Authors: Dicey Deere

The Irish Village Murder (15 page)

BOOK: The Irish Village Murder

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A mewling sound, like an injured cat, from Sheila Flaxton; but Roger Flannery pressed on: “
She says I am sick, that I need
help. I don't like to make her cry. But I have to! I will beat the truth out of her. will beat her until she confesses! â¦ She has called them again. I don't want help.”

Roger Flannery sank back, exhausted. The neck of his olive-green shirt was dark with sweat. He took a deep breath. “John would go from Mr. Hyde back to Dr. Jekyll and become the real, decent, kind John Gwathney. Ninety percent of the time he was the brilliant, serious historian, then â¦” Roger spread his hands. “We never knew. It was frightening. One night, three or four days before John returned to Gwathney Hall, Megan took the drugs from his bathroom cabinet. She brought them to me, she was afraid that when he got back, he'd start right away â¦ So I hid them in my rooms at Gwathney Hall. I still have them. Three packets. Worth a fortune.” He fingered a cuff,
a diamond cuff link winked. “Been meaning to turn them over to â¦ uh, the right department at Dublin Castle. Or is it Harcourt Square? But, what with one thing and another â¦”

The room was quiet. Inspector OâHare felt he had been caught in a maelstrom and tossed about to land in a different place. Shock and disillusionment, tragedy in Flannery's revelation about John Gwathney, with its ring of truth. Megan O'Faolain sitting there, staring ahead, hands clasped in her lap.

As for Flannery â¦ White horse, dark horse. Devious. Much unknown.

“Thank you, Mr. Flannery.” Inspector O'Hare smiled at Roger Flannery.
All in good time, Mr. Flannery
. And he moved a hand to the desk behind him and touched the folder in which he had placed Ms. Torrey's translation along with John Gwathney's journal in Greek, that journal stolen from Torrey Tunet's cottage by Roger Flannery.

“
M
r. Owen Thorpe, if you please.” Inspector O'Hare's voice was friendly, courteous. “Sorry to have brought you and your wife all this way from Baltimore, Mr. Thorpe. But you may be of help in this inquiry.”

Standing beside the soda machine at the back of the room, Torrey felt something like an icicle slide down her back. She reached inside her shoulder bag and felt her copy of the translation of John Gwathney's journal. She hated what was about to happen; it sickened her. Admit it: she'd persuaded Inspector O'Hare to have this inquiry in the hope of discovering John Gwathney's killer among those who had
already
in the last hour been called on: Roger Flannery, evasive, thieving, now so rich, through John Gwathney's will, and claiming that Gwathney had destroyed his manuscript, burned it.

As for Liam Caffrey, over there beside Megan O'Faolain, all she knew, in frustration, was that through John Gwathney's death he was gaining Megan O'Faolain and the Gwathney Hall estate.

And now, alas, Owen Thorpe. She wanted to weep. She was seeing the scratched, almost illegible words in Greek in the battered pocket journal:
I had the relic from Castle Creedon. Over three hundred years! What I am accomplishing is not miraculous, but the result of research. The genetic fault in the Creedon family line. Is it any
wonder I am wild with excitement? The child! The child! In the desert I found what I was searching for.

“Cigarette?” A shapely, grubby hand holding out a pack of cigarettes. Willow, in her pea-green fleece jacket, lovely, mischievous face grinning. Torrey shook her head. “No, thanks, strictly forbidden in the police station. Sergeant Bryson will draw and quarter you.” Careless choice of words. Again that icicle down her back. She looked at Inspector O'Hare standing in front of his desk and smiling at Owen Thorpe.

“Now, let's see.” Inspector O'Hare looked down at his notes. “Ah, yes. It appears, Mr. Thorpe, that early in September, John Gwathney visited you at Castle Creedon. The purpose of his visit, Mr. Thorpe, if you don't mind?”

“Not at all.” A baritone voice, cultivated, a shade weary. Owen Thorpe, in tweed jacket and knitted tie, sat at ease, his legs crossed. Brown-eyed, fair-haired, with a square-jawed, tanned face, he had the outdoors look of a sportsman who enjoyed the seasons. “Mr. Gwathney told us he was researching a history of castles in the area. It was for a book he was writing.” Owen Thorpe recrossed his legs. “And since Castle Creedon dates from the late fifteenth century â¦” Owen Thorpe shrugged. “So we showed him about.”

“And historically? Castle Creedon â¦ The visit was helpful to Mr. Gwathney historically?”

Owen Thorpe said, “I â¦ Possibly.” He hesitated. “He was interested in a few relics we keep in a glass case in the north tower, sixteenth century, dating from before my wife's family purchased the property in the seventeen hundreds. Such Castle Creedon relics are of interest to tour groups. We open the castle and the gardens to the public on Thursdays one month of the year.”

“I see. Historic.” Inspector O'Hare nodded. He reached around behind him and picked up the translation of John
Gwathney's journal. “I have here John Gwathney's handwritten notes about his projected book. The working title is
The Raid of Baltimore.
Historically known as
The Sack of Baltimore.
The book would be about the kidnapping of people in Baltimore by Algerian pirates in sixteen-thirty-one who were taken to North Africa as slaves. Over one hundred people were kidnapped. They were never heard of again. Among them were Desmond and Celia Creedon and their six-year-old child, a girl.”

From Sheila Flaxton came a horrified “How
dreadful!”
followed by a fit of coughing. Winifred Moore exasperatedly pounded on Ms. Flaxton's shawl-wrapped back.

Inspector O'Hare, pressing a finger to his lips, gazed thoughtfully at Owen Thorpe, who involuntarily had put an arm protectively along the back of his wife's chair.

“Tragic,” O'Hare said, “tragic.” He glanced down at his notes, then up again at Owen Thorpe. Torrey went tense. The exultant words scratched so deeply, excitedly into the journal,
The genetic fault in the Creedon family line: the thumb and three fingers of the right hand, the missing little finger. Yes, yes!

Inspector O'Hare, leaning a little forward, said, “It appears, Mr. Thorpe, that John Gwathney paid a
second
visit to Castle Creedon.” He paused. “That was in October. Only two days before his death. Perhaps you can contribute valuable information. Concerning, say, Mr. Gwathney's emotional state. Did he appear disturbed? And so on.” Again he paused. “And, of course, what was the reason for his
second
visit to Castle Creedon?”

The wall clock behind Inspector O'Hare's desk struck the noontime hour: twelve hollow-sounding chimes. Not a rustle, not a sound, only a waiting silence; and despite the closed door, the delicious smell from Finney's across the street, the Wednesday Pot-Roast Special, subversively invaded the room.

“Yes, Inspector. John Gwathney's second visit.” Owen
Thorpe's baritone voice sounded weary. “Anything I can possibly contribute. However, the trip from Baltimore was exhausting, particularly to my wife. She's just getting over the flu, so it was especially â¦ We're plebeian at Castle Creedon, we lunch at noon. So on my wife's account â¦” He paused. “ â¦ if that's agreeable?”

Inspector O'Hare glanced at Constance Thorpe, who still clutched the plaid cape to her throat. Her head drooped tiredly to one side. Strands of fair hair almost obscured the gleam of a pearl earring.

“By all means.” Inspector OâHare smiled around the room. “An hour's intermission is certainly in order.”

No
hurry now
. Alone with only Sergeant Bryson, who was picking up candy wrappers from under one of the chairs, O'Hare laid the translated journal back on the desk. The net would drop, the killer trapped. Triumphant, he'd tried to catch Ms. Tunet's eye, but she'd slipped out the door, neglecting even to give Nelson one of the dog biscuits she usually carried.

Admit it, he owed Ms. Tunet. Her dereliction in holding on to John Gwathney's journal was outrageous. Yet she'd put the translation into his hands. Therefore he, Inspector Egan O'Hare, and not Chief Superintendent Emmet O'Reilly's staff at Dublin Castle, would reveal the killer of John Gwathney. Now, for the first time in his career, he regretted the absence of the press. And photographers. Ah, well.

“The pot roast?” Sergeant Bryson was beside him.

O'Hare nodded. “With extra noodles.”

I
n the silver Jaguar heading south from Belfast on N1, Jasper was reaching the outskirts of Dublin when his cell phone buzzed. He clicked it on and heard “Jasper?” in the low, husky voice that had enchanted him the first time he'd heard it two years ago at the Abbey Theatre, when the young woman with the black-lashed gray eyes and cadet stance had said, “I believe that's
my
seat,” and waved her ticket stub at him, and he'd apologized and moved over one seat. The play was Synge's
Playboy of the Western World,
and he'd seen it through a haze, maybe already half in love.

Now, driving on the N1, he glanced at the dashboard clock. Five minutes past twelve. “Torrey? I'm in listening position.”

She told him then: Roger Flannery's revelations of John Gwathney drugs and consequent brutality to Megan. “Now, at one oâclock, Inspector O'Hare wilt â¦willâoh, damn it! He can hardly wait to pounce, with what he's learned from John Gwathney's journal.” She paused; then, sadly, in frustration: “Castle Creedon. The Thorpes. It near breaks my heart. That gentle Constance Thorpe! And there's a pair of twins, a boy and a girl â¦”

“Breaks your heart? We can't have that. It'll ruin your appetite.” He was thinking hard. He glanced at the speedometer,
then at the rearview mirror, and pressed down on the gas. One possibility. Only one. It might help. Or maybe not.

“Jasper? You there?”

“I'm here. I'll see you in Ballynagh almost before you hang up.”

On Pearse Street in Dublin, he parked illegally, risking it, and rang the bell of the upstairs flat with the name plate of “R- Flannery.” The buzzer sounded without question, and he went up.

“Oh! I was expecting â¦” At the open door of the flat, a young woman in black pants and a black-and-white-striped sweater blinked startled blue eyes at him. She had a charming, saucy face and red hair in ringlets. “I was expecting the wallpaper man. From Devon's.”

“Sorry, miss. Not from Devon's. I'm from Keady's. Picking up a package for Mr. Flannery. To deliver to him in Ballynagh. Rather a rush, miss.”

“A
package?
Roger neverâ”

“Urgent, Mr. Flannery thought he'd put it in his car, but he'd left it in his”âit was a risk, and he took itâ“in his bureau drawer.”

“Well â¦ all right. Just a minute. I'll look.”

In the small front room, waiting, he heard a drawer open, then another â¦ and another. And another.

Then, pretty face flushed and annoyed, the young woman appeared in the doorway “Is
this
it? It's the only package.” She held out a bulky, rather dirty, ten-by-thirteen envelope.

“Yes,” Jasper said, “that's it.”

M
ichael McIntyre, at his lunchtime window seat in O'Malley's Pub, looked up from the “Shipping News” column as the door opened. Megan O'Faolain and Liam Caffrey. A chin-up lady, face flushing at the sudden silence from the fellows at the bar as they turned and looked at her. Ho! He knew those looks. In ports from Madagascar to the West Indies, sailors looked at certain ladies that way, ladies for knowing intimately if you had the price, or sometimes even only the looks. He himself had had the price, and more than once, at twenty-five, had done fine with just the looks. Smoky rooms, silks and smell of musk, duf fel bag tossed in a corner. Skin like satin. Memories, at seventy-six. He lifted his pint to himself and smiled. Megan O'Faolain and Caffrey took a table way at the back, away from the bar, where it was more private. Intimate.

And here came ponytailed Roger Flannery along with that older chap, Rossiter, the art-dealer fellow. Hah! Rossiter was no doubt cozening up to Flannery with a bit of business in mind. Commissions on selling Flannery more paintings. Hah! Money in it. Why not? Rossiter lived well. Deliveries of fancy wines from Dougherty's, prime meats from O'Curry's. Captain of his ship.

McIntyre rattled the newspaper, ruffled his rampant white hair and looked hopefully out the window. Farther down Butler
Street, folks were leaving the police station for lunch. It was one of Egan O'Hare's “informals,” as he called them. There went Winifred Moore, a frigate in full sail, trailed by Ms. Flaxton, her fragile “companion.” They crossed the street to Finney's. Other folks followed. Pair of boy twins. Or girls? But where was
she
, Ms. Torrey Tunet, who jumped rope in the dead of night? Ms. Tunet of the gray eyes and flower mouth and the peacock bandanna? Ms. Tunet who, buying an apple across the street at Coyle's market, couldn't resist biting into it at once, standing there in jeans and jumper, or leaning on her bike. Where was
she?

At Finney's, at ten minutes past noon, Winifred Moore cut into her pot roast, took a satisfying bite, and looked around. Sheila, across from her, unwrapped from her layers of woolen shawls, experimentally sipped a spoonful of barley soup. Dennis Finney had the fire going, and the smoky smell of the firewood made the crowded room extra cozy in a companionable, even family-like, way.

“There are the Thorpes and their progeny,” Winifred said, “just coming in. What's
that
all about? O'Hare asking them to come all the way from Baltimore!”

Owen and Constance Thorpe and their teenaged twins were settling down at a table near the fire. The twins shrugged out of their jackets. The girl twin took off her white knitted cap. Her long fair hair had a narrow braid down each side of her forehead as far as her chin. She caught Winifred's glance and gave her a puckish grin.

The restaurant door opened again, and then, caught by the wind, slammed shut. Torrey Tunet, windblown, stood looking about. Every table was taken.

“Over here!” Winifred shoved a chair out with her booted foot and waved Torrey over, meanwhile under her breath muttering to Sheila, “My God! She looks like a Dickens orphan!”

Pale, looking dispirited, and obviously forcing a smile, Torrey collapsed into one of the two empty chairs. A strand of wool had come loose at the cuff of her red jumper, and unthinkingly she twisted and rolled it between thumb and forefinger.

“I
know
,” Winifred said with feeling, but nevertheless cutting into her pot roast, “dreadful! Roger Flannery's revelation about John Gwathney falling into that terrible trap. Drugs! Sick fantasies, physical cruelty.”

“Yes.” Torrey's fingers still twisted the strand of wool.

“Mam?” Alice, Finney's oldest, was at Torrey's shoulder, pad in hand, pencil at the ready.

“A pot of tea, please, Alice. And a plate of biscuits. That's all. Thanks.” Torrey let go of the loose strand of wool. She reached down into her shoulder bag that rested on the floor and took out a bar of chocolate. She looked at it, then dropped it back into the bag.

“I miss John Gwathney,” Winifred said. “Our afternoon siestas. We both drank whiskey neat.” She rested her fork on the plate. “John enjoyed visiting me at Castle Moore. He said the castle was built on the site of an ancient fort. But he never invited me to Gwathney Hall. He wasn't keen on visitors.”

“But you
did
go to Gwathney Hall!” Sheila said. “Remember? That time I had those awful shingles. And you went
anyway
.”

“But I went just to return a book he'd lent me,” Winifred said. She watched Alice set down the plate of cookies and pot of tea before Torrey. “He'd been edgy about letting that book out of his hands. A first edition, Irish mythology, a half dozen paragraphs in it about Queen Maeve that I wanted to go over.

“When I got to Gwathney Hall, John was out on the steps saying good-bye to a city-dressed chap who looked rather like a sprite. A Mr. Bendersford. We shook hands. John was â¦ all frowning eyebrows. A thundercloud! Angry about something. âI'd like to strangle Clewes and Company!' he said to Mr. Bendersford. At that, Mr. Bendersford gave a little laugh and said,
âGo to it! and âThanks for the autographs.' And he got into his little mini and went off. Those piddling little cars! Give me a Jeep anytime!”

Twenty minutes later, Torrey stood on the curb outside Finney's. Bendersford. Something â¦ something remembered. Bendersford. Yes. She could see Megan O'Faolain smiling at her that afternoon she'd returned the soft-as-thistledown apricot-colored scarf that Megan had forgotten at Castle Moore.

Bendersford. Megan saying he'd stopped at Gwathney Hall on his way to Waterford, something about an autograph for his young nephew. Megan smiling, saying,
I made a lobster lunch. It was lovely, we had a white wine. I was happy to see John do relaxed. So buoyant
.

On the curb, Torrey frowned. Something â¦ off. Winifred Moore, minutes ago in Finney's saying that on the steps outside, John was saying good-bye to Mr. Bendersford. He was angry â¦
all frowning eyebrows. A thundercloud â¦ “I'd like to strangle Clewes and Company
!
”
And
then from Bendersford:
“Go to it!”

Odd. It didn't tally. Unless â¦ unless something had happened right after that happy lobster lunch. Something that had infuriated John Gwathney.

Torrey stood a moment, biting a fingernail. And slowly she was beginning to remember something else, something glimpsed. A color. Wine-red. No, that was something worn. That wasn't it. It was something else, something square, olive-green.
Olive-green
. A carton, with an address. Her eyes widened. She blew out a breath and stood very still. Then, heart pounding, she unzipped her shoulder bag and took out her cell phone.

Dublin information; she gave the name and waited. It was windy, dry leaves were skittering down Butler Street; she was chilled, she should have worn a heavier sweater, a jumper, as they called it here. Rosaleen OâShea came by and hesitated, but Torrey looked skyward and, thankfully, Rosaleen O'Shea took
the hint and went on up the street. An instant later, in Dublin, someone picked up the ringing phone.

Five minutes later, Torrey clicked off her cell phone. Her blood was pounding. She felt incredibly alive. She looked at her watch. Thirty-five minutes before one o'clock. Time! She needed time!

“Hey. Hello!” Willow, the Thorpe girl twin, had come out of Finney's. Lovely, mischievous face, white knitted hat, pea-green fleece jacket. “Quite something, this village. Antediluvian. I'll have a look about. Then back to the Inquisition, conducted by that cute inspector who's getting a bit corpulent. But he puts on a good show. Catch a murderer. God knows why we Thorpes were invited.”

Torrey didn't even hesitate before she asked Willow right out, it mattered that much.

Willow, face alight, gave it less than a minute before she agreed.

BOOK: The Irish Village Murder

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