‘Did business boom, Mr Browne? Were your expectations justified?’
The land agent laughed. ‘It has been better than my wildest dreams, Lord Powerscourt. These Anglo-Irish landlords, you know, they’ve never been very good with money, most of them. They’re extravagant. If a neighbour builds a Gothic extension to his property, then you have to do the same. Most of those estates are lumbered with loans and mortgages of unimaginable size. Sometimes half or even two-thirds of the income goes on servicing the debts. If agricultural prices are good then the rents can be high. But they’ve not been too good for a long time with all these foreign imports of wheat and so on. So when George Wyndham proposed this Act, the landlords thought it was manna from heaven. Sell some of your land, sell all of your land, collect the bonus, and it’s a golden opportunity to pay off a lot of those debts and still be left with plenty of money. I’ve had people coming in here at a rate you wouldn’t believe, as if I was the bookmaker round the corner.’
‘So you have lots of sellers,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Who is buying? And might I make so bold as to raise the religious question? Dennis Ormonde said you dealt with all the Protestant sales. But it doesn’t sound as if there are many Protestant buyers on the market.’
Richard Browne puffed vigorously. ‘Good question, my lord, good question. Very rarely will a Protestant enter the market to buy. Some of the most efficient farmers have increased their holdings, it is true. But most of the time the land is offered to the existing tenants. That’s only fair, after all. It’s after that the business really takes off. Many of these people – we’d have called them peasants in days gone by – didn’t have very much land. If they sold it they might have enough money to emigrate or to pay off some of their debts. Or they could stay on and work on the land for the new landlord. Some of the larger Catholic farmers have amassed enormous amounts of land by buying out their co-religionists. Sometimes, I understand, they’re even harsher landlords than the ones who sold up. The key point is this shift in the ownership of land towards the native population and, in particular, the acquisition of these huge holdings. It’s history running backwards, my lord. Out go the Protestants who acquired or stole the land from the Catholic population hundreds of years ago, in come these great Catholic speculators buying up the Protestant land with the help and encouragement of the British Government in London. It could only happen in Ireland.’ Browne’s pipe had gone out. He began again the difficult search for matches, never to be found in the pocket where you thought you had put them.
‘Is that clear to you, my lord, the general picture, I mean?’
‘Admirably clear, Mr Browne, you have explained the situation very well. Might I trespass on your knowledge yet further and trail a couple of names before you, names of Catholic gentlemen who might be buying up the land in the manner you adumbrated so well?’
‘I’m afraid, my lord,’ Richard Browne had finally managed to relight his pipe and was now blowing great lungfuls of smoke in Powerscourt’s direction, ‘that at certain points the priorities and preoccupations of investigators, however distinguished, diverge from those of humble land agents like myself. We have a duty of confidentiality to our clients. It is not as rigorous as the duty that binds the priests in their confessionals, but we break it at our peril.’
‘Goodness me, Mr Browne,’ said Powerscourt, ‘forgive me, I was not thinking of anybody with whom you might be doing business here in Galway or Clare or however far your remit runs. I was thinking rather of somebody in the Midlands, somebody whose land agents would probably come from Athlone rather than Galway.’
‘It’s very unusual, my lord. I’m not sure I could countenance giving out any information where I was not in the full possession of the facts.’
Powerscourt threw his hat into the ring. ‘Mr Mulcahey, Mr Pronsias Mulcahey of Butler’s Cross – does that name ring any bells, even distant bells, with you, Mr Browne?’
Something in the land agent’s face told Powerscourt that he had scored a direct hit.
‘I couldn’t say, my lord, I really couldn’t say. Pronsias Mulcahey, grocer and moneylender of Market Square, Butler’s Cross. I couldn’t say, but you might be on to something there.’
Jameson was unwell. His owner, Charlie O’Malley, was very worried about him. He was not old, for a donkey. He still worked for his living but his performance was sporadic. Occasionally he sat down in the middle of the road and refused to move. He was not eating much. After their heroic efforts building the chapel on the summit of Croagh Patrick, Charlie and his animals were currently employed building a new hotel and bar near the beach at Old Head, a few miles from Louisburg. The land was flat and the effort involved for donkeys bringing materials out to the site was minute compared with the long haul up the Holy Mountain. Charlie had consulted widely among his cronies in the bar of Campbell’s public house. One had recommended large doses of whiskey, another great helpings of vegetable soup, another swore his granny had cured a dying donkey by feeding it a diet of potatoes soaked overnight in stout. The goodness of the Guinness, according to Charlie’s informant’s aged relative, soaked into the spuds and effected the cure. Charlie had tried them all. He had mentioned to his wife the possibility of the vet and been soundly berated for his pains; how were the children to have clothes on their backs and shoes on their feet if all their hard-earned money was to be squandered on a delinquent donkey?
Charlie had virtually decided to have Jameson put down. The two of them and Bushmills had finished early for the day and Charlie was thinking of celebrating his release with a glass of refreshment in the public bar at Campbell’s when it happened. Jameson stopped at the bottom of the track that led to the summit. He stared upwards. Then he began trotting purposefully up the path.
‘Jameson!’ shouted Charlie. ‘Jameson! Where are you going, you stupid animal?’
The donkey did not deign to turn round. He continued, at a regular pace, in the direction of the statue of St Patrick. Charlie tethered Bushmills to the post outside Campbell’s and set off in pursuit.
‘Jameson!’ he shouted, spying the beast some two hundred yards further up and cruising steadily past St Patrick. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’
Jameson gave every indication of having a very good idea of where he was going. He was going up and nobody was going to stop him. By the time Charlie caught up with him, the donkey was almost at the first station and looking as if he might break the All Ireland Donkey record for the summit of The Reek. Charlie himself was panting heavily. The fitness established on those trips up and down to the chapel had long gone, eroded by the flat lands of Old Head and the stout of Campbell’s public bar. Anybody looking at the two of them now would have said that Jameson was the healthy one and Charlie the invalid. Onwards and upwards went the animal, five hundred yards from the summit, then three hundred, then eighty. Charlie was feeling rather unwell and had taken to reciting a series of Hail Marys. Jameson gave one triumphant bray when he reached the chapel he had helped to build and he peered out into Clew Bay, master of all he surveyed.
‘For Christ’s sake, Jameson,’ said Charlie, sitting down by the edge of the chapel, ‘won’t you take a rest? Sit down, in God’s name. You’re bloody well killing me.’
Jameson took no notice. He trotted past Charlie without even a glance and set off back down the scree. Charlie floundered after him, slithering on the rough stones, and once sitting down very uncomfortably. Charlie knew he had to stop Jameson disappearing off down the road at the bottom and escaping into some kind of donkey liberty. He redoubled his efforts but Jameson was too quick for him. By the time Charlie eventually reached the bottom, holding on to his side and panting heavily, Jameson was next to Bushmills. They appeared to be having a conversation in donkey language on the inadequacies of humans. Charlie tied the donkey up and staggered into the public bar. He had to be helped to a seat. He was too exhausted to speak. A variety of remedies were proposed.