The Blood Upon the Rose (48 page)

Michael Collins

Minister of Finance.

Catherine was stunned. What on earth was it? Michael Collins! A letter signed by him, here at Killrath! And to Manfred von Hessel - who could he possibly be? And how could it have got under a chair in her bedroom? No one came in here except herself and the servants, and she doubted if most of them could read.

So how? She had a sudden vision of Andrew coming into her room, grinning lecherously as he looked at her, and throwing his jacket casually across the chair before he undressed behind the screen. It could have fallen out of the pocket. It must be his.

But …

She tried to focus her bruised mind on the problem. There was something wrong here. Terribly wrong.

Andrew was an army officer, he must hate and despise Collins, and the letter was not addressed to him. So how could he have it? He must have stolen it from someone. He must be a spy, a member of the British Intelligence Service. That’s it, she thought. That’s why he’s an army officer but doesn’t wear uniform. That’s why he works with Father. That’s why he won’t tell me what he does.

Oh, God, I haven’t just betrayed Sean with another man. I’ve betrayed him with a bloody spy!

She sank her head in her hands, and then realized that she couldn’t cry, because the wretched housemaid was still busying herself with the grate. She took a deep breath, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and began to brush her hair.

She couldn’t meet her own eyes in the mirror. I’m a fool, she thought. I try to break free and I just tangle myself more in a net. If I give this letter back to Andrew I’m colluding in his bloody spying. Anyway, why should I?

What was the letter about, exactly? She read it again, carefully. It didn't make much sense. A meeting, a proposal, trust the bearer. And dated 14 January, more than ten days ago, so the meeting must have taken place already. Perhaps Andrew had tried to catch this Hessel, whoever he was, at the Lambert Hotel.

Then she noticed something else, at the foot of the letter, a light pencilled scrawl. Breedan - what did it say? - Brendan Road.

It meant nothing to her. Then a memory surfaced in her mind - something she had read in the newspaper a week or two ago. Hadn’t there been a police raid in Brendan Road? Yes, that was it - a raid on a house, and someone had been arrested. But who?

She turned to the maid. ‘Molly?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘You know the old newspapers. Do you know what Brophy does with them each day?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, miss. Uses them to light fires, mostly. The rest he keeps in a heap out the back of the kitchen, I think.’

‘Thank you.’ It suddenly became very important to try to find the article, and trace the name of the man who had been arrested.

My God, perhaps Andrew did this - Andrew betrayed him! Was anybody killed? She couldn't remember.

David Ferguson hadn’t turned up with the car yet. She left her bag in the hall and hurried through to the kitchen.

The newspapers were where Molly had said, in a cupboard at the back of the kitchen. The cook looked at her curiously, but Catherine took no notice. Most of the newspapers were torn, bits missing. It probably wasn't here. She spread them out on the floor. 15
^th
January, 16
^th
January - no, nothing. Ah, here it was - Saturday, 17
^th
January. She read eagerly, hurriedly.

POLICE RAID ON HOUSE
GERMAN ARMS DEALER CAUGHT
COLLINS ESCAPES AGAIN

Shots were fired yesterday in a police raid on a house in Brendan Road, Donnybrook. Acting on information received, detectives from the DMP G Division raided the house which was believed to be a headquarters for the Sinn Fein ‘murder gang’. After an exchange of shots, all of the occupants except one escaped by the back door.

The arrested man appears to be a former German officer, who had apparently come to Dublin in the hope of selling arms to the IRA. He is currently being interrogated in Dublin Castle, and is then likely to be deported, with a strong protest from the Viceroy.

Our correspondent understands that the police were particularly disappointed in this raid, as the house is believed to be one frequented by top members of the so-called Sinn Fein ‘government’, including Mr Michael Collins, and it is quite possible that the German officer had gone there in hopes of meeting him. Mr Collins, however, was not arrested.

She was right, then: if the German officer was called Hessel, then Andrew must have betrayed him. That was why he had this letter in his pocket. But when had he got it? Before Hessel read it, or after? And how would he get hold of such a thing? Catherine had no idea.

She walked back into the hall and found Andrew waiting, with David Ferguson standing beside him, holding a suitcase.

‘I’d hoped we’d have you here for a little longer this time, Miss Catherine.’

‘Yes. It’s a pity, David, but I’ve got to get back. Look after Grainne for me, will you?’

The rain had cleared as she had expected, and it was a beautiful, cold, clear morning with a light wind. Ideal for a ride. The tide was far out, and a few small figures of coracle men trudged across the shining wet sand, looking like beetles with their boats upturned over their heads.

The drive into Galway was silent, strained. Catherine sat beside David in the front seat, staring out of the window. David tried to carry on a shouted conversation with Andrew in the back, but in the end the noise of the car and Andrew's brief dismissive replies discouraged him, and he fell silent.

Not until they had settled into a first-class compartment, and the train had begun to pull slowly out of Galway station with a whistle and chunter of thick, black smoke, did they begin to speak. Catherine handed him the letter.

‘I think this must be yours,’ she said.

She watched him closely as he read it. It didn't take long - clearly he had seen it before. He put it in his pocket and glanced at her with affected unconcern. ‘Yes.’

She waited a full half-minute for an explanation. Then, when none came, she said: ‘Who is von Hessel?’

The reaction this time was slightly more than when he had first seen the letter. His eyes held hers, very cold and steady, but he could not quite control the whitening of the skin, the general overall increase in the tension of every facial muscle. Parts of the scar went red, by contrast. An interesting medical observation, she thought.

He took his time before answering, as though weighing all the implications. ‘Von Hessel was a German officer. Ex-officer. He tried to sell guns to Collins. He was arrested and deported.’

So he was the man in the newspaper. ‘And that letter?’

‘It’s to do with my work.’

Another long silence. Fields with bare, leafless trees flashed past the window. A herd of ponies galloped madly, startled by the train. A steward pushed a trolley down the corridor and opened the sliding doors. ‘Coffee, madam? Sir?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Yes, please.’ Catherine smiled sweetly. She felt cool: angry, but in control. When the steward had gone, she stirred cream into her coffee and said: ‘You’re a British spy, Andrew, aren’t you?’

Andrew was trying desperately to work out what to do. Last night he had thought he could master the girl; this morning she not only seemed indifferent to him, but had found out something that could endanger his whole plan, if she understood it. She had a Sinn Fein lover, no doubt she had other contacts in the movement. It was bad, but not disastrous. She didn’t know that he
was
von Hessel, and was planning to meet Collins again.

He said: ‘I’m like your father, I work in Military Intelligence. Does that make me a spy?’

‘I think so.’

‘That’s because you have different political views. I support the Union, and the rule of law.’

Catherine ignored that. She was beginning to enjoy her role as interrogator. She said: ‘Von Hessel was arrested by the police, not the army. Did you get hold of that letter before the arrest, and give it to the police, or did they give it to you afterwards?’

‘Don’t be silly. I can't tell you things like that.’

‘Only, if you got it before, then it means you must have known von Hessel - in fact you must have shown it to him yourself. And if it was afterwards … I can’t see what you would need it for afterwards, can you?’

Andrew laughed. Neither of them thought the laugh sounded very relaxed or convincing. ‘Look, Catherine, you’re not a detective, so don’t try and play at being one. The fact is, this letter has been left in my pocket by mistake, when I should have thrown it away. Von Hessel’s been deported. I don’t need it - look.’

He took the letter out of his pocket, lit it with a match, held it between finger and thumb until it was burnt, and ground the ashes to powder under his shoe. ‘There. End of mystery.’

But it’s not, he thought. I can't have you walking round Dublin for the next few days. Somehow, that has to be stopped. He said: ‘I’m more interested in talking about you and me.’

She sighed. ‘Not now, Andrew, please.’

‘Will I see you when you’re in Dublin?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Look - surely after last night? It wasn't that bad, was it?’

‘Last night was fine. It was just what I needed. But it was before I knew Sean was going to be tried for murder, and that you were a British spy, Andrew.’

He was silent.
Just what she needed
. The words settled slowly into his mind like a cloud of gas drifting over a trench. One part of phosgene in a million parts of air could change everything inside a man utterly, and for ever. Not at once; it took a day before the inevitable death. So it was with only a few words. They settled into his mind, quietly, peacefully, and began to work.

He began to realize that he had been used. There had been no love in it as he had hoped. Just something to satisfy her own transient desires. He had not thought women could be like that.

They talked little throughout the afternoon. When they reached Athlone the carriage filled up, with two officers and a businessman and his family, so further personal conversation was impossible. But when the train was already beginning to slow on its final approach to Dublin, he said: ‘You’ll be going back to Merrion Square, I suppose?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘There’s something I want to show you before you go home, if you can spare the time.’

She shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’

‘It’s not here. It’s in my house.’

‘Ardmore?’

‘No. I have a small house in Dublin. It won’t take more than a few minutes, but it’s quite important. It's about that letter.’ He glanced at the ashes on the floor, which were now scattered under the shoes of the businessman's wife.

She thought about it. She was tired, but the letter intrigued her. If she found out more about it, it might help the movement; and also, if she knew where he lived she could tell Sean, or Professor O’Connor, perhaps. Oh no. She remembered the description of the dead police commissioner. I don’t want to encourage any more of that, she thought. Not to Andrew. Not to anyone.

‘I don't want to know where your house is,’ she said. ‘It’s best if I don't.’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘It won’t matter to me if anyone does know - I won’t be staying there. And it is important, really.’

‘Oh, all right.’ For the moment she was too tired to resist. But even as they walked out of the station and called a cab, she was thinking: There's something wrong about this. I thought it was clever at first to interrogate him about the letter but now I’m getting in deeper than I should. But she was too concerned with Sean to think it through. It would only take a moment, Andrew had said. And it was on the way anyhow.

The cab took them down a narrow road of tall, not very prosperous terraced houses. There were some children playing with a hoop at one end of the street and a barrow boy selling vegetables. It was a poorer area than she had expected.

He paid off the cab outside the door.

‘I thought you said it would only take a moment?’

‘Oh, I’ll help you call another cab. There’s no shortage.’

They went in. The house had a musty, unlived-in smell to it. There was a patch of damp in one corner of the hall and dust on some of the paintings. It was cold; there were no fires lit.

‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘Let me take your hat and coat.’

‘No thanks. I’ll keep them on. Heavens, Andrew, do you live here?’

‘Only when I have to. It was my parents’ town house.’

‘You want someone in to clean it up, give it a bit of life.’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her strangely.

I shouldn't have come, she thought. This is a waste of time. ‘All right. Where is this thing that's so important?’

‘It’s in the cellar, I’m afraid. It’s rather big.’

‘In the
cellar?’

‘Yes.’ He opened a door at the back of the hall. Some steps inside led down. He lit an oil lamp and led the way. Mystified, she followed. He opened a door at the bottom and went in.

The cellar was almost empty. Catherine looked round and saw an old bicycle, a couple of trunks, some bottles of wine covered in cobwebs, a stack of chopped wood in the corner, a broken sofa with the springs hanging out of the bottom.

‘What's all this?’ she said. ‘Andrew, there’s nothing interesting here.’

‘Only one interesting thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You.’

He had put the lamp down in the middle of the floor, and stepped back to be between her and the door. She stared at him. His face was lit oddly from below because of where he had put the lamp, so that the shadows were in the bottom of his eye- sockets instead of the top. There was an odd, bitter smile on his face.

‘What
is
this, Andrew?’

‘I suppose you could call it a kidnapping,’ he said. ‘Would you push that sofa over against the wall, please.’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Please. I insist.’ He took an automatic pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at her.