Chapter Twelve #2
Surprised as she was to see it, Rynn didn’t hesitate when the chauffeur, whom she knew, jumped out to open the door for her.
Climbing into the back seat, she held herself rigidly erect in case anyone inside the Garda station still watched. Then when
the chauffeur—Higdon was his name; he also served as the hospital’s groundskeeper in these trying times—got in, released the
choke and pulled away down the street, she went boneless, slumping like a rag doll against the seat as she fought to catch
her breath.
“What are you doing here?” she asked once she had her breathing under control again, although she was sure she knew the answer.
“Lord Thomas sent me to fetch you, miss.”
As she’d thought. Of course Lord Thomas had been involved in her release. How he’d managed it she couldn’t fathom, but it
was the only possible explanation. Someone—Glenna?—must have alerted him to her situation.
“Can you take me to my grandmother’s house? It’s . . .”
“I know where it is.” He hesitated. “Lord Thomas instructed me to bring you directly back to the Court. In case of trouble,
you understand.”
Trouble? The mere thought that something else might happen made her chest tighten.
“I’ll only be a few minutes. And I’m sure Lord Thomas won’t object.”
“Very well, miss. If you say so.”
The village had come alive again, with cars and horses and bicycles in the streets and people in and out of the shops and pubs.
Difficult as it was to accept that after Molly’s death and Paddy’s death and all that had happened the world still continued on its merry way, it did, she reflected.
And not only did it go on, but right at that moment it was achingly beautiful.
Above the glinting silver of the bay, the sun sank toward the horizon, limning in bright orange the purpling clouds that hung there.
Long shadows from the buildings striped the cobblestones, and starlings wheeled and cried in swarms overhead as they headed for their roosts for the night.
How near the day was to its end was further borne in on her as they drove past the train station and she saw Owen Maguire
among those exiting through the tall gates of the iron fence surrounding it. Head down, face partly hidden by the brim of
his hat, tails of his long coat flapping in the wind, he strode away from the low brick building, having apparently just seen
off his sister and her children on the train that blew its whistle in mournful farewell as it chugged away down the track.
From the look of him, he was both deep in thought and in a hurry.
We’ve had word that a woman was out gunrunning with the O’Reillys that night. Who could have seen her and told? The possibilities were both limited and terrifying.
“Pull over, please,” she ordered Higdon.
So urgent was her voice that Higdon complied without argument. The car jolted to a halt by the curb, and with a quick “I’ll
be right back,” she hopped out.
Maguire was still a few long strides away when she stepped onto the sidewalk.
As she moved toward him against the tide of those exiting the train station, the wind caught the loose strands of her hair and sent them swirling around her face—ah, she’d forgotten her scarf.
Well, it was just going to have to stay at the Garda station forever because she was never, of her own volition, going back.
She tucked the wayward tendrils behind her ears and was pulling up her coat collar against the chill when Maguire’s head came up.
He clearly recognized her, but as she reached him, he touched his hat and said “Miss Carmichael” without slowing as if he intended to walk on by.
Pivoting, she fell into step beside him. “I need to talk to you.”
His eyes slid sideways at her and he frowned a little, but he nodded.
“Walk with me.” His voice was as quiet as her own.
She understood; there were too many people within earshot for anything resembling a private conversation. They walked in silence
until they reached his car, which she only realized was his when he stepped in front of her to open the passenger side door.
“Get in,” he said.
She did, but when he closed the door and came around to slide in behind the wheel, she said, “I have a car and driver waiting
for me in front of the train station. I can’t go anywhere with you.”
“This is for privacy.” He shifted in his seat so that he could see her better. As big as he was, he blocked most of her view
of the street behind him. “We’re not going anywhere. You wanted to talk, so talk.”
“It’s possible that someone on your boat, or from Inishmurray, is reporting on your activities to the Brits,” she said.
He went very still. “Why would you think that?”
She told him in a few quick sentences about being brought in for questioning, about Detective Major Kenney from Crime Special
Branch being sent down from London to oversee the investigation, about Kenney’s seeming knowledge of her presence on the Reaper.
“The description Kenney was given of me was accurate enough that whoever provided it must have seen me at fairly close quarters. The most likely way I can see that happening is if one of your crew, or perhaps one of the men who boarded the Reaper at Inishmurray, is responsible.”
“No one—no one—knew you went rushing out into the darkness to warn O’Reilly?”
Before the Reaper had set her down at Mullaghmore she’d explained to him, at his request, the circumstances that had led to her being aboard
the Merrow.
An instant memory of Lord Thomas telling her that he’d seen her racing across the kitchen garden took Rynn aback, but she
dismissed it as quickly as it occurred and shook her head. “I was described as wearing men’s clothes, which only happened
after I was aboard the Reaper. Also, whoever it was that saw me doesn’t seem to know my name. That lets out you and your nephew as well as both O’Reillys
and Fergus Boyd and, indeed, most everybody in and around Ballyshannon Court and Bundoran.”
“Could it have been a bluff? A stab in the dark to see how you’d react?”
“It didn’t feel that way. It felt genuine.”
“If you were truly seen, and described, how is it that this Detective Kenney let you go?”
“He got a telephone call from a James McBrien at Special Branch. When he came back into the room, he seemed angry but told
me I could go.”
“Ah,” he said. When Rynn looked a question at him he added, “James McBrien is Special Branch’s commanding officer. Head of
the whole shebang. Kenney’s boss. The question is, why would McBrien order your release?”
“I suspect one of my patients was behind it. Lord Thomas Dunne. His father is the Duke of Hartford, and a close friend of
Lloyd George. A telephone call from Lord Thomas to his father might have done it.”
“It might.” He seemed thoughtful, as if he were turning something weighty over in his mind.
Rynn said, “You realize that if I was seen on board the Reaper, Donal, Seamus and Fergus probably were, too. Which means the Brits know you were involved.”
“I do.” He grimaced. “Your idiot friends had no idea of the trouble they were stirring up.” His eyes sharpened on her face.
“Why come to me with this?”
Surprise had her frowning at him. “Why am I telling you that you may be being watched? To warn you, I suppose.”
“And why would you do that?”
“You helped me—us—when we so desperately needed it, and then today you advised me to leave town. I thought it only right that
I return the favor. Why, what other reason do you imagine I might have?”
“In times like these, one never can tell. And that thing I said about leaving town, I still think it would be the smartest
thing you could do.”
“Yes, so do I.” She reached for the door handle. “I must go. Higdon—my driver—will be wondering what’s become of me.” As she
stepped out into the street, it occurred to her that this was her chance, that he could set her mind at ease on the question
that had been haunting her since that night when she’d stayed behind on the Reaper. With her hand still on the open car door, she turned back to look in at him.
“Did they get away all right?” she asked quietly.
There was no question who she meant. He knew.
“Rest easy, your man’s safe.” His voice held the tiniest trace of mockery. “The others, too.”
“He’s not my man. Not anymore,” she said. “But thank you.”
She smiled at him. Then she closed the door and left him to his thoughts.
The DeLion was within sight when a burly man in a plaid coat with a knit cap pulled low over his forehead stepped directly
into her path, blocking her.