Cold spring, p.17
Cold Spring, page 17
He arrived home in the afternoon while his father was on the hill tending the lambs. His mother came out to welcome him when she heard the car. She took him into the old house and told him about the ‘lodger’ in his room. It was a long story. She was quite breathless by the time she’d finished.
She grasped his hand and said, ‘I’m pleased you’ve come home. You must talk to Daddy. He won’t listen to me. Try to make him see sense.’
He didn’t know what to think. His first thought was that here were the guts of a good story, but how could he use it without getting his parents into trouble? They obviously didn’t see eye to eye about what to do, and the last thing he wanted was to act as referee. He probably felt closer to his mother than his father. She wrote regularly and kept him primed with all the local news. On the other hand, he didn’t want to fall out with his father, whom he’d always admired for his practical commonsense. He was a man who could turn his hand to whatever needed to be done, and if he didn’t have the right tool for the job, he’d be sure to find a makeshift substitute. Clearly, he would have to tread carefully. What they both wanted was a way out of the impasse. A walk on the hill might help clear his mind.
When he’d had a cup of tea with his mother, he changed into his old clothes and found an old pair of wellingtons that his father had discarded. As the wellingtons were a size too big, his mother gave him a pair of thick woollen socks, which he put on over his own. He drew on his old duffle coat, and his mother told him that all he needed now was a string of tin cans to pass for a tinker.
At the end of the lane he met Muiris returning from the hill. He was carrying his shepherd’s crook and wearing his Antarctic hat. He stood facing the low sun, squinting as he tried to look like Shackleton.
‘You’re home for a few days,’ he said.
‘Just for the turf-cutting.’
‘Do you think you’re up to it? The sleán is heavier than the pen, I’ll bet.’
‘And healthier, too. Nothing beats working in the open on a good day.’
‘What’s the latest news on Ambrose?’ From the way Muiris changed the subject, he wondered if this were a trick question.
‘The last I heard they were still looking for him.’
‘They’ll never find him,’ Muiris said.
‘You think he’s already slipped through the net?’
‘If I know anything, he’s beyond the Jordan by now.’
‘The guards have alerted the English police. If he’s in England, he could be arrested and sent back.’
‘But he may not be in England. Have you thought of that?’
‘You mean he may have gone further? I suppose he could be on a boat to Canada or Australia. But he wouldn’t necessarily be safe on a boat. Dr Crippen was arrested on a ship bound for Quebec.’
‘Poison was Crippen’s weapon. A length of cod-line was Ambrose’s. If they catch him, I’ll write to the hangman and tell him to use cod-line.’ Muiris whacked the ferrule of his crook against his boot.
‘I’ll call down to see you one evening,’ Jim said.
‘And we’ll swap stories over a glass or two. I can tell you some good ones about Ambrose. I’d better be going before the quare one catches up with us.’
Sharon was coming from the well with a bucket of water. Jim sat on the ditch and waited till she came up. She was wearing a white smock with a blue apron over it, and her hair was swept up in an untidy bun at the back.
‘Let me carry the bucket for you. I’m doing nothing else.’
She smiled and put down the bucket with a little sigh. As they walked up the road, she asked him if he’d heard any news of Nick.
‘Only what you’ve heard. The police think he’d already left the country by the time he was reported missing.’
‘I doubt that somehow. He didn’t have any money, you see.’
‘He could have got a lift to Dublin and borrowed money from a friend.’
‘I know his friends. They’re all skint like himself.’
‘The whole thing is a great mystery from start to finish,’ he said.
When they reached the house, she invited him in for a cup of tea. ‘It will be black tea, she added. ‘I don’t have any milk, I’m afraid.’
The kitchen was in a state of confusion, everything scattered higgledy-piggledy, nothing in its proper place. The little girl was sitting on the hearth, putting her doll to sleep in a shoebox. The fire had died down, and there was no turf in the basket in the chimney corner.
‘Let me bring in some turf,’ he said.
‘We’re running low. There’s only enough left for tomorrow.’
He brought in an armful of turf and a few sticks and got the fire going again. She hung the kettle on the pothook over the fire and sat down beside him on what used to be a settle-bed.
‘Help me,’ she said. ‘You’re a journalist; you’re trained to see things from every point of view.’ His left hand was resting on his knee, and she took it and pressed it between both her own.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked seriously.
‘You can make people realise there’s more than one possibility. Nick has been branded a criminal without trial. Surely that can’t be right.’
‘The police think he absconded to escape justice. I can’t change their minds.’
‘You can write an article from a different angle. It’s only good journalism to question what everyone else thinks is gospel. Isn’t that what journalists do?’
‘But it needs to have the ring of truth even though it may not be true.’
‘Look at me, Jim. Do you think I’m lying?’
‘No, I don’t think you’re lying. Like the rest of us, you’re totally in the dark.’
‘I know Nick. He would never have left Emily and me in the lurch like this. Something must have happened to him, something he hadn’t foreseen.’
‘According to the reports I’ve read, you said you woke up to find him missing from the bed. He must have had a reason to get up so early.’
‘He used to walk on the cliffs whenever he couldn’t sleep. He was fond of the sea. He could have fallen down a bank.’
‘Did you tell that to the police?’
‘The police think he’s a murderer, and so does everyone else here. That’s the problem. He’s been found guilty in absentia. Isn’t that how you journalists put it?’
‘Not on my paper. You must be thinking of The Irish Times.’
‘Anyway, there’s nothing I can do because no one will listen to me. You could help me if you had a mind to. You could write an article putting out my point of view. You don’t have to say it’s my view. You can give it what you call “the ring of truth”.’
He thought for a moment.
‘I’m on holiday, he said, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘You could get another journalist to write it. You could tell him everything I said.’
He looked at her and realised with a sense of helplessness that he wanted to go to bed with her. In spite of the tousled hair, she was a very attractive woman, more attractive than a layabout like Ambrose deserved.
‘I must be going now,’ he said.
‘You won’t wait for a cup of tea?’
‘I’d better be going. I’ll bring you some milk and a creel of turf tomorrow. I’m sure the little one likes milk in her tea.’
‘And you’ll remember what I said?’ She took his hand again and looked at him with imploring eyes.
‘My editor’s a bastard. What gets published is not up to me.’
‘I know about writing because of Nick,’ she said. ‘A writer can make anything sound true. I know about painting as well. Let me show you something before you go.’
She went to the bedroom and came back with a painting, which she stood on the table against the wall. It showed a tall, thin man and his sheepdog against a bleached-out landscape. The man was leaning on his staff, looking left, and the dog by his side was facing right. Behind the two stark figures was the outline of a mountain he recognised as Sliabh Tuaidh. The man’s scrutinising glance suggested a forceful and wily mind, and his self-conscious pose challenged all who would seek to probe behind the mask. It was a painting of hidden psychological power, he thought.
‘It’s obviously meant to be Muiris and his dog.’
‘Is it, now?’ she smiled.
‘Well, it reminds me of Muiris but I know it isn’t Muiris. If it were just Muiris, it would have less force. It isn’t what it tells you but the questions it makes you ask.’
‘You see what I mean? Now you know how to write your article.’
She didn’t give up easily. He reckoned she might be an interesting woman to get to know.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘But what will you do if he doesn’t come back?’
She looked at him searchingly for a moment. ‘I can’t stay here on my own forever,’ she replied.
19
On his return he found his father and mother lighting a fire in the kitchen of the old house. Having made a shakedown in the corner, complete with sheets and blankets, they had cleared a space on the floor around the bed and placed a kitchen chair on each side of the fireplace.
‘So this is my room for the night!’ Jim smiled. ‘You’re certainly making sure I’ll be comfortable.’
‘No, you’ll be in your own room. This is for Ambrose,’ his mother said.
‘If he’s still feeling poorly, let him stay where he is and I’ll sleep out here.’
‘That would never do. I’ve spoken to him. He’s feeling much better. He says he doesn’t mind.’
‘He probably thinks he can escape,’ his father said.
‘He must know there’s no point with the police on his tail.’
‘Somehow I don’t think that would deter him.’
‘I’ll go and get your tea.’ His mother went off with her hands in her apron pockets.
His father sat on one of the chairs and reached out his hands towards the fire as if to warm the palms. Hunched over the hearth, he looked serious and preoccupied. He had got himself into a mess. Jim didn’t like to see him look so defeated.
‘What did your mother tell you about Ambrose?’
‘She said he was at death’s door for a day or two.’
‘Women exaggerate. It wasn’t that bad.’
‘It still isn’t good. You know you can’t keep him here
forever.’
‘He’s a headstrong devil. I wanted him to sign a confession but he wouldn’t. You’re an educated man, Jim. Your word carries more weight than mine. Maybe he’ll listen to you.’
‘A confession signed under duress is a non-starter. It isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.’
‘So what must we do?’
‘The simple thing is to let the police deal with him. They seem to have the evidence now. Once they get hold of him, they’ll charge him.’
‘But isn’t that the problem! They don’t have any new evidence. I was talking to McNally yesterday. They think he ran away to escape justice. That’s the only reason they want to interview him.’
‘It’s absurd.’
‘Well, that’s how it is. If I hand him over now, I’ll be in trouble with the law for wrongful imprisonment, can’t you see? I could even be charged with perverting the course of justice, as they say. Besides, if the neighbours get wind of his whereabouts, his life won’t be worth a fart. It’s back to Agent Cox and the Triangle again.’
‘The Triangle? Surely not. Not in this day and age.’
‘If you don’t believe me, ask Daniel. Like me, he would have nothing to do with it.’
‘Would Ambrose agree to vanish in return for a sum of money?’ Jim wondered.
‘Where would I get enough money? Besides, I’m sure he wouldn’t go anywhere without Sharon and the wee one.’
They were seated on opposite sides of the fire, looking at the flames beginning to take hold. For a long time neither spoke.
‘I suppose I’ve been lucky in life,’ his father said. ‘I’ve never been in a pickle like this before.’
‘There must be a way out. Ambrose sees himself as a writer. I think I know a trick that might tickle his vanity. I’ll talk to him this evening. Who knows, he may discover where his true interest lies.’
* * *
When they’d eaten, he went into the bedroom to see Ambrose, who was sitting up reading about himself in an old copy of the Irish News. He looked gaunt and pale, barely recognisable with his black stubble. Jim couldn’t help noticing his dainty hands. They could easily have been the hands of a priest. He found it difficult to believe that they belonged to the man who had garrotted Paddy Canty.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘A bit stronger than yesterday. Your mother is as good as any nurse.’
‘I think it’s time you and I had a talk. My father held you because he caught you trying to break into the house. He’s convinced it was you who murdered Paddy Canty,
and so are all the neighbours. I don’t mind telling you that if any of the neighbours got to know where you are, your life wouldn’t be worth the steam off your piss. The police are also on your tail, so I wouldn’t advise you to try to escape.’
‘I know the police are after me, but I refuse to believe my life’s in danger from my neighbours.’
‘You heard of Max Cox, the landlord’s agent.’
‘The man who disappeared and was never found?’
‘He didn’t just disappear. He was murdered and buried on the mountain. Everyone who was ever born in Leaca could show you where.’
Jim told him about the Triangle and how the idea had been resurrected as a means of getting justice for Paddy Canty. Ambrose put aside the newspaper and for a long time just stared vacuously at the foot of the bed.
‘I’d like you to know I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘You must believe me. I need your help.’
‘I don’t see how I can help you.’
‘I’ll tell you everything I know about that terrible night. We were down to our last shilling and Sharon didn’t have any finished paintings to sell. I knew that Paddy Canty had sold his wethers at Ardara fair and that he was bound to have money in the house. I got up in the small hours unbeknown to Sharon and went over to Paddy’s to see if I could rob him. People used to say he was the richest man in Leaca. The way I saw things he mightn’t miss a pound or two. Well, when I got to his house, the back door was open. I waited a long time because I didn’t know what to think. Finally, I entered and shone my torch. He was sitting in his armchair with his head resting on his chest. I’ll never forget it. I knew right away that he was dead. I didn’t touch anything and I didn’t steal anything. I just made for home as fast as I could. You must believe me. It’s my only hope.’
‘Did you realise then that he’d been murdered?’
‘I didn’t spot the marks on his neck but I knew from the terrible expression on his face. He looked as if he was trying to scream and couldn’t. It’s a sight I’ll never forget.’
‘Did you tell that to the police?’
‘No, I couldn’t admit I was there at the scene of the crime. They would have taken it as an admission of guilt.’
‘It would have been better than telling a lie.’
‘It’s too late to change my story now.’
‘If what you say is true, someone else must have murdered Paddy Canty.’
‘And it’s in that person’s interest to pin the rap on me.’
He looked into Ambrose’s sunken eyes and then at his hands. He had no convincing reason to believe him. For all he knew he might be spinning another yarn. Yet he sensed that he was talking to a man who was telling the truth out of sheer desperation, not because he wanted to but because it was the only thing left for him to do.
‘I need time and opportunity to clear my name. That’s where you can help me. I’m relying on you to get me out of here. I won’t be a free man till the real culprit is caught.’
‘He won’t be caught while the police believe you’re the murderer. They’ve stopped looking for anyone else. You’ll have to tell them the story you just told me. They may believe you or they may not. It’s a risk you’ll have to take.’
‘Well, it’s a risk I’m not willing to take. I’ve got friends in Dublin. If you could get me there, I’d lie low till I manage to clear my name.’
‘Where would you live in Dublin?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘And what would you live on?’
‘I’m a writer. You might be able to push freelance work in my direction till I find my feet.’
‘You’ve worked everything out.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since your mother said you were coming home.’
‘Well, let me put an idea to you. You’ve had, shall we say, an interesting experience. Handled in the right way, it would make a good story. You could fill me in on the details and I would write it.’
‘I don’t need a ghost writer. I’m well able to write it myself.’
‘You could write it, but will it sell? That’s the question.’
‘I’ll write it and you can edit it, but I must have the final say.’
