Liam O'Flaherty - Land

He knew very well, however, that Raoul’s servant had not come with the object of giving him either honour or pleasure.

“What do you want?” he cried angrily. “State your business and look sharp.”

Ahearn pulled a large white envelope from the inside breast pocket of his jacket, offered it to Neville and said:

“With the compliments of Mr. Raoul Henry St. George and may God spare your honour’s health.”

He thrust the envelope into Neville’s hand and walked away hurriedly. After he had gone about five yards, he put on his hat, spat on his palms, hunched his shoulders and ran as fast as his powerful thighs could carry him.

“Where’s everybody to-day?” Neville said as he tore open the envelope.

Sergeant Geraghty took a pace forward and glanced at Fenton, as if asking for permission to speak. Then he addressed Neville in a low and furtive tone.

“There is dirty work afoot, sir,” he said. “All the people that were summoned to appear before you have been kidnapped during the night.”

Neville had not heard a word of what the sergeant said. On opening the envelope, he discovered the documents relating to the guilt of Michael Bodkin. He lost colour and glanced at Fenton. The District Inspector had seen what was in the envelope. He was smiling faintly, as if politely enjoying the joke played on Neville by Raoul. Neville turned quickly to the sergeant.

“What did you say, Geraghty?” he said. “I asked you what has happened to all the people that are usually here.”

“You did, sir,” Geraghty said, “and I …”

“Allow me to explain,” Fenton intervened. “It seems that those summoned to appear in court have been purloined during the night.”

“Purloined?” said Neville.

“Looks like rebellion, Captain Butcher,” said one of the solicitors from Clash.

“They were taken out of their beds by masked men,” Sergeant Geraghty said.

Daggett, the process-server, an old soldier with a blotched red face, came smartly to attention and said to Neville:

“I served nine men and four women with a summons to appear. Every summons was properly served, sir, according to regulations.”

“All we know, sir,” Sergeant Geraghty added, “is about the four that live in the village here and two others a little way out on the east road. There is no sign of any of them. My men are out now in the country, investigating the others.”

“Have you questioned the relatives of those taken?” said Neville.

“They won’t say a word,” Geraghty said.

“In my opinion, Captain Butcher,” said another of the solicitors, “this is a Fenian conspiracy.”

“Could I have a word with you in private?” Fenton said to Neville.

Neville glanced with hatred at the smiling face of the District Inspector. Then the two men walked up the flagged path leading to the little courthouse. It was a shabby, one-storied building, with grey mortar showing through the yellow paint on its front wall. Stephens, the petty sessions clerk, came forward with a troubled look on his face as they entered.

“Get outside,” Neville said.

The clerk bowed and shuffled out of the court-room, closing the door after him softly.

“What the devil are you grinning at?” Neville said to Fenton when they were alone. “Last time I saw you, it was quite a different story.”

Fenton now smiled broadly. There was a strange glitter in his eyes and he stood with his head thrown very far back.

“That was a long time ago,” he said.

“Have you gone completely insane?” said Neville. “I saw you only four days ago. Have you forgotten already?”

“It was a very long time ago,” Fenton said. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” said Neville.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Fenton said, “there have been important developments that have materially changed the situation in my favour.”

“What developments do you mean?” cried Neville angrily. “These kidnappings?”

“Just a moment,” said Fenton. “I want to say a few words, first of all, about to-morrow’s evictions. Pardon me. It’s not the evictions to which I object, but the garden party that precedes them.”

Neville was now staring at the District Inspector in horror, as if he really had become convinced of the man’s insanity.

“It’s a frightful mistake,” Fenton continued, “a gross blunder, together with being in bad taste. It really is overstepping the mark, to invite the police to a garden party, to give them cakes and ale, prior to throwing unfortunate wretches out of their hovels. You may think that sort of bad manners is going to be mistaken for firmness by the Irish and that it will cow them. Lord Mongoole may think so, too. If you do, I assure you that you are both wrong. Well! There it is. I’ve had my say, just for the fun of the thing.”

He leaned back on his heels and laughed outright.

“Furthermore,” he added, looking slyly at Neville, “I know what was in that envelope. St. George has a sense of humour. I must get to know the fellow.”

Neville suddenly moved up close to the District Inspector’s face and sniffed several times.

“I should have known,” he said in disgust. “You’re dead drunk.”

Fenton’s face became sombre. His eyes were now a trifle bloodshot. He began to sway backwards and forwards slowly.

“I used to be afraid of you, Butcher,” he said. “Not any more, though. Not since this morning. It’s odd that such a trifling development should make so much of a difference. Yet it definitely has done so.”

“What are you talking about?” Neville said, now becoming very nervous. “Speak up before I lose patience with you.”

“The Bodkin incident is closed since nine o’clock this morning,” Fenton said in a casual tone.

“Closed?” said Neville. “How?”

“Not at all the way you wanted it to close,” Fenton said. “He was found hanging from a hook in the ceiling of his tavern room at thirteen minutes past nine this morning. He appears to have stood on the table, removed the lamp, put a cord through the lamp ring, fixed the noose around his neck and jumped. Dr. Waldron examined the remains and said that he died at …”

“He’s dead?” Neville interrupted.

“Quite dead,” Fenton said. “You see, it makes a difference, as far as I’m concerned. Do you understand?”

Neville nodded several times. Then he suddenly grasped Fenton by the tunic with both hands.

“Blast your rotten soul to hell,” he cried as he shook the District Inspector. “You’re dead drunk when I need you most.”

Then he looked into Fenton’s eyes and added in a pathetic tone, as he let go the tunic:

“For God’s sake, pull yourself together. Do you hear?”

Fenton swayed backwards on being released, almost losing his balance. He righted himself with difficulty, smiled faintly and then bowed.

“I grant you that I’m drunk,” he said in a most friendly tone. “I’ve been drinking without interruption all morning. I’m as drunk as a lord.”

The tent was oblong in shape. Five centre poles were required to sustain its spread of canvas. The skirts were raised, showing the taut peg ropes criss-crossed outside like the mooring threads of a spider’s web. The cropped grass on the floor looked black, except where the sunlight entered below the skirts and made a clear-edged margin of green brightness. Up above, near the apex of the roof, there was a patch of canvas that seemed about to come apart. It was the full power of the noonday-sun, coming through a gap in the tall trees of the demesne, that made the rugged cloth transparent at that place.

A long narrow table, set on high trestles, was laden with great quantities of meat and drink. Five men of Lord Mongoole’s household staff distributed these victuals among more than two hundred guests. Three of the servants carried trays of beef and ham sandwiches. The other two carried buckets of ale. One hundred and fifty men of the Royal Irish Constabulary, the majority of them brought from other districts for the evictions, stood facing the table in orderly groups, They ate and drank with the sombre dignity of their profession. Their splendid physique and wholesome faces were in marked contrast with a group of civilians that stood to the rear. These latter men were convicts and town bullies, mainly recruited in the capital and carried around the country at Government expense to perform the more repulsive tasks connected with evictions. The people gave them the nickname of “the crowbar brigade,” because the demolition of cabins was part of their duty. Their ghoulish faces were heavily scarred.