Shadow of Death fk-5 Read online

  Koesler smiled and nodded back.

  Koznicki stopped just short of the revolving doors and looked about. “Father,” he said to Koesler, who had halted beside him, “since we arrived in Dublin—I know it has been only a short while—but have you had the impression of being watched . . . or followed?”

  Koesler thought for a moment, but was unaware of any such perception. “I can’t say that I have.”

  Koznicki glanced about again, then shrugged. “It is probably nothing. Perhaps I have been overly apprehensive lately.”

  “That’s probably it, Inspector. You need to relax.”

  They exited the hotel through the revolving doors, then stopped in the middle of a busy sidewalk on the very wide, historically significant, and statue-punctuated O’Connell Street.

  “I know it’s within easy walking distance,” said Koesler, “but I’m not certain which way.”

  A gentle—or soft—rain was falling steadily. If one stood in it long enough one would be soaked. But for the moment, the drops splattered off their hats and raincoats.

  Koesler approached a passerby, a medium-sized man perhaps in his mid-forties. “I beg your pardon, sir, but could you tell us the way to Trinity College?”

  The man squinted up at him through the rain. Spying the clerical collar, he whipped off his cap and stood at a sort of awkward attention.

  “Well, Father, is it Trinity College you’re wanting? Actually, it’s not a hundred miles from here!”

  “We suspected it was nearby.” Koesler, as he noted that the man rolled his r’s, wished he wouldn’t stand at attention bareheaded in the rain. “But we wondered in which direction. Could you tell us?”

  “I could.”

  There was a pause. Then, “Yes?”

  “Well, now, Father, you’d be going down O’Connell Street here, the very street we’re on. Is that clear so far?”

  “As a bell.”

  “Well, then, Father, you’d be crossing the Liffey at the O’Connell Bridge. Are you acquainted with the Liffey then, Father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you are. What could I be thinking of? Well, then, Father, you’ll be crossing the Liffey, as I’ve said, by the O’Connell Street Bridge. You’ll keep on going—a slight jog to your right it is, on Westmoreland Street. And then, Father, ahead on your right you’ll be seeing Dame Street. And right on the corner, on your abrupt right, you’ll see a large, white building.” He paused.

  “And that’s Trinity College?”

  “It is not.”

  Throughout this one-sided colloquy Koznicki’s smile continued to widen.

  “That would be the Bank of Ireland. Actually, directly across the street—there’s some vicious traffic and many’s the crash on that very corner—as I was saying, directly across the street would be Trinity College itself. Is that clear now, Father?”

  “Crystal.”

  His face radiated triumph. “Is it books you’d be looking for?”

  “That’s right.”

  The triumph glowed more brightly. “It’s the Book of Kells, then?”

  “You’re very perceptive, sir.”

  Raindrops trickled into the upraised corners of the man’s mouth.

  Koesler hesitated, but finally decided, against his better judgment, to essay one more step. “Now, from Trinity, could you tell me how we get to the Dublin Gate Theatre?”

  “I can. But you’ll never make it. Begging your pardon, Father, but follow me.”

  He pulled on his cap and led Father Koesler and Inspector Koznicki down O’Connell Street. Starting with the General Post Office Building, which was bombarded half to shreds during the Easter Uprising of 1916, their self-appointed guide gave them a running commentary on the historicity of nearly every building they passed . . . including the McDonald’s hamburger emporium.

  2.

  “Joe!” Pat Lennon admonished, “if we’re going to spend our declining years together in Sun City, you’re just going to have to remember to drive on the left side of the road.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Cox eased the rented Toyota from the right to the left side of the road. “It’s hard enough getting used to a manual gearshift again—plus, it’s on the wrong side of the steering wheel—without having to remember to drive on the wrong side of the road. But you’re right: going over one of these hills on the right side of the road could lead to the closest encounter of the worst kind.”

  “I love it!” Pat shrieked. “Because we in the States drive on the right side of the road, everybody who drives on the left drives on the ‘wrong’ side. Boy! Talk about your ugly American!”

  They drove on in silence for a brief time, while Cox concentrated on a reversed style of driving.

  “I can certainly see why they call this the Emerald Isle,” said Cox, glancing at the verdant fields and green shadings of the bogs.

  “Wait till you get a look at the Burren to the south—or worse, at Connaught, up a bit north of here. It was Cromwell, that clone of Attila, who vowed to drive the Irish to hell or Connaught.”

  Cox shook his head. “You are a source of constant amazement. How do you know so much about this place?”

  “Well, for one thing, for such a small island, it has a fascinating history. It was known as the Land of Saints and Scholars and— watch it, Joe! We’re getting into Claregalway; there’s a thirty-mile speed limit up ahead.”

  Cox touched the brake and slowed the car. They glided easily through the quiet streets, encountering hardly any traffic.

  As they left Claregalway behind, they saw on the road ahead an elderly woman laboriously pedaling her bicycle uphill.

  “Joe, pull over. Maybe she could use a lift.”

  “But she’s got a bike.”

  “Joe, there’s a rack on the roof. You can put the bike up there.”

  “But—”

  “Joe, she’s an old lady.”

  “Right.”

  They slowed to a stop several yards ahead of the cyclist. Lennon got out and turned to face the woman, who had slowed to a stop. “May we give you a lift?”

  After some protestations that the trip had been made many times before and would be again, the woman finally allowed Cox to heft her light, well-worn bicycle atop the car. Then she climbed into the back and settled in as the journey resumed.

  Pat turned to smile at the woman gently fanning herself in the back seat. “My name is Pat Lennon.”

  “Oh, then, and mine would be Conlon, Mrs. Mary Ellen Conlon.” Eyes crinkling and face creasing into well-worn laugh lines, she returned Lennon’s smile. There was indeed, thought Pat, a world of truth in the old song about when Irish eyes are smiling. Mary Ellen Conlon must have been a real beauty as a young woman.

  “And this,” Lennon indicated her companion, “is Joseph Cox. We’re newspaper reporters from Detroit, Michigan.”

  “Ah, and that would be where they make all those automobiles, now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Among a few other things, yes,” said Cox, keeping his eyes on the road.

  Suddenly, doubt touched Mrs. Conlon’s face. “Lennon and Cox,” she repeated. “And were your people from England, then?”

  Lennon chuckled. She wondered whether Mrs. Conlon had visions of being kidnapped by the English. “I’m afraid Joe has English ancestory, but Lennon is my married name. My maiden name was Cahill.”

  Mrs. Conlon’s furrowed brow smoothed. The score read Irish-2, English-1.

  It was Cox’s turn to chuckle. “Of course; why didn’t I think of it? No wonder you know so much about Irish history.”

  “It’s a proud history, Mr. Cox.” Their passenger’s tone was at once defensive and assertive.

  “I’m sure it is, Mrs. Conlon,” Cox replied. “We were just talking about Connaught and Cromwell.”

  “Ah, the divil himself. He wanted to rid the world of the Irish, but we outlasted him, we did.”

  “Not only him,” Lennon agreed, “but everyone and everything that, barring near miracles, should
have destroyed the Irish.”

  “You mean the Famine?” Cox asked.

  “Oh, much more than the Famine—though that alone could have done it,” Lennon replied. “The first Celtic tribes came here a few centuries before Christ, and their battles among themselves might have become a sort of suicidal genocide. But, regardless, they enjoyed a golden age of their culture until the late eighth century. Despite all the wars and fighting, poetry and art flourished. And each of the Celtic kings kept a bard, a poet-in-residence, and of course each village had its seanachie, the storyteller who passed on the oral traditions of the people.

  “Then came St. Patrick and Christianity, which produced a lot of scholars, saints, and missionaries.”

  “And the Book of Kells,” Cox supplied.

  “The Book of Kells,” Lennon agreed, “the illuminated manuscripts of the Gospels. But then the country was invaded by the Norsemen who, again, might have destroyed everything if it hadn’t been for the great king, Brian Boru.

  “Boru broke the strength of the invaders at the Battle of Clontarf and established a peace that lasted 150 years, during which Ireland was free of all foreign influences.

  “And then, along came Adrian IV.”

  “The English Pope you mentioned on the plane?”

  “The same: Nicholas Breakspear. He gave overlordship of Ireland to Henry II of England. After that, things went steadily downhill and continued in that direction for roughly 800 years.

  “Gradually, the English took possession of the land and the Irish were lucky to have enough room for a hovel and a little earth in which to grow their precious potatoes.

  “Then, when Henry VIII broke with the Church, he feared a Catholic invasion. So he stepped even harder on Catholic Ireland and established as his own the ‘Church of Ireland.’ Which didn’t daunt the Irish Catholics; it just drove the wedge between Ireland and England deeper.

  “The Irish rebellion in the mid-seventeenth century was the one crushed by our genocidal friend Cromwell. It cost hundreds of thousands of Irish lives and, once again, nearly destroyed the race.”

  At this point, Mrs. Conlon began to hum softly. Cox wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a tune that sounded like “Wearin’ of the Green.”

  “And on and on it went from uprising to uprising, until 1846 and 1847, when the potato crops failed. For the majority of the Irish, the potato was their sole source of nourishment. And, while the English did little to help, and even continued to export Irish produce to England, two million Irish men, women, and children starved to death over a two-year period, or died of disease brought on by starvation.

  “Add to that all the Irish who fled on what came to be called ‘coffin ships’ to North America, and you’ve got to wonder how the Irish race survived!”

  “But for the Grace of God!” Mrs. Conlon said, almost as a prayer.

  “That’s about as complete a thumbnail sketch of a nation’s history as I’ve ever heard,” Cox commended.

  “Once I get started on Ireland, it’s hard to stop.”

  “We’re coming into Galway, Mrs. Conlon,” Cox announced needlessly, as signs were everywhere. “Is this as far as you go?”

  “It is not,” she said. “But I’ll not be troubling you two young people any further. This is fine, just fine.”

  “No, no,” Lennon protested, “we’re in no hurry. Besides, we want to drive out on the peninsula and get a look at the shore and the bay.”

  “Well, if that’s the case,” said Mrs. Conlon, “I’ll just stay with you until you get to Barna, if it’s all the same.”

  “Sure,” said Cox, “no trouble at all.”

  As they left Galway, to the left they could see the bay. A few minutes later, as they neared Barna, far out, they could make out the Aran Islands.

  “This will be fine,” said Mrs. Conlon, “just fine.”

  “There’s a pub up just a few more feet,” said Cox. “How about joining us for a little drink?”

  “Well, if it’s no trouble,” said Mrs. Conlon, “I don’t mind if I do.”

  Cox pulled the car off the road into the small parking lot that fronted the pub.

  There were a few elderly men and one middle-aged woman inside. After waiting several seconds for their eyes to become accustomed to the dim interior, Cox and Lennon and their passenger took a table near the middle of the rectangular room.

  Lennon and Cox each ordered a Guinness. Mrs. Conlon’s order was, “a half one,” which, to Cox and Lennon’s interest, turned out to be a whiskey, neat. Lennon and Cox began sipping their stout while Mrs. Conlon merely contemplated the amber liquid that rested quietly in her glass without benefit of ice or water.

  “And where will you two young people be going from here?”

  “We’re going to try to make the Connemara circle,” said Lennon.

  “Ah, that would be ambitious,” Mrs. Conlon observed. “But you’ll love the Twelve Bens, as well as Killary Harbor. And then of course there’s Croagh Patrick. It’s a grand sight, all in all.”

  Cox stared out a side window. Nearly sotto voce, he sang, “And watch the suds flow down by Galway Bay . . .”

  “I think you’ll find that’s ‘. . . and watch the sun go down on Galway Bay,’ Mr. Cox,” said Mrs. Conlon.

  “Not according to the Clancy Brothers,” said Cox.

  “But come now,” he continued raising his glass, “all those things the English—my people—did to the Irish—your people— took place long ago. The Republic of Ireland is free and, I’m told, forgiving. So, how about a farewell, a parting toast? How about it?”

  Lennon and Mrs. Conlon obligingly raised their glasses.

  “The Queen!” Cox tipped his glass to his lips.

  “Up her kilt!” Mrs. Conlon added, and downed her whiskey in a swallow.

  As Mrs. Conlon was leaving the pub, she paused to look back. Joe Cox was still choking and Pat Lennon was still pounding him on the back.

  3.

  “I had intended to tell you before the play began, Father, but, as it turned out, there simply was no time.”

  “What is it, Inspector?”

  Koznicki and Koesler had met at the Dublin Gate Theatre just as the performance was about to begin. They had had time only to find their places and be seated as the curtain rose on Act One.

  Koesler had had in tow one Daren Ahern, the helpful gentleman who earlier in the day had led them to Trinity College and the theater box office. As a reward, over Ahern’s protests, Koesler had bought him a ticket too.

  It was now intermission and the three men were standing in a tightly packed crowd on the sidewalk just outside the theater.

  “Mr. Ahern,” said Koznicki, “would you mind very much getting the three of us some orange juice at the stand in the lobby?”

  “I would not mind at all,” said Ahern, almost snapping to attention. “It would be a privilege and a pleasure.”

  As Ahern plowed back through the crowd, Koznicki said, “What I have to say is for your ears alone, Father. Just before leaving for the theater tonight, I phoned Hammersmith Hospital in London.”

  “You did?” Koesler asked anxiously. “How is Ramon?”

  “In a word, better. The doctors, of course, continue to marvel . . . and to be most guarded in their prognosis. But the Reverend Toussaint has been removed from the intensive care unit.”

  “He has? That’s wonderful!”

  “I thought so also. But the doctors continue to caution that the possibility of complications from any number of sources is very great. The Reverend remains on the critical list.”

  So far so good, thought Koesler. But what was there in what Koznicki had said that couldn’t have been said in front of anyone, including a stranger such as Ahern?

  Koznicki was about to address the point. “This is what I wanted to tell you alone: I asked the doctors to release the information that their prognosis of the Reverend Toussaint’s condition is such that they do not expect him to regain consciousness—ever—even if h
e should happen to recover physically.”

  Koesler’s mouth dropped open. “But you just said the doctors believe he is improved and they’ve removed him from intensive care!”

  “That is correct. But the people who beat the Reverend wanted not only his suffering but his death. The fact that he is not dead must be a source of frustration—and concern—to them.

  “It is the same with Cardinal Boyle: There are those who want him dead. That he has survived two assaults is undoubtedly galling to his would-be assassins. We must assume they will continue to try to achieve their ultimate aim . . . and that is why we continue to guard him.”

  “And you feel the same may happen to Ramon.”

  “He is still alive and his enemies want him dead, certainly. But, added to that, there is always the possibility that if the Reverend should regain consciousness he might be able to identify his assailants.

  “And consider this, Father: Whoever attacked the Reverend seemed determined to exact revenge not only by taking his life but also by brutalizing him in the process. A publicized prognosis of a permanent coma—pray God it does not prove true—should more than satisfy his enemies. If in some way they could have transformed him into a vegetable, they surely would have. With this information released, they should be content that he is condemned to this living death . . . sufficiently content not to again attempt his actual extinction.”

  “How shrewd. Inspector. An excellent plan!”

  “The Polish mind never rests.” Koznicki could not resist a grin.

  Koesler grinned back, but stopped suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot: What about Emerenciana?”

  “His wife is at the Reverend’s bedside. She arrived today and will remain with him.”

  “I’m glad. I’ll phone her tomorrow.”

  “Now then, isn’t it a grand play, though?” Ahem returned, on cue as it were, bearing three paper cups of orange juice. He had all he could do to avoid spilling them as he elbowed his way through the crowd.

  “Yes,” Koesler agreed, “I’m so glad they’re having this revival of Brian Friel’s Translations. I read some reviews of it when it premiered here in 1980 but I never thought I’d get a chance to see it. It is so inventively done, don’t you think?”