Read The Irish Village Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Village Murder (2 page)
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H
e pushed rapidly on through the woods, away from Gwathney Hall. For a moment, hearing the crackle of leaves under footsteps on the road, he had stood still in the moonlight; he had watched the two figures pass, heard the child's voice.
e pushed rapidly on through the woods, away from Gwathney Hall. For a moment, hearing the crackle of leaves under footsteps on the road, he had stood still in the moonlight; he had watched the two figures pass, heard the child's voice.
He held the gun loosely. He had decided on a shotgun because that was usual in villages hereabouts, people owning a small-bore gun for hunting quail and pheasant and small game. It would look like a clumsy robbery, the thief startled by Gwathney in that tall-backed chair. Gwathney was known to be rich and careless of possessions. So, for an instant, turning from Gwathney's body, he'd glanced at a glass-fronted case with curios from foreign lands, and thought to smash the glass and take a green marble box or perhaps a porcelain Buddah, to give credence to robbery. But at once, he'd thought:
better not
. No need to hamper himself with a trifle.
better not
. No need to hamper himself with a trifle.
So now it was done. At the end, Gwathney had looked at him, a stunned, then comprehending look. Even so, his hand hadn't trembled on the shotgun.
He smiled. When it came to the police investigation, the Gardaà would be wasting their time. No one would ever make the connection. There was no way. Impossible. He was safe.
He trod swiftly on through the woods.
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B
y eight o'clock, the moon was high and a strong wind had sprung up. At Castle Moore, a half mile from Gwathney Hall, Winifred Moore was at her desk in the tower room. Winifred, fifty years old, was big-boned, with a square-jawed face and short, reddish-gray hair that she wore pushed behind her ears. Her gray-green eyes were shrewd, and there was usually a humorous quirk to her mouth, but not just now. At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, she swiveled her chair from the computer and faced Sheila Flaxton, who appeared in the doorway.
y eight o'clock, the moon was high and a strong wind had sprung up. At Castle Moore, a half mile from Gwathney Hall, Winifred Moore was at her desk in the tower room. Winifred, fifty years old, was big-boned, with a square-jawed face and short, reddish-gray hair that she wore pushed behind her ears. Her gray-green eyes were shrewd, and there was usually a humorous quirk to her mouth, but not just now. At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, she swiveled her chair from the computer and faced Sheila Flaxton, who appeared in the doorway.
“Winifred,” Sheila beganâto be cut off by Winifred's fierce “Sheila! Do you realize Queen Maeve, the Warrior Queen of Connacht, was outrageously maligned! Show me an epic fable, in Irish or Greek mythology, or
any
mythology, in which a strong woman isn't portrayed as driven by jealousy! Not honor! Not any noble purpose!
Jealousy!
But when it's a strong
manâ”
any
mythology, in which a strong woman isn't portrayed as driven by jealousy! Not honor! Not any noble purpose!
Jealousy!
But when it's a strong
manâ”
“Yes, Winifred ⦠But it's eight o'clock and Hannah says about dinner; she can hold off on the salmon, but the potatoes â”
“So,” Winifred went on fiercely, pursuing her thesis, “the mythical woman, or maiden, in legends, because of
jealousy,
consequently engages in horrendous, blood-chilling cruelties!”
jealousy,
consequently engages in horrendous, blood-chilling cruelties!”
Sheila nodded. “Yes, I do see, Winifred.
Dreadful
things. Medea and the like.” Sheila shivered, not at the gruesome
thought, but because the tower room was chilly, and she was slight and thin-blooded and was feeling the cold despite her cable-knit sweater and heavy woolen skirt. Castle Moore had poor heating, repairs were needed; but at least, when Winifred had inherited Castle Moore three years ago, she'd also come into enough money, though barely, to have the wretched old plumbing upgraded, so one could finally have a decent bath. Sheila hugged her chilly arms. She was forty-six and the editor of the well-known
Sisters in Poetry
magazine in London. Besides being Winifred Moore's closest friend, she also published Winifred's prize-winning poetry. Each October, she forbearingly accompanied Winifred to Castle Moore for the autumn months, bringing heavy stockings, thick skirts, sweaters, long cotton underwear and her cozy, beloved cap of knitted, hand-spun virgin wool. She envied Winifred her robustness.
Dreadful
things. Medea and the like.” Sheila shivered, not at the gruesome
thought, but because the tower room was chilly, and she was slight and thin-blooded and was feeling the cold despite her cable-knit sweater and heavy woolen skirt. Castle Moore had poor heating, repairs were needed; but at least, when Winifred had inherited Castle Moore three years ago, she'd also come into enough money, though barely, to have the wretched old plumbing upgraded, so one could finally have a decent bath. Sheila hugged her chilly arms. She was forty-six and the editor of the well-known
Sisters in Poetry
magazine in London. Besides being Winifred Moore's closest friend, she also published Winifred's prize-winning poetry. Each October, she forbearingly accompanied Winifred to Castle Moore for the autumn months, bringing heavy stockings, thick skirts, sweaters, long cotton underwear and her cozy, beloved cap of knitted, hand-spun virgin wool. She envied Winifred her robustness.
“Precisely, Sheila! And outrageously unfair! Misleading! Equating strength with evil, whenever it's a
woman
who has the strength and uses it! That'll be the tenor of my sonnet.”
woman
who has the strength and uses it! That'll be the tenor of my sonnet.”
“Well, it does soundâ”
“I can't wait to discuss it with John Gwathney!” Winifred said, “I saw Megan O'Faolain shopping in O'Curry's Meats yesterday. She said she's expecting him back next week.” She looked over at the row of books in the bookcase on the south wall. Eight historical volumes by John Gwathney. He had autographed two of them for her a year ago at Waterstone's Bookshop on Dawson Street in Dublin, where he'd been giving a reading: his
Irish Mythology,
and his best-selling
Twelfth Century Ireland.
Then, a month later, on a blustery afternoon in Ballynagh, when she'd been driving home from O'Malley's Pub in her red Jeep, she'd recognized him walking on the road, his nose white with the cold. She'd stopped and offered him a lift back to Gwathney Hall. Since then, he'd agreeably come to tea at Castle Moore, tea which, in her case, meant whiskey, cranberry buns and cigarettes, a menu that appeared to suit John
Gwathney fine. So did the subject, which was the depth and brilliance of John Gwathney's works: But to Winifred's surprise, when, weeks ago, curious, she'd asked him what the book he was currently working on was about, he'd stared at her from under his shaggy brows, then drank down his whiskey and asked for another. She'd known, by the set of his shoulders, not to pursue the subject.
Irish Mythology,
and his best-selling
Twelfth Century Ireland.
Then, a month later, on a blustery afternoon in Ballynagh, when she'd been driving home from O'Malley's Pub in her red Jeep, she'd recognized him walking on the road, his nose white with the cold. She'd stopped and offered him a lift back to Gwathney Hall. Since then, he'd agreeably come to tea at Castle Moore, tea which, in her case, meant whiskey, cranberry buns and cigarettes, a menu that appeared to suit John
Gwathney fine. So did the subject, which was the depth and brilliance of John Gwathney's works: But to Winifred's surprise, when, weeks ago, curious, she'd asked him what the book he was currently working on was about, he'd stared at her from under his shaggy brows, then drank down his whiskey and asked for another. She'd known, by the set of his shoulders, not to pursue the subject.
“Back next week?” Sheila said. “But he
is
back! Hannah saw him at the crossroads this afternoon. He was driving toward Gwathney Hall.”
is
back! Hannah saw him at the crossroads this afternoon. He was driving toward Gwathney Hall.”
“Ah! Serendipitous!” Winifred stretched widely. “Tomorrow, on my morning hike, I'll stop in at Gwathney Hall and ask him to tea. Queen Maeve, or any other mythical woman, doesn't deserve to be in such evil repute. John Gwathney will be fascinating on the subject.”
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B
lossom
was the word that sprang to Inspector O'Hare's mind, a scarlet burst, the blood like an immense, many-petaled flower on the breast of John Gwathney's gray sweater. The blast from the shotgun had been so close that it had sent a heavy spattering of blood onto the collar of his navy shirt and even drops of blood onto the arms of the chair. Gwathney's head had fallen forward, a lock of his white hair lay across his forehead.
lossom
was the word that sprang to Inspector O'Hare's mind, a scarlet burst, the blood like an immense, many-petaled flower on the breast of John Gwathney's gray sweater. The blast from the shotgun had been so close that it had sent a heavy spattering of blood onto the collar of his navy shirt and even drops of blood onto the arms of the chair. Gwathney's head had fallen forward, a lock of his white hair lay across his forehead.
Inspector O'Hare, a heavyset, keen-eyed man in his early fifties, hissed out a breath and straightened up from scrutinizing John Gwathney's body. Nausea tightened his throat; saliva ran in his mouth, along his jaws. He swallowed. A sense of personal outrage flooded him. Gwathney, for God's sake! Too terrible. What bastard ⦠or bitch? Enough.
Enough now.
Rumors don't count.
No speculation before investigation.
Still ⦠He glanced over at Megan O'Faolain. She was sitting on the piano bench, staring down at the scattered hyacinths on the carpet. Light from the lamp on the grand piano shone on her dark hair and touched the high curve of her cheek. One hand clutched her oatmeal sweater closed at the throat.
Enough now.
Rumors don't count.
No speculation before investigation.
Still ⦠He glanced over at Megan O'Faolain. She was sitting on the piano bench, staring down at the scattered hyacinths on the carpet. Light from the lamp on the grand piano shone on her dark hair and touched the high curve of her cheek. One hand clutched her oatmeal sweater closed at the throat.
On O'Hare's left, Sergeant Bryson was on the phone to headquarters of the Garda SÃochána, the Irish police, at Dublin Castle, Phoenix Park. Sergeant Jimmy Bryson's fresh-looking face was glowing with excitement. He was twenty-six and loved
his job. He read police mysteries, kept in trim, and had his blue uniform cleaned every three weeks. The mere ringing of the phone at the police station set his blood racing with anticipation. Action! Excitement! And here it was. This time, unfortunately, a horror.
his job. He read police mysteries, kept in trim, and had his blue uniform cleaned every three weeks. The mere ringing of the phone at the police station set his blood racing with anticipation. Action! Excitement! And here it was. This time, unfortunately, a horror.
“The van with the technical staff should be here in a half hour,” Bryson said to Inspector O'Hare, as he put down the phone. O'Hare nodded. The Dublin metropolitan area comprised Dublin City and the greater part of the county and portions of counties Kildare and Wicklow.
“Look here, Inspector!” Sergeant Bryson suddenly went down on one knee and picked up something from the rug. A shell casing from the shotgun, possibly a twelve-gauge shotgun, from the look of the horrific damage it had done. O'Hare nodded, and Sergeant Jimmy Bryson dropped the shell casing into one of the half dozen plastic sandwich bags that were part of his equipment.
On O'Hare's right, Ms. Torrey Tunet was softly whistling “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” between her teeth. O'Hare wished she were elsewhere, but here she was, back from making a nuisance of herself in some foreign country or other. Why was
she
here at all? He'd find out and get rid of her. It had nothing to do with his knowledge that she'd once been a thief. No, it was that, as Sergeant Jimmy Bryson said, she was always mixing in. “A congenital nosiness,” as O'Hare himself put it. Tenacious, too, once she got on to something, which, please God, wouldn't happen this time. Right now, Ms. Torrey Tunet's gray eyes, bordered by short dark lashes, were watching him, and that geranium color was high in her cheeks. He frowned and took out his notebook.
she
here at all? He'd find out and get rid of her. It had nothing to do with his knowledge that she'd once been a thief. No, it was that, as Sergeant Jimmy Bryson said, she was always mixing in. “A congenital nosiness,” as O'Hare himself put it. Tenacious, too, once she got on to something, which, please God, wouldn't happen this time. Right now, Ms. Torrey Tunet's gray eyes, bordered by short dark lashes, were watching him, and that geranium color was high in her cheeks. He frowned and took out his notebook.
“Ms. O'Faolain, if you can tell me exactlyâ”
“No!”
Megan O'Faolain was on her feet. “Not in
here!”
And she shuddered.
Megan O'Faolain was on her feet. “Not in
here!”
And she shuddered.
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In the small wood-paneled sitting room across the hall, Megan O'Faolain sat forward on the edge of a squat tan sofa with black curved ebony legs. The room had a faint smell of sweet grass. Inspector O'Hare, notebook in hand, stood beside a coffee table that appeared to be a huge African drum on which rested a half dozen
National Geographics
and an Egyptian brass ashtray. He was conscious of the annoying Ms. Torrey Tunet, who was standing beside Sergeant Bryson, hands in her skirt pockets.
National Geographics
and an Egyptian brass ashtray. He was conscious of the annoying Ms. Torrey Tunet, who was standing beside Sergeant Bryson, hands in her skirt pockets.
“I'd started out to meet Sharon, my niece.” Megan O'Faolain's voice was low, uneven. “She's eight, she's here now, asleep upstairs. She was arriving from Dublin on the bus. But I hadn't realized how cold it was, and even before I reached the woodsâI'd only got to the end of the driveâI I turned back to get my sweater. I'd left it in ⦠in
there
, in the sitting room, beside the fireplace. I went in and picked it up and put it on and then I ⦠I turned and saw JohnâMr. Gwathney. Like ⦠like you saw. In the armchair.”
there
, in the sitting room, beside the fireplace. I went in and picked it up and put it on and then I ⦠I turned and saw JohnâMr. Gwathney. Like ⦠like you saw. In the armchair.”
“You'd been gone how long?”
“Not ten minutes! Maybe fifteen!” She threw out her hands in a helpless gesture.
“You heard no shot? A shotgun, after all ⦠You say the end of the drive?”
“A shot?” Megan O'Faolain gazed at Inspector O'Hare. “I don't ⦠there's so much hunting this time of year! Even this time of day! Hunters in the woods nearby, and the field, for birds, that ⦠I hardly notice anymore, it's so ⦔ She shook her dark head. “But it must've been robbery! Thieves! It had to've ⦠They must have known who lives here. So many objects of value from foreign ⦔ Her voice faded, came back. “They must have seen me leave. Then they'd come in andâGod knows! Could they have thought nobody was here? Mr. Gwathney's
assistant is in Dublin. And Mr. Gwathney had been away, out of the country.” She shuddered. “I didn't expect him back until next week. But he'd returned this afternoon. So they might've thought he was still away, andâoh, I don't know!” Face pale, dark hair in disarray, helplessly she spread her hands. “That spate of robberies round about. And now â¦
murder!
”
assistant is in Dublin. And Mr. Gwathney had been away, out of the country.” She shuddered. “I didn't expect him back until next week. But he'd returned this afternoon. So they might've thought he was still away, andâoh, I don't know!” Face pale, dark hair in disarray, helplessly she spread her hands. “That spate of robberies round about. And now â¦
murder!
”
“And when you came back, Ms. O'Faolain? When you saw ⦠?”
“I called the police station! At once! But there's only the one line at the station and it was busy.” She looked over at Torrey Tunet. “Then Ms. Tunet came with the child, my niece.”
O'Hare frowned. “Robbery?” He shook his head. “A thief doesn't come armed with a twelve-gauge shotgun. Too cumbersome. So, not thievery, Ms. O'Faolain.”
At that, Megan O'Faolain looked back at him with such a stricken, despairing look that, with an odd feeling of compunction, he added, “Still, we'll see what money or valuables are missing. There's a house inventory we can refer to?”
“Upstairs, in Mr. Gwathney's files.”
“Ah, if you'll justâ” He broke off as a flash of lightning lit up the dark windows. Thunder followed; an instant later, a spate of rain struck hard against the windowpanes. Simultaneously came the heavy crash of the front-door knocker. The van with the technical crew from the Murder Squad of the Garda SÃochána in Dublin had arrived.
Â
Five minutes later Torrey, alone in the sitting room, said “Blast it!” at the rain that was striking hard against the windowpane. She was hungry, but she'd have to wait and cadge a ride home from Inspector O'Hare in the police car. O'Hare and Sergeant Bryson were in the sitting room, where the technical crew was dusting for fingerprints, vacuuming up what might be revealing bits of fiber, photographing, sketching and dealing with John
Gwathney's body, a sight she felt she could do without. Minutes ago, Megan O'Faolain, pale, her dark blue eyes strained, and her lips dry, had gone upstairs to check on the child, “an eight-year-old in a strange house ⦔ And Torrey had nodded. She had, thank God, found a chocolate bar with almonds in her skirt pocket. She unwrapped the silver paper and took a bite. It tasted heavenly, despite the horror of the murder of John Gwathney. Murder or not, she wanted to settle in at her darling cottage, have a shower and a cup of tea, and maybe peanut butter on toast, that was the easiest. Then she'd e-mail her agency in Boston. Myra Schwartz of Interpreters International had mentioned a possible interpreting job in Portugal next month. So she'd have to brush up onâ
Gwathney's body, a sight she felt she could do without. Minutes ago, Megan O'Faolain, pale, her dark blue eyes strained, and her lips dry, had gone upstairs to check on the child, “an eight-year-old in a strange house ⦔ And Torrey had nodded. She had, thank God, found a chocolate bar with almonds in her skirt pocket. She unwrapped the silver paper and took a bite. It tasted heavenly, despite the horror of the murder of John Gwathney. Murder or not, she wanted to settle in at her darling cottage, have a shower and a cup of tea, and maybe peanut butter on toast, that was the easiest. Then she'd e-mail her agency in Boston. Myra Schwartz of Interpreters International had mentioned a possible interpreting job in Portugal next month. So she'd have to brush up onâ
“Ms. Tunet!” Inspector O'Hare's voice was sharp. “Where's Ms. O'Faolain?” Coming into the sitting room, he looked at her so accusingly that she couldn't refrain from rolling her eyes. Did he think she'd helped Megan fly out the window, a Mary Poppins escaping?
“I'm here.” Megan was back. “I was upstairs. The child ⦔
O'Hare nodded. Thunder crackled, rain spattered against the windows. It was barely ten o'clock. They heard the police van departing, the technical crew bearing away John Gwathney's body. Sergeant Jimmy Bryson came into the library, exhilarated, face flushed, blue uniform spotted with rain.
“So then.” Inspector O'Hare turned to Megan O'Faolain. “We'll go over the house inventory tomorrowâsee what's missing.” But the way he said it made Torrey think: Nothing's been stolen ⦠not in Inspector O'Hare's estimation. He wants Megan to remain at Gwathney Hall under his surveillance. He might just as well have said aloud,
By police order
, and even added:
Under suspicion of murder
. But instead, he was smiling at Megan. “Lock up well. You should be safe, now. Even though alone.”
By police order
, and even added:
Under suspicion of murder
. But instead, he was smiling at Megan. “Lock up well. You should be safe, now. Even though alone.”
“Alone? Megan said.”Oh, I won't be alone! Thank heavens for
that!”
that!”
They heard it, then, the sound of a car coming up the drive, a car with an engine that rattled. “That'll be Roger,” Megan said. “Roger Flannery. Mr. Gwathney's assistant. Back from Dublin.”
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