just one of those things. Didn't she? Didn't he?
What about Diana? What did she think about us? Just one of those wartime romances? The wild Irish boy and the aristocrat whose lives were thrown together, experiencing the passion of life amidst death. Who would expect them to last out the peace?
Diana and I wouldn't have ever laid eyes on each other if not for the war, and if I hadn't gotten her sister involved in a murder investigation that turned more deadly than I ever could have imagined. And Diana wouldn't have gone off with the British Expeditionary Force to France, barely surviving Dunkirk, if not for the war. It was death that bound us together, it seemed. Not the fear of death at all, but the thought of living through so much of it. How could love come out of that? Need perhaps; desire certainly. But love?
So what about Diana? For that matter, what about me?
I stopped at an intersection and waited while a column of deuce-and-a-half trucks rumbled by. The rain hadn't let up. It pelted the canvas cover like sudden bursts of machine-gun fire as I turned my thoughts to Jenkins and whether or not he'd pass information on to me. I had done him one favor, warning him about Heck, as an investment. But the picture of him with Slaine O'Brien was too good to waste, a major bargaining chip. If I put that on the table, it would be in a neutral location, somewhere public, not in a Protestant neighborhood, and I'd reserve it for when I needed something big in return.
Finally, the traffic eased and I took the turnoff to Clough, to drop in on Constable Simms. I'd planned on talking to him about Sam Burnham. I remembered Simms worked out of his home, so I stopped at the Lug o' the Tub to ask directions from Tom. I found him tossing peat onto a low fire, alone except for one old-timer in his well-worn suit jacket.
'Billy,' he said, 'have you dropped by for an afternoon pint?'
'No, still on the job. Can you tell me where Adrian Simms lives? Have you seen him?'
'Not today. You can check with his missus, though. Go up the side road here, past the castle ruins, and you'll see a line of cottages. The constable lives in the first one. The wife's name is Julia, but I doubt you'll be on a first- name basis.'
'Not the friendly type?'
'Not until she knows you attend Presbyterian services regularly.'
'It'll be Mrs. Simms then. Tell me, is that anywhere near where they found Eddie Mahoney?'
'Yes, it is.'
'You didn't hear any gunshots that night?'
'No, and I wouldn't have, even if they'd gone off outside my door. It was raining something fierce, the wind blowing and howling, enough to make today look like a spring shower.'
'Does Grady live in one of those cottages?'
'Ach, no. There's a boreen about a hundred yards before them, it takes you to Grady's place.'
'A what?'
'Oh, sorry. A boreen, you mean? It's a dirt track, a cart path at best. Grady lives in the house he was born in, dirt floor and a hearth for heat. Nothing like the line of cottages; they're proper modern houses. Indoor plumbing and all. But he keeps his roof in good repair, and there's plenty of peat for him to burn. It's no grand palace, but it's home for Grady. And not far from the pub,' he added with a wink.
'Do you think Julia Simms would be impressed that I was at Brownlow House, headquarters of the Royal Black Knights?'
'Oh, don't mention those words, atallatall, Billy. Oh no,' Tom said, shaking his head and laughing, 'if you don't want to cause Adrian to miss his supper.'
'Why?' Tom looked around and leaned in close, whispering, even though we were a good ten feet from the old fellow at the bar, who hadn't moved since I came in.
'Because Adrian applied to join them at the urging of his wife. To get ahead, you know, make the right contacts. The Royal Black Knights are Unionists through and through, but they spend their time giving money to the church, not rabble-rousing. It's for the well-to-do or those who want-to-do, if you understand.'
'Sure. Like the Knights of Columbus back home.'
'Well, aptly named, but I don't know them. Anyway, Adrian applies, and he gets past the first few hurdles. He's a member of the Orange Society, all fine and good. But the Black Knights are even stricter than the Orangemen about who they let in. All of a sudden, he's out, and Julia Simms, who is not too proud to boast of something that has not yet come to pass, has to hang her head at Sunday services and for the rest of the week. I think she's still not forgiven poor Adrian.'
'For getting blackballed?'
'For not telling her about his background. As far as I know, Adrian met all their requirements-including being born in wedlock and of Protestant parents-all but one.'
'What was that?'
'From what I understand, an applicant has to swear that his parents were never connected in any way with the Roman Catholic Church. He did but was called out on it, and that was that. No marching in the July 13 parade every year, under their black banner with the red cross, celebrating our defeat at the Battle of the Boyne. No social gatherings, in suit and tie, so he and Julia can hobnob with their betters. Oh, it was hard times in that cottage for a while, I'll say.'
'What was his connection with Catholics?'
'Mrs. Simms made it clear that question was not to be asked of her, nor ever answered by Adrian. Hard times, as I said.'
'Are you married, Tom?' I asked.
'Yes, I am. Nearly twenty years now.'
'Worth it?'
'It is. Most days.' Then he laughed, perhaps to let me know today was a good day, and slapped me on the shoulder. I left wondering how I might answer that question someday. Would I wistfully think back to that English girl and our wartime whirlwind of emotions before I'd settled on a wife, a good Catholic Boston lass? Would 'most days' be good enough?
I started the jeep, drove down the road, and passed by what must have been the spot where Eddie Mahoney's body had been left. I stopped and looked back. It wasn't far but I doubted pistol shots could have been heard from inside the stone building. I did wonder why the killer had picked this spot. He wanted the body found, that was certain. The pound note was a message to any would-be informant so the corpse had to be where people passed by, to guarantee it would be discovered. It was the perfect place.
A little farther on, I saw the boreen on the left. Muddy tracks between two stone walls curved behind a small rise, and a wisp of smoke rose beyond it, probably from Grady's peat fire. I pulled in front of the first of three whitewashed cottages, all with thickly thatched roofs and black varnished doors with small windows on either side. I dashed from the jeep and knocked, holding my hat against the growing wind.
'Yes?' A thin, black-haired woman held the door open with one hand and clutched at her shawl with the other as rain blew against her. She didn't invite me to enter.
'Mrs. Simms? I'm looking for Adrian. Is he in?'
'No,' she said, shaking her head. 'Away on police business, he is.'
'Do you know where I can find him?' I had to raise my voice to be heard over the wind.
'No, I don't know where he is or when he'll be back. Your name?'
'Billy Boyle, Mrs. Simms. Pleased to meet you,' I said, trying to be friendly.
'I'll tell him you called, Mr. Boyle,' she said, and the door shut.
'Lieutenant Boyle,' I said to the black varnish.
I decided there wasn't much else I could do that day, other than head back to the pub and start on some afternoon pints, unless I caught up with Brennan before he left. I couldn't find it in myself to blame him for the decisions he'd made. The first was the right one, reporting the fraud he'd encountered while on kitchen duty. But then he was stymied by his own senior officer, who was in on the deal, and found himself threatened if he talked. He had been transferred to the Ordnance Depot only to end up a suspect in an arms theft. Take the money and run, Pete, is what I wanted to tell him. But I wasn't his drinking buddy, I was an investigator sent by General Eisenhower, so it would be better all around if I shook hands with him and told him to stay low.
The wind was up but the rain slackened as I drove up the slight rise leading to the Ballykinler base. Dundrum
