Read The Irish Village Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Village Murder (14 page)
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I
n the old groundsman's cottage, Torrey put peat on the fire, paced from fireplace to couch to desk, looked a dozen times at the clock, ate a peanut butter sandwich, glared helplessly at the telephone, then picked up the extra copy she'd made of John Gwathney's journal and sat down cross-legged on the couch.
n the old groundsman's cottage, Torrey put peat on the fire, paced from fireplace to couch to desk, looked a dozen times at the clock, ate a peanut butter sandwich, glared helplessly at the telephone, then picked up the extra copy she'd made of John Gwathney's journal and sat down cross-legged on the couch.
On the plane leaving Algiers, I am exhausted but with an excitement I can barely contain. A dozen times I put my band in my pocket to reassure myself that my tissue-wrapped treasure is there. The gatekeeper thought I was a madman when I asked for it. I can see him now, squatting on that fragment of carpet in the desert sand, a skinny figure in a loincloth, be looks up at me.
Madman, madman,
his sable eyes are saying, and then he smiles, showing broken blackened teeth, and be nods and holds out his hand, and I put the coins in it and take out my pocket knifeâ
Madman, madman,
his sable eyes are saying, and then he smiles, showing broken blackened teeth, and be nods and holds out his hand, and I put the coins in it and take out my pocket knifeâ
The phone rang.
“Ms. Tunet?” It was Inspector O'Hare.
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“
W
ednesday morning in Ballynagh?” Cherry wailed. “At the police station? Oh, Roger! Do you
have
to go? That means we can't have lunch at the Shelbourne. And then, the rerun of
Chicago!”
She collapsed onto the cheap old sofa that they weren't taking with them when they moved to Ballsbridge. Everything would be new and expensive. She and Roger had spent hours having meetings with the decorators, two gentlemen who were constantly written up in the decorating magazines. “What's this âinformal' investigative procedure anyway? I've never heard of such a thing.”
W
ednesday morning in Ballynagh?” Cherry wailed. “At the police station? Oh, Roger! Do you
have
to go? That means we can't have lunch at the Shelbourne. And then, the rerun of
Chicago!”
She collapsed onto the cheap old sofa that they weren't taking with them when they moved to Ballsbridge. Everything would be new and expensive. She and Roger had spent hours having meetings with the decorators, two gentlemen who were constantly written up in the decorating magazines. “What's this âinformal' investigative procedure anyway? I've never heard of such a thing.”
Roger didn't answer. It was Ms. Torrey Tunet, of course. She had to have gone to Inspector O'Hare with the journal. He cocked his head, suddenly alert. A sound outside?
“What's out there?” Cherry said, for he was at the window, and despite the cold, had flung it up and was craning his neck, looking down.
“The car.” He pulled himself back into the room and, shivering, shut the window. “It's okay. I just ⦠I had a kind of ⦠I had a feeling it was gone.” His olive-green Mercedes.
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Sergeant Jimmy Bryson crossed off Roger Flannery's name. Then he fed a cookie to Nelson and turned from his desk and
looked over at Inspector O'Hare. “I don't see Winifred Moore's name, Inspector. Winifred Moore considers herself John Gwathney's special friend. She had a poem about him in
The
Dublin Times
last week. Soâ”
looked over at Inspector O'Hare. “I don't see Winifred Moore's name, Inspector. Winifred Moore considers herself John Gwathney's special friend. She had a poem about him in
The
Dublin Times
last week. Soâ”
“So she'd raise holy hell if we didn't demand her attendance? This isn't a goddamned circus, Jimmy. It's an inquiry into a murder!”
“Still, sir.”
O'Hare sighed. He hadn't slept last night. He rubbed his eyes. “Right, right. Call her.”
Sergeant Bryson picked up the phone, then hesitated. “She'll bring Sheila Flaxton, of course. Telling her not to bring Ms. Flaxton would be like telling the earth to stop orbiting around the moon. Or is it the moon orbiting ⦠No, the earth. Like telling the earthâ”
“Never mind, Jimmy!”
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“Liam?” Megan was calling on the phone from her bedroom, the bedroom she had moved to so many months ago. It faced west and was smaller than the bedroom in the east wing that she had shared with John Gwathney. John, who rose early, had loved to see the sun rise. She had thought often lately, with a sharp pain, of those halcyon days that she and John Gwathney had shared, and how in that room, on that bed, they had made love.
“Sergeant Bryson called me.” Liam's baritone voice calmed her, it was so steady. “He called you, too? An informal inquiry, that's all, Megan. That's
all
.”
all
.”
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“Pa,” Willow said, “it's for you.” She brought the phone from the end table, under the hunting print, to her father. At Castle Creedon, there was a blazing fire in the library. Owen Thorpe, in a big leather chair by the row of tall windows, was reading a
book about seasonal plantings. A brisk wind rattled the windows. It was the kind of sunny, cold morning that demanded a hot soup for lunch. Willow was still in rather dirty jodhpurs, and a bit of straw was caught in her ponytail, though Buddy, her twin, had done most of the currying. They'd had a wonderful morning canter. Before leaving the stable, they'd shared a cigarette, then rinsed their mouth with the bottle of mouthwash they kept hidden in the empty horse stall along with the pack of cigarettes. They'd discussed the possibility of getting an advance on their allowance and had come into the library to beard the lion.
book about seasonal plantings. A brisk wind rattled the windows. It was the kind of sunny, cold morning that demanded a hot soup for lunch. Willow was still in rather dirty jodhpurs, and a bit of straw was caught in her ponytail, though Buddy, her twin, had done most of the currying. They'd had a wonderful morning canter. Before leaving the stable, they'd shared a cigarette, then rinsed their mouth with the bottle of mouthwash they kept hidden in the empty horse stall along with the pack of cigarettes. They'd discussed the possibility of getting an advance on their allowance and had come into the library to beard the lion.
“Yes?” her father said into the phone, balancing the book on his knees. A minute later, the book about seasonal plantings slid from his lap to the carpet.
“Owen.” Their mother was in the doorway. “I've told Mary: barley soup with mushrooms and peas, unless you'd ratherâ” She stopped; then: “Owen, what is it?” She put a hand to her heart.
“Yes,” he said into the phone. “Yes, of course.” Carefully, he put down the phone. “Nothing, really, Constance. A Sergeant Bryson, in Wicklow. The John Gwathney murder. Some sort of preliminary investigation in the village of Ballynagh. Wednesdaymorning, ten o'clock. Our attendance is requested. Iâ”
“
Our
attendance?”
Our
attendance?”
A nod. “It appears there's a record of John Gwathney visiting Castle Creedon a month before his death.” He picked up the book from the floor and said tiredly, “In Sergeant Bryson's words, we may be able âto contribute information in the GardaÃ's pursuit of the case.' And so on.” He paused. “And, of course, the reason for John Gwathney's visit to Castle Creedon.”
Into a long, puzzling silence, Buddy said, “Wow! Can we come too?”
“No
!
” His father's explosive word made him jump. His
father's ordinarily serene face looked suddenly like a stranger's, the way his jaw was clenched.
!
” His father's explosive word made him jump. His
father's ordinarily serene face looked suddenly like a stranger's, the way his jaw was clenched.
Buddy looked at Willow and wiggled his eyebrows. Forget about the allowance.
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A
t nine-thirty Wednesday morning, a crisp, clear, cold day, Sergeant Jimmy Bryson carried the folding chairs, from the Grogan Sisters Knitting Shop across the street to the Garda station. The Grogan sisters had their weekly knitting-instruction meetings, often referred to as “gossip” meetings, on Fridays, so they didn't need the chairs right then.
t nine-thirty Wednesday morning, a crisp, clear, cold day, Sergeant Jimmy Bryson carried the folding chairs, from the Grogan Sisters Knitting Shop across the street to the Garda station. The Grogan sisters had their weekly knitting-instruction meetings, often referred to as “gossip” meetings, on Fridays, so they didn't need the chairs right then.
Jimmy Bryson made three trips. On his last trip, he suddenly had to leap up onto the curb, though Winifred Moore stepped hard on the brakes of the red Jeep and yelled, “Sorry, Jimmy! Sorry! These damned brakes!”
Inside the station, Sergeant Bryson said to Inspector O'Hare, who was sitting at his desk and staring narrow-eyed into space, “Winifred Moore and her friend Sheila Flaxton are already here. And she's brought Blake Rossiter.”
“Hmmm?” O'Hare refocused on Sergeant Bryson. “Not surprising. Rossiter is evaluating old paintings and portraits of Moore ancestors up at Castle Moore. I've heard that Winifred now thinks Rossiter is God. Or similar. Blake Rossiter won't be the only uninvited person to show up. Ms. Rosaleen O'Shea, our local fledgling gossip columnist, will likely come slipping through the door, ears at the ready and tongue set to spice up the facts. And it's anybody's guess who else might appear.”
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Ten o'clock. They were all here, settling down on the folding chairs that Sergeant Bryson had arranged in rows.
Standing in front of his desk, leaning back, Inspector O'Hare, smiling, said, “Good morning.” He stood with one leg crossed against the other, casual, that was the ticket. Unintimidating. Hands in his pockets. Behind him on the desk, within easy reach, lay the objects he'd refer to. He looked over to where, behind the rows of seated people just beside the door, Ms. Torrey Tunet was standing next to the soda machine. Wearing a heavy red sweater, she stood with her legs crossed as casually as his own, hands in the pockets of her jeans. But even from here he could see that her face was pale. He was surprised that she wasn't wearing her peacock bandanna, turquoise and gold. A bit cocky, that bandanna. He'd come to think of it as a symbol of ⦠success? luck? He felt a momentary qualm.
It was not his first qualm. It was true that his earlier investigative “informals” had been successful in exposing the guilty. It was, as always, the word “informal,” that psychologically misled the guilty into thinking “unofficial,” a safe chance to spy out the direction of the investigation.
Nevertheless ⦠O'Hare drew a deep breath. Skill was required. This room was spilling over with people who had motives to kill John Gwathney. Never mind the stunning revelation from Gwathney's stained journal pages. It wasn't proof enough. Not
quite
enough. What he must do was to lay a trap that, once sprung, would produce a confession.
quite
enough. What he must do was to lay a trap that, once sprung, would produce a confession.
Smell of ⦠violets? Hyacinths? A woman's perfume. Constance Thorpe from Castle Creedon was in the first row, beside her husband. A gray-blond beautiful woman with a pensive mouth and sky-blue eyes, she was wrapped in a plaid woolen cape that she clutched closed at the throat with one hand,
though the room was comfortably warm, Sergeant Bryson having turned up the heat. She'd perhaps gotten chilled during the drive north from Baltimore. Owen Thorpe, in the folding chair beside his wife, was an athletic-looking man in country tweeds and a knitted tie. He was fair-haired and had a square-jawed, tanned face with shadows under tired-looking brown eyes. A muscle in his cheek twitched. On the folding chair beside him, he'd placed a wicker basket that held a thermos and a woman's pale blue cashmere shawl.
though the room was comfortably warm, Sergeant Bryson having turned up the heat. She'd perhaps gotten chilled during the drive north from Baltimore. Owen Thorpe, in the folding chair beside his wife, was an athletic-looking man in country tweeds and a knitted tie. He was fair-haired and had a square-jawed, tanned face with shadows under tired-looking brown eyes. A muscle in his cheek twitched. On the folding chair beside him, he'd placed a wicker basket that held a thermos and a woman's pale blue cashmere shawl.
Behind the Thorpes sat Winifred Moore in her Australian outback hat. She was flanked on one side by Sheila Flaxton, who looked like a beaky little bird buried in a nest of woolen scarves. On Winifred's other side was Blake Rossiter in a brown suede jacket over a yellow-checked shirt. He looked more like a country squire than an art dealer. His light blue eyes under the sandy brows looked alertly about.
In back of them sat Megan O'Faolain and Liam Caffrey. Megan O'Faolain looked thinner, possibly because of the cranberry-colored jersey dress she wore ⦠thin as she had been when, half-starved, she'd hunted hare with a shotgun that late October, sixâor was it seven?âyears ago. Her dark hair was in a bun at her nape and it made O'Hare think of the word “chaste,” which, at the same time, he thought wryly, was hardly fitting. Liam Caffrey, on Megan's left, was in his usual black turtleneck. He met Inspector O'Hare's gaze, and the sardonic lines around his mouth deepened.
On Megan's right was Roger Flannery in an olive-green linen shirt and a tan cashmere jacket. He had thrown his luxurious-looking butter-colored suede coat over the back of his chair. His high freckled forehead shone, and his reddish-brown hair in its ponytail had a polished look.
Inspector O'Hare felt an anticipatory shiver. He smiled at the waiting faces. “To beginâ”
“Sorry! Sorry!” From the back of the room, a giggly kind of apologetic whisper, and Ms. Rosaleen O'Shea tiptoed past the soda machine, looked about, then slid into an empty seat that Sergeant Bryson unfolded beside Blake Rossiter.
Inspector O'Hare took a breath, smiled once more around the room and said, “First. I'd likeâ”
Nelson barked, a sharp, startled bark. The door had opened again, striking his behind. Two teenaged boys in pea-green fleece jackets and white knitted caps closed the door behind them. No, it was a boy and a girl. “Damn!” the girl said and grabbed Nelson's muzzle in a gentle admonitory way and shook it back and forth. “Shut up, you beast. Put a clamp on it.”
A moan from Constance Thorpe. Owen Thorpe said tight-lipped, “I should have drained the petrol from their motorbikes.”
There were no more folding chairs. The boy and girl stood beside Torrey Tunet and looked with polite, almost military, attention at Inspector O'Hare.
For a bare instant, O'Hare felt a quaking sensation, a protest. Something in the Bible â¦
The sins of the fathers
? Yet nothing to do but press on. He'd agreed finally with Torrey Tunet, exclude, exclude, clear the decks. A stubborn young woman, Ms. Tunet, fighting against believing the obvious. Then, in John Gwathney's journal, that incredible tale,
With my pocket knife I cut off a swatch of the gatekeeper's hair
.
The sins of the fathers
? Yet nothing to do but press on. He'd agreed finally with Torrey Tunet, exclude, exclude, clear the decks. A stubborn young woman, Ms. Tunet, fighting against believing the obvious. Then, in John Gwathney's journal, that incredible tale,
With my pocket knife I cut off a swatch of the gatekeeper's hair
.
Nevertheless, as promised to the stubborn Ms. Torrey Tunet, who seemed to be casting desperately about for a miracle, he would forge ahead, no deviation, despite the bird in hand. He had an uneasy memory of last year's case, which had involved the admittedly clever Ms. Tunet. So he smiled at the attentive faces before him and cleared his throat.
“I hope that with this informal meeting, and with the concentrated effort of all of you ⦠I hope to pull together the events surrounding the death of John Gwathney.
“So, Ms. Megan O'Faolain, if you please.”
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“Oh!” Megan O'Faolain clasped her hands in her lap and in a low voice, with its touch of the lyric Sligo, told of that terrible eveningâof the arrival of Sharon, her little niece, and the horror of finding John Gwathney with his shattered chest. “No, never any threats, Inspector ⦠No, John was not a man to make enemies ⦠Yes, he had just returned from a research trip abroad ⦠The killer frightened off by my return? I can't say, I have no idea ⦠I'm sorry.”
Silence. Then an unexpected, vehement whisper from Winifred Moore: “And we think we live in a civilized society! Dominated, of course, by the male sex!” At this outburst, Sheila Flaxton turned her pale blue eyes to the heavens.
“Thank you, Ms. O'Faolain.” O'Hare looked over to Roger Flannery in the folding chair on Megan's right. “If you please, Mr. Flannery.”
Roger Flannery, fingering a cuff link from which a tiny diamond winked, told of his arrival that night at Gwathney Hall, the shock of it. “Had to be attempted robbery. John Gwathney, the finest of ⦠What's that, Inspector, I didn't quite ⦠Oh, his will? Yes, I was totally astonished, Inspector, in fact, stunnedâJohn Gwathney leaving me a painting! And it turning out to be worth a million pounds! Staggering, what with it being only a painting of a couple of dogs ⦠I'd no idea paintings could be ⦠Yes, Inspector, I knew John Gwathney owned a few paintings, I passed them every day, here and there, but can't say I ever really noticed. Worth ten pounds each, for all I knew! Now, of course, I have rather a collection of books on the subject ⦠What's that, Inspector? Yes, eight years ago, in Limerick. John found me in rather poor, uh, circumstances, you might say. He straightened me up. I owed John Gwathney a lot, in fact.” Unconsciously he ran a hand down the side of his butter-colored suede coat.
At that, somebody snickered. Ms Rosaleen O'Shea. She even gave Blake Rossiter, in the chair beside her, a slight poke in the ribs.
Inspector O'Hare cast Rosaleen O'Shea a frowning look. A vexing young woman. But no time for that. He leaned back against the desk, his heart beating a little faster. He looked over at Liam Caffrey beside Megan O'Faolain. Liam Caffrey looked attentively back at him, a smile lurking around his sardonic mouth. O'Hare felt a kind of resentment. However, he pushed on.
“Mr. Caffrey, a question or two, if you don't mind.”
The room was suddenly dead quiet. Liam Caffrey. Rumors, gossip. Even from here, O'Hare could see a flush rising from Megan's throat, creeping up her face to her brow. Dark hair in a chaste bun, but the lady was anything but chaste. A hand, her left, fluttered to her brow, then fell to her lap.
“Yes, Inspector?” Liam Caffrey's lean face reflected only curiosity.
“The evening that John Gwathney was killedâthat evening. Your pottery shop is on the road about two hundred yards' distance from Gwathney Hall.” He glanced down at his notes. “I believe in your interview by the Gardaà from Dublin, you reported you may have heard someone going past at around six that evening?”
Liam Caffrey said, “Did I say that? Around that time, six oâclock, I was occupied ⦠what with one thing or another.” Liam Caffrey leaned suddenly forward, his face had gone dark, his voice was coldly angry. “Inspector! Don't make anything of that incident at the bar in O'Malley's Pub! John Gwathney trying to break my leg with that damned walking stick of his. Deliberate as hell! Iâ”
“Liam!” Megan O'Faolain's hand was on his arm, her voice begging. “Liam! No! You'll justâ”
A whispery young woman's voice from over beside Blake
Rossiter said, “Oh, you nasty thing, Mr. Liam Caffrey! John Gwathney was only trying to pay you back! Pay you back for hurting her! I saw the bruises! That time I brought the towels to her room after she came back from visiting you! Lots of times you must've done that to her!”
Rossiter said, “Oh, you nasty thing, Mr. Liam Caffrey! John Gwathney was only trying to pay you back! Pay you back for hurting her! I saw the bruises! That time I brought the towels to her room after she came back from visiting you! Lots of times you must've done that to her!”
A stunned silence. Then a groan from Megan O'Faolain, who put up her hands and covered her face. Winifred Moore whispered something about “sadism bearing a close relationship to the arts.” There was a swell of outraged murmurs and shocked, appalled looks cast at Liam Caffrey. Inspector O'Hare glanced over at Ms. Torrey Tunet, standing back there beside the soda machine. She looked bewildered.
Then: “Wait a bit!” It was a cry from Roger Flannery. It startled the room into silence. O'Hare, fingering his notes, looked up in surprise. But having gone that far, Roger Flannery only sat back, silent, running a hand nervously over his gleaming hair.
“Mr. Flannery?” Inspector O'Hare frowned; he was feeling sidetracked. He knew where he was going with this investigation, and now,
this
. He felt a warmth at the back of his neck; it always happened when he felt frustrated, held up, impatient. He frowned at Roger Flannery, whose ordinarily pale face now went even paler, and whose brown eyes looked back at him with a kind of desperation.
this
. He felt a warmth at the back of his neck; it always happened when he felt frustrated, held up, impatient. He frowned at Roger Flannery, whose ordinarily pale face now went even paler, and whose brown eyes looked back at him with a kind of desperation.
“If you please, Mr. Flannery. If you have something pertinent ⦠But this is an investigation thatâ”
“Yes! But that's a terrible ⦔ Roger Flannery said in a strangled voice. “What she said! That's not true!” He looked around the room, then at Megan O'Faolain. “Liam Caffrey never beat Megan. It was ⦠It was John Gwathney who beat her. John started beating Megan even before”âFlannery jerked his head toward Liam Caffreyâ“before she ever met
him!”
him!”
“Roger! Don't!
Please
!” Megan O'Faolain's voice was a cry, a
desperate plea. In the chair beside him, she reached out and grasped his arm, but he shook himself free. “
Yes
, Megan! “Always trying to excuse him! No more excuses!”
Please
!” Megan O'Faolain's voice was a cry, a
desperate plea. In the chair beside him, she reached out and grasped his arm, but he shook himself free. “
Yes
, Megan! “Always trying to excuse him! No more excuses!”
Inspector O'Hare rocked back on his heels with surprise, looked in disbelief at Roger Flannery. “Mr. Flannery! You realize that such accusationsâ”
“Of course!” Flannery was breathing hard. Then, taking an uneven breath: “I don't know how they got to John, those Dublin bastards. Or maybe he went looking for it, experimenting. In his travels, he'd been in strange places where he tried hallucinatory drugs, I knew that. We'd even chatted about it. But now,
now
⦠Drug-inspired fantasies, out of control. He started imagining that Megan was cheating on him with lovers. It was frightening. I'd find scribbled notes, crumpled bits of paper, even in the files:
Each time she lies with a different man! I know it! This time it in a boy named Jack, she likes them young ⦠I
won't beat her if she'll confess. But she won't confess. Liar, liar
,
liar! I will burn my initials on her breasts. Then they'll know whom she
belongs to.”
now
⦠Drug-inspired fantasies, out of control. He started imagining that Megan was cheating on him with lovers. It was frightening. I'd find scribbled notes, crumpled bits of paper, even in the files:
Each time she lies with a different man! I know it! This time it in a boy named Jack, she likes them young ⦠I
won't beat her if she'll confess. But she won't confess. Liar, liar
,
liar! I will burn my initials on her breasts. Then they'll know whom she
belongs to.”
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