“QUITE A story,” I said as I gave the document to the Commissioner. “Your man indeed has the skills of a storyteller, though I suspect that he is a woman.”“QUITE A story,” I said as I gave the document to the Commissioner. “Your man indeed has the skills of a storyteller, though I suspect that he is a woman.”
Commissioner Keenan sighed. “We can’t hide much from you, can we, Dermot? … Keep the document. Show it to herself if you want.”
“As if I had any choice.”
He laughed and then waved his hand as if the whole story were a bit of a bore.
“A little mystery from the backwater of Irish history, hardly worth repeating, eh, Dermot? But tragedies like that have been part of Irish life for centuries. That they are so numerous does not mean that they were not painful and often deadly for the poor people who were involved.”
I sighed.
“Maybe there won’t be any more of them,” he continued. “Maybe we won’t need a Special Branch in the new Ireland.”
“How does Kevin O’Higgins fit into this story?”
“The Kerry Brigade of the Irregulars, as the Free State called the IRA, wasn’t much good at fighting. They concentrated on burning down houses and shooting people in the back. The Free State Army swept them away without so much as a single pitched battle. They were for the most part a group of young louts who used the ideals of the republic, one and indivisible, as a pretext for criminal burning, killing, blackmail, and loud pub talk. When Kevin took over after Collins’s death, he knew that he had to stamp out such groups all over Ireland if anarchy wasn’t to prevent Ireland from becoming a democracy. Stamp them out he did. In a sense he succeeded where Tudor had failed. He argued that Ireland would be a better place without the Kerry Brigade. The Free State soldiers swept up the lot of them, and then there was no more Kerry Brigade, except for the three men who shot Kevin. That was the end of it for them, too. Kevin’s forgiveness overwhelmed them.”
“They forgot about Hugh Tudor?”
“Or figured he wasn’t worth hunting down. Perhaps if he had returned to England they might have gone after him.”
“Not much of a connection between Tudor and O’Higgins.”
“Except that the executions of the remnant Kerry Brigade, five men, by the Free State Army were in front of the ruins of Castle Garry. Like someone was sending a message.”
“And the message was?” I asked.
“That’s what we don’t know … though if Hugh Tudor had not ambushed the ambushers that night in 1921 the Kerry Brigade might have simply faded away. It was kept alive by its own need for revenge.”
Back in our room after I had scanned the two police documents into my HP Omnibook, I wondered if I had learned anything that was pertinent to Nuala’s waking dreams. I didn’t know what to make of the story of Hugh Tudor, Augusta Downs, and Kevin O’Higgins. I didn’t see how there could be any connection between the first two and the third. Tudor was gone from Ireland and Augusta was dead by the time Higgins replaced Michael Collins as the strongman of the Free State Government. Both Tudor and O’Higgins were targets of Kerry revenge. That was the only link between them, and it seemed thin. How could it have anything to do with Nuala’s experiences on the plane or at Booterstown? Or with the attempted kidnapping yesterday?
It made no sense, not at all, at all.
Why would the Deputy Commissioner of the Garda Siochana waste much of his morning telling me that tale, other than for the sheer love of spinning a yarn? Indeed, a couple of mostly unrelated yarns?
Perhaps because he didn’t like the obscurities in his story and thought that we might be able to clarify a few of them.
And maybe find a connection between them and the clumsy attempt to kidnap us?
Maybe.
It struck me that none of it was any of our business. After the concert we should fly out to Galway to see Nuala’s parents, cancel our visit to Glenstal Abbey till another day, and catch the first plane from Shannon to Chicago.
Except who was the girl that, in Nuala’s interlude on the airplane, did not start the fire?
I glanced at my watch. She should be home from her rehearsal soon.
Then the Adversary intruded into my life again.
ISN’T IT ABOUT TIME, BOYO, THAT YOU ADMIT THAT YOU’RE NOT THE GREAT BIG MACHO LOVER THAT YOU PRETEND YOU ARE?
“What do you mean by that?”
WHEN IT COMES TO PASSION, YOU’RE ABOUT AS DYNAMIC AS A FIRECRACKER.
ALL RIGHT, YOU SCREW THE GIRL WHENEVER YOU WANT AND SHE DOESN’T SEEM TO MIND.…
“I make love with her.”
CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT … YOU FIGURE THAT BECAUSE YOU’VE READ THE BOOKS ABOUT WHAT TURNS WOMEN ON AND BECAUSE YOU’RE GENTLE AND CONSIDERATE WITH HER YOU ARE THEREFORE A SKILLED LOVER. THAT’S A LOT OF BULLSHIT AND YOU KNOW IT.
“I know no such thing!”
THEN HOW COME I KNOW IT? I’M A PART OF YOU, EVEN IF YOU LIKE TO PRETEND THAT I’M AN OUTSIDE VOICE.
“I never claimed to be an experienced lover!”
DAMN GOOD THING!
“Go away! Don’t bother me!”
He ignored my orders.
LOOK, YOU EXPERIENCE SEXUAL RELEASE WITH HER AND SHE’S PLEASED ABOUT THAT BECAUSE SHE ADORES YOU. BUT YOU CONTROL THE WHOLE EXERCISE. IT’S A NICE, NEAT LITTLE EXCHANGE WITHOUT ANY RISK AND WITHOUT MUCH PASSION.
“I don’t agree!”
LOVE IS ABOUT ABANDONMENT, he went on implacably. REAL PASSION THROWS ASIDE NOT ONLY CLOTHES BUT INHIBITIONS. NO WAY DO YOU DO THAT. YOU PRETEND THAT YOU’RE UNINHIBITED, BUT YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A BLAND COCKTAIL OF INHIBITIONS.
“You want me to be violent.”
I WANT YOU TO BE PASSIONATE.
“What’s that mean?”
WELL, LET’S TRY, FOR STARTERS, OUT OF YOUR MIND WITH DESIRE.
“I don’t want to hurt her!”
NO WAY YOU’RE GOING TO DO THAT!
“I don’t believe in violent lovemaking!”
THE WAY GOD DESIGNED YOU HUMANS, IS THERE ANY OTHER KIND? ANYWAY, LET’S NOT ARGUE ABOUT WORDS. CALL IT VEHEMENT, IF YOU WANT. THE POINT IS, DERMOT MICHAEL COYNE, THAT YOU ARE AN INNATELY CAUTIOUS MAN. YOU DON’T LIKE TAKING CHANCES. YOU DON’T WANT TO TAKE CHANCES WITH THAT ONE. YOU ARE AFRAID OF THE ENERGIES YOU MIGHT UNLEASH IN HER. MAYBE SHE’LL BE TOO MUCH FOR YOU, HUH?
“No way! Besides, I wasn’t cautious last night, was I?”
PROVES MY POINT. ONLY WHEN SOME OUTSIDE FORCE TURNS YOU ON DO YOU BECOME PASSIONATE. WHY DON’T YOU GIVE THE GIRL A CHANCE?
“You want me to act like a wild man?”
PARDON ME FOR LAUGHING! DERMOT COYNE A WILDLY PASSIONATE LOVER? YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING!
“I could be if I wanted to.”
YOU’RE AFRAID TO TRY, AFRAID THAT SHE MIGHT REACT THE SAME WAY.
“I’m not afraid of her!”
THE HELL YOU’RE NOT!
I turned him off.
But he had scared me. Usually the Adversary appealed to my dark side. He had just done that again. But maybe he was right. Maybe …
I tried to stop thinking about it.
Still the fantasy of a wild “ride” with herself in which we both abandoned our inhibitions was not without appeal.
And what would she really be like if I unleashed all her womanly passions?
The possibilities were delightful.
And scary?
Yeah, well, I’d concede that to the Adversary.
With considerable effort, I turned my attention back to the story of Henry Hugh Tudor.
Where had I heard about McGarry before?
Recently.
Was that one of the places we were supposed to stay? Perhaps when we visited Glenstal Abbey?
Where had the woman put our reservations? I was not to be trusted with them because I might lose them—a not completely unreasonable assumption.
I rummaged around the room hunting for them. Drat! Why did she have to be so neat!
Then reason took over. She would put them in the small shoulder bag she carried. Where was it?
Undoubtedly hanging in the closet!
Brilliant, Holmes!
I opened the bag and there, sure enough, on the very top were our tickets and reservations.
We were scheduled to stay three nights at a certain Castlegarry, Garrytown, County Limerick!
Yikes!
I reordered the reservations, put them back in the bag, zipped it up, and hung it on the closet hook.
This was not a good idea at all, at all. If I told her about Commissioner Keenan’s story, she would insist that we had to stay there. If I didn’t tell her, she would want to know why I wanted to cancel—and be gready displeased that I had hidden evidence. Watson had to tell the truth to Holmes.
I remembered a book about Irish castles converted to hotels I had seen in the gift shop of the hotel. I raced down to the lobby, searched for the book, and finally found it behind an Irish financial news magazine. There was indeed an entry for Castlegarry (sic).
Castlegarry, Garrytown, County limerick
This spacious and comfortable late-eighteenth-century manor house is one of the finest castle hotels in the west of Ireland. Located on a cliff over the Shannon Estuary and complete with an eighteen-hole golf course, Castlegarry is a warm, friendly house with eight expansive guest suites and one honeymoon suite directly facing the estuary. The chef is reputed to be the best in the west of Ireland and Tonia and Paddy MacGarry, the hosts, are delightful conversationalists. No one will regret resting a few days in this lovely and historic setting.
Historic setting indeed. At least two firefights and a dozen or so murders. Perhaps lots of ghosts—Irregulars, Black and Tans, Anglo-Irish gentry, maybe even Henry IX. Haunted casties were popular with tourists. Why weren’t such assets listed for Castlegarry? Perhaps Tonia and Paddy wanted to stress the warmth and the cooking and the golf course. Perhaps the ghosts were a little too scary.
I was willing to bet that the proprietors were from the Catholic side of the clan, recusants of one sort or another. Hence Mac had replaced Mc. Time does sort things out, doesn’t it?
I walked slowly back to our room. The mist outside the windows was “soft” again. The only thing I could do was level with Nuala Anne about the castle. We would doubtless stay in the honeymoon suite, which was probably the master bedroom where Hugh Tudor and Augusta Downs consummated their illicit love.
Great fun.
Maybe we could spend a lot of time on the golf course. If it didn’t rain.
What did they call it? Black and Tan Links?
In our room I plugged in our portable Brother printer and began the slow process of printing out the first chapter of my report.
Then the door flew open and a jean-clad comet burst into the room, leaving behind a comet trail of energy.
“Och, Dermot Michael, isn’t it grand altogether?” she shouted as she embraced me and spun me around with exuberant delight.
“ ’Tis!” I said weakly.
“Sure, didn’t I forget that you were all banged up from last night! … I’m terrible sorry, Dermot love. Aren’t I the most selfish woman in all the world?”
She backed off, contrite and humiliated.
“Woman, you are not! Don’t your arms around me cure all me ills?”
She giggled. “Aren’t you beginning to talk like me … but, Dermot, don’t I have wonderful news!”
The thundering herd returned.
“And what is the wonderful news?”
“The RTE is going to broadcast the whole concert live! Me ma and me da will be able to see the whole thing!”
They’d be in the front row at the Point, but that was still a secret.
“Brilliant.”
“And look what Brown and Williamson sent me to make up for the dress which was ruined last night!”
She pulled a black-on-gold garment out of a B and W bag that was distinguished, it seemed to me, by the limited amount of fabric invested in it.
She held it front of her for my inspection.
“Isn’t it wonderful altogether!”
“A nightgown?”
She stamped a foot impatiently. “ ’Tis not. Isn’t it a slip dress!”
I knew that. “You mean you wear it outside the bedroom!”
She knew I was kidding, but she couldn’t resist the argument. “OF COURSE, I do. Isn’t it lined? I don’t have to wear anything under it but a pantie!”
“You’re not going to wear that at the concert, are you?”
“Och, Dermot, you’re a desperate man! You know I’m going to wear me modest white suit and a green scarf, just like a respectable upper-middle-class Dublin housewife would wear to Mass on Sunday. This is for tonight.”
“I can hardly wait.”
She kissed me again, being careful not to touch my bruises and aches.
“And didn’t everyone at the rehearsal say that you were a terrible fierce man the way you protected me? They all wondered if you’d been badly hurt? And didn’t I tell them that you were in perfect physical condition and there was no need to worry about you?”
“And they told you what a lucky woman you were to have such a stalwart husband?”
“Och, that wasn’t their exact words, but I won’t tell you, because it will go to your head.”
She kissed me again.
GO AFTER HER, the Adversary suggested.
I ignored him.
“I’ve been working on my report,” I said, pointing at the pages grinding out of the printer.
She looked at it uneasily. “Maybe I shouldn’t look at it till after the concert?”
“I agree. I have a lot more work to do.”
“Grand! Shouldn’t we have a swim and a bite of lunch now?” She began to cast her clothes aside.
“A big bite for me.”
“Naturally.”
Now quite naked, she reached for her swimsuit.
GO FOR IT!
I removed the suit from her hands and crushed her in my arms. Thereupon followed the most passionate embrace I have ever attempted.
“Och, Dermot,” she moaned weakly, terrified by the ferocity of my assault.
“You object?” I said, pausing in my attack for a moment.
“You scare me.”
“That upsets you.”
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
“Good!” I said, reassuming my assault. The Daemon began to emerge, confident, competent, determined.
Was it part of passion that you scare your lover with the ferocity of your desire?
I decided that it was but then lost my nerve.
“Swim, then lunch, then love,” I suggested.
“Fine.” She sagged against me.
ASSHOLE, sneered the Adversary.