The Mystery of Sundays Well

by Anne Crosse

  “That detective fellow.”

  “You are well informed of the goings on.”

  “So, what does he want with you, Lilly? Funnelling for information I would imagine would be his purpose.”

  “You are so suspicious, Grandad.”

  “I have never trusted detectives or anyone to do with the law.”

  “All they do is try to get information out of a person. Yes, I hear you loud and clear,” Lilly said, annoyed.

  “Sneaky yokes.”

  “I like him,” Lilly said.

  “If you say so.”

  “He was very impressed about you owning three businesses.”

  “Was he now?”

  “He said Gerry was a great man to be doing two jobs.”

  “If it wasn’t for me, Gerry would be lying in bed all day. He would be twiddling his thumbs like all the other lazy good for nothings in this town who wouldn’t work their way out of a paper bag. He probably would even be on drugs.”

  “I know that, Grandad, and I know you really motivated him. He was so depressed after Dad died, and then Mam dying two years later really had a terrible effect on him. We would not have survived without you, Grandad, and don’t think for one minute that we don’t appreciate all you’ve done for us,” Lilly said.

  “Despite what you think, I worry about Gerry. Sometimes, he goes for days without opening his mouth. He has no friends whatsoever. That can’t be normal, can it?”

  “He seemed to get on great with James. He told him all about carpet laying. I was surprised he opened up so much to a total stranger.”

  “Is this James fellow going to order a carpet from us?”

  “He is staying in the Dobbyn’s Hotel, so he is hardly in need of a carpet, unless of course he persuades them to re-carpet the whole outfit,” Lilly said, and laughed.

  “I don’t know how they get away with it in that excuse for a hotel. The punters must be nose blind. The smell of those musty carpets, old as the hills. I tried persuading them to get the whole place carpeted out, but they didn’t think it was number one on their priority list. They got new beds though, I suppose that’s a start.”

  “Gerry was kind of showing off, really. He was going on about some of the clients’ little idiosyncrasies,” Lilly said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was telling James about Miss Kneeshaw, for instance.”

  “What about her?”

  “Well, he was saying how he fitted a carpet for her, and she wanted it down on top of the old one, and the offcut she wanted to be fitted up Mrs Dillon’s stairs.”

  “For the love of Jesus.”

  “What’s wrong, Grandad?”

  “That is a breach of trust.”

  “Breach of trust, for God’s sake, it’s only a carpet, Grandad, not a blooming state secret!” Lilly spluttered.

  “That brother of yours is too mouthy for his own good. Always was, and so are you, for that matter, Lilly, always mouthing off.”

  “What on earth are you talking about,” Lilly said.

  “You are probably blabbing to that detective fellow, telling him all our business. No wonder he is hanging around with you.”

  Lilly was surprised by her grandad’s outburst. What was so wrong with what Gerry told James about Miss Kneeshaw and her eccentricity? And what was he going on about saying she was telling James things, and that’s all he wanted her for? What an insult, she thought.

  She was just about to voice her opinion, when he suddenly jumped up and stormed out of the house, leaving her wondering why on earth he was after getting so upset, and more importantly, where he was going.

  She hoped his destination was not the pub to challenge Gerry.

  CHAPTER 25

  James pointed to the article on the front page of The Crier. “Will you just take a look at this bit, sir,” he said.

  “Tell me, I haven’t the patience.”

  “Firstly, it is Mossie Harrington who has written the piece.”

  “Oh yeah, the multi-talented Mossie. Go on,” Robert said.

  “According to Mossie’s report, it seems Martin Hayes, our esteemed builder, had connections with Counsellor Hanton.”

  “Yes, we know that, the refurbishing of the well. Thought that he was coming out with breaking news, did he? Mr Journalist of the Year,” Robert said.

  “Oh no, there’s much more than that, according…”

  “Look, let’s stop wasting time on the fairy stories that comic is squandering good ink on,” Robert said dismissively.

  Robert clearly had a problem with Mossie and the newspaper, James realized. Don’t ever mention The Crier again, James scolded himself.

  It was good information though, James couldn’t help thinking, and it was such a pity Robert wasn’t prepared to put his resentments aside and listen to it.

  “Con McGrath would have a grudge with the counsellor. Write that up on the board with the red chalk,” Robert said.

  “Would that be on account of John Hanton having an affair with Con’s wife?” James asked.

  “How do you know that?” Robert asked.

  “I deduced she was. Remember the day Mrs Hanton was throwing him out, she said ‘now piss off to your pommes frites bitch’.”

  Robert agonised for a minute, did he tell James about Hanne McGrath knocking on his door and declaring she was looking for John Hanton’s room? He couldn’t remember, for God’s sake. What was happening to him? These memory lapses were bad news. He would have to ease up on the drink before he forgot his own name, he thought.

  James searched through the box of chalk. There was green, yellow, white, and even blue, but not one stick of red.

  “If someone had an affair with my wife, that is, if I had a wife, I would want to kill them,” Robert said.

  “There’s no red chalk, sir,” James said, lamely.

  “Get some in the newsagents later. Prime suspects we highlight in red,” Robert said, divulging his big idea.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that. Shall I just use blue instead of red for now? I’ll make a note here that it has to be changed.”

  “Hanne McGrath, jot her down too. Hanton could have been calling it a day on their seedy little affair. You do know what they say about a woman scorned, don’t you, James?” Robert said.

  “And Mossie Harrington wasn’t too fond of Hanton, either. His article was dripping acid,” James said.

  “Write his name down in yellow.”

  “Yellow, sir?”

  “Yellow for people who wouldn’t have the balls to kill someone.”

  James picked up the yellow chalk and wrote Mossie’s name in capital letters. “He could be useful, sir, this Mossie fellow,” James remarked.

  “Alright, we will speak to him. Maybe we might get something of value out of him,” Robert conceded.

  “We are soon going to run out of room on this board at the rate we are going,” James said, and laughed.

  “The whole town has something to hide, if you ask me,” Robert said.

  For once, James was inclined to agree with his boss. Everyone had some dark secret; well, that wasn’t fair, really: some were an open book.

  “What’s the population of this town,” Robert said, wondering aloud.

  “Six thousand or thereabouts, sir,” James replied.

  “You’d want an awfully big board for that load,” Robert said, grinning.

  “And a thousand sticks of red chalk,” James said.

  “You sure would, and we would be bypassing the newsagents and going direct to the chalk factory,” Robert said.

  “And think of all the people we would be keeping in a job!” James said, and laughed.

  Robert shot James a look.

  “Sorry, sir,” James said feebly.

  “A bowl of soup wouldn’t go astray with a few crispy rolls. We’ll go to that little café at the bottom of the hill,” Robert said.

  “The Waterfront.”

  “Strange that, isn’t it? Seeing there’s no ri
ver here in town. Unless, of course, you count that stream running from the creamery to… where exactly does it run to, James?”

  “It runs out to Dunem Woods, and then, do you know something, sir? I don’t know where it goes from there.”

  “My stomach is rumbling. Onwards, James.”

  “And don’t spare the horses, I know.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Mossie Harrington squared up to Robert. “So, here we go once again round the mulberry bush,” he said.

  “Just trying to eliminate you from our enquiries. We are, if you would only realize it, doing you a favour,” Robert said.

  “So, that’s it; in your humble opinion, you are doing me a favour. Remember the time you questioned me over Judge Mangan’s murder? I don’t think you wanted to eliminate me from that enquiry though, did you?”

  “That’s all in the past,” Robert said.

  “And if it wasn’t for Maggie Lehane, you would have done me for something,” Mossie said with a scowl.

  James noticed Robert flinching at the mention of Maggie’s name, and by the look on Mossie’s face, it was evident that he’d spotted it too.

  “Your little rag is still turning out breaking news, but that is debatable. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you have reached a new low with the character assassination tactics.”

  “And what’s wrong with that? Freedom of the press, surely you know all about that,” Mossie said.

  “According to your article in The Crier, you seem to have an awful lot of inside information on John Hanton.”

  “You can get any kind of information if you are prepared to flash the cash,” Mossie smiled sardonically.

  “She’s trained you well, hasn’t she, your ex-boss. You are still in contact with her, are you?” Robert asked.

  Mossie stared at Robert. What did Maggie Lehane ever see in this grumpy old geezer? he wondered. She was not in contact with him. He had gathered that when she phoned the other night wanting an update on the doings of The Crier. She seemed really surprised when he told her that the brave Robert Carroll and his sidekick James Sayder were back in town to investigate the murders.

  “OK, Mr Harrington, the truth of the matter is, you had a grudge against Counsellor Hanton, on account of him being the cause of you being thrown out of your house. Please don’t insult my intelligence by denying it.”

  “Well, this might come as a surprise to you, but he did me and Sparky a huge favour, really. We absolutely love Forge Cottage, courtesy of Miss Maggie Lehane, and we don’t mind staying there for the rest of our lives,” Mossie said with a sneer.

  That flea-bitten dog was still alive then, Robert realized, and he must be stinking the cottage out. The one thing he would never do is have an animal in his abode. The minute you walked into a place, the smell of the critters went right up your nostrils. You could shampoo them, spray all sorts of smelly things on them, but you could never mask the pong that exuded from the four-legged critters. People had to put up with the crap they produced on footpaths because their lazy owners couldn’t be bothered to pick it up and bin it. The lyrics of ‘Me and you and a dog named Boo’ came into his head. A dog named Poo would be more apt, he thought.

  “We love it in the cottage,” Mossie said, breaking in on Robert’s thoughts.

  James wished Mossie would keep his mouth shut because he knew Robert was trying hard to contain himself.

  “Hanton was a horrible excuse for a human being. He would sell his mother for money, so nobody cares about his demise. Ask around,” Mossie said.

  “I will,” Robert answered.

  At the risk of getting a dig in the mouth from his boss, James decided to make an observation. “Your article was very informative, Mr Harrington, should you acquire more information, perhaps you might be so good as to tell us first,” he said.

  “Why, thank you very much, that’s so nice of you to say so. But then, you’re the one with the brains. Yes, I will pass on anything I hear because I like you,” Mossie said.

  Robert went red in the face. “Get him out of here before I do irreversible damage,” he muttered.

  James saw Mossie to the door.

  “Escort him off the premises,” Robert ordered.

  On the front steps of the station, Mossie tapped James on the shoulder.

  “Listen, son, I know you have a lot to put up with, but she likes him, so that means we have to keep her sweet.”

  “Maggie Lehane, you mean?” James asked.

  “What in God’s name does she see in him?” Mossie asked.

  “They say opposites attract,” James said.

  “The north pole and the south pole, you couldn’t get more opposite than that,” Mossie said, and laughed.

  “So, let me get this straight: she knows he is back here in Magnerstown?” James said.

  “She sure does.”

  CHAPTER 27

  By the time Con McGrath hauled the last sack of potatoes out of the boot of his car, his back had begun to ache severely. He had been overdosing on the painkillers of late, and if it was possible to become immune to them, then he had; because they didn’t seem to be doing the trick anymore.

  The suspension of the car was crocked with all the shite he had to collect from various places. There were no painkillers for cars, though. He would just have to keep driving the thing until it clapped out. Then he would give it a decent burial, and phone David Burke to ask him to get something on the cheap.

  David was working for a certain breakdown company, and he ran a small second-hand car business on the sly. He acquired these cars from some of the call-outs. “Not worth fixing,” he’d tell them with the most serious face he could muster, and as soon as he saw the look of helplessness, he would offer cash to take it away. If the crowd he worked for found out about his little scam, he would be issued with his marching orders pronto. This information David had told Con one night when he knocked at the door of the chipper declaring he was starving. Con, feeling sorry for the hungry man, invited him in and offered him sustenance. David was very grateful and said if ever there was anything he could do, give him a buzz.

  Con had no sooner plonked his bulk into his armchair than his daughter Marie poked her head in the door and delivered a killer blow.

  The desk sergeant at the Garda station had phoned while he was out. Marie had rattled off the message. It’s only a matter of formality, and there’s no need to panic, all you have to do is call into the station to have a chat with the detectives in order to be eliminated from their enquiries, she reported.

  This would be about the Dillon brats and Hanton the toerag, Con knew instinctively.

  The week before the Dillons disappeared, he had met them down a dark alley, as the saying goes. He gave the Dick fellow a right dig into the stomach. He would have liked to have wiped the smirk off the creep’s face, but he didn’t want any marks showing.

  He did it for Marie’s sake, but he didn’t tell her, and he knew the smart Dick didn’t tell her either. Marie and himself kept no secrets from one another, and if Dick had told her, she would have said.

  Hanne, though, was a different kettle of fish. A sneak, if ever there was one. What exactly was she doing cavorting with that gummy geek Hanton? Con had his own ideas about that. Hanton wanted the chipper, the jewellers and the houses in the middle, closed down.

  Mossie Harrington had told him about the good counsellor’s plans. He felt sorry for Mossie, turfed out of the house he had spent a lifetime in. He was lucky his boss let him live in her cottage, but that could come to an abrupt end if she happened to return. Where would he be then?

  Con’s thoughts turned to Hanne, his good wife. She had already started her serpent in the garden of Eden act. ‘Wouldn’t we be better off if we sold up and moved to a nice little cottage out in the country’ was her latest mantra.

  Was she going to get a nice sum of money from Mr Geek for her pains? Con wondered. Did the geek promise her he’d leave his wife for her?

  ‘You can’t sat
isfy your wife,’ Hanton had said, sneering, when he had confronted him down the very same dark alley he’d encountered the Dillons in. It was like history repeating itself.

  He had decided not to hit the snivelling Hanton freak, because there’d be no satisfaction in it. Hanton would only scream like a girl, and then he would go running to his two-faced sneak of a solicitor. That would be the end of the business his poor father had built up. Alright, McDonald’s it was not, but it made a living, and it was security for Marie. She was a bright girl and he wanted to give her every chance. He had some money stashed away, and he intended using it for her education. His hopes were that she would go to college, make something of herself, because she was, despite her afflictions, destined for better things.

  His thoughts turned back to the counsellor and he couldn’t help smiling. Someone had dealt out punishment to the cross between a man and a woman and, whoever it was that had done it, deserved a medal.

  “Are you alright, Dad?” Marie asked.

  “I’m fine, Marie, no need to worry. I’ll phone straight away and make an appointment to meet the detectives.”

  “You will be alright, won’t you, Dad?” Marie asked.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong, Marie, so you stop fretting now,” Con said.

  * * *

  Robert kicked off the conversation. “We only want to have a little talk.”

  “Whatever,” Con answered.

  “Can you tell us about your relationship with…”

  Con tuned out. He would call on Miss Kneeshaw as soon as he got out of here. He would warn her that there was a big unravelling job about to be done. Forearmed is forewarned, after all.

  He would also have to let Mossie Harrington know that the conversation they had when he collected his fish supper on the Friday night could have been overheard.

  Con thought back to the lethal conversation. Killing John Hanton had started out as a joke, but then it had been agreed that it might be the only way to stop him closing down the whole street.

  We should contact Miss Kneeshaw, meet up in her place and have a serious talk about it, Mossie had suggested.

  Dousing Mossie’s chips with plenty of vinegar, Con had made some throwaway remark. What it was he had said, he couldn’t remember exactly, but it was something to do with the way he would like to see the little toerag off.