Chapter 3
The question of why I had been transferred from the Auxiliaries into the custody of the military continued to plague me, for I could not see the reasoning.
Nor did I comprehend why I’d been moved to this secluded, dim, stone cell.
Was it because I was a woman? Or was it in aid of another purpose? One less honorable.
True to the MP’s word, I was brought breakfast and then lunch. It was served from the officers’ mess, and accordingly it was quite good. Better than the fare served in the guardroom, and much more of the quality I was accustomed to. This might have encouraged me, but I was wary of the courtesy.
Perhaps if I had something to occupy my time—a book, perhaps, or paper with which to sketch—I wouldn’t have seen shadows around every corner.
But then again, maybe I would have. After all, I’d been trained to be vigilant, to expect the unexpected, and when all else failed, to trust my instincts.
And my instincts were clamoring like church bells on Easter morning.
I had taken to pacing the confines of my cell, eager to stretch my legs and also find an outlet for my anxiety.
But I paced slowly, leisurely, ever conscious of the eyes that might be watching.
I was pivoting to pace the length of the room again when I heard the metallic shriek of the lock being turned.
My heart surged into my throat as I froze, watching the door.
There was no clock in the room, but I could tell it was too early for dinner, which meant they had to be here for a different reason.
The MP who had brought me here appeared in the doorway. “You’re wanted,” was all he said, and then he turned to the side, gesturing impatiently for me to precede him through the door.
My first thought was that Sidney had managed to arrange my release, especially when the MP neglected to relock the cell after us.
Instead, he ordered me to retrace our steps from earlier that morning until we emerged into the late afternoon sunshine.
I glanced about me, eager for the sight of someone familiar, but the gaze that met mine was that of an Auxiliary sporting gray hair at the temples beneath his tam-o’-shanter cap.
He stood at the gate leading from the Ship Street Barracks back into the Castle at large.
Maybe it was the chill of the wind and my lack of coat, but it seemed more likely it was his first words to me that sent a shiver down my spine. “Major King wants to see you in the intelligence room.”
Had I any other option but to straighten my spine and follow, I would have taken it. But cowering or running would only have resulted in injury and humiliation—there was no escape—and I would still have found myself standing before Major King, but at a greater disadvantage.
I’d not yet had the dubious pleasure of meeting King or his counterpart, Captain Hardy, but I’d heard enough about them, from the republicans and the British alike.
They were intelligence officers recruited by Thomson and O, specializing in interrogation, though they also led raids and arrests.
Their tactics were, at best, questionable, at worst, outright torture.
All I knew was there wasn’t a rebel who didn’t dread falling into their hands, and that many of the British eyed them with wary disfavor.
When I’d first heard about them and how the rebels called the intelligence room the “knocking shop,” I’d been inclined to believe it was exaggeration.
After all, it was the German secret police who had used third-degree methods on prisoners during the war, not British Intelligence.
But the very fact that it had been Alec, a former intelligence agent himself, who had told me, had made it all the more reputable.
He may have switched sides to the rebels, but he would never have repeated such information if he wasn’t certain it was true.
Given the shocking acts of violence and reprisal that the Crown Forces had perpetuated on innocent civilians over the past few months, the notion that they were torturing prisoners was all too easy to believe.
Summoning every bit of nerve I possessed, I used the remaining minutes afforded to me as the guard escorted me across the grounds and into the castle, to settle my thoughts and gather my will.
I could not enter this arena—for it was definitely to be a battle—without some sort of strategy.
Not unless I wished to lose before we’d even begun.
Knowing the type of men I was about to face and knowing that they had almost certainly been briefed about me, I realized I only had one option before me. Silence.
Much as I wanted to defend myself, to berate British Intelligence’s stupidity and folly, to decry Lord Ardmore’s perfidy, I knew that I could do none of it.
Not when I’d signed the Official Secrets Act.
Not when I could be charged with violating it and potentially tried for treason if I disclosed any of what I knew or had done on behalf of the Secret Intelligence Service during the war and after, without formal authorization.
Never mind that King and Hardy had already been informed of some of what was in my record, at least whatever O had been able to uncover.
Never mind that several of the intelligence agents based here at the Castle—namely Captain Bennett and Lieutenant Ames—had been aware of my and Sidney’s efforts to locate the phosgene, that they and an entire section of Auxies had joined us on that raid of Hanover Street to seize the cylinders.
Even if we were fairly certain that Bennett and Ames had sabotaged the raid—if not on behalf of Ardmore then themselves—enough Auxies had been present that the entire incident couldn’t be swept under the rug.
King and Hardy might be armed with more than enough evidence to understand who I was and what I’d been doing, but I still couldn’t speak of any of it.
Not when it would be levied against me and used as proof of what many of the men among the higher ranks of British Intelligence had believed all along.
That women were easily swayed and could not be trusted to keep their mouths shut.
I had strived too long to demonstrate otherwise to tarnish myself and my female colleagues, who would be tarred with the same brush.
As for what I had gleaned about the rebels during our search for Alec and then the phosgene, I would not speak of that either.
Sidney and I had known we were walking a delicate line between the two sides and that at some point we might be forced to choose, but I had made oaths to my country and promises to the rebels, and I would not be forced to dishonor either.
At any rate, admitting to anything would be worse than admitting to nothing.
The long night and day waiting for something to happen had given me time to think.
I’d not been informed of the exact charges being levied against me, but if they were due to accusations that we’d been seen in the company of known members of the IRA outside Mountjoy Jail, the evidence could be little more than hearsay.
Hearsay that would never stand up in court against my and Sidney’s reputations, not to mention the press coverage it would garner.
O and his cronies must know this. Which was why they would be counting on me to talk.
Even Ardmore perhaps hoped I would crack, allowing him to throw any lingering suspicion still directed at him onto me. Well, I would not give them the satisfaction!
But that did not mean I wasn’t perfectly aware, as I was escorted into a sparsely furnished room, what my silence might cost me.
Fear coursed through my veins, sharp and icy, as I took in the sight of the two men before me.
But I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and planted my feet firmly on the ground, pressing my soles deep into the stone floor so that I could feel the solid earth beneath me.
Then I sized up my combatants as they were sizing up me.
The first man, who was dressed in mufti, was tall—well over six feet—and brawny.
The second man wore the khaki uniform of the Connaught Rangers and was of average height and slimmer build.
He limped as he made his way toward one of the chairs positioned behind a table.
By this, I knew he must be Captain Hardy, or Hoppy, as the rebels called him with an Irishman’s twisted sense of humor.
Hardy had lost a leg during the war and had been fitted with an artificial limb, though that hadn’t hindered his reputation for brutality.
This meant the burly man was Major King.
I searched the shadowy depths of the room behind them, but if O was present, he didn’t wish to be seen. Though, I fancied I smelled him—the fork-tongued fiend. Or perhaps he was watching from a peephole. He and Ardmore.
Whatever the truth, I needed to forget them and focus solely on the interrogation before me.
Especially now that I could see my notes and the map of Dublin I’d carelessly left spread across our dining room table the day before resting on the surface in front of Hardy.
Normally, I burned every speck of paper the moment I’d finished with it, but I’d gotten sloppy.
All of it related to our search for the phosgene cylinders, which should have further corroborated the evidence in my defense, but I knew that they would attempt to distort it and use it against me.
“Verity Kent,” Major King pronounced, gesturing to a chair placed before the table. “I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”
I didn’t dignify this snide remark with even a scowl as I sat where he’d indicated. Let him think I was oblivious to his sarcasm.
“Some preliminaries,” Hardy said, lacing his fingers together on the table before him. “Where do you live?”
When I didn’t respond, he seemed at first to give me the benefit of the doubt that I was confused, for he clarified. “Where do you live here in Dublin?”