Read Online The Blood Upon the Rose by Tim Vicary - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tim Vicary
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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the house, the other with her essays and lecture notes. In between the two was a long green window seat, which was what she had chosen the room for. She could sit here in the sunshine, and read, or gaze out over the little park in the square and remember what it had been like before the war. For this was the room in which she had slept - or stayed awake, entranced - in those magical times of her childhood.
For the rest, there were several glass-fronted bookcases, some lemon-coloured armchairs, an ottoman, and a number of pictures of lakes, beaches, horses and mountains in Galway, to remind her of Killrath, her other home.
But now, she hurried to the window seat, to see if the detective was still in the square.
He had gone, but the confusion he had left behind him remained.
Sean's act - the bullets through the car window, the blood, the headlong flight through Phoenix Park - had been heroic, romantic, exhilarating. She had felt no fear at all then. But the policeman in her own breakfast room this morning, his big hand holding Sean's photo on his knee, made her feel sick inside. This was no game now, it was real. If her republicanism was anything more than fine words, she had to help Sean now - protect him from those big hands that had held his photo so casually.
She had to see Sean, that was clear. As soon as possible. But how? She did not even know his address; and anyway, if the detective had taken the photograph from his flat, Sean could not be staying there any more. If he went there and was caught, he would be in prison.
Perhaps he was already in prison! The thought made her gasp, like a blow. The Inspector hadn't actually said they were still looking for him, had he? Perhaps they had already caught him and he was refusing to talk. The thought of Sean, alone in some stone cell, made her shudder. She wrapped a shawl round her shoulders, and strode up and down thinking back frantically over the interview. No, surely he had said the police were anxious to talk to him, something like that? Sean must still be free then.
Who would know him, to give him a message? Professor O'Connor perhaps, the people from the Gaelic League in Parnell Square. But the classes were closed for Christmas. And anyway, what would she say? The police are after you, they've got your photo, please be careful. That was silly, he must know all that already. Perhaps not about the photo, but all the rest. And then - she remembered her blush - that Inspector was no fool. He might be waiting for her to go to Sean, have her followed, so that she would lead the police to him.
In that case, she must not see him at all.
But the thought of it was so painful, she dug her fingers into the velvet cushions of the window seat in frustration. She wanted to see him, more than anything else. Not because of the police visit, that just made it more urgent. She wanted to see him for herself.
Kee sat together with Radford and Detective Sergeant Davis in DMP headquarters in Brunswick Street.
They were in Radford's office. It was a drab, functional room with a desk, several filing cabinets, and a solid table that was cluttered with papers, dirty teacups, and ashtrays. It was eight o'clock in the evening. The single window, which was slightly open to let out the smoke, looked down on the street two storeys below. The occasional sound of cars, and the clip of hurrying feet or hooves, formed a background to their discussion.
‘So that's it, then, Tom, is it?’ Radford asked. 'The grocer gave the lad a room and a job, let him take time off whenever he chose, and never asked any questions?’
‘That's what he says.’
‘And his other tenant was a model university student, only pausing from his studies to help old ladies cross the road.’
‘That's the boy.’
Radford sighed. ‘Well, I suppose we could intern him on well-founded suspicion of lying through his teeth, and earn ourselves another half-dozen newspaper articles about police insensitivity. But
For the rest, there were several glass-fronted bookcases, some lemon-coloured armchairs, an ottoman, and a number of pictures of lakes, beaches, horses and mountains in Galway, to remind her of Killrath, her other home.
But now, she hurried to the window seat, to see if the detective was still in the square.
He had gone, but the confusion he had left behind him remained.
Sean's act - the bullets through the car window, the blood, the headlong flight through Phoenix Park - had been heroic, romantic, exhilarating. She had felt no fear at all then. But the policeman in her own breakfast room this morning, his big hand holding Sean's photo on his knee, made her feel sick inside. This was no game now, it was real. If her republicanism was anything more than fine words, she had to help Sean now - protect him from those big hands that had held his photo so casually.
She had to see Sean, that was clear. As soon as possible. But how? She did not even know his address; and anyway, if the detective had taken the photograph from his flat, Sean could not be staying there any more. If he went there and was caught, he would be in prison.
Perhaps he was already in prison! The thought made her gasp, like a blow. The Inspector hadn't actually said they were still looking for him, had he? Perhaps they had already caught him and he was refusing to talk. The thought of Sean, alone in some stone cell, made her shudder. She wrapped a shawl round her shoulders, and strode up and down thinking back frantically over the interview. No, surely he had said the police were anxious to talk to him, something like that? Sean must still be free then.
Who would know him, to give him a message? Professor O'Connor perhaps, the people from the Gaelic League in Parnell Square. But the classes were closed for Christmas. And anyway, what would she say? The police are after you, they've got your photo, please be careful. That was silly, he must know all that already. Perhaps not about the photo, but all the rest. And then - she remembered her blush - that Inspector was no fool. He might be waiting for her to go to Sean, have her followed, so that she would lead the police to him.
In that case, she must not see him at all.
But the thought of it was so painful, she dug her fingers into the velvet cushions of the window seat in frustration. She wanted to see him, more than anything else. Not because of the police visit, that just made it more urgent. She wanted to see him for herself.
Kee sat together with Radford and Detective Sergeant Davis in DMP headquarters in Brunswick Street.
They were in Radford's office. It was a drab, functional room with a desk, several filing cabinets, and a solid table that was cluttered with papers, dirty teacups, and ashtrays. It was eight o'clock in the evening. The single window, which was slightly open to let out the smoke, looked down on the street two storeys below. The occasional sound of cars, and the clip of hurrying feet or hooves, formed a background to their discussion.
‘So that's it, then, Tom, is it?’ Radford asked. 'The grocer gave the lad a room and a job, let him take time off whenever he chose, and never asked any questions?’
‘That's what he says.’
‘And his other tenant was a model university student, only pausing from his studies to help old ladies cross the road.’
‘That's the boy.’
Radford sighed. ‘Well, I suppose we could intern him on well-founded suspicion of lying through his teeth, and earn ourselves another half-dozen newspaper articles about police insensitivity. But
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