Two of His Lordship’s hunters, ears alert and twitching, looked out over stall half-doors. They surveyed the scene with their limpid brown eyes and snorted steamy puffs from wide nostrils. One horse, a chestnut, shook his mane and gave a ferocious whinny, as if complaining that rather than wasting his time shooting, the marquis should be hunting. The horses would have their day soon, when the Ballybucklebo Hunt met.
O’Reilly stopped the Rover beside cars parked near the house. He heaved himself out. The smell of coal smoke from the mansion’s chimneys, along with horse and dog scents, filled the air. He opened the car’s back door. “Stay.”
Arthur whimpered. O’Reilly took out his shotgun and the gamebag holding his cartridges. “Come, sir. Sit.” Arthur obeyed, looked up, and ignored a group of folks standing outside the stables. Some carried ashplants, stout walking sticks made from ash saplings. Others brandished sticks of knobbly blackthorn. Many had dogs held on choke chains. Springer spaniels, an Irish setter, two pointers, and three Jack Russell terriers. These men who would beat the coverts and retrieve fallen birds were listening to instructions from Rory Mehaffy, His Lordship’s gamekeeper. “It’ll be cocks only,” O’Reilly heard him say. A sensible move to protect next year’s breeding stock.
Kitty had let herself out of the car. “We’ve a grand day for it,” she said.
“We have. And it’s not too nippy.” Overhead the sky was porcelain blue, and small clouds hung, holding station like fish idling in a calm sea. There wasn’t as much wind as would stir a cow’s tail, and although the air was crisp on O’Reilly’s cheeks, it had not the bone-chilling rawness of the day last month when he’d been out wildfowling at Strangford Lough.
“Looks like a good turnout,” Kitty said.
“Always is here.” O’Reilly looked over to Ballybucklebo House, old, solid, timeless, like Ulster itself. The building had been completed in 1799, in the reign of George III, fifteen years after he’d lost the American colonies and a year after the abortive rising of the United Irishmen. And, O’Reilly thought with a grin, forty years after the founding by a Mr. Arthur Guinness of a brewery at Saint James’s Gate, Dublin.
“Interesting building,” Kitty said.
“It is that,” he replied. O’Reilly had always thought that the old building and the newer additions looked as contentedly haphazard as the terrace houses on the main street of the village itself. Successive lords of the manor had built a new wing here, a conservatory there, and pushed out bay windows. He pointed up. “It was the marquis’ great-great-grandfather who erected that astronomical observatory. It has a revolving dome with a slot for a telescope.”
“My goodness.”
“It was about the time Herschel discovered a new planet. He wanted to flatter the king so he suggested the name Georgium Sidus, but by convention the planets got named for ancient deities, so it ended up as Uranus. Comets weren’t so grand though, so when the marquis’ ancestor discovered a new one it was called MacNeill after the family.”
He spotted someone heading their way. “Here comes that other object on an eccentric orbit,” he said to Kitty. “Donal Donnelly. He’ll want to chat to me about a horse called Flo’s Fancy. It’s very hush-hush.”
“I understand. Mum’s the word.”
“Good lass.”
Donal waved and Fingal waved back before glancing over to where people stood, the marquis among them, between the conservatory and the main building. Wives and members of the guns’ families were sharing the shooting equivalent of stirrup cups, probably hot whiskies. The guns would not be drinking. The marquis was strict about that, and rightly so. Shooting and jars did not mix.
“Morning, my lord,” O’Reilly yelled to the tall greying aristocrat. “A belated Happy New Year.”
“And to you, Fingal. Glad to see you’ve brought Arthur. We’ll talk in a minute.”
“You’ve met His Lordship, and I think you know most of those folks,” O’Reilly said to Kitty, pointing to the group.
“I met His Lordship’s son, Sean, and Captain O’Brien-Kelly, the Irish Guards officer, at the marquis’ open house,” she said. “And of course I’ve met Councillor Bishop.”
“The marquis always invites him to the January shoot. A case of noblesse oblige if ever there was one. It’s in recognition of Bertie’s standing as a member of the village council.”
“He looks like something out of an Austrian hunting print.”
O’Reilly liked her description. Bertie’s green-felt Tyrolean hat was authentic, right down to the drooping pheasant’s feather. A tweed Norfolk jacket covered his ample belly—just. Corduroy jodhpurs were wrapped to his shins by a pair of canvas gaiters.
“He takes it very seriously,” O’Reilly said. “Years ago Bertie took expensive shooting lessons at the famous English gunsmith E. J. Churchill in Buckinghamshire. He needn’t have bothered. He’d still have difficulty hitting a barn with a carpet beater.”
Kitty chuckled. “Who’s that woman?” She hesitated. “I don’t want to sound pass-remarkable, but—”
“Go ahead, Kitty. I’ll not think you’re commenting unfavourably.”
“It’s that skirt. Where in heavens did she get it?”
O’Reilly laughed. The garment in question was voluminous, like a small black bell tent, even though the woman was perfectly proportioned for her height of five foot two.
“That’s Myrna Ferguson, the marquis’ younger sister.” Myrna, who was fifty-eight and childless, was under O’Reilly’s care for psoriasis. “When she hunts—and she still does frequently—she rides sidesaddle. And she shoots in her riding skirt. She may look like an anachronism, but she’s a tough lady, Myrna. Six years ago her husband of twenty years broke his neck in a hunting accident.”
“Oh, Fingal. How dreadful.”
“Myrna did her grieving, then she got on with her life. She has a D.Sc. in physical chemistry and is a reader at Queen’s University—”
“I’ve a painting friend who’s a reader at Queen’s in medieval history. That’s only one rank below full professor. Good for Myrna.” Kitty looked thoughtful. “She’d have been graduating in the late 1920s.”
“Got her B.Sc. in ’27. Took her another four years for her doctorate.”
“Something of a trailblazer.”
“And she’s a crack shot. A regular Annie Oakley.” Even though, he thought, because she stood only five foot two, she used a light twenty-bore instead of a twelve.
Kitty cocked her head and gave O’Reilly a thoughtful look. “You seem to think very highly of the marquis’ sister. She’s obviously a very eligible widow. Did you never consider …” She let the words trail off, but O’Reilly had no doubt about what she was suggesting.
“Away off and chase yourself,” he said. He chuckled, then shook his head no. “She’s a patient”—he noticed three other men in a second loose group, the marquis’ neighbouring landowners—“just like those three blokes over there.”
There would be ten guns, with himself, the marquis’ group, and these three who were dressed for the field in hacking or Barbour waterproof jackets. Two sported Paddy hats; the other, a deerstalker. Each had a shotgun in the crook of an arm, the breeches of the weapons open. The locals would shoot here today, and reciprocal invitations would ensure the marquis had a good pheasant season and a day or two on the Donegal grouse moors in August.
“’Scuse me, sir … Miss O’Hallorhan,” said Donal Donnelly. “True day, so it is.” Most of Donal’s ginger thatch was tucked in under a caubeen. He wore a scuffed, sleeveless, mid-thigh-length, leather waistcoat over a thick woolen shirt. His moleskin trousers were tightened above the knees with nicky tams.
“Looking forward to beating today, Donal?” O’Reilly asked.
“I am that. His Lordship pays us a guinea apiece and gives us a brace of birds each when it’s all over. I’m very fond of a mouthful of pheasant, so I am. You ever want a bird, Doc …” He winked at O’Reilly, who wondered how many of His Lordship’s preciously pr
otected, pampered, and preserved birds Donal came by honestly—and how many were purloined on moon-bright nights. As one of O’Reilly’s professors at Trinity College had once observed, “Some questions are better left unasked.”
“The grub’s good too.” Donal picked at his buckteeth with an index fingernail. “After a morning beating the thickets, I could eat a wooden chair. You get a right tightener at lunchtime and a bottle of stout.”
Kitty looked puzzled. Dubliners and folks from County Down had different ways of expressing themselves.
O’Reilly spoke both dialects. “A tightener,” he translated, “is a very satisfying meal, with lots to eat.”
“Aye,” said Donal. “Sets you up great for the afternoon drives, so it does. Makes it a grand day out, you know. And”—Donal lowered his voice—“wi’ Julie up the spout, the money helps too.”
“How is she?” O’Reilly asked.
Donal smiled. “You mind the photographer, Bertie Bishop’s cousin, like?” Donal nodded in the councillor’s direction, then looked O’Reilly in the eye and sadly shook his head.
Fingal didn’t have to ask to understand that there was no change for the better in the horse affair. “I do,” O’Reilly said. “The cousin wanted her for a hair model.”
Donal nodded. “She’s been up to see your man again. He’s paid her the second ten quid he promised. The snaps I’d had framed is lovely. Just lovely.”
O’Reilly heard the pride in Donal’s voice and glanced at Kitty. Julie Donnelly, née MacAteer, wasn’t the only gorgeous woman in Ballybucklebo today.
“I’m sure they are, Donal,” Kitty said. “Your Julie’s a beautiful girl.”
Donal grinned. “You’re not the only one who thinks so.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Hunter sent in the two best ones to the English shampoo company like he promised, said it was like trying to get her to be the Brick girl.”
“I think,” said Kitty, “you mean the Breck girl.”
“Aye, likely it is, but Brick … Breck … what the heck? Sure it doesn’t matter what it’s called, what does matter is dead wheeker, so it is. Stickin’ out a mile.”
“She’s won?” O’Reilly asked.
“Not yet, but she’s been picked for the last five. That guarantees fifty pounds if she only comes fifth. They’ll be picking the winner on the twenty-sixth of February.”
“I’m delighted, Donal,” Kitty said. “And I’ll bet she wins.”
Donal’s face fell. “Just at the moment I’m not happy about making any bets.” He looked sadly at O’Reilly. “Flo’s Fancy’s running this afternoon.”
Damn. Donal and his partners’ shares in Flo’s Fancy were in jeopardy again. This had to be stopped—and soon. He remembered what Barry had suggested. “Donal, you know Fergus Finnegan, don’t you?”
“Is the Pope Catholic? Declan’s brother, the wee bandy-legged jockey? Sure everybody knows Fergus.”
“Is he beating today?”
“He is, so he is.”
“Tell him I’d like a word with him after lunch.”
Donal frowned and O’Reilly remembered his promise to Donal of secrecy. “I need to ask him about a horse—but not anything else.”
Donal grinned. The message had sunk in. “I’ll tell him, sir.”
The marquis called over, “Time to go, Fingal.”
O’Reilly looked across the yard to see the guns and spectators climbing into Land Rovers. The beaters and their dogs were getting onto trailers pulled by tractors. “Kitty and I’ll join the others, Donal, and you run on off with the beaters.”
“Right, sir.” Donal started to stride across the courtyard. He turned and called back, “I’ll talk to Fergus. You have a good morning’s sport, sir.”
“I’m sure we will. Heel, Arthur. Come on, Kitty,” O’Reilly said, following Donal. “I’ll ask His Lordship if you can stand beside me in the firing line.”
“Not with the other spectators?”
O’Reilly grinned. “I haven’t seen you for nearly three weeks. I’ll not be deprived of the pleasure of your company this morning.”
18
Shoot Folly as It Flies
On the first two morning beats, Rory Mehaffy, the gamekeeper, had shown the guns fine birds. Arthur’s coat was muddied and matted with sticky burrs from the undergrowth he’d pushed through. He’d retrieved pheasants, two woodcock, and a wood pigeon for O’Reilly and the neighbouring sportsmen. The Labrador, tongue lolling, sat alertly at O’Reilly’s feet as they waited for the third drive to begin.
Kitty, in a gabardine raincoat and a paisley silk headscarf, sat on a shooting stick beside him to his right.
“Having fun?” he asked.
“I’m having a lovely day.” She lowered her voice. “It’s been better than a pantomime watching some of your neighbours.”
O’Reilly chuckled. To his right, two of the locals, a man Fingal did not recognise, and the marquis’ son, Sean, held their positions. Five more guns were spread at twenty-five-yard intervals to his left. Bertie was closest, then came Captain O’Brien-Kelly; Myrna was next, followed by one of the other landowners. The marquis stood at the extreme left of the line.
“It’s a good thing you’re here to mop up after the councillor,” she said.
“I think,” said O’Reilly sotto voce, “that Bertie might be well advised to reverse his weapon, hold it by the barrels, and use it as a club.” He was pleased to see her laugh. “The captain isn’t much better. And him from the Irish Guards. I’d expect a bit of marksmanship from a military man. It’s a good thing Myrna and His Lordship are here.”
“And you, Fingal. I’ve been watching. You’ve been shooting very well.”
“Thank you.”
“That was a beauty the way you nailed that wounded bird.”
“Pure luck,” he said. The single cock had burst out of a stand of larches. In the bright sunlight, its head had been shining like an emerald as it clawed for height, flying straight in the councillor’s direction. Bertie’d given it one barrel to no avail. As the bird fled higher still and curled off to his right side, Bertie’d fired again. To his cry of “Tower bird,” the pheasant, true to the habit of its kind when injured, rocketed straight up.
O’Reilly had spun, arched his back, and put his gun to his shoulder with the barrels pointing vertically. He held the bead sight to cover his target. It reached the apex of its flight and stalled as he knew it must, a tiny cross sketched on a limitless sky. In the split second when it hung motionless, he squeezed the trigger.
Feathers puffed loose, as if a pillow had been punctured, and with wings folded, head thrown back, long tail feathers fluttering, the bird had plummeted to the ground.
“It was a good shot, Fingal,” Kitty said.
“It was pure luck.”
“About as lucky as Maria Bueno winning Wimbledon last year,” she said.
O’Reilly glowed to her praise, but said, “She’d certainly have won if she’d played me.”
Kitty shook her head and smiled. “You’re a hard man to compliment, O’Reilly.”
He heard the gamekeeper’s whistle, the signal for the third drive to begin. “I’d better pay attention if I’m going to keep up my record,” he said, facing front and slipping off the safety catch. He was determined to continue shooting skillfully if the opportunity presented. Inside he knew he was like a boy showing off to the new girl in town, but what the hell? Why shouldn’t he?
The line of guns stood on the coarse grass of a wide cartwheel-rutted clearing. Behind it, rowans stood among leafless silver birches. Each of their tops was a filigree of twigs so fine as to seem to be pencil strokes against the sky. The ground beneath the trees was covered by thickets of dead brown bracken and sere, yellow rushes dappled by patches of sunlight and shadow.
Thirty yards in front of O’Reilly and Kitty, the short grass was swallowed by the edge of the covert. Gorse and rhododendrons struggled with brambles, heather, and dead ferns for space. The almond
scent of yellow whin flowers mingled with the piney aroma of the spruce and fir trees that lifted pointed heads to the underbelly of the sky.
Until the whistle blew, the only sounds had been Arthur’s panting, Kitty’s quiet conversation, and the squabbling of a flock of rooks. Now the peace was shattered by the clamour of the beaters as they responded to Rory’s signal and advanced through the wood. The staccato rattle of ashplants and blackthorns on tree trunks was punctuated by the crash of feet pushing through the brittle undergrowth and the cries of men urging on their dogs.
“Hi lost, Sally.”
“Hey on, Landy. Hey on. Push him out. Push him out.”
All along the line, guns waited.
With a hoarse “kek-kek-kek-kek” and the rapid-fire rattling of stubby wings, two birds scorched from the wood to O’Reilly’s right. Two guns fired.
Three more cocks flew over Bertie and O’Brien-Kelly. The men’s four shots might as well have been fired straight up in the air, but before the fleeing pheasants could reach the safety of the birch wood, Myrna fired. Twice. Two birds fell. O’Reilly, despite his intention to impress Kitty, ignored the third escaping bird and sent Arthur to retrieve. Funny, he thought, he must be getting old. He’d rather work Arthur now than shoot any more pheasants today.
To his left, a single cock, crouching low, came running from the rhododenrons. It couldn’t have known the received wisdom in shooting circles: “No true sportsman would ever shoot at a sitting duck or a bird on the ground.” But it must have understood the wisdom of not flying over a line of guns.
The pheasant’s neck was outstretched. Its entire being, from the neb of its yellow bill to the tip of its long striped tail, was one long multihued line. O’Reilly admired its bottle-green head, red wattles, white collar, and golden-brown body feathers as it raced to pass between O’Reilly and Bertie Bishop and gain the birch wood and safety.