Chapter Twenty Nine

 

 

It had been nearly a week since Lord Somerville’s burial and in that time Dermot had gone missing. Lately, he’d been disappearing for long periods of time, but not for such an extended period of time as this. His absence created an atmosphere of tension in the Ranahan cottage and, although no one mentioned him, he was all that anyone thought about. Da, already in a black mood since the Board of Works had been shut down, and knowing that it would not reopen until the murderers of Lord Somerville were caught, sat by the fire muttering about his worthless son. Mam moved about the cottage, her lips moving in silent prayer, hoping for his safe return. She’d taken to going to the door every morning and peering down the road in the vain hope that she’d see her youngest son coming up the road through the mist. Michael watched all this and cursed his brother’s thoughtlessness. Wasn’t there enough worry in the house without this? And wasn’t the harvest due in less than a fortnight? And shouldn’t he be here to help in the gathering?

 

Just before dawn, Michael and Da, after a breakfast of corn meal and a shared cup of buttermilk, were about to leave for the soup kitchen, when the door swung open and Dermot came in as thought nothing was amiss.

Mam rushed to him and threw her arms around him. “Thank God, you’re all right, son. Sure I was afraid you were dead and lyin’ in some ditch.”

Dermot pulled away. “I’m all right, Mam.”

“And where is it you’ve been all this time?” Da glared at his wayward son “You’ve had you Mam worried sick.”

“I was lookin’ for work. Me and Kevin went all the way to Knockmare.”

Michael studied his brother and his initial anger gave way to a growing sense of unease. He could always tell when Dermot was lying and he was lying now. Dermot was the laziest man he’d ever known. There was no way he, of all people, would walk all the way to Knockmare, more than fifty miles, to find work. And then there was another sure sign he was lying—his brother wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“And there was no work?” Mam asked, brushing the wild, straw-like hair out of Dermot’s eyes.

Dermot pushed her hand away and sat down at the table. “None. I’m hungry. Is there anythin’ to eat?”

Mam slid her small bowl of cornmeal toward him. “Here, son. I saved this for you.”

It was too much for Michael. It had not escaped his notice that lately his Mam always took the smallest portion of food for herself. When he protested, she said it was more important that he and his Da had the food in their bellies so they could do the hard work. She had always been thin, but now she had become gaunt and her one raggedy dress hung from her boney frame.

Michael grabbed Dermot by the collar and yanked him out of his seat. “You’ll not eat your Mam’s food.”

“But I haven’t eaten in—”

Michael shoved him toward the door. “We’re goin’ to work in the soup kitchen, Dermot. While you’ve been off gallivantin’, we’ve had to do your job as well.”

Dermot was about to say he wouldn’t go, but he saw the unaccustomed fury in his big brother’s eyes and wisely decided not to challenge him.

 

Over time, Michael had become aware that the lines at the soup kitchen were growing longer and longer every day. As the hunger spread across the land, more and more families were being evicted from their cottages and turned into refugees in their own land. Increasing numbers of emaciated men, women, and children wandered the countryside in a pitiful effort to find a bit of food and shelter from the weather.

Now, as Michael ladled out bowls of soup, he studied his brother who was washing stacks of bowls in a huge cauldron of boiling water. He’d been back two days, but he’d yet to speak a word to anyone, including Michael. From the moment Dermot walked into the cottage that morning, Michael had been harboring a nagging suspicion that he dared not give life to. But in spite of himself, the questions kept coming. Why did he disappear without a word to anyone? Was it just a coincidence that he went missing the day after Lord Somerville was murdered?

The day after Dermot had disappeared, Michael had gone to find Kevin, hoping that his friend would know of Dermot’s whereabouts. But no one had seen Kevin either. He recalled Dermot’s daft story about him and Kevin going to Knockmare to look for work. A lie for sure. If there was anyone lazier than Dermot, it was big Kevin.

Even more troubling, Michael had overheard the constables talking. They said it was three masked men who had attacked the landlords. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over him. Everything pointed to one inescapable conclusion: Somehow his brother had something to do with Lord Somerville’s murder.

 

That evening, Michael and Dermot were left to clean up and make preparations for the morning’s feeding. Mr. Goodbody had been invited to the manor house for dinner. He wanted to stay and help clean up, but Michael insisted that he go because he wanted to be alone with Dermot. When the two brothers were finished with their chores, Michael shoved Dermot into the tack room and slammed the door behind him.

“Did you have anythin’ to do with Lord Somerville’s death?”

“Don’t be daft.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dermot.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

Michael backhanded his brother, sending him crashing against the tool table. “You’ll not leave here till I know the truth.”

Dermot snatched a scythe off the table and spun toward Michael. “You keep away from me, Michael or…”

“Or what? You’ll kill me, too.”

Dermot stood for a long moment, the scythe raised above his head, glaring at the brother he loved more than anything in the world. Then he dropped the scythe and slumped to the floor, sobbing. “I didn’t know he had a pistol, Michael. I swear to Jasus, I didn’t know. Then, when… that is, after… we just ran and ran. I couldn’t go home... I didn’t know what to do…”

Michael felt a great emptiness inside him. By Dermot’s reckless actions, he had killed himself. Maybe all of them. “Where did you go?” His voice sounded hollow in his ears.

“I lived in the hills. God forgive me, Michael, I stole food from people’s homes.”

“Was Kevin there that night?”

“Aye.”

Michael could barely make himself ask the next question. “Dermot, was it you who fired the pistol?”

Dermot took a deep breath and wiped his eyes on his tattered sleeve. “No. It was Jerry Fowler.”

 

Jerry Fowler, Kevin, and a handful of men were digging in a peat bog when Kevin looked up and saw Michael coming. “Oh, oh. Here comes trouble.”

Fowler looked up and saw Michael jump a fence and come toward them in a determined half-run. Fowler leaned on his spade, watching Michael approach, trying to decide if he should run or fight. “I have no quarrel with you, Michael Ranahan,” he called out.

Michael kept coming. When he was just steps away, Fowler, without warning, took a vicious cut at Michael’s head with the spade. Michael ducked and drove his head into Fowler’s stomach. Both men went down, rolling in the recently dug peat. Fowler tried to use the spade as a weapon, but Michael wrenched it out of his hand and threw it aside.

He straddled Fowler’s chest and, releasing all his pent up fury at Fowler for abusing Moira and putting his brother in mortal peril, rained down blows on him. He might have killed him had Kevin not dragged him off the half-conscious man.

His chest heaving from exhaustion, Michael grabbed Fowler’s collar and started to drag him toward the road.

“What are ya doin’?” Fowler gasped.

“I’m takin’ you to the peelers, you murderin’ bastard.”

“Then you’d better take your brother as well.”

Michael let go his grip and Fowler sagged to the ground.

“What are you sayin’?”

“It was your own brother that hit my arm. Sure I was only goin’ to scare the bejasus out of the man, but Dermot hit my arm and the pistol went off. It was him responsible for killin’ Somerville, not me.”

Michael looked at Kevin. “Is what he says true?”

The young man stared at the ground, unable to look Michael in the eye. “Aye. Dermot was only tryin’ to stop Jerry from firin’, but still…”

Michael stared at the man at his feet. In his rage and frustration at Fowler for visiting this terrible peril on his family, he would have gladly strangled the worthless bastard, but that, he knew, would solve nothing. He didn’t believe Fowler’s story about only wanting to scare the landlords, but it didn’t matter what he thought. What mattered was what the constables thought. One thing was for certain: the landlords wanted blood. If he handed Fowler over to the peelers, all was lost. Fowler was no Billy Moore. He would inform and Dermot would surely hang with him.

Michael yanked the bleeding man to his feet. “Clear out, Fowler.” He shoved the man toward the road. “And don’t ever come back or, by God, I’ll kill you myself.”