Chapter 1 #2
But Thomson had become suspicious of our presence in Ireland anyway, and Collins had learned of my and Sidney’s real reasons for being there.
Mostly because my intelligence colleague, Captain Alec Xavier, had switched sides and begun working for the republicans.
And there was no telling how angry C was that we’d both ignored his recent orders for us to return to London and failed to report that Alec had defected to the enemy. I supposed I was soon to find out.
“I do apologize,” the officer was saying.
“I’m afraid the men get carried away with their duties sometimes.
” He chuckled, as if finding the terror the Crown Forces often meted out on the Irish public to be humorous.
I’d witnessed the same behavior during the war from German soldiers in relation to the Belgian and French citizens whose territory they occupied.
The comparison was not complimentary. “Perhaps they didn’t recognize you. ”
I wasn’t certain exactly what he’d meant by this remark or the look he cast at me, but if he meant to imply that my celebrity demanded special treatment, I would take it, no matter the unfairness to other prisoners. I was no fool. However, I was quickly disabused of this notion.
The officer nodded to a soldier standing along the corridor, who opened a door for us.
He halted with me at his side just inside the doorway, as if waiting for me to register the impact of my surroundings.
I would later come to know that this was called the guardroom.
The space was fairly large with two tall windows that looked out on a passage called the Exchange Court that ran alongside the City Hall toward Dame Street.
Against one wall sat a handful of men on wooden boards or blankets, who I gauged to be fellow prisoners.
Opposite them clustered another group of men around the warmth of the fire, dressed in the police uniform of the Auxiliaries.
Both groups had been chatting quietly as we entered but stopped at the sight of me.
“I’m afraid the accommodations won’t be to your standards,” the officer escorting me quipped with a cruel twist to his lips.
I ignored this remark as well as the pounding of my heart and resisted the urge to straighten my appearance.
I looked far from my best, having been on my feet all night hunting for the phosgene, and then manhandled not once but twice.
First, by the soldiers we’d had to convince were about to fire phosgene and not tear gas at an unsuspecting crowd, and then later by the Auxiliaries who had arrested me.
But I wasn’t here to impress these men. My armor as a fashionable society woman would do me no good here, and in fact, might cause me greater harm.
“Sign in,” the guard who was the section commander stood to order me, pointing at a book.
I stepped closer, peering down at the logbook of names written in various spidery scrawls.
I could feel the officer looming behind me and picked up the pencil.
There was little use lying about my identity as I’d suspected some of these men had done, eager to separate themselves from any past records. So I marked down the truth.
Verity Kent. London, England. Wife of Sidney Kent (V.C.).
I gritted my teeth as I wrote V.C. for Victoria Cross.
Just let them try to deny who we were and what we’d done for our country.
Then, as I lowered the pencil, I recalled that V.C.
could also stand for vi coactus, indicating this had been signed under coercion or duress. Let them wonder which I intended.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Kent,” the section commander told me, gesturing toward the pale green wall along which the other prisoners sat.
I did as instructed, sweeping my gaze along the row of eight motley-dressed men as I approached.
My initial fear was that I might recognize one of them and they me.
But while it was clear that most of them knew who I was, none of them appeared to give any indication that they were aware of my connection to Alec or Michael Collins.
I had to give British Intelligence credit for their cleverness, for it was obvious why I was here.
They’d hoped a rebel detained here might in some way give me away.
Perhaps they might also attempt to use a stool pigeon to try to coax information from me.
But I’d been trained to expect these tactics, albeit from the Germans, not my own men.
As such, when a man of about thirty, with dark hair and a dusty flat cap, moved over to make room for me on his board, I was instantly on guard.
Sinking down beside him, I adjusted my skirt and pulled the sides of the jacket of my navy-blue walking ensemble tighter around me against the chill.
They had not given me time to don one of my warm coats or even to grab a hat before hauling me from the town house Sidney and I had rented on Upper Fitzwilliam Street.
The man passed me a gray blanket. “So, you’re really Verity Kent,” he remarked as I weighed the possibility that the blanket might be lousy. During the war, the men in the trenches had been riddled with lice, and I didn’t trust the conditions here were much more sanitary.