‘He is so.’
‘Phoebe McMahon?’
‘Phoebe McMahon.’
‘How long has this been going on, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Long enough.’
‘Long enough for what, Erin?’
‘Long enough for it to be serious.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Probably because you had quite enough on your plate at the time. Far too much to be worrying about who your son might or might not be walking out with and that’s for certain. Besides, I thought it would blow over. For a start she’s a good few years older than him.’
‘I know all about Miss Phoebe McMahon, thank you, Erin,’ Cassie said, putting down her cup of coffee. ‘She’s a good five years older than Mattie. She’s had quite a history, and like her father she is very ambitious. Not that there’s anything wrong with ambition, provided that it soars and doesn’t creep.’
‘Of course. I was imagining the same. That maybe Phoebe McMahon’s ambition is to creep under the very gates of Claremore.’
Cassie said nothing. She had no need in front of Erin.
‘Remind me about Tom McMahon,’ Erin continued, wiping her mouth with the side of one finger now she too had finished her coffee. ‘Didn’t he use to ride for Mr Rosse? And didn’t he have a bad fall out schooling one day?’
‘You don’t seem to need very much reminding, Erin. Yes, Tom McMahon broke his back schooling a young horse over the jumps and Mr Tyrone helped him.’
‘He trains from a wheelchair, does he not?’ Erin asked as she took their two cups away to load into the dishwasher.
‘One thing Tom McMahon’s never been short on’s determination.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Erin nodded as she closed the machine back up. ‘As I remember him, he had a bit of a mouth on him too, at least I seem to remember that’s the way he was when he worked here. You could never tell him anything. Sure not even the time of day, for wouldn’t he always have it better himself? Least that’s what my father old Tomas was forever saying, while sure being in a wheelchair doesn’t always turn people into saints now, does it? It most certainly does not. For wasn’t I reading only the other day in the paper about this dangerous criminal who was robbing stores with a sawn-off shotgun on his lap under his rug and him a para-plegic. There’s no good just going be appearances any more. Even though speaking for meself I only have to see someone with a white stick or in a chair to imagine they’re halfway to being sanctified.’
‘I would think that Tom McMahon’s sanctification is a little way off,’ Cassie sighed. ‘He’s never been the kindest of men.’
‘Is that right?’ Erin asked, idly brushing the crumbs from the table. ‘But even so, sure you’d think after all you and Mr Rosse did and have done for him, wouldn’t you? You’d surely think he’d know better than to take Mattie from yous.’
‘You would, Erin,’ Cassie said, getting up and having a weary stretch. ‘At least I would have thought that – but not any more.’
‘And what’s made you change your way of thinking, I’m wondering?’ Erin asked, catching the tone in her employer’s voice. ‘What in heaven’s name ever made someone like you change her way of thinking now?’
‘The Nightingale,’ Cassie replied. ‘The Nightingale’s done it. Not only has he changed my life but he seems to have changed ‘most everyone else I know’s life as well.’
Mattie had it in mind to stay at Claremore until the end of spring, but guessing that the person most suited by this arrangement was Mattie himself, Cassie gave him his marching orders.
‘I can’t! The new yard isn’t quite ready yet!’ Mattie protested when Cassie made her announcement.
‘Then go get it ready, buster,’ Cassie replied. ‘Buns are either for the having or the eating. Not the both.’
‘But what about Christmas? It’s Christmas in less than two weeks.’
‘Christmas will still happen, Mattie. Anyway, wouldn’t you much rather spend Christmas with your girlfriend?’
‘I have told you before,’ Mattie sighed over-patiently. ‘Phoebe is not my girlfriend. Phoebe and I are just friends.’
‘Oh sure,’ Cassie nodded in return. ‘But since you’re a boy and she’s a girl, that makes her your girlfriend.’
‘A girlfriend.’
‘OK. A girlfriend.’
‘You’re not really kicking me out?’ Mattie asked.
‘Of course not,’ Cassie replied. ‘It’s you who wanted to go, remember? All I’m doing is not stopping you.’
‘You could wait till after Christmas, surely. And what about Jo? Aren’t Jo and Mark coming home for Christmas?’
‘I don’t think Josephine wants to see me at the moment, Mattie, in fact I’m sure she doesn’t. Otherwise she’d ring me. Which she still hasn’t.’
‘You’re just tired, Ma,’ Mattie said in an attempt at consolation. ‘Josephine’s right. What you need is a holiday.’
‘My thinking exactly,’ Cassie replied. ‘So I thought this Christmas I would just shut up shop and go and spend Christmas in the sun.’
Which was indeed precisely what Cassie would have done, had she not received a surprise visit at the end of that fateful week, a visit which as it happened was to change quite a lot of plans.
Every time she returned from the guest cottage Erin had reported to Cassie on the progress Joel was making on the road to recovery, which by all accounts seemed by the middle of the second week to be slow but sure. Even so, neither of them and least of all Erin was willing to speculate on how much more recuperation their patient might need.
‘According to my sister it’s sometimes a case of not just one step forward and two steps back,’ Erin had remarked, ‘but of one step forward and ten steps back.’
‘But when last heard of—’ Cassie had wondered in return.
‘When last seen as well as heard of, I’d say things were a whole lot better.’
Nevertheless it still came as an enormous surprise when one morning as Cassie and the lads sat in the kitchen devouring one of Erin’s famous after-work breakfasts on a particularly cold and frosty morning the patient finally made his reappearance. Judging from the hush that fell over the table Cassie was not the only one startled into stupefaction at the sight that greeted her eyes as the door opened and the tall, lean figure of Mr Joel Benson materialized. The eyes of every lad were on him as he nodded a greeting to the assembled company and made his way over to join them at their feast, for none of them with the exception of Cassie had ever seen Mr Joel Benson except as a large, shambling and untidy figure ambling around the yard, usually with a half-smoked Gitane in the corner of his mouth.
Yet here was a positive transformation, an immaculately dressed and perfectly groomed figure of a man, his thick dark hair washed and slicked back, clean-shaven, pink-skinned and bright-eyed and dressed in a freshly laundered and ironed blue buttoned shirt and dark blue knitted tie, a Donegal tweed jacket, immaculate cord trousers and polished black shoes, walking across the kitchen with the confidence of a man who has been to hell and back and knows that he has conquered his demons.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ he said, taking his place at one end of the table.
‘Good morning, Mr Benson,’ the lads carolled back, after a quick exchange of looks between each other, for there was nothing that went on in Claremore without the knowledge of the entire yard.
‘Will you look at yous,’ Erin said with undisguised pride. ‘You shouldn’t be wasting your time painting pictures. You should be in them. Now sit down here –’ Erin pulled out a chair in front of where she was standing. ‘The coffee’s fresh made, and I’ll do you your favourite egg, sausage and potato cake and make you some hot toast.’
Joel looked down the table and smiled at Cassie. ‘Mrs Rosse,’ he said. ‘Beautiful morning.’
‘It certainly is, Mr Benson,’ Cassie replied. ‘One of the very best.’
* * *
‘If you’re waiting to hear how it was, which I’
m sure you are,’ Joel said later, after the stable staff had returned to work, ‘it was grisly, but’ – he held up one finger to underline his point – ‘I’m still here. And not only that but I have to say I cannot remember the last time I felt as good as this.’
Cassie smiled at him and then up at Erin who was standing behind Joel ready to pour him some more coffee. Erin returned her smile with an overlarge wink.
‘So – what are your plans? Have you made any?’
‘One step at a time, Mrs Rosse,’ he replied. ‘We’ll take each day as it comes.’
‘Anything in mind for Christmas?’
‘Have you?’
‘I was thinking of taking some time off, as it happens.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘The Caribbean actually.’
‘Hmm,’ Joel said thoughtfully. ‘Now there really is a notion.’
Nothing more was said about the idea because both of them knew they must wait and see how Joel would cope with his first day back in what he called Real Life. He could not have experienced any proper temptation locked away in his cottage – pain and anguish certainly, Cassie thought, and in spades, but there was no way he would have been able to get a drink. However, they both knew it remained to be seen whether or not the patient was sufficiently recovered and strong-willed enough to continue resisting the lure of the siren alcohol.
Cassie certainly didn’t think he was anywhere near strong enough to do what he was suggesting doing, namely accompany her to the races that afternoon.
‘No point in standing about the shallow end,’ Joel argued. ‘That’s what the deep end’s for. For plunging straight in.’
‘You’re getting it wrong for once, Joel,’ Cassie argued. ‘Going to the races would be like taking an addicted swimmer to the seaside and then not allowing him in. The racetrack is not the place for first day uppers.’
‘The temptation is always going to be the same. Whether I face it now or later.’
Joel prevailed, much against Cassie’s misgivings, and what made it worse was that Well Loved, her good young novice steeplechaser, won the feature race of the afternoon, a contest which was always taken as a significant trial for Cheltenham. After the horse had been led up Cassie had tried to waste as much time as she could in the unsaddling area in order to try to distract Joel from the party of the horse’s connections who were all headed for the bar, but Joel was having none of it and followed the Claremore mob into the Owners and Trainers’ Bar where much to Cassie’s relief he toasted the stable success in ginger ale.
‘A doddle,’ he said afterwards. ‘Once you make your mind up about something, you’re home and hosed.’
‘You know it isn’t as easy as that,’ Cassie replied. ‘I saw how many cigarettes you smoked.’
‘Of course it wasn’t easy. If it was an easy thing to do, do you think I’d have had to lock myself away to do it? Things like this – well. A lot depends who you’ve got on your side.’
‘I don’t think I was much good to you,’ Cassie said in surprise. ‘All I did was keep threatening to kick you out.’
‘All I did was keep the picture of you in my head,’ Joel replied. ‘All I really thought about was you. From one minute to the next. If it hadn’t been for you – no, no.’ He stopped and corrected himself. ‘If it hadn’t been because of you …’
Cassie smiled at him and he put his arm around her back as she drove. When the car had to stop at the next red traffic light, she leaned over and kissed him.
So it was they were both in high fettle by the time they arrived back at Claremore, looking forward to the special dinner Erin had promised them in celebration. While Joel took himself off to his cottage to run a bath and change, Cassie began answering some of the messages left for her. It was while she was finishing a call that she heard a car drawing up outside. Since she wasn’t expecting any visitors Cassie pulled a shutter aside to see who it might be but it had started to rain very heavily and the window was awash with water, reducing the visibility to zero.
‘There’s two gentlemen here to see you, Mrs Rosse,’ Dick announced breathlessly, having arrived outside the study in his usual fashion, leaping down the hallway and sliding across the polished floor of the corridor to stop with a thud against her door. ‘It’s the poleece,’ he whispered, his eyes rolling around his head in a kind of mixture of fear and wonder. ‘Not the local poleece, Mrs Rosse – the poleece from Dublin.’
‘What is it?’ Cassie asked, intercepting her visitors in the hall. ‘Has there been an accident? Is it my son?’
‘No, no, Mrs Rosse,’ the taller of the two policemen assured her. ‘There’s been no accident, thanks be to God, so you can put that worry out of your mind.’
‘That is a relief,’ Cassie said. ‘Whenever the police arrive here unannounced I immediately think the worst.’
‘And don’t most people, Mrs Rosse,’ the shorter policeman replied, taking his hat off and shaking the rain off it onto the mat behind him. ‘I always says to Inspector Doyle here that it’s the very worst part of our job.’
‘I don’t know about the very worst part, Eamonn,’ Doyle said. ‘Although I’m inclined to agree. On the whole yes I’m inclined to agree with you. And here am I forgetting my manners. I’m Inspector Doyle from Dublin Castle and this is Sergeant Moriarty.’
‘So if it’s not bad news, then what can I do for you both?’ Cassie wondered. ‘Do you have news of my horse? I mean, have there been developments in his case? Is that why you’re here?’
‘Ah don’t we wish that was so, Mrs Rosse? And with all our hearts I’m sure,’ Sergeant Moriarty said. ‘For wasn’t I his greatest fan?’
‘You and twenty million others, Eamonn,’ Doyle said with a laugh. ‘Yet I seem to remember you saying he’d get beat at Epsom.’
‘Now only to make sure that he’d win, sir,’ Sergeant Moriarty replied. ‘It’s in the nature of a superstition of mine, Mrs Rosse. I always make a strong case out against my fancy and that generally ensures victory. Unless I back it. I never had money on your fella the once. If I had, sure as tomorrow he’d have got beat.’
‘I won a packet on him at Epsom,’ Inspector Doyle confessed. ‘I availed meself of all the sixteen to one I could get about him in the spring before the guineas and took the family to Disneyland on the proceeds. Your horse is a hero in our house, all right.’
‘Sixteen to one, imagine,’ Sergeant Moriarty sighed. ‘You could hardly get sixteen to one about him at odds on be the time he’d finished with racing.’
Doyle gave his junior a quick sharp look, as if to warn him to mind his tongue. ‘That is if he’s finished racing, Eamonn,’ he said. ‘There’s a big world of difference between an if and a when to my mind.’
‘My husband used to say that with the help of an if you might put Ireland into a bottle,’ Cassie heard herself saying, feeling if anything more disturbed by their presence than less.
‘Is that a fact, Mrs Rosse?’ Doyle wondered. ‘Now that’s a saying I’d not heard before. And a potent saying it is, too. With the help of an if you might put Ireland into a bottle.’
‘If she’s not well and truly stuck in one already,’ Sergeant Moriarty said with a grin.
‘That is not the point, Eamonn,’ Inspector Doyle corrected him. ‘And not only is it not the point, it is also beside it.’
There was another awkward silence as if what they had come to tell Cassie was going sorely to embarrass them and neither of them had the slightest idea of how to broach the subject.
‘Look, I don’t wish to be rude, gentlemen,’ Cassie began.
‘No, no, Mrs Rosse, we’ll come straight to the point,’ Inspector Doyle cut in, having carefully done no such thing. ‘For we’re well aware of how precious your time is, a lady like yourself, and with a thousand things on her. But this is not a matter we could have addressed to you on the telephone.’
‘And there really hasn’t been an accident—’
‘No, no,’ Doyle reassured
her, ‘it really is nothing like that, I can promise you. This merely has something to do with someone you might know. Now. How shall I put it? Are you at all familiar with a Mr Joel Benson?’
‘I certainly am,’ Cassie said cautiously. ‘Is there something the matter, has he done something?’
‘Not here in this country, Mrs Rosse, no, no.’ He cleared his throat. ‘No, most unfortunately Mr Benson is wanted back in England. By the British police.’
‘Wanted?’ Cassie repeated the word softly. ‘Wanted by the police? But whatever for, Inspector?’
‘I’m sorry to say, Mrs Rosse,’ Inspector Doyle said, squaring his broad shoulders, ‘that Mr Joel Benson is wanted on a charge of murder.’
Nineteen
Joel arrived back in the drawing room only a few minutes after the police had left with their mission completed, namely to warn Cassie that the English Home Office had already opened negotiations to have Joel extradited in the case of his refusing to return to England. Inspector Doyle had, however, made no further enquiries as to the wanted man’s present whereabouts, other than to inform Cassie that should she see Mr Benson at any time in the ‘immediate future’ it might be proper to bring him up to date with the exact state of play.
‘Just listen and I’ll explain,’ Joel said, after Cassie had broken the news and indeed demanded an explanation.
‘I could have done with one earlier,’ Cassie said, stopping her pacing of the room and sitting down. ‘Coming here on the run—’
‘I am not on the run,’ Joel interrupted.
‘Joel, you are wanted for murder in England and the Home Office is trying to get you extradited,’ Cassie contradicted. ‘I call that being on the run.’
‘What about being innocent until proved guilty, Mrs Rosse? The way you’re carrying on you’d think I was sitting here with a still smoking gun in my hands.’
‘You are still on the run and I want to know why you came over here. Was it because you knew they’d have to extradite you?’
‘I told you why I came over here, Cassie.’
The Nightingale Sings Page 31