The Private Wound by Nicholas Blake Page B

kept a shop. And I replied, just to mystify him, ‘a very closed shop.’ A curious expression came over Haggerty’s face—”
    â€œDescribe it.”
    I tried to do so.
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œThe Leesons—Flurry and his wife—came in, and the conversation ended.”
    â€œThe man you overheard talking with Kevin in the study—could that have been Haggerty?”
    â€œDefinitely not. Quite a different voice.”
    â€œDid you have any talk with Haggerty since?”
    â€œOh, quite often. But only the time of the day, gossip, that sort of thing, in the bar.”
    Concannon glanced at the Father. “So
that’s
it! He’s a simple-minded fella, Haggerty, isn’t he?”
    â€œHe is,” said Father Bresnihan. “But he likes to think he’s crafty.”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œWhat
is
all this?” I exclaimed irritably.
    Concannon smiled at me. “Don’t you see the impression your words would have on a fella like Haggerty?”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    â€œWhat you let slip in front of him—what he
thinks
you let slip—was that you’re some class of spy: a British spy.”
    â€œGood God!” My mind raced like a propeller out of water.
    â€œThere was a lot of West Britishers—if you’ll forgive the expression, Mr. Eyre—in the Dublin Castle intelligence service in the bad old days.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œAnd the British’d want to find out just what’s going on over here now, wouldn’t they?—what’s the feeling about neutrality? whether some of the extremists wouldn’t welcome a German intervention?”
    â€œSure they’d never do that,” protested the Father.
    â€œBut they’d use any opportunity to push the Taoiseach into getting back the Six Counties. And a war between Germany and England would be their moment. Naturally, the British’d want to know the strength of that feeling.”
    I was bewildered still.
    â€œYou see, Dominic, if the English Government thought we were going in against the North, with or without German encouragement, it would give them an excuse to invade us first. It’s the Treaty Ports they’d be after.”
    â€œI see your point, Father. So it’s not my alleged immorallife, but my espionage activities, which have made me your parishioners’ target,” I said nastily.
    â€œIt would account for your cottage being searched,” said Concannon. “But not necessarily for the other episodes. Did you ever visit Galway Bay or Clifden, with your great big field-glasses?”
    â€œI often go into Galway. And I drove up to Clifden once. With my great big field-glasses. What an innocent bird-watcher has to put up with! But they’re not Treaty Ports, are they?”
    â€œThey could be used. By smaller vessels.”
    â€œI think the whole thing’s absolutely mad,” I said with exasperation. “Confound your politics! It’s all so—so amateurish.”
    â€œDominic, there’s no one so amateurish over here as an amateur politician. And no one so professional as a professional one.”
    â€œYou have it, Father.” Concannon gazed at me broodingly. “Michael Collins now—he had a short way with Castle spies. Maybe you ought to take the first aeroplane back to England.” That upward tilt again at the end of the sentence.
    I suddenly had a strong intuition—or was it a delusion?—that this calm, intelligent policeman was reserving judgment about me, that he had not convinced himself I was
not
a spy. It was an unpleasant sensation. Never before had I felt so completely a stranger in the land of my birth.
    I decided I’d go into the attack. “If I
am
a spy—and I see you’re not sure about it yet—duty would obviously require me to stick it out here. If I’m not, commonsense should tell me to go home at once. Well,