Shamrock Green (5 page)

‘Oh, so you're a copper, are you?' Jansis said.

She turned her head and spat drily over her shoulder.

Vaizey said, ‘Get rid of her, Ames, please.'

The burly copper strode into the hall, lifted Jansis up by the elbows as if she were a large flowerpot and placed her clear of the doorway. Before her feet touched down, Jansis was shouting, ‘Raid, it's a raid, Missus 'Culloch. Raid. Raid.'

From the stairs came the cry,
‘Brutes,'
followed by a shower of stale water from a ewer, followed by the ewer itself, then a packet of candles that split when it struck the floor and sent waxy missiles skittering about the officers' feet.

‘Mam, Mameee, it's the peelers,'
Maeve shrieked, and galloped off upstairs with Ames in hot pursuit.

‘She's a child, a kiddie, are you for shootin' her too?' Jansis said.

Vaizey ignored the servant. He gestured again. A second detective, no less muscular than the first, flung open the door to the dining-room, then, finding the room empty, lumbered down the corridor opening one door after another. Under the skirt of his trench-coat he carried a holstered revolver.

Scuffling and shouting came from above. Ames appeared out of the gloom holding Maeve, kicking and squealing, in front of him, his arms about her waist. Sylvie was right behind him, beating at his shoulders with a dustpan. When he reached the hall he flung the girl from him, then, rounding on Sylvie, caught her wrists, broke her grip on the dustpan and swung her down into the hallway too.

‘Good morning to you, ma'am.' Vaizey lifted his hat. ‘I apologise for the intrusion but I'm afraid we have our duty to do and cannot be hindered in doing it.'

‘Duty?' said Jansis. ‘Terrorisin' women and children, do you call that duty?'

Vaizey addressed himself to Sylvie. ‘You know what we're looking for, of course. We have good reason to believe you are hiding illegally imported arms.'

‘Hah!' Sylvie exclaimed. ‘So that's it, is it?'

She helped Maeve to her feet and put the girl behind her. There was the clatter of utensils being tossed about in the kitchen and a draught around her ankles indicated that the door to the yard had been opened. She remembered everything that Fran Hagarty had told her yesterday in the room in the tenement in Endicott Street and she was alarmingly calm, possessed not by a sense of outrage but of engagement. She said, ‘You'll find no weapons in my house.'

She was relieved that Gowry was not at home. Gowry would have admitted the officers straight away and condoned their right to search the premises, would, in other words, have co-operated. She was also relieved that Mr Dolan had toddled off for his daily survey of the harbour, for she knew that weakness was more dangerous than principle when the peelers got on your back.

‘I have no guns here and no truck with men who use them,' Sylvie heard herself say. ‘I'll thank you to inform your bully-boys that if they lay another finger on my daughter I'll complain to the commissioner in person.'

Vaizey said, ‘We're empowered to inspect your premises, you know.'

‘And manhandle young girls?' Sylvie said. ‘Maeve, stop crying.'

‘Brutes!'
Maeve shouted.
‘Bastards!'

‘For a young girl,' Vaizey said, ‘she has a nasty mouth. You' – he pointed at Jansis – ‘take the girl and yourself into that room and wait there until I call you.'

‘I will not be taking orders from—'

‘Do as he says, Jansis,' Sylvie told her. ‘I'll deal with these people.'

Muttering under her breath the servant led Maeve into the sitting-room and closed the door. Sylvie glanced along the shiny river of linoleum into the kitchen. There were pans on the floor, a bucket, a broom and a mop. Through the open door at the back she could make out a detective poking about in the hen-run.

‘I hope he's not interfering with my chooks,' Sylvie said.

‘Chooks?' said Vaizey.

‘Chickens,' Sylvie said. ‘My hens.'

‘He's just doing his job. He won't harm your – chooks.'

Vaizey took her by the elbow. She was tempted to yank her arm away but, capitulating, let him guide her to the alcove under the stairs.

‘Look' – Vaizey's breath smelled of tobacco – ‘it gives me no great pleasure to have to descend on you in this manner, Mrs McCulloch, but we've received a report that a crate of rifles from the landing at Howth is hidden here.'

‘Do I look like a gun-runner to you?' Sylvie said. ‘Well, do I?'

‘Where's your husband?'

‘Out earning an honest living.'

‘He drives for Flanagan's Motor Company, does he not?'

‘Why ask me questions when you already know the answers?'

‘How many resident boarders do you have at present?'

She told him, ‘Two.'

He nodded. ‘Have any strangers stayed here this past weekend?'

‘No strangers, only three salesmen who've stayed here often enough.'

‘I'll be needing their names.'

‘They're written in the guest-book,' Sylvie said. ‘I'll get it for you.'

‘No.' He touched her elbow again. ‘Wait.'

She could hear the creak of floorboards as Ames searched the upper floors. She was unsure exactly what branch of authority the men represented. Fran would know. Fran would have them labelled.

‘We know what your husband is and what he does,' Vaizey said.

‘Then you'll know he's no nationalist.'

‘His father is.'

‘We see little enough of Daniel McCulloch here, thank God,' Sylvie said. ‘When Gowry and he get together all they do is squabble.'

‘Still, blood
is
thicker than water.'

‘Not in this house it's not,' Sylvie told him.

‘Have you ever met a man called Hagarty?'

‘I don't think so,' Sylvie said. ‘I'd have to check my guest-book to be sure.'

‘You're a Scot, Mrs McCulloch, aren't you?'

‘Aye, of course I am.'

‘It'll hardly be your fight then.'

‘My fight? What are you talking about?'

‘It would be a sin to lose everything for a cause that doesn't concern you.'

‘Is that, by any chance, a threat?'

He was standing close to her, knee brushing her apron. He was not tall enough to have to bend his head to fit into the triangular space beneath the stairs.

He said, ‘My own mother, God rest her soul, was Scottish. She came from Ayrshire originally.'

‘Did she really?' said Sylvie flatly.

‘Francis Hagarty? Are you sure you've never met him?'

‘I told you, not to my knowledge.'

‘What about Charles McCulloch and Eamon Trotter?'

‘Yes, they drink here now and then when my husband is out of town.' Sylvie paused. ‘Who is this man, this Hagarty you're looking for?'

‘We're not looking for him,' Vaizey said. ‘We know where he lives.'

‘Ah,' Sylvie said. ‘So it's his connections you're after. Well, there are no rebel connections in this house, and no guns.'

‘The guns
were
here, were they not?'

‘No, they were not.'

‘Sunday night, when you were asleep, perhaps Charlie McCulloch—'

‘I'm a very light sleeper,' Sylvie said.

Vaizey was clearly enjoying himself. Sylvie wondered what sort of things a man in his position might do in the name of the law.

‘We can close you down, you know,' he said, smiling.

‘Is that a threat?' Sylvie said.

‘It's a warning,' Vaizey said. ‘I've nothing against you personally.'

‘Then why are your bully-boys raking through my cupboards?'

‘Mrs McCulloch,' Vaizey said, ‘you have an enemy.'

‘An enemy? Who?'

‘Anonymous,' Vaizey said. ‘No name given.'

‘You mean somebody
told
you there were guns in my house?'

He drew her closer. ‘It would be wise not to let your father-in-law and his cronies drink here for a while. I take it you
can
bar your door to them.'

‘The Shamrock is my property. I can do as I like here.'

‘Better safe than sorry, Mrs McCulloch, especially in troubled times.'

‘Who was it? Who told you there were guns in my house?'

‘Some malicious trouble-maker too cowardly to give his name,' Vaizey said. ‘Trouble-makers are ten for the penny in Dublin right now.'

‘Are you telling me someone has it in for me?'

‘For you, or your husband,' Vaizey told her. ‘I haven't the foggiest idea who the person is, Mrs McCulloch, but I'm keen to find out.'

‘Not as keen as I am,' Sylvie said.

They were still tucked under the stairs, still intimate and conspiratorial. He seemed a far cry from the usual broad-shouldered, dignified gentlemen of leisure whom Dublin Castle dressed in plain clothes in the fond belief that it would make them any less obviously policemen. There was an edge to him, a rough sexual edge that she found both exciting and repulsive. She realised with a jolt that he might even be the political arm of the Metropolitan and was pleased to think she had come so far so quickly, far enough to constitute a threat.

‘If you do happen to find out…' Vaizey shrugged.

Sylvie lowered her voice. ‘I suppose you'd like me to tell you?'

‘I would,' he said. ‘Indeed I would.'

‘Don't you usually pay your informers?'

‘Oh, now, I'm not asking you to inform,' Vaizey said. ‘Fact is, we don't have to pay our informers. Not everyone in Ireland is a nationalist.'

‘Oh, I know
that,
' said Sylvie. ‘My husband isn't.'

‘And there are thousands, hundreds of thousands like him.'

‘So,' Sylvie said carefully, ‘if I do happen to find out what's become of those stray crates you wouldn't be interested?'

‘I didn't say I wouldn't be interested,' Vaizey told her. ‘I just said I'm not prepared to pay for the information.'

They had been standing as close as lovers and when the shadow fell across them Vaizey stepped back quickly. He turned, half tripping, to find Ames lurking in the hall behind him.

‘Well, Boris,' Vaizey snapped, ‘did you find anything?'

‘Nothin', sir, not one damn thing.'

‘Where's Rogers?'

‘Out'n the back.'

‘Fetch him,' Vaizey said. ‘We're leaving. There's nothing here. It was just another wild-goose chase.'

He walked out of the alcove, glanced up the staircase then at the closed door of the parlour. There was no sound from within, though Maeve and Jansis would no doubt have their ears plastered to the woodwork.

Vaizey went to the street door and opened it.

Down at the kitchen end of the hallway Sylvie heard Ames's coarse shout, ‘Wally, Wally, will you be for comin' now. Boss says we're leavin'.'

Moving swiftly she went after the man and caught his arm.

‘Who are you?' Sylvie said. ‘At least tell me your name.'

‘You've no need to know my name.'

‘If I don't know your name how can I get in touch with you?'

‘In touch?'

‘If some interesting bit of information comes my way.'

He cocked his head, hesitated, then said, ‘You'll find me at the Castle.'

‘And the name, your name?'

‘Vaizey,' he said.

‘What are you – a sergeant?'

‘Inspector.'

The officers lumbered past her into Sperryhead Road. They exchanged a few words with Vaizey then all three turned towards the docks.

From the doorstep Sylvie watched them go, her heart in her mouth. Neighbours were out in fair number, innocently beating carpets or pretending to scrub doorsteps. Sylvie stepped on to the pavement and looked left. She watched the detectives pass the row of terraced cottages further down the street.

Honeysuckle and clematis and waves of ivy spilled over the railings of the front gardens. Beyond the cottages, before the drab walls of the warehouses closed in again, Sperryhead Road was joined by Parish Lane. Out of the lane came Mr Dolan. He walked slowly, eyes down. He wore a thick tweed jacket and a woollen cardigan, for he felt the cold even on warm days. He had his little stick with him, a cane that seemed too slender and jaunty for a man of his years. He didn't see the officers at first and was almost abreast of them before he lifted his head, stopped dead in his tracks and flopped against the ivy-clad railings.

The detectives closed around him. Sylvie could no longer see the old man, only the broad backs of the detectives, raincoats tight across their shoulders and Vaizey, in half profile, smiling his thin, unfriendly smile. Leaning on brooms or raised up from their knees on the doorsteps, the neighbours watched too.

Ames's laughter boomed out. Vaizey patted Mr Dolan's shoulder, then the officers left, walking fast, three in line, around the corner and out of sight.

Mr Dolan leaned on the ivy, hand to his chest, but when, looking up and squinting, he spied Sylvie on the pavement, he gave himself a shake, straightened his cap and with the stick hung on his forearm came shambling on up the Sperryhead Road towards her as if nothing had happened.

Sylvie stepped back indoors. ‘You can come out now, girls. They've gone.'

Maeve and Jansis burst out of the sitting-room into the hallway.

‘Were they lookin' for you-know-what?' said Maeve, breathlessly.

‘They were,' Sylvie said, ‘but they didn't find anything.'

‘Thanks to my clever daddy,' Maeve said.

Sylvie nodded. ‘Yes, thanks to your dear old dad.'

*   *   *

Orange peel, apple cores and cigarette butts littered the floor under the seats. Gowry, tunic off and sleeves rolled up, had to dig for the litter with the back of the brush or kneel and scoop out the mess with his bare hands. Once women had been employed to do the cleaning and he would have been able to walk over to the kiosk behind the office block, turn his keys and his petrol log over to Frank Roddeny, the late-shift manager, and be on his way home with a pocketful of tips and two or three little bags of sweets to keep Maeve happy.