The Anglophile

Book 537: Murder Room

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

'My favourite American crime-writer' New York Herald Tribune Ireland, 1749. Dennis McDermott, a witty, charming and daring young man with shades of the Scarlet Pimpernel, lives two lives in eighteenth-century Dublin. Fashionable society idolises him as a handsome, rakish man of their world, never suspecting that he is the mysterious leader of the Irish underground whose nightly missions continue to outwit the British authorities. But Dennis' cover as an Anglophile who has renounced his Gaelic roots is under threat from an ever-more inquisitive policeman, and he also is embroiled in another cat-and-mouse game . . . falling in love.

Release date: November 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

1

From the first the game had gone wrong—for Poole. It seemed to him that the other man knew every card in his hand; the preceding hour’s play had been unlucky, but
not so disastrous as this. It was small comfort to him that the little crowd of onlookers clustered about the table exuded silent sympathy; he was aware that it was sympathy engendered less by
their friendship for him than by their dislike of his opponent.

He shrugged and laid down his cards. “Yours, sir. I have no fortune today.”

“So it appears,” said his partner with a little smile. “Shall we end it? I plead an appointment; otherwise I should take more of your money, captain.” His smile broadened
into a laugh, and Poole forced himself to join it. “Mere luck,” said the other man gently, “mere luck. Another day you might fleece me.” He scattered his own cards
carelessly on top of Poole’s and rose.

“Luck,” echoed Fothergill behind Poole’s chair. “Anyone may win or lose at piquet.” On other occasions every man present had heard him hold forth on scientific
play, maintaining that skill was the only luck, but now there was a general murmur of agreement.

The winner beckoned a club-servant. “My cloak, Benson, and a chair. I make it twenty-eight guineas, captain.” In silence Poole produced coins to add to those on the table. The
servant came back and held the other’s cloak. The men made all the conventional deprecatory remarks—bad luck, Poole, fortune against you, take him proper another time, eh? But eight
eyes, as if absently, watched the fifth man as he leisurely fastened the frogs of his cloak, straightened the fall of lace at throat and wrists, accepted his tricorne from the servant. There was in
those eyes a secret dislike and a secret envy that every man would have denied. The fifth man knew it was there, and in his eyes was secret amusement. Their dislike was unimportant; their envy
pleased him.

Poole thought, I could have him down in thirty seconds, likely he can’t use his hands at all, no man in a real fight. Fothergill thought, Damned upstart. Vail thought, I wonder if there is
anything in that gossip; oh, God, of course not, this jackanapes, but women—! Masterson thought, There is something about these people: don’t lose my temper easy as a rule, but these
people—this smiling smooth devil! I’d like to stand up to him, man to man, just once. And in all four minds moved the unbidden, unwelcome envy.

“Servant, gentlemen.” He gave them a careless bow and turned; they watched him out of the club-parlor. Only when the door shut behind him did Poole allow himself to swear.

“Bad luck,” said Masterson. “Cool player, that one.”

“I wouldn’t care to take him on,” said Fothergill, and Vail gave him a twisted smile.

“But you wouldn’t so compliment him to his face, would you, James?”

Fothergill laughed and reached for his snuffbox. “Not unless the stakes were low.”

“Charm,” spoke a fifth voice, coming into the circle. “Charm. A dangerous quality, gentlemen.” Old Andrews, creaking up from his chair by the hearth. “Who is that
young man, Captain Poole? I have not seen him here before—I should have remembered.”

“Yes. Only lately accepted for membership,” returned Poole shortly. He reshuffled the pack and slapped it down on the table ready for play. “Under the auspices of Sir Julian
Courtenay.”

“McDermott,” said Vail, “Dennis McDermott is the name.”

“Ah,” nodded Andrews. “But there is the explanation. He is Anglophile Irish, then. There you have it.” He laid one bony old hand on Poole’s shoulder. “He did
not win from you, captain; you lost to him. He is a trickster, that I see.”

“Any man with eyes would.”

“And I should judge a famous charmer of women,” pursued Andrews. Vail turned suddenly away and took up a decanter from the neighboring table. “A handsome man, a man to attract
women only by his appearance.”

“He’s never waited for ’em to run to him,” said Fothergill dryly. “Even with all the soldiery stationed in Dublin, he has a famous—or
infamous—reputation as a womanizer.”

“Of course. Charm,” repeated Andrews. “Do not blame him, gentlemen—it is all your fault.” He smiled gently at their stares. “He is Anglophile—but his
forebears? A conquered race. Conquered peoples must cultivate charm and agreeableness; it is the only defense left to them. But I am a philosopher.” He took the second chair and reached for
the cards. “Who will join me—Captain?”

“No, I thank you. I have had enough for the day.”

“Vail?”

“If you obtain a fresh pack,” said Vail rather violently, setting down his wineglass. “Doubtless our friend has left these well marked.”

Masterson looked up alertly. “Crooked play?”

“Or the muck of the cow-yard he came from.”

“Where does he come from?” asked Fothergill. “Don’t think I ever heard.”

“Nor anyone else. Gentry Irish.” Vail shrugged. “We all know what that means—or does not mean. I am more interested in where he will go.”

Poole smiled. “I wouldn’t place too much credence in common gossip.” His tone was smooth, interpreting Vail’s words as he had not intended them. Fothergill coughed;
Masterson looked embarrassed. The last man to suspect the truth was always the husband. Celia Vail had held McDermott for near three months now, rumor had it, and that was a long time for him to
stay by one mistress; any day she would be looking about for a new lover.

“Damn the man!” said Masterson. “Must we pay him the compliment of gossiping about him? Let him go. I will play you, Mr. Andrews.” He took Poole’s chair.

“Good, sir. That is a penetrating remark. McDermott, you said? A handsome man, yes, but it is much more. Any one of you gentlemen may be stronger, wealthier, and if we except poor James
here, more intelligent. But charm!—what is it? The indefinable quality. Do not swear if I add that you would part with half your possessions to have his charm.” But they did swear, and
denied it. Andrews laughed.

“Damned upstart,” said Fothergill. “Making out he’s gentry. A lawyer, I ask you! What Courtenay was thinking of—”

“Let be, James, let be. Nought to do for it now.” Masterson was impatient. He began to deal the cards; Vail refilled his glass, and his hand shook on the decanter.

2

Celia Vail was also thinking about McDermott. She smoothed the long brown curl lying over her shoulder and said, “Will you not take more tea, Lady Courtenay?”

“Thank you, my dear—only half a cup—thank you. Such a charming young man, is he not? Sir Julian and I have been pleased to do what we can for him. Such a sad life! Brought up
in France, you know; his father’s fortune quite dissipated by a villainous lawyer. No substance at all, but he has such determination, such pride—will accept nothing from his friends,
which is but to his credit, do you not agree?” There was no malice in Alice Courtenay; if she had heard any of the gossip linking Celia’s name with McDermott’s, she had dismissed
it as beneath consideration. Old fool, thought Celia; he is after your husband’s money, have you no eyes to see it? Oh, he said tonight, but he will not come: I know it. He will not come, and
tomorrow I will have an artful little note of excuse. He has had enough of me: very well, damn him and let him go! Why must I labor it? “And you, Mistress Anne? Another cake,
perhaps?”

“Oh—thank you, Mrs. Vail.” The girl started as if recalled from thought.

“How do you enjoy your visit to Ireland? You have not been here above two or three months, have you?”

“Just three months. Very much, of course.” It was a conventional reply. Looking at Mistress Anne Deering, Celia felt a pang. So young she was, my God, so young, if but passably
pretty. And why must she sit here being polite to these two simpering nonentities while the day dragged on toward midnight? She would wait, and wait, there by the private door, and he would not
come, she knew. With effort she schooled her expression.

Lady Courtenay was patting the girl’s hand. “Of course, my dear. It accomplishes my fondest wish—since your poor father’s death you have been so alone. With Dennis you
will be safe.”

Celia went cold. Courtenay was proposing a marriage, then. The talk was that this girl was substantially endowed. Celia studied her with detached appraisal. Perhaps twenty or a little more, good
figure, chestnut hair, fine skin, passable features: a silly little English miss, but Dennis would bed with a witch for sufficient profit. He had always said he would bring himself to marry an
heiress one day.

She made herself smile. “That is understandable, Lady Courtenay. Our Dublin gentlemen must be a refreshing change to Mistress Anne from those in London, who I hear judge marriageable
females solely by their fortunes—or lack of fortune.”

Anne Deering met her eyes. “Oh, I never pay attention to common gossip, Mrs. Vail,” and the last words were emphasized. Celia was oddly pleased. So the kitten had claws.

“That is charitable, Mistress Anne. You are sure you will take no more tea?”

“Thank you, yes.”

Celia felt the covered silver pot as she filled the outstretched cup, and was glad the tea was half cold. Near four o’clock by the French gilt clock on the mantel. Reynold would be home
soon. All those hours to be lived until midnight—please make him come, just once more, and I will let him make love to me, and then I will tell him, so coolly, so casually, that we are
finished . . . tired of you, Dennis, we have enjoyed one another but these affairs do not last forever . . . he must come, I must be the one to end it if I am to keep any pride. This girl, this
damnable girl.

The clock chimed and she started. “Nerves, my dear?” exclaimed Lady Courtenay.

“It cannot be a guilty conscience,” said Anne Deering.

3

“Four o’clock,” said FitzHugh, replacing the watch in his pocket. “Is he coming at all?”

“He will be here,” said Calhoun. Very few men had ever seen Liam Calhoun outwardly angry, but there was a note in his deep voice not usual with him, and his eyes smoldered.
“And before McDermott arrives, Kelleher, I would advise that if you have a word or more to say against him, you would best say it to his face. Let us bring this into the light and discuss it
like reasonable men.”

“I did not mean—”

“What were you meaning then?” snapped Burke. Kelleher slapped his glass down on the table.

“Oh, the devil!” he exclaimed in English.

“Enough!” said FitzHugh. “Let us also keep to a reasonable tongue.” The other five men gathered about the little room in the rear of Burke’s shop watched him as he
rose to pace the floor. “It is as reasonable that I accuse you of treachery because you speak English as to accuse McDermott because—”

“I did not accuse him,” said Kelleher sullenly, reverting to the Gaelic. “I said only—”

“We heard you,” said Calhoun.

Burke looked up as a bell sounded. “That is very likely McDermott now.” He went out to the dim narrow passage leading to the front premises. A heavy door hung with a curtain let him
into the shop, a fairly large square room giving on the street. Two or three chairs, a plain table, a Turkey carpet completed its furnishings, for Burke’s was no common jewel shop where
trinkets were sold over the counter: at Burke’s one bought the finest gems, with leisured conversation, over good wine. His assistant-apprentice, Slade, was waiting upon a gentleman seated at
the table. McDermott stood in the center of the room, idly admiring the large painting hung on the opposite wall. As he advanced to greet him, Burke felt the same admiration he would have, as a
judge of art, for anything so beautifully executed. By the accident of birth McDermott was a handsome man; if he had been ugly as sin he would still be charming. As it was, he had made of himself
the perfect model of an English gentleman. He wore his own black hair tied back with a queue-ribbon that matched his dark-blue satin breeches and coat; against the black hair and the rich dark
gleam of the satin his skin was startlingly fair, his eyes very blue; and if the blue shadow of a strong beard stained his jaw, that was no fault of the barbering. His classic features were
accented by the sharp arch of his brows. The lace at his throat fell in the most gracious of cascades; his waistcoat was fashionable without being foppish, an austere affair of maroon embroidered
with gold, reaching only slightly below his thighs. Nothing could be more correct than the plain black hose, the buckled shoes with heels not above an inch high, the black velvet tricorne innocent
of ornament; yet, as with his good looks, if he had been dressed in rags he might still contrive to wear them with an air. Burke bowed to him gravely.

“Good day, Mr. McDermott.”

“A good day to you, Burke.” At least half the secret of that charm, the jeweler thought, was in his voice: a deep smooth voice that was as much black velvet as the stuff of that
tricorne he held in his long white hands. “Have you aught to show me as yet? You spoke of a new shipment—”

“Yes, indeed, sir, I have several good stones to offer you. If you will step into my private room?” He held the curtain back deferentially, and McDermott preceded him into the
passage. The customer had glanced up only briefly. Burke followed on McDermott’s heels and took him by the arm. “A word before you enter,” he added softly. “Kelleher is
making trouble.”

“That he has a talent for doing,” returned McDermott also in the Gaelic.

“The rest of us are aware he is a fool.”

McDermott looked at him in the dark passage. He was not a tall man; Burke, only a little more than average height, topped him by a good half-head; but he had the faculty of making larger men
feel bulky and awkward. “Do you tell me,” he murmured. He opened the door. The mellow light of half-a-dozen candles centered on the deal table, a brown bottle, a wine decanter, glasses,
several documents spread away from spilled liquor. Five men looked up; four voices spoke greeting.

“We thought you would fail us,” remarked the old priest Michael Devin.

“I was engaged in relieving a British officer of a little money. Would you have me spare him to spare you thirty minutes’ wait? Liam—Patrick—Nealy,” he nodded at
them, taking the chair next to Kelleher. “Well, Thomas, why so downcast?”

“I was but saying,” retorted Kelleher, “that you seem to take your responsibility lightly, to be so late meeting us.”

There was a murmur of protest. McDermott looked around the group, smiling; at Liam Calhoun, immense, black-bearded, watchful; at John Burke, neat and nondescript; at Patrick FitzHugh, ruddy and
big-bellied; at Owen Nealy the horse dealer, little, brisk, shrewd; at Father Devin, stout, bald, phlegmatic; last at Kelleher the minstrel, all bony angles and red hair, his little harp across his
knees. “You are quick to criticize, Thomas,” he said softly. “But then you have never quite trusted me, have you?”

“I never said that, McDermott,” muttered Kelleher after hesitation.

Burke made a diversion, fetching a clean glass. “My manners, Dennis—wine or uisgebaugh?”

“I will keep to wine, my thanks.” McDermott brought out his pipe case and began to fill the long-stemmed clay pipe. “Before we get on to the business of the meeting I have a
piece of bad news, picked up while I kept you waiting.” He struck fire and lit the pipe. “As I say, I was playing an officer at Durfee’s. It seems we have attracted notice from
His Majesty’s government, by what Poole said. It happens now and then, you know. The Minister of Colonial Affairs is disturbed over the situation, and the Prime Minister—after, one
supposes, consultation with His Majesty King George—has appointed a special military investigator to inquire into the state of affairs here. With specific regard to our sphere of
activity.” He contemplated his pipe, smiling.

“Who will,” grunted Burke, “arrive in great pomp accompanied by a score of assistants, spend the next six months asking questions of all the officials, and prepare a solemn
document detailing his findings—copied in triplicate, to be filed away and forgotten.”

“I rather think not,” said McDermott. “The special investigator is one Major Sir Harry Quintain. Do you know the name? Well, no more did I—until Poole told me a little
about him.”

“I know it,” said FitzHugh slowly. “I am acquainted with a man in Belfast who served under Quintain in the war with Spain. Quintain is a soldier, but has also acted as
diplomatic agent.”

“Exactly. Poole said the man evidently has a reputation for quiet and secret work. He said Quintain”—McDermott shot a sardonic glance at the priest—“is like God, in
that he works in secret ways. Whatever investigation the man undertakes may not be an open one.”

“Need we cross rivers before reaching them?” Kelleher’s eyes were still angry. “I grant the information is useful, but to keep six high agents waiting an hour while you
finish a game of cards—”

“If you forgive it,” said the priest, “I think more harm than good comes of such talk. We and all men like us are in this work together as brothers, patriots, and servants of
the church. We cannot allow personal emotion to interfere with duty. Any man who has proved trustworthy to reach a place in this council cannot be seriously suspected of any veniality.
Also—”

“I am not an idealist,” said McDermott. “I would suspect my own mother on sufficient grounds.”

The priest looked at McDermott. “I deplore your severance from faith, McDermott, but I know you for a patriot—and an idealist, though you deny it.”

“Thank you, Father.” McDermott’s tone was ironic. Kelleher stared at him.

“Personal emotion! Very well, I say it—I mislike you, McDermott, and have misliked you from the time you work with us!” Calhoun rose angrily to speak and the priest raised an
admonishing hand, but he heeded neither. “If I must speak an opinion, you are a man will do anything for gold and might well turn Judas! I—”

McDermott took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at Kelleher commandingly. “Thou ill-gotten spawn of a southron,” he said pleasantly, using the formal address needful for
impressive swearing in the Gaelic, “I would mislike you also if you were not a musician—and a good one. As a musician you are valuable, but as an agent less so. Need I remind you that
this is a dangerous business we engage in? You six men at this table and a dozen—two—thirty men in this country, you are trusted with important work. But I am the man who does your
fetching and carrying—your postboy, your groom, your body servant. You cannot expose yourselves to the men who aid us, but I do; that is my work, to be your contact. Each of you is known in
his true guise to perhaps a hundred men—I am known to a thousand scattered in many places. If we speak of betrayal, I have a thousand times’ better chance to be betrayed than any of you
will ever have. Thus far I am lucky. Tomorrow, or next month, or next year, my luck will run out. I will go to the docks, or to a midnight meeting in an alley, or the house of an acquaintance, and
find them waiting to take me, and I will be hanged. If it was in my mind to betray, I would have done that before now and retired on the proceeds.” No trace of anger was in his tone, only
cutting contempt. And then the little smile returned to his mouth. “I will go to hell when I am hanged,” he said to the musician, “but not to the seventh circle, Thomas, among the
traitors. More like to the—was it the third circle?—with the adulterers.”

Calhoun sat down with a hard laugh and reached for the bottle of whisky. “That I would not doubt, Dennis.”

“Let us get on with the business,” said Burke quietly.

1

Thank God he had come, and she could salvage her pride. “Dennis.”

“My love?”

“I think this must be our last meeting.” She moved a little away from his lips on her shoulder. “We have enjoyed one another—you make a pleasant lover—but these
affairs do not last forever.”

“True. So you find you are tired of me?” There was amusement in his whisper; he knew it was a lie. She made herself lie still as the lips moved across her breast, up her throat.
“Well, perhaps we have had the best of each other—I can take my dismissal with good grace.” He was not even pretending concern.

With blind desire to pierce his armor she said, “How would you have rid yourself of me if I did not dismiss you? It comes to my attention you are at last considering marriage—awkward
to pay court and sustain a mistress at once!” And then she bit her lip.

“Not at all—you have some odd notions. Have you only just heard that? It is common talk that Sir Julian is planning to foster a rich marriage for his beloved
protégé.” A whispered laugh. “I have already sent a formal letter to her guardian.”

“So she is rich enough that you accept her?” She shrugged him away, strove to sit up; he pulled her back, and the familiar half-revulsion, half-pleasu. . .