Cave of Secrets Page 9

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mr Flynn Makes a Friend

  There must be many paths by now, thought William Flynn. Paths not visible to the naked eye, yet worn as surely as chariot tracks in the stony roads of Rome. Paths marking my pilgrimages to the doors of the great and grand. Once they were happy enough to see me. Now that I need them, none of them want to know me.

  So I drag myself back to Dublin Castle one more time. The Castle swarms with administrators and lawyers and clerks and accountants and hangers-on. I want to be a hanger-on, just give me something to hang on to! Instead I sit and wait. And wait. Until I am told to return the following day. Or the day after that. Or next week. Or perhaps after the first of the month?

  Flynn had long since swallowed what was left of his pride, and made a direct appeal to his companions at the coffee house. ‘You have connections, all of you. We have done business together, surely that means something! All I need is to get my name on the right list.’

  His coffee house friends knew that in difficult times a man must guard his assets. They offered Flynn sympathy but kept their connections to themselves.

  He knew he should write a reassuring letter to his wife to keep her spirits up. But he could not bring himself to put pen to paper. He knew only too well that she valued truth above all other virtues.

  Every day he asked at the post office, hoping for a letter from her. But there never was one. Either she was too ill to write – though in that case surely Virginia would have written – or there was no disaster at home. Yet.

  Meanwhile his funds were dwindling. His major source of income was gone. He could not ask his wife for money from the supply he had left for running the household. She must never know that they were hanging on by their fingertips!

  He moved from a fashionable inn to a simple lodging house. His diet changed from flesh meats and French brandy to boiled eels and beer. William Flynn, who once set the finest table in West Cork.

  In the crooked laneways and foul gutters of Dublin he saw what could become of Irish Catholics who had no property.

  He no longer frequented the coffee house. He could not bear to be pitied by men who once admired him. The end of every unsuccessful day found him wandering along the banks of the Liffey. The state of the river suited his mood. When the tide was out the Liffey stank of sewage and dead animals, in spite of the handsome buildings rising on either bank. Sometimes he wondered what would happen to him if he fell in the water. The filth probably would poison him before the river could drown him. William Flynn was careful not to get too close to the bank. He was a dreamer. Something good will happen tomorrow. He still believed that.

  Just barely.

  One misty evening he recognised a familiar figure on the New Bridge. The man was headed away from him, crossing to the opposite bank of the Liffey. Flynn shouted a name, but the wind snatched the word from his lips and blew it away.

  Flynn ran towards the bridge as fast as he could.

  As he ran an idea entered his head. There were only three bridges spanning the river: Old Bridge, New Bridge, and the infamous Bloody Bridge, scene of several riots. Surely that was not enough for a fast-growing capital city. Another bridge near the Custom House would make perfect sense.

  If I were in the Dublin administration I would propose it, he told himself. Perhaps they would even name it after me. The William Flynn Bridge. How noble it sounds. Catherine would be proud.

  If I want to be part of the Dublin administration I must catch up with that man ahead of me!

  * * *

  Maura’s mother longed to scold her daughter, but she was unwilling to quench the child’s bright spirit. ‘A thousand thanks for bringing her back to us, Tomás,’ Bríd said. ‘I thought she was with Donal until he came in alone. He and Seán just went to look for her.’

  ‘I was in Tomflynn’s house!’ Maura exclaimed. ‘It’s awful big but he likes me better, he said so. Did you not, Tomflynn?’

  Tom nodded. ‘I did indeed.’

  ‘I frighted Tomflynn’s mother, too!’ the child went on.

  ‘Surely not, dear heart. Who could be frightened of you?’

  ‘Maura didn’t frighten my mother,’ Tom said, ‘she merely startled her. Mother didn’t expect to see a strange little girl in our house. I can explain to her when I go home – which I must do at once.’

  ‘Och, Tomás, I will not hear of it. Stop with us for a while and have something to eat. Muiris and Séamus are away for a few days but the others will be that glad to see you. We feared you had forgotten us. Wait whilst I find Donal and Seán, they cannot be far …’

  Tom put up his hand. ‘Please, I can’t stay. The days are getting shorter. I don’t want to go along the edge of the cliffs after dark.’

  By the time Tom returned to Roaringwater House his mother had gone to bed. Virginia and Elizabeth were waiting for him. ‘How dare you upset Mother so!’ an angry Virginia challenged. ‘She is quite ill tonight. What possessed you to bring a strange child into this house? And why did you leave so hastily without any explanation?’

  He did not want to tell the whole story to his sisters. He did not even want to tell it to his mother. On the way home he had been thinking of the best way to give her a partial account without revealing his involvement with the smugglers.

  ‘The little girl’s name is Maura,’ he said. ‘Her brother and I play together.’

  ‘Do you ride to meet him on your hobby-horse?’ Elizabeth teased.

  ‘Only sometimes; other times I walk. It’s quite a journey for a small girl, though. We hurried away this afternoon so she would be safe at home before dark.’

  Tom’s sisters exchanged glances. He was not sure if they believed him, but they did not know the right questions to ask.

  At last Elizabeth said, ‘I suppose you do get lonely. We all get lonely, Tom.’

  * * *

  William Flynn hurried across the timber bridge. The other man had already reached the bank and was putting the river behind him. The distance between them was growing fast.

  Flynn gave one last despairing shout.

  The figure he was pursuing paused, stopped. Turned around. Waited until Flynn came running up to him, panting. Only then did Flynn realise his mistake. Seen from a distance the stranger could easily be mistaken for the Earl of Cork. He had the same sloping shoulders and hurried walk. But this was neither Richard Boyle nor his son Roger. Dressed in a suit and cloak of black velvet, he was a youth of no more than fourteen or fifteen. He had a large frame and a long, horsy face. ‘Do I know you, sir?’ he asked in an educated English accent.

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Flynn. ‘I thought I knew you, but–’

  ‘I fear you took me for my father. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Robert Boyle. I have been studying at Eton for the past four years.’

  William Flynn introduced himself and sought to start a conversation. He was not used to talking with boys. ‘I have a son who is almost your age,’ he began.

  ‘Are the two of you close?’

  The question surprised Flynn. Obviously, this was important. ‘Close? Ah … yes, yes, of course we are. I positively dote on the lad. We have the most wonderful times together.’

  ‘Your son is a fortunate fellow,’ said Robert Boyle. ‘I should like to meet him. Sadly, my time in Ireland is over for now. Tomorrow I sail to the Continent to study French and Italian, as well as the work of the great stargazer, Galileo. You know of him, of course?’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Flynn – who had never heard of Galileo. ‘We must make the most of the time available to us. Have you dined yet?’ As he spoke he was trying to remember how much he had in his purse. Was there enough to pay for an impressive meal?

  ‘Thank you,’ young Boyle replied, ‘but we had supper before I came out for my walk.’ Good manners prompted him to add, ‘Perhaps, Mr Flynn, you would be so kind as to take breakfast with us in the morning?’

  With us. With the Earl of Cork and his son! William Flynn could
hardly believe his good fortune.

  He could not sleep and arose early. To his dismay, he realised his best coat looked shabby. The lace on his cuffs was limp. His white cravat was spotted with food stains. His favourite cambric shirt had dark sweat stains in the armpits and smelled like a dogfight. There was no time to have new clothes made, even if he could spare the money. He did what he could to improve his appearance, then went to meet his hosts for breakfast, at the same fashionable inn where Flynn himself once stayed.

  This morning young Boyle was wearing dark green. His lace cuffs and ivory silk cravat were immaculate. He had only one companion, a Frenchman whom he introduced as his tutor. Noticing Flynn’s disappointment, the lad said, ‘Were you expecting my father to join us?’

  ‘I hoped …’

  The sudden coldness in Boyle’s voice was unmistakable. ‘You will not meet the earl in my company. I spend as little time with him as possible.’

  Flynn’s brain hurried to catch up, as his body had done the night before. ‘I hoped your father would not be here,’ he claimed. ‘I am not one of his admirers. My business in the capital is with Thomas Wentworth. I need to speak with him on a matter of some urgency, but for some reason his staff in Dublin Castle keep putting me off.’

  ‘Did they not tell you? The Lord Deputy has been called to London as adviser to the king. Charles wants his help in quelling the Scottish uprising.’

  London. Flynn’s heart sank. While he was digesting this upsetting news, young Boyle added, ‘Those who know believe that Thomas will be created Earl of Strafford as a reward for his services.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Flynn said faintly. ‘You called the Lord Deputy Thomas. Are you a friend of his?’

  ‘I would not say we are friends; he is an austere man who keeps himself to himself for the most part. But I have met him on occasion and I like him. We have something in common, Thomas and I.’

  ‘Oh? What is that?’

  ‘We both hate my father,’ Boyle replied. ‘Thomas detests the earl for his politics, and I despise him for the way he makes his money.’

  ‘I am in total agreement!’ said William Flynn. ‘How refreshing to meet such a frank young man.’

  Breakfast was a pleasant meal. Roast meats and boiled eggs and, wonder of wonders, tea. The Frenchman ate little and said less, but drank quantities of tea. Flynn found it surprisingly easy to talk to Robert Boyle. Soon he was relating his unsuccessful attempts to gain the earl’s support.

  ‘I doubt if your problem can be charged to any prank by your son,’ Boyle told him. ‘My father has many faults, but he is not as petty as that. I suspect he is avoiding you because you are a Catholic.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  The lad smiled. ‘One can always tell,’ he said. ‘I myself would not hold it against you. Some of the best people I know are Catholics. My father feels differently. He would never give a Catholic a responsible position with the government. He is happy to eat their food or drink their wine, but that is as far as his tolerance extends.’

  ‘I had hopes …’

  Young Boyle looked sympathetic. ‘Hopes butter no bread,’ he said gently.

  By the time the meal was over Flynn felt that he had made a friend. It was a pity his new friend was only a lad and could do him no good.

  As they rose to leave the table, Boyle reached into a pocket of his waistcoat and took out a small case made of eel-skin. He extracted an oblong of white pasteboard from the case and gave it to Flynn. ‘Please hand in my calling card to the Lord Deputy’s personal secretary,’ he said.

  Flynn glanced down at the card. ‘I should not think the name of Boyle was popular in the offices of Thomas Wentworth.’

  The youngster’s eyes twinkled. ‘My name is popular enough with Thomas Wentworth’s secretary. The secretary’s daughter and I are betrothed to marry three years hence, when I return from my studies on the Continent. For my sake I am certain he will help you. Or there is Robert Arthur, a Dublin alderman and Master of the Guild of Merchants. He is a Catholic like yourself and his son, Ignatius, is my best friend. Feel free to call on them in my name. They understand the difficulties of being a Catholic in the city.

  ‘And by the by, do forgive your son his mischief. I envy him, having a father who dotes on him.’

  * * *

  Catherine Flynn stayed in her bed day after day. When any of her children looked in on her she always asked the same question: ‘Is there any word from your father?’ The answer was always the same. ‘Not yet.’

  Her response was to sigh and turn her face to the wall.

  At first Tom was glad she did not ask him to explain about Maura. All her thoughts were of her husband now. She had been thin; she became skeletal. Several times a day one of the servants carried a tray up to her chamber, laden with delicacies to tempt her appetite. The tray was returned to the kitchen untouched.

  On a raw morning when the wind gibbered and moaned around the chimneys, Simon was sent to Ballydehob to fetch a doctor. After a long wait the doctor arrived. He was a short, thickset man in a grey frieze overcoat. He did not wear a gentleman’s cravat because he was not a gentleman. Like many doctors, he was also a barber. He carried the tools of his professions in a badly scuffed black bag.

  He was shown to Mrs Flynn’s chamber. Tom and his sisters followed. They watched in silence while he bent over the bed and studied her face. ‘Your mother’s blood is too thick,’ he announced as he straightened up. ‘It has congested her organs.’

  Opening his black bag, the doctor took out a set of steel-bladed knives wrapped in flannel. He tested several of the blades with his thumb. When he was satisfied with their sharpness, he laid two of the knives side by side on Mrs Flynn’s writing desk and put the rest back in the bag.

  ‘You must leave the room now,’ he informed his audience, ‘whilst I give this poor woman some relief.’

  Tom and his sisters waited anxiously outside the closed door. The servants gathered around them, listening as intently as they were. For a few minutes they heard nothing. Then Mrs Flynn gave a sharp cry.

  I am the man of the family now, Tom reminded himself. He threw open the door and entered the chamber.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Christmas

  Catherine Flynn looked dead. Her eyes were closed and sunken. Her breathing was so shallow it did not lift the blanket. One of her arms hung over the side of the bed. From a cut in her forearm a thin stream of blood dripped into a basin on the floor.

  Tom was horrified. ‘What have you done?’ he cried. The doctor gaped at him. The boy reached out and seized the man by the front of his coat. ‘What have you done to my mother, you maggot!’

  The doctor tried to pull away, but Tom held on grimly.

  ‘I bled her, of course,’ the doctor said. ‘Release me at once, sir.’

  Tom had never been addressed as ‘sir’ before. He loosened his hold but did not release the doctor entirely. ‘Mother was as pale as a sheet before you came. Now she’s even whiter. You’ve made her worse.’

  With an effort, the man freed himself from Tom’s grasp. He said indignantly, ‘I did no such thing. I was helping her, you young fool. Your lady mother is suffering from the black melancholy. The humours of her body are foul and polluted. Bleeding is the standard remedy for such ailments.’

  ‘No one with a head on his shoulders would believe such nonsense,’ Tom angrily declared. ‘There is nothing “foul and polluted” about my mother. Get out of this house before I throw you down the stairs!’ At that moment he looked as if he could do it.

  The doctor snatched up his bag and implements and scurried from the room. The three girls, crowded together at the doorway, moved aside to let him pass.

  Tom beckoned to them. ‘Help me here, Lizzie.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to staunch the flow of blood. ‘Caro, run and find clean linen for bandages. Ginny, fetch the brandy.’

  They soon stopped the flow of blood and bound the arm. Then Tom and Elizabeth raise
d Mrs Flynn enough to allow Caroline to plump her pillows. Ginny tilted a spoon of brandy between her lips. After a few moments she opened her eyes. She looked from one face to another. ‘What happened?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s over now,’ Elizabeth said soothingly. ‘Do not concern yourself.’

  ‘It hurt more than I expected. When he cut into my arm …’

  ‘The filthy maggot,’ growled Tom. ‘He won’t be allowed in this house ever again, I’ll see to that.’ His new confidence surprised everyone – most of all himself.

  Slowly, Mrs Flynn began to recover. She tried not to worry so much about her husband. She saw that she had frightened the children, and she wanted to be strong for them.

  Meanwhile Tom put Donal’s family out of his mind. Most of the time. They were part of another life entirely. His life was in Roaringwater House now, where he was needed.

  His lessons with Mr Beasley continued. When their day’s work together was done, Tom took his books into his mother’s chamber for study. It was pleasant to be there, knowing she was nearby. Sometimes he saw her watching him. They exchanged smiles.

  She is getting well, he thought. It helps her to have me here.

  He began asking the occasional question so she would think she was helping him.

  One rainy afternoon Tom looked up from sharpening the nib of his quill. ‘Mother? I don’t suppose you know any Latin?’

  ‘Sic semper tyrannis,’ she said softly.

  Tom put down his penknife. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Sic semper tyrannis. A phrase in Latin. It means “thus always to tyrants”. Supposedly the slogan was shouted by the Roman senators who murdered Julius Caesar in the Forum.’

  Tom was astonished. ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘In my family we all knew Latin. I have forgot most of it, I’m afraid.’