I had taken to walking to the village of Mannane on my own. It was not by choice but, rather, because of the difficult circumstances that prevailed between myself and Harris. There had been a few demanding days when he’d watched for the postman or Inspector Hennessy’s car in hope and expectation. An immediate stimulus of sorts was urgently required to bring him back from that cursed melancholy that preyed with a vengeance on his mind when inactive. He had to be doing things.
The Enigma Project during the last war was an antidote that brought him five years of quiet contentment. The dreary fingers of despair never touched him then and, at that time, in that place at Bletchley Park, under relentless pressure and with the lives of so many dependent on him and all those others, he had met each day with confidence and determination.
I scarcely noticed the grazing cattle and sheep in the fields that stopped to look up and stare at me as I walked by. I was lost in my own little world, wondering whether or not my friend would take off and return to London. Rounding the sweeping corner that gives the first aspect of the village of Mannane, I was immediately struck by the unusual activity outside Mannion’s shop and sub-post office. The Emporium, as I affectionately called it, was owned by the lovely Helen Mannion. She was a dear friend of mine from the old days.
A crowd was gathered; there must have been at least five or six people, an exceptional congregation on a Friday morning. Major Jones was prominent among them and he was agitated. He saw me, detached himself from the assembly and made strides in my direction.
‘Where is Harris?’ he shouted, as he approached. ‘Why is he not with you?’
The distance between us shortened and I could now speak face to face with him. ‘He is having one of his not-so-good days and decided to remain indoors,’ I replied.
The Major nodded in sympathetic understanding. He was aware of the illness that beset Harris. Although they had only met a few months earlier, on the day of the Monet robbery, in fact, there was an unusual bond between them. Who could not like the colourful, outlandishly dressed Major with a loud voice and exemplary manners? I watched closely as he chewed on an aniseed ball sweet whilst stroking the side of his ear in reflective contemplation.
‘Hmm,’ he said to no one in particular before turning to me.
‘It’s a pity, Jonathan, that he is not here, on this morning of all mornings, as he would be truly astonished to hear of the unbelievable events that occurred at Oughterard yesterday evening.’
Oughterard is a bigger village than Mannane and lies some thirty miles east of Clifden, close to Maam Cross. It is said that when you cross the humpbacked stone bridge over the Owenriff River at Oughterard, you are entering the fairyland that is Connemara. It is a sleepy place and I was mystified by the Major’s remarks.
‘What unbelievable events?’
‘The break-in at the village bank. It was robbed during the night and a vast quantity of money was stolen. They were saying in Mannion’s that it could be the biggest robbery ever in the country.’
‘Did you say country or county?’
‘Country.’