Read The Irish Village Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Village Murder (6 page)
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A
t eight-thirty Wednesday morning, Torrey stood outside the hedge and watched the Jaguar disappear down the road toward Dublin. Then she turned and went back through the hedge to the cottage where she picked up the phone and called the Ballynagh police station. The phone rang twice, then: “Sergeant Bryson here.”
t eight-thirty Wednesday morning, Torrey stood outside the hedge and watched the Jaguar disappear down the road toward Dublin. Then she turned and went back through the hedge to the cottage where she picked up the phone and called the Ballynagh police station. The phone rang twice, then: “Sergeant Bryson here.”
“Hello, Jimmy. It's Torrey Tunet, I'm calling Inspector O'Hare.” Holding the phone, she gazed across the room to the hutch on which lay John Gwathney's address book and journal. It was a short bike ride to the village; she'd have them in O'Hare's hands in ten minutes.
But Inspector O'Hare was not there. “He's just left for Dublin Castle,” Jimmy Bryson told her.
Dublin Castle, headquarters of the Murder Squad of the Garda Siochana, the Irish Police. Torrey hesitated. She couldn't just drop off the journal and address book at the Ballynagh police station without any explanation of how she happened to have them. They didn't, after all, fall from heaven into her lap. As it was, she could imagine Inspector O'Hare's pleasure as she tried awkwardly to explain. He would finger his gray mustache to hide his smile of satisfaction at her admitted culpability. “
So, Ms. Tunet, you went upstairs in Gwathney Hall and entered John Gwathney's privateâ
”
So, Ms. Tunet, you went upstairs in Gwathney Hall and entered John Gwathney's privateâ
”
“Ms. Tunet? You there?”
“Yes, Jimmy. When will Inspector O'Hare be back?”
“About three o'clock.”
“So you sat down at his desk and opened his desk drawer and took out
⦔ Torrey groaned.
“Your usual thievery”
would be in Inspector O'Hare's gaze.
“Confirmed criminal. Unrehabilitated. Criminal mischief.”
⦔ Torrey groaned.
“Your usual thievery”
would be in Inspector O'Hare's gaze.
“Confirmed criminal. Unrehabilitated. Criminal mischief.”
No way out. She'd have to deliver the journal and address book to Inspector O'Hare personally, with an explanation. By three o'clock she'd surely have thought up something plausible. Anything would be better than what sounded like thievery.
“Ms. Tunet? You there?”
“Yes. Thanks, Jimmy. I'll be stopping in later, then.” She put down the phone.
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Restless. A call to Interpreters International in Boston, but Myra Schwartz was not available and would call back. Edgily, Torrey paced from window to door, put more peat on the fire, stared at her carry-on, still only half unpacked. Nine o'clock. She might as well get it done now.
She unpacked the sleeveless black dress that she wore with the dangling fake diamond earrings and hung it in the bedroom closet, ready for whatever diplomatic dinner her next assignment might involve. Next to it she hung her businesslike navy suit and white shirt for afternoon conferences. On the same hanger, she hung her man-sized Timex with date, day and world-time sweep. It was too big for her narrow wrist. But it was vital to her business.
Nine-thirty. She had a cup of tea, standing up and staring out of the window. It was a calm, cloudless day with a clear blue sky. Sun filtered down through the trees, dappling the surface of the little pond near the hedge. Calm. Cloudless.
Eight miles into the desert, I found the monastery.
Eight miles into the desert, I found the monastery.
No use. Too tantalizing. And she had time. Go ahead, then.
She put on her navy parka and left the cottage.
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“
H
el
lo
!
” Sharon said. “Hel
lo
!
”
H
el
lo
!
” Sharon said. “Hel
lo
!
”
Torrey brought her bike to a stop on the gravel drive in front of Gwathney Hall. Sharon was hopping on one foot on the gravel. She was in her fuzzy dark-red pants and navy jacket. Her short brown hair was tucked behind her ears and her nose was pink in the cold. A heavyset girl who looked to be about twenty stood beside her in a parka and knitted cap, holding a basket.
“This is Kathleen,” Sharon said, still hopping. “We play cards upstairs in my whole room. She's come to stay here every single day and night, because my Auntie Megan is busy.”
“I guess she is.” Torrey, feet planted on each side of her bike, smiled at Kathleen, then looked beyond her to the Radio Telefis Eireann television van parked in the drive.
“Yes, indeed,” Sharon said. “My Auntie Megan is talking on the television
this very minute
in the house. They put pink lipstick on her again, like yesterday.” Sharon made a face. “Uggh!” She reached out and took Kathleen's hand. “We're going to get branches with red berries in the woods and put them in the basket with oranges.”
this very minute
in the house. They put pink lipstick on her again, like yesterday.” Sharon made a face. “Uggh!” She reached out and took Kathleen's hand. “We're going to get branches with red berries in the woods and put them in the basket with oranges.”
Torrey watched them walk down the drive, then went up the steps. In the hall, she went to the doorway of the sitting room. Technicians, bright lights, television cameras on wheels. Megan
O'Faolain was sitting in an armchair in a sand-colored shirt and slacks. Her hair was drawn back in a bun, her lips were made up to look a light pink for the cameras, and her face was pale. She looked altogether wretched. In a chair across from her, a woman interviewer was asking a question in a sympathetic voice.
O'Faolain was sitting in an armchair in a sand-colored shirt and slacks. Her hair was drawn back in a bun, her lips were made up to look a light pink for the cameras, and her face was pale. She looked altogether wretched. In a chair across from her, a woman interviewer was asking a question in a sympathetic voice.
Torrey turned and went up the stairs.
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On the second floor she turned left along the carpeted hall and then went through the baize door and down the narrow corridor to the paneled mahogany door. She turned the brass doorknob, and for the second time came into John Gwathney's study. Sunlight shone through the row of tall leaded glass windows onto the Moroccan rug, bringing out brilliant colors. And once again Torrey breathed in the faint smell of tobacco.
She crossed slowly to the kneehole desk. Now that she was here, it was as though she wanted to savor, in the very air of this room, what she had come to find; as though the room itself were an intrinsic part of what she was in search of.
At the desk, she sat unhurriedly down in the green leather desk chair. For a moment, she just sat. Jasper had been right: Easy enough to satisfy herself by reading on, reading the story that had so beguiled her with the few words she'd happened across.
Smiling, she pulled open the top right-hand desk drawer.
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“
I
saw your bike outside,” Winifred Moore said to Torrey, who looked up from her half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in Miss Amelia's Tea Shoppe. It was almost two o'clock and Torrey was the only customer left.
I
saw your bike outside,” Winifred Moore said to Torrey, who looked up from her half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in Miss Amelia's Tea Shoppe. It was almost two o'clock and Torrey was the only customer left.
“I called you at the cottage.” Winifred pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. She was wearing her Australian outback hat with the chin strap and her face had a ruddy glow from the wind. “A pot of tea, please,” she said to Miss Amelia's niece, wishing it were a pint of beer. She never entered a tearoom if she could help it. Typical tearoom. Chairs with pink gingham cushions with ruffled edges, rose-patterned china cups and dishes. So cozy, even a feral cat would only curl up and snooze.
“I've a favor to ask you, Torrey. Not exactly a
favor
because I'll pay you. Between jobs, aren't you? I have books with early Celtic talesâtotally unfair, totally
biased
, of courseâabout Maeve, the Warrior Queen. And Cuchulainn. He was a child warrior who vanquished Queen Maeve when she waged war against the Ulster men to capture the Brown Bull of Cooley. But they're in Gaelic, the books, so ⦠Torrey?” For a moment she thought Torrey wasn't listening, she had a slightly dazed look. But at once Torrey blinked. “Yes, Winifred?”
favor
because I'll pay you. Between jobs, aren't you? I have books with early Celtic talesâtotally unfair, totally
biased
, of courseâabout Maeve, the Warrior Queen. And Cuchulainn. He was a child warrior who vanquished Queen Maeve when she waged war against the Ulster men to capture the Brown Bull of Cooley. But they're in Gaelic, the books, so ⦠Torrey?” For a moment she thought Torrey wasn't listening, she had a slightly dazed look. But at once Torrey blinked. “Yes, Winifred?”
“So ⦠The legends say that Queen Maeve took revenge on Cuchulainn by using sorcerers to lure him to his death.” She
watched Torrey pick up the half of peanut butter sandwich, then put it down without taking a bite. Winifred leaned forward. “Sorcery, indeed! Legends! Fables!
Sorcery!
All to squash down women. Leads to burning women at the stake. Pile faggots around their feet. Society is always ready to hang the woman.”
watched Torrey pick up the half of peanut butter sandwich, then put it down without taking a bite. Winifred leaned forward. “Sorcery, indeed! Legends! Fables!
Sorcery!
All to squash down women. Leads to burning women at the stake. Pile faggots around their feet. Society is always ready to hang the woman.”
“Your tea, mam.” Miss Amelia's niece in a ruffled pink apron set down the tea.
“Thank you ⦠The thing is, Torrey, I want my group of sonnets for the next issue of
Sisters in Poetry
to tell a different tale.” She grinned suddenly. “There's no moratorium on starting new fables, right?” She watched Torrey pushing around the half-sandwich on her plate. Torrey had on a green knitted cap and a swath of dark hair had fallen across her forehead. Her gray eyes, starred by the black lashes, again had that far-off, dazed look.
Sisters in Poetry
to tell a different tale.” She grinned suddenly. “There's no moratorium on starting new fables, right?” She watched Torrey pushing around the half-sandwich on her plate. Torrey had on a green knitted cap and a swath of dark hair had fallen across her forehead. Her gray eyes, starred by the black lashes, again had that far-off, dazed look.
Winifred frowned and said, more loudly, “Anyway, Torrey, a couple of my books with early Celtic tales are in Gaelic. They might refuteâ
Why
you've ever bothered to learn Gaelic, Torrey, I'll never ⦠However,
chacon a son â¦
craziness, as the French might well have said. Anyway, if you'd do a cursory translation?”
Why
you've ever bothered to learn Gaelic, Torrey, I'll never ⦠However,
chacon a son â¦
craziness, as the French might well have said. Anyway, if you'd do a cursory translation?”
“I guess. Yes, all right, Winifred.”
“Good!” Winifred sighed. “Life's so strange. I'd planned to ask John Gwathney his opinion on early Celtic ⦠a pity. We were such good friends! Well, too late now.”
“You were good friends? You and John Gwathney?” Torrey looked suddenly more alert.
Winifred nodded. “For the last year. He'd come to Castle Moore often. We'd drink whiskey and talk. I lost a
friend
.”
friend
.”
“Oh?” Torrey was sitting up straight. “You and John Gwathney talked about your poetry and his work?” And, at Winifred's nod: “What was he working on? His next book? About what?”
Winifred thought. “Irish history, some portion of it.
Maybe
Irish history. I don't know why I thought so, because he didn't actually say. He was close,
secretive,
about what he was working on. He'd veer away whenever I got tooâ”
Maybe
Irish history. I don't know why I thought so, because he didn't actually say. He was close,
secretive,
about what he was working on. He'd veer away whenever I got tooâ”
“
Irish
history? But ⦔ Torrey was leaning forward.
Irish
history? But ⦔ Torrey was leaning forward.
“But what?”
“Somehow,” Torrey said, “I got the idea ⦠I thought, something exotic.”
“Exotic!” Winifred gave a hoot of a laugh. “The
Irish?
Exotic? You must mean
romantic
.” She looked curiously at Torrey. “But you're hardly inexact at words. In any language.” She shrugged. “Anyway, that's all academic now. What his book was about. A dead issue.”
Irish?
Exotic? You must mean
romantic
.” She looked curiously at Torrey. “But you're hardly inexact at words. In any language.” She shrugged. “Anyway, that's all academic now. What his book was about. A dead issue.”
“A dead issue? What d'you mean?”
“Haven't you heard? It was in this morning's
Independent.
âAn Interview with Roger Flannery.' John Gwathney actually burned his latest manuscript. âConsigned it to the flames' is the fancy way Roger Flannery put it. And that 'John would never publish anything that he felt wasn't first-rate' and âJohn had excessively high standards.' âJohn was a perfectionist. He demanded much of himself.' Blah, blah, blah.”
Independent.
âAn Interview with Roger Flannery.' John Gwathney actually burned his latest manuscript. âConsigned it to the flames' is the fancy way Roger Flannery put it. And that 'John would never publish anything that he felt wasn't first-rate' and âJohn had excessively high standards.' âJohn was a perfectionist. He demanded much of himself.' Blah, blah, blah.”
“Burned the manuscript when?” Torrey said.
“A month ago. In September.”
Torrey, after a moment, said, “Really.” Her eyes were bright. She picked up the half-sandwich and bit into it.
Winifred looked at her watch and stood up. “Two-thirty! I'm off. I've got to pick up Sheila. She's having her hair cut, as usual, with the fringe straight across above her eyebrows. Ridiculous! Looks like a gray-haired page boy. Needs a velvet doublet is all.”
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F
ive minutes after she had left Miss Amelia's Tea Shoppe, Torrey was bicycling up the road back to the cottage. But she wasn't seeing the hedges on either side, or the sheep grazing high on the mountainsides. She was seeing herself five hours ago in John Gwathney's studio in the green leather desk chair pulling open the desk drawer and finding the manuscript gone. And then she was seeing the manuscript with the jagged penciled
Final,
dated October 12.
ive minutes after she had left Miss Amelia's Tea Shoppe, Torrey was bicycling up the road back to the cottage. But she wasn't seeing the hedges on either side, or the sheep grazing high on the mountainsides. She was seeing herself five hours ago in John Gwathney's studio in the green leather desk chair pulling open the desk drawer and finding the manuscript gone. And then she was seeing the manuscript with the jagged penciled
Final,
dated October 12.
But “Consigned to the flames,” Roger had told the
Independent,
“in September.” He had to be lying.
Independent,
“in September.” He had to be lying.
Torrey guided her bicycle through the hedge and past the little pond. Roger Flannery must have taken the manuscript from the desk drawer. Why? Never mind. “None of
my
business,” Torrey said aloud. Her business was to deliver John Gwathney's pocket journal and little address book to Inspector Egan O'Hare. And then to get out her Georges Simenon paperback and brush up on her Portuguese.
my
business,” Torrey said aloud. Her business was to deliver John Gwathney's pocket journal and little address book to Inspector Egan O'Hare. And then to get out her Georges Simenon paperback and brush up on her Portuguese.
She leaned her bicycle against the cottage wall and slid her key into the lock about the doorknob. But something was wrong. The cottage door was unlocked. She stood a moment, then looked quickly behind her at the surrounding woods. Sunlight filtered through the trees. No one; just a crackling of dry leaves fluttering in a sudden breeze.
She pushed open the door and stood on the threshold. No sound. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her and stood looking about. Smell of cold burned peat from the dead fire in the fireplace. Nothing damaged, nothing tossed about in a wild search.
Yet, with an indrawn breath, she knew. She crossed to the old hutch whose broad scarred top was her convenient catchall. The little address book and the pocket-sized journal were gone.
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