Read The Irish Village Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Village Murder (12 page)
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F
riday morning, in the breakfast room at Castle Moore, Winifred swallowed the last bite of muffin, licked a bit of butter off her thumb and said, “If you ask
me,
Sheila, there was no need to exhaust yourself in London, you have a staff there forâ”
riday morning, in the breakfast room at Castle Moore, Winifred swallowed the last bite of muffin, licked a bit of butter off her thumb and said, “If you ask
me,
Sheila, there was no need to exhaust yourself in London, you have a staff there forâ”
“A
staff?
Two people, Winifred! And Eugene Willey is eighty-two years old! I can't exactly trustâ”
staff?
Two people, Winifred! And Eugene Willey is eighty-two years old! I can't exactly trustâ”
“You missed Megan O'Faolain's dinner party. Lovely, but what with the drawing room roped off, it only makes one imagine even more, the gruesomeâ”
“Please,
Winifred!”
Winifred!”
“Really, Sheila, don't be so ⦠Anyway, I had a fascinating conversation with Liam Caffrey, the presumed murderer ofâ”
“Winifred! For heaven's sake! How can you be soâ”
“âand found Mr. Caffrey totally fascinating about women in the arts in ancient Rome and Greece. Women
artisans!
While universities load only classical studies about Platos and their ilk onto their students. No mention!âNone!âof women who actually took clay into their hands! I've already started a group of sonnets on the subject.”
artisans!
While universities load only classical studies about Platos and their ilk onto their students. No mention!âNone!âof women who actually took clay into their hands! I've already started a group of sonnets on the subject.”
“Sonnets? If you can manage three, for the spring issue, Winifred, that would beâ”
“Of course I can.” Winifred drained her teacup. “Anyway,
yesterday afternoon I stopped by Gwathney Hall to bring Megan some plantings I'd promised her. Roger Flannery was there in the drive, moving his things out, piling them into that beautiful monster of a car. Wearing well-tailored city clothes, cuff links and all.”
yesterday afternoon I stopped by Gwathney Hall to bring Megan some plantings I'd promised her. Roger Flannery was there in the drive, moving his things out, piling them into that beautiful monster of a car. Wearing well-tailored city clothes, cuff links and all.”
“Well, why
not?
He certainly deservesâ”
not?
He certainly deservesâ”
“Day before yesterday, I was in Dublin and was passing Weir's on Grafton Street. I stopped in to have a look at their fabulous jewelry, I never can resist, though I wouldn't spend one shilling ⦠Anyway, there, shopping at a counter of truly glittering necklaces, diamonds, and I think emeralds, was Roger Flannery with a young woman in a beret. She had red hair and a pointed chin and green eyes. The clerk had just finished wrapping their package and was bowing all over himself, handing it to them. When they went out, I saw the young woman had a limp. A pity. I think Roger saw me. Anyway, he whisked the girl into his car and off they went.”
“I do think it's nice”âSheila cut a muffin in halfâ“for Roger to be rich now, and to have a girl. And maybe marry.”
But Winifred was frowning. “Something about Roger Flannery ⦠something. Always had an air of ⦠As though he thought he'd been done dirt. Why, I can't guess. John Gwathney was wonderful to him. Once told me about it, his finding Roger as a lad. John turned him from a grub into a gent. Though I abhor that ponytail.”
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In Algiers, it took me some days to locate the old library. There is little French spoken since the departure of the French, and almost no English, and I knew none of the Berber dialects. But thanks to my years of research in the Near East, my Arabic, though far from fluent, carried me through. And at last I found my way.
The library was in a decrepit state. But there, after exhaustively poring over tattered pages, I found listings of sales of captives kidnapped from Spain and other coasts. And finally, among them, I found mention of a sale of captives from Ireland in the year 1631.
It was in that listing of the sale of captives from Baltimore, Ireland, that I came across this sentence that changed everything for me: One child was deemed less valuable, having only four fingers of the right hand, the little finger missing, so was bought at a cheaper price by a Berber sect which also acquired several other children as slaves.
Torrey, sitting crouched over at the kitchen table, felt a strange excitement. For five hours she had sat there, translating the journal and transcribing the sentences in a loose-leaf eight-by-ten notebook. She was hungry, starved. It was getting on to three o'clock and her eyes felt grainy. But impossible to stop now! She read on, transcribing, until she had the next paragraph:
“A child deemed less valuable.” With the strangest feeling, I recalled my exhaustive historical research of the kidnapped Baltimore families,
among them Celia and Desmond Creedon. and their six-year-old child, Annabel, and of the genetic fault in the Creedons: the missing last finger.
among them Celia and Desmond Creedon. and their six-year-old child, Annabel, and of the genetic fault in the Creedons: the missing last finger.
Torrey sat back, her heart beating fast. She unwrapped the silver paper from a chocolate bar, bit into it, and after a full five minutes went back to the laborious translation. A half hour later she had the next paragraph transcribed. She read it aloud in a whisper:
At once my projected book disappeared and another arose, irresistibly, in its place. I could only think: That child! That child! I am not insane, it is possible.
She could not stop now. John Gwathney's handwriting in the next paragraph was more erratic, more difficult to read. But finally she had that last short paragraph on the page:
This sect, Berbers from the west of Tripoli, left before nightfall witb their new slaves, returning to that desert country, to tbeir religious, fortress-like enclosure.
Torrey's hand trembled on the Greek dictionary. She looked up. A religious enclosure? In contemporary parlance ⦠a monastery?
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I
n O'Malley's Pub, a few minutes to six o'clock on Friday night, young Jack O'Malley, tending bar, finished cutting up the cubes of cheese. He stuck toothpicks in the cubes and piled them into three dishes and set them at intervals along the bar. The big television screen overhead behind him was already on. In the last few minutes the bar had become crowded. No one wanted to miss Mickey O'Boyle's
Inquiry
.
n O'Malley's Pub, a few minutes to six o'clock on Friday night, young Jack O'Malley, tending bar, finished cutting up the cubes of cheese. He stuck toothpicks in the cubes and piled them into three dishes and set them at intervals along the bar. The big television screen overhead behind him was already on. In the last few minutes the bar had become crowded. No one wanted to miss Mickey O'Boyle's
Inquiry
.
Mickey O'Boyle, the highly paid television commentator, was the size of a jockey and had a mouth that stretched widely toward his ears. In a staccato delivery, he zeroed in on cheating supermarkets, dangerous fat-reducing drugs, a dirty-mouthed guitar singer and politicians on the take. You could count on Mickey O'Boyle not to let the liars, cheaters or murderers slip by undetected. Friday night with Mickey O'Boyle's
Inquiry
was not to be missed.
Inquiry
was not to be missed.
But this Friday, what a shock! The crowd at the bar at O'alley's went dead quiet.
“Ballynagh,” Mickey O'oyle said, first thing out of the box, “a village in Wicklow, where dwelled John Gwathney, one of Ireland's foremost historians. Murdered with a shotgun. Blasted off the face of the earth. Yet weeks have gone by with no sign of progress in the investigation. Too much for the local Gardaf in Ballynagh? But the village of Ballynagh is in the
Dublin metropolitan area, which, for some doubtless brilliant reason, includes portions of counties Kildare and Wicklow. So where is Dublin Castle in this affair? Is the Gwathney murder inquiry as dead as the famous historian? How about some answers, Dublin Castle? The public deserves even a lack-of-progress report.”
Dublin metropolitan area, which, for some doubtless brilliant reason, includes portions of counties Kildare and Wicklow. So where is Dublin Castle in this affair? Is the Gwathney murder inquiry as dead as the famous historian? How about some answers, Dublin Castle? The public deserves even a lack-of-progress report.”
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“My!” Cherry looked at Roger Flannery with big questioning eyes. Lying on the sofa before the television set with her bare feet across Roger's lap, she wore a cozy white chenille robe with a shawl collar, from which Roger had clipped the price tag barely an hour ago. Roger was in his maroon robe, having just showered. Soon, they'd dress and be off to dinner. Later they'd drop in at another new club on Harcourt Street that Cherry knew about.
“D'you
think,”
Cherry went on, “that the woman who inherited Gwathney Hall ⦠what's her name?”
think,”
Cherry went on, “that the woman who inherited Gwathney Hall ⦠what's her name?”
“Megan O'Faolain.”
“D'you think
she
might've had something to do with it? The murder?”
she
might've had something to do with it? The murder?”
“God knows.” He chafed one of Cherry's bare feet between his hands. “Your toes are cold, it's this flat, no fire can warm it. Thank God that three months from now we'll be in our own house in Ballsbridge.”
“And live happily ever after,” Cherry said. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
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In the sitting room at Castle Creedon, Willow, cross-legged on the rug before the television set, said, “Wow! That Mickey O'Boyle! Keeps the sluggish blood boiling!” She looked at Buddy, her twin, lying on his stomach on the rug beside her, then at her parents. “Gwathney. That's the old guy who visited us. The fellow who's crackers, right?”
“For sure,” Buddy said, “the guy who swiped that crummy old hairbrush. Right, Ma?”
Constance Thorpe didn't even look up from her knitting. “I guess so.” She was in the club chair by the fire, working on the left sleeve of the sweater, right at the shoulder, which required all her attention. But for an instant, her glance went to her husband. Owen was standing beside the fire, the bowl of his pipe cupped in his hand. He frowned at Buddy. “This fellow, Mickey O'Boyle. He's a damned alarmist! Of course the Gardaà is competently investigating the Gwathney murder! Of course!
Damn!”
His pipe had fallen from his hand. It clattered against the grate.
Damn!”
His pipe had fallen from his hand. It clattered against the grate.
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“
I
'm hungry as a horse, Sheila, but first, our business with Blake Rossiter.
Then,
Finney's.”
I
'm hungry as a horse, Sheila, but first, our business with Blake Rossiter.
Then,
Finney's.”
Winifred drove the red Jeep with careless ease. She wore her outback hat and an old plaid muffler slung around her neck over her oatmeal sweater. The wind blew across the road, rattling the loose windshield. It was almost noon. “I am
not,
after all, a rich woman, Sheila, not to mention the horrendous taxes on Castle Moore. So, Blake Rossiter.”
not,
after all, a rich woman, Sheila, not to mention the horrendous taxes on Castle Moore. So, Blake Rossiter.”
Sheila, huddling beside her, wearing her knitted Yugoslavian woolen cap and an array of heavy scarves, said, “But
Sisters
in
Poetry
is perfectlyâ”
Sisters
in
Poetry
is perfectlyâ”
“You delude yourself, Sheila. You need a bigger staff in London, preferably a female under the age of eighty. And I'm hoping that at least
one
of those dusty old paintings that I inherited from my asinine, odious,
loathsome
cousin Desmond, along with Castle Moore, just
might
be worthâ” She swerved, then slowed the Jeep. “It's that road on the right, up through those woods. Blake Rossiter's weekend âretreat,' as he calls it.” She looked at the clock on the dashboard. “I told him twelve noon. We're exactly on time.”
one
of those dusty old paintings that I inherited from my asinine, odious,
loathsome
cousin Desmond, along with Castle Moore, just
might
be worthâ” She swerved, then slowed the Jeep. “It's that road on the right, up through those woods. Blake Rossiter's weekend âretreat,' as he calls it.” She looked at the clock on the dashboard. “I told him twelve noon. We're exactly on time.”
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The room smelled of leather and whiskey. “Belonged to the Fitzgerald family; I've had it ten years now.” Blake Rossiter,
handsome in a comfortable-looking coat sweater, poured hot tea from a glass carafe and handed the cup to Sheila, who, settled on a soft brown suede chair, gratefully closed her icy fingers around the cup.
handsome in a comfortable-looking coat sweater, poured hot tea from a glass carafe and handed the cup to Sheila, who, settled on a soft brown suede chair, gratefully closed her icy fingers around the cup.
Winifred, standing by the broad fireplace that held a crackling fire, looked appraisingly about. Oak-beamed ceiling, mahogany mantel that held a row of beautifully carved duck decoys. Brown suede couch and fat brown suede chairs. On the walls, landscape watercolors. In an alcove to the left, she glimpsed hunting and fishing gear. Above was a balcony with a lush thick-looking Kurdish rug hanging over the polished mahogany railing. The room was as handsome as Blake Rossiter.
“Admirable,” Winifred said. She took the cup of tea he handed her. “No need to waste time. What I want, Blake ⦠Megan O'Faolain tells me you offered to handle the sale of the two or three paintings at Gwathney Hall. If she decides to sell the Hall.”
Blake Rossiter nodded. “Definitely. That's my business. Dealing in fine paintings.”
“Well, then! I inherited Castle Moore four years ago, but what with being in London most of the year, and my poetry, I haven't ⦠There are a few musty miles of Castle Moore's corridors and bedrooms, and lately I'm thinking that surely, among all the carved old bedsteads and antiques and tapestries, there might be at least
one
painting about which you might be able to say,
Eureka!
And for which you could get me a good price.”
one
painting about which you might be able to say,
Eureka!
And for which you could get me a good price.”
Blake Rossiter, smiling, said, “Be glad to take a look.” He glanced over at Sheila, whose chilled fingers still warmed themselves around the cup. “More tea?”
But Sheila, holding the empty teacup on her knee, only bit her lip and looked despairingly over at Winifred, who said reproachfully, “Oh, really, Sheila! You always ⦠I
told
you, before we left ⦔ And to Blake Rossiter: “The bathroom, if you don't mind.”
told
you, before we left ⦔ And to Blake Rossiter: “The bathroom, if you don't mind.”
Ten minutes later, having arranged a day next week for Blake Rossiter's visit to Castle Moore, they were off, the Jeep rattling down the road.
“What happened?” Winifred said. “When you and Blake came back, after he went looking for you, he looked so ⦠so exasperated.”
Sheila sighed. “When I left the bathroom I made a wrong turn and came into a workroom. Canvases stacked! Works in progress, landscapes. I know Blake is a Sunday painter, so ⦠Anyway, I heard him behind me. âLooking at my dabblings?' he said. He sounded amused. But I'd invaded his privacy. He was exasperated. I could tell.”
“Next time, go to the bathroom
before
we go off on a jaunt,” Winifred said. “I do hope Blake will find at least one worthwhile painting at Castle Moore. Just
one
would pay for staffing a half dozen
Sisters in Poetry
offices.”
before
we go off on a jaunt,” Winifred said. “I do hope Blake will find at least one worthwhile painting at Castle Moore. Just
one
would pay for staffing a half dozen
Sisters in Poetry
offices.”
“And maybe even enough,” Sheila said tartly, “to have Dugan's Garage fix that rattling windshield about which I
admittedly
have been nagging you for weeks now.”
admittedly
have been nagging you for weeks now.”
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