The Dead of Achill Island

by The Dead of Achill Island (retail) (epub)

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Ah, the question is, What’s under?” He reached under the table and pulled up a muddy boom box. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while, have you?” he asked.

  “I had one in my dorm. Where did you find it?”

  “On the other side of the hedge, where you saw the green ghosts. I went out at dawn, just in case I’d find anything they left behind—a hat or a coat. And there it was, a boom box with a CD in the slot, and here’s what it plays.”

  He pressed a button, and a whistle split the air. My hands flew to my ears, and he turned the volume down. The whistle gave way to metal wheels squealing against iron tracks, as the steam engine propelled its train forward.

  “There you have it,” said Toby, punching the off button. “The ghost train rides again!”

  “Clever devils,” I said. “How did they get hold of train sounds like that?”

  “They could get any sound effect off the internet, and you’d think they would have played it from a phone or a tablet. That would have been risky, though. If they dropped a device like that, we could trace who they were. Someone went to the trouble of burning a CD from their sound source.”

  I remembered Angie’s role in the upcoming play. “There’s a theater group here,” I told him. “Someone must do their sound effects.”

  “Sure. Let’s ask Bobby about who’s in the group and whether they have a boom box.”

  “First thing after Fruit Loops,” I replied. I was starved.

  “Fruit Loops and coffee coming up. You need a kick start.”

  The sight of Toby stirring instant espresso powder into a mug of hot water put me well off coffee. “I’ll stick to that excuse for orange juice in the waxed carton,” I said.

  He put the coffee mug in front of me anyway. “Frank Hickey just called to remind us we’re invited to tea this afternoon to see the Paul Henry painting, the one Bert bought for their railway poster. You said you wanted to see it. Still interested?”

  “I am. What time?”

  “We’re due at his place at three. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you look a wreck. Drink up.”

  That gave me the jolt I needed. Here was the chance to kill a flock of birds with one stone. I could see an important Paul Henry painting up close, one that had never been shown to the public. For the sake of Aunt Laura and Emily (now half owners), I could assess its value if they were to resell it here in Ireland, where it would fetch a better price than in the States. And most important, while we were visiting, Toby and I could size up Frank himself. What exactly was his stake in Bert’s railway project? Did he stand to gain from Bert’s death, or to lose? I wanted to know.

  After washing mud off his hands, Toby brought me the tourist map and pointed to the south side of the island. “He lives way down here in this village at the tip. Derreens. Looks touristic.”

  What Toby meant was that there were multiple symbols on the tourist map marking its location: a pyramid with a cross on it (meaning a church), two lines of crosses (a historical cemetery), a castle turret, a boat, fish, and a sprinkle of dots (a sandy beach). I knew the spot. Derreens was near Kildownet Church, where Maggie had taken me. I hadn’t noticed a village, but among the map’s touristic symbols were the letters P.O., so there were enough living residents to warrant a post office. I had seen the dead residents already at the ruined church.

  “On the way, I can show you Kildownet graveyard, where they buried the bodies from the disasters. It’s beginning to look like the killer is connected to the train project—maybe one of the environmentalists who want to stop it, or a descendant of one of the families involved in the tragedies.”

  “Does that mean you’ve stopped worrying that your mom is guilty?”

  “It means that if I could find evidence pointing to someone else, I could stop worrying. So far it’s all speculation.”

  I asked Toby to drive so I could navigate. Both my memory and the map said that the turnoff from the main road was just before the town hall at Achill Sound. I looked for a sign for Derreens, or the Atlantic Drive, or the pirate queen’s castle, or Kildownet Church. But if the sign existed, we missed it. We turned around for a second try, and this time we saw a low panel displaying the symbols for water, church, and castle. The words were in Irish and looked unrelated to our destinations, but the symbols were promising.

  When we turned, I recognized the pink rhododendrons, the yellow gorse, and the flatlands beyond. This territory was different from our side of the island. Here there was a strong sense of isolation. You tended to see only one house at a time, hugging the road for safety or daring to roost near the water, surrounded by acres of scrub grass. The land wasn’t farmed, and we saw no cattle, but I spotted a rundown bar at the corner of a lane. A handmade sign indicated the way to Derreens. As far as I could see, there was no town in that direction, only the dry slope of an unnamed mountain.

  The sight of the familiar ruined church, roofless and open to the sky at the side of the waters, was heartening, a sign of human community, past and present. Toby pulled over and parked on a grassy strip by the side of the road. There was no real place to park, but since we were the only visitors, that wasn’t a problem. We got out and crossed the road. A light breeze stirred the grass.

  “Let’s see the graves first,” said Toby. “Then we can do the church.” He swung the creaking gate, which scraped across its stone base. I led him to the right of the church and showed him the stony Famine plot. We stood for a long while, gazing at the ground containing countless starved bodies. I was thinking of my ancestors and what they must have suffered in those horrid times.

  Shaking off that disaster, I led Toby to the other. We stepped over sunken spots and, taking care not to step on recessed gravestones, we crossed behind the church and wended our way among small and large headstones from a jumble of periods—the 1950s, the 1920s, then some from the 1800s. We stopped now and then to read the names and inscriptions, when they were decipherable. We came finally to a communal plot segregated from the other graves by a low iron fence. I saw again that its iron bars created a square of grass that might have been a park, if it weren’t for the fact that dozens of skeletons lay beneath the ground. In the back of the square, on the side by the water, rose the tall monument topped by an Irish cross. Under the cross was a request to passersby: “Of your charity, pray for the souls of”—and then came the names of thirty-two young people who, as it said on the base of the monument, “were accidentally drowned in Clew Bay on June 14th 1894.”

  Between Maggie and my reading, I had pieced together the story of the tragedy. Because the island was so poor, its young men and women used to work in Britain in the summers as seasonal farm laborers. Those buried here were bound for Scotland to work in the potato fields. Several hundred workers boarded four boats on June 14, 1894, departing from Darby’s Point on the south end of the island. They were sailing only a short distance to Westport on the mainland, where they would transfer to a large steamship for Scotland. But the small boats were overloaded, and trouble struck as they neared the harbor, where the steamship was waiting for them. Many of the youngsters had never seen a ship that size, and to get a better look, they crowded to one side of their boat, shifting the load and causing the boat to capsize. The thirty-two who drowned ranged in age from twelve to forty. To the small community of Achill, it was a devastating loss.

  “Imagine losing your son like that,” Toby said. “Or your daughter. Half of these are girls’ names.” He paused, to read more. “And half the girls are Marys. Look. One family lost four children—the Cooneys. The O’Haras lost three.”

  “And they all came home in coffins on the Westport-Achill rail line,” I said. It must have doubled the horror when people remembered the old prophecy that one day iron carriages would come to the island spitting smoke and fire and carrying death.

  Toby asked, “How did it happen that it was the train’s first trip?”

  “At the time of the drowning, the
line had been completed but it hadn’t opened yet,” I explained. “It was pressed into service early to bring the bodies home.”

  Toby shook his head in dismay. “Then what happened on the last train run?”

  “That was in 1937. A fire in a dormitory in Scotland killed ten boys from Achill who had gone there to pick potatoes. They brought the bodies home on the last train to Achill before the line closed. How eerie is that? You can say it was just coincidence, but no wonder people believed the prophecy had come true.”

  Toby was staring at the monument. He pointed to a name. “The three O’Hara girls, for instance. Sisters, maybe. Think of the parents waiting at the new train station to claim the bodies. The whole island probably turned out for the funeral. And the telling of what happened would come down through the generations. You can see how the islanders wouldn’t want their tragedy used to make money.”

  “You’re thinking of Michael O’Hara, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “He started that bar fight over this, and he was one of the leaders at the protest yesterday,” Toby pointed out. “He’s got a hot temper.”

  “And a motive for wanting my uncle dead and out of the way.”

  “Correct, although there are others on the island who had the same motive.”

  We stood in silence, contemplating the scene. I pictured the crowd gathered around the plot on the day of interment. I wondered what the weather was that day. For us, the sun shone, sparkling on the water at the edge of the graveyard’s slope. A pair of cawing gulls dipped and turned out over the channel. Old headstones leaned this way and that. “Come on, let’s go see the church,” Toby said.

  He reached the ruin before I did. I was calling out something about getting on our way to Frank Hickey’s so we wouldn’t be late when I heard Toby say, “No!” In a moment I saw the reason why. We weren’t late. Frank Hickey was. He was laid out at the foot of the stone altar, his blank eyes looking up but blind to the sky. I thought of the old man at the megalithic tomb; he had prophesied another death, and here was the corpse of Frank Hickey. Toby knelt and checked for a pulse, then shook his head.

  “Better not touch anything,” I said, though at first I saw nothing at the scene that suggested violence. There was no blood or any injury to the body except a scratch on the left cheek. I pointed to it and said, “Toby, what do you make of that little scrape?”

  He leaned over the body and peered at the cheek. “I guess it could have happened if he fell against the altar. Or somebody could have hit him.”

  “Could a bare fist leave that kind of mark?”

  Toby looked again. “Something with a sharp edge might. A ring maybe.”

  “A claddagh ring?”

  “Yeah, that would do it.” Toby got to his feet. “We better call the guards.”

  13

  WE DROVE TO THE MAINLAND, following a garda vehicle. The second murder on the little island merited investigation higher up the chain, at Westport Garda Station. The square, stucco building wasn’t very inviting, but then again, what jailhouse is? It didn’t help that we were ushered in through the back door.

  Sergeant Flynn unsmilingly explained that back-door entry was a courtesy, so we wouldn’t be seen by the general public. Small comfort, that. Flynn handed me off to a female guard and took Toby down the hall. I was left in a small room, painted an unnerving yellow. I suppose the sunny walls were meant to make up for the lack of natural light, as there were no windows. The room didn’t even have a two-way mirror, the kind you see on detective shows. But then I noticed a wall-mounted video camera, which was already on. I could see my image in the monitor next to the camera. My lips were pressed thin with tension. My frown made me look hostile. Would I trust somebody with that nasty face?

  It was a long time until Detective Inspector O’Donnell arrived. He offered me a cup of tea, which I declined. His mug was in his hand. He plunked it on the table and sat opposite me. He dunked a biscuit, fumbled as it crumbled on the way to his mouth, salvaged a bite, and dusted the crumbs from his lap. He slumped back and folded his arms. “You know, suspicious deaths on Achill are a rarity. Yet you discovered a body the day after you arrived. Here it is, less than a week later, and you’ve come across another one. Now, I ask you, what are the odds of that?”

  “I know how it looks, but I’m telling the truth,” I insisted. “We stepped into the church and saw him lying there. Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

  “I didn’t say you were a suspect. You’re here voluntarily, to make a statement, since you discovered the body.”

  “Then why am I being recorded?” I pointed to the camera.

  “For future reference. It’s routine. Perhaps you can tell me why you were at Kildownet this afternoon.”

  “Frank Hickey had invited us to his house for tea, and Kildownet was on the way, so we stopped to see it. I’d been there once before and wanted to show my husband the monument for the Clew Bay drownings.”

  He rocked back on his chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. “You say you were invited for tea. If Mr. Hickey expected you at his home, what do you suppose he was doing at Kildownet Church?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector. He might have been there in the morning when he was . . . when whatever happened to him happened.”

  “You were going to say ‘when he was killed’?”

  “I suppose so. All I know is that my uncle was murdered and Frank was his partner. There was ill will toward both of them on the island, as I’m sure you’re aware. So, yes, my first thought was that he was killed. Have you determined the cause of death?”

  “Not yet,” said the inspector. “The autopsy will provide that information.” He looked at me for a long moment before continuing. “How well did you know this man? You say he invited you for tea.”

  “We met twice, once at my aunt’s house and once at the Annexe Bar, but I hardly knew him. The reason he invited us over was to see a painting he and my uncle owned. I told him I’d like to see it.”

  “Oh? What painting is that?”

  “A landscape of Achill Island by Paul Henry that they planned to use for a poster to promote their steam train and hotel.”

  “How valuable a painting are we talking about?”

  “I haven’t seen it, but it could be worth a substantial sum.”

  “Give me an idea.”

  “Two hundred thousand euros, maybe more. If you need a professional evaluation, you might ask Declan O’Leary. He’s a Dublin art dealer who has a summer home here.”

  “I know who he is,” said the inspector. “How do you know him?”

  “A friend introduced us. Paul Henry came up in the conversation. He mentioned he wanted to buy that painting himself, but my uncle outbid him for it at auction.”

  This information interested O’Donnell. He wrote something on the pad next to his mug. “How did Mr. O’Leary take that? Was he bitter about losing the painting?”

  I hadn’t meant to compromise Maggie’s ex, but the inspector had a point. Declan might be willing to kill to get his hands on a painting that meant a great deal to him. I pushed aside the thought and shrugged.

  “Where is it now, the painting?” asked O’Donnell. “Is it in Mr. Hickey’s house?”

  “I assume so. We were asked there to see it.”

  Inspector O’Donnell continued scribbling notes.

  I was having second thoughts about mentioning Declan’s name to the inspector. “Don’t you think there are far more likely suspects?” I asked. “Frank Hickey and my uncle had real enemies here, all those people who want to preserve the greenway and prevent the railway project.”

  “Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

  I described the attempt last night to frighten us with fake ghosts. “And then there are the descendants of the Achill tragedies who might have their own reasons to want the project stopped, Michael O’Hara for instance.” I mentioned the fight he had provoked with Frank at the Annexe Bar over dishonoring the dead. />
  “I’m well aware of the protests,” said O’Donnell. “Garda Mullen has an eye on the leaders. We’re working closely with him.” The inspector tilted his chair back on two legs again and asked, “Can you suggest any other person who had a reason to attack Frank Hickey?”

  The image of Bobby Colman’s claddagh ring flashed through my mind. The mark on Frank’s cheek could have been caused by such a ring, but Bobby had no reason to harm Frank that I knew of, and besides he seemed to me a sweet guy. Not to mention that Angie was gaga over him. So I replied, “No.”

  I felt my strength ebbing and wanted to end this if I could. “You said my presence here today was voluntary. If that still holds, may I be excused?”

  “You’re free to go if you wish. We’ll draw up a statement on the basis of what you’ve said. Come by tomorrow to review and sign it.”

  I meant to walk away with the nonchalant glide of the innocent, but I don’t think I succeeded.

  14

  I’M ONE OF THOSE DELAYED-REACTION PEOPLE—dry-eyed at the funeral but bawling in the car, weeks later. Five days out from finding Bert’s body and hours after finding Frank Hickey’s, I finally had the shudders. Toby got me home, held me tight, and insisted I nap. When he woke me, I was in mid-dream, fighting with Mom to stop her from immolating herself, like the Buddhist monks in Tibet. Eyes open, I felt an awful throbbing in my chest as Toby said something unintelligible. Then I understood. He was giving me a choice. Did I want to cancel our evening plans or pull myself together and go? “Remember?” he said. “We’re having dinner with Maggie and Declan.”

  I checked my stomach and found it calm. I could make it to dinner, so long as nobody made me eat.

  We were meeting in Dugort at Masterson’s Pub, where the windows face west to the sea. We drove there on the same road I had walked with Dad, but there were no sheep this time. It seemed a harder drive than our walk had been, because of white light reflecting off the water. Even sunglasses at eight in the evening didn’t kill the glare. At the pub, I tried to snag a seat turned away from the sun, but I didn’t succeed. Though our friends hadn’t arrived, Declan had reserved the best table for sunset, right in front of the picture window. The table was U shaped, so that everyone could have a view. The best I could do was to sit on one end and angle myself toward the room. It was a large space, not entirely filled with tables. In the back, a noisy group of men were playing darts. The house was full, though, with families feasting on fish and chips.