The Book of Killowen (Nora Gavin #4) (19 page)

“We’re trying to find out what Mairéad Broome’s husband, Benedict Kavanagh, might have been doing in this area at the time he was killed. Any thoughts?”

“I really couldn’t say. I never met the fella.”

“Can you tell me what sort of work you do here at the farm?”

“The same as everyone else: tilling, planting, cultivating, harvesting, the odd bit of construction—and my own work here, of course.” He gestured to the stone before him.

“You don’t happen to have experience operating heavy machinery?”

“We have a small loader that we use for moving stones like these and for building projects. I drive it sometimes, as do Martin and Claire and Anthony and Shawn. Never operated an excavator, if that’s what you wanted to know.” He calmly continued wiping his tools with a rag, checking their edges, replacing them on the bench.

“Do you remember anything unusual happening last April, anything at all out of the ordinary?”

“Well, we got the new heat in last April—had lashings of hot water for the first time. That was unusual. And that’s when Shawn Kearney—the archaeologist—came to stay with us, attending the excavation on the heating coils. She turned up a few interesting bits, as I recall. I really don’t remember much beyond that. Everything else was pretty normal.”

He finished with the tools and turned his gaze upon Stella once more. For some reason, she had a sudden urge to put his name through the system.

Martin Gwynne looked up at Stella Cusack as he worked the flaws in a sheet of parchment with a short, sharp knife, scraping away rough patches. “Ask away,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep working; this commission is due in a few days, and I’ve still a lot of work to do.” He set aside the knife and reached for a sheet of fine sandpaper, scouring in a circular motion.

Stella studied his hands at work, the fingers long and sensitive, the fingertips floating over the vellum’s pale surface. Gwynne saw her glance at the text he was working from, a formal commemoration of a wedding, no doubt suitable for framing. As if he’d been reading her thoughts, he said, “Yes, decidedly less elevated than transcribing the word of God, but the written word has lost some of its mystique in the modern world, I’m afraid. This is what pays the bills nowadays.”

“I’m here about a second body found in the boot of that car out on the bog.”

Gwynne didn’t look up, but the sheet of sandpaper in his hand stopped dead at the center of the vellum. After the briefest pause, it continued, making circles within circles.

Stella continued, “I’m trying to reconstruct the victim’s last known whereabouts, to find out what could have brought him to this part of the country.”

“And you think I might know what he was doing here?”

“You shared an interest in manuscripts, from what I understand. His name was Benedict Kavanagh. That name ring a bell?”

Martin Gwynne put down the sandpaper and ran his fingers across the calfskin again, like a blind man, feeling rather than looking, paying close attention to the sensations that passed through his fingertips. “I knew Kavanagh. We met once, long ago, at some conference or other. As you said, he studied old manuscripts, and he was sometimes known to consult with persons such as myself about some of the finer nuances of ink making or handwriting.”

A very carefully couched reply, Stella noted. “And did he happen to consult with a person such as yourself last April?”

“No, he didn’t. Now, as to whether he was on his way to see me, I couldn’t say. But we had no arrangement or appointment. He never came here to consult with me.”

Again, the way it was phrased, Kavanagh could have come to Killowen for some other reason than to consult Martin Gwynne. Was he being deliberately evasive?

“Had anyone mentioned him being in the area?”

“Not that I recall.” He began riffling through a jam jar full of white goose feathers, examining each shaft minutely before selecting the stoutest and cutting through it with his small, sharp knife, so that it was about ten inches in length, with a V-shape at the top. He got a firm grasp on one end of the V, and in a single swift motion stripped the lower barbs from the shaft. He repeated the motion on the other side, again leaving a few inches at the top of the quill.

“What do you recall about last April?”

Gwynne stopped to consider. “That’s the time for sowing leeks and onions. And Anthony—our neighbor, Anthony Beglan—was working on a new batch of calfskins for me. It might help if I just consult my diary.” He set down the half-made quill and crossed to the desk beside her. “I keep a note of deadlines and other important dates in here.” Quickly flipping back a few months, he found April and began looking down the entries. The small book was filled with a calligrapher’s careful hand, a rainbow of different-colored inks. He saw her taking in his handiwork. “If something is important enough to write down, it’s important enough to write properly. It’s a mark of respect for the person who will read what you’ve written.” Gwynne replied absently, repeating words he must have said a thousand times. “What sort of time frame are we talking about?”

“We only have a few details. Mr. Kavanagh taped his last television program on April twenty-first. We believe he might have come here shortly after.”

Martin Gwynne perused the entries in his book. “Well, we had the workmen in for the new heat, from April twentieth through the end of the month. No visiting artists during that time, with all the upheaval from the construction.” He paused to consult the diary once more. “What else? Ah, yes. I always prefer to work in daylight, but I had a
commission due at the end of the month, quite a large piece, so I was working late. Burning a lot of midnight oil, as they say.”

“Are you the only person with a prior connection to Kavanagh?”

“I met him once, years ago, as I said. I’d hardly call that a connection.”

“To your knowledge, had any of the others here ever met Mr. Kavanagh?”

“Well, my wife would have met him at the same time I did, but I doubt she would remember. It’s twenty years ago.”

“And where was this?”

“At an academic conference in Toronto—a meeting of the Eriugena Society. A little-known group, medievalists and philosophers and paleographers. I believe Kavanagh was presenting a paper—I’m afraid I don’t remember the subject.”

“What was the name of the group?”

“The Eriugena Society.”

“Could you spell that for me?” She handed him her notebook.

“Medievalists, philosophers, and—sorry—what was the last group you mentioned?”

“Paleographers. Specialists in the study of ancient handwriting.”

“And what were you doing at the conference?”

“A colleague and I had just finished work on a late-ninth-century text, and the conference organizers thought it might be useful to have me give a talk about the process. I warned them that I wasn’t much at public speaking. How is all this relevant? I’ve really no idea what Kavanagh was doing here.”

“It’s possible that his visit to the area had something to do with his wife. I believe she’s stayed here a few times.”

Gwynne looked confused.

“Her name isn’t Kavanagh—it’s Broome. Mairéad Broome.”

A light dawned in his eyes. “Yes, of course, Mairéad. She’s often stayed with us.”

“And you’d no idea she was married to Benedict Kavanagh?”

“She never mentioned it. I suppose I thought—” He broke off suddenly, as if aware that he ought to be a bit more circumspect.

“What?” Stella asked. “That she was attached to her assistant, perhaps? Maybe I ought to mention that she’s here at Killowen now. She
came down to identify her husband’s body. I believe she and Graham Healy will be staying on here for a few days.”

Gwynne looked slightly distracted. “Yes, better to be away from Dublin. The newspapers and the television can be merciless.”

Spoken like someone with firsthand experience, Stella thought. He looked up, and she understood that he would say no more today. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gwynne. I wonder if you could point me to”—she consulted the handwritten list Claire Finnerty had made for her—“Lucien Picard.”

He stepped to the door and directed her across the far corner of the yard to a single-story whitewashed shed. “Ah, the French contingent. He’ll be in the cheese storehouse, and Sylvie with him. Never apart, those two.”

The rank scent of mold greeted Stella’s nostrils when she stepped through the door of the storehouse. “Lucien Picard?” A wiry, energetic-looking man in his midthirties looked up from his work as she entered. He was slicing through a thick wheel of cheese with an implement that looked like a knife with handles on both ends.

“C’est moi,”
he said. “Sorry—that’s me. Try some of this? Six months aged.” He cut a thin wedge and popped it into her mouth before she could protest. “Very good, eh? To me, it is the best ever!”

Stella tasted the cheese on her tongue; it was perfectly tart and crumbly. She struggled to swallow. “Yes, very good, but I’m not here to . . . I have to ask you about Benedict Kavanagh.” She held up her identification. “The dead man found in the bog?”

His look of triumph vanished, replaced by seriousness. “Ah, yes, we heard about this. Do you need Sylvie as well? Sylvie!” A slightly younger woman emerged from the next room. Her short platinum hair was swathed in a turban-like pink headband, and beneath it strong features—large hazel eyes, a long, refined-looking nose, and generous lips—made a striking impression. Sylvie wore a blue peasant blouse and jeans, topped with a starched white chef’s apron. Resting on her shoulder was a four-foot plank that held two dozen or more petite creamy white cheeses.

“We have the police here, Sylvie, about the man in the bog—”

“Benedict Kavanagh,” Stella added.

“Yes, what about him? Is it true what they’re saying, that he was murdered?”
Sylvie set her plank down on the counter and began loading her cheeses into a box. She avoided eye contact, concentrating instead on her task, her hands moving quickly, efficiently. Sylvie was careful to grasp each round of the soft cheese very gently so as not to damage it.

“Did either of you happen to know Kavanagh?” Stella asked. “Here’s a photograph, in case you might recognize him.”

Her cargo safely stowed at last, Sylvie looked up at the picture. “No. I’ve never seen this man. I’m sorry.”

“We think he disappeared sometime in late April, so I’m asking everyone at Killowen what they recall from that time. Anything out of the ordinary.”

Lucien and Sylvie regarded each other briefly, and Stella got the impression that they had already conferred about what they were going to say. Difficult to tell if she was reading the signals right; it was always slightly disconcerting when interview subjects spoke a language with its own nonverbal nuances.

“Out of the ordinary?” Picard made a wry face. “Difficult to say, because you see, there is no ‘ordinary’ here. Every day is different. That last part of April, we were making the chèvre, Sylvie, do you remember? The soft goat cheese, also
crottin
and
pyramide
.” He held up his hands to describe the shapes.

“We also had many, eh . . .
Lucien, qu’est-ce que ‘chevrette’ en Anglais?
”

“ ‘She-goat,’
je crois.
”

“Many of our she-goats, they were having kids at the time. So much to do.”

“We didn’t sleep a lot,” Lucien added.

“Did you have any guests or artists in residence at that time?”

Lucien squinted, trying to recall. “A few, I suppose. I can’t remember. Claire would have their names, if you need them.”

“Do you happen to know the name Mairéad Broome?”

“Yes, the painter. She has been here a few times.”

“And was she one of the artists who were staying here at the end of April?”

“You know, she might have been. As I said, Claire would know for certain.”

“And you know that she was married to Benedict Kavanagh?”

“I didn’t know. Sylvie, did you know this?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Once again, Stella got the distinct impression that a certain amount of forethought had gone into the answers these two were providing. Why should anyone lie about knowing the identity of Mairéad Broome’s husband? The reactions of the people here to Benedict Kavanagh’s death were strange. Each knew less than the one before, as if they were in some sort of competition for who could display the blankest expression, who could know the least about the dead man. She still had three more people to interview: Tessa Gwynne, Shawn Kearney, and Anthony Beglan.

“Thank you. If you do think of anything else, please give me a ring?” She handed each of them a card, wishing she could double back and listen to the conversation that would be in progress a few minutes after she’d left. Of course it would help if she had a bloody word of French.

As she crossed the haggard, there was a clatter of stones that sounded like a wrecking ball had gone through the side of the house. Stella rounded the corner of the barn to find Diarmuid Lynch’s heavy loader driven by a lanky middle-aged man in a brown peaked cap. Beside the pile of stones the driver had just deposited on a patch of meadow stood a woman with short dark hair and vivid blue eyes. Stella glanced at her list. “Shawn Kearney?” she asked.