The Private Wound by Nicholas Blake

straight back to your cottage. You didn’t stop on the way?”
    â€œNo. Straight back.”
    â€œDid any other vehicle pass you?”
    â€œNo. I’ve thought about this. It was physically impossible for Kevin to have arrived at the cottage before me.”
    Concannon gave me a curious look. “Why should he want to harm you?”
    â€œWhy should anyone?”
    â€œBut Mr. Leeson could have made arrangements with someone else during those five minutes or so he was out? Is that what’s in your mind?”
    â€œHe
could
have, no doubt. But why on earth should he be gunning after me?”
    â€œâ€˜Gunning’?”
    â€œA figure of speech,” I snapped irritably.
    â€œI’m aware of the metaphor,” Concannon replied with a touch of ice. “And you can’t think of any other reason why someone should be gunning after you?”
    â€œNo.”
    Father Bresnihan, who had been sitting quite silent, studying his fingers, looked up. “That is not true, Dominic.”
    It was a very awkward moment. I knew it would be likely to arrive sooner or later, but I’d hoped it would somehow have been postponed. There was nothing to be done now but plunge in boldly at the deep end.
    â€œFather Bresnihan thinks,” I said, not looking at him, “that I’ve been paying too much attention to Mrs. Flurry Leeson.”
    The point of the shorthand-writer’s pencil broke. A faint blush appeared on Concannon’s face. The Father nodded at me approvingly.
    â€œAnd have you, Mr. Eyre?” asked Concannon mildly.
    â€œI like her very much, and I’ve been seeing her pretty often. Living nearby. She and her husband have both been very kind to me.”
    â€œI see. And you think your intentions have been misinterpreted,” said Concannon silkily, his voice tilting up at the end.
    â€œThe Father seems to think so.”
    Father Bresnihan’s mouth twitched angrily, but he made no comment.
    â€œAre you suggesting, then, that Mr. Flurry Leeson is behind these attacks upon you?”
    â€œCertainly not. I think it’s wildly improbable.”
    â€œA jealous husband?” Concannon let his voice trail away.
    What could I answer? that Flurry was a complaisant cuckold?
    â€œHe has never shown me any signs of that,” I said. “But no doubt you’ll be finding out where he—and Kevin and everyone else were—two nights ago.”
    â€œI’ve already taken statements from them, Mr. Eyre.” Concannon leant back, lacing his arms behind his head. “Have you a passport, Mr. Eyre?” he asked negligently.
    â€œYes. But not here. You don’t need one for Ireland.”
    â€œI suppose, as a writer, you travel a good deal. Local colour—that class of thing.”
    â€œI’ve been to France. And Italy. And once to Greece. But—”
    â€œNowhere else in Europe? Germany?”
    â€œGood lord no! Not with that Nazi gang in control.”
    â€œA godless lot of sinners they are,” said Concannon. “You wouldn’t object to sending for your passport and letting me see it.”
    â€œOf course not. But what on earth has this to do with—?”
    â€œYou’ll do that, then. I’m most grateful to you, Mr. Eyre. And now we’ll have to think how we can best protect you. Won’t we, Father?” Concannon added cosily.
    â€œProtect? You think it might happen again?”
    â€œIt might so. Have you a gun?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t come over here expecting to get involved in shooting matches.”
    â€œSure you didn’t.” Concannon’s intelligent face broke into a purely boyish grin. “We’d best have the Father give one of his hell-fire sermons next Sunday, warning his flock against the sin of murder.”
    Father Bresnihan appeared to take this quite seriously. For myself, the word “warning” threw a fantastic idea into my mind. The