Beside me, Jay chuckled. He took my arm and shoved me toward Maeve. She had saved seats for us, she murmured, leading us rapidly down a short hallway decorated with ancient bulletins and Sunday school art so old it was curling at the edges.
The coroner sat at an ordinary folding table at the front of the small auditorium. He was thumbing through a thick printout, and the green, white, and orange flag of the republic drooped at his elbow. A box had been improvised for the jury. I saw a blur of tweedy suits.
Maeve led us to seats on the far aisle, two rows from the front. The hall was packed and everyone watched us. Much whispering. I felt my ears burn, and I kept my eyes on the floor. We sat without major upheavals, I on the aisle because I would have to get out to testify.
The coroner whisked through the opening ceremonies and called Joe Kennedy. Joe was in uniform. Most of his testimony eluded me. It sounded dull and official. I was trying to remember what I had seen and done in what order.
The coroner called the police doctor. More officialese, this time confounded with doctor talk. There were no surprises. Slade Wheeler had suffered from fatty degeneration of the arteries. He died as a result of manual compression of the carotid arteries in the neck. The compression had cut off the supply of blood to the brain. What the medical examiner actually said was vagal inhibition. He meant a choke hold.
The time of death lay between 2200 hours Easter night and six the next morning. The doctor was apologetic about his vagueness, but it had been cold out. He believed that the body had been moved at least twice after death, once to the downstairs hall of the cottage and, some hours later, to the potting shed.
Slade Wheeler had been killed outdoors, very probably in Stanyon Woods, and conveyed to the cottage on a cart of some kind. The cart had not been found, but garden loam and wood fibers caught in the fabric of his fatigues suggested a gardener's large wheel barrow. The Stanyon gardeners had left their equipment by the cottage over Easter weekend. The crime laboratory was studying the possibility that one of their barrows had been used.
Post mortem bruising suggested manhandling consistent with Wheeler being carried downstairs and, later, to the shed. The medical examiner could not say how many people had been involved in transporting the corpse. Wheeler had been a large man.
The coroner was not happy with the examiner's vagueness as to the time of death, and there was a fairly sharp interchange between them, but the doctor held firm. He would not narrow the time frame. When the coroner dismissed him, he rose and made his way past me to the back of the hall. He was composed but a bit flushed.
"Call Thomas Tierney!"
I jumped. Beside me, Jay sat up straight. The hall buzzed. Everybody craned as Toss made his way from the back of the room to be sworn in.
Swearing in. Oh, God. I stole a sideways look at my father, who sat on Jay's left. Quakers do not swear. They affirm. Should I refuse to take an oath?
I listened through a haze of pointless anxiety as Toss swore to tell the truth. I was not, after all, a Quaker. I had no reason to avoid taking an oath, and no desire to create an unnecessary sidebar for the press either. My mind had engaged in irrelevance in order to avoid focusing on the here and now.
Why had they called Toss?
"Mr. Tierney, I believe you were the first to discover the body of the deceased Slade Wheeler," the coroner said, as if on cue. "Will you tell us why you came to the house known as Bedrock Cottage?"
Toss was red in the face. He mumbled and had to be prompted to speak louder. Don't mumble, I reminded myself. He was explaining about the unfinished shed and our imminent arrival.
When he described the body, it sounded as if it were exactly as I had found it. The red paint on Wheeler's forehead caused a burst of whispering. The coroner scowled at the crowd and resumed his questioning.
"He was stiff, your worship," Toss was saying. "Still and cold as a dead flounder. And he looked as if somebody laid him out. His eyes was closed, and the paint had run down over the eyelids. I thought 'twas fresh blood. 'Twas tacky, like blood. It give me a turn, your worship."
"I am not a judge," said the coroner. "It's not necessary to address me in that manner."
"Aye, sorry, your...sir."
"Did you report the presence of Mr. Wheeler's corpse to the Gardai, Mr. Tierney?"
"No, sir." Toss's eyes shifted, but he spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard over the murmurs of the audience.
"Did you notify your employers at Stanyon Hall?"
"No, sir. 'Tis this way, your worship, there's me son, Tommy..." And he went on to outline his reasons for fearing Tommy would be suspected of the killing.
The coroner, who was in his sixties and looked as if he suffered from low blood sugar, listened to Toss's chronicle impassively, though the audience was leaning forward with avid interest. He rebuked Toss—Toss looked as repentant as a sanctified and pious bawd—and let him go. Then he called me.
I gulped and stood up. Somehow I made it to the witness chair, which looked as if it had been borrowed from a very old office. I placed my hand on the Bible and mumbled the oath. Then I sat. The chair creaked.
The coroner seemed inordinately interested in how I came to be at the cottage. He took me, stage by stage, from the airport in Portland to Dublin Airport, to the car hire desk, and down the Eastlink. I tried to keep my answers brief and clear. No, I had not hired the cottage, my father had. I identified Dad by name, and the coroner made a note.
"And how did you come to enter the potting shed, Mrs. Dodge?"
Why had I looked into the shed? My mind went blank. My throat was dry. I cleared it. "I...er, it was ordinary curiosity. The door was ajar. When I tried to push it open, it, er, struck the body. I peered around to see what was blocking the entrance and I found, er, the deceased."
"Did you disturb the body in any way, Mrs. Dodge?"
"I, er, I touched the neck to see if there was a pulse—"
"Did you, indeed. Why?"
"I thought perhaps he had fainted or suffered a heart attack. I thought I might have to give CPR."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Er, cardio-pulmonary resuscitation."
He stared at me, and a rumble in the hall underlined his apparent surprise. "Are you medically trained, then?"
"I've taken CPR courses three times over the years." I was not going to explain that when I coached women's basketball at Monte Junior College the school required all the coaches to have CPR training.
"And have you used this emergency procedure?"
"Yes, but I didn't use it on Slade Wheeler," I said bluntly. "He was quite dead, as Mr. Tierney said. Cold and still stiff, as far as I could tell. I didn't try to move him, but I did touch his forehead." I raised my right hand and touched the center of my brow. "The mark looked too red and shiny to be blood, and it was dry when I touched it."
The coroner's eyebrows shot up. Murmurs from the audience. The seats nearest the exit had been reserved for the press, and I could see reporters scribbling away. The camcorder had not been allowed into the auditorium.
"Dry," the coroner repeated. "Thank you. That is a useful observation, taken with Mr. Tierney's testimony. You were remarkably cool and collected, Mrs. Dodge."
I said, "I was horrified. Still, I had to be sure he couldn't be revived. And the paint puzzled me. It looked...theatrical."
Several gasps from the crowd.
"Ah." The coroner was regarding me thoughtfully. "You're a woman, Mrs. Dodge. Did you feel no inclination to scream or faint?"
I saw the drift of his questions but remembered in time that I was in a different culture. The coroner didn't intend to be insulting. I said carefully, "I was upset, of course, but my father was resting within earshot. He suffered a stroke last summer." I glanced at Dad, and he gave me a small smile. "He has made an excellent recovery. Still, I didn't want to startle him. And I, er, don't make a habit of screaming. When I was sure Mr. Wheeler was dead, I reentered the house, went upstairs, and called the Killaveen Garda
station at once."
"You didn't dial 999?"
I drew a breath. "The number of the Garda station was on a list beside the telephone because of the cottage's security alarm system. People are always setting off their own alarms by accident. If they call the station immediately they can save the police an unnecessary trip."
"You seem very knowledgeable."
"The alarm system was explained in the detailed printout my father received from Mr. and Mrs. Stein when he hired the cottage from them. He had just read me the printout, so I knew about the Killaveen station. Sergeant Kennedy responded, and I told him what I had found in the shed. I then called Mrs. Stein who very kindly came to the cottage at once. Sergeant Kennedy arrived shortly afterwards, and I showed him the body."
"That's very clear. Did you know the deceased, Slade Wheeler?" He shot the question at me out of a clear blue sky.
"No." I clamped my mouth shut. I was explaining too much.
The coroner stared at me over the top of his glasses then nodded. "Very well. You are to be commended for your coolness in an emergency, Mrs. Dodge." He made a point of thanking me for public-spirited behavior, glared at Toss to drive the point home, and let me go.
Relief left me a little dizzy, but I found my way back to my seat. Jay took my hand and gave it a squeeze. The coroner was calling Chief Detective Inspector Mahon.
Like Joe, Mahon spoke officialese. He explained briefly that Kayla Wheeler's murder had complicated the questions raised by her brother's death, that Kayla's death removed any thought that the first death might have been an accident followed by a cover-up attempt. He announced that the Gardai were pursuing the investigation as a case of murder against person or persons unknown.
"Then you request that I adjourn this inquest?"
"I do, sir." Mahon's eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness, and he looked edgy, but his voice was calm.
The coroner scrutinized the jury. The mostly male faces seemed mildly disappointed. He dismissed them, adjourned the session, and stood to go, clutching the printout. Mahon stood and stretched, wriggling his shoulders. The crowd rose, milling. Maeve reached over to me and patted my hand. "Bravo!"
"Thanks," I muttered. "I suppose there's no way out the back."
She leaned across Dad and Jay. "I've parked my van on the far side of the old church. Wait a few minutes until the door over there is clear, and I'll drive the three of you home."
She was as good as her word. She whisked us out past the ruined church to the van. Toss Tierney's daffodil yellow vehicle was parked beside hers. As we approached, a faded woman in a good wool coat got out and greeted Maeve.
Maeve said, "Is he home yet, Teresa?"
"Tonight, God willing." She turned to us. "You'll be the Dodges, then, and Professor Dailey. I'm Teresa Tierney, Toss's wife. I must thank you for talking sense into Toss." She blinked and gave a watery smile. "And now my Tommy's coming home, too."
We shook hands, and Dad murmured something sympathetic.
"Ah, you're that kind," she said in her soft, lilting voice, "and your poor daughter, having to speak out like that in front of all them reporters." She turned to Jay. "Mr. Dodge, thank you. 'Twas grand advice. Toss swears by you. And Mrs. Dodge." She shook my hand and gave me a look that was warm with compassion. "Ah, the creature."
We escaped with Teresa Tierney's blessings raining down on us. Maeve jolted the van through the departing crowd rather like a tank driver edging through a friendly infantry column. I spotted Alex and Barbara in a clot of reporters.
Maeve zipped down Suicide Lane and took the Stanyon turn- off.
"Hell, I forgot my computer," Jay muttered. "It's in the Toyota."
"Never mind. Walk up to the church in an hour, and it'll be there waiting for you. That lot won't hang about long." She steered through the rhododendron arch, and the cottage came into view. "Bloody hell."
A patrol car sat on the gravel by the front door. As we neared, we could hear the alarm sounding.
Chapter 11
What's the news, what's the news, O me bold chevalier
Irish song
Maeve rolled down her window. The uniformed Garda, a fresh-faced kid who looked sixteen and was probably twenty-five, walked over to the van. She raised her voice over the raucous alarm bell. "Hullo, Declan. What's the trouble?"
He bent down, the better to be heard, and gave her a two- fingered salute. "I don't know yet, Miss Butler. I just got here. The front door was ajar. When the alarm lit up at the station, I hopped in the car and called for the lads at Stanyon. They'll be here in a pig's wink."
Jay got out, and I followed. Dad stayed in the van. The bell continued to clang. Jay introduced himself to the constable, whose surname was Byrne, and they shook hands.
The Garda touched his visor when Jay said my name. He turned back to Jay. "D'ye see, sir, the burglar may still be inside."
"And you want back-up? I don't blame you." Jay approached the front door from the side, walking with care along the grassy edge of the gravel. He didn't step up onto the small stone porch or touch the door handle, but he did peer through the window. "No sign of movement. Have you gone down to the back door?"
"No, then. Was it locked?"
"We locked both outside doors, checked the windows, and set the alarm before we left for the inquest."
The constable nodded. "Right, sir. I'll just go in— Ah, that'll be the boys from the Hall."
A marked car approached rather too rapidly, slewing on the gravel, and pulled off onto the turf on the far side of the van. The light was revolving. It stopped, the door opened, and Joe Kennedy emerged. He was still in uniform.
Byrne stiffened to attention. I thought he looked dismayed.
Joe gave Jay and me a nod and took Constable Byrne aside for a low-voiced consultation.
The alarm bell was driving me nuts. I tugged Jay's arm. "Have you got the code?"
He drew the slip of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket. "Yes, but I can't..."
Joe came over to us. "It's a fine day for the guards. The lad took off in such a flurry he forgot to bring the keys and the code."
Jay's mouth eased in a smile. He flapped the paper. "Lark wrote it down for me."
"What it is to have foresight." Joe didn't return the smile. I suppose he was embarrassed for his subordinate whose ears were bright red.
Jay said, "I think there's a shoe print on the porch."
"Let's hope it's not Declan's. He churned the gravel in front of the door with his great heavy boots. At least he didn't dash in over the evidence and thrust himself into the villain's arms."
I forebore to mention that Byrne had been ready to dash into the cottage when we arrived. It seemed unkind. "The alarm."
"In a minute, missus. I think our bird has flown, but I'd feel easier if you got into the van."
I opened my mouth to protest, closed it, and crawled back inside the van. To my surprise, Jay followed me.
Joe was giving Maeve directions. I could tell from the set of her jaw that she was not happy. She revved the engine, and Joe stepped away.
Dad said, "What's going on?"
I patted his hand.
"They think the burglar may still be in the cottage," Jay said.
I kept my tone light. "Maybe it's not a burglar at all. Maybe it's an over-zealous reporter looking for color."
"Lovely thought." Maeve shifted gears and began to back the van along the lane. When she had cleared Joe's car she pulled around onto the turf behind it and set the brake.
The alarm bell continued its maddening clangor. It was so loud I didn't notice the other patrol car approaching from Stanyon until it passed us. It drew up in front of Joe's car. Two uniformed Gardai jumped out, and Joe went to meet them.
Dad was grumbling under his breath. Maeve turned around. "I daresay they'll take hours sorting this." Her observation was directed at Jay.
"Could be."
"It's noon. I've a tutoring session in Dublin at half three."
&nbs
p; Jay meditated.
I dug in my purse and found my keys. "Why don't I walk back to the road and get the car? Then we can sit in it, or drive to Arklow for lunch, and let Maeve go about her business."
I expected Jay to offer to go for the car himself, but he just nodded, "One of us should retrieve the Toyota. I'm worried about my computer."
One of us. I reached past him and turned the handle. The door slid back. I crawled over his knees and got out, bumping my handbag across his lap. "See you in ten minutes."
Dad said, "I'll come with you, Lark."
"Thanks..." I started to say it wasn't necessary then bit the words back. Why shouldn't my father come with me? As I waited for him I glanced at the Gardai. They were still conferring and had apparently not noticed my emergence. I gave Dad my hand as he stepped down. He straightened, grimacing slightly.
"Okay?"
He nodded. "I need to stretch my legs."
Jay stuck his head out. "Wait a minute, Lark. Do you have the key to the downstairs door on that keychain?"
"Yes."
"Leave it with me. Kennedy may decide to enter the house there."
I found the right key, removed it and handed it to him.
"Take care," he said, without taking his eyes from the cluster of uniformed men.
I turned to Maeve who was craning around, watching us. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Don't let Jay do anything foolish."
She looked startled. He ignored the comment. I don't think he heard it.
I hate hiking in pumps. The gravel felt rough through my thin soles, and I kept thinking I was going to twist an ankle. Dad gave me his arm. Pumps were probably invented by a man who wanted women to cling. We walked slowly. The policemen must have seen us by then, but they didn't call us back. The alarm continued to shrill.
Before we reached the rhododendron arch I turned around and looked at the cottage. Jay had got out of the van and was huddling with the uniforms.
Dad said, "I hope we won't have to leave the cottage."
That was a gruesome thought. "We could move to Ballymann House."
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