She went into the library because it was the only room she knew. She looked out the window. There had been snow the day before, but now it was gone. The street only looked wet and miserable.
She turned from the window; folding her arms, she stared at the bookcases lining the walls. She looked at the titles. They seemed to have been chosen without regard for anyone actually reading them, merely parts of the prop that consisted of a library. She thought someone had probably come in and ordered: One library, medium, English-style. Then a government delivery had been made. What was one library, medium… called? GI-345 stroke 7?
Elizabeth was smiling when Green came into the room. He returned the smile.
“Good morning,” he said. “You were tired. You slept quite late. Nearly noon. Are you hungry?”
She realized she was.
“Good. We’ll get the housekeeper to fix something. She’s a terrible woman — can’t stand her.” She noticed the trace of an English accent in his flat, Midwestern voice; it annoyed her and she didn’t know why.
“But an excellent cook. And she knows it. So she’ll get something for you. I was just popping off now, have to go to the embassy. But I thought we could have a chat while we’re waiting for your breakfast.” He pulled a bell cord and the housekeeper appeared a moment later in the library door. Elizabeth did not know why, but the action made her feel uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed.
“Will you get our guest the usual hearty Olde English breakfast,” asked Green brightly. “Be a dear. And we’ll have some tea in here while we talk.”
“D’you want the breakfast here as well?”
“Yes, that would be splendid.”
“It’s nearly noon,” said the housekeeper.
“What a dear,” said Green to Elizabeth. “Even if all the clocks broke down, she’d know the time and be willing to announce it to you.”
The housekeeper tried out a frown and then turned from the door.
“Dragon,” Green said, going to the leather chair by the window. He waved his hand and Elizabeth sat down.
He looked out into the gray, wet street while he spoke: “I signaled the Section last night. They didn’t know about you. I must talk to Hanley today. The Section was quite upset.”
Devereaux had told her not to expect recognition from anyone in the Section. Especially Hanley.
“Well, still. You knew the code. And Devereaux is in Belfast. At least, so we assumed. We haven’t heard from him for three days and I was under express instructions to report to Hanley the moment he made contact. And so here I am.” He smiled. “Contact has been made and I have nothing to report. Won’t you fill me in.”
“I thought I told you. Last night—”
“Yes, yes. That you met Devereaux in Belfast. That you were in danger there. Yes, you told me that. But I have my report. Devereaux and I are colleagues and I have to have a clearer picture before I can make my report.”
She nodded. She did not know what to say. She tried to smile. “There’s not much to say. Because I can’t. I was involved in… well, his mission—”
“Yes, his mission,” said Green. “Which is aborted now because the attempt has already been made on Lord Slough’s life.”
“Well, Devereaux said…”
Green stared, smiled, folded his hands. He waited. “Devereaux said?”
Devereaux said. Something was wrong. Or was it? Or was it only a dream? Or part of one?
“Devereaux said?” Green continued patiently.
“That I really was to wait. Until he returned.”
“When is he returning?”
“I don’t know.”
“Today? Do you think he will show up today?”
“Today? It’s possible. I don’t know.”
“But Ms. Campbell, I do have a report to make—”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.”
Green looked at her and the smile slowly faded from his boyish features. He remained seated for a moment and then shook his head. “Well, I shall have to make my report in any case. And your refusal to fill in the station chief—”
“I’m sorry. I was told—”
He pasted a smile back on his face as he got up. “Not your fault. Not at all. Don’t give it a thought. It’s all Devereaux. Something of a legend in the Section, as you may well believe. Quite an independent operator. His own man. Sometimes, he bends the rules a bit, I’m afraid. He was to report to me.”
Elizabeth tried to return the smile. “I’m sorry.”
At that moment, the housekeeper appeared with a tray containing a teapot, cups and other dishes. She set it down on the table by the window. “Your tea,” she said, glaring at Elizabeth. Then she turned and walked out of the room.
Green popped off the metal cover over a plate to reveal fried eggs and bacon with great chunks of fat in it and a grilled tomato.
“Would you like breakfast?” he said.
Elizabeth began to eat while he poured the tea.
At a minute past noon on Saturday in the village of Innisbally, Durkin, the garda, and Cashel, his new found friend, went into MacDermott’s pub and ordered whisky.
“I hate a funeral. I hate the time after at the house, as well. I was glad to get away, I can tell ya,” said Durkin, who reached for the glass and splashed a little water into the whisky from a bottle on the bar.
Cashel took his glass and turned to Durkin.
“God bless you,” said Cashel and Durkin nodded and they drank the harsh amber whisky.
After a second glass at the bar, they retired to a bench in the corner of the pub for a little talk. Durkin had been looking forward to it ever since the slow-moving policeman from Dublin had singled him out at the funeral Mass.
“I was surprised,” said Cashel. “By the turnout, I mean. Quite a lot of people came.”
“Ah, well, y’know what a funeral is t’a village like that. It is all in the family, as it were. We’re small and gettin’ smaller and like they says in the school, the death of any man diminishes me.” He took a sip of the whisky. “And diminishes the village, yer might say.”
“Indeed,” said Cashel. “Indeed.” He had been born and reared in Dublin and considered the people of the west country as much foreigners as he might consider the wild highlanders living in the Scottish hills. Dubliners, he would tell his wife, were another race of Irish; the Irish poets who wrote in a tongue that other men could understand.
“And there’s his Lairdship comin’ down. He’s a great man t’these parts. He’s English, y’know.”
“I know.”
“But no one holds that against him. It’s as though he wished he was not. He named his daughter Brianna, you know; is it not a beautiful name?”
“It is that.”
“Oh, aye. And his wife, God rest her soul, she died when I was a lad. D’you know she came from here? She was an O’Donnell, from Ennis.”
“Ah, from Ennis.” Cashel knew how to keep an Irish conversation going.
“Aye, Ennis. I’ve been to Ennis.”
“A nice enough town.”
“Well, a bit large for me. Not as large as Galway City, but large.”
“Large,” agreed Cashel.
They were silent for a moment as they sipped at their whisky.
“But Lord Slough now we was speakin’ of. A good friend to the people here, if I may say so, sir. And a friend to Ireland.”
“So it would seem,” said Cashel. He let the other man speak.
“If there’s not twenty men from the village is workin’ on his estate, there’s not one. And good wages, too, as good as you’ve seen around this poor land.”
“I understand that,” said Cashel. “Tell me, were those all village people at the funeral?”
“Oh, aye. Certainly. Save for that English secretary, the one that works for his Lairdship. I think he’s from London but yer can’t tell by his bloody way of speakin’. He might be off the telly.”