Read The Irish Village Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Village Murder (18 page)
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hursday morning, eight o'clock at the police station, Sergeant Jimmy Bryson first thing made tea on the two-burner atop the soda machine. He'd have been at the station at half seven, but he'd been stopped several times on Butler Street by villagers congratulating him on his heroism yesterday afternoon in confronting Mr. Blake Rossiter, who now lay in hospital at Glasshill, thirty miles away, with a shoulder wound and something quite distasteful concerning his left lung. His legal prognosis was likely to be equally gloomy.
hursday morning, eight o'clock at the police station, Sergeant Jimmy Bryson first thing made tea on the two-burner atop the soda machine. He'd have been at the station at half seven, but he'd been stopped several times on Butler Street by villagers congratulating him on his heroism yesterday afternoon in confronting Mr. Blake Rossiter, who now lay in hospital at Glasshill, thirty miles away, with a shoulder wound and something quite distasteful concerning his left lung. His legal prognosis was likely to be equally gloomy.
Sergeant Bryson had told his girlfriend, Hannah, about his dreadful confrontation with Rossiter at the police station informal. “He was two feet from me! He sprang like a wild beast! Teeth like fangs, and fingers like claws at Rosaleen's face!” To which Hannah had said, “Oh, indeed? Rosaleen O'Shea's face,” and sniffed.
“Morning, Jimmy.” Inspector O'Hare, with Nelson at his heels, came in just as the phone on his desk rang. Still in his police parka, and standing beside the desk, he picked it up. It was Gilbert Sanders in Forensics at Dublin Castle. “Yes ⦠Yes, Gilly.” Listening, he was looking at Sergeant Bryson, who was holding a mug of tea, but not seeing him. “Yes. Right, as a matter of ⦠Yes, I suspected ⦠And the shell casing?”
He listened to Gilly's crackling voice with the Dublin accent
from the Liberties quarter, tenements behind the Guinness works. But Sanders had fought his way up in the world. Smart. Forensics. “And the painting?” Listening, he said “Uh-huh” a couple of times more, nodding. Sergeant Bryson was watching him alertly. O'Hare said, “Thanks, Gilly. Hello to Francine.”
from the Liberties quarter, tenements behind the Guinness works. But Sanders had fought his way up in the world. Smart. Forensics. “And the painting?” Listening, he said “Uh-huh” a couple of times more, nodding. Sergeant Bryson was watching him alertly. O'Hare said, “Thanks, Gilly. Hello to Francine.”
He put down the phone and looked at Sergeant Bryson. “Is that tea yours or mine?”
“Yours.” Bryson put the mug down on Inspector OâHare's desk. O'Hare took a swallow of tea, then another. “The shell casing was fired from the shotgun that we found at Rossiter's lodge. The barrel of the shotgun itself had been spattered with blood and been wiped off.”
Sergeant Bryson nodded; he felt years older than yesterday. “That shell casingâHannah says that Kathleen from her Weight Watchers class says that at a dinner party at Megan OâFaolain's, she saw Blake Rossiter in the roped-off drawing room. He said he was looking for clues the Gardaà might've missed. Wanting to help Megan O'Faolain, he told Kathleen. Ho, ho!” Bryson blew out a breath and shook his head. “So ⦠What about the smudge on the canvas? That the art fellow from Dublinâ”
“Mr. Bendersford. The smudge. That, too. Might've been when Rossiter was running through the woods. Could've come off the shotgun.”
Inspector O'Hare took off his parka and hung it on the stand. He came back and sat down at his desk. Yesterday, that final horror, as the ambulance sirened up to the police station, Rossiter lying there, agonized, raving. “A goat on a mountaintop, leaping ⦠Insane! A madman when on drugs, worse when needing them!
I'll destroy you! I'll strangle your business. I'll ruin you!
He gloried in it! Wildness, rage, delight!” Then the white-jacketed attendant jumped down from the ambulance, and in a minute the injection, thank God.
I'll destroy you! I'll strangle your business. I'll ruin you!
He gloried in it! Wildness, rage, delight!” Then the white-jacketed attendant jumped down from the ambulance, and in a minute the injection, thank God.
OâHare squeezed his forehead. During the night, he had done considerable thinking, lying on his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He said now, “That inventory, Jimmy. The Gwathney Hall inventory that Megan O'Faolain brought us the morning after John Gwathney was killed? Let me have a look at that again.”
“Right, sir.”
The inventory. Those three pages he'd had Sergeant Jimmy Bryson file away as useless in the investigation. “Not thievery,” he had said to Megan O'Faolain. “A thief doesn't come armed with a twelve-gauge shotgun, too cumbersome. So, not thievery, Ms. O'Faolain.” Remembering, he felt warmth at the back of his neck. He ran his forefinger slowly down the first page ⦠then the second page. Halfway down the third page, he found it:
“Tropical Decay,
1852, Camille Pissarro. 900,000 pounds. Clewes and Company, Dublin.”
“Tropical Decay,
1852, Camille Pissarro. 900,000 pounds. Clewes and Company, Dublin.”
The fake. So, then, killing John Gwathney wasn't enough to keep Blake Rossiter safe from exposure. He had to take the painting. If the police checked the inventory, with robbery in mind, and found that a painting worth 900,000 pounds was missing, there'd be no way for the missing picture ever to be revealed as a fake.
O'Hare took a sip of lukewarm tea. Besides, if Gwathney's inheritors should decide to sell up Gwathney's paintings, better a painting missing from Gwathney's collection than a painting that might be revealed as a fake. A painting bought from Clewes and Company. Publicity! Clamor! Investigation!
“You want it hotted up?” Sergeant Bryson at his elbow, with the new glass carafe. O'Hare nodded. He watched the steam rise from his mug. “Rossiter should've destroyed the painting, Jimmy.”
“Maybe he thought it was too good to waste, sir. Maybe he was thinking of selling it again.” Carafe in hand, Bryson said,
“That gold frame from the Pissarro? I'd guess, sir, that when we find it, it'll likely be framing one of Rossiter's other paintings at the lodge.”
“That gold frame from the Pissarro? I'd guess, sir, that when we find it, it'll likely be framing one of Rossiter's other paintings at the lodge.”
“No doubt.” He watched Bryson return the carafe to the two-burner and switch the heat to low. Then he closed the Gwathney Hall inventory and sat gazing ahead, through the plate-glass window that fronted the station. He wanted to think of something ironic or philosophical, but nothing came to mind. A lorry drove past; across the street, the older Grogan sister was opening the Grogan Sisters Knitting Shop. Two schoolgirls walked past, wearing heavy jumpers and with their strapped books over their shoulders; one girl was bareheaded, the other wore a white knitted cap.
Inspector O'Hare momentarily stopped breathing. Then: “Thank God!”
“What's that, sir?”
O'Hare wiped cold sweat from his brow. “If she hadn't ⦠If Ms. Torrey Tunet hadn't ⦔ He stopped. Then: “Owen Thorpe.”
Sergeant Bryson nodded. “Right, sir. Been thinking the same. What with the twins and his wife. They'd have gone through hell. Owen Thorpe all the time innocent, but wrecked if he came out of it alive. Guilt not proved, but sticking in folks' minds.” Sergeant Bryson dug a dog biscuit out of the box and fed it to Nelson. At a sudden thought, he cast a sideways glance at Inspector O'Hare.
“Another thing, sir. Breaking and entering. Ms. Tunet and that Thorpe girl, Willow, could be arrested. And stealing the-Pissarro from Rossiter's lodge. If anyone should care to press charges, sir?” He managed to suppress his grin.
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hey made love again in the early morning, frost still on the windowpanes, a weak sunlight beginning to filter through the trees on the east side of the cottage. Then Jasper said, “Did you get the raisins?” And at her drowsy nod he slid from under the down duvet that he'd bought her in Newry on the way down from Belfast, “to warm the cockles of your heart,” he'd said, kissing her on the nose. “Not to mention your backside.”
hey made love again in the early morning, frost still on the windowpanes, a weak sunlight beginning to filter through the trees on the east side of the cottage. Then Jasper said, “Did you get the raisins?” And at her drowsy nod he slid from under the down duvet that he'd bought her in Newry on the way down from Belfast, “to warm the cockles of your heart,” he'd said, kissing her on the nose. “Not to mention your backside.”
Creak of the oven door, delicious smell of raisin biscuits, sizzle of sausages in the pan. Cholesterol heaven, courtesy of her darling Jasper of the widening girth. It drew her out of bed.
Five minutes later, in jeans, brogues and an old red flannel shirt that had faded to pink, she came into the kitchen. She felt marvelously alive. Jasper had appeared at Inspector O'Hare's informal yesterday not only with John Gwathney's manuscript, conned out of a saucy-faced redhead on Pearse Street, but also with a rack of lamb and the news that he could stay four days.
“What's this?” Jasper, aproned, took something from the kitchen counter, shook flour off it and held it up. “Were you trying to make biscuits again? This was in the flour bin.” He was grinning.
She took it from him. A small, tawny-colored address book. She riffled slowly through the pages. There: Owen Thorpe, Castle Creedon, Baltimore, Cork.
She giggled. “In the flour bin! So Roger Flannery only stole the journal back from me. The journal was what he mostly cared about, anyway. He stole it becauseâ”
“Because he couldn't read Greek?”
Torrey nodded. “He must've been afraid it would reveal that John Gwathney was eager to publish
The Raid of Baltimore,
not burn it.” She followed Jasper to the kitchen table, sat down and watched him put two sausages onto her plate and four onto his own. “God! Poor Flannery! There he was,
literally,
poor. So, tempted to swipe the manuscript and blackmail the Thorpes.”
The Raid of Baltimore,
not burn it.” She followed Jasper to the kitchen table, sat down and watched him put two sausages onto her plate and four onto his own. “God! Poor Flannery! There he was,
literally,
poor. So, tempted to swipe the manuscript and blackmail the Thorpes.”
Jasper set down the basket of biscuits and poured their tea. “Right. I did a bit of investigating, known in
your
lexicon as âsnooping.' Flannery: Years of driving a beat-up old Nissan, wearing shirts with frayed cuffs, shoes with run-down heels, and picking butts out of ashtrays. Due, doubtless to: cost of leg surgery for Ms. Cherry Dugan, involving three operations; one divorce for Ms. Cherry Dugan; weekly voice-coach lessons for aspiring singer Ms. Cherry Dugan, who, according to my sourcesâboth successful guitaristsâis âa luv, man, with a knock-out voice, she'll make it, man, it's in the cards.'”
your
lexicon as âsnooping.' Flannery: Years of driving a beat-up old Nissan, wearing shirts with frayed cuffs, shoes with run-down heels, and picking butts out of ashtrays. Due, doubtless to: cost of leg surgery for Ms. Cherry Dugan, involving three operations; one divorce for Ms. Cherry Dugan; weekly voice-coach lessons for aspiring singer Ms. Cherry Dugan, who, according to my sourcesâboth successful guitaristsâis âa luv, man, with a knock-out voice, she'll make it, man, it's in the cards.'”
“That's marvelous ⦠I'm wondering, Jasper. After Flannery inherited the Landseer and got so rich, d'you suppose he
really
would've gone ahead and tried to blackmail Owen Thorpe?”
really
would've gone ahead and tried to blackmail Owen Thorpe?”
Jasper cut into a sausage. “Maybe, maybe not. But he's damned lucky O'Hare's informal exposed him before he could even try it. Thus, my dear lass, Flannery's life of crime never really got off the ground. If it had, and misfired along the way, he might even have lost Ms. Cherry Dugan.”
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At Gwathney Hall, Megan O'Faolain came into John Gwathney's study. It was noon, the sun shone through the tall arched windows. It was the first time she had been able to bring herself to enter this so private workroom since John Gwathney's death. There was still a stale smell of tobacco, though John Gwathney
had seldom smoked. It was chilly and Megan shivered. She wore a rust-colored wool skirt and a beige turtleneck sweater. Her dark hair was cupped behind her ears. She walked to the windows and looked out at the mountains. Then she sighed, turned, came back toward the door and stopped before what she had come into the study to see: the snapshots on the wall, in their black frames, the photographs of John Gwathney in those earlier days. Here was John Gwathney as he'd been when he'd first ducked out of the rain and into that bare weaver's shop where she had already packed up to leave Ballynagh.
had seldom smoked. It was chilly and Megan shivered. She wore a rust-colored wool skirt and a beige turtleneck sweater. Her dark hair was cupped behind her ears. She walked to the windows and looked out at the mountains. Then she sighed, turned, came back toward the door and stopped before what she had come into the study to see: the snapshots on the wall, in their black frames, the photographs of John Gwathney in those earlier days. Here was John Gwathney as he'd been when he'd first ducked out of the rain and into that bare weaver's shop where she had already packed up to leave Ballynagh.
Back then. Back when she had loved him, when he'd been the John Gwathney of these photos. Hands clasped behind her back, she gazed at the snapshots: John, the way he had been, keen-eyed, writing it all down in desert tents, in snow-swept huts, in caravansaries, recording it on cassettes, photographing it, turning it into books.
“Megan?” Liam in the study doorway. “I saw you come up. You're all right?” His voice was edgy, his brows drawn into a frown.
She smiled at him, remembering how it had been summer when she'd begun to visit the pottery shop, and how one day it had been swelteringly hot, and unthinkingly she had rolled up her shirtsleeves and he had seen the yellow-edged dark bruise. When he learned, when she finally confessed, he had barely contained his anger, his rage at John Gwathney.
“I'd like to kill him!”
And later, for a brief, terrible moment, she had wondered, in horror â¦
“I'd like to kill him!”
And later, for a brief, terrible moment, she had wondered, in horror â¦
“I'm fine. I just came in here to see”âshe gestured at the snapshotsâ“back
then.”
then.”
Back then.
Back before the drugs and abuse and her stubborn attempts to help him. Back before, finally, she had known that whether she could get help for him or not, she was going to leave him. She had known that even before the day she had happened into the pottery shop.
Back before the drugs and abuse and her stubborn attempts to help him. Back before, finally, she had known that whether she could get help for him or not, she was going to leave him. She had known that even before the day she had happened into the pottery shop.
“Yes ⦠well.” Liam nodded.
Megan smiled at him, thinking, An odd thingâhe looks younger since John Gwathney's death. He was, in fact, two years younger than her, with a long-ago failed boyhood marriage behind him. They were still friends, Liam and his ex-wife, that confused girl who had discovered herself to be a lover of women. She was young, rich and titled, so the scandal sheets had gone wild with the story when she took up with a woman lover. Inspector O'Hare, who had certainly been getting on to the Glasgow police about Liam Caffrey's past, would finally have revived the scandal. But these days, would anyone really have cared? Once a year, Liam and his ex-wife dined together, had champagne and laughed about their year-long marriage.
“Look over there,” Megan said, looking past his shoulder.
Liam turned, looked, then frowned. “What? I don't ⦔
“The wall, between the windows.” She was gazing at the faint rectangular darker patch on the eighteenth-century scrolled wallpaper. It was just to the right of the desk, where, John Gwathney, at work, could look up and contemplate whatever might have been there.
“The Pissarro?” Liam asked.
Megan nodded.
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Willow and Buddy left Castle Creedon by the terrace doors. They went down the broad half-circle of stone steps and headed across the dry grass for the stables. It was eleven in the morning and sunny, but a brisk wind was blowing. They walked with their hands in the pockets of their jackets, shoulders hunched. Buddy was bareheaded, Willow wore her white knitted cap.
It was warmer in the stable, and when they'd lit a cigarette each they sat on the wooden bench outside of Flashback's stall. “Which of them is the âman' in it?” Buddy said, “the one with that Australian outback hat? Most likely.”
“Hard to tell.” Willow contemplated her cigarette. “Sex is different
with different ones.” She took a deep breath of the warm stable smell. “Poor darling Mummy and Daddy! They must have been in agony after that second visit from John Gwathney. Afraid we were going to lose Creedon.”
with different ones.” She took a deep breath of the warm stable smell. “Poor darling Mummy and Daddy! They must have been in agony after that second visit from John Gwathney. Afraid we were going to lose Creedon.”
“That Inspector O'Hare,” Buddy said. “Pa could've lost more than Creedon. Jesus! It was mighty close!”
Willow nodded. “I guess Ms. Tunet has a really sore behind.”
Buddy said, “Algerian pirates, sixteen-thirty-one. That's over three hundred and fifty years ago. And then the crummy old hairbrush. Weird.” Behind him, Flashback whinnied and kicked the side of her stall.
Willow put out her cigarette on the sole of her left brogue. “Like that ancient body of a man found in a bog in Scotland last year? Really
ancient
. Turned out, from the DNA, to be an ancestor of a half dozen Scotsmen in Edinburgh. One of them was in last summer's PGA Scottish Region's golf tournament at Gleneagles.”
ancient
. Turned out, from the DNA, to be an ancestor of a half dozen Scotsmen in Edinburgh. One of them was in last summer's PGA Scottish Region's golf tournament at Gleneagles.”
Buddy stood up and put the pack of cigarettes back in the box. “You take Flashback, I'll ride Jenny.”
“Hmm?” Willow's very blue eyes had a concentrated look; she was somewhere else. “I have a certain facility for languages. I could get about, travel. Did you see Ms. Tunet's watch? It has the date, day and world time-sweep.”
Buddy said, “Shall we try hitting up Pa for an increase in our allowance? He should be in a pretty affluent mood.”
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