The Last Horseman by David Gilman Page A

the lad went adrift. His mother, she was trash anyway and the boy didn’t turn out well. I tried to keep my eye on him best I could – he never knew me – but he got himself caught up in the wrong business... Do I have to spell it out to you?’
    Radcliffe still couldn’t grasp what the man was trying to tell him in his stumbling fashion.
    ‘For a lawyer you’re not very illuminated in the upper regions,’ Kingsley said. And waited, because he saw the realization dawn in Radcliffe’s eyes.
    ‘The boy they hanged? O’Hagan? Your son?’
    Kingsley nodded, took a swig from the flask, wiped it off and offered it to Radcliffe, who accepted and took a swallow.
    ‘You tried to save him, you fought for him, and you made no judgements against him. I feel I owe you a debt,’ Kingsley said.
    ‘You’re a Fenian?’
    ‘When I have to be. Those stupid bastards think it’ll be solved with a gun. It’s the politicians that’ll make the deals and sell us all downriver.’
    Radcliffe saw the pattern of events more clearly. ‘It was you who warned Colonel Baxter about the attack on the garrison.’
    ‘I knew an attack would make the English spit blood. That they might hang my boy without another thought. And I couldn’t let on; I couldn’t show what I felt. Y’get it, d’you?’
    ‘If they discover who betrayed them, they’ll be coming for you,’ Radcliffe said.
    ‘Ah... mebbe not. I made certain they got their information from a whore.’
    ‘They’ll kill her then.’
    Kingsley shook his head. The flask was empty. ‘I warned her off, gave her money. There’s the stupidity of it. By saving her someone sooner or later might find out it was m’self. If they get to her. Thing is, Radcliffe, they’d kill the horse first to spite me.’ He stroked the horse’s face. ‘You spend a few days out here, get to know him, make sure he knows you. You’re a kindly rider, I know that.’
    Kingsley turned away and made for the fresh air. ‘So – there it is. Go on with you, then. I’ve done all I can do for you and your son. You find him and you tell him about his mother.’
    Radcliffe stopped mid stride.
    ‘I know what you did. Using her maiden name and all that,’ said Kingsley.
    ‘How long have you known about my wife?’
    ‘A while. And he must think his mother’s buried elsewhere,’ Kingsley added.
    Radcliffe nodded.
    ‘How did you keep the lie going for so long?’
    ‘Edward was in boarding school. I couldn’t tell him what happened to her. A boy grows into a man and the stigma would never leave him. At every turn his life would be blighted.’
    ‘Jesus, Radcliffe, you’ve less faith in humanity, though I use the word lightly, than m’self.’
    ‘It served no purpose to tell him. She was as good as dead. Like you and your son. Circumstances dictate our actions. You do what you think is best at the time.’
    Both men fell silent for a moment, the dim light a welcome camouflage disguising their regret.
    ‘Don’t worry, no one knows the truth. Only me. You tell him. He has a right,’ said Kingsley.
    There was little more that could be said between the two men; anything further might lead them both into emotion they’d rather not express. Radcliffe extended his hand in gratitude and Kingsley took it.
    ‘You bring that boy home. We need our sons, Radcliffe... but this country needs them more.’
    *
    To the north of Dublin, through the country lanes, an imposing group of Victorian buildings rose up behind their cast-iron gates. These three- and four-storey buildings were not far from the Dublin Workhouse. Inside one of the wings, in a room that overlooked the walled gardens, Radcliffe stood at the doorway and gazed at the imposing room, twenty feet square, high-ceilinged and rich in furnishings. The large, richly patterned carpet was soft underfoot; heavy drapes defied the cold air that seeped through the sash windows. Bookshelves ran across one wall and the wingback chairs offered a place to sit, away