When Shadows Fall (22 page)

This is the spot all right.

Where had she said she lived? Wilton something or other? It didn’t matter. What he recalled was that flawless, regal face, eyes like lapis pools, framed by a bob of lustrous, honey-gold hair. If he’d only had the nerve, he would have asked to see her again.

Wilton Row—that was it. At the other side of the hospital. And out of his way now. Yet he found himself altering his route, not fully deciding to, not fully sure what he was doing. Perhaps it was the fanciful prospect that they might cross paths as she returned from work, though as to what he would say then, he had no idea.

Eventually he found the road with Wilton Row engraved on a boulder of limestone.

This is daft
, he realised. God knows what she would think if she found him skulking about her home like this. With a swift about-turn he headed back, retraced the steps to his original route, around the hospital and on in the direction of the city centre. Tara Reilly had no need of his company right now, he decided.

At the next side street, there was a burst of movement.

He stopped, seeing a figure stagger towards him. A long raincoat and heeled shoes. “Whoa,” he said, and the figure screamed. He gave her space. “Easy there. Where are you—”

For several confused seconds they stared at each other.

“You,” she stammered. “You.”

“Tara?” The sudden recognition made him freeze in astonishment. “Tara, is that you?”

She almost collapsed at his appearance. Her mouth opened silently.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “It’s me. Adam.”

Quickly she gathered herself. “I remember . . . oh, thank God, Adam.”

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing. I—” She glanced behind her. “I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here.”

Adam followed the direction of her gaze into the shadows. “There’s no one there, Tara. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Can you,” she asked, “walk me home? If that’s all right.”

“Of course I can.”

“Now. I need to go now.”

The house was midway down a terraced row, a red brick facade and a front garden of rhododendrons and honeysuckle. Inside the hallway it was icily cold. Tara turned on the lamps in the kitchen.

“Would you mind starting a fire?” she said, still breathless. “It gets so cold here sometimes.”

“Not a problem. You have a fine house, I might add.” The kitchen, adjoined to a living area, was small but pristinely kept. A table with a cloth of sky blue and a set of candelabra occupied the centre.

“Thank you. I don’t usually have many guests, so I haven’t much to offer you. Tea, perhaps? Or would you like a drink? There’s a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard, never opened.”

“Tea is fine.” He put a match to the kindling in the hearth and coaxed the wood to a blaze. “That’s better. Should have the place warmed nicely in no time.”

Tara was immensely relieved by his presence. Mulligan’s attack hadn’t merely been a rough attempt to frighten her––he had actually tried to kill her. Her hands were still shaking as she lit the stove and put a kettle on to boil. “I’m so sorry. You must be thinking how odd this all is. I can explain.”

“Not at all,” Adam assured her. “I was thinking how lucky I am to be invited into such a beautiful home.”

“That’s very kind of you. But there was a man. He . . . oh, he was a beggar. He tried to rob me. I should have been more careful, I suppose, walking home alone. But that’s all that happened.”

“A beggar?” Adam looked at her in concern. “Really, you should use the hackneys. Especially after dark.”

“I’m fine. And I must thank you. This is the second time you’ve had to see me home this week.”

He grinned. “Well, that part is indeed my pleasure.”

A few moments of silence passed while she busied herself at the stove. Once the water was boiled, she poured two cups of tea. “Milk, sugar?”

“Both, please.”

“Ah. A man after my own heart.”

“Is it that obvious?” he chuckled, and his implied meaning made her blush as she handed him a cup.

“Here you go. That should take away the chill. Have a seat.” She drew a chair for herself. “You’re a little out of your way tonight. Didn’t you say you work in Lower Baggot Street?”

When he hesitated to answer, she lifted a hand apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I’m not prying. None of my business.”

“No, you’re all right. I was at a meeting. With a possible client.”

“A long walk out. Don’t you have a car?”

“No, but I don’t mind the walk. And I’m glad I was in the right place at the right time, in any case.”

“Yes.” Her eyes met his. “I’m glad too.”

The fire crackled pleasantly, brightening the room, and the air soon warmed. Tara offered him a slice of her homemade shortbread. They spoke some more and finished the pot of tea, as the hands on the clock ticked by faster than they realised.

“Goodness,” Tara finally exclaimed, noticing the time. “I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you here all night with my chatter. You should have said.”

“Oh, I’ve been having too much fun.” He winked. “But you should sleep. You had a shock tonight.” He rose from the chair, and Tara felt an overwhelming desire for him to stay longer. Much longer. She’d never had a man’s company in the house before.

“So,” he paused by the door, fastening his coat, “if you’re ever in need of an escort again, I can—ah, I’m repeating my lines, aren’t I?”

“Who knows?” she laughed. “I seem to be getting myself into all sorts of trouble lately.”

“Actually, I wasn’t entirely truthful with you earlier,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yes. It wasn’t pure coincidence that I happened to be close by. I was in the area, true enough, but I decided to see if I could find where you lived.”

She looked at him. “Whatever for?”

“Because I was hoping I’d see you. Just for a moment.” He shrugged. “There you have it. Mawkish stuff, eh?”

“No. It’s nice.” His words gave her a rush of comfort. “I’m really glad we met again. Coincidence can be a kind thing.”

“Well, why leave it to chance next time?”

“Why?” She smiled. “I don’t know why.”

“Bewley’s on Westmoreland Street does wonderful coffee and some rather splendid sweet treats. Only a few minutes’ walk from your Dublin Castle. Perhaps you’d like to join me when I’m next stopping in?”

He could have offered her the sun and the stars and she wouldn’t have been any happier. “That sounds lovely, Adam. It really does.”

“How about Wednesday, after work? Six o’clock?”

“Yes. I think so. Yes.”

“Brilliant stuff.” He made as if to kiss her. Tara felt her knees weaken. But instead he tipped his hat and raised a hand in farewell. “Until Wednesday, then.” He walked down the path and closed the garden gate behind him.

“Until Wednesday, Adam,” she whispered.

And despite the dark events of that night, she had never felt so wonderfully reassured.

Hobbling on a bloody ankle from the dog’s teeth, Mulligan peered up the narrow streets he passed, cursing his luck. He didn’t know the layout of this suburb and soon found himself wandering around in circles. In hindsight he should have followed her all the way home before making his move. That way he’d at least know where she lived. He had thought the moment right but it backfired, and now the bitch had slipped the net once more.

“Damn it all,” he growled as he pounded along, realising he was lost in the shadowy maze of side streets. Eventually he found his way as far as the Grand Canal, where he hailed a cab and demanded a ride to Sackville Street. His ankle stung, his neck stung, he was damp and full of rancour. When he reached the flat he shrugged off his clothing and placed his Colt revolver inside a drawer, its purpose unfulfilled this night. He examined the puncture wounds on his foot caused by the dog’s teeth.

Lucky, lucky bitch. But not forever. Nobody outruns Larry forever. There’s Irish blood on your hands, bitch, and as God’s my witness I’ll see you buried in your own.

WHITEHALL, LONDON

David Lloyd George, prime minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, gazed through his window at the wind-flecked waters of the Thames. A bright morning had given way to sullen clouds, and he saw sailboats being hastened under the Hungerford Bridge, canvasses swelling. Very British weather, he thought, yet his mind was on a more distant tempest.

“Prime Minister.”

Two men sat behind him at a paper-cluttered table. One of them coughed, slightly irritated.

“Prime Minister, might I boldly suggest that the lieutenant general’s proposal rather speaks for itself? And clarifies the action we must now take?”

The one who had spoken, plump cheeked and balding, his eyes cold and implacable, was Winston Churchill, secretary of state for war. He cleared his phlegmy throat and glanced at the other. Lieutenant General Henry Hugh Tudor kept his tongue a moment, watching Lloyd George’s back. Then he said, “The state of Ireland is hopeless, Prime Minister. The police are overwhelmed. IRA murder squads roam the countryside with impunity. Local authorities and judicial systems in the south and west have all but collapsed. It is essential that we act now to enhance the size of the police force or we may as well give up.”

Lloyd George turned to them. Grey hair and moustache, short necked, a countenance firm but not unfriendly. His eyes passed from one man to the other. “You want me to send more soldiers into Ireland. With a hostile population, I dare say that should inflame the country even more.”

“Not soldiers, Prime Minister,” Tudor corrected him. “Not for a second do I propose increasing our military presence. Things are certainly hot enough there, I agree, but it is through the police that order can be restored, keeping the solution as civil as possible, in every sense of the word. But the police force must be supplemented.”

“Supplemented with soldiers, though. Isn’t that what you’re suggesting?” Lloyd George countered.

“Prime Minister,” Churchill’s impatience was thinly concealed, “you’re aware that Cabinet was in broad agreement. Dublin Castle will be too. What we propose is the raising of a special corps of gendarmerie in support of the Royal Irish Constabulary. They would be selected, yes, from ex-servicemen and ex-officers, but their role would not be a military one.”

“Putting soldiers in the place of policemen rarely results in a peaceful outcome,” Lloyd George reminded them. “It tends to exacerbate the problem.”

“Problem?” Churchill mused darkly. “An interesting euphemism for
anarchy
, Prime Minister.”

“Anarchy precisely. Which is why I question the wisdom of sending armed ex-soldiers to
police
the general public, half of whom I understand are already siding with the rebels. We’re losing the sympathy of the press over Ireland, both here and abroad, and now you tell me the answer lies in more guns.”

Tudor gestured to the sheet of paper in front of him. “Read that if you will, Prime Minister. The morale of the RIC is broken. Hundreds have been assassinated. Six hundred deserted in the space of three months alone, according to that report. Barracks across the countryside have been destroyed by the IRA, who are now the de facto authority in many areas. And we can’t recruit in those areas, because everybody is afraid. The only alternative is to recruit here in Britain—trained men, armed, who won’t be cowed by the terror of the IRA.”

Lloyd George sighed, feeling every one of his fifty-seven years. “That dark isle, gentlemen, she has always been the biggest thorn in the empire’s side. I know you’re right, of course. If we allow the situation to deteriorate much further, we’ll lose Ireland and forever have a country of Bolsheviks and killers on our doorstep. The IRA must not only be stopped but crushed. For good. If we go ahead with this, and send more muscle in there, how long will it take?”

“Not long, Prime Minister,” Tudor declared. “I’m confident of that. The lack of an effective police force has been a significant obstacle in overcoming the insurgency, but with soundly equipped, sound-minded men put in place, why, I dare say, the emergency could be over in six months.”

“Six months.” Doubt pursed Lloyd George’s lips. “I pray you’re right. Very well, gentlemen, have your staff prepare comprehensive briefs on this. And get all our important men over from Dublin. I want them instructed in person.”