Chapter 16 #2
“‘Mam died that night. In the morning, Maeve said, “No priest will be coming to this place to bless her. So, we’ll pray over your mother, and you’ll make your goodbyes. The soldiers will take her away to lie in a pauper’s grave.
” One woman wrapped Mam’s blanket around her and closed it with loose stitches, folding one end to expose her face.
The other women formed a circle, holding our hands, as Lizzie prayed the Hail Mary.
She tucked sprigs of yellow furze and purple heather into her shroud.
We kissed Mam’s still, white face for the last time before they stitched the blanket closed.
Aggie, who had a kind and gentle way about her, led me away and brewed some tea.
“Maeve went off to report the death, and Lizzie slipped away, too. Then Maeve returned with soldiers and a cart, and they drove Mam across the Curragh. I watched her go until she disappeared over the hill. Maeve puffed on her pipe and looked at me. “From here on, your sister will do more than the washing. If you want to stay, that is. We wrens work to feather our nest, share one, share all. We can’t be caring for those who don’t bring in a shilling or two each week.
You’re a little young now, but you’ll be old enough in a year or two. ”
“‘Lizzie appeared, hands on her hips and chin high. “That she will not, Maeve O’Connor. That my Brigid will never do.” We packed one basket and left the rest of our poor things as payment for our stay.
I held one handle, Lizzie took the other, and we were off.
“Where are we heading, Lizzie?” I asked.
“Is it the workhouse at Naas for us, at last?” My sister smiled. “Never.”
“‘When we crested the hill, there he was, sitting on the coachman’s bench, blazing scarlet, his black boots shining like dark mirrors. Lizzie set the basket down and shaded her eyes. The officer gave the horse a touch of the whip and drove the carriage to where we waited.
“‘I looked at my sister. She said, “Peter is taking us to Newbridge and a room of our own. Captain FitzGerald will look after us now.” And so we left with him.’” Tennant looked up from the notebook.
“Mother of God,” O’Malley whispered, stunned. “He knew the girl of old.”
“There are twenty pages more, but we’ve read enough.” He looked at the clock. “FitzGerald should be at the hospital now. Paddy, ask the duty sergeant to have two officers ready and waiting in five minutes. And flag a four-wheeler while I inform Sir Richard.”
The constables and O’Malley had assembled by the time Tennant came down. “The commissioner has ordered Major FitzGerald’s arrest.” He looked at his watch. “He’ll be at the hospital by now. Let’s go.”
“Inspector Tennant,” Sir Lionel called, pushing through the lobby doors. “Inspector, I have a name for you. Simon Flood is your man.”
“And I have a name for you, Sir Lionel.”
O’Malley peered out the cab window as it swung into the curve of the Old Sanctuary road. “Still following in his hansom,” the sergeant said. “Our comedian was right about the major all along. Shocked, he was, despite his jokes.”
“Sir Lionel had better be as good as his word and stay out of our way,” Tennant said as the cab rolled to a stop in front of Westminster Hospital.
The doctor had expected Major FitzGerald at noon, but it was nearly one, and he hadn’t appeared.
Tennant asked Sir Lionel, “Do you know FitzGerald’s address in town?”
“He has a house on Kensington Road, on the corner of Prince’s Gate.”
“Get in the carriage with us and point it out. Constables, follow in Sir Lionel’s cab.
When they arrived, FitzGerald’s butler informed them that the major was not at home.
Tennant showed the man his warrant card. “Where is he?”
“Well …” The butler adjusted his tie nervously.
“Listen carefully and answer my questions truthfully, or you risk a charge as an accessory to capital crimes. Where is Major FitzGerald?”
The butler swallowed hard. “The major packed a carpetbag and left by hansom cab.”
“What happened to make him pack up and leave?”
“Something in his morning post. As I poured a second cup of tea, he uttered an oath, crumpled the letter, and ran out of the house. Through the window, I saw him exit the carriage house minutes later. “Staggered out is a better word.”
“Take a look,” Tennant told one of the constables. “What did the major do then?”
“He asked me to hail a cab. Then he packed a carpetbag and left. He instructed the cabbie to bring him to Charing Cross Station.”
“Charing Cross,” O’Malley said. “Heading for Dover, like as not.”
Tennant asked, “What time did the major leave?”
“Some time before noon. He had a late start this morning.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Ah … a bowler, dark gray Chesterfield overcoat.”
“Paddy, take that down. Add Arrest Major Peter FitzGerald. Tall, dark-haired, carrying a carpetbag.”
“Don’t forget the scar on his cheek,” Sir Lionel said.
“Thank you.” Tennant sent the second constable to the telegraph office on Pall Mall with orders to send it to Dover, Portsmouth, Southampton, Bristol, and Liverpool.
“Sir?” A flushed copper had returned from the carriage house. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a dead bloke inside.”
They rounded the house and entered the stables through its flung-open doors. Just inside lay the body of a man with a bayonet driven into his throat, a rifle at his side. His staring, milky eyes shaded to light blue at the edges of the irises.
“Simon Flood,” Dermott said. “The Pale Assassin, by the color of those eyes.”
“Someone’s turned the tables on him.” O’Malley rounded the body. “There’s something …” He bent over the corpse. “It looks like a letter folded into his hand.”
“Retrieve it, Sergeant.” Tennant said. “Constable, search the hayloft.”
Tennant opened the letter and turned it over to look at the signature.
“It’s from McGrath.” He read, “‘This is a deathbed confession because I won’t be surviving the week. I know that, and I am prepared to die a martyr’s death for Ireland.
But I believe in God and a reckoning in the hereafter, so I testify to this as true.
I contracted with Peter FitzGerald to smuggle the rifles to aid our holy cause.
Not his cause. He did it for the lion’s share of ten thousand pounds to settle his debts.
But when that money wasn’t enough, and there was none more to be had from the smuggling, he hired me to shoot his wife.
In return, he was to help me escape, so he thought.
Her death makes him guardian to his two sons and puts his wife’s fortune into his hands, at last. I aimed for the lady’s shoulder and hope she recovers.
I went along because I needed his help to achieve a last great aim. FitzGerald is unaware of my intentions.
“‘As for that piece of horse dung with the bayonet in his throat, Simon Flood and I served as sergeants in the Crimea with the major. FitzGerald was our company captain then. Like me, Flood was a Kildare man. When he was a child, his people farmed FitzGerald lands before hard times and eviction sent them to England. Flood enlisted in FitzGerald’s regiment, making the most of the family connection. Now that I think of it, Flood did all the man’s killing.
FitzGerald got his scar from a Russian saber, but it was Flood who knocked the Ivan off his horse and ran him through the throat.
“‘When Flood and I met up again in London, he was FitzGerald’s head groom.
When he was in his cups, Flood bragged about a smuggling scheme.
Later, it gave me the idea for getting the guns into the country with no questions asked.
Truth be told, I was surprised FitzGerald played along.
But gambling debts made him desperate for money.
“‘Flood murdered Lizzie, persuading FitzGerald that the girl was a mortal threat if word of her condition reached the queen and his wife. The other deaths followed the first. Flood bragged about it a week ago, not knowing I was Maggie Dowling’s brother.
No reason he should. I was in France and Ireland when he murdered my nieces.
But never has the hand of Providence been so clear to me, His instrument.
My one regret is that I returned to Ireland too late to save my kin from destitution.
I tried. I looked for them, but the trail ran cold at Naas.
“‘The truth of this, I swear on my mother’s grave. I sent FitzGerald a warning in his morning post, and he’ll head straight to Dover. But the message I sent to the Yard that brought you here—’”
O’Malley grunted. “What message, I’d like to know. The creature might escape us yet.”
Tennant continued. “‘You’ll catch him before he gets away. He thinks he has more time than I gave him. It pleases me to have the major on the run for a bit, hunted like an animal. Like the red-coated officers galloping across the Curragh, slaughtering foxes, caring about nothing around them. You’ll trap him at Dover and drag him back to London in disgrace.
I’m sorry I won’t see it. I’m sorry I won’t watch him hang.
Now, I have one last act of devotion to carry out.
“‘God save Ireland,
Padraig McGrath, Patriot.’”
“Sir?” the constable called down from the hayloft. “I found a crate of seven rifles up here.”
“Mother of God.” O’Malley looked around the empty coach house. “FitzGerald took a cab, the butler’s saying. Where is his carriage?”
“And why warn him,” Sir Lionel asked, “if McGrath wants him caught?”
“Not just for the fun of a chase,” Tennant said. “He wants to divert us. ‘One last act of devotion.’ My guess? The missing carriage is on its way to Marlborough House or Windsor Castle with McGrath and a rifle inside. He wants us chasing FitzGerald to Dover.”
Twenty miles away in Windsor, “Marcus York” patrolled the castle’s grounds with a white handkerchief tied to his sleeve. The other armed grooms and groundmen mustering with the uniformed soldiers wore them, too.