Murder in an Irish Cottage

by Carlene O'Connor

  “No, thank you,” Siobhán said. “I’ll be right out here.” Jeanie nodded and hurried into the shop.

  Whiskey. Did the killer steal the whiskey bottle? Is that why he or she planted the cup of tea on the floor of her bedroom? So they wouldn’t look for a missing whiskey bottle? Moments later, Jeanie returned with several bags of pistachios. They began to walk as Jeanie cracked into them. “Would you like to come to Naomi’s for a cup of tea?”

  “That would be lovely,” Jeanie said. “However . . . I have some paperwork to finish up and I don’t know about you, but I could use something a little stronger.”

  “It’s half ten in the morning,” Siobhán said.

  “Perfect!” Jeanie said. “Shall we?”

  Siobhán laughed. “Absolutely.” They headed back to Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub.

  “Anything to suggest she fought back?” Siobhán asked. “Anything underneath her fingernails?”

  “No. That’s why I’m assuming the poison did its job.”

  “Would she have been able to taste the poison?”

  “Not if it was added to the whiskey and was the type hard to detect. Or—by the time she did—it may have been too late.”

  Maybe that was what sent her racing across the meadow that evening. Had she figured out she’d been poisoned? Was she trying to get help? “Everyone heard an awful scream that night, then saw her tearing across the field toward her cottage.”

  Jeanie nodded. “The sense of terror boosts my theory of poison. Several of our suspected poisons can cause hallucinations. Especially when mixed with alcohol.”

  Siobhán struggled to piece it together. Ellen had been outside, presumably to spend the night near the fairy tree. Something spooked her, and she ran back to the cottage. Perhaps it was the poison, making her hallucinate. She would not have dressed up to spend the night in a tent. Was someone else through her cottage that evening, expecting her to be gone? Had she interrupted a robbery? Maybe Ellen didn’t have just one gold coin, maybe she had piles of them. The pile of dirt by the side of the cottage flashed in her mind. What if Ellen had found coins buried on her property? Was that why she was so keen on purchasing the cottage?

  * * *

  They entered the pub and mortuary under the large oval sign with a painting of a distinguished gent drinking a pint: BUTLER’S, UNDERTAKER, LOUNGE, AND PUB. The punch line, which was often displayed on a chalkboard on the footpath: IF YOU’RE NOT IN ONE, YOU’RE IN THE OTHER. Today, there was no sign, but the door to the stone building opened with a creak.

  It was dim inside, but Jeanie brushed past the opening bar and sitting room filled with flowered sofas, parted the velvet curtain, and stepped into a smaller bar devoid of all props for the mourners. John Butler was the lone soul behind the bar, glued to a horse race on the telly. He turned with a nod as Jeanie and Siobhán propped themselves on stools.

  “Greetings.” John Butler, a formal man with a shock of slicked-back white hair, and suits that seemed more appropriate for the Elizabethan age than modern day, very much looked the part of an old-fashioned undertaker. In his spare time he was an actor with the Kilbane Players, and Siobhán always got the sense that he operated as if all the world was a stage. Good on him. Undertaking and acting. They may not be bound for the big stage but at least the Kilbane Players were much more lively than the poor souls he usually worked with.

  “Two pints of the black stuff,” Jeanie said. Siobhán hadn’t planned on drinking, but she wanted to keep Jeanie on her good side, especially since it was apparent Jeanie only had eyes for her nuts.

  “Let’s talk about her clothing,” Siobhán said, once they’d settled in.

  Jeanie stopped cracking and raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

  “Pardon?”

  “From the way you asked the question, I thought you knew.”

  Siobhán leaned forward. “Knew what?”

  Jeanie Brady glanced to see if John Butler was listening, and he probably was, but his eyes were glued to the telly. “We’re just two friends chatting here.”

  “Yes, we are.” Siobhán smiled, suddenly wishing she had purchased the pistachios for Jeanie.

  “The guards made it clear that you’re not on the case.” Jeanie’s eyes locked with Siobhán as she sipped her pint.

  “I’m sure they did.” Siobhán shrugged as if it were a small matter.

  Jeanie set down her pint. “She had two outfits on.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Underneath the red dress—she was in a sleeping gown.”

  Someone had dressed her. Over her night dress. Why on earth would they do that? “That doesn’t make any sense.” She’d spent part of the night in the woods. Ran home. If she was in her sleeping outfit, then where were the clothes she’d worn camping? And why on earth would she put on a fancy red dress over her sleeping gown? “Do you know if the guards found dirty clothes?”

  “I asked the same question and was told they did not.”

  “That’s perplexing.” The killer leaves a teacup that never held any tea. They also don’t bother to remove the feather stuck to her cheek. Yet they take her dirty clothes and her truck?

  “What’s most unusual is that poisons are chosen because a killer is hoping they will go undetected,” Jeanie Brady said. “The body will only be screened for them if there’s reason to suspect poisoning.”

  “And poison is usually chosen because of the hope that it will be so subtle, it won’t be revealed as the cause of death,” Siobhán joined in.

  “Correct. In smaller doses, especially over a longer period of time.”

  Such as a daughter slowly killing her mother. “But this killer is drawing a red arrow to the causes of death,” Siobhán mused.

  “Exactly. The killer did not attempt to wipe the foam from Ellen’s mouth, or remove the feather from her cheek.”

  But they planted the teacup. Either this was purposeful because the killer wanted to get caught—or they had been interrupted.... “If those clues hadn’t been present at the scene, would you have suspected poison?”

  “No. I more likely would have attributed her death to the suffocation and the alcohol in her system. The foam and the teacup—even though it turns out not to be the source of the poison—and the rumors of a woman screaming, and racing across the meadow were the clues that led me to suspect hallucination and poisoning. Mother-daughter relationships are complex, wouldn’t you say?” Jeanie Brady’s voice was light. She didn’t ever wade too far into theories, but this case seemed to fascinate her.

  “Yes, I would. But what are you saying?”

  “Either the killer wanted the daughter to be a top suspect in the murder. Or . . . the murderer wants to be caught.”

  “Meaning that Jane may have killed her mother, and she’s also trying to tell us that loud and clear?”

  Jeanie seemed to be humming to herself, or perhaps she was serenading the pistachios. “It’s a possibility that cannot be ignored.”

  “She’s blind. Legally. But technically she has some vision. Isn’t is possible she wasn’t able to see the foam or the feather?”

  “Yes, that’s possible.”

  “Jane developed the garden using a system to help her know where to find everything. She relies on the placement of her plants and the signs in the garden.”

  “Yes?” Jeanie could tell Siobhán was going somewhere.

  “What if . . . someone switched them?”

  “Meaning Jane could have accidentally poisoned her mother?”

  “Is it possible?”

  Jeanie sighed. “It’s all possible. However . . . we’re not talking about picking out a few leafs and putting them in tea. Most poisons from plants have to be carefully curated.”

  Carefully curated. “So accidental poisoning is out.”

  “Correct.”

  Premeditated. “There goes my theory.”

  “It may actually help the daughter.”

  “How so?”

  “A loved o
ne usually poisons a little at a time. Ellen was killed with one dose.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The foaming of the mouth was an immediate reaction. Something that took hours, not days, to hit her system.”

  “The killer is someone who knew she would take a bottle of whiskey on her overnight adventure,” Siobhán said out loud.

  “What do you make of the daughter’s alibi?”

  “She’s yet to offer proof of it.” They could no longer allow Jane to deflect on this very important aspect of the case.

  Jeanie drained her pint and stood. Siobhán pushed the remainder of hers away. “I’ll get that paperwork sorted and then let’s go to Ballysiogdun and see this garden.”

  “You want to identify the poison?”

  “That and I’m dying to have a look at the cottage in the middle of a fairy path.” She popped a pistachio and grinned. “How are you at identifying plants?”

  “Useless,” Siobhán said. “But I’ve got just the person.”

  Chapter 21

  Two guards stood on the periphery of the garden watching as Jane began to walk through the delineated sections, Bridie following close behind. Since Bridie wasn’t a suspect, and she had two green thumbs, they could trust her to correctly identify the herbs. If any of the plants had been moved, or switched, or plucked, they would soon find out. Everyone near the garden wore gloves.

  The sections were clearly developed. Each herb had a corresponding sign, painted in vibrant colors. Mint. Basil. Thyme. Cilantro. Parsley. Rosemary. They started with the kitchen herbs, and as Bridie called them out and examined them, she would mark the sheet in front of her. Thirty minutes later, Bridie had them all marked down.

  “Everything is clearly marked apart from the wolfsbane,” she announced.

  “Wolfsbane?” Jane said. “I didn’t plant wolfsbane. Where is it?”

  Bridie scanned the garden. “They don’t quite fit into the grid.” She pointed. Siobhán followed Bridie’s finger as it outlined the garden.

  “It’s at the far edge opposite of where you’re standing,” Siobhán relayed. There at the edge of the garden, clearly outside the delineated portions, grew the hardy perennial. They had dark glossy leaves and purple flowers shaped like a hood. Some called it friar’s cap.

  “It must be growing wild,” Jane said. “I didn’t plant them.”

  “Well, there’s wolfsbane here. And plenty of it.”

  Siobhán joined Bridie and stared down at the plants. They looked innocent, not out to murder anyone. The same could be said for their human suspects. “They’re poisonous?”

  “Very,” Jane said. “With no healing properties. That’s why I didn’t plant them.”

  “Every part of the plant is poisonous,” Bridie said. “But the roots are the most deadly.”

  “What did I tell you?” Jeanie Brady coached from the sidelines. “Carefully curated.”

  “Do any of them seem missing?” Siobhán asked as she edged in to have a look.

  “They’re thick in here,” Bridie said. “Several plants could have been pulled and we wouldn’t know it.”

  “I’ll put in a rush on wolfsbane,” Jeanie said. “Looks like we have a winner.”

  Jane sighed. “I didn’t plant them and neither did my mother.”

  Siobhán left them to continue the discussion and motioned for Jeanie Brady to have a walk with her in private.

  “Aconite,” Jeanie said as soon as they were alone. “The poison is derived from the roots.”

  Not as simple as plucking off a few leaves and dropping it into liquid. This murder was premeditated. “Supposing someone knew how to extract the poison from the roots. Would that have done the job?”

  “Done it? Half a teaspoon of a tincture of aconite root dropped in a bottle of whiskey would have been enough to kill a very large man.”

  “And given we have a . . . woman on the heavier side—but it didn’t kill her?”

  “They didn’t get the dose strong enough . . . although . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Had she fallen asleep out there, the poison may have very well taken her by morning.”

  “But because she got back to the cottage and hadn’t yet succumbed . . .”

  “The killer finished the job with a pillow.” Which meant they were either in a hurry, impatient, or not sure if the poison would do the job.

  “The tincture of an aconite root is an alcohol extract,” Jeanie said. “In whiskey it wouldn’t have been detected. They call it ‘the perfect poison to mask a murder.’ ”

  “So,” Siobhán said, picking up on her train of thought. “Someone used the perfect poison, then ruined it by planting clues to it at the crime scene.”

  “Good luck figuring out why!” Jeanie Brady gave a sarcastic laugh. “And people wonder how I do my job.” She stared at the cottage, then shuddered.

  Siobhán sighed—she had no disagreement there. “How long will it take to test for wolfsbane?”

  Jeanie shrugged. “The toxicology is sophisticated. It has to be sent to the best forensic lab. Patience is in order.”

  Siobhán nodded. “The poison may be sophisticated. But I’m starting to wonder whether or not our killer is.”

  * * *

  Siobhán was dying to get inside the cottage again, but the village had placed new locks on the doors and boarded the windows. Jane was prepared to throw a fit, as well she should, but they hadn’t had time to fight it. The only window that wasn’t boarded was the one looking directly into Ellen’s bedroom, but the curtains were firmly closed. Siobhán stood in front of it, pondering. The curtains had been open when they found Ellen’s body. Standing here, one would have been able to see right into the bedroom. She was dying for another look inside. The sink . . . she’d almost forgotten. She’d waited long enough. Hopefully Danny was at the garda station and would be able to slip away to let Siobhán have a look. Part of her wondered if he had mentioned it to drive her mental, knowing that the anticipation was killing her. With Macdara back in Kilbane, and Bridie driving Jeanie back to Kilbane any minute now, this was the perfect chance to get back inside the cottage. She headed for the Ballysiogdun Garda Station, located just past the meadow where they held the Saturday farmers’ market. She loved that the village was walkable, but had to admit she missed zipping around on her scooter.

  The garda station was housed in a small stone building, roughly half the size of the Kilbane Garda Station. Two guards stood outside, smoking and chatting. On her way in, she caught part of their conversation. “Oddest case I’ve ever worked. Still can’t believe what they found.” They clammed up when they saw her, and she could tell by the look on their faces that they hadn’t meant for her to hear that last bit. She simply nodded and headed inside.

  Danny had let the clerk know that Siobhán was coming, so it wasn’t long before she was waiting in an interview room for him.

  “How ya,” he said when he swept in with a stack of folders.

  “Wolfsbane,” she said. “We believe it’s the poison that killed Ellen.”

  “I thought you were here for me to brief you,” he said with a grin. “Let me write that down.”

  “It’s not official, but we found it planted in the backyard of the cottage. Jane says that neither she nor her mother planted it. Half a teaspoon of the tincture dropped in a bottle of whiskey would have been enough to kill.”

  Danny frowned. “Then why the pillow?”

  “Either the killer didn’t use enough of the poison, or it wasn’t working fast enough.”

  Danny nodded, and opened the folder on the top of his pile. “I can’t tell you much.”

  “Give me a touch then.”

  Danny shifted in his seat. “Why don’t you make some guesses, and I’ll see if I can confirm any of them.”

  Siobhán understood where he was coming from. He wasn’t supposed to share this investigation with her. But he also knew she was a good guard, and this case needed as many cooks in the kitchen as p
ossible. Her mind conjured up the cottage from the moment they entered. “If I were conducting this case, I’d definitely be interested in the stack of papers that was on Ellen’s counter.”

  Danny nodded. “And why is that?”

  He was encouraging the line of questioning. She was onto something. “Because. Given her tidiness, they didn’t seem the sort of thing that she would have out on her counter?” He nodded again. “And they didn’t belong to her.”

  “Quite right.”

  “But you do know who they belong to. . . .”

  He grinned. “How could we not?”

  “Because the party’s name was on it.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Do you have any idea why this person left his or her papers on Ellen’s counter?”

  “Somebody must have wanted her to have an early read.”

  He was choosing his words carefully. An early read. She gasped. “Professor Kelly’s manuscript.”

  “Quite interesting,” he said. “Along with the letter.”

  “Yes, the letter.” Shoot. “Why is the letter interesting?”

  Danny shrugged. “I’m not a writer. But if I was a writer, I’d find that part of the process stressful.”

  That part of the process. “Getting published you mean.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes, indeed.” There was a partial of his manuscript and a letter from a publishing company? “How do you think Professor Kelly felt after reading the letter?”

  “I can imagine he was devastated.”

  Devastated. “Rejection isn’t easy.”

  “Exactly.”

  Part of Dylan Kelly’s manuscript along with his rejection letter had been left on Ellen’s countertop. She wanted a time machine so she could go back and slap herself for not looking. Then again if she could go back she might as well just look and save herself the pain. Still. She really wanted to slap the version of herself who didn’t look at the papers. Or, presumably, the sink.

  Focus. Hadn’t Dylan Kelly been crowing about a book deal? He lied. But why would he leave his rejection letter and manuscript with Ellen? Or had she stolen it? If she had suspected Professor Kelly was behind wanting the cottage bulldozed, maybe she was using it as leverage. And if she alone knew that his publishing deal had been rejected . . .