Chapter III

We’ll sing a song, a soldier’s song

With cheerful rousing chorus …

Out yonder waits the Saxon foe,

So chant a soldier’s song.

Peadar Kearney, “A Soldier’s Song”

(Amhrán na bhFiann, the Irish National Anthem)

The following evening, after Molly had put in her teaching day at the University of London, and they had eaten at a local chip shop, Brennan and Terry decided that they wanted to see for themselves the infamous statue of Oliver Cromwell outside the Houses of Parliament. Their sister agreed to accompany them to the scene. The three of them opted for the bus rather than the tube, so they could take in the sights of London on the way. For Brennan, it was sufficient to admire the miles and miles of lovely residential buildings that lined the streets, many of them red brick, some a brilliant white with multi-paned windows and beautiful proportions. Brennan had been on the path to a career in architecture before being called to the priesthood. Even if London had nothing else to commend it (though of course it did), the architecture alone would be enough to have him in awe.

When they got to the river, they walked across Westminster Bridge so they could view the Palace of Westminster from the water. Brennan had always been overwhelmed by the scale and the glory of the perpendicular Gothic complex with its soaring vertical lines, its towers, turrets, and pinnacles. Now, with the sun low in the sky, the golden Houses of Parliament were reflected in the shining water of the Thames. Beautiful.

His sister read his mind. “‘Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty.’”

“Well said.”

“That’s because I didn’t say it. Or, at least, I didn’t write it. Wordsworth, ‘Upon Westminster Bridge.’”

“A brilliant civilization, no two ways about it,” Terry commented.

“No question,” agreed Molly. “Bask in this for a bit before we head over.”

After a few more minutes of contemplation, they walked back across the bridge and around to the rear of the palace.

“There he is,” Molly said, pointing ahead.

Cromwell, sculpted in bronze, stood atop a white pedestal. He was holding a sword and a Bible. Reclining on a plinth at the foot of the pedestal was a lion.

“Just gobbled up the lamb,” Brennan muttered.

“Who did, the lion or Cromwell?” asked Terry.

“That will be the subject of my next paper,” said Molly.

“Spare yourself the effort,” Brennan advised her. “You won’t be invited to make a presentation again.”

“Good thing I said my piece the first time round. Go stand beside it, and I’ll record the moment on film.” She pulled a small camera out of her bag.

“I don’t want to be immortalized with that,” said Brennan. “Terry will probably paste the photo on my gravestone for a bit of posthumous humour.”

“Take me then,” Terry offered. He moved in beside the figure and extended the middle finger of his left hand towards Cromwell’s face.

“Lovely, Terry.” She pointed her camera and clicked. “Got it. You’ve made your statement, and it’s been recorded for posterity.”

“So, Molly,” Brennan asked, “what exactly were you going to do here?”

“Splash a bucket of blood-red paint on that thing.”

“Were you going to do this publicly or under cover of darkness?”

“It was intended to be a public spectacle, to be carried out while Cromwell’s admirers were gathered to pay their respects. We would read a short statement about Cromwell’s crimes against our people, and that would be that.”

“We?”

“Me and a few like-minded proponents of non-violent civil disobedience.”

“Presumably you would be arrested? Taken to jail? Good thing that didn’t happen.”

“I would have been arrested for vandalism, Brennan, perhaps fined or required to pay damages. Not picked up and imprisoned without charge under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.”

“The peelers say you attended a meeting with a —”

“They say I assisted in the arrangement of a meeting to further the activities of a proscribed organization. Which I did not. The people involved in the red paint conspiracy were not Provisional IRA. And splashing a bit of paint on a statue would not further the activities of the Provos.”

“But it gave the police the excuse to terrorize you.”

“Right.”

“Well, what happened?” Terry asked, looking at the statue. “There’s no blood on his hands.”

“I take it you are referring only to the facsimile of Cromwell, which we see before us, and not to the man himself.”

“Correct.”

“The mission was aborted. We were warned off.”

“Who warned you off?” asked Brennan. Molly avoided his eyes. “Well?”

“There was a note in my post box. ‘Cancel Tuesday’s paint job. Cancel and stay away.’ There was a coded signature.”

“Coded signature!” both brothers exclaimed.

“I shall conclude my statement now, gentlemen.”

“If you’re receiving coded warnings, I’d say you’d best be prepared for another spell in the nick.”

“I am not a member, Brennan.”

“Well, then, who sent you the warning?”

“At the risk of boring you with unnecessary repetition, I am not a member of a proscribed organization. I am merely a law-abiding resident of London. And as such, I direct your attention to another feature of this great city, which may be of interest. In case you hadn’t noticed it. Let’s go across the street and have a look at Westminster Abbey, shall we?”

Brennan knew his sister well enough to know that she would not be taking any more questions. He followed her and Terry across the road behind the Parliament Buildings. Seconds later he found himself in Gothic heaven. Benedictine monks had come to the site in the tenth century; the current building was begun in the thirteenth.

“The Thirteenth: Greatest of Centuries,” he said to Molly. “Architecture like this is one of many reasons for its greatness.”

“If they ever invent a time machine, we all know where you’ll be going.”

“Don’t need a time machine. I’ll just stay beneath the vaulted ceiling of this spectacular building and wait for somebody to start up a Gregorian chant. If nobody does, I will. But I was not merely giving my opinion; I was citing a book by that title, The Thirteenth: Greatest of Centuries, written by a fellow named James J. Walsh. Walsh did not share the uninformed prejudice of those who know nothing of the mediaeval period.”

“I’ll grant you, the architecture was wonderful. And the chant.”

“And the great Latin hymns. He writes about those. And about the organization of the hospitals, law, the universities. And, just for you, Professor Burke, women professors on the faculties of the Italian universities.”

“Oh yeah? Name one.”

“You’re playing right into my hands. Maria di Novella, professor of mathematics at the University of Bologna. And she was not alone.”

“Okay, you win. I’m intrigued. I’ll track down a copy of the book. Shouldn’t be hard to find in the university library.”

“What are you two geeks on about?” Terry asked.

“Brennan wants me to sponsor him so he can become a citizen of this country. That way, as a Brit, he can be buried with the other great men here in the abbey.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Transport me back to the thirteenth century, sure, but don’t do something that would earn me a thumpin’ from our dear oul Irish Republican da.”

Molly looked at her watch and said, “I have to get going. Now, can I trust you children not to get into trouble?”

“As long as we stay away from you with your conspiracies and coded warnings, we should be all right.”

“May ravens gnaw on your neck, Terrence Burke! Woe to the men of Ireland if they show me disrespect again!”

“Yes, sister.”

“You may want to stop by Hannigan’s later. There’s a session tonight.”

“Good. See you there?”

“See you there.”

†

Brennan and Terry did some more sightseeing, strolling past the buildings of Whitehall and Number 10 Downing Street, and then they detected the presence of the Sherlock Holmes pub and decided to stop in for a drink. It was a fascinating place filled with Holmes and Watson memorabilia. Someone had left a couple of newspapers on their table, so they each picked one up and skimmed the contents until their food arrived. Terry had grabbed the Sun, so he got to ogle the Page 3 girl. Scantily dressed females were a regular feature of the English tabloid press. Like a good brother after lights out in the double bedroom at home, he shared his findings with Brennan.

“Not the most suitable thing to be showing you, I guess, Father Burke.”

“She is a child of God like you and me, Captain Burke; who am I to avert my eyes from His creations?”

“Oh, and it says Gordon Strachan has left Manchester United for Leeds. Which leads me to suggest we take in a football match while we’re here.”

“Sounds good.”

Brennan was reading the Independent, catching up on what had been happening in the world since he’d embarked on his trip. Something familiar caught his eye. “Here’s more on that other killing, the one that happened around the same time as the police shooting.”

POLICE FOLLOWING ALL LEADS IN ESSEX KILLING

Essex police are still seeking possible witnesses who may have seen something out of the ordinary on April 25 or 26 last or who may have information regarding the identity of the man who was found dead in Colchester on the morning of April 26. A police spokesman said the man’s injuries made it unlikely that anyone would recognise him, so they put together the composite sketch shown above. Police estimated his age at between 30 and 35; he was 5'9" in height and weighed around 12 stone. Babs Mundle, who discovered the man’s remains, says it is a shame that no progress has been made. “This man has a family somewhere, but they don’t even know he’s dead, because whoever did this took his wallet with his I.D. in it. Pretty low when you beat a man to death for a few quid and a camera full of holiday pictures. That’s what he was taking, is what I heard. The killer took his camera, but word is he had a little folder full of other pictures he had taken. In his jacket pocket. You know, the envelope of photos you get from the photo shop, six by fours or whatever they are. Just nice pictures of the old buildings here, so the story goes. St. John’s Gatehouse, St. Botolph’s, that kind of place. And old buildings from other towns around the south here as well. Must have had an interest in architecture. Or religion maybe. That might spark something in somebody’s mind about who he is. You know, ‘That sounds like our Bill, always taking pictures of old buildings, churches and all.’ Shame, it is. You never expect that sort of thing round here, do you?”

Brennan looked up from the paper and took in his surroundings. “Crime solving is not what it used to be, since the demise of Mr. Holmes. He’d have the Essex murder solved quicker than a seven percent solution could be absorbed into his bloodstream.”

“What was it he used to inject?”

“Cocaine.”

“Worked for him.”

“So he claimed.”

“So we should see if we can make a buy out there on the street, give ourselves a hit, and offer our services to Scotland Yard.”

“Or we could go to Hannigan’s, have a few scoops there, and mind our own business.”

“Yes, Father.” Terry peered over Brennan’s shoulder at the news story. “Who in God’s name is St. Botolph?”

“No idea,” Father Burke had to concede. “I’ll have to look him up next time I find myself in a diocesan library. I’m just glad Mam and Da gave me the second name Xavier and not Botolph.”

†

Hannigan’s was jammed when Terry and Brennan arrived, and their sister was in full flight giving a performance at the far end of the room. This was something you might see any night of the week in Ireland, a seanchaí — a traditional storyteller — holding forth in a bar for the entertainment of the patrons. A younger man, in his early thirties, accompanied her words by beating time on a bodhran. He had a mop of auburn hair, a couple of days’ growth of beard, and lively brown eyes.

“That’s Conn!” Terry exclaimed.

“Is it? I think you’re right.”

Conn Burke was the youngest son of their uncle Finn in Dublin. It had been years since Brennan had seen the young fellow. Brennan and Terry quietly placed orders for pints of Guinness and watched the performance.

“And this was when the Morrigan came on the scene.” Molly Burke glanced suddenly at the window and raised her hands as if to ward something off. Several people followed her glance. She then leaned forward and whispered to her audience, “The Morrrrigan! Goddess of war and death. She has always been with us. She is a shape-changer who can take many forms: she might appear as a seductive young woman or an ancient crone. She might turn herself into an eel!” She wriggled and shuddered, and the drinkers laughed. “Or a cow or a wolf. She often swooped down in the form of a crow, that deadly and knowing bird of death.” Conn’s beating on the bodhran matched the menacing image. “And on the day I am telling yez about in ancient times, she appeared to the warriors of Ulster and Connacht on the battlefield. As the story goes …

“Conchobar — like him,” she said, pointing to Conn. “Don’t even ask how we spell it. Just say ‘Connor.’ He arrived with his armies of men from Ulster and had a word with Ailill about a truce. Ailill said yes for the men of Ireland and the exiles — that’s you fellows!” she said, her hands taking in the assembled London Irish, and a few raised their glasses, “and Conchobar agreed for the men of Ulster.”

“There’s a wee gathering of us here too!” came a strong Belfast accent from the corner of the room.

Molly waved in the voice’s direction and resumed her tale. “The ground between the Ulster and the Connacht armies lay bare. And ’twas not the only thing that was bare, I can tell you. The men of Ireland fight as men, naked in battle. Take a moment to savour the image, girls! Anyway, as I was saying, in the spooky half-light between the warriors’ camps, the Morrigan spoke out:

Ravens shall gnaw on the necks of men!

And blood shall spurt in battle.

Flesh shall be hacked, and pierced with blades.

O the madness of battle, the acts of war!

Hail Ulster!

Woe to the men of Ireland!

Woe to Ulster!

Hail the men of Ireland!

“Woe indeed. On this night the wives of Net, called Badb and Nemain — harbingers of death, the pair of them — shrieked above the men of Ireland. The shriek of panic and alarm, a shriek so terrifying that a hundred of the warriors died of fright. It was, the storyteller informs us with considerable understatement, ‘a bad night for them.’”

Molly nodded her head, her tale complete, and took a sip of her pint.

She was rewarded with raucous applause. Hands were clapped, glasses raised, drink taken.

Conn rose then, as Molly made her way to Brennan and Terry. “Go raibh mile maith agat to my fellow seanchaí and cousin, Molly,” Conn said. “Thank you for that brilliant recital from the Táin Bó Cúailnge, the Cattle Raid of Cooley, a bloodcurdling piece of our history. I have to ask meself if you’re the Morrigan yerself, you had so much enjoyment of that macabre bit of reportage. Now I’ll tone things down a bit so as not to put our friends here in Hannigan’s off their drink. Oh,” he said, taking a look around the place, “I see they’re still able for it. But I’ll soothe yez all with a lullaby nonetheless. Will you help me out here, Dáithí?” Dáithí got up from his table with a set of uilleann pipes and joined Conn.

With the plaintive accompaniment of the pipes, Conn proceeded to sing “Rock-a-bye, Baby” to the assembled drinkers, in a heartbreakingly sweet voice.

Rock-a-bye, baby, on the treetop

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

Down will come baby, cradle and all.

He stopped and took a bow to warm applause. “I’ll bet yez all thought I’d be singing something political up here. Didn’t yez now? Come on, admit it.” Knowing laughter around the room. “Well, it was a political song, which may be news to some. That creepy lullaby, with the unhappy ending for the poor wee child, comes to us from the 1600s. It was about killing a Catholic baby. Sorry now, but that’s the way it was. The song arose out of the fears here in England about the birth of a Catholic heir to James the Second, the Catholic king. The last Catholic king, as it turned out. There was,” Conn said, having switched from his native Dublin tones to that of an English gentleman, “a bit of bother during that time in history. The Glorious Revolution, so called, the arrival of William of Orange, all of that. Anyway, here’s a more literal version of the lullaby.” He sang in the same sweet voice:

Rock-a-bye, baby, King Jimmy’s wee heir,

The Pope’s little soldier, you’re not wanted here.

When the wind blows, in off the high seas,

From Holland it comes, good Protestant breeze.

Great William of Orange, sail in on the tides.

From papists and priests, please come save our hides.

The house of the Stuarts is ripe for a fall.

So down will come baby, cradle and all.

After that performance, he ceded the field to Dáithí and his pipes, went to the bar for a pint, and came over to join his cousins.

“Conn, it’s been awhile since you’ve laid eyes on them,” Molly said. “But here are Brennan and Terry. Lads, reacquaint yourselves with Conn.”

They rose and embraced their young relation, and the three exchanged How’ve-you-beens and It’s-been-too-longs.

When they stood back from each other Terry spoke to Conn in a low voice. “You’re looking well.” Why wouldn’t he be, Brennan wondered, at such a young age? Terry spoke again, still sotto voce, “Whatever became …” But he didn’t finish the question and was it just Brennan’s imagination at work, or did Conn give Terry a quick shake of the head? Well, Terry flew into London from time to time and perhaps saw their cousin on the occasional visit.

Conn turned to Brennan and said, “You should come and say a Mass at our church while you’re here, Brennan.”

“Or to mine,” said a man passing by with three pints in his hands.

“Not yours, Denny. He’s from Liverpool,” Conn said to Brennan, “and his church is the cathedral. Have you seen it, Father?”

“I have. I’ve been trying to repress the memory ever since.”

“Bad, is it?” Terry asked. “Not one of Brennan’s beloved Gothic cathedrals?”

Conn let out a bark of laughter. “Paddy’s Wigwam, they call it. And that’s exactly what it looks like. But can’t blame the Paddies for it. It was an Englishman who designed it.”

“One of many architectural horrors from the sixties,” Brennan said.

“Started falling apart as soon as they slapped it up. Wouldn’t have happened on my watch.”

“Conn’s in the building trade,” Molly explained.

“Aren’t we all?” he said, looking around at the clientele of Hannigan’s. “But really. I come down here to Sacred Heart, and it looks the way a church is supposed to look, and I’d love to have a cousin of mine say a Mass for us.”

“You can count on it,” Brennan assured him.

“And I’ll expect perfect attendance from all of yez here.” His gaze swept the crowd of drinkers.

There were grumbles from some, and references to the drink disabling them from their Sunday duties. Conn was having none of it. “There were times when the English outlawed our Mass, and our people had to worship at Mass rocks out in the fields. What would those people think now of a bunch of Catholics who won’t even roll out of the cot on Sunday mornings to go to Mass? You should be excommunicated, the lot of yez.”

He turned to Terry then. “Now you, Terry, you can fly me and my pals all over London. This city is jammed with traffic on the ground; quicker to fly over it, amn’t I right?”

“I couldn’t agree more. I don’t have much patience for sitting in traffic on the ground, when I’m used to being above it all.”

“Who’s this that’s above it all, Conn?”

Conn turned to face the new arrival and sang out, “She is the belle of Belfast City!” He got up and wrapped his arms around the young one who had just come in. She appeared to be in her mid or late twenties, with lustrous red hair piled on the top of her head in a clip. Her skin was ivory, and her eyes hazel. A lovely girl. “Evening, pet. How are you? Feeling better?”

“A bit better now.” A but batter nye.

She saw Molly and smiled broadly. “’Bout ye, Mol.”

“Tess, good to see you!”

“Lads, meet my girlfriend, my love, my darling girl, Tess Rooney. Tess, these are my cousins, Brennan and Terry Burke, Molly’s brothers.” They all said their hellos.

Conn kept one arm around her and squeezed. “Will you be having a pint with us now, Tessie?”

She looked at him uncertainly. “I don’t know now. Maybe I’ll wait.”

“That’s not like you, Tess. Wait how long, like?”

She whispered something in his ear. He reared back and exclaimed, “Seven months! That’s a long time to be going on the dry. You’re not on a weight loss kick, are you, like so many of the girls now? Because you’re perfect just as you are. Now let me get you …”

She bent forward to him again and whispered. He replied, “Can’t we just talk here? We’re all family at this table.”

She turned to his family at the table and said, “He does my head in.” Then to her boyfriend, “All right, Connie, you asked for it. I’m two months gone, and I’ll be having your wain next December!”

Her man was struck speechless. He stared at her, gobsmacked. But only for about three seconds, then a smile spread across his face. He wrapped her in his arms again, gave her a prolonged kiss, then dropped to his knees, lifted her shirt and kissed her on the belly. Rising to his feet, he took her hand in his and raised it. “Listen up, lads!” He spoke to everyone in the bar, male and female, young and old, known and unknown. “Your next jar is on me. Seamus, set them up. I’m going to be a father. And a married man. Not in that order. When, Tess? Would you like a summer wedding?”

“I, well, I … We might get some sun in June maybe, even in Belfast.”

“You name the date, darling, and tell me what time to show up at the church and what shoes to wear. God in heaven, how I love this woman! Drink up and celebrate with me, won’t yez?”

Everyone caught the mood and raised glasses to the dazzled young couple. Those whose glasses were running low rushed to the bar to take advantage of the free drinks coupon.

There weren’t many people about by the time the Burkes emerged from Hannigan’s into the Kilburn High Road. They began walking to Molly’s flat, from where Conn and Tess would call a taxi for his place in Cricklewood. Brennan noticed a car parked not far from Hannigan’s. The lights were off, and two men were inside in the dark. Just like the night before.

“The Gestapo,” Conn remarked.

“Ignore them, Conn,” Tess advised him. “Don’t let on you’ve seen them.”

“Who are they?” Terry asked.

“Special Branch,” Conn told him.

“Just walk on past them,” Tess urged him again.

“Ah, now, they know I’m all talk. All song. I’m nothing but a minstrel boy.”

He raised his voice a notch and spoke to the men in the car. “On yer bike, lads. Off you go now. Nothing to see here.”

There was no response from the stony-faced men inside.

†

When they were back in Molly’s flat, and Conn and Tess had left in a cab, Brennan inquired of his sister, “So Hannigan’s and its punters are of interest to Special Branch.”

Molly’s silence was not entirely unexpected. But Terry’s was.

“I think the oul ears must be goin’ on me,” Brennan said. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

“They’ve been here,” his sister said then.

Terry made for the drinks cupboard and brought them all a shot of whiskey.

“They were waiting for me one day when I got home.”

“When was this?”

“A day or two before my arrest.”

April 27, 1989

Molly got off the number sixteen bus after her shopping excursion and walked to her flat with the two carrier bags. She shifted her groceries to her left hand and fumbled for her keys. When she finally had them in hand, she looked around and noticed two men sitting in a car across the street. After she got inside she heard car doors opening and she looked out the window. Was Finbarr home for a visit? He was staying at Neville’s this term — maybe one of his mates was dropping him off. But no, the two men she had seen were out of their car and walking towards her building. A few seconds later there was a knock on the door. She opened it and there they were. Coppers. No mistaking them for anything else.

One was tall and quite smart looking, handsome and well dressed in a lovely tweed jacket, shirt, and tie. Beautifully cut dark, greying hair. It seemed to Molly she had seen him somewhere before — on the street or in a café or a bar. She laughed to herself; was she so notorious that she had been under surveillance? As for the other fellow, he looked as if he had wandered too close to the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow and got them full in the face. A Cockney who’d been in a few too many scraps.

“Excuse me, Miss Burke,” the taller fellow said. “I was wondering if we might have a word. I am Detective Sergeant Chambers and this is Detective Constable Peck.” Chambers had what Molly thought of as an “educated” English voice. He flipped a badge at her, his warrant card, identifying him as John Chambers of the Metropolitan Police. He was eyeing her place, which had nothing criminal or subversive on display. What were they doing here?

“Word about what?”

Chambers did the talking. “As you are no doubt aware, this city narrowly avoided a terrorist attack two days ago. To be more precise, explosives were planted but were fortunately disarmed before they could kill and maim hundreds of innocent people.”

“How could you possibly think I’d know anything about that?”

“We are not suggesting that you do.”

“What exactly are you suggesting, Detective?”

“Are you aware of a plan to cause disruption on the green behind the Houses of Parliament on that same day, the twenty-fifth of April?”

“I occasionally hear of demonstrations planned for the area behind the Houses of Parliament. People exercising their freedom of speech, that sort of thing. But I’m sure that wouldn’t trouble the officers of the Special Branch.”

“How many people besides yourself were in on the plot to damage the statue of Oliver Cromwell?”

“You people are frittering away your time hounding people who might have planned to raise their voices at a gathering of Cromwell fans?”

“At the meeting of your organization on April nineteenth, was there also a discussion of going considerably farther than raising your voices?” Chambers took out a notebook and opened it. “If it will assist you, I’m referring to a meeting you attended with Sheila O’Hanrahan, Fiona Connolly, Paddy McCann, and Tommy Dolan.”

Molly didn’t say anything to that. The idea that they knew everyone involved gave her the shivers. She wondered if the little painting circle had been infiltrated, or if Special Branch had bugged the room. But her silence didn’t put them off one bit. The constable, Peck, gave her such a smirk that she wanted to pound the face off him.

Then Chambers said, “Did you see your cousin Conn Burke on Tuesday, April the twenty-fifth?”

“Conn!”

“Right.”

Molly blurted out “No!” And that brought a smile to both their faces, and Chambers slapped his notebook shut, thanked her for her time, and they both left. She sat down and started shaking. She wondered how long they had been watching her. They must have known she wouldn’t name anyone. They wanted to get her rattled. And get a foot inside her door. But what really upset her was the question about Conn. And her answer. Had Conn been up to something that day and given her as an alibi? If so, she had just blown it for him. My God!

†

So, Brennan reflected after hearing about the episode, Molly’s little cadre of anti-Cromwell activists was not the only one of her associations that raised suspicion in the eyes of the police.

“Well, you’ve seen Conn,” Terry said. “Have you asked him about it?”

“Not bloody likely.”

Brennan got to the point. “Was Conn up to something that day?”

“I just told you, Brennan, I didn’t ask.”