Ashton Park (58 page)

“What are you grinning about?” she demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Had an easy day of it, did you?”

“Why, I had to fly to Manchester and York and back. I wasn’t exactly snoozing in the back of the hangar.”

“So that’s what you do on slow days, is it?”

“There are no slow days, love.”

She rocked Ramsay in her arms but his crying only grew louder. “And none here at the manor either. Especially when there’s villainy about.”

Ben flopped in his favorite chair and held out his arms for his son. “Villainy?”

She promptly deposited the screaming child in Ben’s arms. “What else would you call it when you men skulk around and keep secrets from your wives?”

“What secrets?” asked Ben.

The baby looked at him, put his hand to his father’s face, and immediately stopped crying. This seemed to upset Victoria more than the crying and the villainy of the husbands of Ashton Park put together.

“Look at that!” she exploded. “Everything’s against me today!”

Ramsay laughed as Ben made faces. “What’s happened?”

Victoria glared at him. “What hasn’t happened? Ramsay’s off and Mrs. Longstaff’s food’s been off and then we’re told we can’t pop over to Belfast to fetch Cath’s things and put the house up for sale. We’ve been making plans for weeks and—just like that!” She snapped her fingers. “Belfast is too dangerous, he says.”

“Who says?”

“Papa. Who else. Him and the High King of Ireland, Lord Edward himself.”

“Eddie was never in Ireland.”

Her green eyes threw sparks. “No. That was Robbie, wasn’t it? And where is Robbie?”

“Army business.”

“Army business. Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“You
do
know. All you men know. Do you take your women for fools? We eat together and walk together while you’re up there flying in the clouds. We talk to each other and we know that every one of you men know where Robbie is and you know why we’re not going to Belfast.”

Ben kissed Ramsay who giggled. “Well, you said it yourself, didn’t you? It’s too dangerous.”

“I didn’t say it. Papa did. People shop in Belfast. Go to church. Take walks in the park. It’s not dangerous for them.”

“Ireland’s caught up in a civil war, Vic, and it’s a nasty one. Best you wait out this jaunt to Belfast a bit.”

She pointed her finger at her husband with a sudden sharp movement. “You see? You’re all in on it. The only woman who isn’t frustrated is Shannon and that tells me she knows something the rest of us ladies don’t. Why is Belfast dangerous for the likes of us? We aren’t Irish. We don’t live there. We’re not on one side or the other. The IRA don’t drive down streets spraying bullets randomly. They choose targets. And we’re not targets.”

The words came out, surprising Ben himself and his wife, as he bounced Ramsay in his lap. “Yes. You are.”

Victoria stopped her rant and stared at him, strands of auburn hair dangling over her face. The blaze died in her eyes. “What?”

Ben puffed his cheeks and blew out his breath. He looked at his laughing son. “There’s nothing for it now, Ram,” he said to him. “The lads’ll have me for dinner, spit and roasted, but there you are. They’re not married to Victoria Danforth.” He looked at her. “Here it is then—it was Jack O’Casey killed Albert. Admitted to it. Swore he’d come after the whole Danforth family, all the wives and husbands and children—”

Victoria’s mouth opened. “Why…what…he wouldn’t dare—”

“And children, Vic. And
children
.” He kept his eyes steady as she stopped arguing and fear found its way into her face and body. “O’Casey has his own gang of gunmen. They’ve run afoul of both the IRA and the IRA’s enemies. But he wants us. Because Robbie captured him a few years back and almost killed him for his beating of Shannon. Oh, yes. It was her O’Casey stripped of hair and dignity and left tied and bleeding to a lamppost in Dublin. Robbie could have shot him but gave him over to rot in prison instead. Until the treaty set him free. Now he’s running amok in Ireland. Murdering Albert was the opening shot in his war against us.”

Victoria fell into a chair, still staring at him. “Robbie’s gone after him.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re afraid gunmen will cross over to Liverpool and come to Ashton Park.”

“One already tried. The police caught him in Belfast and found a list he’d hidden in his shoe. All our names. All our children’s names.”

“Oh, dear Lord.”

“We shall have to tell all of the ladies now. The idea was to spare you, Vic. To keep the fear from you. From mum.”

“I…I’m sorry.”

Ben kissed Ramsay and got up and carried him to his mother where he happily snuggled against her chest. He went to the window that was already dark with night. He looked at nothing for a moment. Then leaned against the window frame.

“But I’ll tell you what I think, love. I think that everything O’Casey’s done has nothing at all to do with his lot coming after us.”

“What, then?”

He turned and their eyes met.

“It has everything to do with getting Robbie to come after him. To get Robbie back to Ireland. It’s your brother he wants. And now he’s got him where he wants him, doesn’t he?”

“They’re in there. They’re all in there.” Mickey squatted down behind the bushes next to Robbie, revolver in his hand.

It was still dark, at least an hour before sunrise. Morning damp beaded Robbie’s beard and mustache. “How do you know?”

“Our informer’s always been good as gold. And so he should be, for that’s the coin we pay him in. I got a glimpse myself through one of the windows of the farmhouse—I counted five or six. There’s supposed to be no more than seven of the Crew altogether.”

“Right.” Robbie peered through the branches. “I see they’ve lit the lamps. Let’s get on with it.”

“Are you going in the back?”

“No. You can, if you like. I’m going in the front door.”

“That’s risky.”

“Anything we do from now on is risky.”

“Wait.” Mickey gripped Robbie’s arm. “There’s the devil himself.”

Robbie looked. Two men were standing at the front door and smoking cigarettes. One of them was O’Casey—leaner, a longer beard and longer hair, a limp when he moved, but Robbie knew it was him. The flare when he drew in on the cigarette showed his eyes. The same eyes.

“I’m going,” Robbie whispered.

“I’m right behind you.”

They crept out from behind the bushes and kept out of the two men’s line of sight, crouching and moving swiftly in the blackness, guns ready. When O’Casey’s eyes swung to him Robbie was already running up and pointing the revolver at his head.

“Good morning, Jack,” he said.

O’Casey’s man tried to lift his rifle but Mickey spoke up. “Through what’s left of your heart, mate, if you bring it up another inch.”

O’Casey kept smoking. “Major Robbie Danforth. What are your intentions?”

“You won’t be going to prison this time.”

“No, I don’t think I will either.”

Men emerged all around them with rifles pointed at Robbie and Mickey.

O’Casey smiled. “We spotted you an hour ago lurking in the bush. Just a chance glance, but there you are. I thought it best to let you come out in the open rather than waste men going after you. I know how mad you can be.” He blew out a mouthful of smoke. “I told the lads you’d come right to us.”

Robbie didn’t flinch, his Webley still on O’Casey. “I can kill you before one of them shoots.”

“Aye. You could. If you were me. But you’re too much like our late lamented Michael Collins. Too, too British. Too sporting. Fair play. Marquess of Queensberry rules—no hitting below the belt. You’ll not shoot me because I have no gun. You wouldn’t shoot me in the car and you’ll not shoot me here.” O’Casey barked a laugh. “That’s how you’ll lose your Empire, Danforth. And your life.” He drew on his cigarette and his face glowed white. “Kill them both.”

The crash of gunfire. Robbie winced. Glanced at Mickey. Saw the shocked look on his friend’s face.

They both looked at O’Casey’s men falling to the ground dead.

O’Casey stared at Robbie. The cigarette fell from his fingers, a spark in the blackness. He pitched forward on his face.

A group of men with Thompson submachine guns walked slowly up. They prodded the bodies with the toes of their boots. One man with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache came out of the dark and approached Robbie.

“We were fairly certain if we hitched our wagon to your horse you’d eventually take us to O’Casey.” He turned his head to the others. “Check the house and the trees.” Then he looked back at Robbie. “I should kill you too. We’re old enemies we are, the English and the Irish. But you led us to the beast. And he was the greater enemy. You’re a foe. But he betrayed his people. He put a knife to Ireland’s back when we thought he was one of us. He shamed Ireland. Cigarette?”

Robbie shook his head. The man lifted an eyebrow to Mickey.

“Oh, I will—thank you, I will,” said Mickey quickly.

He put the cigarette between his lips and the man lit it with a lighter from his pocket.

“I’m Brynn O’Shea,” the man said. “Major in the Irish Republican Army. Thank you for your help in setting Ireland free. Now be off. Take ship back to England. None will lift a hand against you. Go now. If we meet again I pray the guns’ll be done with.”

“What about our revolvers?” asked Robbie.

“It’s wild country between here and Dublin harbor. Keep them on you and stay sharp.”

Robbie and Mickey began to move away as the east brightened.

“Danforth.”

Robbie stopped and looked back.

“I was at the post office when they brought you in during the Easter rising in 1916. I know your father’s always been for Irish independence. And I once courted Shannon myself.” A small smile came to O’Shea’s face. “Oh, yes. A fine woman. I swore I’d kill O’Casey for what he did if I ever got my hands on him. Now I have. Go. And tell her to think gently of Brynn O’Shea if I ever come to mind.”

Robbie nodded. “I will.”

He and Mickey walked off through a patch of tall grass, waded a stream, crossed another field, and climbed a stone fence before reaching their motorcar. They looked at each other once they were in their seats. Mickey shook his head. Robbie started the engine and they drove in the direction of Dublin. Within five minutes the sun was up and in their eyes.

Catherine was told Robbie was back in England and had been picked up by Harrison in Liverpool. She wrapped herself in a warm cloak and went down to her husband’s grave and stood there for the longest time. Finally she knelt. She heard the car when it pulled up in front of the manor. She imagined Shannon rushing to him and the two of them holding each other and kissing. She saw him hugging their mother and shaking father’s hand. Ben would be there. And Edward and Michael and Kipp. He would greet them all.

Then came the footsteps. She heard them on the stone path and on the wet winter grass. They stopped.

She didn’t look up. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“By your hand?”

“I found him. But the IRA followed me. It’s they who killed him.”