Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [94]
“I have spoken with a lot of people who knew him, including yourself, and I think have learned most of what there is to be learned about his life here, unless of course you have something more to add. I know there are circumstances but–”
“Do you know that he betrayed his father, not intentionally of course, but, let us say, inadvertently caused his death?”
Nora straightened, became alert like an animal sensing danger. “What do you mean?”
“When he was a small boy, only five or six years old, I believe, his father Joseph Molloy got himself in a bit of trouble. He was a fine man by all accounts, literate, a leader, active within the Fenian Movement in the fight for independence.” His eyes searched her startled eyes for a look that might indicate that he should continue.
“Yes. I mean, no.” She was confused, couldn’t think what to say.
“It was the time of The Land League in Ireland, late 1800s. It seems Matt’s father was right in there, with the great leader at the time, Charles Stuart Parnell, and his followers. There was an important rent agreement in place, between tenants and landlords. As I recall, it was called The Land Act. Rents were controlled, the amount being worked out in accordance with the value of the crops produced. This agreement was to put an end to the terrible repression and cruelty associated with evictions.”
He leaned back in his chair and tapped his lips with his steepled fingers. “That was fine while the crops were good but when things turned bad the old problem sprung up again. The people couldn’t pay their rents and the threat of evictions loomed again. Well, it seems that at that time Joseph Molloy led the fight in his area to restore justice. It turned out to be a bitter and violent time. The upshot of it was that a landlord in the area was murdered and his house torched one night. They came looking for Joseph Molloy the next day.”
“They’re here,” he said to his wife as he walked into the kitchen. “You’ll leave me to do the talking.” Then he went straight to the fireplace, reached into the thatch in the corner and withdrew a gun. In one quick movement he lifted the lid off the kettle, where it hung above the fire, dropped it into the steaming water and replaced the lid. Then he turned to the boy. “Shsh … You hear me, Matt, not a word.” He raised his finger to his lips. “Now go to your mother, there’s a good ladeen.” He brought his finger to his lips again, making a soft shshing sound, and winked reassuringly at the boy. He was stoking the fire when they kicked open the door.
They watched, petrified, as their kitchen was torn apart. Frustrated and angry, the intruders turned on Joseph Molloy. The first kick behind his knee brought him down. The next was to the side of his head and everything began to swim.
“The back room, turn it out.”
The child ran to his mother, grabbing her around the leg, peeping terrified from behind her skirts. The kettle began to boil, steam driving the lid to an urgent rat tat tat. The lid bounced and hopped madly, demanding attention. In a flash the boy broke away from his mother and ran to stand with his back to the rattling kettle in his childish attempt to help.
“So, what is our little man hiding?” Coarse cloth brushed his face as he was shoved aside.
The old priest moved uncomfortably in his chair. “They took the father away that day and that was the last they saw of him alive. Later that night, his body was taken from the side of a ditch, a bullet through his head.”
Nora stared at the priest. How could he know all this? If Matt had told anyone of his ordeal it would have been Peg. She was certain. Could Peg have known and not told her?
The sunlight struggled to penetrate the heavy lace on the windows. She thought how nice it would be to walk over into the spacious bay of the window and draw back the curtains, watch the excitement as the light danced and played with the dust motes, and then open the window wide to the fresh