The Irish Village Murder Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

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  A Historical Note

  Also by Dicey Deere

  The Irish Village Murder

  GET A CLUE!

  Copyright Page

  To Florence

  1

  At first Torrey didn’t notice the child. It had been late afternoon when she’d arrived at the Dublin Airport after a flight from her interpreting job in Warsaw. Now, at six o’clock, on the Dublin-to-Cork bus, she gazed out through a rain-spattered window at the purple mountains of Wicklow. High on the hills, damp sheep huddled. Along the roadside, through breaks in the wet hedges, she saw flashes of still-green meadows. Wicklow’s rainy autumn weather.

  She bit into her last chocolate bar and gave a shiver of delight. Another twenty minutes and she’d be home in the snug little groundsman’s cottage ten minutes up the road from Ballynagh. First thing, though, she’d pick up some milk and a tin of ham paste and a loaf of bread in the village. Coyle’s Market would still be open, they closed at seven. Then, at the cottage, she’d shuck off her city shoes and right away pad in stocking feet over to the kitchen fireplace and light a peat fire. Already she could feel the warmth. Then she’d slip off her business jacket and unpack her—

  “Ballynagh,” the bus driver said, and the bus hissed to a stop. The driver looked over at the front seat across the aisle. “This is where you get off, little miss. You’re to wait down the street, in front of where it says ‘O’Curry’s Meats.’”

  Only then did Torrey see the child, who now stood up, A girl, possibly eight years old. She said “Thank you” to the driver in a voice low as a whisper, and went sideways down the steps, dragging a tan canvas tote bag. She had short straight brown hair and wore fuzzy dark-red pants and a navy jacket that looked outgrown, so that the sleeves, now too short, showed her thin, bony wrists. Slung over one wrist was a blue plastic pocketbook.

  Ten minutes later, Torrey came out of Coyle’s with a sack of groceries, all she could carry, what with her suitcase that, thank God, at least had wheels. It would be a twenty-minute walk up the road and through the hedge to the cottage. There was still a drizzle of rain, and black clouds had darkened the sky, turning dusk to darkness. Too bad she had only the tiny flashlight on her key ring.

  Across the street, she saw the little girl still standing in front of O’Curry’s Meats. She was clutching the blue plastic pocketbook in front of her with both hands. The street was empty, most shops already closed. From O’Malley’s Pub, a row of lights reflected on the wet pavement. Two men came out of the pub, one staggering, the other holding him up, saying, “Now, Pa, never mind, time to go home.” Another man, muttering, shoulders hunched, came from the pub, crossed the street, and almost ran into the child. He swore and continued on his way, then turned, looked back, hesitated, then spotted Torrey and went on.

  Bastard, Torrey said under her breath. She crossed to O’Curry’s and smiled down at the child, who tilted up an anxious little face. “Honey,” Torrey began, only to be cut off with—

  “My auntie! Where’s my auntie?” The freckled little face was pale, the chin quivered, tears started. Blue eyes overflowed.

  “Ah,” Torrey said, “what’s your auntie’s name?”

  “Auntie Megan. Megan O’Faolain.”

  As Torrey said later, ruefully, to Jasper, “I thought then, What a relief! Megan O’Faolain! No one’s more dependable than Megan O’Faolain. Something must’ve delayed her a bit. My God! How could anyone have guessed!” And she had shuddered.

  But now, only relieved, looking down at the tear-washed little face of the child, she said, “Your Auntie Megan’s a bit late. Suppose we go to meet her. Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes!” Hands going lax with relief on the plastic pocketbook. “Can we do that?”

  “Absolutely!” So … what else could she do except leave her sack of groceries and her wheeled suitcase with Sean O’Malley behind the bar at O’Malley’s Pub, pick up the child’s tan tote bag, and start up Northerly Road with the child to meet the late-arriving Megan O’Faolain? … Megan, who was what Torrey thought of as “comely,” a dark-haired, blue-eyed, deep-bosomed unmarried woman in her forties. Whenever Torrey was away on an interpreting job, Megan O’Faolain “looked in” at the cottage to make sure that no mice were carousing through the cupboards and no raccoons nesting in Torrey’s bed. To Torrey, Megan O’Faolain was a blessing who furnished peace of mind, for which Torrey paid her only a few pounds that she was aware Megan certainly didn’t need. Torrey could tell that Megan came to the cottage because she was intrigued by the idea of this young American interpreter who spoke a dozen languages and who was renting the groundsman’s cottage as a jumping-off place for job assignments in Europe. It had been two years, and still Torrey had no thought of returning home. She’d fallen in love with Ballynagh. Besides, now there was Jasper, wasn’t there?

  Northerly Road. The drizzle had stopped. A thin, pale moon shone down, turning the pebbles on the road an almost luminous white. But there was no Megan O’Faolain hurrying toward them with a flurry of apologies and a thank-you for rescuing her little niece, whose name, it turned out, was Sharon O’Faolain. “My mam’s having a new baby,” Sharon said, skipping along, tears dried. “So I’m to stay with my Auntie Megan until it gets born and settles down. My mam says my Auntie Megan lives in a big house with a name: Gwathney Hall. My mam says it has gardens and a maze and rooms aplenty. I’m to have a whole room to myself.”

  “Are you, now?” But Torrey looked off … that rustle in the bushes on the left, the moonlight slanting off … something that gleamed, like the length of a rifle or shotgun, though a wet reed could’ve gleamed the same way. “A whole room?” Torrey said, distracted. That rustle, again. A small animal, of course. Then, nothing, no sound. In the moonlight they rounded a bend.

  “Oh, look!” Sharon breathed. For there, on a hill in the moonlight, lay Gwathney Hall. The moon silvered the irregular angles of the slate roofs from which rose four chimneys, wide as a man’s armspread. Gwathney Hall was a Victorian country house of a type that landowners and rich merchants built in the late eighteen hundreds. It had deep and shadowy eaves and long bay windows. Lights gleamed from windows, upstairs and down.

  Gwathney Hall. The home of John Gwathney, the world-famous historian. Tibet, China, the Silk Road. The Digs at Knossos. And, closer to home, The Aran Islands Compendium. “A historical detective” is the way an admiring reviewer in The National Review had described John Gwathney. Torrey had seen Gwathney only once. He’d been shopping for greens in Coyle’s. He’d given her a keen-eyed look and a nod. He was in his late sixties, tall, shaggy-haired, and wearing well-worn, shapeless tweeds. Villagers knew that whenever he dropped into O’Malley’s Pub, it was for a single glass of whiskey, for which, when he departed, he always left a good handful of pounds on the bar, with a hospitable wave of his hand for a round or two for the other customers. He had long been a widower, and in the village had, these last few years, become subject to romantic speculation and sly whispers. Torrey herself chose to ignore the gossip as none of her business. Megan O’Faolain was her friend.

  “We’re here,” she said now to Sharon, who stood, rooted, round-eyed and openmouthed, staring at Gwathney Hall, and who now breathed out in awe, “My auntie lives there?”

  “Yes,” Torrey said. As far as she knew, Megan O’Faolain had been housekeeper at Gwathney Hall for the last four or five years. John Gwathney must have agreed to let this child be a visitor.

  But what had delayed Megan? Torrey sighed. She felt a pang of hunger, a definite yearning for ham paste on country bread and a cup of hot tea. And to take off these damned city shoes!

  It was then she saw a gleam of light from between the frosted-glass double doors of Gwathney Hall, one door of which, despite the cold and rainy weather, was open a crack.

  2

  Torrey closed the partly open frosted-glass door of Gwathney Hall behind her. Odd that it had been left open. The woods around were safe, but what woods anywhere were really safe?

  She looked about. The hall was oval, and lit by wall sconces on each side of the door. A few dried leaves had blown in and lay scattered under a polished round table in the center of the hall. There was a small doorway beside the staircase dead ahead, and larger arched doorways to left and right. Light shone from the doorway on the left. Torrey dropped the child’s tote bag. “Megan?” No answer.

&n
bsp; Louder, “Megan?” Still, only silence.

  “Where’s my auntie?” Sharon said.

  “Somewhere about,” Torrey said. Trailed by Sharon, she went through the arched doorway on the left and came into a spacious mahogany-paneled room, elegant yet comfortable, with soft couches and lamps that cast a mellow light. A fire smoldered in the broad fireplace. A mass of hyacinths from an overturned crystal vase on a grand piano lay on the oriental carpet and sent up a sweet scent, heavy as a blanket. Water from the overturned vase had darkened the carpet.

  “My!” Sharon said, “what a big room! And look! There’s a a tiny light above every single picture on the walls! And that pretty footstool! With all those bumpy little nails.”

  “Megan?” No answer. Torrey rounded one of the two tufted sofas that faced each other before the fireplace. She bent down and gathered up the scattered hyacinths. Straightening, she saw John Gwathney. He sat in a high-backed wine-colored chair, his tweed-clad legs crossed, his shaggy head drooping. One dead, blood-covered hand still clutched his shattered sweatered chest that oozed blood. Blood spattered the carpet at his feet.

  From the hall, footsteps. Torrey turned. Megan O’Faolain in the doorway. But looking so different! Her face pale, and her hair, ordinarily coiled in a bun, was loose—a lion’s mane of dark hair springing back from her broad forehead and falling to her shoulders. A wildness in her dark blue eyes under the black brows. She wore an oatmeal coat sweater over her neat navy dress. There were nettles on her tan woolen stockings.

  “Sharon, honey!” She came swiftly into the room and knelt and hugged the child, quickly turning her away before she could see the bloodied dead body of John Gwathney hidden by the chairback. “What a mix-up! I was delayed, going to get you.” She was breathing quickly, unevenly. Over the child’s shoulder, she looked at Torrey. “ … so I called O’Malley’s and told Ellen O’Malley to take in Sharon, who’d be waiting across the road. And to tell her I was coming. But Ellen said you were already on the way here.” She took a deep breath and ran a shaky, caressing hand over the child’s brown hair, smiling down at her. “And here you are! Finally.”

  “Where’s my room?” Sharon said. “The whole room to myself. Mam said so.”

  “What? Oh. Yes. Upstairs. I’ll show you. And I expect you’ll be hungry and wanting your tea.” She took the child’s hand and drew her toward the door. At the last, she turned her head and looked back at Torrey, a look of such despair that Torrey felt a constriction of the heart.

  Alone, Torrey, sickened, looked down at John Gwathney in the wine-colored chair. It had to have been a shotgun to have made that much blood; likely it had struck his heart. A killing of such rage! Beyond that, she couldn’t think, would not let herself think. But then, after a moment: No. No. Ridiculous. Never mind the whispers, the rumors this past year, pub talk; there were always rumors in a village as small as Ballynagh.

  “Asleep on her feet.” Megan was back. “—never mind her tea.” She ran a hand wearily through her loosened hair. She was trembling as she looked past Torrey at John Gwathney’s body. “I’ve phoned Inspector O’Hare.”

  3

  He 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.

  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 Gardaí 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.

  4

  By 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 began—to 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 man—”

  “Yes, Winifred … But it’s eight o’clock and Hannah says about dinner; she can hold off on the salmon, but the potatoes —”

  “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!”

  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.

  “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.”

  “Well, it does sound—”

  “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.

  “Back next week?” Sheila said. “But he 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.”