The Forgotten Holocaust

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ben was silent for a moment as he tried to understand.

‘Shaw got his facts right,’ Brennan said. ‘Even as millions of its people lay starving in the ditches and in their beds, so helpless and weak that the rats would swarm over them to rip what little flesh was left from their bones, Ireland was a country full of food. It was abounding with food. How could that be, I hear you ask?’

‘Go on,’ Ben said.

‘The doomed potato, as widespread as it was, was hardly the only crop grown on Irish soil. During 1846 and ’47 alone, some half a million tons of grain were exported out of Ireland, enough to have saved the lives of thousands of people. Not to mention the vast quantities of other exports such as butter, eggs and meat, all of which were being transported in bulk from Irish ports, on ships bound for England, throughout the entire period of the so-called famine. And who was doing the exporting? The British government, who had supreme control over agriculture in Ireland. For years the country had been supplying England with more than eighty per cent of its beef, roughly the same proportion of its butter, and even more of its pork.’

Ben blinked at the figures. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘I suppose that’s because it’s not to be found in your average history book,’ Brennan said caustically. ‘Another thing that’s been conveniently forgotten is the pains the British took to ensure that not a scrap of their precious exports ever found their way into Irish hands. The escorts of heavily armed British troops guarding the convoys of wagons loaded with food on their way to the ports made certain that nobody could get near them. Any attempt whatsoever to steal a single egg, a single cup of grain or rind of meat to bring home to one’s starving children, would be met with lethal response, or arrest — in which case the lucky ones faced immediate deportation to the penal colonies of the British Empire. The not so lucky ones were simply hanged.

‘And even at the height of the famine,’ Brennan went on, ‘when their armed food convoys were passing within sight of the mounds of bodies and the death carts everywhere on the roads, the English rulers staunchly refused to turn over a single scrap of produce to feed the starving. Relief efforts devised by Whitehall were a joke, mere whitewash. It was largely left to humanitarian organisations such as the Quakers to set up soup kitchens and the like, while the British government simply sat on their hands. In contrast, other nations were doing what they could to alleviate the shocking situation in Ireland. Aid came from various quarters, saving untold lives: from Rome, from America. Even Turkish sultans sent shiploads of grain to the same ports from which British ships were snatching it away under military guard.’

Brennan shook his head in disgust. ‘And there were worse disgraces to come. As the food supply for the Irish peasants was being shut off, the British authorities passed laws to restrict their ability to feed themselves even further. It became illegal for ordinary Irish people to fish for salmon or trout, which only the wealthy landlords and their guests were now allowed to do. New legislation was introduced that forbade the keeping of hounds, so that starving families could no longer catch a rabbit or a hare for the pot. The shooting of game was strictly forbidden. Arms were confiscated, to prevent the poor from hunting even a squirrel — and, of course, to deter them from getting any ideas about rebelling against their gentrified masters who, while all this was going on, were having shooting parties on the big estates, bagging grouse, pheasant and hare in vast numbers and hanging their catch off poles from the carriages they went hunting in, right under the eyes of the barefoot starving masses. It was more than provocation. It was sadistic cruelty.’

‘Why?’ Ben asked. ‘These people were their workforce. The agricultural industry relied on them. Why starve them out like that?’

‘For the same reason that colonial powers and globalist business interests, past and present, have sought to eliminate whatever indigenous peoples whose existence impeded their ability to exploit resources for vast profit,’ Brennan replied. ‘The attempts to exterminate the Australian Aborigine people by mass sterilisation in order to mine their traditional territories. The tricks played on South American tribes by greedy cattle barons wanting to deprive them of their rainforests, to raze into ranches for the supply of a billion greasy beef burgers to the junk food industry. The devastation of Borneo’s natural habitats in the interests of the west’s insatiable demand for palm oil. And on, and on, all through history.’

He shrugged. ‘In short, the British government wanted the land. As far as they were concerned, these poor Irish peasants were a waste of space, taking up acreage that could be put to better use raising livestock and wheat for England. Consider the words of the influential British cleric Thomas Malthus at the time: “The land in Ireland is infinitely more peopled than in England; and to give full effect to the natural resources of the country, a great part of the population should be swept from the soil.”’

Brennan let those words hang in the air for a moment. ‘Swept from the soil,’ he repeated. ‘That’s what the English wanted, and that’s what they got. On top of the enormous numbers who died of starvation, at least another million people fled Ireland during that time, mostly destined for America. An editorial of the London Times proclaimed jubilantly in 1847 that “they are going! They are going! The Irish are going with a vengeance! Soon a Celt will be as rare on the banks of the Liffey as a red man on the banks of the Hudson.” And it was true. Thanks to the “famine”, approximately half of the rural population considered undesirable by the English rulers was eliminated, or should I say, ethnically cleansed, freeing up the land to create yet more produce for England. That’s not too far off the proportion of European Jews estimated to have been killed in the Nazi Final Solution. Little wonder that one of my more enlightened fellow historians, AJP Taylor, was moved to say of the Irish starvation that “all Ireland was a Belsen”.’

‘So the British government took advantage of this natural disaster to suit their own agenda,’ Ben said.

Brennan smiled coldly. ‘Very convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

Ben was silent for a moment as he sat digesting Brennan’s tale of injustice, greed and callous disregard for human life. It wasn’t the first one he’d heard, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. It disgusted him to the core.

But nothing he’d heard so far did anything to explain Kristen’s murder. ‘All right, let’s say Kristen had uncovered everything you just told me,’ he said to Brennan. ‘Dug out all the dirt on the British government’s policies of non-action, or whatever it was, during the fam … during the starvation. It was more than a century and a half ago.’

‘You’re right,’ Brennan said. ‘Ancient history. Yesterday’s news. Who cares any more, now that everyone involved has been dead for so long? Nobody stands to gain, or to lose. Unless, of course …’

‘Unless what?’

‘I told you there were explosive revelations in the Stamford journals, and there are.’

‘There’s more?’ Ben said.

‘Oh, there’s more, all right,’ Brennan replied. ‘The deepest, darkest of secrets, ones that have lain dormant for over a hundred and fifty years. The question is, does the nature of those secrets constitute grounds for murder? Does it threaten anyone’s modern-day interests to such an extent? Who can tell?’

‘Enough games, professor. I came a long way to find out—’

Brennan shook his head. ‘It’s all in there,’ he said, pointing at the journals. ‘You came here to read them, didn’t you? That’s what I suggest you do.’

‘Anyone ever tell you you’re an awkward customer?’ Ben said.

Brennan smiled. ‘Privilege of a dying man. You won’t regret it.’

Ben leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples in frustration as his mind struggled to put together the pieces of the puzzle. But even without knowing what deep, dark secrets the Stamford journal had to reveal, he could see a gap in the logic. ‘No copies were ever made of the journals, were they?’

‘None. It’s impossible. I was one of the very first people to see them after their rediscovery, and they haven’t been out of my possession since.’

‘Then these revelations couldn’t be known to anyone else?’ Ben asked. ‘There’s no way she could have come by the information some other way?’

‘I doubt it very much,’ Brennan said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Quite a few letters and other artefacts relating to Elizabeth Stamford have surfaced over the years, scattered about in the hands of historians and collectors. But nothing of the importance of these journals, and what they contain. If this particular cat were out of the bag, it would have caused no little stir among historical circles. That’s the reason I was a little reticent about letting any old writer gain access to the material.’

‘Then it’s unlikely that she could have even known of the existence of these secrets you’re talking about.’

‘More than unlikely. I’m certain she had no idea at all. She wanted to view the journals only by way of general research. They were just another resource to her, albeit a key one she was keen on getting her hands on.’

‘None of this makes any sense,’ Ben said. ‘I need you to recap for me, from the beginning. Kristen contacted you a couple of weeks or so ago by phone. She’d found out that you were the current owner of the Stamford journals, and she was interested in viewing that material herself. She left you a message asking if you’d agree to that. You weren’t well enough to respond to her until after she was already dead.’

‘Which I truly regret,’ Brennan said. ‘And I’m equally sorry I didn’t have the chance to respond to the email she sent me. She must have written it not long before her death, two or three days at most.’

Ben looked up in surprise. ‘What email?’

‘Didn’t I mention that?’ Brennan said. ‘It was about the letter.’

‘Letter?’

‘Yes, the one to Henrietta Wainwright.’

Ben shook his head.

‘Let me see if I can find the email.’ Brennan got stiffly to his feet and went over to the desk to pick up a small laptop, which he brought back to his armchair and rested across his knees as he flipped up the lid and powered the machine up. A blue rectangle reflected in each lens of his spectacles.

‘Here we are,’ he said after a few moments. ‘I’ll read it to you: “Dear Professor Brennan, you might remember I phoned you not long ago asking if it might be possible to view the journals of Lady Elizabeth Stamford. Since I contacted you, it’s become even more crucial for me to verify certain details that have come up recently in my research. I have in my possession a copy of a letter from Elizabeth Stamford to Henrietta Wainwright, written in October 1849, shortly after Elizabeth’s return to England, in which she pays thanks to all the people she’s indebted to for helping her: Stephen Wainwright and his sisters Henrietta and Cecilia, as well as one Padraig McCrory, whom she credits for having aided her escape from Edgar Stamford’s clutches.”’

Brennan paused reading and looked up at Ben. ‘The Wainwrights were Elizabeth’s second cousins,’ he explained. ‘She often refers to them in her journals, as you’ll see. Stephen Wainwright was a well-known naturalist of the day, something of a reformist humanitarian. He and his twin sisters lived in Bath but were frequent visitors to Ireland in the years Elizabeth lived on the Glenfell Estate. When the marriage finally fell apart, they helped her to return to England and get back on her feet. They really were a very important influence on …’

But by now Ben was only half listening to what Brennan was saying. A startling connection had suddenly been made in his mind as the name had leapt out at him. McCrory. It wasn’t an uncommon surname. But the coincidence stuck in his mind like something hard to swallow.

Padraig McCrory. Was this the same man, born in 1809, that Kristen had mentioned in her notes and about whom she’d gone looking for information at St Malachy’s church?

If it was, now Ben had the surname to attach to the first name: the missing piece that had tripped him up when he’d tried to follow in Kristen’s footsteps searching the parish records in Glenfell.

But what did it mean? Ben quickly pieced the bits together in his mind. Kristen had become interested in Padraig McCrory because of the letter. Quite why that was remained a mystery, but it had mattered enough that she’d contacted Gray Brennan a second time to try to find out more. Meanwhile, she’d been busy digging up information on the man herself from parish records. At the same time, she’d been in touch with her go-to guy Chris Ingram to get hold of the cellphone number of Finn McCrory, mayor of Tulsa, Oklahoma. As a result of which, she’d spent thirteen minutes on the phone talking to the Irish-American.

Discussing what? Family trees?

Ben reached into his pocket and took out Kristen’s notebook. He flipped to the page and read it again.

While the man’s identity and birth date now held no secrets, the line below was still baffling. What was the number 107 about? And what was ‘how possible’?

‘Did she say anything more about this Padraig McCrory?’ Ben asked, interrupting Brennan.

‘Just this,’ Brennan replied. ‘Let me read you the rest of her email. “I’m now particularly interested in knowing more about Padraig McCrory, and anything that Lady S might have revealed about him in her journals. Looking forward to hearing from you,” etc., etc.’ He looked up from the screen. ‘That’s it.’

‘And that’s the last you heard from her?’

Brennan nodded sadly. ‘I can only presume she was still waiting for my reply when …’ His voice trailed off.

‘And is McCrory mentioned in the journals?’ Ben asked, puzzled.

‘Oh, yes, a few times. But I was surprised that Miss Hall had suddenly become so interested in him. He was an Irish servant of the Stamford household, who looked after Lady Elizabeth’s horses.’

Ben couldn’t understand why this man was so important.

Brennan closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. ‘It’s late, Mr Hope. You’ll have to forgive me, but Lady Elizabeth herself can tell you all you need to know. As for me, I’m feeling very tired and I must get to bed. We can talk again in the morning.’

Ben stood, picked up the four volumes and tucked them delicately under his arm. ‘I’ll take care of them.’

‘I know you will,’ Brennan said, rising from his armchair and laying the laptop back on his desk. ‘I don’t imagine you have a hotel booked, do you? But don’t worry. You can stay here the night. There’s a guest annexe adjoining the house. Follow me.’

Brennan left lights off as he led the way back through the house; now Ben knew why he preferred to be in darkness. Outside, the stars were twinkling.

‘Let me just feed Romulus and Remus their evening meal,’ Brennan said. He disappeared into a little outhouse near the kennels and reappeared a few moments later carrying two enormous dishes heaped with dog food, which he placed at the entrances to the kennels. The mastiffs came lumbering out and fell hungrily on the food, slobbering and gulping.

Brennan lovingly petted them as they ate. ‘They wouldn’t harm you,’ he said lovingly. ‘A couple of teddy bears, but burglars don’t know that. Isn’t that so, my boys?’ he added, cuddling the slavering beasts with unfeigned devotion.

Ben could see how desperately lonely he was.

‘Now let me show you to your quarters for the night,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll be hungry yourself, I suppose. Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. There are tinned provisions and some not too bad local wine, for the visitors I never receive.’

‘Don’t you have any family?’ Ben asked as they walked along a dark portico that skirted the courtyard.

‘I’m the last of us,’ Brennan said. ‘Nobody to leave this pad to when I pop my clogs, which won’t be long, I hope. I’ve already made provisions for Romulus and Remus.’

Ben made no reply.

‘You’re probably wondering how an old fuddy duddy professor comes to be living in such a ridiculous big place,’ Brennan said with a chuckle. ‘My academic pension would barely cover the maintenance costs. No, you see, it came out the arse of a chicken.’

Ben looked at him, wondering if his illness had touched his head a little.

‘I had an old uncle in Dungarvan who’d become obscenely rich selling eggs, of all things, bless him. He had no children — seems the Brennans aren’t much given to procreation — and I was his only nephew, and so he left me the lot. That’s when I left the rainy shores of Ireland forever and moved here, looking forward to a long and happy retirement.’ Brennan smiled morbidly. ‘Next thing, this happens to me. Oh, well. As they say, life’s a bitch and then you rot away in pieces. Here we are.’

They’d reached the door of the annexe. Brennan unlocked it and gave Ben they key. ‘Make yourself comfortable, Mr Hope. Don’t stay up too late reading. Good night.’

He turned away, and Ben watched the thin, dark figure for a moment as the dying man walked back towards the empty house and what remained of his empty life.