Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

‘You’ll want this.’

Cavendish opened the tin and took out the notebook. He nodded.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Stefan didn’t know whether Eddie McMurrough was still driving his tractor up past the Avonbeg ford to Sheila Hogan’s cottage, but he thought he probably was. Wicklow farmers were persistent. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be left alone to find some kind of life.

‘What did you make of it, Sergeant?’

‘Some of it you could get from Thom’s Directory . Like a list of Jews in Clanbrassil Street. Some of it you couldn’t. Like which ones have got real money and which ones have got friends in Fianna Fail. You could move on to the Dail members Keller treated for syphilis, and people in government who wouldn’t squeak too loudly if the IRA found a way to get rid of Dev. I haven’t memorised it all if that’s what you’re worried about. But it’s in a simple enough shorthand. Anybody with decent German could read it.’

‘Does it identify Keller’s informants?’

‘A lot of them probably. He’s very thorough.’

There was nothing more to say. He knew what they really wanted. It wasn’t about what Hugo Keller might have passed on to Adolf Mahr in the way of information; it was about where the information came from. It would be a list, another list of people. People who could be trusted and people who couldn’t. And one day it might be about who was arrested and who wasn’t. The smell of all that had been in his nostrils too long. He’d had enough of it.

‘You’ve got what you want,’ said Stefan.

‘Is Miss Rosen going back to Palestine?’ Cavendish asked.

Stefan was surprised. ‘Why would that interest you?’

‘It doesn’t, but it interests you I imagine. I don’t know if she’s finished what she’s doing for the Haganah, but I’m reliably informed she’ll be lucky to get through London without British Intelligence putting a tail on her. When she gets to Palestine it’s unlikely she won’t be arrested and questioned by the Mandate Police. Not the Gestapo, but well worth her knowing.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I talk to all sorts of people.’

‘Does that include British Special Branch?’

‘Please, Sergeant, you’ve got to draw the line somewhere. But don’t think they’re beyond exchanging information with German Intelligence, or the Gestapo if it suits them. Obviously she’s drawn attention to herself.’

‘I’ll tell her. Thank you.’ He smiled, remembering that first day in Pearse Street. ‘I’ve questioned her myself. I’d say good luck to whatever colonial hack draws that straw.’

As he stood up to leave, Cavendish frowned.

‘What did you make of the Nazis?’

‘Make of them?’

‘In their natural habitat.’

‘They didn’t surprise me, Lieutenant, if that’s what you mean.’

‘That’s what’s surprising, the fact that there’s nothing surprising about them. They tell you who they are. They tell you what they want. They tell you what they’re going to do. And when they do it, everyone’s surprised.’

Not everything in Hugo Keller’s notebook was in the biscuit tin Stefan had handed over to Military Intelligence. As he walked up Grafton Street and on to Stephen’s Green, he was heading for Robert Fitzpatrick’s house in Earlsfort Terrace. The letters the monsignor had written to Vincent Walsh were still in his pocket. He arrived as the bookshop opened. An elderly man told him that Monsignor Fitzpatrick was at Mass at the University Church and, though Stefan didn’t ask, he also told him that Sister Brigid had been taken ill. The man seemed very worried, because the illness had come on so suddenly and he didn’t even know where they’d taken her to be treated. Sister Brigid’s abrupt illness didn’t come as any great surprise to Stefan.

He left the house and walked back to Stephen’s Green and the University Church. The Mass had ended now and he passed the last Mass-goers as he moved through the atrium of the long, narrow building. Angelic figures directed him into the blaze of marble and glass that was the nave, each one holding a scroll. ‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Domine Deus Sabaoth.’ Holy, Holy, Holy, is the Lord of Hosts. Above the altar, in a half dome of blue and gold and red, the Natural World paid homage to God’s creation. At its centre sat Our Lady Seat of Reason. Robert Fitzpatrick knelt at the altar rail. His head was raised up to the Virgin above him, though his eyes were tightly closed. Stefan sat in a pew at the back of the church and waited for him. After a few minutes the monsignor rose from his knees and bowed his head. He crossed himself and turned to leave, but as he walked forward he saw Stefan Gillespie get up and step into the aisle in front of him, blocking his way.

‘I don’t think we have any more reason to speak to each other, Sergeant.’

‘I think we have, Monsignor.’

‘That’s not my understanding. You certainly have no business here.’

‘It won’t involve anything God doesn’t know already.’

‘My sister has done nothing. It’s a lie.’

‘You think so? She told Sean Moran to get your letters from Vincent Walsh. When his Blueshirt pals buggered it up she sent him back to shut the poor bastard up for good. And when you told her to send a taxi car for Father Byrne, to bring Susan Field to hospital, she sent Sean instead, to clean up the mess. You do know why Vincent wouldn’t let go of the letters? He’d got the wrong end of the stick. He actually thought he was protecting you, Monsignor.’

It was difficult to read what was going on in Robert Fitzpatrick’s head. For some seconds he simply stared at Stefan. His face was white. There was something almost ferocious in his eyes; it could have been rage or despair. Then, quite abruptly, it was gone, and there was nothing. It was as if a light had been switched off. His face relaxed into a look of calm, bland disdain.

‘There really is no more to say, Sergeant Gillespie.’

‘I don’t care what you tell yourself, Monsignor. I don’t care what you believe. I’m not here for that.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Because I need your help.’

‘And what makes you think I’d want to help you?’

‘I’m sure you will. They can put a lid on a lot, but not on me. I haven’t finished with you.’

‘You disgust me!’

Robert Fitzpatrick stepped past Stefan. He gave him a look of withering contempt. Stefan grabbed him. He turned the priest round and held him by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him close and gazing angrily into his eyes.

‘You need to talk to me. You really do, I promise you.’

He let him go. Fitzpatrick didn’t move.

‘Do you know who Father Anthony Carey is?’

The priest was puzzled. The name meant nothing immediately.

‘He’s a curate in Baltinglass, but that’s not it; he’s in your Association of Catholic Strength. I think he’s a man you would probably know, Monsignor.’

Fitzpatrick answered warily, slowly, but he answered.

‘Yes, yes, I think I know who you mean. But I don’t understand — ’

‘Your Church is trying to take my son away from me, because of him. And he’s your man, isn’t he?’ Stefan explained what had happened. He didn’t need to go into detail. It all made sense to Robert Fitzpatrick. In fact there was nothing about it that seemed in the least bit unreasonable to him. The contact he had had with Stefan Gillespie now gave him every reason to believe that Father Carey had been doing what any decent priest should have done.

‘This isn’t any business of mine.’

‘You can make it your business.’

‘Why should I? Why would you imagine I’d even consider it?’