Read The Irish Village Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Village Murder (4 page)
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“
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ettles on her stockings,” Sergeant Jimmy Bryson said to Inspector O'Hare in the glass-fronted Ballynagh police station.”Hannah had it from Rosaleen O'Shea. Rosaleen goes to Gwathney Hall every two weeks to do the laundry.” Hannah was Jimmy Bryson's girlfriend. Rosaleen O'Shea was her best friend.
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ettles on her stockings,” Sergeant Jimmy Bryson said to Inspector O'Hare in the glass-fronted Ballynagh police station.”Hannah had it from Rosaleen O'Shea. Rosaleen goes to Gwathney Hall every two weeks to do the laundry.” Hannah was Jimmy Bryson's girlfriend. Rosaleen O'Shea was her best friend.
It was ten minutes before eight, Tuesday morning. In a few minutes Megan O'Faolain would arrive at the police station to give her statement.
“Nettles?” Inspector O'Hare, at his desk, leaned forward. “Nettles?”
Jimmy Bryson nodded, meanwhile taking the top off the container of his morning tea he'd brought from Finney's across the street. “Megan O'Faolain had just come in from the woods, and then Rosaleen, bringing the finished bedroom laundry down the hall upstairs, heard John Gwathney screaming at her. He was in a rage. About her being in the woods, where she'd been ⦠the nettles. Rosaleen told Hannah he sounded ⦠well, scary.”
“When was this?”
“About three weeks ago. Hannah only told me about it last night, when I called her to say I couldn't take her to see the rerun of
Cabaret
in Dunlavin because I was at Gwathney Hall,
and the Gardai arriving, and I told her what had happened, the murder.”
Cabaret
in Dunlavin because I was at Gwathney Hall,
and the Gardai arriving, and I told her what had happened, the murder.”
“Did Hannah's friendâdid Rosaleen O'Shea overhear what John Gwathney was saying?”
“He was calling Megan O'Faolain names: Slut. Whore.”
Inspector Egan O'Hare, after a moment, said softly, “Indeed.” His desk faced the plate-glass window. He could see her coming up the street.
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The new little police door buzzer sounded and Megan O'Faolain came in. “Good Morning, Jimmy,” she said to Sergeant Jimmy Bryson, and to O'Hare, “Good morning, Inspector.”
Inspector O'Hare pulled out the chair beside his desk and Megan O'Faolain sat down. She wore a maroon-colored sweater that made her face look even paler and a long navy skirt that came to the top of her brogues. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and her lids faintly pink and swollen. Her dark hair was untidily pinned back. “I brought along the Gwathney Hall house inventory.” A weary voice. She pulled her knitted shoulder bag around to her lap, took out a folder and put it on his desk.
O'Hare nodded his thanks.
Murder most foul.
Shakespeare? Could the inventory help? He doubted it.
Murder most foul.
Shakespeare? Could the inventory help? He doubted it.
“Now, then.” He turned on the cassette tape, and for the next eighteen minutes Megan O'Faolain repeated what she'd told him last night at Gwathney Hall. Then Sergeant Jimmy Bryson, at his desk across the room, typed it up and Megan O'Faolain signed it. She had, Inspector O'Hare noted, a beautiful hand. Slender, strong-looking fingers, maybe strong from all the weaving she'd done.
Nelson, tail wagging, accompanied her to the door. Inspector O'Hare watched her walk down the street, then turned back. He settled down at his desk and took the Gwathney Hall inventory from the folder.
Six typewritten pages. He read it carefully: three Ming
Dynasty Chinese vases, six valuable paintings, including a Turner, a Pissarro and a Landseer. Blown glass vases from Morocco. Japanese dynasty bed. Pottery from a dig on Crete. On and on.
Dynasty Chinese vases, six valuable paintings, including a Turner, a Pissarro and a Landseer. Blown glass vases from Morocco. Japanese dynasty bed. Pottery from a dig on Crete. On and on.
“Useless,” he said aloud. He slid the pages back into the folder and tossed the folder onto his desk.
“What's that, Inspector?” Sergeant Bryson turned from the fax machine. He had just finished faxing Megan O'Faolain's statement to Harcourt Square in Dublin.
“Waste of time.” Inspector O'Hare tapped a finger on the folder. “Don't look for what's missing. Look for a shotgun. Not that she'dânot that the killer would've left it about.” Frowning, he rubbed his chin. Horrifying way to kill a man. What rage to have chosen that means! He'd have the forensic report from Crime Headquarters at Dublin Castle by late this afternoon.
Murder most foul
. God only knew what rages, what jealousy, what betrayalsâall had a high priority. But then, so did that other motive when lovers fell out. Ah, yes! Yes, indeed!
Murder most foul
. God only knew what rages, what jealousy, what betrayalsâall had a high priority. But then, so did that other motive when lovers fell out. Ah, yes! Yes, indeed!
“Collins and Sheedy, Jimmy.” O'Hare fiddled with a pencil. “Get them on the phone for me.” Collins and Sheedy, Aungier Street, Dublin. Executors of John Gwathney's will. That much he had learned from the inventory. “I want to see a copy of John Gwathney's will.”
“No time right now, Inspector.” Jimmy was looking out of the plate-glass window. “They're here already. The plague, like you call it.”
And so they were. RTE trucks, photographers, interviewers, lighting assistants in black jeans trailing cablesâthe lot. Nelson, that friendly traitor, was already at the door, tail wagging, smelling handouts of biscuits in the offing.
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p the carved staircase. Faint scent of potpourri in the hallway with its arched mahogany doorways. Victorian to a fare-thee-well. Torrey turned left and walked along a carpeted hall. On her right, on the wainscoted wall, she passed a niche with a vase of purple hydrangeas that were dying. Farther on, on the wall on her left, was a gold-framed painting of a pair of spaniels curled up and snoozing. The name that occurred to her was Landseer. Wasn't Landseer the artist famous for his paintings of dogs? She was unsure.
p the carved staircase. Faint scent of potpourri in the hallway with its arched mahogany doorways. Victorian to a fare-thee-well. Torrey turned left and walked along a carpeted hall. On her right, on the wainscoted wall, she passed a niche with a vase of purple hydrangeas that were dying. Farther on, on the wall on her left, was a gold-framed painting of a pair of spaniels curled up and snoozing. The name that occurred to her was Landseer. Wasn't Landseer the artist famous for his paintings of dogs? She was unsure.
The hall ended at a green baize door. She hesitated, then pushed it open, went through, and found herself in a narrow corridor lined with linen closets of oak, with ivory knobs. Ahead was a paneled door, dark mahogany, with a brass doorknob. She turned the knob and went in.
Spacious, comfortable, a row of leaded glass windows, a fireplace, a Moroccan rug on the floor. A faint smell of tobacco and a sharp, indefinable scent. In the center of the room was a broad kneehole desk with a green leather desk chair. Nothing on the desk but a glass paperweight and a crystal mug of pencils.
Torrey drew in her breath. This must be where John Gwathney created his historical masterpieces. Across the room was a glassed-in bookcase, on the top of the bookcase a row of books secured by bronze bookends shaped like swans. Even from
where she stood, Torrey could see the name “Gwathney” on the bindings of the books.
where she stood, Torrey could see the name “Gwathney” on the bindings of the books.
She crossed slowly to the bookshelf: On the left was Gwathney's volume on India under British rule; next to it was his acclaimed book on China's dynasties. Then Ataturk's rise to power in Turkey. Next to that was
Ireland's Celtic Past,
the history for which Gwathney had been awarded the Skinner Prize. There were three more titles. Seven books, Gwathney's lifetime work. All ended by a shotgun blast, an explosion of blood. Torrey said fiercely, “God
damn
it!”
Ireland's Celtic Past,
the history for which Gwathney had been awarded the Skinner Prize. There were three more titles. Seven books, Gwathney's lifetime work. All ended by a shotgun blast, an explosion of blood. Torrey said fiercely, “God
damn
it!”
She turned away, plunging her hands deep into her sweater pockets. It was sad and terrible, and she had no right to be invading this private workroom or poking about Gwathney Hall. She'd go downstairs, make sure Sharon hadn't wandered off or had come back indoors again and was maybe trying to make a more acceptable fried egg.
She reached the door; then stopped. On the wall beside the door were several photographs in black frames. They were snapshots. Some had cracks, as though they'd been treated casually, perhaps carried in a knapsack or a suitcase. Here was a smiling John Gwathney in a burnoose holding a rifle, a stretch of desert behind him. In another snapshot he wore a fur-edged hat and sat astride a shaggy, sturdy-looking small horse, his long legs almost dragging in the snow. A third snapshot showed him in a dinner jacket standing at a podium, smiling, his silvery-gray hair gleaming under the lights. Might that have been in Dublin, the Skinner Prize? She looked at the last snapshot: John Gwathney, gaunt-faced, in dirty whites and a sun helmet on the deck of an odd-looking scow.
Torrey breathed out a sigh of pleasure. She was a fool for the romance of adventure and knew it. She was like her father, that Romanian explorer, whose name, Tunet, meant “thunder” in Romanian. She'd been a skinny twelve-year-old when he'd left North Hawk, the small town where he'd appeared thirteen
years before and fallen in love with Torrey's gentle dressmaker mother, Abigail Hapgood. But not even for Abigail had Vlad Tunet given up his dreams of adventure: expeditions in Alaska, explorations in Peru, mountain peaks in Tibet.
years before and fallen in love with Torrey's gentle dressmaker mother, Abigail Hapgood. But not even for Abigail had Vlad Tunet given up his dreams of adventure: expeditions in Alaska, explorations in Peru, mountain peaks in Tibet.
Pensive, Torrey wandered back to John Gwathney's desk. She sat down in the leather-padded swivel chair and swung slowly from side to side. She was, wasn't she, the child of an explorer. And wasn't she an adventurer herselfânever knowing if her next interpreting assignment would be weeks away, or even months? She lived on the edge. She loved the risk of it. The day her father left North Hawk for good, he'd kissed her and given her the peacock silk scarf. It was the one possession she really cared about. It always traveled with her, she wore it sometimes even as a bandanna, peacocks on her forehead.
Absentmindedly, she pulled at the narrow center drawer of John Gwathney's desk. It slid open.
She hesitated. None of her business. Still ⦠She gazed down at a thin smoke-colored suede address book half the size of her palm. She picked it up. Perfect for traveling. She should get one like it, maybe in Dublin.
She dropped the address book on the desk and took out the only other object in the drawer, a red leather notebook, perhaps four by five inches. A journal? She hesitated, then flipped it open. Pages written in pencil, in Greek, the poorest of her languages. With a feeling of chagrin, she dropped it on the desk, beside the address book.
For a moment she simply sat. She was a snoop, no getting away from it. But ⦠what was it that Samuel Johnson had said? “Curiosity is one of the ⦠characteristics of a vigorous mind.” Right. So she had a vigorous mind.
She pulled open the top right-hand drawer of the desk. A bundle of papers. She lifted it out. A manuscript. It was at least two inches thick, and handwritten, with crossed-out sentences and inserts that were sometimes in pencil, other times in blue or
black ink. Across the first page, in strong, jagged handwriting, was the penciled word
Final
. Was this perhaps John Gwathney's next book? She riffled through the pages at random. She stopped at a page, caught by a sentence:
Eight miles into the desert, I found the monastery.
black ink. Across the first page, in strong, jagged handwriting, was the penciled word
Final
. Was this perhaps John Gwathney's next book? She riffled through the pages at random. She stopped at a page, caught by a sentence:
Eight miles into the desert, I found the monastery.
She read on:
The Berber gatekeeper, squatting at the gate, could not understand me, nor I him. But then, in desperation, I used the French word chercher, and at once I saw recognition in his sable eyes, and he answered me in French ⦠It was a door opening ⦠As it turned out
, the
door.
The Berber gatekeeper, squatting at the gate, could not understand me, nor I him. But then, in desperation, I used the French word chercher, and at once I saw recognition in his sable eyes, and he answered me in French ⦠It was a door opening ⦠As it turned out
, the
door.
A shiver slid down Torrey's back. It was as though she heard a distant strain of music.
A footstep in the hallway, behind her. Quickly, guiltily, she slipped the manuscript back into the drawer and closed it, then she brushed the journal and address book from the desk into the center drawer, pushing it closed with her elbow, and turned, smiling. Roger Flannery was standing in the doorway. He wore brown pants and a green woolen turtleneck that snugged close to his slight body. His reddish hair was combed back in its minuscule ponytail.
Torrey said brightly, “Good morning, Mr. Flannery.”
He came toward her. “Ms. Tunet. Good morning.” A cold voice. His gaze went past her, searched the desktop, then came back to her, questioning, suspicious. “This is, after all, John's private study. And under the circumstances ⦔
Torrey felt her face reddening guiltily, the heat rising up. “I know it's nervy of me, but I was just looking about. These wonderful old Victorian ⦠And besides, to be in John Gwathney's study! Where he worked on all those marvelous ⦔ Would Flannery suspect she'd been poking in John Gwathney's desk? Did it matter, anyway? She went on, because her curiosity was like an itch. “The book he was working on ⦠What's it about?”
Brown button eyes, staring at her. “Unfortunately, John had just abandoned that particular book.” Flannery brushed his fingers
along his pitted jaw. “The hazards of creativity. Time lost, money invested in researching the project. Then, unhappily, making the wise decision that, after all ⦔ Roger Flannery sighed. “A pity. But John was a realist. He recognized when one must move on.”
along his pitted jaw. “The hazards of creativity. Time lost, money invested in researching the project. Then, unhappily, making the wise decision that, after all ⦔ Roger Flannery sighed. “A pity. But John was a realist. He recognized when one must move on.”
“Oh?” She was taken aback.
Eight miles into the desert
⦠Regret, for no discernible reason, washed over her. She said, confused, “But ⦠then at Trinity College ⦠didn't you say last night that yesterday you'd been doing research in the Ancient Manuscript Section at Trinity College?”
Eight miles into the desert
⦠Regret, for no discernible reason, washed over her. She said, confused, “But ⦠then at Trinity College ⦠didn't you say last night that yesterday you'd been doing research in the Ancient Manuscript Section at Trinity College?”
“Oh, yes! Absolutely!” Roger Flannery nodded; his eyes regarded her thoughtfully; then one hand went to his nape and fingered his ponytail. “John already had me looking into another possibility. A remarkable mind, John had. You wouldn't find him sitting on his hands. It was a privilege to work with him.”
“Oh.” She felt let down. And puzzled. And she wished he'd stop fooling with that ponytail.
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“
T
here's a
lady
here,” Sharon called up from the foot of the staircase as they came down, Torrey first, Roger Flannery following. “She has on a hat like in Robin Hood. She's in
there
.” Sharon pointed toward the sitting room, from which voices could be heard.
T
here's a
lady
here,” Sharon called up from the foot of the staircase as they came down, Torrey first, Roger Flannery following. “She has on a hat like in Robin Hood. She's in
there
.” Sharon pointed toward the sitting room, from which voices could be heard.
“Thanks, honey.” Torrey started toward the sitting room, aware of Roger Flannery saying, “I'll just duck out, Ms. Tunet; I've aâ” when a cry, “No! Oh, no!” came from the sitting room.
“It's the
lady
,” Torrey heard Sharon say behind her, as she went quickly, apprehensively, into the sitting room.
lady
,” Torrey heard Sharon say behind her, as she went quickly, apprehensively, into the sitting room.
“Impossible! A mistake!” Winifred Moore's strong voice shook. She was on her feet, staring at a small television set on an end table; the RTE morning news still going on. She turned a stunned face to Torrey. “Did you hear that? Are they crazy?” Then she blinked. “Torrey! What're you ⦠And who's that child? I'd have thought Megan O'Faolain ⦠What do they mean, John Gwathney ⦠That Headquarters at Dublin Castle has confirmedâ” Winifred stopped. Her strong jaw quivered. She looked down at some papers in her hand, as though surprised to see them.
“I know it's early,” Roger Flannery said, and he went quickly to the Chinese sideboard. “But perhaps, Ms. Moore, a brandy wouldn't be amiss.” And he picked up one of the liquor bottles.
“I am
not
”âWinifred lifted her chinâ“a puling baby, Mr. Flannery. I can deal with shock in an adult fashion. As forâ”
not
”âWinifred lifted her chinâ“a puling baby, Mr. Flannery. I can deal with shock in an adult fashion. As forâ”
A
brrr
from the telephone on the end table beside Torrey. She picked it up. “Gwathney residence.” She wondered if that was how Megan answered the phone. And where
was
Megan? She should be back from the Ballynagh police station by now.
brrr
from the telephone on the end table beside Torrey. She picked it up. “Gwathney residence.” She wondered if that was how Megan answered the phone. And where
was
Megan? She should be back from the Ballynagh police station by now.
It was Sergeant Jimmy Bryson on the phone, and recognizing her voice into the bargain. “Ms. Tunet? That you? Sergeant Bryson here. Your appointment with Inspector O'Hareâten o'clock, wasn't it? It is now half-ten, Ms. Tunet. Inspector O'Hare is ⦠uhh ⦔
Snarling, his incisors showing
, Torrey thought, looking in shock at her watch. “I'm sorry! I lost trackâI'll be right there!” If she'd bicycle fast, maybe she could make it in fifteen minutes. Maybe less. “Sorry!” she said again, and put down the phone. She glanced around at the questioning faces. No time to explain. “I'm off! Good-bye!”
, Torrey thought, looking in shock at her watch. “I'm sorry! I lost trackâI'll be right there!” If she'd bicycle fast, maybe she could make it in fifteen minutes. Maybe less. “Sorry!” she said again, and put down the phone. She glanced around at the questioning faces. No time to explain. “I'm off! Good-bye!”
She ran from the sitting room and across the hall. Opening the front door, she leaped down the steps two at a timeâand crashed into Megan O'Faolain, who was starting up the steps and who cried out and fell backward onto the gravel.
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Torrey knelt down beside Megan. “Oh, Megan!” She looked in distress at her friend, who was trying to push herself up on an elbow, biting her lower lip in pain. Her hair had been shaken from its pins and hung down around her neck. Her red sweater was twisted under her, baring one shoulder. Torrey's eyes widened as she stared at the cruel purple bruise on Megan's white shoulder. “Oh, Megan!” she said, “I'm sorry! I'm so
sorry
!
I didn't meanâ” before Megan managed to grasp the neck of her sweater and pull it back up over her shoulder, saying “No, no, Torrey! You didn'tânever mind! I'm all right!” Her hair fell forward, hiding her face. “It's nothing! Nothing!”
sorry
!
I didn't meanâ” before Megan managed to grasp the neck of her sweater and pull it back up over her shoulder, saying “No, no, Torrey! You didn'tânever mind! I'm all right!” Her hair fell forward, hiding her face. “It's nothing! Nothing!”
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