The Blood Upon the Rose by Tim Vicary Read Free Book Online

of cartridges, a cycle-repair kit, and a Mills bomb. Kee took it out carefully and handed it to a uniformed constable. In the inside pocket, a toothbrush, a comb, a packet of cigarettes, a wallet.
    Kee opened the wallet. Money, some postage stamps, and a folded letter. He unfolded it. Kee was a highly emotional man, and his job was a constant struggle to hide this, especially when interviewing suspects. When he succeeded he put on a heavy, stolid, uncomprehending look. It helped to let people think he was stupid, and gave him time to evaluate every reaction. But this time, as he read the letter, he could not prevent a slow, deep smile spreading across his face.
    The letter appeared to be a receipt. It read:
     
    Mr J. Kirk, Grocer, North Strand, Dublin. 20 October 1919.
    Received from my tenant, Mr Martin Savage, the sum of £4 10s 6d, to be held safe by me until such time as he shall demand it.
    Signed: J. Kirk.
     
    Kee read it twice, carefully, and then handed it to Davis. ‘There you are, my boy. Maybe we've found a clue for once. Will you start up that infernal machine of yours, and we'll go and pay a visit on Mr Kirk right now, shall we?’
     
     
    An hour later, as he lit the gas mantle in the second of the two rooms at the top of the grocer Kirk’s house in North Strand, Kee felt more disgust than before. The first room, Martin Savage's, had been small, untidy, sparsely furnished as he had expected. An iron bed in the corner, a fireplace, a bucket of coal, two shabby armchairs with some socks drying on them, a desk and chair under the window. A crucifix with a bleeding heart over the mantelpiece, and a photograph of a man and woman standing solemnly outside a rough stonebuilt cottage. The one across the corridor, belonging to the dead boy's friend, was smaller than the first, and tidier. Very tidy indeed, Kee thought, for a young man. The bed was made, and there were no clothes strewn about. A pair of shoes was arranged neatly under the bed, by the chamber-pot. Kee would have approved of it, had it not been for the bleeding crucifixion on the wall.
    Such things struck him as idolatrous, extravagant, sinful. The son of a staunch Presbyterian docker from north Belfast, Kee had grown up with the idea that beauty existed in much simpler things. A clean, neat house with a warm fire and an honest woman in it. A great factory throbbing with industry. The smooth cover of a well-worn Bible. The clear knowledge of right and wrong. All things that seemed to be missing from Dublin in the winter of 1919.
    There were twenty or thirty books in the bookcase by the wall. Kee examined the titles curiously. Several works of history, including Griffith's The Resurrection of Hungary , which Kee knew was read as a blueprint for how Sinn Fein should gain independence in Ireland. Another, entitled What Germany Could Do for Ireland , appeared to set out all the advantages to Ireland of Britain losing the war.
    There were a few novels, including G. K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday; and a shelf and a half of medical textbooks, most bought second-hand but still quite expensive. What did that mean? Only a medical student would have these, surely?
    He turned to the desk, and his suspicions were confirmed. There was a half-finished essay on diseases of the blood, and a file of lecture notes and diagrams. Kee was elated, and puzzled. It should be easy enough to find out the boy's name from these; yes, there it was at the top. Brennan. Sean Brennan. The university should have full details of its students.
    But could a medical student be an assassin? Kee had been a policeman long enough to know that anything was possible, but the idea disgusted him. They took an oath to save life, didn't they, not throw Mills bombs into cars?
    Kee wondered if he had made a mistake. There was something guileless, innocent, about the room. There were the books, certainly, but books on their own did not kill. There were two photographs on the mantelpiece; one