Read The Irish Village Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Village Murder (11 page)
Â
Â
I
t was frightening; Kathleen had never seen Roger Flannery like thatâhis face so white and his eyes furious. The little ponytail at his nape had got loose and a thin lock of hair hung down over the collar of his cashmere jacket. He stood in the doorway of Sharon's room, where Kathleen and Sharon had been looking at a kids' television show about ballet. Ms. O'Faolain was out, and Mr. Flannery still had a key to Gwathney Hall, what with not having yet wholly moved out. Minutes ago, she'd glimpsed him passing Sharon's room, then heard him going up the stairs to the third floor. Now here he was, five minutes later, standing in the doorway of Sharon's room, looking so awful and breathing fast.
“When?”
Mr. Flannery said again.
t was frightening; Kathleen had never seen Roger Flannery like thatâhis face so white and his eyes furious. The little ponytail at his nape had got loose and a thin lock of hair hung down over the collar of his cashmere jacket. He stood in the doorway of Sharon's room, where Kathleen and Sharon had been looking at a kids' television show about ballet. Ms. O'Faolain was out, and Mr. Flannery still had a key to Gwathney Hall, what with not having yet wholly moved out. Minutes ago, she'd glimpsed him passing Sharon's room, then heard him going up the stairs to the third floor. Now here he was, five minutes later, standing in the doorway of Sharon's room, looking so awful and breathing fast.
“When?”
Mr. Flannery said again.
“Last week,” Kathleen said. “I had to go to my weight-loss group in the village. And Ms. O'Faolain had to go off to the lawyers in Dublin. So Ms. Tunet said she'd take care of Sharon until I got back. So ⦠Well, that's all.”
Mr. Flannery nodded. Then he went calm. He smoothed back his loosened hair and clipped it at his nape with the little silver clip. He turned and went downstairs.
Â
In the Pearse Street flat, at eight o'clock, he stood by the window, fists clenched, gazing blankly out into the dark street. Ms. Torrey Tunet. She'd been in his rooms at Gwathney Hall and
stolen the journal. John Gwathney's journal was the only thing that had stood in his way. What the journal would tell â¦
stolen the journal. John Gwathney's journal was the only thing that had stood in his way. What the journal would tell â¦
Ironic. The journal. He'd had it, he'd
had
it, he'd meant finally to destroy it, but stupidly ⦠But at least she'd overlooked the drugs. A fortune's worth, those three little packets.
had
it, he'd meant finally to destroy it, but stupidly ⦠But at least she'd overlooked the drugs. A fortune's worth, those three little packets.
“Roger?” He turned around. Cherry, slender, in high heels, black satin pants and a violet-colored silk shirt, positioned herself squarely in front of him, her pert face serious. “Now. Do you like it better
with
the flower”âshe held the rose-shaped diamond pin to the shoulder of her shirtâ“or without?” She whisked the diamond pin away.
with
the flower”âshe held the rose-shaped diamond pin to the shoulder of her shirtâ“or without?” She whisked the diamond pin away.
“With.” He'd bought the rose pin yesterday at Weir's on Grafton Street.
“Me, too.”
It was almost eight o'clock, they should be off, Cherry wanted to go to that club on Wellington Quay where Paul McCartney,
Sir
Paul McCartney, had appeared last year. Cherry was up on all that. A whole world out there, while he'd been buried in old books and libraries. Trapped. But at least there'd been Cherry, falling asleep in the worn armchair those evenings she could get away from that bastard and come to him. Now all their evenings would be together. “I'm taking just a lipstick and my comb,” Cherry said.
Sir
Paul McCartney, had appeared last year. Cherry was up on all that. A whole world out there, while he'd been buried in old books and libraries. Trapped. But at least there'd been Cherry, falling asleep in the worn armchair those evenings she could get away from that bastard and come to him. Now all their evenings would be together. “I'm taking just a lipstick and my comb,” Cherry said.
“Right.” He smiled at Cherry, but he was seeing John Gwathney's limp pocket journal. Ironic that, after everything, John Gwathney had left him a valuable painting.
Â
Â
A
t nine-thirty on a rainy afternoon, Torrey went through the Nassau Street entrance to Trinity College. She kept one hand on her shoulder bag, which held her wallet, a couple of chocolate bars, a lipstick, a pen, a pad and John Gwathney's journal. She had wrapped the journal in an outsized plastic sandwich bag to protect it. The journal's pages were thin, the jagged handwriting was tiny, and John Gwathney had written on both sides of the pages, making the writing more difficult to read because the words on one side often blotted through to the other side. Torrey had had a headache for almost a week now.
t nine-thirty on a rainy afternoon, Torrey went through the Nassau Street entrance to Trinity College. She kept one hand on her shoulder bag, which held her wallet, a couple of chocolate bars, a lipstick, a pen, a pad and John Gwathney's journal. She had wrapped the journal in an outsized plastic sandwich bag to protect it. The journal's pages were thin, the jagged handwriting was tiny, and John Gwathney had written on both sides of the pages, making the writing more difficult to read because the words on one side often blotted through to the other side. Torrey had had a headache for almost a week now.
At the entrance to the Old Library, she paid the one-pound fifty shillings, then hesitated, looking about. Here in these rooms, which were already filling up with tourists, was Ireland's finest collection of Greek, Egyptian, Latin and Irish manuscripts.
“Ms. Tunet?” A short, balding man with a jolly-looking face was at her elbow. “I'm Joseph Flynn. Mr. Shaw described you quite ⦠quite adequately.” He blushed.
Thank you, Mr. Jasper Shaw.
Was there anyone Jasper
didn't
know? She followed Mr. Flynn down a corridor in this Ancient Manuscript Section of the Library of the University of Dublin.
Was there anyone Jasper
didn't
know? She followed Mr. Flynn down a corridor in this Ancient Manuscript Section of the Library of the University of Dublin.
A small, quiet room with a pneumatic door that hissed closed.
Two women staff members looked up from their desks, smiled, then looked down again at their work.
Two women staff members looked up from their desks, smiled, then looked down again at their work.
“Over here.” A table and chair; on the table were three books and several documents in celluloid envelopes. “No smoking, of course,” Joseph Flynn said; and he left her.
â¦
rampaged along the coasts of Spain, England, and other European
and Mediterranean countries, taking captives. Every member of a Barbary pirate ship's crew received a portion of the proceeds of the valuable
cargo of captives.
rampaged along the coasts of Spain, England, and other European
and Mediterranean countries, taking captives. Every member of a Barbary pirate ship's crew received a portion of the proceeds of the valuable
cargo of captives.
â¦
have learned that on landing in Algiers, the captives are taken to
the zoco, the slave market,
where the
dey
makes his choice first. The rest
are bartered or sold to the highest bidder. The children are separated from their parents and sold as
household slaves.
have learned that on landing in Algiers, the captives are taken to
the zoco, the slave market,
where the
dey
makes his choice first. The rest
are bartered or sold to the highest bidder. The children are separated from their parents and sold as
household slaves.
That was the fate of the one hundred men, women, and children kidnapped from Baltimore. The possibility of ransom was near non-existent, and no ransom is known of.
A church tower bonged the noon hour. One of the women staff members put on her coat and left; the door hissed closed behind her. Torrey, dazed, looked up from the document.
“Lunchtime.” The remaining staff member got up. “Sorry, but I can't leave you alone here.”
“That's all right.” Torrey slipped the document back into its celluloid cover.
Â
Â
A
t eight oâclock on a windy morning, Inspector Egan O'Hare drove the police car up the rutted road and stopped behind the giant digger that said SULLIVAN & SONS on its side. The digger, rumbling, was clawing up great gobs of stony earth. Its driver, in a billed cap, waved down at the police car.
t eight oâclock on a windy morning, Inspector Egan O'Hare drove the police car up the rutted road and stopped behind the giant digger that said SULLIVAN & SONS on its side. The digger, rumbling, was clawing up great gobs of stony earth. Its driver, in a billed cap, waved down at the police car.
An instant later, the digger's rumble stopped and Brian Sullivan climbed down. “Damned cell phone. All I got was that you were coming.” He waved at his two sons, who were leaning on their shovels and watching, and they went back to shoveling.
“So ⦠?” Brian, a hulk of a man, resettled his cap and took out a crushed pack of cigarettes.
“The Caffrey job,” O'Hare said, “that pottery shop. Two years or so ago, wasn't it?”
“That's right. Cigarette? No? Roof, interior work, new window frames. Turned out there was no cellar and the floors had been rotting. Then electricity had to be boosted; Caffrey wanted two kilns for the pottery. Had to call in a special guy from Athy. Besides that, the fireplace chimney needed more than pointing, too many bricks gone. Major stuff, all around.” He lit a cigarette, shielding the match from the wind. “Turned out to be a bigger job than Liam Caffrey had expected. City man. Fell into an expensive pile of ⦠manure.”
“So ⦠You had a contract?” And at Brian Sullivan's nod: “Any trouble Caffrey paying?”
Brian Sullivan said, “Well, now.” He looked quizzically back at Inspector O'Hare. “The contract was ⦠The deal was in thirds. First payment was right on the nose. The second payment ⦔ Sullivan shrugged. “Lagged by a couple of months, but then he promised it right away, and four months later his check came through. Didn't like to lean on the fellow, this is Ballynagh, not Dublin or Galway. Besides, I figured, the man's an artist, you know artists. Impractical.”
“Yes,” O'Hare said. “Right. Impractical. And the third payment?”
Brian Sullivan flipped his cigarette into the muddy maw at their feet. “I can guess why you're asking, Egan. I know what they're saying in the village.” He gnawed at his lip. “He put it off, and off. Promising. Then, two months ago, he said it was only a matter of weeks; he had funds coming in.”
A gust of wind blew a dead branch against Brian Sullivan's boot. He picked it up and tossed it away. “Two weeks ago, he paid. A check for four thousand pounds.”
O'Hare drove back up the rutted road. Behind him, he heard the rumble of the digger starting up.
Two weeks ago. Time for Megan O'Faolain to have withdrawn cash from her inheritance of the John Gwathney estate. Still, only supposition. Not as though he had located, for instance, the murder weapon. The shotgun. Where was it? He had no clue. As yet.
As yet
.
As yet
.
By nine oâclock, he was back in the police station, where Sergeant Jimmy Bryson greeted him with the news that Rosaleen O'Shea, who every other week did the laundry at Gwathney Hall, would arrive at ten oâclock in answer to Inspector O'Hare's telephoned message to her mother's house.
Â
“A Tuesday, I always did Gwathney Hall on the alternate Tuesdays. It was the end of September. Mr. Gwathney was away, off
on one of his trips to a foreign country, like he does. And ⦠I don't like to gossip, but this isn't gossip, it's part of an investigation, after all. So that makes it all right. Otherwise, I wouldn't
dream
⦔
on one of his trips to a foreign country, like he does. And ⦠I don't like to gossip, but this isn't gossip, it's part of an investigation, after all. So that makes it all right. Otherwise, I wouldn't
dream
⦔
Inspector O'Hare, regarding Rosaleen O'Shea, who sat across from his desk, put up a hand and covered his smile. Rosaleen O'Shea, aged only twenty-two, was doubtless headed for a career as a gossip columnist on one of those scandal sheets in Dublin. A bee spreading pollen, Rosaleen O'Shea was a brown-haired girl with a sharp little nose, light blue eyes that saw everything, and normal-sized ears that heard every rumor in its embryonic state and built thereon. Inquisitive as all get-out. Always on the phone to Hannah, Sergeant Jimmy Bryson's girlfriend, because what good was finding out something if you couldn't pass it on? That's what made it so delicious. Not to mention knowing it
first.
Rosaleen O'Shea and Hannah had been friends since about the age of seven and had the special bond of being born on exactly the same day. So Hannah always got the news first. Hannah, feeling she ought not to let the news go to waste, always passed it along to Jimmy Bryson, who in this case had alerted Inspector O'Hare. “Might be something there?”
first.
Rosaleen O'Shea and Hannah had been friends since about the age of seven and had the special bond of being born on exactly the same day. So Hannah always got the news first. Hannah, feeling she ought not to let the news go to waste, always passed it along to Jimmy Bryson, who in this case had alerted Inspector O'Hare. “Might be something there?”
“Might be.” So here was Rosaleen OâShea in fleece jacket, calf-length checked skirt and boots. And with something ugly she'd told Hannah about. In the chair across from O'Hare's desk, she leaned forward.
“Ms. O'Faolain had been out all afternoon. I knew she was at the pottery shop, that's where she'd go, to be with
him.
It was a chilly day, damp and miserable. When she got back to the Hall, she was shivering and wanted a hot bath. I'd just finished a batch of towels, they were still warm from the drier, so I brought one to her room. She was just coming from her bath. She was naked. There was a shockingly ugly bruise on her breast. She tried to hide it, but I saw. I wouldn't be telling you,
Inspector, except ⦠you know. As part of the investigation. Besides, I feel sorry for Megan O'Faolain. You can almost tell, just by looking at his faceâdark, like a gypsy's.”
him.
It was a chilly day, damp and miserable. When she got back to the Hall, she was shivering and wanted a hot bath. I'd just finished a batch of towels, they were still warm from the drier, so I brought one to her room. She was just coming from her bath. She was naked. There was a shockingly ugly bruise on her breast. She tried to hide it, but I saw. I wouldn't be telling you,
Inspector, except ⦠you know. As part of the investigation. Besides, I feel sorry for Megan O'Faolain. You can almost tell, just by looking at his faceâdark, like a gypsy's.”
On the way out, Rosaleen O'Shea wiggled her fingers good-bye to Sergeant Jimmy Bryson.
Â
Â
T
he moon shone down on the rhododendrons that grew thick along the front of Gwathney Hall, turning the evergreen leaves to silver. The two massive iron lamps beside the double front doors gleamed yellow. It was eight o'clock, a dry, chilly evening.
he moon shone down on the rhododendrons that grew thick along the front of Gwathney Hall, turning the evergreen leaves to silver. The two massive iron lamps beside the double front doors gleamed yellow. It was eight o'clock, a dry, chilly evening.
At eight o'clock exactly, Kathleen, who was helping out tonight, stood at the top of the broad steps, ready to let in the four dinner guests.
There was no door to the drawing room where the terrible murder of John Gwathney had happened, just the wide entrance off the hall. So Ms. O'Faolain had had a green velvet rope drawn across the entrance to the drawing room and the before-dinner drinks were to be served in the sitting room on the opposite side of the hall. Kathleen was to direct the guests.
The first to arrive was Mr. Liam Caffrey. He had come the half mile from the pottery shop on foot. Letting him in, Kathleen blushed in embarrassment because of the gossip about him and Ms. O'Faolain, but she couldn't help it. He wasn't in his usual black turtleneck, but wore a smoky-looking jacket over an open-throated white shirt. Not handsome. Just this side of ugly, in an attractive way that gave you a bit of a shiver. His dark hair, thick and curly, was close-cropped. He was dark-browed with flat cheeks and a jutting mouth. There was a curved little line on each side of his mouth, so that at first look you'd think he
was smiling, but then it was as though he'd just said something sarcastic, although he hadn't. It was sexy, somehow.
was smiling, but then it was as though he'd just said something sarcastic, although he hadn't. It was sexy, somehow.
Ms. Tunet arrived on her bicycle, wearing high-heeled silver shoes, and with a soft-looking green dress all gathered up high over her knees away from the pedals. She was followed by Ms. Winifred Moore, who zoomed up in her red Jeep. Ms. Moore, in Kathleen's opinion, was a hazard on the road, jolting madly along, especially when she was wearing her dashing Australian outback hat; it made her extra reckless.
Mr. Blake Rossiter came last, in a sleek gray Lexus. In Kathleen's opinion, and as she said to her older sister Norah in the kitchen, Ms. O'Faolain felt obliged to invite Mr. Rossiter because he'd called her so many times, offering to drive her to Dublin to fancy art gallery shows that served wine and tiny sandwiches, and last week sending around a box of various jams from all over the world, a dozen jars packed in straw. Kathleen understood, from overhearing a thing or two, that Mr. Rossiter would get a commissionâ“
Thousands
of pounds, maybe!”âif Megan O'Faolain, in deciding to sell Gwathney Hall and its furnishings, sold the remaining two or three paintings through him. “That's what Mr. Rossiter is angling for, sending Ms. O'Faolain flowers and foreign fruit and all,” Kathleen had told her sister Norah. “Now that she's so rich, people are after her for all kinds of things. Some folks want her to donate money to help unmarried teenage mothers. The mail she gets! Other folks wanting her to buy fancy linens, underwear, or to rent a villa in the south of France. Like that. Honestly! It's positively frightening!”
Thousands
of pounds, maybe!”âif Megan O'Faolain, in deciding to sell Gwathney Hall and its furnishings, sold the remaining two or three paintings through him. “That's what Mr. Rossiter is angling for, sending Ms. O'Faolain flowers and foreign fruit and all,” Kathleen had told her sister Norah. “Now that she's so rich, people are after her for all kinds of things. Some folks want her to donate money to help unmarried teenage mothers. The mail she gets! Other folks wanting her to buy fancy linens, underwear, or to rent a villa in the south of France. Like that. Honestly! It's positively frightening!”
“That's the usual,” Norah had nodded. Norah cooked out for dinner parties and was sophisticated.
It was Norah in the kitchen tonight, doing the cooking. Ms. O'Faolain would've got Mary O'Brien to do the serving, but Sharon had the sniffles and was in bed, so she'd asked Kathleen.
Extra pay. Kathleen wore a blue dress with a starched white apron and black stockings and shoes.
Extra pay. Kathleen wore a blue dress with a starched white apron and black stockings and shoes.
A chill wind blew, and Kathleen, shivering, closed the great front doors. She started across the hall toward the sitting room, where she'd be helping serve the drinks, when she heard a noise behind her from the drawing room. Something. A rustle, like someone moving. She turned and looked and saw that the green velvet rope across the entrance to the drawing room was still in place. She hesitated, then went slowly toward the drawing room and looked across the velvet rope into the room, which was kept softly lit by the rose-shaded lamp on the grand piano.
A figure on the rug by the piano. “Mr. Rossiter!”
He was kneeling on one knee, scanning beneath the piano. At her exclamation, he stood up and straightened his jacket. His face was flushed. “Kathleen, isn't it? Startled you, did I? I'm playing detective. I don't trust the Gardaf's proficiency in examining a crime scene. They always miss something. It helps to have an artist's eye.” And Mr. Rossiter tapped the outer corner of his right eye. “So I said to myself: Have a look around. Maybe you can turn up something the Gardaf overlooked. It's the least I could do to help Ms. O'aolain.” He slapped a hand across the knees of his trousers.
“The Gardaf brought a vacuum cleaner from Dublin Castle,” Kathleen said.
“Of course, of course!” Mr. Rossiter said, sounding impatient. “But that doesn't necessarily ⦠Ah, well ⦠Drinks in the sitting room, is it?”
âYes, sir.” She followed him across the hall.
Â
In the sitting room, Kathleen belatedly helped serve the before-dinner drinks. Ms. O'Faolain sipped sherry. She was quiet and looked beautiful, her dark hair sleeked back and her eyes so startlingly blue. She wore a loosely knitted coral-colored silk
top with wide sleeves like trumpets. The way she looked at Liam Caffrey ⦠“Well, it's plain she'd do anything for him,” Kathleen said later to Norah.
top with wide sleeves like trumpets. The way she looked at Liam Caffrey ⦠“Well, it's plain she'd do anything for him,” Kathleen said later to Norah.
Liam Caffrey had a whiskey. Winifred Moore had a vodka neat, then signaled Kathleen for another and tossed it down. “God knows how the Russians discovered heaven in a potato,” Winifred Moore said, grinning. Her friend, Sheila Flaxton, wasn't there; she was in London “to put the magazine to bed,” Winifred Moore said. Blake Rossiter had something pale green called an aperitif.
As for Ms. Torrey Tunet, she said, “What? Oh, well, can I make myself a martini?” And she did, which was a good thing, because Kathleen had no idea how to. Ms. Tunet was pale and hollow-eyed. Her gray eyes starred by the short black lashes looked tired. A silky swath of hair fell across her forehead. She had on a warm-looking green velour dress and dangling gold earrings and looked sophisticated, as she must look going around Europe and interpreting, instead of riding her bike around Ballynagh in jeans and a jumper. She hadn't much to say; and at dinner she ate automatically, “like someone hypnotized,” Kathleen told Norah. Still, Ms. Tunet managed to eat heartily of the ham and even had two helpings of the dessert, which was chocolate mousse.
Kathleen wondered why Ms. O'Faolain was giving this dinner party. Maybe it was because Ms. Winifred Moore was the social arbiter of Ballynagh? Not that Winifred Moore cared two pins about
being
a social arbiter. But for over three hundred years, the village had looked to Castle Moore when there had been a drought, a political skirmish, a warring over land boundaries. And now, there had been a murder.
being
a social arbiter. But for over three hundred years, the village had looked to Castle Moore when there had been a drought, a political skirmish, a warring over land boundaries. And now, there had been a murder.
So Megan O'Faolain had seated Winifred Moore next to Liam Caffrey. They were getting on remarkably, discussing something called
raku
and talking about hand-thrown pottery and matte and crackle glazes.
raku
and talking about hand-thrown pottery and matte and crackle glazes.
It was sad that Ms. O'Faolain might think there was any way for Ballynagh to accept Liam Caffrey, Winifred Moore or not, when everybody in the village knew that through the investigative abilities of Inspector Egan O'Hare, it could well be revealed that ⦠Kathleen looked at the dark-browed Liam Caffrey and felt a coldness so that she rubbed her arms.
“Grecian pottery,” Winifred Moore was saying to Mr. Liam Caffrey. “The figures of Grecian nymphs on black pottery, exquisite work.” She went on about Grecian women and their status in ancient Greece, and then she turned to Ms. Tunet and said, “Didn't I see you in Waterstone's in Dublin? Buying a Greek dictionary? I was in a rush or I would've ⦠But I thought you were heading for
Portugal.
Or not?”
Portugal.
Or not?”
“In Waterstone's?” And then Ms. Tunet jerked her hand and her wineglass tipped over, and she never did get to say about Portugal. She yawned a lot and left early.
Other books
Sins of the Warrior by Linda Poitevin
Traded for Love by Michelle Hughes, Dahlia Salvatore
Hearts by Hilma Wolitzer
Zlata's Diary by Zlata Filipovic
Noble in Reason by Phyllis Bentley
Crown of Crystal Flame by C. L. Wilson
Regius by Nastasia Peters
The Pyramid of Souls by Erica Kirov
Knots in My Yo-Yo String by Jerry Spinelli
