Death in the Burren (3 page)

They read through the enrolment forms. Twelve were from young students throughout the country and five Americans had been netted through a travel agent.

Patsy explained that there would be an interest in individual lectures on an ad hoc basis and asked McAllister if he would be happy with that.

He agreed and they went on to discuss the arrangements in more detail.

Over lunch they chatted generally and McAllister told her about his adventures since he arrived in the Burren. He noted her concern about the incident at the Orchid.

“Hyland has a bad reputation and Frank should keep out of his way. It’s not good losing one’s cool like that. Anger can lead anywhere you know. Very hard to control once it escapes out of the bottle.” McAllister thanked Patsy and took his leave shortly afterwards. On his return journey he called to the Gardaí at Lisdoonvarna and reported the accident at Black Head.

The “Atlantic” was strangely quiet when McAllister returned and he made his way to his room without meeting anyone. He spent the next few hours preparing material for the following week, showered and took a short nap.

He awoke refreshed and called Frank on the internal line to make arrangements for an early dinner and the trip to Ennis.

Susan answered and they arranged to meet in the dining room at six o’clock. When they arrived Susan looked quite striking in a pink suit with matching high heeled shoes but Frank’s strained expression, unkempt hair, jeans and crumpled pullover were hardly the preparation for an enjoyable evening.

It transpired that he was still feeling unwell and would skip the concert.

“I don’t know what’s come over me,” he complained, “that affair with Hyland left me feeling a bit washed out so I’ll just keep an eye on things here until dinner is finished and have an early night. One of the guest rooms is free, Susan, so I’ll bed down early and if I sleep well I should be as right as rain tomorrow.”

“That’s a good idea,” she agreed, “I won’t disturb you when we get back. On the other hand a night of Boccherini might be just the cure for you Frank. It’s not too late to change your mind.” She looked at him quizzically.

“I’m tempted……but no, best leave it. The beauty, yes, but the yearning sadness behind it could be counterproductive in my state of mind.”

“What a strange comment,” thought McAllister.

When they were leaving for Ennis Frank gave Susan an affectionate hug and waved them off. McAllister glimpsed him in the rear view mirror, a sad, lonely figure standing in the doorway. He was disturbed by the picture but shrugged it off. “Feeling a bit sorry for himself. Frank will be okay in the morning.”

He smiled at Susan as they made their way along the coast road. They admired the calmness of the immense seascape and agreed it would be an ideal night for being out at sea. Passing Andy O’ Lochlen at Poll na Doibe they returned his friendly greeting.

The concert at the cathedral in Ennis had attracted a lot of interest. McAllister had to park some distance away but they eventually settled themselves among a large cosmopolitan audience to enjoy a most unusual evenings music.

The Quintetto di Lucca were playing a complete programme of quintets by their fellow Luccan, Boccherini. The addition of a second ‘cello to the normal string quartet enriched the sound to a degree which enthralled McAllister and set him wondering why this music was not played more often. He made a mental note to expand his CD collection in that direction.

As the concert progressed he became conscious of how accurate Frank’s phrase “yearning sadness” was in relation to this music. Even the fast movements were pervaded by a gentle melancholy. It was as if the composer’s awareness of the transient nature of life was heightened by the beauty of his surroundings. The strange sadness of a summer evening. McAllister recalled something of how he had felt earlier that day at Gregans Castle Hotel.

The interval came quickly and they left their seats to walk about the cathedral. McAllister spotted an old friend, Superintendent Con Curtis of the Gardaí, who had been based in Ennis for many years. He waved across to catch Curtis’s attention and they made their way through the audience to talk to him. Curtis, in his early fifties, seemed stocky but, when one was near him, taller than first impressions suggested. His penetrating blue eyes were set in a pleasant malleable countenance and he was obviously delighted to see McAllister, who introduced Susan. They talked for a while and Curtis asked if either of them had seen Balfe at the recital.

McAllister replied in the negative. “Eileen would be more likely to come, being a player herself,” he went on, “although I suppose it’s always possible that she might entice him here.”

They made their way back to their seats, McAllister having promised to call on Curtis before returning to Dublin.

As they settled down for the second half Susan tugged at McAllister’s arm and pointed towards a door to the side of the altar from which the performers would shortly be emerging. Inside they could glimpse two men talking animatedly. One they had seen earlier positioning the music stands and setting out the music before the performance had begun. He was obviously the all purpose manager of the Quintetto di Lucca, but the other was Michael Balfe ! They were having a very heated discussion and it didn’t look too friendly. Suddenly the men became aware of the door being open and it was immediately closed over.

Soon afterwards the quintet re-emerged and the cathedral was again filled with the beautiful liquid sounds of Boccherini.

Neither Susan nor McAllister saw Balfe again. They tried to find Curtis in the crowd to tell him about Balfe but he wasn’t to be seen either.

While they were looking, Balfe and the Italian group were leaving the cathedral by a rear entrance. They loaded their instruments and other equipment into an Orchid Hotel minibus and left together. They weren’t to know that the occupants of a discretely parked car were watching them and would follow into the night.

“Michael seemed to be very involved with those Italians” commented Susan as they journeyed home along the coast road much later.

“I thought the whole episode was very odd,” said McAllister, “what could they have been saying and why wasn’t Eileen there?”

“It’s likely that the Quintet are staying at the Orchid and something went wrong with the arrangements. You know how demonstrative Italians can be. Even a discussion about the weather can appear volcanic.”

“I’m not so sure,” McAllister said. “I’ve been uneasy since I got here. There have been so many peculiar incidents. First there was the near miss at Black Head and those people scooting off. Then Hyland having a go at Frank. You must admit Frank’s reaction was a bit over the top. Now we’ve just seen Michael having a run in with that Italian string quintet manager, while Eileen, the musician of the duo, missed such a wonderful concert. I don’t know, I must be in need of a rest.”

By this time Susan was almost convulsed with laughter as McAllister reeled off his litany of misgivings.

“I recommend a few days break, John. Why not sail away into the sunset and leave it all behind you like those people out there, whoever they are.”

Susan pointed out to sea.

They were passing Poll na Doibe and McAllister glimpsed a fishing boat sitting lazily in the water near Cloch an Oilc.

Then the weak moonlight was obscured by a bank of cloud and the boat merged into the darkness.

“Perhaps you’re right, Susan,” agreed McAllister wearily, “perhaps you’re right.”

The Atlantic guest house was dark and silent when they arrived.

After a quick night-cap they said goodnight and went to their rooms.

McAllister had no trouble sinking into a sound sleep with the music of Boccherini in his head, soothing him like a lullaby.

Wakened briefly during the night by a flash of headlights and the sound of a car coming to rest in the car park he noticed the green digits on his bedside clock showing 3 am., and then his slumbers resumed.

T
HE MUTED TRILLING OF THE ALARM CLOCK
drew McAllister gently from his dreamless sleep towards the new dawn.

He took his part in this process like a docile fish accepting it’s fate as the angler eased it gently towards the bank.

When consciousness had asserted itself he drew back the covers, swung his feet out onto the floor and took stock of the situation sitting on the edge of the bed.

It was Wednesday and he planned to cover a lot of the ground chosen for his field trips, so it was to be an early start. The clock showed three minutes past seven and he now remembered that he had made arrangements to have breakfast at 7.30. Aoife, who cooked most mornings, had been more than willing to accommodate him and to start operations in the kitchen half an hour earlier than usual.

“I’d better get a move on,” he murmured to himself, “this sea air has me drugged. Must be in time or she’ll kill me.”

This thought put a spring in his step and with a steady increase in energy he shaved, showered, dressed and packed his equipment into a shoulder bag.

Fresh and alert McAllister arrived in the dining room at precisely 7.30. It was empty but the kitchen aromas reached him.

Going to the window he looked across the ocean. The day was calm but overcast and the islands gave the impression of being asleep.

“We may have showers today,” he thought,” better go prepared.”

“Good morning Mr. McAllister. I’ll be with you in a moment.” A voice called from the kitchen.

“Thanks Aoife, take your time.”

Because of the long day and the probability that lunch time would come and go when he was well away from somewhere to eat, McAllister had decided to break with his normal practice and have a full Irish breakfast.

At home he would have a light meal of nutty brown bread and lots of tea but he would sometimes treat himself on holiday. Today was one of those days, added to the fact that he needed to store away extra calories for the physical work ahead.

Aoife appeared with some fruit juice and advised McAllister to bring rain gear.

“I’ve just had the same thought.” He smiled and thanked her for her concern.

She had a clear complexion, auburn hair flowing in curls to her shoulders and intelligent eyes set in a smiling face, tall and very efficient.

“She’s part of Frank’s success story,” he thought, “a real charmer with brains to match.”

Subconsciously he was comparing her with Ann, to whom she bore a strong resemblance. He made a mental note to telephone Ann before leaving this morning. “Might catch her before she goes to the hospital to do her rounds. Pity she couldn’t break free to come with me this week. Anyway we’ll make up for lost time.”

“There you are Mr. McAllister.” Aoife broke into his thoughts again.

This time she had brought a large tray and McAllister’s appetite was immediately stimulated by the mixed aromas of his freshly cooked breakfast. Lightly smoked bacon, perfectly cooked eggs , subtly spiced sausage, sautéed mushrooms which had more than a nodding acquaintance with crushed garlic, and lamb’s kidneys browned beautifully in butter. Accompanied by piping hot crisp crust brown bread and, unusually for him, coffee, this feast presented a challenge to McAllister which he accepted with zest.

His enjoyment was heightened by a nagging, but pleasurable, sense of guilt. This was his secret. His and Aoife’s. Nobody else would know.

Half an hour later it took a little effort to detach himself from the remnants of Aoife’s masterpiece and load his equipment and flask of hot tea into the car. Then a quick call to Ann and a farewell to Aoife.

He thanked her profusely and drove away as the first guests were drifting into the restaurant. A perfect start to a perfect day?

So it seemed.

The ocean was smooth and peaceful as McAllister drove south along the now familiar coast road. Inland Slieve Elva and Knockauns mountain ascended to form a majestic skyline, their ageless balding surfaces patterned by low stone walls writhing like snakes up the slopes.

He passed Poll na Doibe and noticed that Cloch an Oilc was submerged by high water. As the road rose beyond Poll na Doibe the low wall to his right had broken down and was punctuated by rusting steel drums ringed with bands of red and white paint, a salutary warning to night travellers. Having drifted briefly inland the road once more skirted the ocean as he approached Poll Salach.

McAllister parked the car in a narrow layby close to an irregular stretch of stone wall, donned his shoulder bag and prepared to set off across the jagged landscape.

He once again marvelled at his surroundings.

The name Burren, the Barony of Burren, from the Irish “boireann”, meaning a rocky place, while accurate, is a master-piece of understatement, covering, as it does, an area more than twelve miles North to South and twelve miles West to East at it’s widest points.

The bare limestone landscape is the result of a series of natural processes over hundreds of millions of years, and the grazing of cattle with resultant soil erosion during the past four thousand. Layers of undersea deposits built up and compressed into rock. The sea retreated and the rock was eroded. Then the sea returned with more deposits and finally the area was raised by gigantic upheavals in the earth’s crust. Ice Ages then advanced and retreated grinding and scouring the plateau into it’s present form. Overgrazing since the Stone Age and the removal by weathering of the soil from the hillsides have intensified the Burren’s austere and serene beauty.

The sound of an approaching bus roused McAllister from his contemplations and he returned the handwaved greetings as it passed.

Crossing the road he stepped onto the broken limestone terraces which sloped down to the sea. One had to be sure-footed here. Every step was a calculation. One slip could be the last for some time. Stopping from time to time he noted with satisfaction the shy but abundant plants. There would be plenty for him to demonstrate on the coming field trips.

The green, yellow and lavender sea asters above the waterline, sustained by spray from the waves. Pink petalled thrift sometimes called “Lady’s cushion”, and groups of yellow green samphire abounded. Mayweed, sea lavender and sea milkworth added their subtle beauty to this magic carpet.