The Murderer Inside the Mirror, page 27
‘He did tell me,’ said Viola, sounding reluctant. ‘Under pains of all kinds of promises and vows and threats and caveats.’
‘Blackmail and extortion, too, I shouldn’t wonder. He wouldn’t have carried out a one of them, of course. But Tod is the only one alive now who knew the truth.’
‘Not your daughter?’ said Jack, carefully.
‘Oh, Ethne will have no idea I wrote the play – she’d never see how I could have done it – or even that I would have wanted to do it. The concept of me dictating it wouldn’t occur to her.’ Phelan paused, then said, ‘Viola, I’m glad you felt you could trust Jack with the truth now, though. I would have liked the Fitzglens to have the piece – for Montague’s sake, you know. But I told Tod we couldn’t risk it, and I suggested he approach you, my dear. Tell me, did you have to haggle with him?’
‘Oh, I did,’ said Viola, with a sudden grin. ‘Very vigorously.’
‘The old miser.’
‘But he kept the secret,’ said Viola. ‘And so did I. No one knew how I acquired the play, and Tod suggested we give the impression that it was almost certainly a very clever forgery – but that no one could be sure. He said it would create speculation, and that it would be very beneficial for publicity. And I have to say he was right,’ she added. ‘I think we’ll be playing to full houses.’
‘That pleases my vanity all over again,’ said Phelan.
Travelling back to the railway halt in Fintan’s cart, Viola said, ‘We’ll come back quite soon, won’t we? To see Phelan?’
‘Of course,’ said Jack. ‘More than once, too.’
‘And the play? Do we try to persuade Phelan to let us smuggle him into the Roscius on the night? Could it even be done?’
‘It probably could,’ said Jack, thoughtfully. ‘Byron would most likely work out a very elaborate scheme – and he’d love to meet Phelan, of course. But—’
‘But you don’t know if Phelan would want it?’
‘I think he might want to keep Tomás and Catrina and Maran to himself,’ said Jack. ‘In his own make-believe world. I’m not sure he’d want to hear them speaking in a theatre with an audience listening and watching. I think he underwent a massive change on that night he lost his sight. I think whatever happened – and he told us a good deal, but I don’t believe he told us everything – altered him very radically indeed.’
‘Something to do with Ethne? Clearly she played some significant part in it all.’
‘Yes. But whatever it was, I think we’ll have to let it go,’ said Jack. ‘And he’s got her death to face, and however it’s put to him – whatever story is pieced together – it will be a massive blow and a huge shock.’
‘The nuns won’t want to lie to him.’
‘No, but the Garda might lie to the nuns.’
‘True. In fact no one in St Joseph’s – in Westmeath, even – might ever know the circumstances of Ethne’s death,’ said Viola. ‘But it’s better that way, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
She frowned, then, making an impatient gesture as if to push the thoughts away, said, ‘Mother Superior told me we would have been welcome to stay the night there if we wanted.’
‘We did say if we encountered any delays we might have to stay overnight somewhere.’
‘We did.’
‘But I don’t believe we envisaged that being inside a religious house.’
‘I don’t think we did,’ said Viola, not looking at him. ‘Isn’t there a quotation about “never the time and the place”?’
‘Robert Browning,’ said Jack, pleased he could identify the line. ‘“Never the time and the place/And the loved one all together”. Not that all of that sentiment applies, of course.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Viola, promptly. And then, ‘This looks like our train. I hope we can find an empty compartment, then you can tell me about Thomas of Kildare and Catherine.’
They did find an empty compartment, and she listened with absorption to the story.
‘I would love to see that portrait,’ she said, at last. ‘To see what Catherine looked like. But I can’t think of any way of getting into that house – Girdlestone Hall.’
‘Nor can I. And I don’t suppose there are any other portraits of her,’ said Jack. ‘There’s bound to be one of the Earl somewhere, though. We’ll try to find it.’
‘Jack – what do you think happened to Catherine?’
Jack hesitated, then he said, ‘Lady Girdlestone said she was regarded as the family murderess. Thomas of Kildare was executed as a traitor. If Catherine aided him, she could have been arraigned as a traitor and executed with him.’
‘They would have hanged her? Or beheaded her?’
Jack did not immediately reply. Then he said, ‘This will sound strange, but – I hope it would have been hanging or beheading. I hope it wouldn’t have been anything worse.’
THIRTY
Tower of London, 1536: Early Winter
Catherine knew most people hated winter, but at Westmeath she had loved it. She had liked sitting in the window seat, seeing snow blanketing the ground, and frost tracing lace patterns on the windows. They had always had roaring fires, and the scent of the burning fruitwood would fill the entire house.
Thomas’s child should have been born at Westmeath House. Catherine did not let herself think of the birth being at Maynooth Castle, because Maynooth had been ravaged and partly destroyed by William Skeffington’s armies. She knew that. It had been said that almost everyone died in the siege.
Winter inside the Tower of London would be grim and bleak, but the guard who had brought her extra rugs and blankets, now smuggled in extra food and pitchers of milk – occasionally even some fruit. He had a wife himself, he said, and three children, and he knew that ladies at such times needed looking after. Eating the apples, and a little later the pears, brought back to Catherine the memories of the orchard at Westmeath.
Whenever Liam came, he brought warm clothing and often extra candles; they gave out a faint warmth as well as light, which was comforting. He had not been able to arrange a second visit to Thomas, and Catherine did not dare try sending a message about the child, because she was afraid it would alert the guards or even the Tower Constable to that secret hour they had had. It was absurd to wonder if discovery of that could bring down punishment on two people already facing execution, but execution could take different forms.
On a morning when the grey light from the small courtyard lay drearily everywhere, the Constable, Sir William Kingston, came to Catherine’s room to tell her that her execution was to be at the beginning of February.
‘I am advised that you will have recovered from the birth of your child by then,’ he said, not looking at her. Catherine sensed he was disliking what he had to do and say very much.
‘Yes.’ She did not dare ask what form her execution would take.
‘Thomas of Kildare is to be executed on the same day,’ said the Constable. ‘You will go to the scaffold together.’
Together one last time, thought Catherine.
‘The child is to be taken and cared for by your brother, I believe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mistress Ó Raifeartaigh, I ask again if you will name the man responsible for your condition.’
‘I will not, sir,’ she said, looking at him very straightly, and Kingston shrugged and went out.
Catherine supposed it would be thought that one of the guards had either seduced or possibly even raped her. When she confided this to Liam, he said this was very likely something that happened in this place more often than anyone realized, then told her there was an extremely nice and kindly woman who owned the lodging house where he was living; she would take care of the babe, and find a wet-nurse for it until Liam could take it back to Westmeath.
‘But don’t lose sight of the hope that I may be able to take you back to Westmeath with me,’ he said.
Catherine thought he was trying to give her some hope, and although she knew it was a very fragile thread, she was grateful to him.
The sympathetic guard, whose name was Rufus, brought a small flagon of something he said would help at the birth.
‘You won’t need much,’ he said. ‘But my wife took it when our three children were born. She says you will only need a few drops. She’s asked me to make sure you’re looked after.’
It was unexpectedly comforting to hear of this unknown woman wanting to make sure Catherine would be looked after. She hid the flask under the rugs on her bed. The liquid it contained was thick and syrupy, and it had a scent of poppies. Probably it would not help much, but it had been kind of Rufus and also his wife.
But when it came to the birth, the syrup was of considerable help. It drove back a good deal of the pain that tore through her, and it felt as if a calming hand was smoothing her whole body, as if caressing it with silk. The woman who had appeared to deal with the birth – she turned out to be the woman from Liam’s lodging house, and Liam had been right about her being kind – nodded approvingly as Catherine managed to sip it.
She swam in and out of awareness, and she had no idea how long she lay on the rugs, gasping and fighting to bring Thomas’s child into the world. Through it all she tried not to know it would be taken from her almost at once, and that afterwards Catherine herself would only have a very short time of life left.
There was a final dreadful wrench and she cried out, and felt blood on her lips as she bit through them, and then there was an indignant cry, and the woman was saying the babe was a boy, healthy and strong, and angry at being so abruptly thrust into a strange world.
Catherine felt her bitten lips curve in a half-smile, because of course Thomas’s son would be angry – he would be defiant and ready to challenge everything.
The woman said, ‘I had to promise to take him with me at once, my dear. I’m so sorry. He will be well cared for, though, you have my word on that. And I know your brother will love him dearly for your sake. Hold him for a short while, though.’
Looking down at the small creature wrapped in a blanket, Catherine felt such a flood of emotion wash over her she could hardly bear it.
She held the child against her, and said, very softly to him, ‘I promise if I can find a way to get out of here and be with you, I will find it – if I have to commit murder to do it, then I will. But whatever happens, I promise you will be safe and loved and you will be told all the marvellous stories of the man who fathered you. You will be told how he was a rebel and a fighter, prepared to die for what he believed right – but also that he was a lover and a musician.’
The woman stood quietly at her side, and as Catherine looked up at her, she said, ‘His name, mistress? What is he to be called?’
Catherine said, at once, ‘Thomas.’
Maguire, going about the business of setting up the shop called Maguire’s, was surprised to receive a letter bearing Liam Ó Raifeartaigh’s signature.
He took it to the bow window of the shop where the light came in from the street, but which was a little removed from the main premises, allowing a degree of privacy.
‘Master Maguire,’ Ó Raifeartaigh had written:
I trust you will forgive this approach. I was able to obtain your direction from one of the servants still living near to what is left of Maynooth Castle.
These have been strange and troubling times, but I recall your kindly understanding when you brought to me news of how my dear sister had been rescued from a group of louts in a Dublin street by the Earl of Kildare, and how you promised she would be safe in his care at Maynooth Castle. I was reassured and heartened by your kindness – also that of the Earl himself.
You will know, of course, that a terrible retribution has overtaken both the Earl and my beloved sister, and that they are held within the Tower of London, facing execution for treason.
For the time left to them, I am living in London, since I must be with my sister as often as I am allowed during her final days.
There is a small hope that it may be possible to help her escape before execution – also that the Earl, too, might be brought out, although that is a very small hope indeed. I dare commit no more details to a letter which could fall into ill-intentioned hands. I find, though, that the help of a trusted ally will be needed if the plan has any chance of success. I know you to have been a faithful and good servant to the Earl, and I am therefore encouraged to ask if you would help in what lies ahead.
I should of course recompense you, and would make acceptable arrangements for your journey to London. I am staying in very comfortable lodgings, and a similar arrangement could be made for you.
Only one week – at most, two – would be necessary. Both executions are set for the first days of February. At no time would you be in any danger or at any risk. Only a single visit to the Tower would be required of you – on the day of the execution. It is unlikely you would be recognized, and even if you were, it would merely be seen as the visit of a loyal servant wishing to bid his master a final farewell.
I await your reply with hope.
Signed by my hand,
Liam Ó Raifeartaigh
Maguire read this extraordinary letter three times, then stood for a long time staring at the crowded street outside Maguire’s.
His first reaction was to ignore the letter, or, at most, send a polite reply, saying what was being asked was impossible.
But was it? And oughtn’t he to know what Ó Raifeartaigh was planning? The prospect of either of those two being smuggled out to freedom was deeply concerning. The whey-faced cat must certainly not be allowed to escape her fate – Maguire’s mind went back to that night when he and the two English spies had got into her room and taken her away, gagged and bound. He did not think the bitch had talked about that – he thought he would have been sought out long since if so. People believed that almost everyone from the castle had died in the siege, and it would be what The Cat would believe. Even so, Maguire could not risk her being freed.
He could not risk the Earl being freed, either, because it must never be known that it was Maguire who had helped ensure Thomas’s surrender to the English.
He went up to his bedroom, and sat for a long time, thinking what he should do. In the end he wrote to Liam Ó Raifeartaigh that he would be honoured to help in whatever was planned, and that if it were to fail, he would at least have the comfort of knowing he had been able to bid his beloved master a final farewell. He felt this struck a staunch and loyal note.
He worked out a good story for his nephew – how an English branch of the Kildares needed temporary help while their disgraced relative was awaiting death, and how they felt they could trust the Earl’s former faithful servant. He thought it was plausible, and unlikely to create suspicion in his nephew’s mind.
It did not create suspicion at all. The boy accepted it, then asked if suitable recompense had been offered. When Maguire said it had, adding that, dear goodness, had his nephew ever known him to do anything without proper payment, the boy smiled, and said, no, indeed he had not. It was not said with the least trace of sarcasm, of course.
Catherine had always known that Time played tricks, and it played them now, so that the days between the birth and the execution – the double execution – sometimes dragged, pulling all the light and the hope from the world. But then it would gallop on, so that you wanted to shout to it to slow down, because every hour, every minute, brought closer that terrible walk to the scaffold.
Liam understood. Once he said, ‘Try not to count the days, Cat. Try to trust me.’
‘I am trying,’ said Catherine. ‘I do trust you.’
But she was counting the days, of course. Very soon she would be counting the hours, and finally the minutes …
Two days before the execution came the news that neither Catherine nor the Earl would face the worst traitor’s death.
A rush of thankfulness swept over her. Without realizing, she reached for the Constable’s hand, and stammered, ‘Thank you. I am so relieved.’
Sir William Kingston’s hand closed around hers, and when he spoke, for the first time his tone was gentle. He said, ‘The executioner is skilled and swift. It will be merciful, Catherine.’
The use of her name was so unexpected that tears rushed to Catherine’s eyes, but she brushed them away at once, because she would not show any weakness to anyone.
THIRTY-ONE
And now the hours had finally run down and a bleak dawn lay over the Tower, grey and hopeless, filled with sadness and despair.
Catherine had not known if Liam would be allowed to come to her room at such an hour, but he was here, taking her hands and putting his arms around her.
Then he said, very softly, ‘Catherine, there is a plan. The guard – Rufus – is part of it. But you must do exactly what I tell you, and you must not question anything.’
‘An escape?’ Catherine scarcely dared frame the word.
‘I hope so. But only for you. Not for Thomas. If there was the least chance of rescuing him, I would take it. But there is not.’ He held her a little away from him, and looked at her very directly. ‘Listen, though,’ he said. ‘Last evening they let me see him – a final farewell. I told him of the plan for you. He was more grateful than I can describe. Catherine, that was a very great, very deep love you had together.’
‘Yes,’ said Catherine in a whisper.
‘I was able to tell him about the boy – that he has a son,’ said Liam. ‘He did not know, and he was almost overwhelmed.’
Even though, from the day she had been brought here, Catherine had vowed not to display weakness, emotion overwhelmed her, and she clung to Liam, trying not to sob, but sobbing anyway.
He held her firmly, and said, ‘Kildare wrote out a form of legacy. A bequest to the boy – not to you, because if we succeed in getting you out, you – and even your name – will have to vanish altogether. Thomas said he could not leave the child as much as he would like, because most of his lands are entailed. There’s a half-brother, I think.’
