'That could be a long list. The real question is who needed me dead now?'
I didn't have an answer for that. Thinking about all the people who'd like to kill you doesn't make for cheery conversation, so I let it drop as Slaine gazed at her reflection in the window. I couldn't tell if there were tears in her eyes or if it was the rain splattering against the glass.
We passed the Lug o' the Tub Pub and the boreen leading to Grady O'Brick's cottage. We pulled up in front of Simms's house. Rain dripped off the thatch but the smell of a fire promised warmth. I knocked on the heavy wooden door as Slaine and I huddled beneath the overhanging thatch, water catching our backs.
'Yes?' Mrs. Simms said, opening the door wide. 'Are you looking for Adrian?'
'Yes, ma'am, we are. May we come in?' She stood there, the wind blowing rain into the house and carrying her loose black hair into swirls around her head.
'Of course, forgive me,' she finally said, as if she'd just woken up. 'Lieutenant Boyle, isn't it? Here, let me take your coats, it's a sinful night to be out.'
'This is Subaltern Slaine O'Brien,' I said, shaking the water off my trench coat. She nodded at Slaine as she helped her with her raincoat with no trace of animosity. From the little I'd seen of her, and from what I'd heard about her, I didn't expect a warm welcome for two Catholics. But Slaine was in a British uniform, and that probably helped. She hung our coats on pegs near the door, and gestured to chairs near the fire.
'Please, sit.' She clutched a shawl at her breast as she sat on a straight-back chair, leaving the two cushioned seats for her guests. It was all very cordial but there was something about her hair and the way she gripped the shawl that looked wrong. Before, she had been very prim and tidy. Now she looked like a wild woman, her hand crushing the shawl in her grip.
'We need Adrian's help,' Slaine said, smoothing out her skirt. 'Have you seen him today?'
'He's my husband, isn't he?' she said, evading the question. 'All the same, I don't think you should count on him for much help.'
'We're all on the same side, Mrs. Simms,' I said. 'I know there are differences here that go back centuries but we do have a common enemy.'
'You know, I said the same thing to Adrian just this morning. That whatever happened in the past, we all have to do our part now.'
'This morning?' Slaine said. 'Was that when you saw him last?'
'Oh no, I've seen him since then. What do you need him for?'
'It's important,' Slaine said.
'German agents,' I said. 'We need him to help us find German agents.' I watched her face as she looked back and forth, at us, around the room, to the door leading to what had to be the kitchen, as if she expected Adrian to walk in at any moment. 'Are you expecting someone? Is Adrian here?'
'Do you think I don't know where my own husband is? Do you think I'm mad, is that it? He's my husband, he is. A good, God-fearing Protestant. No more, no less. A man I'll spend my life with, right here, in this house. Not off to some other land.'
'Mrs. Simms?' Slaine prompted. Something about the woman's conversation was odd.
A faint odor penetrated my senses. Not the scent of the peat fire, not the smell of a cigarette. Something else.
'When you marry,' Mrs. Simms said, cautioning Slaine, 'you expect your husband to be who he says he is. But all men have secrets, I suppose. One secret, even a shameful one, could be forgiven. But not another. Not one that betrays everything you hold dear.'
She began to cry, with big gulping sobs. She let go of the shawl, her hand covered her mouth, and the shawl slipped from her heaving shoulders. Her blouse was stained dark red between her breasts, but there was no wound. Then I recognized the odor. Cordite lingered in the air, the faintly peppery smell of spent gunpowder drawing out another terrible and familiar scent.
'Have Finch drive to the pub and call Carrick,' I said to Slaine as I walked to the kitchen door. Mrs. Simms was hunched over now, silent, her head buried in her hands. I entered the narrow room, the smell of death heavy in the air. Gunpowder and blood, whiskey and piss. Adrian Simms faced me, seated at the end of a small kitchen table, his face tilted toward the ceiling, his mouth slack. His revolver lay on the table, surrounded by a box of shells and cleaning gear. Bore brush, rags, an old toothbrush, and solvent. A bottle of whiskey had been tipped over, the amber liquid soaking into the tabletop. A broken glass lay on the floor.
One shot to the heart. Simms wasn't in uniform. He had on a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. A dark hole above his shirt pocket was tattooed with gunpowder marks, the dried blood coating his shirt and soaking his trousers. He hadn't died right away; he'd had a minute, maybe two, as his blood flowed.
'He told me we had to leave,' Mrs. Simms said, coming up behind me. She was wringing her hands, her eyes darting from me to her dead husband. 'Leave, can you believe it? Hide, like criminals, all because of his hideous half brother, that Bolshevik killer. He said we would go to South America. South America!'
'With Jack Taggart?'
'I said, 'No, I am not leaving this house!'' She hadn't heard me, wasn't speaking to me. She pushed against my chest, her arm extended, pointing at her husband, continuing the argument that had ended with a bullet. ''And neither are you. Would you make a laughingstock of me again, you liar? How dare you!''
I could see it all, Adrian telling her that they had to go. Maybe he said the money was all for her, so she could be a high-society lady somewhere south of the equator. He'd laid his revolver down, finished with cleaning and loading it, ready for whatever the night held-German agents, the U.S. Army, everyone except his own dear wife. Maybe as he raised the glass to his lips, she'd grabbed the revolver, two-handed it, and pulled the trigger, less than a foot from his chest.
'Gold, he said, hard cash and gold, just a few hours away. Well, no one from my family ever ran off like a thief in the night, gold or no gold,' she said, her eyes fixed on her husband's once-white shirt.
'What gold?' I asked, easing her out of the kitchen.
'German gold, he said it was. That wasn't Adrian, that was his bad blood speaking. Catholics, Communists, and Germans. Did he think I'd consort with them? Take their money and flee my own nation, my family, my church? He was insane, don't you see? It wasn't his fault.'
Her face softened as some memory of the man she loved crept in and dissolved her hate and anger for a moment. I could imagine her placing the revolver on the table, hugging Adrian as he gasped for breath, the shock widening his eyes as his shattered heart pumped the last of his blood, staining his wife's blouse, his dreams of revenge and wealth fading with each pulse, then gone.
'What will I do now?' Mrs. Simms said, seating herself in one of the good armchairs by the fire. Her chair, next to her husband's.
'We'll get this all sorted out,' I said as soothingly as I could, as if it were all a matter of paperwork. 'Tell me, did he say anything about where the gold was? Was he going to meet Taggart tonight?'
'Don't speak that name in my house,' she said, drawing the shawl around her.
'I'm sorry. The gold, that he said was only a few hours away. Do you know where?'
'He didn't make any sense, he must have been off his head. He wasn't responsible, you know; it was that terrible half brother of his.'
I heard the door open, and Slaine walked in ahead of Finch, who stood guard at the entrance. There was no wind now and his coat was dry.
'Have you come to take him away?' Mrs. Simms asked. 'I have to clean up, I don't like a messy house.'
'What was it that didn't make sense?' I asked. I smiled, trying to keep her with me for another minute or so. She was retreating, falling back on memories and delusions, blotting out the present of betrayals and failures, her visions turned inward. 'What did Adrian say?'
'That it was above us. Right above us. Do you think he meant in the attic?'
'I don't know. Didn't he say it was a few hours from here? It has to be someplace else.'
'Oh dear, I suppose you're right. You can ask Adrian when he gets home.' With that, she relaxed, staring at the glowing peat, and sighed.
'A few hours away, and above us,' I said to Slaine. 'What does that mean?'
'The German Focke-Wulf 200? It should make landfall within a few hours.'
'But we don't know where,' I said.
'There's only one place above us and a few hours away,' Finch said from his post by the door. 'Slieve
