“Are you going to stop me?” he asked.
McKeller seemed about to say something, but looking at O’Casey out of the corner of his eye, he backed off. “You wouldn’t peach on us, would you?”
“Of course not,” O’Casey stated. “Willie is no traitor.”
“May my tongue be torn out by its roots and my breast opened if I repeat a word of this faction during my lifetime. I swear as an Irishman,” he said with a raised hand, echoing part of what he had made me swear in the initiation ceremony by the sea.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you, Willie,” O’Casey continued.
Yeats turned his head and gave a long, final look into the eyes of Maire O’Casey. He flicked his eyes in my direction, and I saw the anger and resentment there in that brief glance. In the silence of the room, I heard him slowly exhale. “Some things cannot be helped, gentlemen. I wish you luck, and I hope to celebrate your victory. But for now, I must bid you all good day.”
We parted, and he passed between us and out the back door, the very picture of wounded pride.
After a moment, Eamon spoke to his sister. “Maire …”
“Not another word!” she snapped. “Not one. Will you look at this place? Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe the police did all this? I’m nothing but a drab to you boys. Just a washerwoman and cook. And you, Thomas Penrith. You’re as bad as the rest! Maybe worse! I’m going to get changed.”
I couldn’t help noticing the piece of paper Yeats had dropped. So far, there had been several papers in this case: the letter in Dunleavy’s room, the letters in Maire’s box. As casually as possible, I scooped up the ball of paper. Smoothing it out, I read.
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
I shook my head in wonder at the beauty of it, and my heart fell when I read “with love false or true.” It was all my fault, I realized. I had little chance of a relationship with Maire, yet I had insinuated myself between this poet and his muse. Perhaps I had ruined both their lives. Barker was right about my weakness for the fair sex. I’d blundered in and made a hash of everything.
I retreated to my room for the rest of the afternoon, occasionally rereading the verse of the poet I’d wronged. His leave-taking had been a model of decorum in the face of wounded pride. He was more of a man than I had taken him for, to stand up to Fergus McKeller. I regretted every depreciating thought I’d had about him. William Yeats was a better man than I.
24
“What is wrong, Thomas?”
“Nothing,” I answered, but I was still upset after the scene with Yeats the day before.
We were standing at the platform at Lime Street Station, waiting for the London train. Maire was seeing us off.
“You seem so distant. Have I done anything to anger you? I’m sorry you had to come in on my parting with Willie yesterday. There was never much between us … on my side, I mean.”
“You owe me no explanation, I assure you,” I said.
“Make me a promise, Thomas!” she said.
I have not the makings of a Le Caron, I’m afraid. There are elements of the spying life I could never ascribe to, such as making promises I had no intention of keeping. I looked warily at the girl.
“What kind of promise?”
“That you’ll come back when your mission is over. I’m not saying come back for good. I have no right to ask that. But at least, come back and say good-bye.”
“I can make no such promise. I could be arrested or even blown up.”
“Don’t say that!” she said, looking terrified. “You’re more important to me than this mission. If you ask me, it’s a mere fool’s errand. Promise me this, then. Come back to me if it is within your power.”
“Very well. I shall come back, if it is within my power.”
She kissed me then, one final time, and she put all of herself into that kiss. It was a kiss of virgin chastity and the promise of passionate nights, a kiss of graceful youth, middle years spent side by side, and of old age together, with grandchildren around us. It was everything a kiss could be, pure and powerful. I could not help but fear it might be our last.
We parted. I watched her walk away through the crowd until she was gone. The whistle gave a plaintive cry that matched my mood exactly, and I was alone with a crushing weight I couldn’t describe. I made my way to the carriage and sat down beside O’Casey and the faction members, who were making jokes among themselves at getting another chance at London. I must have been dull company for the entire journey.
It was the most welcome sight in the world when I saw Barker’s stern, impassive figure on the platform at Euston Station. I hadn’t expected to see him awaiting us.
“Welcome to London again, lad,” he murmured, shaking my hand. I felt as if all my emotional burdens were falling off me. I’d give them all to Barker and let him sort them out. We collected my luggage and soon were in a hansom bound for the Crook and Harp. The rest of the faction would split up and arrive singly in a roundabout fashion, so as not to attract the attention of the Special Irish Branch.
“So, how was Paris?” my employer asked, as we watched O’Casey and his men separate and slip through the crowd.
“I got everything we needed for the work, sir. We got in a little sightseeing at the Louvre and the Tuileries. Oh, and we visited the opera one evening.”
“I don’t care about the itinerary, Thomas. Did you discover anything of interest?”
“Willie Yeats quit the faction, after a break with Maire.”
“Did he, by Jove?” Barker asked, taking the pipe out of his mouth.
“McKeller was inclined to be belligerent, but O’Casey let him go.”
“Faction members have been murdered for trying to resign. O’Casey must have exhibited great control and been very sure that Mr. Yeats wouldn’t inform on the cell. It’s good he got out when he could. I don’t believe these rascals shall come to a good end.”
“So, how are things progressing in London?” I asked.
“Famously. Harm is fine, though I believe he has pined a bit from missing us. He seems to have lost some weight. The garden is coming along well, but I discovered some blight on the Japanese maple.”
We were about to blow up half London, and the Guv was going on about his dog and his garden. I listened patiently while he went over his garden in detail, rattling off Latin names as if I knew a bluebell from a buttercup. Finally, he got around to the part I was interested in, the part about Inspector Poole and Scotland Yard.
“Poole assures me the Special Irish Branch can be in position all around the Crook and Harp at a moment’s notice. He paid an informant to tell him where the various tunnels under the area led. Dunleavy is ensconced at Claridge’s in high style, on a floor higher than Parnell. The hotel now boasts two pretenders to the Irish throne. He has had a setback, however. Apparently, the Pope has answered Parnell’s enquiries and is moderately favorable to a bid for Irish independence. In a way, he has cemented Parnell’s position of authority. It has dampened the colonel’s enthusiasm and resulted in another bout of drinking.”
“So, what are our plans, exactly?”
“We have rooms reserved at the Crook and Harp. It is a shambles of a place, with walls knocked out, steps going up and down, and odd turnings, not to mention the tunnels and bolt-holes. We shall collect the materials from Victoria Station and set them up in a makeshift laboratory on the premises. You and I shall prepare the bombs.”
“You do mean inert bombs, don’t you, sir?” I asked.
“We don’t want to cause an actual explosion, but I suspect they shall want a demonstration that our dynamite works. We might set off a single stick in one of the tunnels. I suggest connecting one stick to a cap and fuse. The difficult part will be bundling each of the inert bombs into the satchels, under the very eyes of the faction. Luckily, the one who really knows explosives is Garrity, who is in Paris.”