Lionel dashed out the door, passing the waiter without signing for the second round of drinks.
CHAPTER 16
O’Malley often said that a troublesome case was like a drought’s end: parched until it poured. “And when the rains come lashing down, the air clears at last.”
Tennant’s day began with a visit to Westminster Hospital, where Dr. Rennie gave him an encouraging report. After three days, Mrs. FitzGerald’s wound showed no signs of infection.
“She’s a strong lassie, that one.”
Tennant looked around. “Is Major FitzGerald here?”
“Not yet,” Dr. Rennie said. “I told him to come back at noon. He did himself and his wife no favors, fretting by her bedside all day. And I want the lady to rest in the morning. His wife rewarded him yesterday with a few words and a squeeze of his hand.”
Divisional reports on the incursions into London’s Irish neighbor hoods took up the rest of the inspector’s morning. They were as Tennant expected. “Next to nothing exaggerates their usefulness,” he told O’Malley.
Then before noon, a courier arrived from Ireland, carrying a packet sent by the chief inspector of Dublin’s Fenian division. O’Malley cut the string and opened it.
“’Tis a letter and a notebook.” The sergeant handed them to Tennant.
“The chief inspector writes, ‘Lady Browne searched Brigid Dowling’s room several weeks ago when asked to do so by the local constable. As you know, she found no letters or personal papers in her bedchamber. But we sent a sergeant to Lansdowne House at your request. When he questioned the servants, the housekeeper remembered something. A year ago, the girl asked if she could keep a box in the storeroom. The sergeant found the enclosed notebook among her things.’”
Tennant set the letter aside and opened the marbled cover of a schoolchild’s composition book. It started with a date in the top right corner of the first page: 26 December 1865.
“Boxing Day,” Tennant said. “I wonder if she’d been given the notebook as a Christmas gift.”
“Like as not,” his sergeant said. “What does the poor girl tell us from beyond the grave?”
Tennant turned up the oil lamp. “She writes, ‘I have a tale to tell and a longing inside me to shape it into a story. Our story. Lizzie’s and mine.’” Tennant looked at O’Malley and continued reading.
“‘In the time that came after, when all was lost, and we’d left our village, the women of the nests told fairy tales around the fire, waiting for the dark to fall. But night never fell over the Curragh. It rose, swallowing the valleys, the hedges, and then the hills, the light lingering in the sky. Women and wide-eyed children sat in a double ring, listening, firelight kindling their eyes. The storytellers told tales of the banshee’s wail, announcing the death of a loved one, and the changeling fairy-child wandering the hills.
“‘But Lizzie never joined in with fairy stories. She would smooth my curls, rock me, and tell the tales of our history, reminding me we were happy once. She whispered, telling me about Daddy and Mam, Granny and me. She’d pass me a penciland a ratty old pad and have me practice my letters as the flames danced and my lids drooped. I’d write about a cottage with blue shutters and the cow in our field until the rent was overdue and the auction man tying a rope and leading her away.
“‘Granny passed on the year I turned five, but I saw her circle the holy well in Lizzie’s telling of it. I pictured Mam of a Monday, bending over the washtub, twisting Daddy’s Sunday shirt dry, her hands raw and her arms corded. I saw my father’s slow, stooping walk, him using his shovel like a crutch, swinging it in time with his stiff right leg. And I’d fall asleep by the fire. Soon after, I’d feel Lizzie shift under me and her gentle shake. I’d open my eyes and find the women gone, then Lizzie would lead me away.
“‘That terrible day—the day the unraveling began—I’d waited for Daddy, watching for him, the rain’s blur smearing the windowpane. But he never came. In the weeks after, Mam sat with her back to the rough stone wall. “’Tis God’s will,” the cottage women told her. “He’s gone to a better place.” But she sat, looking across the fields. Even the clouds massing and bursting wouldn’t budge her. Not until Lizzie and I ran with shawls tented over our heads, rousing her, recalling her to a life that still needed living. We raised her and walked her into the warmth. I didn’t sleep that night, listening to my mother’s rattling cough.
“‘In the morning, the priest carried the letter from Kilcullen. “I think you know what it’ll be saying, Maggie. They’re wanting the land for the sheep.”
“‘Eviction. It was the word I’d heard whispered, muttered, and shouted after the men returned, drunk on the stout at Mister Makin’s wake. “What’s eviction, Da?” I asked after they’d gone. ‘Hush now, ’tis nothing, my Brigeen,” he’d said, brushing the curls from my forehead. “It won’t be happening here.”
“‘Now, Father Flynn was saying, “’Tis happening allaround these parts, Maggie. Yer man should have left with the others. Taken you to England to work the hops, at least.” I wanted to say it was no use telling us now. The priest asked Mam, “Haven’t you a brother?” She said, “Padraig. He went soldiering.” The priest asked if she’d heard from him at all. Mam hung her head. “That I haven’t,” she said in a whisper. “He went off to the Crimea, but he was never a hand for writing.”
“‘The priest said, “Your Lizzie’s gone seventeen. Old enough to be on her own. The Poor Law guardians might pay one fare to Liverpool.” But Lizzie said in a flash, “I’ll not be going without Mam and Brigid.” And that was that.
“‘The priest shrugged. “Then ’tis Naas Workhouse for you and yours, missus, as you’ve nowhere else to go.” He raised his hand, and the three of us bowed our heads for his blessing. But Father Flynn had given Mam an idea.
“‘We packed two baskets with all we owned and a smaller bag for me to carry. Then we waited in the morning for the removing officer to come. He handed Mam a signed warrant admitting us to the workhouse and counted out three shillings, a parting gift from the guardians of the poor. He said it would pay our omnibus fare to Naas and spare us miles of walking. “You can catch it at Kilcullen Bridge at noon. Good luck to you, missus.” And that was that.’”
Tennant looked up from the notebook. O’Malley said, “’Tis a tale told ten thousand times and more all across poor Ireland.”
“The first part ends with a twist, Paddy. Brigid writes, ‘Instead of heading east toward Kilcullen, we walked west across the Curragh plain.’”
Tennant turned the page. “‘An officer on horseback appeared at the crest of the hill, his scarlet coat blazing against the blue sky. We drew nearly abreast, with Lizzy a little behind, and his eyes were on her. And no wonder. I turned and saw hercopper hair set fire by the sun and her skirts bunched in her hands as she swung up the hill, breathing hard as she climbed. The basket’s straps strained against her shoulders, and I saw something of what he saw. But not all.
“‘We trudged on until we crested another mound and came upon a cluster of furze bushes at the bottom of the hill. Beautiful they were, studded with yellow blooms and purple heather growing in between. I didn’t notice the spiny shoots and needle thorns that would dig and tear, leaving their mark.
“‘At first, the wrens of the Curragh stared at us, silent and hollow-eyed. Dirty, ragged children hung back behind their mothers’ tattered skirts. But the shilling Mam offered for a place to stay warmed the women’s grudging welcome a degree or two. “Just for a short while, mind,” Mam said. “While I seek news at the encampment about my brother.” But I’d heard her confess to Lizzie that it might be weeks before she heard about Uncle Padraig if they’d tell her anything at all.
