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Authors: Dicey Deere

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BOOK: The Irish Village Murder
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T
en minutes past one. Murmur of voices as everyone settled again on the folding chairs. Crackle of cellophane as Rosaleen O'Shea offered a bag of mints to Blake Rossiter beside her. Sheila Flaxton had brought bottled water; there was a hiss as she twisted off the cap.
Inspector O'Hare, standing beside his desk, cast a questioning glance at Sergeant Bryson, who shook his head, equally puzzled. Ms. Tunet was missing. O'Hare frowned, then shrugged. She'd given him John Gwathney's journal. If she was unhappy about its contents, unwilling to be on hand for the ugly revelation, that was hardly his affair. His glance skimmed across Owen Thorpe in the front row.
Constance Thorpe, who was sitting with one hand on her husband's tweed-clad arm, leaned around to Buddy, who had removed the wicker basket to sit beside his father. “Where's Willow?”
Buddy shrugged. “Don't know. Gone off. Viewing the countryside.” Gone off with that dishy American, Ms. Tunet, on the back of her motorbike. Not enough cushioning. If they went far, Ms. Tunet would have a sore behind.
Inspector O'Hare cleared his throat, smiled around the room, then looked again at Owen Thorpe.
“Mr. Thorpe? Let's see, now. October. Two days before John
Gwathney's death. His second visit to Castle Creedon. If you could …” He waited.
“Absolutely, Inspector!” Owen Thorpe's voice was clear, resonant. He sat relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, his tanned face with the shadows under his dark eyes looked frankly back at Inspector O'Hare. “Anything I can … Mid-morning, maybe half ten, brisk weather, I'd just come up from a visit to the stables. Found Constance in the morning room providing John Gwathney with a cup of tea. He was doing further historical research in the area.” Owen Thorpe, recalling, tapped fingers on his tweed-clad knee. “We had a bit of friendly chitchat. There was nothing more Constance or I could contribute historically. We'd shot our bolt first time around.”
“So, then … ?” Inspector O'Hare said.
Owen Thorpe looked surprised. “So then Gwathney had a biscuit or two with his tea, and off he went. Foraging, likely, for more bits and pieces of research around the harbor. Constance was quite impressed. She'd read a book or two of Gwathney's. Not my style.”
“Ah.” O'Hare felt a kind of admiration mixed with incredulity at the depravity of mankind. He said, gently, thinking, why squeeze the bird in hand, “Unfortunately, Gwathney destroyed his manuscript. His reason is unknown.”
Owen Thorpe said agreeably, “Possibly Mr. Gwathney was a perfectionist. Perhaps he felt the projected work not quite up to … However.”
“However,
” O'Hare went on, acknowledging Owen Thorpe's contribution with a nod,”in regard to this investigation, Gwathney left a journal of his research into
The Raid of Baltimore.
” He reached around to the desk behind him and picked up the journal. “I have here John Gwathney's journal—”
A startled cry from Roger Flannery, then something rattled to the floor. Roger Flannery bent over and his head was lost to view as he rooted around the floor, then came up, face flushed,
ponytail awry, his silver pen in hand. He sat back and stared at the journal.
O'Hare managed to conceal a smile and went on.
“This journal is John Gwathney's research notes for his book on
The Raid of Baltimore.”
He paused and looked from face to face. “He wrote it in Greek, possibly for privacy, who knows? In any case, it recounts John Gwathney's research in Baltimore, and then in Algeria, his attempts to trace the kidnapped people who were sold into slavery. And … his results.”
Dead quiet in the room. Fascinated faces, guarded faces. Against the windowpanes a pinpoint scattering of rain. Inspector O'Hare felt a pounding of blood in his ears. He said, “There are passages here that are, in fact, relevant to John Gwathney's death at Gwathney Hall.”
Gasps, and a half-hysterical giggle from Ms. Rosaleen O'Shea.
O'Hare wished that the door would open and Ms. Torrey Tunet would appear. He owed her. A pity that she wasn't here to witness the fruits of her—
The door opened. Not Ms. Tunet, but Jasper Shaw, Ms. Tunet's whatever-you-call-it. Lover. Overcoat with the collar up. Mr. Shaw slicked rain from his hair and stood just inside the door beside the soda machine looking about, likely for Ms. Tunet.
O'Hare put down John Gwathney's journal. He picked up Torrey Tunet's notebook with the translation. He had spent half the night marking salient passages with a red pencil. He cleared his throat.
 
The rain stopped, then started again, as he read. Tattered old documents in an archive in Algiers, a sudden high excitement,
“One child 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.”
He read on. The desert, the religious place,” …
the gatekeeper, squatting on a fragment of carpet in the desert sand, he holds out his hand and I put the coins in it and take out my pocket knife …”
Someone, Constance Thorpe, cried out, then put a hand quickly over her mouth.
O'Hare, aware, read on, one paragraph after another, five minutes, ten minutes. From the listeners, now and again a gasp or sigh. He turned a page.
“I was hardly off the plane in Dublin when I drove south to Cork and reached Baltimore and for the first time set foot in Castle Creedon. ‘Historical research,' I told the Thorpes, introducing myself. And God knows, it was true! They showed me about, the usual tourist visit: old Creedon portraits and heirlooms.I evinced interest in the architecture of the tower rooms, and they kindly left me to wander around a bit on my own. I managed to pocket a hairbrush from a glass Case.”
O'Hare paused. To his amazement, he had a sudden feeling of sympathy for the Thorpe family. Or, rather, it was pity for the gentle-faced Constance Thorpe and for the boy beside Owen Thorpe, that red-cheeked twin who was gazing at him, puzzled and fascinated. As for Owen Thorpe, sitting there apparently so relaxed, fingers tapping on one knee—all murders were ugly, but the killing at Gwathney Hall with a shotgun … O'Hare read on:
“Six days on edge! At last, this morning, the report from the Institute. I can barely take it in! I walk back and forth between desk and window! What I have accomplished is not miraculous, it is the result of brilliant research. After three hundred years,
this!”
Inspector O'Hare looked up. “John Gwathney wrote the next entry, his final entry, a week before he was murdered.”
Indrawn breaths. Sergeant Jimmy Bryson, beside the soda machine near the door, crossed his arms and cast a glance over the listeners. Last night, Inspector O'Hare had briefed him; he knew the contents of John Gwathney's journal.
Inspector O'Hare continued:
“I have finished the manuscript. It will be my most successful book yet. How can it not be!
“Bringing with me the report from the Institute, I drove south to Baltimore and paid a second visit to Castle Creedon. And there, in that drawing room with its carvings of shields and swords over the fireplace, I told Constance and Owen Thorpe first of my research of the history of Castle Creedon following the Raid of Baltimore, and how Castle Creedon, falling into ruin, had been arbitrarily annexed by the powerful O'Driscoll family in the area, a family who had no legal claim to Castle Creedon. This, as the Thorpes knew, was the family from whom Constance Thorpe's ancestors had, a hundred years later, bought Castle Creedon.
“Then, regretfully, with sympathy for Constance and Owen Thorpe, I told them of the genetic fault in the Creedon family, and the DNA results of my desert research in Algeria. And I told them that next week I would be going back to Alergia, to that monastery, and would return to Gwathney Hall bringing with me the Algerian gatekeeper, a descendant of that long-ago enslaved Creedon child.
“Who was the rightful owner of Castle Creedon? Constance and Owen Thorpe? Or that Algerian gatekeeper, descendant of the kidnapped child? I let the Thorpes know that it would be up to the courts to decide.
“Constance Thorpe wept. Owen Thorpe stood with his hand on her shoulder. He looked like a knight regardless of his Scotch-plaid jacket. I felt sorry for them.
”
 
Inspector O'Hare closed Torrey Tunet's translation of John Gwathney's journal. A swelling murmur of excitement, creak of chairs as the listeners strained to catch a glimpse of Owen and Constance Thorpe in the front row. Whispers, exclamations, shivers; then a waiting, a silence, the only sound the spatter of rain on the windowpanes.
Inspector O'Hare cleared his throat. He looked with kindly sympathy at Owen and Constance Thorpe. “Undoubtedly quite a shock, Mr. Thorpe, that second visit from John Gwathney.”
Owen Thorpe nodded. “Indeed.” His tanned face with the shadows under his dark eyes looked no more than deeply interested. But his lips had gone white.
O'Hare said, “If, in the courts, it came to any question of enmity toward John Gwathney, or that you might have had an interest in preventing the publication of—”
Owen Thorpe gave a short, ironic laugh. “As of course it would, Inspector! The possibility, the
implication
, of the court, that I might've been responsible for John Gwathney's death! To make sure of not losing Castle Creedon to a Berber gatekeeper!” He ran a hand through his graying fair hair. “God help me!”
O'Hare managed a sympathetic shake of his head. “But undoubtedly, Mr. Thorpe, you can account for where you were on the evening of John Gwathney's death.”
“Certainly! And right here, right now, in this Ballynagh police station, if you like!” Owen Thorpe's tone was indulgent. He gave a short laugh. “I was at a horse fair in Ennis. There wasn't a horse I liked well enough. Nothing with a decent … So I didn't …” He frowned. His voice died. He reached over and took Constance Thorpe's hand and held it tightly. “So I didn't buy.”
O'Hare smiled, a friendly smile. “But of course you'd have been seen at the Ennis fair by acquaintances … breeders. The like.”
“In fact, not, Inspector. No one I knew.” Owen Thorpe, frowning, contemplated Inspector O'Hare. Then he smiled. “Inspector, considering that John Gwathney's manuscript would anyway be published soon after his death—that book with its astounding tale about the Castle Creedon child—what good would John Gwathney's death do the Thorpe family? Absurd on the face of it, Inspector. Wouldn't you agree?” And Owen Thorpe's dark eyes smiled at Inspector O'Hare. “The
ownership case of Castle Creedon would anyway go to the courts.”
For an instant, O'Hare felt a touch of uncertainty.
“Or perhaps, Inspector,” Owen Thorpe went on ironically, “one might theorize that when I'd done the dastardly deed, I intended to steal John Gwathney's manuscript and destroy it? … Unaware, as we later learned from Mr. Flannery's interview with RTE, that John Gwathney had
already
destroyed the manuscript.”
O'Hare had a passing vision of a clever genie let out of a bottle and rising in a swirl of smoke to confound him. He said tightly, “All kinds of theories are possible, Mr. Thorpe. For instance, that you
intended
to destroy the manuscript but fled when Megan O'Faolain, who had left Gwathney Hall to meet her little niece, Sharon, returned for her jumper.” He smiled at Owen Thorpe. “In that case, what an immense relief you would have felt in learning next day on RTE that the manuscript no longer existed!”
“Stop it!
Stop
it!” Constance Thorpe put her hands to her temples and shook her head from side to side; her satiny gray-blond hair falling across her fingers. “This nightmare! This theorizing!”
Murmurs and coughs. Sheila Flaxton patted her heart, Winifred Moore lit a cigarette, giving a defiant look at Sergeant Jimmy Bryson, who pretended not to see. Then, from beside Sergeant Bryson, near the soda machine, a hearty baritone voice: “Inspector!”
Heads turned. Everybody watched Jasper Shaw walk down the side of the room.
Reaching Inspector O'Hare, he said, “This might interest you, Inspector,” and Jasper Shaw drew something from a big dirty envelope. It was a two-inch-thick manuscript. Uneven pages, the whole bundle held together by a wide rubber band.
“
No!
” Roger Flannery was on his feet, glaring at Jasper Shaw, his face furious: “You've been to Pearse Street!”
“Tut-tut, as they say in books.” Jasper Shaw was grinning. “Let's say I ‘retrieved' a bit of evidence from your flat.”
Inspector O'Hare held the manuscript. He looked down at the top page. In a jagged handwriting was the word
Final
.
 
 
I
nspector O'Hare, holding the manuscript, felt dazed. He rubbed a finger along the rubber band. In bewilderment, he looked questioningly at Jasper Shaw, who grinned. “The scenario, Inspector? Like this: Ms. Tunet by chance saw John Gwathney's manuscript in his studio the day after he was killed.”
Slowly, O'Hare took it in. He felt a chill. “The day
after
he … ?”
“Amazing, isn't it, Inspector, that despite Mr. Flannery's sad tale to the press that John Gwathney had destroyed his manuscript, here it turns up, whole and hearty—if a bit disheveled—in Mr. Flannery's possession.” Jasper Shaw was still grinning.
Inspector O'Hare stared at Shaw's long, humorous face. Then he turned and put the manuscript down on his desk. Shock and outrage were building in him; he hardly knew which took precedence. He turned back and looked at what seemed to him a hundred startled and expectant faces. Slowly, outrage gave way to a sense of elation. Wasn't this a dispensation from the gods, after all? Gwathney's manuscript was an unexpected windfall. Its pages would help provide a case against Gwathney's murderer, who was sitting there holding his wife Constance's hand tightly in his.
Inspector O'Hare smiled. His gaze sought out Roger Flannery,
ponytailed, devious, and caught out. “Precisely why, Mr. Flannery, did you appropriate John Gwathney's manuscript—”
“Swipe,” someone murmured. Buddy Thorpe.
“—and lie to the press?”
No answer. Roger Flannery only sank farther back against his luxurious coat.
O'Hare, every instant feeling more secure in the saddle, said crisply, “Exactly why, Mr. Flannery? Please make that clear to me.”
No answer.
“Might I suggest, Mr. Flannery, that you planned a use for the manuscript?”
Roger Flannery did not look well. He nodded.
“Let's say … A trip to Castle Creedon, Mr. Flannery? A visit to Owen Thorpe?”
Again, no answer. Only a sharply indrawn breath.
“Perhaps, Mr. Flannery, it occurred to you that Owen Thorpe might like to have that manuscript?” O'Hare leaned forward. “For a price, Mr. Flannery?”
Roger Flannery hesitated, then nodded.
“A
big
price, Mr. Flannery?”
“A price worth it to him!” Abruptly Roger Flannery sat up straight and cried out with sudden passion, “Why not? Why should the Thorpe family lose Castle Creedon to some beggar-type Algerian gatekeeper who wouldn't know what to do with it anyway! Just because he has a missing little finger!”
Roger Flannery, face still flushed at the unfairness of life, sank back. Sergeant Jimmy Bryson, arms folded, gave a nod of agreement, then frowned in embarrassment and fed a cookie to Nelson. A gust of wind sent a heavier beating of rain on the windowpanes. Then, from among the listeners, a woman's voice, a throaty contralto, said,
“But it wouldn't have! Castle Creedon wouldn't have gone to that Algerian gatekeeper!”
BOOK: The Irish Village Murder
13.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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