Read The Irish Village Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Village Murder (13 page)
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“
E
mmet,” Sharon said, and she put her hands on her hips and looked up at her Auntie Megan.”If you ask
me,
that's a dumb name.
I
would've named him George. George is my favorite name.”
E
mmet,” Sharon said, and she put her hands on her hips and looked up at her Auntie Megan.”If you ask
me,
that's a dumb name.
I
would've named him George. George is my favorite name.”
Megan suddenly knelt and put her arms around Sharon and rocked her back and forth, her face in Sharon's neck. “You are the
dearest
⦔ She drew back and smiled at Sharon. “I'll miss you. But so does your mother. She can hardly wait to see you. She wants to introduce you to Emmet. He's now eight weeks old. With blue eyes.” They were in Sharon's room. It was close to Christmas. Sharon was already packed. Besides the tan canvas tote bag she'd brought with her to Gwathney Hall all those weeks ago, she now had a real suitcase on wheels like Ms. Tunet's. Auntie Megan had helped her to pack it. It had her new clothes and the play makeup and two books and the embroidered guest towel for her mother. She and Kathleen had each embroidered a guest towel from the Grogan Sisters Knitting Shop. Kathleen's was for her sister. Sharon would go on the bus to Dublin. Her brother Henry, who was sixteen, would meet her at the bus stop.
dearest
⦔ She drew back and smiled at Sharon. “I'll miss you. But so does your mother. She can hardly wait to see you. She wants to introduce you to Emmet. He's now eight weeks old. With blue eyes.” They were in Sharon's room. It was close to Christmas. Sharon was already packed. Besides the tan canvas tote bag she'd brought with her to Gwathney Hall all those weeks ago, she now had a real suitcase on wheels like Ms. Tunet's. Auntie Megan had helped her to pack it. It had her new clothes and the play makeup and two books and the embroidered guest towel for her mother. She and Kathleen had each embroidered a guest towel from the Grogan Sisters Knitting Shop. Kathleen's was for her sister. Sharon would go on the bus to Dublin. Her brother Henry, who was sixteen, would meet her at the bus stop.
They went downstairs. Auntie Megan wore boots and her long red woolen skirt and the gray jacket with the cozy high collar,
but no hat. The damp weather had made her dark hair curly, all around her forehead and ears.
but no hat. The damp weather had made her dark hair curly, all around her forehead and ears.
They were barely downstairs when they heard the bell, and the door opened and there was Mr. Blake Rossiter in a duffel coat and a cap with earflaps. He was carrying a shopping bag. “Cold as the devil outside! My vintner sent me six bottles of this special Rothschild and I thought, Why not give a couple of bottles to Ms. O'Faolain? Very special, this Rothschild vintage. With my compliments.” And he stroked the sides of his mustache.
Auntie Megan thanked Mr. Rossiter. What surprised Sharon was that her Auntie Megan sounded like a mechanical doll when she talked with Mr. Blake Rossiter, which was often, because Mr. Blake Rossiter turned up often. He talked a lot about “poor John,” whom Sharon didn't know, and as though they'd been close friends, he and “poor John,” but it seemed that it only annoyed Auntie Megan, who was polite and smiled, but Sharon could tell. Her mother had that same look when she wanted to bash one of the kids but didn't.
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Megan drove the Rover up the west road. She had put Sharon on the bus to Dublin and paid Kathleen, the nanny, and then dropped her off in the village. She felt unutterably alone. Soon she would be selling Gwathney Hall. She would tell Liam that she agreed. They would go away, he'd talked of the southwest, not a city, but somewhere in the countryside.
She drove slowly, the sun shone. Here on the west road that led to the pottery shop and, beyond, to Gwathney Hall, there were no hedges and fields. This side of Ballynagh was forested with oak and elm and spruce. The road wound through the woods, briers on either side. The sunlight made patterns on the leaves, patterns that would be lovely, woven as scarves, throws, luxurious curtains. Once she had been a weaver like her father, weaving checked and striped and dappled woolens â¦
Once she had had a husband named Gahan O'Faolain, who had been studying to be an engineer until the cruel landslide in Drumcliff left him with a spinal injury, helpless in a wheelchair, unable even to guide a pencil. He'd been twenty-four.
After that, she had cared only to make Gahan laugh, which was like climbing a mountain every day, because how could there be much for Gahan to laugh about? So in their three-room flat in Athlone, she wove the striped and checked and dappled woolens and sold them in the front room.
“He didn't ask me to help him die,” she'd told John Gwathney in that wonderful first year at Gwathney Hall, when she confided so much to him. “I'm sure it was for me that he hung on, year after year, until ⦔
Until that day when a young couple arrived at the flat with their little girl, a two-year-old, and while they were discussing which pattern of curtains to be woven, the child had picked up a pair of scissors and wandered into the bedroom where Gahan in his wheelchair sat staring at television. “How he got the scissors from the child, we never knew ⦠or that he had the strength to bring it to his throat ⦔ And she added, “He did it to free me. I'm sure of it.” She was by then thirty-six. A year later she arrived in Ballynagh, a weaver with a dozen new sketched designs and the little she possessed.
Now, on the west road, on a rise on the left, she glimpsed Castle Moore with its north tower dating from the sixteen hundreds. Ivy covered the gray stone walls. So now it was only a half mile to the pottery shop.
Â
“Liam?” She stood just inside the door of the shop and looked about. Where was he? Sunlight poured through the wide front windows. It shone on the shelves and tables of pottery, some pieces delicate as glass, others squat and solid, some glazed, or with finishes that had once been unknown to her.
“Christ! Good thing it's you!” He stood in the narrow doorway
that led to the living quarters. He wore a faded East Indian robe and was toweling his dark hair dry. “I forgot to lock the door and put out the âClosed' sign.” He went past her, locked the door, and hung up the sign. When he turned back, his dark-browed face was unsmiling, and the curved little line on each side of his mouth was deep. “I had a call from a friend in Galway. My former marriage is being investigated. Inspector O'Hare, of course. Foraging.”
that led to the living quarters. He wore a faded East Indian robe and was toweling his dark hair dry. “I forgot to lock the door and put out the âClosed' sign.” He went past her, locked the door, and hung up the sign. When he turned back, his dark-browed face was unsmiling, and the curved little line on each side of his mouth was deep. “I had a call from a friend in Galway. My former marriage is being investigated. Inspector O'Hare, of course. Foraging.”
“But ⦔ She felt sick, her heart beat fast, she put a hand to her breast as though to still it. They would revive that scandal that was in his past. There would be photographs of the two women. As for the present ⦠She looked away. She knew very well about the gossip in Ballynagh. She and Liam, her betrayal of John Gwathney. It had got about. And, uglier, like a shadow following her, that unspoken suspicion. Shopping at O'Curry's Meats, she couldn't help but see the way Dennis O'Curry's eyes slid aside and his face reddened as he handed her the package in the shiny paper across the counter; or how, at Coyle's, buying greens ⦠But never mind. Never mind the ache in her heart. She would follow wherever Liam Caffrey led.
“It's chilly in here,” she said. Yet she shrugged out of her gray jacket with the high collar.
Â
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The Berber at the wheel of this ancient Ford chants under his breath and bites into chunks of bread and hoists a water bottle to his lips. His name is Chadli and he is perhaps twenty, and bearded.
I am feverish with elation. For three days we have been traveling south. In Algiers I found Chadli through
El Massaa
, the Arabic-language daily. He belongs to one of the Tuareg-speaking tribes in the south of the country, where they speak Berber dialects. He is delighted that his cousin, who cleans toilets at
El Massaa
, provided him with a well-paying passenger home. I would have paid a fortune to travel south through this rugged range of mountains. They sweep from Morocco on the west to Tunisia on the east and are laced with roads.
El Massaa
, the Arabic-language daily. He belongs to one of the Tuareg-speaking tribes in the south of the country, where they speak Berber dialects. He is delighted that his cousin, who cleans toilets at
El Massaa
, provided him with a well-paying passenger home. I would have paid a fortune to travel south through this rugged range of mountains. They sweep from Morocco on the west to Tunisia on the east and are laced with roads.
Wednesday
⦠At last, the desert. Blinding sun, desert roads, gravel at first, then of sand. Like mirages, dusty villages appear. Almost no Arabic is spoken here in these busy streets. Kabyle is the language, or Tuareg. Flies, spices; my skin burns â¦
⦠At last, the desert. Blinding sun, desert roads, gravel at first, then of sand. Like mirages, dusty villages appear. Almost no Arabic is spoken here in these busy streets. Kabyle is the language, or Tuareg. Flies, spices; my skin burns â¦
Torrey looked up from the journal's stained pages. She stretched her fingers, which were cramped from transcribing the Greek translation into her loose-leaf notebook. The cottage had gotten chilly, she should put more peat on the fire. It was already four oâclock, wind rattled the windows, a branch made a scraping sound against the window over the kitchen sink. These last three days, it seemed always to have become four o'clock
and dusk whenever she looked up from the journal.
and dusk whenever she looked up from the journal.
“Enough!” she said aloud. She closed the Greek dictionary and pushed away the journal. She got up, stretched widely, groaned and took her jump rope from the hook beside the door. Holding the rope, she stood a moment, bemused, gazing into space.
Flies, spices; my skin burns.
She blinked, shrugged, hung the jump rope back on the hook, sat down again at the kitchen table, opened the journal, pulled her loose-leaf notebook closer and again picked up her pencil.
Flies, spices; my skin burns.
She blinked, shrugged, hung the jump rope back on the hook, sat down again at the kitchen table, opened the journal, pulled her loose-leaf notebook closer and again picked up her pencil.
She didn't hear the clock strike five, didn't hear it strike six.
Sunday
⦠Maziba is the old man's name. Maziba Hacini. He is an uncle of Chadli, my young entrepreneur. He is in his seventies, or maybe older. This is a desert village of tents, though I hear radios, and see jeeps in the streets. In Maziba's tent I see a month-old copy of
El Moudjahid
, the one remaining French-language newspaper that can be found in Algiers. So I am in luck, and we converse. He understands, finally, what place I am seeking.
⦠Maziba is the old man's name. Maziba Hacini. He is an uncle of Chadli, my young entrepreneur. He is in his seventies, or maybe older. This is a desert village of tents, though I hear radios, and see jeeps in the streets. In Maziba's tent I see a month-old copy of
El Moudjahid
, the one remaining French-language newspaper that can be found in Algiers. So I am in luck, and we converse. He understands, finally, what place I am seeking.
“Old,” he tells me, in an oddly accented French. “Very old, that religious place. A half day's journey south, in the desert.” I feel intoxicated, I tremble. Tonight I shall not be able to sleep.
Monday
⦠We left at five this morning in the Ford, borrowed from Chadli. I drive, Maziba beside me. It is already hot, and we sweat in the heat, though it is a dry beat. The road at first is a hard-packed road. By seven o'lock we begin to pass trucks, jeeps, even a pair of bicyclists. It is noon, blazingly hot, when Maziba touches my arm,
“Voilà !”
And he points to a road off to our left, and I make the turn. We drive now for two hours southwest, under a burning sun. The road has become narrow and vestigial. At last, in the distance, haxily, I see an uneven mound on the desert floor. Maziba mutters something under his breath, then. “Not well-visited, that religious place,” he says in his oddly accented French, and he turns a wry, sun-parched face to me. “But for my part, I sometimes ⦠Because who knows? Who knows?
La possibilité est immense.”
⦠We left at five this morning in the Ford, borrowed from Chadli. I drive, Maziba beside me. It is already hot, and we sweat in the heat, though it is a dry beat. The road at first is a hard-packed road. By seven o'lock we begin to pass trucks, jeeps, even a pair of bicyclists. It is noon, blazingly hot, when Maziba touches my arm,
“Voilà !”
And he points to a road off to our left, and I make the turn. We drive now for two hours southwest, under a burning sun. The road has become narrow and vestigial. At last, in the distance, haxily, I see an uneven mound on the desert floor. Maziba mutters something under his breath, then. “Not well-visited, that religious place,” he says in his oddly accented French, and he turns a wry, sun-parched face to me. “But for my part, I sometimes ⦠Because who knows? Who knows?
La possibilité est immense.”
Now I tremble again, thinking, Yes! Yes!
La possibilité immense
.
La possibilité immense
.
I drive on. The wind blows swirls of sun-filtered sand no higher than a man's knees. The mound resolves itself into a group of mud-colored domes.
“The religious place,”says Maziba. Now I see there is one large building consisting of three domes: two small domes like arms of the larger, central dome, which has a high arched entrance. I drive up to the entrance, before which squats a figure on a worn fragment of carpet. “The gatekeeper,”says Maziba. “To enter, we must pay.”
The gatekeeper. I was never to enter that great, domed building after all. Because when I spoke to the gatekeeper, using the French word
chercher,
and I saw that be understood, on impulse, I dared to day what I searched for. It was then, looking at me with his sable eyes, he answered me in French, and, in puzzlement, held up his right hand.
chercher,
and I saw that be understood, on impulse, I dared to day what I searched for. It was then, looking at me with his sable eyes, he answered me in French, and, in puzzlement, held up his right hand.
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I
nspector Egan O'Hare hadn't cried since he was eight years old and Billy Gallagher had said, “Only sissies cry,” and then, triumphantly seeing the tears, had let go of little Egan O'Hare's wrist after a two-minute wrist burn.
nspector Egan O'Hare hadn't cried since he was eight years old and Billy Gallagher had said, “Only sissies cry,” and then, triumphantly seeing the tears, had let go of little Egan O'Hare's wrist after a two-minute wrist burn.
Inspector O'Hare, at his desk in the Ballynagh police station, put down the phone and absentmindedly rubbed his wrist. He swore under his breath.
“What's that, sir?” Sergeant Jimmy Bryson paused in putting on his parka. It was ten in the morning, time for his Monday-morning gassing up of the police car at Duffy's Garage, then his routine cruise around the village.
“That damned Mickey O'Boyle and his
Inguiry
!
” So, no surprise that five minutes ago Chief Superintendent Emmet O'Reilly had rung up from Harcourt Square, each word in his overeducated voice an icicle, asking, “Exactly what progress on the Gwathney murder investigation, Egan?”
Inguiry
!
” So, no surprise that five minutes ago Chief Superintendent Emmet O'Reilly had rung up from Harcourt Square, each word in his overeducated voice an icicle, asking, “Exactly what progress on the Gwathney murder investigation, Egan?”
O'Hare rubbed a hand down his face. For the first time in his twenty-six-year-old career, he felt a chasm at his feet. No proof for his suspicions about Megan O'Faolain and her possibly conniving with Liam Caffrey in John Gwathney's murder. Caffrey himself was still an unknown card, for God's sake! The fax from the Galway police concerning Caffrey's divorce had arrived a half hour ago. It lay on his desk. The report confirmed that Liam Caffrey
and his ex-wife had lived apart for four of the past five years with no prospect of reconciliation, as required by the Grounds for Divorce ruling in Ireland. No further information, as yet.
and his ex-wife had lived apart for four of the past five years with no prospect of reconciliation, as required by the Grounds for Divorce ruling in Ireland. No further information, as yet.
“I'm off.” Sergeant Bryson felt for the car keys in his pocket, headed for the door, then stopped. “Someone coming.” He was looking through the plate-glass front of the police station. “Her. On that foreign bicycle of hers.” He raised his brows, grinning, then jingled the keys and went out. The door slammed behind him.
Ms. Torrey Tunet. Face like something in a Shakespearean tragedy. She was pale, and there were faint blue shadows under her eyes. Had she given up sleeping? She wore jeans and boots and a short, worn-looking sheepskin coat. Red earmuffs and no hat. Her short wavy hair was blown about by the wind.
“Inspector.” She dug into her shoulder bag and took out a worn-looking brown suede pocket journal. She put it on his desk. Then she took a loose-leaf notebook from the bag. She held it a moment, then she sighed and laid that, too, on his desk.
Â
“ ⦠startled by hearing someone behind me, I accidentally brushed the journal and the little address book into my pocket.” Ms. Tunet hesitated, flushed. “When I found them later i n my pocket, at the cottage, I was going to bring them to you, Inspector. But Roger Flannery stole them from the cottage.”
O'Hare felt the beginning of a headache, a throb starting at his temples. He looked at the worn-looking journal on his desk. “But ⦠isn't that the journal?”
A slow flush rose in Ms. Tunet's face. “I suspected ⦠I had reason to believe it was Roger Flannery who'd stolen ⦠who'd taken the journal and address book from my cottage. So next morning, at Gwathney Hall, I ⦠I got them back.”
“I see.”
Stolen them back
would have been more accurate. So Ms. Tunet was still a thief. Once a thief, always a thief. A recidivist. Strange that she could sit there, her gaze meeting his.
Stolen them back
would have been more accurate. So Ms. Tunet was still a thief. Once a thief, always a thief. A recidivist. Strange that she could sit there, her gaze meeting his.
“And the address book?” he said dryly. “Where's the address book?”
Ms. Tunet shook her head. “I don't know what happened to it. I lost it, somehow.”
Lying again, no doubt. He felt a rising anger. “Ms. Tunet! You've had John Gwathney's journal in your possession for how long?” He could almost feel his blood pressure rising. It was no good Noreen always telling him he shouldn't let himself get excited. As though he had a choice! Noreen didn't know Ms. Tunet.
Ms. Tunet said unhappily, “Umm ⦠a week?” And before he could explode in a rage, she added, “I'd hoped to find something in the journal that would indicate who killed ⦠The journal's in Greek, so it was taking meâ”
“You mean you expected to find something to clear your friend Megan O'Faolain!” Now he was furious. “That journal should have been in my hands a week ago!” Calm down, calm
down
. He looked at the pocket journal lying on his desk. Shabby, worn, stained. Well-traveled. He leaned back and contemplated Ms. Tunet. “And did you find something, Ms. Tunet, to clear Megan O'Faolain? What
did
you find? The âreal' killer of John Gwathney?”
down
. He looked at the pocket journal lying on his desk. Shabby, worn, stained. Well-traveled. He leaned back and contemplated Ms. Tunet. “And did you find something, Ms. Tunet, to clear Megan O'Faolain? What
did
you find? The âreal' killer of John Gwathney?”
Ms. Tunet did not look happy. “I found enough to make me think you might want to have a preliminary investigation, one of your âinformals' that in the past have twice revealed a murderer.” She got up and shrugged into the sheepskin coat and put her red earmuffs back on. She looked down at the loose-leaf notebook on O'Hare's desk. “I'll be at the cottage. You can let me know.”
He watched through the plate glass as she bicycled off, the bicycle wobbling a bit. Then he picked up the loose-leaf notebook.
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