Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [266]
“Oh, who was that? Someone in Dublin?”
“No.” MacGowan hesitated. “In Dalkey.” He paused again before continuing. “A fisherman. Never mind who. It doesn’t matter anyway. He came up to me yesterday and he asked me, ‘I saw Tom Tidy coming out of the church the other evening. Any idea why he went in there so late?’ I told him I didn’t know. Reckoned you’d been delayed. Then he said to me, ‘He didn’t say anything to you about it then? Nothing unusual?’ So I just looked at him a bit puzzled and I said, ‘Nothing at all. What would he have to say?’ And he nodded and told me, ‘Forget it. You’re all right.’ ” MacGowan stared ahead, not wanting to look at Tom, it seemed. “I wasn’t sure whether to tell you, yesterday. But this can only mean one thing, Tom. They’re wondering if you heard anything. I don’t know if you told anyone what you told me, but if anything goes wrong at Carrickmines, it’s you they’ll be coming after. I thought I ought to let you know.”
For a little while the cart rolled on in silence. Tom said nothing. MacGowan supposed that, when he had finished digesting this information, Tom would say something. But he didn’t. The cart took the lane that led southwards through a village called Donnybrook.
“Tom,” MacGowan said at last, “you’d better go back into Dublin for a time. You can stay at my brother’s house. He’ll be glad to have you. I told him today you might be needing to stay with him awhile—though of course I didn’t tell him why. He lives inside the wall. No one will trouble you there. I’ll watch your house in Dalkey for you. Maybe in a month you can come back. I’ll try to find out. But don’t run the risk of staying, Tom. There’s no need.”
Tom didn’t reply. Soon afterwards they went down the long track that led to the big strand of the bay, but even then, as they passed round the friendly headland at the bay’s southern end and came in sight of Dalkey island, still Tom Tidy spoke not a word.
If Doyle put a silver penny between two of his fingers, he could make it move across his knuckles from one finger to another with easy rapidity. This act of prestidigitation amused and relaxed him and he often did it when he was thinking. He was doing it now, as he sat in his countinghouse and thought about the situation in Dalkey.
Doyle’s house on Winetavern Street consisted of three floors above a cellar. The main hall and kitchen were at ground level. On the floor above, which jutted out to overhang the street, there were three chambers, one of which served Doyle as his countinghouse. It had a window with glass panes looking down onto Winetavern Street, and beside the window an oak table on which were several stacks of silver pennies. Also on the table lay a scattering of pennies cut in two, or into four, to be used as halfpennies and farthings for smaller transactions.
If the penny had now made its progress back and forth across Doyle’s knuckles a dozen times, it was because the question occupying his mind was by no means easy.
The arrangements for defending Carrickmines and dealing with the O’Byrnes had been carefully planned. Everything was working out very well. Their preparations had been so thorough that he did not think he could have improved on them had he made all the arrangements himself. There were only two days to wait.
There was just one problem: Tom Tidy. He knew that many people considered him a harsh man, but his secret discussion with MacGowan had left him in no doubt: Tidy must not remain in Dalkey. He had already served his purpose and done so very well; but if Tidy remained in Dalkey now, it seemed to Doyle inevitable that the carrier would be killed; he couldn’t see any way round it. While Doyle was ready to run big risks himself—and to be ruthless when necessary—he had no wish to see