Against the Light Read online

  It shouldn’t have occasioned surprise that Childers should present himself at what had seemed to David to be a meeting of ordinary working men. He took his opportunities where he could and spoke to anyone who was prepared to listen to his impassioned pleas, to gain support where he could for his idealistic and single-minded commitment to self-government for the Irish, addressing meetings and going so far as to state that anyone who was not for Ireland being ruled solely by the Irish was, in his own words, ‘against the light’. Indeed, he had resigned his lucrative and prestigious appointment in the House of Commons to work for the Irish cause. He continued to write his books – though there had been no more best-selling spy novels – and in his most recent publication he had drawn up what he saw as a reasoned framework for how Irish self-government could be achieved, not by coercion, repression or violence, but by peaceful means and compromise. If Ireland was disorderly and retrograde, he had demanded, how could she deserve freedom? He cited the great Daniel O’Connell on achieving religious freedom for the Catholics without resorting to the gun or the sword. Why should the two opposing sides not similarly reach an agreement on self-government?

  Such moderation didn’t satisfy everyone. Even here in England the belief was growing among those with Irish connections or sympathies – with the width of the Irish Sea to protect them – that aggression was the only answer. Both sides were well on the way to resisting opposition to their views by force of arms. Committees here were being set up to raise funds, but it was difficult to find someone with enough money and who was willing to fund any of the large-scale operations envisaged. Childers was rich, and his own advocacy of diplomacy as the only way to achieve a solution was reputedly wavering. So how far would his passionate belief in Home Rule take him? How far had it already taken him?

  David thought it unlikely, however, that the meeting in Tooley’s basement could be for raising funds, and even more unlikely that an astute politician like Edmund would jeopardize his career by getting himself involved in anything so damaging. And yet … how to account for Mona Reagan, whose warning had taken him to Tooley’s house? That whole business was beginning to look more ominous than he had first been willing to own.

  He could see that Alice was stunned by what was being uncovered, and struggling to see where, if anywhere, Edmund fitted into the pattern. He said, ‘Alice, my dear, the best piece of advice I can give you is to leave this alone.’

  She found herself unable to answer for a moment. ‘This is my husband we’re talking about,’ she said eventually, and her voice was cold. ‘How can you believe I would do that?’

  Was she trying to believe it was her duty, or was that simply wishful thinking on his part to think she was? It scarcely mattered. She would continue to be a loyal wife, come what may … until, or if ever, she heard about Connie Fiore. That might be a different matter.

  He turned to face the river, giving himself time to think. The wind lifted his hat but he grabbed it in time and kept it in his hand. ‘It’s a matter of trust, Alice,’ he said quietly, turning round to face her, still holding his hat, his hair ruffled. ‘I must ask you to trust me. We don’t know that this has anything to do with Edmund at all, or Mona Reagan, come to that, except that she lives – or lived until recently – at that house, with other Irish expatriates.’

  ‘This man … this Tooley. Why did Inspector Gaines ask me about him when he told me what had happened to Dudley? What has Dudley to do with what you’ve just told me?’

  ‘I don’t know, but that’s out of our hands. No, listen, Alice, please! None of this is a game for amateurs, believe me.’ He gave his words all the seriousness he could. That impulsiveness of hers, though he had always thought it somewhat endearing, was less so when he thought of how easily it might plunge them both into disaster. At this moment, however, she was also very angry, and with him, that he should dare to suggest she must not dabble in Edmund’s concerns. He could understand it, but she really shouldn’t. ‘Whatever it is you think may be bothering your husband, by interfering in things you don’t understand you could make everything worse.’

  ‘Things I don’t understand? Interfering? I’m sorry I asked you.’ She stood up and began to walk away.

  He followed her and put his hand on her shoulder to turn her to face him. ‘Don’t let us part in anger, Alice.’

  She stood where she was, frozen. ‘As you rightly observe … I don’t understand.’ He opened his mouth to answer but she said, ‘No, don’t say anything else.’ She backed away, then began toying with her gloves. At last she sighed. He saw himself reflected through her eyes: uncertain, hatless, and with his hair ruffled. Feeling utterly at a loss. ‘I’m sorry. That was uncalled for on my part, David. I know you only mean well.’

  He almost choked. Was this what his desire to protect her amounted to – Alice feeling that he ‘meant well’?

  ‘What I’m trying to say is that I was wrong. You are in a far better position to know about these things than I shall ever be. I can see I don’t have any option but to do as you advise.’

  That was not how he wanted her to see it. He didn’t want the reason she was agreeing with him to be simply because she had no alternative. But the implications of what might be happening lay heavily on him. Latimer must be into something suspect, otherwise Mona Reagan’s warning made no sense. He didn’t know her at all, of course, but by what he had seen of her he didn’t believe she would have found that an easy thing to do. Yet Latimer, and what happened to him, was surely nothing to her – so why had she felt compelled to say what she had? Perhaps, he tried to tell himself, it had been a kindly gesture on her part towards David himself, knowing how closely he and Latimer worked together – on the principle that mud sticks. He singularly failed to convince himself of this.

  Whatever was at the bottom of it all, he had no intention of letting his dislike of Latimer and what had passed between himself and Alice about him cloud his judgement. For one thing, he did not believe Latimer, in any capacity, would do anything he had reason to be ashamed of and like Alice, he could not seriously believe he was being blackmailed over his niece’s kidnapping. On the other hand, he thought it quite possible he was being blackmailed over something. Unlike Alice, he was in a position to make a calculated guess as to what that was.

  ‘Should the police not know of what you saw?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘There’s no point telling them what they probably know already … and there’s nothing illegal in what I witnessed.’ If the police were brought into this, they would want to know why he was there, and that would mean explanations involving Latimer which might bring unwanted attention and even suspicions on him, and for every reason he could think of that was something he was loath to do. ‘I’m not going to fob you off. Edmund may well have good reason to be worried, although one thing I am sure of: if he is, it’s for some simple and rational reason. I promise I will let you know what I can find out by the end of the week. By then it will probably have all blown over. But Alice—’ He hesitated. ‘Whatever comes of it, remember, you are a strong woman. Hold on to that. And you are not alone, my dear.’

  Inskip made it in his way to go to the Nag at a time early enough in the morning to feel there was less chance of the free-fisted clientele he had previously encountered having made their way there. When he pushed open the door, apart from the landlord, who was damp-mopping the tiled floor and not looking happy about it, the public bar was empty. The doors and windows were wide open but the place still reeked of the previous day’s beer fumes and tobacco smoke.

  ‘The woman’s taken sick with the flu,’ Corrigan explained when he saw him and added sourly, ‘Or too many free drinks in her last night … “Have one on me, Maureen. Well, I don’t mind if I do!” And now me having to mop me own floors, for God’s sake. All right, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Anything for me on O’Rourke yet?’

  Corrigan squeezed the mop out for the last time and propped it against the bar. ‘Sit down and take a dr
ink.’ He waved to a scrubbed-top table. ‘Mind how you go, the floor’s still wet. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Too early for me, Michael. I’ve only just finished my breakfast.’

  It was never too early for an Irishman, but Corrigan himself was abstemious and Inskip waited while he went out to the back, returned with a teapot and joined him at the table. The landlord had quickly recovered his usual good temper but he was serious when he pushed across the sugar and said, after a minute, ‘That murder, that’s what all this amounts to, right? That young fella, the young chap that lodged with Mrs Maclusky, with your Auntie Orla. It’s what you’ll be wanting O’Rourke for?’

  ‘It is. What have you to tell me about him, Michael? O’Rourke, I mean, though maybe you knew Lennie Croxton as well?’

  ‘Never laid eyes on him. He didn’t come in here. O’Rourke? The word is, he’s away back to Dublin.’

  ‘Back to Dublin? Is that right?’

  Corrigan shrugged, then got up and closed the nearest window, as if there might be some eavesdropper lurking outside. He came back and sat silent, drumming his fingers on the table top until at last he spoke. ‘Believe that. But if you want to know more, take yourself to Kindler Street at nine o’clock tonight. There’s a woman, Shelagh Quinn, she’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Kindler Street, huh? And how will I know her?’

  ‘She says she saw you once, when you were looking for Tooley. And it would be hard to miss a woman of the likes of Shelagh. She has hair the colour o’ them ox-blood tiles on the bar and a manner of looking at you that you wouldn’t mistake.’

  Kindler Street was notoriously well known in more ways than one and Inskip had no difficulty in imagining the bold-faced redhead he’d seen leaving Tooley’s house would not be out of place there. It was a pity, he thought, that it wasn’t going to be the dark-haired one with the white skin he’d be meeting.

  ‘The church of Our Lady, inside,’ added Corrigan. ‘She’s a regular communicant.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Inskip, adjusting his uncharitable thoughts somewhat.

  It was going to be a nasty night. He turned up his collar and headed into the drizzle, towards Kindler Street and the church of Our Lady. As he pushed open the heavy door, he was taken back to his younger days by the familiar, lingering aftermath of incense, a dimly lit interior and the red light of the sanctuary lamp winking near the altar. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw she was already there, kneeling in one of the pews near the back. He took his time, brushing off what rain he could from his jacket, blessing himself with holy water, and afterwards obeying an old instinct that rather took him by surprise, to light a candle and offer up a prayer of thanks for the safe return of little Lucy.

  She must have heard him come in, but he had slipped into the pew and sat beside her for several minutes before she finished her prayers and sat back. It was only then that he saw she was not the redhead he was looking for, but a young woman with white skin and blue-black curls escaping from under her hat. She was respectably clad in a dark coat and skirt, her gloved hands held a prayer book and the face she turned to him was serious and unsmiling.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I seem to have made a mistake. I was looking for someone else.’

  ‘No, you have the right person. Shelagh Quinn, she’s changed her mind so I’ve come in her place. I’m Mona Reagan.’

  ‘We’ve already met, briefly, Miss Reagan, haven’t we?’ He gave her his name.

  ‘Yes, I remember you, Sergeant. You were looking for Paddy Tooley.’

  ‘I wanted a word with him, but it was Daniel O’Rourke I was looking for. I think there’s something you want to tell me about him?’ The church was empty, except for themselves, but she looked round nervously. ‘O’Rourke?’ he prompted. ‘We’re anxious to talk to him, Miss Reagan.’

  ‘Mona,’ she said with a little smile, something more like the laughing girl with the disobedient umbrella, but it was soon gone. ‘I don’t know where you’d find him. He comes and goes.’

  ‘I did hear he’s back in Dublin. But I’m thinking maybe that’s just a rumour, and he’s really still in London?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe he is, but I don’t know where.’

  ‘You might make an educated guess, I suppose?’

  ‘I might, but I won’t. I value my own skin too much.’ She kept her voice lowered. ‘I’d tell you if I knew.’

  If she wasn’t going to talk, why had she agreed to meet him here? He kept a hold on his patience, trying to believe her, though the way she’d answered, he knew she wasn’t telling the truth. He decided to change tack. ‘Miss Reagan – Mona, what can you tell me about Lennie Croxton?’

  ‘Lennie who? And who might that be?’ She was unconvincing. Her hands tightened on the prayer book she was still holding.

  ‘He was that young fellow who was knifed in a taxi, you must have heard about it, and the person who’s in the frame for it is O’Rourke.’ He was taking a chance, telling her that, but he thought it might shock her into an admission. He had underestimated her stubbornness, though – or was it fear that was stopping her? She still didn’t reply, so he said, ‘It’s guns, isn’t it? That’s what it’s all about?’

  ‘Shhh, not so loud!’ Again she darted a scared look back over her shoulder, but she didn’t deny it. Then, gaining confidence, she said, ‘And where would he get the money for that, the likes of O’Rourke?’ She’d been nervous before, but not now: the scorn in her voice would have scalded the skin off a rhinoceros. He wondered what Daniel O’Rourke had done to her.

  It had always been on the cards, inevitable perhaps, as soon as O’Rourke with his recent Irish connections had entered the scene, that guns were at the bottom of it. It would have taken something like that to bring him back to England, where he faced consequences from more than one source for his past misdeeds. Given what he was, it wouldn’t have taken him long to find his place in Ireland when he’d fled England and arrived over there. If you wanted trouble, you didn’t have to look far. And trouble there was aplenty by way of the bad boyos who were prepared to do anything they thought necessary to those they considered the enemies of Home Rule, that miracle which, if it ever came into force, was going to change everyone’s lives for the better. But for what they needed to do, it was vital they had weapons to replace the spades, shovels and pickaxes which was pretty much all they could muster at the moment. And before that, needless to say, the money to buy them. Machine guns were what they needed most, and in quantity, to buy from abroad, and for that money was needed.

  She was right in saying that raising funds was hardly in O’Rourke’s line, but getting hold of at least some of the guns the insurgents were so desperately short of wouldn’t be beyond his capabilities. Not the machine guns, that would be beyond him … but nothing was despised. One here, another there, anything was welcomed. No matter what sort – shotguns, rifles, pistols, revolvers. Old souvenirs from the Boer War that might explode in your face if you tried to fire them, anything. Stolen, bought for a song, donated by those who mistakenly sympathized. Pathetic, in view of what was needed, but all grist to the mill. A scenario that fitted O’Rourke like a glove, but he still couldn’t figure out where Lennie Croxton/Dudley Nichol came into it.

  ‘So what is it you have to tell me, Mona?’ This was getting nowhere and he was growing restive.

  The door opened and three elderly women entered, bringing a draught with them. She bent her head as they presently walked towards the altar, bestowing curious glances on the pew where they were sitting. One of them carried a bunch of flowers and when they reached the front, they sat together in a row.

  ‘They’ve come for a vigil,’ Mona whispered. Belatedly, he saw a draped coffin and more funeral flowers at the foot of the chancel steps. ‘There’ll be more coming … and I think they recognized me. I have to go. I’m sorry, it wasn’t my idea to come here and I should never have agreed to it, it was a mistake.’

  What had made her change her mind? Not just the th
ree old women, surely? Had he unwittingly said the wrong thing, or not asked the right question soon enough? Whatever it was, he cursed himself for having alarmed her into having second thoughts, but this environment was in any case scarcely conducive to getting the sort of confession he wanted from her. ‘Let me take you somewhere we can get a cup of tea and talk more comfortably.’

  She wasn’t listening. She had taken fright and stood up ready to flee, and he had no option but to remove himself from the pew and stand aside so that she could leave. He followed her hurrying figure outside and for a moment she turned to face him. ‘You need to look further than O’Rourke,’ she said breathlessly. He put out a hand to detain her, but she pulled away, broke into a run and left him standing looking after her in frustration.

  It was lunch time and the pie-and-mash shop was busy, full of hungry customers. It was a good place for a talk, a place with high-sided booths where you could have a private conversation. Moreover, it had a licence to serve ale.

  ‘So O’Rourke’s still in London?’ said Gaines, as a harassed waiter left after dumping their food anyhow on the tiled table. Inskip pushed Gaines’ abstemious shandy towards him, his grimace making it obvious what he thought of it. How could he drink the stuff? Lemonade spoiled, and an insult to good beer. A pint of it! Inskip himself had a half of mild, the best thirst quencher he knew, and a plate of jellied eels. Gaines saw him looking, raised his glass and smiled slightly.

  ‘I would say the bastard’s still here, though Mona Reagan wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.’