Long Goodbyes (10 page)

‘I shall take comfort in what you have been able to disclose, Inspector. And I thank you. Now, I believe that it will soon be time for my evening meal.’

Defeated, Keefe rose to his feet. ‘We may not meet again, Jenny.’

‘I hope that your retirement is as fulfilling as you would wish it to be, Inspector.’

Keefe knocked once on the cell door and the attendant sprang the locks.

It was over.

an epilogue

An Epilogue
by Rory Keane,
Summer term, 1962

Inspector Keefe paused outside the cottage and leaned on his walking stick. Almost ten years since Orla Benjamin’s murder and the building was descending into dilapidation - not quite derelict, but well on the way. One of the locals had expressed his intention to assemble a working party to tear it down. And perhaps that would be all for the best, Keefe thought. He lit his pipe, a favourite briar, and inhaled deeply. The sweet smell filled
 
the air and melded with the fragrance of over ripe fruit wafting from the cottage garden. She had taken pride in this place, had Jenny MacLennan. It had been the beginnings of a new life for herself and her husband. Or had it? Keefe puffed at the stem of his pipe. What did he really think? That MacLennan was a cold-blooded murderess who may even have been a spy, or merely a jealous, embittered woman whose dream had been cruelly shattered?

Or that, maybe, she was telling the truth. At the very least, perhaps that she was telling a story which she believed to be true. In other words, a woman not in her right mind.
 

The war. It had affected the lives of millions, and who was to say what long-term effects it might have on the fragile composition of the female frame?
 

Keefe found himself following the lane towards the coast, aware that he would have to pass close to the gates of the grand house. Although the afternoon was warm the sky over the Atlantic looked patchy, and Keefe knew well what that meant. He lengthened his stride. Rain was a regular companion, but being a cautious man by nature, he had his jacket slung over the crook of his arm as a precaution. A cautious man, yes, but also, he liked to think, a good judge of character. Over the course of a long career he had met many diverse personalities: villains, murderers, small-time crooks, political activists, ordinary folk…
 

And crazy folk.

But perhaps the only thing in the case of the Benjamin murder of which he was truly certain was that Jenny MacLennan did not belong to that particular category.
 

The stone gateposts loomed ahead and Keefe halted, suddenly unsure. Ivy clung to the twin columns like coiled, verdant snakes. What was he hoping to achieve? To soak up the atmosphere of the infamous Kilmareich House? To find a previously unregarded clue which would slot every part of the puzzle into its correct place? To close the chapter and give himself some peace in retirement? Yes, all of those things. He passed between the gateposts and into the grounds. Wild grass grew unchecked from the once expansive driveway and the undergrowth had closed in upon the building as though seeking to hide its past in a tangle of fecundity. The leaded windows were filthy, some broken, some just empty sockets, while the substantial front door was tarnished, stripped of its gloss by the relentless Atlantic wind. He stood on the threshold for a moment, caught unawares by his hesitancy.
 

It’s an old house, Diarmuid, that’s all. Just an old house.

The door inched reluctantly inwards until the swollen woodwork caught on the floor. Keefe applied his shoulder and it gave suddenly with a loud rending noise, pitching him into the gloomy interior. He stumbled and almost fell, catching hold of the door edge to steady himself. The smell of mildew and dry rot made his nose twitch as he reached into his pocket for his torch and shone the beam around the interior. Motes of dust danced in the torchlight as he swept it across the hall to the wide staircase, and to the left and right into each corner and recess. Nothing.
 

Of course, nothing.
 

Emboldened, he made his way towards the staircase. His footsteps echoed flatly in the open space. It was a wonder that the stairs were still intact. Keefe thought he’d heard somewhere that there was no longer any access to the upper floors due to the collapse of the main stairwell, but the woodwork seemed adequately robust beneath him and so he began a cautious ascent, taking care to test each step before committing his weight. The stairway curved to the left and a further fifteen steps brought him to the first floor landing. The torch showed him a corridor stretching away to his left, and a hundred-and-eighty- degree rotation revealed a similar layout to his right. He could see the shadowy shapes of doorways punctuating the walls at regular intervals - bed chambers, maybe, or other reception rooms. Keefe went right. The passageway led him to a gallery, a wide court of arches from which hung a selection of paintings, the subjects of which were impossible to discern for the layers of cobwebs and dust which obscured them. The vastness of the house suddenly overwhelmed him. It would take days, if not weeks to make a thorough search of the whole building. Disappointment brought him to a standstill as he realised how much hope he had invested in this visit. He had wanted something today,
anything
, however intangible, to provide some degree of closure. To never know, to never have peace was an intolerable thought. He pictured Jenny MacLennan in her cell, hands folded neatly upon her lap, regarding him with that familiar, enigmatic expression which revealed nothing …

He gave voice to his frustration, startling himself as his gruff tones echoed along the passageways and unseen galleries. Very well then, if days or even weeks were required, then so be it. He had no other commitments, no wife to dissuade him, no superior to forbid him. He would prolong his investigation until he had an answer, until he uncovered the truth. The small torch he had brought was beginning to flicker and fade.
 
It would be wiser to return another day with a better one.
 

No. You’re here now, Diarmuid.
The old army motto came to him:
if in doubt, go forward …

The orange glow from Keefe’s dying torch found a grandfather clock standing to attention, sentinel-like in the shadows ahead. It guarded a smaller door which was, unlike the others he had elected to pass by, slightly ajar. Keefe’s pulse quickened. Coincidence, surely? A grandfather clock, a small door. And leading to … he pulled the door open a fraction. There they were. Steps leading directly upwards.
 

The tapestry room.

Keefe hovered on the threshold, irresolute and slightly shaken. It needn’t signify anything. Jenny MacLennan may well have spent an idle afternoon exploring the house, just as he was. It did not mean that the discovery of the door and the steps gave her version of events any credence.

He went up.

Carefully testing each step, he arrived presently at a small landing and another door. He grasped the handle and realised that he was perspiring, trembling slightly as he turned the old-fashioned brass knob anti-clockwise. A draught of dusty, scented air wafted from the room. He ducked his head and entered. At the far end of the narrow chamber was a wide bed above which was set a small gable window. The glass was missing. No, broken - in fact, the window frame itself was absent, and he could see several shards of glass still resting on the ledge. Keefe swallowed hard and played the beam around the room. A dresser. A bedside table.

And a bowl of fresh fruit.

Keefe dropped the torch and turned on his heels, panic rendering his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He stood on the torch and cursed as he felt its casing crack under his boot. The chamber was plunged abruptly into darkness.

He fumbled his way down the steep stairwell, almost losing his footing but managing somehow to arrest his progress by grabbing at the walls which, to his dismay, he discovered to be damp and slippery, almost without substance; fungal and pliable, they gave slightly at his touch. He reached the lower landing and came to a halt, hands on knees, overcome by a sudden rush of nausea. He could hear the Atlantic rollers breaking on the shore a short distance away. Surely he would be able to gather his wits and apply a rational perspective to what was happening.

He began to walk directly away from the clock in the direction from which he had originally come. Presently he would arrive at the gallery and then it was a simple matter of negotiating the main stairway. He pictured himself arriving in the hall and walking quickly towards the rectangle of daylight which was the open front door. He would be there in a matter of minutes.

But here was the familiar shape of the grandfather clock ahead. He must have missed a turning, surely, come around in a circle? Keefe made an about turn, carefully mapping his progress to ensure that he was in fact walking in a straight line. When the clock loomed again in the near distance he stifled a groan of despair.
 

The pattern repeated itself whichever new direction he struck out on. All routes led him back to the waiting clock.

After many hours Keefe sank to the floor and allowed his head to fall forward onto his knees. He slept for a while, a fitful, restless sleep, and when he awoke began the cycle anew. He was keenly aware that without food and water his ability to continue would soon be tested to the utmost. Another fruitless circuit and he ascended the stairs to the tapestry room. He had already assessed the window as being too small an aperture for a grown man to negotiate, but what other options had he? With a stab of despair he found that he was correct; even with the frame missing his shoulders were too broad and his body too bulky. Could he perhaps widen the gap? No; there were no tools to assist him in this endeavour and the stonework, although damp, was thick and set firmly in position.
 

Keefe felt for the edge of the bed and sat down, his mind numb with exhaustion, his physical resources spent.
 

Something on the bed moved and he gasped as a cold hand brushed his shoulder.

Somewhere, perhaps in his mind, someone spoke:
 

I have been so lonely, the voice said softly …

So very lonely …

Extract from ‘The Kerry Sentinel’, September 1926

A verdict of death by misadventure has been pronounced regarding the disappearance of Mr Diarmuid Keefe, a retired police officer who was last seen walking in and around the coastal area near (village name withheld). It is thought likely that Mr Keefe strayed too close to the cliff edge, fell and was washed out to sea. There are no next of kin. Funeral service to be held at…11am.
 

‘That’s it?’ Finbar Eyre looked up with an expression wavering awkwardly between a scowl and a kind of repressed admiration. A tic below his right eye twitched.

‘Well, d’youse like it?’ I wasn’t expecting a declaration of praise and Fin didn’t disappoint.

’S’all right, I suppose.’ He swept ginger hair back from his forehead. Fin always did that when he felt a bit awkward.

‘Let’s read yours, then.’

‘Haven’t finished yet. I’ll show you later.’

Liar.

‘Got to be in this afternoon at the latest,’ I reminded him. ‘And you know what the Brady’s like.’

Miss Jean Brady.
Jean Brodie
, some of the boys called her after studying the book the previous term. Anyway, Brady didn’t take any prisoners when it came to late work.

‘I
know
,’ Fin said. ‘I’m on it.’

‘Yeah, right. Sure you are.’ I can always tell when Fin’s spinning me a line. ‘Come on, at least it’s more interesting than Chaucer and Shakespeare.’

‘I guess.’

‘And it’s based on a true story.’

‘So they say. Fifty years is a long time, though. Stuff changes, right?’ Fin picked his teeth and tried to look mature and cynical at the same time.

‘I looked it up,’ I said. ‘They have these machines in the library. They’re microfilm. You can check on all the old newspapers. Straight up. All the way back for a hundred years and a bit more. There
was
a Jenny MacLennan, and there
was
a
garda
called Keefe who worked on the case.’

‘You are
such
a girly swot, Keane.’

‘Sticks and stones, my friend, sticks and stones.’

‘And I don’t buy the ghost thing, either.’

‘Oh,’ I said in a high falutin’ upper class eejit accent, ‘you don’t, do you?’

‘No. I reckon Jenny MacLennan killed Orla Benjamin.’

‘But why? She had no reason.’

‘That
garda
, he knew what he was about,’ Fin said. ‘He wouldn’t have fallen for the ghost thing either. That’s why your epilogue is…’

‘Yeah? What?’ I stuck out my chin. I can’t help it; I always do it when someone disses me.

Fin shrugged. ‘I dunno. Just a bit … lame.’

‘Oh, it’s lame is it?’ I wanted to boot him where the sun didn’t shine, but as we were both sat on a wall it was an option I’d have to take up sometime later.