The Blood Dimmed Tide (13 page)

My attention was snagged by a long diamond-shaped box sitting on a table in the shadows. Sweat trickled down my spine. I felt disbelief give way to shock as I approached the table. It was a closed coffin of pale pinewood. I ran my fingers along the side and felt something drip, sticky, like congealing blood. The lid hung slightly ajar. I barely pressed it and it fell away, hitting the floor with a crash that made Gonne spin round. I stared into the coffin’s dark cavity. The rough shape of a uniformed soldier lay crammed within its narrow confines. Before I had time to examine further, Gonne was at my side.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr Adams,’ she said. ‘The corpse is not real, but the paint is quite fresh.’ She flashed a smooth smile and lifted a lamp to show where the words ‘British Empire’
had been daubed on the sides. My fingers had smudged some of the lettering.

‘What sort of prank is this?’ I asked.

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth grew taut. ‘This is not a prank. We are arranging a mock funeral for the British Empire. This is another element of our resistance. A little piece of theatre to drum up support for our cause.’

In the lamplight, I saw that the body was an old uniform stuffed with straw. The coffin itself looked as though it had endured a long journey. A dank smell of salt rose from the weathered wood.

‘It’s a pauper’s coffin,’ said Gonne. She rubbed the side with the flat of her hand. ‘You can tell from the pinewood.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘The sea.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘It was washed ashore a few nights ago.’

‘Aren’t you curious as to how it got there?’

There was a slight wrinkling on her elegant brow. ‘The sea washes up all sorts of debris.’ She shrugged.

‘Two coffins washed ashore seems more than a macabre coincidence. I think it would be a good idea to find out where exactly it came from.’

‘And how do you propose we do that? Advertise in the
Sligo Chronicle
for its rightful owner to step forward. In the first place no right-thinking corpse would want to claim a pauper’s coffin.’

The lips of her firm mouth were pursed in scorn. Her voice had grown tense. I sensed her dilemma. Part of her wanted to be a good hostess, but my constant questioning was irritating the rest of her. She went back to the stove and busied herself with preparing tea for her female coven.

‘Thank you for your visit, Mr Adams,’ she said. ‘At least now I know what sort of mission you are on. Before you go, promise to do me one thing.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I want you to send Willie a telegram. Tell him he should be here in Ireland, rather than hiding in London.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s a free Irishman. Free in spirit and imagination, while the rest of his compatriots labour in chains. This country needs its poets and academics. It needs its core of wise men and women to form the political movement that will save us from ruin and civil war.’

‘I’m beginning to agree with you. By the way, I promise that all I have seen and heard here tonight will be locked away in my confidence.’

She shook my hand and gave it a little push. ‘Very good, Mr Adams. Your horse and rider await you.’

12

Two of Swords

THE crash of a hidden wave sent me stumbling backwards, soaking my feet and bringing me to my senses. Cold drops of water fell on my face and down my neck as Clarissa removed the hood. We had returned to the moonlit strand at Lissadell. The roar of perpetually charging waves surrounded us, and my exposed eyes wept in the salty, biting wind.

‘This is the most beautiful piece of no-man’s-land in all of Ireland,’ shouted Clarissa, retreating from the water’s edge. ‘Only ghosts and seagulls haunt it.’

‘I don’t doubt it, but I should leave. Denver might be looking for me.’

Since dismounting from the horse, I had felt curiously light, as though my spirit was still riding while my body remained motionless. I tottered slightly, overcome with the sensation that the sand was moving, hurtling me towards a dangerous brink. I grew worried that one of my fainting fits was about to strike.

‘How did you become a ghost-catcher?’ asked Clarissa suddenly.

I had been asking myself the same question since arriving in Sligo. ‘I wanted to be a doctor, but grew tired of examining dying bodies,’ I explained. ‘I became secretary to the Golden Dawn and increasingly the spiritual world drew me in. I had some strange occult experiences and now I find myself hunting the ghost of a dead girl on a strange shore.’

‘I was Rosemary’s comrade. And her friend. What questions do you need to ask?’

Intuition warned me I should be on my way, but her invitation seemed too promising to ignore. We pulled back further from the breaking surf and found a quiet spot in the shelter of a sand dune. Clarissa’s face was half-hidden by the high collars of her coat.

‘Which of the men at the barracks was Rosemary seeing?’

‘How do you know she was seeing anyone?’

‘I’m told she danced with every man in the parish. There were twelve soldiers stationed up there. She must have danced with at least one of them.’

She raised her pointed chin in anger.

‘Rosemary was too busy for men, but that didn’t stop them from chasing her.’

‘I heard she was more than happy to respond to their advances.’

‘Why don’t you try searching for her murderer instead of poking around in her private life?’

‘The last time you were together what did you talk about?’

‘I can’t answer that question.’

‘Because you’re not allowed to?’

She stepped away, afraid of confiding a secret. I felt a twinge of sympathy. I too was a member of a clandestine society, and understood how difficult it was not being allowed to reveal secrets.

‘Why did Rosemary wade out into the bays along this coast? Was she trying to drown herself?’

She snorted. ‘She was collecting shells for our art classes.’

‘Even at night?’

‘She took a lamp. We often went in pairs.’

‘In case one got into trouble?’

‘Of course. Especially at night.’

‘What about the night she died?’

‘We were supposed to meet up at Raghly Harbour. When I got to the pier there was no sign of Rosemary, but I saw a group of fishermen loading barrels onto a horse and cart. A man was watching over them, writing in a big ledger. He was wearing some sort of uniform, like a soldier or sailor.’

‘Smugglers?’

‘Who knows? This part of the coast is famous for them.’

‘What was the weather like that night?’

‘Moonless. With patches of thick fog. Perfect conditions for smuggling. Is that a part of your investigation now?’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘Why? I thought you were only interested in the invisible world.’

‘I’m dedicated to finding Rosemary’s murderer, and I doubt that he’s invisible.’

‘This place is smothered with murderers,’ she replied. ‘They hide in their grand mansions and behind the uniforms of the Royal Irish Constabulary.’ I glimpsed a flash of contempt in her eyes but her voice maintained its amiable tone. ‘By the way, you can have these back now.’ She handed me Rosemary’s letter and a small loosely tied brown parcel. ‘I removed them from your coat before you mounted the horse.’ She watched as I stuffed them into an inner pocket. ‘I thought the parcel contained some sort of poison or explosive chemical. However, Maud says it is edible hashish. A drug used by poets to summon visions. She told me Mr Yeats takes it so he can watch the leopards play on the moon.’

‘I use it for purely medical reasons,’ I said quickly. ‘To fight off fainting fits.’

‘Well it looks and smells disgusting.’ She stepped towards me. ‘Tell me, Mr Adams, what sort of creatures do you look for on the moon?’ She stared at me with an insolent smile, watching closely how I took this carefully administered dose of indignity.

I tried to answer the question, but the proximity of her slender body left me groping for an answer. The moon’s luminous face seemed to grow closer, sharpening her inquisitive features.

‘Why aren’t you looking at me? You’ve avoided looking at me all night.’

I hesitated at telling her the truth, that I had been imagining what the contours of her body looked like during the entire blind horse ride through forests and along surf-pounded beaches, absorbing every physical movement of her lithe body with the concentrated avarice of a man finding himself unexpectedly in the middle of a room full of treasure.

‘I want you to stop looking for invisible things like ghosts and creatures on the moon. I want you to imagine me. Look at my face. Remember my features.’

The wind carried the churn of the distant surf in snatches. I wondered had I heard her correctly.

‘You don’t see me.’ She looked at me sadly, as one looks at the mad or afflicted. ‘Tell me the colour of my eyes.’

‘I’m not sure,’ I mumbled.

The top buttons of her mannish-looking coat had come undone. I could see the tender boundary of skin between where her hair ended and her dress began. A few drops of sea spray glistened on her slender collarbone. Behind her, the tabular shape of Ben Bulben was the deepest possible shade of violet. Its darkness seemed immune to the silver tint of the moon and the misty light of the sea. A mysterious darkness to be penetrated. I thought of how far I was from London, and how different and constrained city life was to this strange territory of ghosts and gunmen and alluring women dressed in disguises. A whole minute passed before either of us said anything. From the horse came a low jingle, and a glint of metal. Along the shore, wraith-like shapes dissolved in the sea-spray.

‘My eyes are green as the sea,’ she said. ‘Now, I want you to look for a birth-mark on my shoulder.’

The moon glided through a corona of cloud. Its light rippled across the waves and surged across her face in a silver stream. She struck a pose and smiled coquettishly. I stepped backwards.

Her voice hardened. ‘These are instructions from Maud Gonne,’ she said, pressing herself closer to me. ‘Your continued freedom in this country will depend upon on them.’ Her dark hair fell around her cheeks, which were slightly flushed with anger.

‘I don’t understand why my life might be dependent upon a birthmark.’

‘You’re so dense.’ The coldness of her response was like a blow to my face. ‘If the police find out you were with the Daughters of Erin tonight, your presence in this country will no longer be tolerated. They’ll throw you onto the next boat, or worse, lock you up in their darkest cell. If they interrogate you, tell them you spent the evening with me on this beach. I have a strawberry shaped birthmark on my left shoulder. You tried to take off my blouse but I scratched your face and ran off.’

I glanced into her eyes, but felt overwhelmed, as though I had stepped up to a treacherous brink. Like the face of every other woman I had stared at, her features became a mirror for looking inwardly at myself. I saw ghosts of my own vanity and anxiety, arrogance and lust, all springing from the bewitching light of her sea-green eyes.

‘What are you searching for?’ she asked.

At that moment, the moon disappeared behind a cloud and her face was hooded in darkness.

‘Don’t you know it’s a waste of time trying to prove the existence of something that cannot be seen or touched?’ Her voice floated in the night. ‘Trust only what your fingers tell you is real.’ Her body, tense and supple, brushed against mine.

I lifted my hands and felt the sharp point of her chin. My fingers kept moving, committing to memory the curve of her lips, the snub of her nose, the soft lines of her eyelids. I saw her face, but this time in the world of the imagination. My fingers burned with desire. I knew that as soon as the moon reappeared the picture in my mind would disappear and my fingers lose their sensitive feeling. My hand dropped to her neck and slender shoulders. Immediately, her body tightened and a sharp set of fingernails raked the skin of my cheek.

The moon returned. The patch of sand in front of me lay empty. She had jumped onto her horse.

‘I came to Sligo to help,’ I told her. ‘I’m not your enemy.’

‘The person who summoned you is beyond helping,’ she replied.

‘That is true. Will you contact me again?’

‘It depends. Perhaps the Daughters of Erin will need help from you in the future.’ She swung her horse around. ‘Don’t take my rebuke personally. I liked it when you touched my face.’

‘I haven’t forgiven you for pick-pocketing me,’ I shouted, but already her horse was galloping off across the beach and into the breaking surf.

I walked back to my accommodation, deep in thought. I found myself in a situation for which few could adequately prepare themselves. Little of what I had learned in my studies, secular or occult, or from my own upbringing and family, was of any use. I certainly did not feel like a ghost-catcher, or a sorcerer, or a spy, or proficient in any role requiring subterfuge and guile. I was just the same person as ever. A confused young Englishman, valiantly searching for evidence that there might be an afterlife, who now found himself straggling after the ghost of a dead woman and meddling in the dark tinderbox of Irish politics.

In the doorway of the gatehouse, a man stood smoking a cigarette. With surprise, I found myself staring into Denver’s interrogating eyes. He frowned without speaking, devoid of the casual ease which he usually emanated. His eyes sparked with a dangerous light as though he was about to lash out in anger.

‘I thought you’d be in your bed after such a tiring day,’ he said. His jaw moved slightly and his neck muscles strained. His nose wrinkled. ‘Is that you?’ He was talking about the smell. My clothes reeked of horse sweat.

‘I was in the stables. Checking on the horses.’

He pushed his belligerent unblinking face into mine.

‘Where’s Clarissa?’

I told him I had no idea where she was.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve already told you. I’ve just returned from the stables.’

‘That’s right. You reek of horses.’

‘Why do you ask? Is she missing?’

‘I don’t know. All I know is that I no longer care what happens to her.’ Now it was his turn to lie. He seemed to struggle with something inside himself. To regain control he pulled a newspaper from inside his coat and thrust it into my hands like a baton.

‘Have you read the news?’ he said with a smirk. He was slowly regaining his superior manner.

‘Is this what you’ve been waiting in the dark to show me?’

A small smile tugged at his lips. ‘Some newspapers will stop at nothing to widen their circulation. Read it and see.’

It was the previous day’s edition of
The London Times
. The front page was dominated by stories about the aftermath of the Bolshevik uprising in Russia and the progress of British troops in France. On the third page, my eye caught the headline: ‘Mr Yeats’ Ghost-catcher Arrives in Sligo under a Magical Obligation’.
The article boasted an exclusive interview with myself, which I deduced had been cobbled together from scraps of conversation overheard on the mail boat to Sligo. It also carried a misleading explanation of occultism and a scandalous history of the Golden Dawn. I felt a rising heat colour my cheeks as I read on.

‘Expressing contempt for Christian justice and the efforts of His Majesty’s police force in Ireland, Mr Adams has declared he intends to secure a full confession from the still-at-large murderer by employing his paranormal powers. However, in spite of his magical gifts, he spent most of the sea journey to Sligo languishing with sickness, and appeared so queerly dazed as to have little cognizance of his surroundings or company.’

‘You should avoid any further publicity in this matter,’ warned Denver.

‘And how do you suggest I manage that?’

He gave me a cold stare. ‘By dropping your investigation. Completely. You’re attracting trouble the way a magnet attracts iron filings.’

‘You pay me such compliments.’

‘Only because you have such special talents.’ He stepped backwards revealing a broken door. ‘While you were away, your bedroom was burgled.’

‘Did you see who it was?’

He grew hesitant. ‘Yes.’ A pained look fell over his features. ‘I followed Clarissa after you left the dance. I thought there might be something going on between the two of you. I saw the way she looked at you in the conservatory. She came here and forced her way through the front door.’