To Kingdom Come

23

We came back to Liverpool two days later, our mission completed. Some sort of understanding had been reached between Maire and me, save that generally, when both parties in a disagreement reach an understanding, they both understand the terms. All I know for certain was that she didn’t seem angry with me anymore and we had been inseparable since she had forgiven me. Her gentle hand seemed permanently set into the crook of my arm as we strolled the deck of the steamer home. I knew better than to think that would bode well with everyone in the faction in Liverpool. Personally, I wondered how Barker would react. I had fended off a more permanent relationship, but somehow one seemed to have developed anyway.

O’Casey and McKeller met us at the dock. I wondered if it was a show of genuine affection when Maire squeezed my left arm as we came down the gangway, or whether she was merely tweaking her brother’s nose. The way he screwed up his mouth, he certainly looked as if there were something that bothered him. As for McKeller, he was all grins and wiggling eyebrows in my direction.

“It’s good to see you two,” her brother said, gripping my hand as hard as McKeller had. My other arm was still otherwise engaged, so my only defense was to squeeze back. “Did you have a safe journey back?”

“It was uneventful,” I said, as our palms grew red and hot and my fingers began to ache. “The sea was calm.”

“That’s good,” O’Casey continued, as if wholly unconcerned with the struggle going on. “And was the hon-Oww!”

Maire had given his hand a sharp rap with her parasol. She was wearing her blue dress, and though she’d put away her paint pot for prim Liverpool’s sake, she wore her hair in the French mode. She had left the city an innocent girl and returned a Continental beauty. It was a wonder her brother was not wringing my neck instead of my hand.

“Maire, you’re looking well,” O’Casey said with more than a trace of irony. He kissed her on the cheek. “Penrith, did you manage to get all of your work done while you were in Paris?”

“You know it is always work first with me,” I told him. “By the end of the day there shall be several large parcels arriving at Victoria Station, to be left until called for. I was able to buy everything. Now I know why you Irish are so fond of going to Paris. If you know where to look, Paris is like a sweet-shop for anarchists.”

“Mr. Dunleavy has asked that you return any monies you have left, along with your receipts, of course.”

“Here they are,” I said, handing the depleted envelope to him. “And just where is your leader this morning?”

“He is in London with your mentor. They are seeing how things stand down there.”

“Bar-er, van Rhyn is in London already?” That was close. I had forgotten Barker was going to London and I had nearly blurted out his real name in shock.

“Yes, and not a moment too soon. For a man with limited vision, he’s got eyes in the back of his head. He predicted we’d be raided, and sure enough, we were.”

“Raided!” I cried. “Was anyone arrested?”

“No. All they found was me studying Maire’s Gaelic in the kitchen. One of the constables was all for dragging me down to the station, but the inspector, a fellow named Johanson, knew there was not a shred of evidence to hold me on. That’s one I owe Mr. van Rhyn. When this mission is successful, we’ll be glad to offer him a permanent home in Dublin, if I have any say in the matter.”

“Did they leave the place in a shambles, Eamon Patrick?” Maire demanded. Gone instantly was the Parisian coquette, and in her place was the Irish girl who kept house for her brother.

“Aye, they did, I’m afraid. Fergus and I tried to put things back in order the way they were as best we could, but they were pretty thorough.”

“Get my bags, gentlemen,” she ordered imperiously. “I’ve got a house to straighten.”

McKeller and I collected the luggage and boxes she’d brought back from Paris.

“ ’Tis a good thing we was raided, Penrith, old man,” the big Irishman said in my ear. “It covered up what terrible housekeepers we was.”

“You stayed at their house while we were gone?”

“Aye, we had a lot of planning to do. We’re on, Penrith! We’re going to London as soon as Dunleavy sends word!”

“That is excellent news,” I said. Apparently a lot had happened since we left.

“Maybe I can finally do something with this waste of a life o’ mine. Saints, but Maire did a lot of shopping in Paris. I think she bought half the bleedin’ town.”

We were coming down the gangplank when McKeller managed to crack me in the ribs.

“So, how was the honeymoon, ‘Mr. Beaton’? Is married life all they say it is?”

I had some quick thinking to do. “These Catholic girls are strong. I stormed the battlements for days with every weapon in my arsenal, but all I got for my pains were a few chaste kisses.”

“Aye, Maire’s a tough nut to crack, but keep trying. To tell you the truth, I’d prefer you to Willie as a husband for her. As far as I’m concerned, he’s too much of a dreamer.”

“Is there anything else I should know about?” I said, as we began walking away from the docks.

“There is. The house is being watched. They’re about as subtle as a herd of dairy cows. We’ll have to go into the next street and come in through the back door.”

“Marvelous,” I said. It was not welcome news about the raid, or that the local constabulary were still surveying the house. I didn’t have Barker and his skeleton key to get me out if I were arrested.

“Oh, and Willie would very much like to punch your nose, I’m thinking. He danced quite a merry jig when he found out you and Maire were on your way to Paris. Most entertaining, it was.”

“I see. So, tell me, McKeller, is there anyone else in this town that’s waiting to tear me to pieces, besides O’Casey, Yeats, and the police?”

McKeller counted slowly on his fingers. “No. That’s the lot.”

Taking a circuitous route to avoid the police, we eventually found ourselves near the O’Casey home. Slipping down the alley, we came up to the back of the house, where I could hear Maire before I saw her.

I braced myself and went in.

“Just look at this place!” she cried in the kitchen. There were dishes stacked in the sink and piles of laundry everywhere. “Did you let the pigs in here while I was gone?”

I rather thought he had, but didn’t dare say anything. O’Casey sat in a chair at the table holding his head. He’d met his match or, rather, his superior.

She wheeled on me. “And I suppose you brought a parcel of laundry home from Paris.”

I almost said I had brought no more than she, but stopped myself. It was more than my life was worth. I nodded distractedly and went into the parlor. Everything was out of order. The Liverpool constabulary had gone through drawers, lifted cushions, and looked behind pictures on the wall. McKeller and O’Casey had not tried very hard to put things back as they had been before. Reasoning that I might be in less trouble if I were actually doing something, I brought my luggage in and carried it upstairs. Then, I began to carry her parcels and bags into the house.

It didn’t fully register in my mind that Barker was in London until I set down my bags in our room. His bed was empty and had been stripped. He had decamped with Dunleavy and was now more than a hundred miles away. I’m sure his first order of business once there would be to give the colonel the slip and check in with our office. Perhaps he would communicate with Anderson and Inspector Poole. He might even find time for a reunion with Mac and Harm. Meanwhile, I was left in Liverpool alone, still relatively untrained and surrounded by a dangerous and desperate group of men.

Were I to blunder and reveal my identity somehow, would they really kill me? These were men about my own age, and they were not without feelings. I could remember McKeller dancing at the ceilidh, the grin on O’Casey’s face as he scored a goal in hurling, and the Bannon brothers scrambling to fill their plates with peas. They seemed just like lads, fellows I would pass on the street without noticing, not hardened killers.

Then, I thought of them in the moonlight, wild figures painted blue, as lean and hungry as a pack of wolves. I remembered the unwelcome pressure of McKeller’s hand crushing mine, the way they had branded me as if I were cattle, and the poor bloodied victims the night of the bombing. Thomas, I said to myself, of course they’d kill you. They’d beat you to death with those heavy sticks and lash you to a post as an example for those who dared oppose the faction. Suddenly, London and safety seemed half a world away.

When I came out of my reverie, I felt the desire to talk to Maire. She, at least, was not involved in this. I had to admit I was glad O’Casey had allowed his sister to go to Paris, but he had no right to keep her here, with the faction involved in such dangerous doings. Surely, there was some aunt she could be sent to live with. Though they had left the house a mess, O’Casey and McKeller had shown they could get along without her to pour tea and do the cooking.

Perhaps if she stayed with an aunt in Ireland, she would be safe until this entire affair was over, for good or ill. Maybe there was some way I could visit her and explain why it was necessary for me to act as I had-presenting myself as someone I was not.

I became aware of voices downstairs. I couldn’t make out who was speaking, but I could tell something was occurring. I went downstairs to find out what it was and blundered right into the inevitable crisis between Maire and Willie Yeats.

“So that’s the way it is to be, then,” Willie stated.

“I fear so,” Maire responded, her chin high. I noticed her eyes were glittering.

Yeats pointedly crumpled a piece of paper in his hand and let it fall to the floor. I had just enough time to throw myself into a chair before he came into the kitchen.

“I’m afraid I shall not be accompanying you to London, gentlemen,” he said. “I am quitting the group.”

“You can’t quit,” McKeller growled. “It ain’t allowed.”

Yeats went up to him and they stood toe to toe. They were both tall, but Yeats was half McKeller’s weight. One swing from the big Irishman would shatter him, but he stood up to him, cool and unafraid.

“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.