Three sharp knocks on the door had Thomas running to open it while his mother dished up breakfast for his younger sisters. Catherine had left the house with her father two hours earlier, as James insisted on escorting his daughter to work before he began his own day’s labouring. Rose had found employment for her niece as a scullery maid, in the home of one of the doctors at the hospital. Although she worked Monday to Saturday and a half day Sunday, the doctor and his wife did not insist on Catherine being a live-in domestic.
Rose had promised to see to it that Catherine arrived every morning at five o’clock to do her chores, the first one of the day being to light the stove before the cook woke up. By five o’clock in the evening, Catherine was finished for the day and on Sundays worked until ten o’clock in the morning, allowing her to go to Mass with her family. For the first few weeks, the poor girl spent most of her Sunday afternoons in an exhausted sleep.
“Who was that at the door, son?” asked Mary.
Thomas was walking across the parlour, reading the front page of a paper.
“It’s the Dundalk Democrat, Ma. There was nobody at the door when I opened it but the paper was lying on the step.”
“Let me see,” said Mary, holding out her hands.
She opened the pages wide to scrutinize each image displayed but nothing stood out as unusual to her.
“Maybe someone from the street was given it and left it for your Da. I’ll put it up here on the mantelpiece for when he gets home from work. If you don’t get a move on soon, you’ll be in trouble with Mr. Feeney for being late. There’s many a boy waiting to take your place in his workshop.”
“I know, Ma, I know. You don’t have to keep reminding me, but Mr. Feeney says he would find it hard to find a boy my age who reads as well as I do. He says it was my literary skills that secured my position.”
“Hark at you and your fancy words, mind you don’t get too big for your boots, son. Here, take your food and be off with you,” Mary ruffled Thomas’s dark brown hair and watched from the doorway as he bolted up the street.
“Morning Mary, your young lad off to work then? He’ll go far, that one, mark my words,” one of the neighbours called out as she passed by.
“I was just telling him he’s getting too big for his boots, so don’t you go praising him to his face too often,” Mary laughed. “But I’m much obliged for your kind words.”
As the day wore on, the routine of the small courtyard that was home to the McGrother families helped Mary to cope with her homesickness. She had not expected to feel such a strong pull for Ireland, especially six months later. It was her husband that should have been longing to return. James could hardly bare to visit a town, never mind live in one and yet he seemed to have settled in without a word of complaint. Mary, on the other hand, always found something negative to say about their new life. That evening’s annoyance was the smog hanging over the houses, the smoke from the fires trapped by the cold, damp, winter air.
Later that evening, with her young family in bed for the night, Mary sat across from her husband catching up on her sewing. A rasping cough came from one of the children upstairs and she looked up to glance at the ceiling.
“Mary-Anne’s health is getting worse, I think I’ll ask Rose to give her something for that cough. The air in this place is poisoning the poor wee thing,” Mary looked across at James.
“Aye, she sounds bad, right enough. We should have a good breeze overnight to help freshen the air. If not, keep her indoors tomorrow,” replied James as he carried on reading. “You say Thomas didn’t see who left this paper.”
Mary shook her head and listened as the news from home was read out to her. It was comforting to know that life was going on just as it always had and no big changes seemed to have taken place in the parish. James went very quiet and when Mary asked him what was wrong, he ignored her by carrying on reading to himself.
“James, what is it. Did somebody die? Tell me.”
The young man looked up from the page he was reading and his face was so pale it caused Mary to reach out and check his forehead.
“Merciful heavens, are you ill? You’re as white as a sheet,” she got no answer. “James, tell me what you’ve read. What is it?”
Mary snatched the paper from her husband and her eyes scanned every inch of the page until she saw a circle drawn around one of the paragraphs.
“Is this what has you in such a state,” she held out the paper. “Tell me what is says, James, you’re frightening me. Has somebody died? Who is it?”
James took the newspaper from Mary’s hands and looked once more at the words that had made his heart race.
‘A body was discovered in the back yard of a house in Linen Hall Street on Thursday last. Neighbours identified the remains as that of a man called Flanagan. In his pocket was found two silver teaspoons. They have been identified by Lord Devereux as part of the collection of silverware reported missing from Freemont House.’ James paused to glance at Mary. ‘It appears that Flanagan, who was reeking of alcohol, must have broken his neck in a fall while climbing over a six foot high wall – the gate being bolted at the time. A search of the house proved fruitless, until a slab of concrete was lifted in the back yard and a crate containing stolen goods was discovered.’
“So Pat’s name can be cleared at last. Oh, James, that’s good news, surely. Do you not think?”
“Too late for Uncle Pat, though, isn’t it? I had better tell the rest of the family about this,” James put on his jacket. “Maybe Owen or Peter will know how this paper found its way onto my doorstep.”
Rose poured tea into Owen’s cup as they waited for James to return to their house with Peter. They were puzzled as to what kind of news could have him so agitated. As soon as the two men walked through the door Owen began to question his younger brother about the fuss he was making.
“Look at this,” James spread the paper across the table and stabbed at it with his finger.
None of them were able to read but looked at the words anyway.
“Here, see this?” James was pointing to the circled paragraph. “I didn’t put this mark here, it was there when I opened the page. Someone left this paper on my doorstep this morning. Do any of you know how it got there?”
They shook their heads and Owen again asked what all the fuss was about.
“I think ye need to sit down before I read out what it says,” James responded.
When he had finished, there was a moment’s silence, until Peter brought up the subject of the money from his boat that James had left with his solicitor, “Maybe you can get your money back now, James.”
“This doesn’t prove that Uncle Pat was innocent. Think about it, they will say that he supplied this man Flanagan with the stolen goods in exchange for money. What I am more concerned about, is finding out who sent me this paper. Rose, take this money,” James placed some coins on the table. “Will you send a telegram to Maggie tomorrow, before you go to work?”
When his sister-in-law assured him she would, James continued. “I will write out exactly how it should be worded. I need Maggie to find out if Mr. Harrington still has the money in his safe, although I doubt it. When I last spoke with him, I made it clear that he was to hand it over to Lord Devereux.”
“Are you regretting your decision now, James?” asked Owen.
“If this man Flanagan had the Devereux silverware, then yes, I do regret it, because I know for a certainty that Pat would have had nothing to do with such an unsavoury character. I think we might have done our poor old uncle a great injustice, in being too quick to believe that he had been stealing in his state of confusion.”
“Do you think one of the neighbours left this paper on your doorstep?” asked Rose.
“They would have sent one of their young ones with it or at least stopped to say ‘good morning’ and not run off without a word. No, whoever left it didn’t want to be seen. That’s the worry of it,” said James.
“You don’t suppose it was that constable with the grudge against you? He could have arranged to have it delivered,” Peter suggested.
James agreed with his brother, saying that it was the first thing that came to mind when he read the news. “That’s why we need to get Maggie to find out what the story behind this is. Flanagan’s death is very convenient for me now, isn’t it? And that’s how the police will view it. But seeing as I had nothing to do with it, who else is it convenient for?”
“It could be that it was purely an accident, like the paper says, James. Let’s not worry too much about this yet until we’ve asked the neighbours if it was left by any of them. We should know by this time tomorrow and Rose will have sent the telegram off to Maggie,” said Owen.
“Bless her heart, poor Maggie will think one of us has died when she gets it. Telegrams never carry good news,” said Rose
.