women sympathetic to the republican cause attacked by members of the Crown Forces. What incentive did they have to inform the British authorities if they believed no justice would come of it?

"You mentioned Katherine was agitated," I broached with care. "And I know how difficult it can be to think clearly during such a . . . situation."

Mrs. Kavanagh stirred in alarm, fluttering her hands.

"But did she recognize anything about the men who attacked her?" I pressed, even as she suddenly pushed to her feet. "Did they mention anything distinguishable?"

"I . . . I'm not discussing this again. I'm not!" She began to pace in tight circles. "What's the use. We already know those rebel extremists did it. We already know why ." Her eyes as they slid toward her husband were tinged with a hint of malice. Malice she soon directed toward me. "And you don't know. You couldn't." With this she strode from the room, leaving her husband staring dejectedly after her.

"Please," he murmured in a broken voice after a few tense seconds. "Just go."

He pivoted to face the window, and Sidney and I did as we were asked, allowing the maid to lead us back down the stairs to the front door. I considered asking her a question or two as she handed Sidney his hat, but then decided we'd done enough damage for the day. We turned our steps toward Merrion Square, in hopes of catching a tram to Great Brunswick Street.

"Well, that could have gone better," Sidney murmured in what might have been the understatement of the year.

I gave a derisive laugh. "Yes, Lord French really stepped in it this time. Or rather, forced us to step in it." I was none too happy with the lord lieutenant at the moment.

"Clearly, the Kavanaghs did not expect or desire our assistance. Not like Lord French implied."

I shook my head. "He should have communicated matters better. Both to us and the Kavanaghs." I crowded closer to Sidney as we navigated around a large puddle in the pavement, the rain still drumming down against the umbrella he held over our heads. I was grateful for my buckle galoshes. "Now I have to wonder how receptive DI Burrows will be to our questions."

"No worse than the Kavanaghs, I imagine. He has to at least present the image of being cooperative."

Because of who we were. Because the lord lieutenant had made the request he speak with us.

I sighed. "That doesn't make it any less a potential waste of time."

I wondered if Peter was at the Wicklow. I wondered if he had uncovered any information for me. At that very moment, I might be learning a clue to Alec's fate. Instead, I was traipsing across the city to speak to a detective inspector who very likely resented our interference.

Sidney peered down at me. "Don't fret, Ver. At least we tried."

I answered his gentle smile with a tight one of my own. "I suppose that's all we can do."

His gaze shifted to the vicinity of my ear. "And I like your hair bobbed. It suits you."

I squeezed his arm, appreciating this considerate attempt to reassure me. "Don't worry. I didn't take Mrs. Kavanagh's aversion to heart." I frowned. "Though I can't imagine her horrified disapproval of her daughter's shorn tresses did much to console Miss Kavanagh's distress."

Curse these men who had decided cutting women's hair was a justified action. And curse the society who colluded in the weaponizing of shearing women's hair by dint of the fact that somehow its length was an indication of virtue.

Sidney nodded to a pair of passing women. "Maybe Mrs. Kavanagh was so preoccupied by what happened to her daughter's hair because she couldn't bear to focus on the other details."

I was surprised by the insightfulness of this response. I'd wondered what the other details of Miss Kavanagh's assault were, but I'd not dared to ask Lord French or the Kavanaghs. But perhaps Sidney had discovered them another way. "Do you . . . ?"

He cut me off before I could finish my question. "No, but it bears consideration." His face was grim. "Perhaps Burrows can tell us."

If even he knew.

I didn't say this aloud, but by the deep furrow in Sidney's brow, I wondered if he shared the same concern. However, his thoughts appeared to have gone in a different direction.

"What Mrs. Kavanagh said. You don't know, do you?" He turned to look down at me, fear and uncertainty reflected in his eyes, and I realized what he was asking.

There were many things about my years as a British intelligence agent that I'd not shared with Sidney. Just as there were many things about the years he'd spent in the trenches along the Western Front that he'd not shared with me. Sometimes those oversights weren't on purpose. Other times it was because the information was too sensitive. But there were a few details I'd withheld because I knew they would hurt Sidney, and heaven knew he had already been through enough. This, however, was not one of those things.

"No. Not like Miss Kavanagh." My words were stilted. "But I've told you how some of the German officers' hands had a tendency to wander. And we were trained . . . quietly, unofficially . . . by fellow female agents on what to expect, on how to handle ourselves if that should happen." I turned to look directly at Sidney. "Because heaven forbid, we ever admitted to a male within British Intelligence that we'd ever had sexual contact with the enemy. Even if it had been rape. We would have been tarred as an enemy collaborator and tossed out of the service like so much rubbish."

I turned away to stare at the trees surrounding Merrion Square as we approached it. "I learned how I needed to keep my head, even under the worst of circumstances, lest in a moment it all be used against me."

Sidney didn't speak, and I was too lost in recollection of colleagues who had failed to remember this to their own detriment. And not just from the cruel whim of the Secret Intelligence Service and the British government, but more dangerously, from the Germans. When I did return to the present, I looked up to find his expression drawn in stark lines.

"But the simple answer is, no. No, I don't truly know," I said, making it as plain as I could.

His eyes searched mine for evidence of well-meaning deceit, and I tried to peer back at him as openly as possible. When he turned away, I didn't know if this was in acceptance that I was telling the truth or recognition that he knew he wouldn't be able to tell if I wasn't.