It was an irritant when the misconception set in that we were in sympathy with the working man. That inconvenience was
From time to time — usually when an American millionaire who’d never set foot on the isle of his ancestors for fear of being robbed by long-lost cousins decided to fund the Struggle — one or other of the many branches of Fenianism secured our temporary services. If Desmond Mountmain weren’t so all-fired certain he could handle his own bomb-making, he might have been buried in one piece. It takes a more precise touch to blow the door off a strong-room than the medals off a Chief Constable. Dynamiters on our books have names like ‘Steady Hands’ Crenshaw, not ‘Shaky’ Brannigan.
As a rule, Irish petitioners were much more trouble than they were worth.
Over the years, half-a-dozen proud rebels had tried to enlist us on the never-never in fantastic schemes of insurrection. You could separate the confidence men from the real patriots because simple crooks venture sensible-sounding endeavours like stealing cases of rifles from the Woolwich Arsenal. Genuine Irish revolutionaries run to crackpottery like deploying an especially-made submarine warship (the
When a bold Fenian’s proposal of an alliance — with our end of it providing the funds — is rejected, he acts exactly like a music hall mick refused credit for drink. Hearty, exploitative friendliness curdles into wheedling desperation then turns into dark threats of dire vengeance. Always, there’s an appeal to us as ‘fellow Irishmen’. If the Prof or I have family connections in John Bull’s Other Island, we’d rather not hear from them. We’ve sufficient unpleasant English relatives to be getting on with. I thought
It is possible the Professor is a distant cousin of Bishop Moriarty of Kerry, though rebels know better than to raise that connection. The Bishop — in one of the rare sensible utterances of a churchman I can recall — declared ‘when we look down into the fathomless depth of this infamy of the heads of the Fenian conspiracy, we must acknowledge that eternity is not long enough, nor hell hot enough to punish such miscreants’. Far be it from me to agree with anything said in a pulpit, but the Bish was not far wrong.
So: Tyrone Mountmain.
Here’s why he wasn’t at the meeting of the Inner Council of Immortals of the Irish Republican Invincibles which ended with a bang … he was the only man in living memory to devote himself with equal passion to the causes of Irish Home Rule and Temperance. A paddy intolerant of strong drink is as common as a politician averse to robbing the public purse or a goose looking forward to Christmas. An Irishman who goes around smashing up bottles and barrels has few comrades and fewer friends. If he weren’t a six-foot rugby forward and bare-knuckle boxer, I dare say Tyrone wouldn’t have lasted beyond his first crusade, but he was and he had. His dear old Da, whose favoured tipple was scarcely less potent than the dynamite which did for him, could not abide a tee-totaller in his home and exiled his own son from the Invincibles. They had a three-day donnybrook about it, cuffing each other’s hard heads up and down Aungier Street while onlookers placed bets on the outcome.
After the fight, Tyrone quit the Irish Republican Invincibles and founded the Irish Invincible Republicans. He attracted no followers except for his demented aunt Sophonisiba, who advocated the health-giving properties of drinking from her own chamber-pot, the tithing of two pennies in every shilling to establish an Irish Expedition to the Planet Mercury and (most ridiculous of all) votes for women. Tyrone promulgated a plan for bringing Britain to its knees by dynamiting public houses. The Fenian Brigades would never countenance such a sacrilegiously un-Irish notion. With Desmond dead, Tyrone rallied the unexploded remnants of the I. R. I. and folded them into the I. I. R. Claiming Aunt Soph was in touch with his Da on the ethereal plane, Tyrone relayed the story that if Dynamite Des hadn’t been so annoyed at a wave of recent arrests made by the Special Irish Branch he wouldn’t have hit the table so hard. That made Desmond a martyr to the Cause. Tyrone declared war on the S. I. B. As has been said about any number of conflicts, including the Franco-Prussian War and the Gladstone-Disraeli feud, it’s a shame they can’t
Somehow, Tyrone got a bee in his bonnet about the Eye of Balor.
Soph put it into his head that he must have the coin to rise to his true position. Desmond, who never explained how he got the thing in the first place, thought it an amusing relic to show off to his drinking cronies. Tyrone, who had no drinking cronies, believed it possessed of supernatural powers. The only reason he hadn’t yet tried to steal it back from Scotland Yard was that Soph said she knew from ‘a vision’ that if the Eye of Balor were not in the hands of its rightful owner, ‘the little people’ would bring about the ruination of anyone who had the temerity to hang onto it. So, the Irish Invincible Republicans were waiting for the Special Irish Branch to be undermined by leprechauns. I assumed they were all down the pub, against Tyrone’s orders, leaving him home with only a vial of his own piddle, as recommended by potty aunts everywhere, to warm his insides.
Ireland! I ask you, was ever there such a country of bastards, priests and lunatics?
VIII
As promised, another Item for our collection arrived first thing the next morning. Hand-delivered by an apache from Paris, who took one sniff at an English breakfast, muttered ‘merde alors’, and hopped back on the boat train. Can’t say I blamed her.
1:
2:
3:
4: The Jewels of the Madonna of Naples
5: The Jewel of Seven Stars
6: The Eye of Balor
The fabulous gold, jewel-encrusted Templar Falcon didn’t look like much. A dull black bird-shaped paperweight. A label attached by string to one claw indicated decreasingly ambitious prices. Generations of Parisian tat connoisseurs had not nibbled. On principle, the Grand Vampire had stolen the bird — murdering three people, and burning the curiosity shop to the ground — rather than meet the fifteen francs asking price (which, I’m sure, Pere Duroc would have lowered yet again, if pressed). I trusted our esteemed colleague was enjoying his afternoon anis from the skull of the Emperor Napoleon.
“Are you sure there are
Moriarty nodded, holding the thing up like Yorick’s skull.
“What was the point of it again?” I enquired.
“After the Knights of St. John were driven off Rhodes by Suleiman the Magnificent, the Emperor Carlos let the order make stronghold on Malta and demanded a single falcon as annual rent. He expected a live bird, but the Knights decided to impress him by manufacturing this fantastically valuable statue … which was then stolen.”
Fat Kaspar prepared a spot for the bird, and Moriarty set it down.
“What happened afterwards?” the youth asked.
“What usually happens when rent isn’t paid. Eviction. The Templars were booted out of Malta. In shame. Later, they were excommunicated or disavowed by the Pope. In Spain and Portugal, they practiced ‘unholy’ rites. The usual orgiastic behavior such as you’d find in any brothel when the fleet’s in, but with incense and chanting and vestments. Other orders made war on them, hunted them down. It is said the last of them were hung up on cartwheels and left for the crows to peck out their eyes. But the Knights of St. John still exist. I am sure they wish the return of their property. I doubt the present Grand Master feels any obligation to deliver it to the Spanish Crown.”
“Who’s this Grand Master wallah?” I asked.
“Marshall Alaric Molina de Marnac.”
“Never heard of him.”
“That would be why it’s called a
