CHAPTER 9

G reat Brunswick Street Police Station was located in a large stone building across from Trinity College, about a block from O'Connell Bridge and the River Liffey. As we entered the building, I expected there to be some sort of extra precautions or security measures, considering the fact Collins and his murder gang had targeted and killed a number of the G-Men on political duty when they were based in this building. One detective had even been shot just outside in the street. Given that, it seemed only natural that anyone crossing the threshold would at least bear a greater amount of scrutiny than usual from the officer posted near the door, but the young policeman allowed us to pass with barely a glance.

Even the man at the desk paid us little mind. That is, until we gave him our names and asked for DI Burrows. Then, his interest perked up enough to give my features a thorough once-over before passing Sidney an envelope. I thanked him despite my confusion, having presumed we'd be directed to an office or interview room of some sort, not handed a missive. But maybe Burrows had been called away on another police matter.

I crowded close to Sidney to read the hastily scrawled message on the piece of foolscap tucked inside. It requested we meet Burrows at the corner of Grafton and Nassau Streets. This wasn't far, lying just on the opposite side of Trinity College, but it was inconvenient. Particularly as it was but a stone's throw from the Wicklow Hotel, which I had been haunting as my alternate persona searching for answers about Alec. As such, I was leery of being noticed and connected to the Irish maid Dearbhla Bell, the code name I'd chosen for myself. Especially since my disguise was not as pronounced as those I'd used during the war.

However, Sidney seemed oblivious to this concern, instead huffing in annoyance, and muttering under his breath about the presumptuousness of the detective as he led me from the building back out into the rain.

"Maybe there are too many prying ears at the station," I proposed, mindful of the spies Alec had alleged Collins had placed in key positions all over the city, such as the DMP.

" Or he's testing our willingness to be seen in public, speaking with a policeman," he suggested, looking both directions before hustling us across the street.

I supposed he was thinking of the notice recently released by the IRA's General Headquarters, ordering all Volunteers and citizens of the so-called Irish Republic to support the boycott of the Royal Irish Constabulary issued by the Dáil, the republicans' shadow government. An order to ostracize members of the RIC had been made more than a year before, but this most recent directive called for an intensification of that policy, forbidding interaction of any kind with not only the RIC, but anyone associated with them, including their families. The edict had even gone so far as to call the RIC "a portion of the Army of Occupation."

The DMP, while the acting police force within Dublin, were separate and distinct from the RIC, and they had not been mentioned as part of the boycott. I had to believe this was for a reason. Likely because Collins's bullying tactics and the threat of his murder gangs had already thoroughly neutralized them. But that didn't mean Sidney's suspicions weren't correct. Perhaps Burrows was anxious to test our loyalties.

We were walking too fast to converse comfortably, but as we made our way across Nassau Street, I heard my husband vowing, "If a show of loyalty is what he wants, then we shall give it to him."

Before I could ask what he meant by this or come to any understanding of why this notion had irritated him so much, we reached the corner indicated. We'd barely stepped up onto the curb when a short man of about sixty in a neat gray three-piece suit exited Yeates and Son to approach us. He wore no spectacles, making it seem doubtful he'd entered the eyeglass shop to make a purchase or request a repair. Rather, I suspected this was DI Burrows, and he'd merely stepped inside to escape the dreary weather.

His expression was good-humored enough as he introduced himself in a gentle Irish brogue, his lips curling into a pleasant smile beneath his waxed mustache. But his eyes were watchful, waiting to see how we would acquit ourselves. Sidney soon gave him good reason for that vigilance.

"I don't know what else I can be tellin' ye," he said. "But I'll try."

"Surely not here," Sidney insisted, and I thought at first he was referring to the rain. But rather than return to the shop or turn our steps toward a café I spied on the opposite side of Grafton Street, he pivoted toward the south. "This way." Then before either the detective or I could object, he began pulling me along in his wake. I hadn't even time to look to see if Burrows had followed before I was propelled into a narrow lane.

Shops also lined this passage—ones I might describe as less reputable—and there was a fetid odor lingering beneath the scent of damp bricks and wet wool. Where Sidney was leading us, I could only guess, but I surmised he'd learned of it from his army friends. Near the end of the alley, he pulled open the door to a narrow storefront.

Inside, I was immediately struck by the smell of stout and tobacco and the fact that the pub was far larger inside than it had appeared from the outside. Given the relatively early hour—it being only midday—I wouldn't have expected such an establishment to be crowded, but there were a fair number of men seated at its tables. A sprinkling of those present were dressed in British army uniforms, but many of the others were attired in suits or workingman clothes.

It took me less than five seconds to realize what this place served as, and every last ounce of my reserve of self-possession not to stumble or otherwise give myself away as Sidney led us toward a table. My skin flushed and then went cold as the eyes of at least half a dozen men tracked me across the room. It was doubtful that women often frequented this pub, particularly at this time of day.

No, they would not be welcome in this company. Not when it was populated by British Intelligence officers and their touts—local informants paid for the information they provided. Anyone here not eager to collaborate with the British Secret Intelligence Service would soon find themselves in an awkward, if not outright dangerous situation. This must be Kidd's Back, I realized. Alec's reports had mentioned it and its location off Grafton Street, but he had never dared venture there. Not when he was likely to be recognized.

I wanted to throttle Sidney. He'd known I wanted to avoid drawing the interest of any former intelligence colleagues, and this was most definitely not the way to do it. DI Burrows also looked distinctly uncomfortable as he took his seat at our table, and I couldn't blame him. Sidney might be irrefutably proving his loyalty to the British Empire, but he was also quite possibly painting a target on the G-Man's back. Though I had to wonder, as my gaze skittered over the occupants of the room, whether any of Collins's men were brave—or suicidal—enough to enter into this veritable lion'sden.

Sidney removed his battered silver cigarette case from his inside pocket—a gift from me after our wedding before he left for the front. He removed one of his specially blended Turkish cigarettes before offering the case to Burrows. The detective declined. Meanwhile, I was trying to gather up the tattered remnants of my aplomb, hoping I appeared even a fraction as at ease with my surroundings as my husband did.

Having lit his cigarette, Sidney leaned back in his chair to take a long drag before blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. He ordered drinks for both of us—the detective having once again refused—before addressing the business at hand. "Now, the inquiry into Miss Kavanagh's attack. I'm sure you appreciate that Lord French is taking a particular interest in the matter, so your full cooperation would be much appreciated."

As threats went, it was skillfully done, but I wasn't certain such tactics were necessary. In truth, I feared they might actually be detrimental to convincing Burrows to assist us. His reaction was self-contained, but for the space of a moment I thought I spied a mutinous gleam in his eyes. His jaw was certainly set in a hard line.

"As I told ye, I'll try."

Sidney's stare clearly communicated he was not impressed. "When were you called in to investigate?"

"The followin' morn."

"Did it happen during curfew?" I interjected softly.

He nodded. "She . . ." He rubbed his hand down over his face, exhaling. "The entire household was in quite a state."

Sidney's demeanor sobered to one more befitting the solemnity of the topic of our discussion. "How severe was the attack?"

The detective inspector's brow furrowed, indicating he understood what he was asking. "She had bruises from where she'd been restrained, and I suspect she was struck at least once across the face." His voice had lowered so as not to be overheard and I had to strain to hear him. "Her hair was cut, right to the quick in some places." His gaze dipped to the scarred wooden table. "As to anythin' else, I can't say. If there was more . . ." He shook his head. "They didn't report it."

This wasn't surprising. I'd already recognized that if an even more intimate assault had occurred, it was doubtful the Kavanaghs had reported it and made it public record. Yet, in and of itself, that was not proof that anything more had occurred. So we had no choice but to hope that Miss Kavanagh hadn't suffered more.

Sidney tapped the ash from his fag into the dish on the table. "Did Miss Kavanagh recognize any of her attackers? Were there any witnesses?"

Burrows waited until our drinks were delivered to the table and the server departed before responding. "She claimed not to, and from the state she was in when I tried to speak with her . . ." Even under the dim lighting, I could see how pale he'd turned. "I believed her. As to witnesses, none stepped forward."

"Too intimidated?" Sidney queried after taking a long drink of his stout.

"In that neighborhood, I should say 'tis less likely. But . . ." He shrugged one shoulder, glancing about him guardedly for the first time since we'd entered the room. "Maybe their reach is longer than I'd like to think."

And by "their," I knew he meant the IRA.

His eyes seemed to lock on something—or someone—across the room, though I couldn't see who it was. "The Big Fellow casts a long shadow," he murmured in a hushed voice.

Sidney cast me a glance that was rife with impatience. "Do you have any suspects, then?" he asked. "Any specific names, that is?"

Burrows turned back to us slowly. "Nay. As I said, there were no witnesses. And they left no telltale evidence behind."

"But how did they gain access to Miss Kavanagh after curfew?" I pressed after taking a sip of the gin-fizz Sidney had ordered for me and then setting it aside. The gin was once again subpar, and they seemed to have forgotten the lemon juice. "Did they force their way into the house?" This was something we'd not had a chance to ask the Kavanaghs.

His brow pleated. "They'd attended some sort of dinner party that evenin', and when they returned Miss Kavanagh couldn't sleep. So she'd gone out to their garden for some fresh air. That's where it happened."

"It's gated?" Sidney asked.

"Aye. And locked. But the walls are easily scaled."

I pictured the layout of the townhouse we'd rented on Upper Fitzwilliam Street for comparison, wishing I'd been able to at least see the proportions of the Kavanaghs' back garden. "And no one inside heard anything?"

"Not that they claimed."

I supposed it was possible. If the assault happened at the rear of the garden. If Miss Kavanagh hadn't made much sound. Or had been forced not to. Maybe that was when she'd been struck across the face.

"And mind ye, all that I'm tellin' ye came from Mr. and Mrs. Kavanagh," Burrows cautioned us. "Miss Kavanagh barely uttered a word durin' our interview and was ultimately escorted from the room by her maid, she was so distressed."

Sidney set down his drink, a bit of foam clinging to his upper lip. "You think there's more than what they told you?"

"Or that they altered what their daughter told them?" I added, phrasing the query in a slightly different light.

"I don't think anythin'." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm merely informin' ye the facts I was able to gather."

Which wasn't much. And if he was never granted a proper interview with Miss Kavanagh, then he'd not even been able to mine her for the barest scraps of information. Things that she might not have realized she'd noticed, but when put together can begin to form a picture. I doubted he was allowed to examine her injuries or her hair closely either, so he wouldn't have been able to tell anything distinctive about the implement they'd used to cut it.

Yet I also couldn't blame her parents for wanting to shield her from the pain and embarrassment of such a conversation. Except by doing so, they'd only hindered the possibility of their daughter's attackers being apprehended.

"I understand His Excellency wants this matter resolved," Burrows proclaimed crossly, drawing the attention of some of those seated closest to us. "And sure, I could name a whole raft of suspicious fellows, but that's not goin' to tell ye who really did it or give ye the evidence to make it stick." His voice lowered. "Or are ye only interested in roundin' up any likely rebel?"

From the cynicism that curled his lip, I deduced this wasn't the first time such an arrest had been made.

"We only want to prevent what happened to Miss Kavanagh from happening to anyone else," I told him sincerely.

The look he gave me in return suggested he wished me luck with that. I supposed it was a rather na?ve assumption that one arrest could stop these assaults, but it was at least a start.

"Then I wish ye luck," he stated, pushing to his feet. He reached across the table to shake Sidney's hand before nodding deferentially to me. "Should ye think of anythin' else . . . ye knows where to find me."

I watched as he navigated around the tables and out the door, back out into the rain, and then heaved a sigh. "Why did I expect this to be easy?" I asked no one in particular.

"It's a sad case," Sidney remarked casually. "But I'm not sure what French expects you to do about it. Not with so little to go on."

I turned to glare at him, not having forgotten how angry I was that he'd brought me here. Thus far, it appeared I'd been fortunate that no one present was aware of my history with the Secret Service, but a quick survey of the tables nearby told me I'd drawn plenty of attention, from agents and touts alike. I ignored them, like I did most unwanted stares, instead focusing on hustling my husband out of there.

"What is it?" he asked, stirring my ire with his seeming obliviousness.

"May we go?" I bit out around a tight smile.

His gaze flicked toward a British officer seated to our right. One who had been eyeing me a little too keenly; the glasses littering his table and fags piled in the glass dish at his elbow told me he'd already been there for some time.

Sidney took one last drag of his own cigarette before stubbing it out. But before we could rise, a familiar voice cut across the bass rumble of all the others.

"Verity Kent. As I live and breathe, is that really you?"