Chapter XI

“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own …”

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

“Get out your tweeds, lads, you’ve been invited to an outing in the country.”

It was the day after Brennan’s frustrating visit to Brixton, and he felt blessed to have done several hours of work with members of St. Andrew the Scot’s parish in the east end of London. He had said an early Mass, served at a soup kitchen, and counselled some of the parishioners about their various troubles. Terry had flown in from New York, and he had made arrangements to step into the cockpit when his airline needed a substitute pilot for flights between London and continental Europe. Now they were all back in the Kilburn flat, and Molly presented them with an invitation.

“We’re going up to a place called Blythewich.”

“What is it?” Terry asked.

“One of the great houses of southern England, I believe.”

“Is it close to Biggleswade?”

“I suspect not.”

“Whose house is it? Someone from the university?”

“No, I’m not sure who owns it. But the invitation comes from a Cambridge don.”

“That fellow in the grand pub where we had lunch,” Brennan said. “What was his name? Mawdsley?”

“That’s right. He was in the Warrington again today, and came over and mentioned this drinks party out at Blythewich, and invited me to come.”

“Another suitor, my dear,” said Brennan. “You won’t have to worry about a future as a wallflower whenever you finally give Neville the heave-ho.”

“Another?” Terry asked.

Brennan decided not to tip his hand to Terry about Detective Sergeant Chambers’s extracurricular interest in their sister. He would spare her that. So he said, “How did Terry and I get invited to tag along?”

“Well, I told Cedric I have two brothers in tow now, and I’m sure he is wise to the fact that you two aren’t the local gentry. Blow-ins from away who could benefit from seeing a bit of the countryside. So he included you. Oh, and he said, ‘Tell your brothers the place has a well-stocked bar.’ Don’t quite know what to make of that.”

“I do,” said Brennan.

“He did have the grace to look a bit embarrassed after he said it. But anyway, we’ll all go and see what is no doubt a lovely spot, no doubt a great building, Bren, from what he told me.”

“Ah but sure, we’ll go,” said Terry in a thick Oirish brogue. “We’ll all go on the batter till dey picks us up and boots us in the hole and t’rows us out the door of the big house.”

“We might have to lose him on the way, Father,” Molly said to Brennan. “Otherwise it could be dreadfully embarrassing.”

“One shudders to contemplate it,” Brennan agreed. “So, shall we wear our best hunting attire? I’m afraid my pink jacket never recovered from the last time I was thrown from my mount.”

“Do your best, darling. You could set them reeling by turning up in your papist collar.”

“No, I’ll go in under cover. Plain clothes all the way. How are we getting there?”

“By rail. Cedric said someone will meet our train.”

“Sending his man. I like that,” said Terry.

“All right. Wash your faces and let’s get started. We have to get the tube to the station at St. Pancras.”

†

They were met at the train by someone who must have been bred from a long line of butlers; either that, or an actor was chosen for the role after a successful audition as a courteous, self-effacing, and helpful servant. He helped them into a long, old-fashioned car that Brennan would have described as a saloon, and they drove out through the countryside until they came to the great house on a low hill. Blythewich was a neo-Classical house of the eighteenth century done in Portland stone with ionic columns and a pediment. Like many of the great houses, it stood on a lawn without a lot of trees or plantings up against it, presumably so it could be seen in all its glory from the road leading to it. But farther away from the building were walking paths through stands of trees and lush flower gardens and fountains.

“Welcome to Pemberley, Miss Bennett,” Brennan whispered in Molly’s ear. She affected not to hear.

Cedric Mawdsley may not have owned the house but one could be forgiven for thinking he did. He effortlessly gave the impression of a man accustomed to luxury. He mixed easily with the other toffs gathered in the marble hall. He came forward and welcomed the Burkes, introduced himself to Terry, and then introduced the three of them to some of the other guests. It seemed to be a gathering of rich property owners, architecture buffs, and some film people as well. Mawdsley then excused himself, with a promise to be right back with someone who would show them around the rooms.

When he was out of earshot, Terry said to his sister, “Well, this is a bit of a break from your usual, Mol.” Imitating a London Cockney, he went on, “Not your regular night of guzzling and groping at the No-Tell ’otel.”

She responded in an upper crust voice that echoed that of Mawdsley. “Be gone, you grubby little man. I have ambitions tonight, and I don’t want you spoiling them.”

“Righty-ho. I won’t stand in the way of you and his lordship, Mol. Someday all this will be yours.”

“Mr. Mawdsley is not a peer of the realm, you poor benighted colonial. At least not yet. And he does not own this pile.”

“Ah. I knew he was frightfully common when all was said and done. Still, if you put out for him and do a bloody good job of it, that could be your ticket out of Kilburn and all those bog Irish who live around you.”

“Terry, has anyone ever threatened to kneecap you for all your guff?”

“Yeah, everyone in the family has, at one time or another. And many an outsider as well. I’m gaining in unpopularity all the time.”

“I can believe it. I should make it clear to you, just in case there is any need to, that I am here for the same reason you are. The evening is a pleasant diversion from our recent worries. As far as I know, Cedric Mawdsley is a married man and is only looking for another chat about the English poets. In a pleasant setting.”

“He was married, the way I remember the conversation,” said Brennan.

“Well, even if he is no longer married, I am. And until that changes, I shall be the very soul of respectability.”

“Give Neville his walking papers. Even Brennan agrees. Right, Bren?”

“Hard to disagree. He’s not doing you any good, so why waste any more time on him? I’ll see if I can get you a foot in the door for a Church annulment, on the grounds that you didn’t know he was a cad and a bounder when you gave your consent to the marriage.”

A young woman came over and asked if they would like a little tour. Yes, they would, so she accompanied them from room to room, giving them a short history of the illustrious family that had built the place in the eighteenth century, and the changes that had been made to the house over the years. The décor varied from room to room, from clean lines and simple cornices that were pleasing to Brennan’s eye to richly carved woodwork and gilt mirrors in the Rococo style.

When they were back in the great hall, Mawdsley rejoined them and asked what they would like to drink. Brennan asked for a whiskey, Terry a beer, and Molly a glass of red wine. Mawdsley caught the eye of a man in a dinner jacket, and the man came over. Mawdsley sent him to fetch the drinks, and then engaged Molly and her brothers in a bit of friendly conversation. Mawdsley said he had been teaching at Cambridge for over twenty years. He had two children, one boy who was studying theatre and another who was “doing absolutely nothing, but is pleasant to have round the house.” Cedric’s ex-wife was an amiable sort, all things considered. “And there you have it. Now, Molly, do you live near the Warrington? Maida Vale area?”

“Not far from there. Kilburn.”

“Ah.”

“Though I’m thinking of getting a flat in Bloomsbury again. I used to be able to walk to work and now I can’t. But I shouldn’t complain; it’s only a few minutes on the tube.”

“Quite so, yes.”

“Kilburn is an interesting area to live in,” she said, loyally. “Lots of places to go.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure there are. I’m not all that familiar with Kilburn, but that just shows my ignorance. You live in a city all your life and there are entire districts you’ve never taken the opportunity to know. You feel quite safe there? I don’t mean, oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that one hears things.”

Brennan did his best to keep a straight face as the man stumbled through his apology. He probably lived in Belgravia or Mayfair, and never ventured anywhere near a place where there were bars like Janey Mack’s or blocks of flats or, God knows, council housing estates.

“Quite safe,” said Molly equably. “In fact —” she leaned forward a bit “— I have a pair of guardian angels looking out for me.”

“Your brothers, I presume?” Mawdsley said, smiling at Brennan and Terry.

“No, not my brothers. I have found myself under surveillance.”

“What on earth do you mean?” He looked more concerned than shocked and appalled.

She leaned in again, and whispered, “Special Branch.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would they be interested in you? Not that you’re not interesting, I don’t mean that! But to have the police …” His face registered his distaste at the very idea.

“I shouldn’t make light of it, Cedric. It’s no laughing matter, actually. My cousin has been charged with a very serious offence.”

“Good heavens!”

“Wrongly charged.”

“Has he a good solicitor? I could recommend someone.”

“Oh, yes, he has. It will all be straightened out, surely. Someone else committed the crime, but so far the police have not looked beyond Conn — that’s my cousin — for a suspect. And why would they? Once they have someone in the frame …”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear it. Forgive me, but would this be the Burke who was arrested for the … the police officer who …”

“Yes, exactly. But he’s innocent. Honestly.”

Brennan could see Mawdsley making an effort to look as if he was giving this notion a fair hearing. “It must be very difficult for you people, I mean, you know, Irish people living in England, when one of their number gets into trouble and everyone gets tarred with the same brush. When of course it is completely unjustified to judge the many by the very few.”

“It is,” Molly agreed. “It can be very trying at times.”

“So tell me about these plods who have insinuated themselves into your life.”

This was presumably an occurrence completely outside the experience­ of Cedric Mawdsley, so why would he not want to hear about it? Get a little thrill from the brush with notoriety.

“They are both detectives. As I say, Special Branch. The constable is Clive Peck, kind of a rough and tumble fellow. The sergeant is John Chambers. Sounds like a well-educated man.”

“Really!”

“That surprises you?”

“No, no, of course not. I just … sometimes the police …”

The poor old plods haven’t had our advantages, Brennan translated.

“This Chambers does seem to be a very intelligent man,” Molly said in the copper’s defence.

“I don’t question that at all, Molly. The police are very clever fellows. Very astute. And women officers, too, of course. The police have a hard job to do. They are indeed clever, our coppers, ingenious in fact in the way they are able to solve crimes. Sometimes they get it wrong, though, as presumably they have done with your cousin.”

“Yes, they’re wrong this time.”

“What got them onto, um, Conn in the first place? Has he had troubles with the law in the past, or was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Looking at his sister, Brennan could see the mischief in her eyes as she made her decision. “He’s acquainted with some people in the IRA.”

That was understating things considerably but it had the effect she was looking for.

“Good Lord!” Mawdsley exclaimed, and he peered at Molly as if seeing her in a new and somewhat garish light.

“So you see why I’m a target, by association, in the eyes of Special Branch.”

“Yes, I do see. It’s a shame that you have to bear the …”

“Stigma?”

“No, well, yes, you do in a way, don’t you? Having the same name as a young man with ties to the IRA. But, as you say, it seems they have arrested the wrong man. Perhaps for that very reason, his association with that group. In times like this, with people on edge, and bombs going off and so on, the general public seems to forget the ‘innocent until proven guilty’ principle.”

Brennan translated this as The old “innocent until guilty” bromide that nobody takes seriously.

“Would you excuse me for a moment, Molly?”

“Certainly, Cedric.”

He made off for the far corner of the room, with haste, Brennan thought.

“You’ve blown it there, Mol,” Terry said, “owning up to an association with the bold IRA. It doesn’t get any worse than that for the people in this room. And, fair play to them, you can see where they’re coming from.”

“Imagine what he’d think if he knew our family history,” she said. “Christy, Da, Finn … This crowd would have us in shackles.”

“Almost as bad, they haven’t come by to offer us anything more from the bar. One drink and that’s it for us. Time to take the train back to civilization and stop in for a pint at Hannigan’s?”

“Let’s not be overly hasty, but yes, that’s what we’ll do.”

Before long, Mawdsley came towards them again, his face the very picture of forced bonhomie. “Well! I hope you’ve enjoyed seeing the house. It’s been splendid having you here. I hope to see you at the Warrington again one of these days!”

†

“That was that,” said Terry as they seated themselves in the train bound for London. “I guess the likes of us won’t be admitted to the big house again anytime soon. Though why would we ever want to go again and stand there gasping for a pint, and not a drop coming our way?”

“I’m glad we got to see the place,” said Molly.

“But won’t it just eat away at you, Mol, knowing what you can never have, a future as Lady Mawdsley in a house like that and no aggro from the police ever again? Yer man certainly had a condescending attitude towards the police, didn’t he?”

“He did. Imagine if John Chambers could have heard that.”

“It’s John now, is it?”

“The police aren’t just nameless servants of the state, Ter. But as for Mawdsley and his attitudes, he was formed by his upbringing just as we were. Not a bad fellow, I don’t think. He’s just inherited his outlook; he’s a product of his class.”

Not an hour later they were planted in Hannigan’s with pints in front of them, feeling right at home, listening to a motley group of musicians doing a spirited rendition of “The Boys of the Old Brigade.”