Whistle for the Crows Page 13

  Cathleen moved away from the bedside.

  “Has Kitty been up this evening?”

  “I’ve not seen a sign of her.”

  “She wasn’t feeling well. She must have gone out for some air.”

  This proved to be so, for as Cathleen went down she met Kitty hurrying up the stairs. The colour was even brighter in her cheeks, and she gasped, “Was my aunt annoyed with me for not coming to dinner?”

  “She was only worried that you might not be well for tomorrow. You do look better. Have you been out in the garden?”

  “Yes. Until it got dark. The fresh air did my head good.”

  “That’s fine. I’d go to bed now, if I were you, since it looks as if none of us will be spared tomorrow.”

  “Those horrible children!” Kitty exclaimed. Then she added quickly, “I didn’t mean that. Only I have this every year, and it’s no joke.”

  “I don’t suppose it is. But I’ll help. I’m not allergic to small children.”

  Kitty gave her a quick glance.

  “Neither am I when I have the energy, but I just don’t know how—” She stopped as if she had been afraid of saying too much. “I’m going to bed, Mrs. Lamb. Goodnight.”

  Cathleen went to bed early, too, but nobody else did. Very late she heard Miss O’Riordan coming up the stairs laughing uproariously. She called to somebody.

  “Not a second late for breakfast, mind! After tomorrow we can rest on our laurels. Heigh ho, what a relief that will be!”

  It had been a long day, but for Miss O’Riordan and one of her nephews, or perhaps both of them, a festive night. It seemed as if it would be only Cathleen and perhaps the over-sensitive Kitty who had nightmares about a tinker, dead by accident.

  She had no idea what time Liam and Rory went to bed, for she fell asleep herself and woke only once. That was when she thought she saw a tiny flicker of light in one of the windows of the west wing. It was so small and pale it could have been a candle flame. But it must have been only the reflection of the sinking moon, for the west wing was closed. No one ever went there.

  Patsy was out early in the morning, tidying the gravel paths. Cathleen heard the scrape of his rake beneath her window, and leaned out to call good morning to him.

  He lifted his disgruntled face.

  “Traipsing, traipsing, traipsing,” he said. “That’ll be the way of it all day. I don’t know why I bother to tidy up now. Postman’s been, miss. Letter for you.”

  The cool finger of apprehension touched her again. A letter for her. The only letter she had had here had been the anonymous one.

  She flew downstairs to find two letters on the hall table. The top one was for herself, and with relief she saw that it was from Ronald Gault, who no doubt wondered how she was getting on, and why he hadn’t heard from her. It was the one underneath that made her stand still, her scalp prickling.

  It was addressed to Miss Matilda O’Riordan, and it was written in that now familiar laborious printing. The postmark, Cathleen noticed, was Galway. The letter had been posted at eleven o’clock the previous evening. Approximately twenty-four hours after the death of the tinker…

  “Ah, I’m glad to see you up and about, Mrs. Lamb,” came Miss O’Riordan’s vigorous voice. “I might be asking you as a favour to help Mary Kate in the kitchen today. You said you didn’t mind what you did. Some mail? Bills, I expect.”

  Cathleen handed her the letter, watching her face. It registered plain astonishment. Her shock was such that she even forgot Cathleen’s presence and with tense fingers ripped open the envelope.

  “What is it, Miss O’Riordan?”

  She started, looking at Cathleen with an absent air. Her face seemed to have grown much older. Then she recollected herself and pushed the paper and envelope into her pocket.

  “Nothing,” she said. Her eyes became hostile. “Why do you ask?”

  “I thought you looked upset.”

  “I don’t enjoy begging letters, if you must know. I see no reason why you should know. Where are my nephews? Where’s Kitty? Why isn’t anyone down? I told them not to be late.”

  “Miss O’Riordan, is someone threatening you?” Cathleen’s anxiety made her speak.

  She was rewarded with a ferocious stare.

  “Threatening me! Who would dare?”

  She strode away. It was Cathleen who was trembling, not from fear but pure shock. The tinker wasn’t dead. Her dreadful discovery had all been imagination. Or if he were, he had been innocent, a merely annoying and persistent purveyor of his wares. Someone else, someone unknown, was the persecutor.

  The day bade fair to be a disaster. Kitty, very pale and looking as if she hadn’t slept at all, came down to be at once the butt for her aunt’s temper.

  “How can you look like that, today of all days? Washed out, feeble, not fit to be seen!”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Tilly. My head isn’t better yet.”

  “Then have some coffee and take some more aspirin. No, don’t take aspirin, I’ll dose you up with some good Irish whisky. My God, where are those lazy boys? They’ll have to be leaving for the station shortly.”

  “Here I am, Aunt Tilly,” said Liam, strolling in, dressed in riding clothes. “I’ve been exercising the horses. You should have come out with me, Cathleen. Post been?”

  “It has,” said Aunt Tilly. “I don’t know why you ask. It never brings anything but trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Bills, begging letters. Give, give, give! What do they think we are? The Bank of Ireland? Well, thanks be, here’s Rory at last. Now we can get breakfast over.”

  “Who’s treating you like the bank?” Rory asked.

  “Everyone!” said Aunt Tilly. “Everyone! As well you know.”

  “But I don’t know, Aunt Tilly. Who?”

  “Leave it be!” Aunt Tilly screamed. “I make an idle remark, and there’s all this fuss. Now can we get this dreadful day organized? And thankful I’ll be when I can close my eyes this evening.”

  The woman was a superb actress. For when the two meek sisters in their black habits arrived with the gaggle of small children, Aunt Tilly’s manner showed nothing but graciousness. One would have thought she had waited all this year for the pleasure of this day and her contribution towards the less fortunate. In her black dress, she swooped about like a long-legged crane, scaring the little ones into speechlessness and organizing the adults, including the glowering Mary Kate and Patsy, with firm authority.

  It had been arranged that Cathleen and Kitty supervise the children’s lunch in the dining-room while Miss O’Riordan took care of Sister Mary Martha and Sister Veronica in the library. The sisters were to rest, the children were to make as much noise as they cared to.

  But on the whole they were an awestruck and timid collection. They were too young and the day was being too much for them. The possessor of the most vitality was the square and belligerent redhead, Peter Brady. Cathleen couldn’t take her eyes off him. She pondered, as Rory must have done, the boy’s true identity. He was an engaging youngster with a wide grin and fearless eyes.

  Cathleen tried to ask him questions.

  “Do you like being in the orphanage, Peter?”

  “It’s foine.”

  “Have you been there long?”

  “I have.” He darted off into a wild game, plunging over Patsy’s neatly dug beds. When Cathleen had captured him again he was giggling wildly and out of breath.

  “Peter, where’s your mother?”

  He stared at her comprehendingly.

  “Where’s your Mammy?”

  “One day I went away.”

  “From where, Peter? From who?”

  “I sleep in a dormtry. We all sleeps in dormtries.” He wriggled free. “I want to play.”

  “Peter, have you got a father?”

  The bright blue eyes beneath the shock of red hair stared at her impatiently.

  “I want to play, I want to play.”

  He was too little. He had
already forgotten where he had come from. The stocky little body, the engaging, impudent face had all the virility of the O’Riordans. But there was no physical resemblance.

  Later she realized Rory was standing beside her. He looked thoughtful, perhaps slightly amused. It wasn’t easy to read his expression. But he, too, was watching Peter Brady.

  “He deserves better than a drunkard for a father, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s too little to talk sense,” Cathleen burst out. Rory began to laugh. “That must be frustrating for you.” He gave her his insolent assessing gaze. “Are you still determined to solve our problems? You won’t, you know. One simply produces another.”

  This was so true that Cathleen was provoked into exclaiming, “Rory, your aunt’s still being blackmailed!”

  “Who by? All these little boys?”

  “Rory, for heaven’s sake! Something dreadful will happen. I’m sure it will. You should have seen her this morning. She was terrified.”

  “Aunt Tilly terrified! Never!” He was still laughing softly, but his eyes were thoughtful and quite cold.

  The day ended with Patsy losing his temper, and doing a dance of rage, a comic little figure shaking his fists at a collection of suddenly awed and silent children.

  “Oh, the divil fly wi’ ye all, and good riddance! I niver seen the likes since Mr. Rory and Mr. Shamus were little lads. Git away wi’ ye all!”

  He lunged at them and the children scattered in all directions.

  “Shame on you, Patsy!” called Mary Kate. “And the day just over.”

  “Niver soon enough for me!”

  The cars were at the door, Rory’s shabby roadster and the Rolls. One of the children was missing. Peter Brady. Miss O’Riordan, too was missing. She was in the library, the red-headed boy half asleep on her lap. His shock of bright hair, his drowsy face, was pressed against her flat bosom.

  She sprang up, roughly shaking him, when Cathleen came in.

  “Everyone’s ready to go, Miss O’Riordan.”

  “We’re coming, we’re coming. This child hadn’t a word to say to me until he needed a place to put his head. Don’t ever let anyone convince you that children are innocent. They’ll use you every time.”

  The children piled into the cars, disappearing magically into the depths. The two sisters, wrapping their habits round themselves like bats’ wings, followed, one in each car. Liam and Rory took the wheels. Aunt Tilly, no shred of her graciousness lost, waved and smiled. Kitty, paler than ever, stood behind her, obviously longing for nothing but to escape to her room. Cathleen searched for the red-headed Peter Brady. But now the cars were too far away. She couldn’t see him.

  “Thank heaven!” said Aunt Tilly, sinking into the nearest chair. “Kitty, don’t be saying what’s in your eyes. Sure, I’m a hypocrite. But one with a sense of humour, I trust. Mrs. Lamb, could you possibly find the energy to fetch a bottle of whisky and glasses. In a moment I’ve got to face Patsy. I suspect he has a wicked look to him. The stony-hearted old divil, not to have more sympathy for mere babies. Though I confess I found the whole batch of them remarkably uninteresting. Except perhaps the little fellow I personally sponsored. He lived in a slum with dreadful parents. It was a pleasure to see him looking so well. He looked like a child who’d make his way in the world, given a chance.”

  But it seemed as if that might be the last glimpse Miss O’Riordan would have of the child who just possibly might have been her own nephew. For that evening there was frantic telephoning from Dublin.

  It was Sister Mary Martha crying incoherently that somewhere between Loughneath Castle and Dublin Peter Brady had disappeared.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “WHICH ONE WAS PETER Brady?” Liam wanted to know.

  “The redhead.”

  “They all looked alike to me.”

  “They couldn’t have!” Aunt Tilly said angrily. “Haven’t you eyes? The redhead was the only one with any personality. Which of you had him in your car? I brought him out at the last minute, but I didn’t see which car he got into.”

  Rory swore he hadn’t been in his. Liam refused to be interested.

  “I told you, I didn’t pick one from another. What does it matter if he’s jumped off the train?”

  “Liam!” Aunt Tilly was sitting upright, her eyes sparking fiercely. “A three-year-old doesn’t jump off a train. But if he’s fallen off, he may be killed. For heaven’s sake, take the thing seriously.”

  “By all means, Aunt Tilly. What would you like me to do? Drive alongside the railway line for a hundred miles?”

  “You fool!” said Aunt Tilly, in a low deadly voice. “Don’t you realize this child must be found.” She sprang up. “You’re taking me to Dublin.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Kitty gave a stifled gasp. Rory sprang up.

  “I’ll take you, Aunt Tilly.”

  Cathleen had the queer feeling that Liam, who had been joking, hadn’t been joking at all. He said slowly, “What a bore. I told you this day would be a disaster. Then go and get yourself ready, Aunt Tilly. Don’t worry, Rory. I’ll take her.”

  “Isn’t your car out of action?”

  “No. Joe O’Gorman came up and fixed it.”

  It was a battle of wills. For all his assumed reluctance, Liam was as anxious to go as Rory. They both had a reason to be desperately interested in the disappearance of small Peter Brady. Cathleen watched with detached interest, wondering which one would win. It didn’t much matter, because if Liam won, Rory would follow. Or more likely get to Dublin first. She knew him well enough for that.

  But what was it all about?

  In almost no time the suspense was over. The telephone rang again. Aunt Tilly grabbed it and listened, her long face growing deeply perplexed.

  “You’re sure this is true, Sister? Yes. Yes, I agree. Why should he bother to ring you otherwise? Ah, yes, it’s a great pity. Yes, yes, yes…” Her voice was growing more impatient. “Then we’ll discuss it again in the morning, Sister. Ah, yes, you can be sure…”

  She slammed down the receiver. She was breathing quickly. She was looking as she had done that morning when the letter had come, pinched and driven.

  “Would you believe it, the child’s father snatched the boy off the Dublin railway station when the train came in and took him home. Said he’d changed his mind about the boy having a good life. The selfish beast. Taking the little one back to that squalor. Giving us all a fine fright. What’s to be done now?”

  “If this man is really the boy’s father,” said Rory, “nothing can be done. The point is—” he looked from one to the other, “—can he prove it?”

  Liam looked at his aunt.

  “You’re in the best position to know that, Aunt Tilly. Didn’t you interview the man?”

  “Who said I did? I was led to believe the child had been abandoned.” Aunt Tilly’s nostrils were twitching. “I’ve been treated like a fool. I won’t allow the matter to rest.”

  Liam put his arm round her.

  “You’re getting yourself into a state. Sleep on it. Talk about it in the morning.”

  “Sleep!” She suddenly realized she had whispered the word in incredulity, and began belatedly to laugh at herself. For a moment her histrionic ability had deserted her. “Yes, you’re right, Liam. I’m getting the matter out of proportion. Would you have thought, Mrs. Lamb, I cared so much about my orphans? You thought me a heartless woman, didn’t you? And here I am, showing you a heart as soft as butter. And what’s wrong with you, miss?”

  She swung round on Kitty who, inexplicably, had begun to giggle.

  “N-nothing, Aunt Tilly. It’s j-just—” Her explanation was lost in giggles that grew more and more uncontrollable. She was almost in hysterics. It was only when Liam said, “Here, steady on,” that by a terrific effort she controlled herself. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “It’s not that I think it funny. I guess I’m—just tired.”

  “So are we all,” said Aunt T
illy. “I propose an early night.”

  And that night Cathleen heard the baby crying.

  She turned over and buried her head in the pillow. There wasn’t a baby. It was Mrs. O’Riordan upstairs. Or an owl, or some other nightbird. Or the wind down the chimney. Or simply a sound in her own head, a memory of Debby that struck her most when her defences were weak with sleep.

  She succeeded in convincing herself that one of these theories, or all of them, were true, and was drowsing back into sleep when the sound came again, much more clearly. It was quite definitely someone crying. There was an edge of distress to the sobs that required investigation.

  It must be Mrs. O’Riordan. Peggy must have fallen asleep too soundly. She was little more than a child, and needed her sleep. Cathleen sprang out of bed. She had better go up and see.

  The night-light burnt dimly beside Mrs. O’Riordan’s bed. The patient lay very quietly, her eyes shut. Apart from her gentle breathing, one might have thought she had died. She was certainly much too deeply asleep to have been crying so recently.

  Peggy, who was a light sleeper after all, emerged from her bed in the adjoining room.

  “Oh, it’s you!” she whispered. “I thought I heard someone. What’s the matter? She didn’t call out, did she?”

  “I thought she was crying.”

  “I didn’t hear anything. I always do hear.” Peggy looked at her patient. “She hasn’t stirred for hours, by the look of her. And she isn’t likely to, because I increased her sleeping dose tonight. The doctor said I should if she was restless.”

  “Was she restless?”

  “She seemed so. I don’t know if she heard the children during the day. They were shouting and screaming under the window once or twice. You know, a child might be able to rouse her more than a grownup. If she’s living in the past, she might be thinking of her own babies.”

  “It was a baby I thought I heard tonight,” Cathleen confessed. “I suppose you could say I was living in the past, too. I’m sorry I disturbed you, Peggy.”

  “That’s all right,” said Peggy cheerfully. “Why don’t you take a sleeping tablet if you’re having nightmares. It’s not to be wondered at, after the day you’ve had. I’ll give you one of my patient’s. Now that’s funny.” She was looking on the table where the medicine bottles and tumblers were neatly arranged. “The bottle’s not here. Where could I have put it?”