The Kilternan Legacy

by Anne McCaffrey

  “You don’t suppose they think I had something to do with her death, the way Alice says?” I asked the twins.

  “Ah, fer carrying out loud, Mom.” Simon was disgusted.

  The mailman came, quite willing to have a chat with me. I had about got used to the Dublin accent, but his, with flat broad A’s and a curious nasal quality, had me so fascinated that I really didn’t hear what he was saying—at first.

  “She what?”

  “‘Tis thought, missus, that the poor old thing died from her heart.”

  “Her heart? With that hole in her head?”

  He dismissed that with a “bosh!”

  “I heard that the coroner himself said that ‘twas her heart give out, missus, not her head.”

  “Then her son didn’t kill her?”

  “Now I’m not saying that, missus. I’m only telling you what I heard.”

  “She hit her head against something when she fell?”

  Again he claimed ignorance. “Did you not get a good look at your prowler last night?” he asked.

  “How did you hear that?”

  He cocked his head at me, his bright brown eyes twinkling at my amazement. He patted his canvas postbag. “Not all the news that gets about is written, missus.”

  “Evidently!”

  He had, however, a stack of mail for me. “All from Ameriky, I see. All airmail. Desperate the cost of stamps, isn’t it?”

  We discussed the weather then, and despite the innocent subject, I found I enjoyed the chat. As the twins had discovered their first time out, people took time to talk in Ireland, and they really seemed to be interested in what you were saying. The observation now had a double edge. I shook myself sternly as I watched the little postman amble back down my lane. Was I becoming paranoid? As Shay had said, the American was news.

  I riffled through the letters. Most of them were for the children. I had letters from Betty, Mother, my sister Jen, and two bills. I’d a lot to tell Betty and Mother, certainly.

  They had a lot to tell me first, however.

  “What’s the matter, Mother?” asked Snow, briefly interrupting her stream of “oh nos,” giggles, and assorted monosyllables.

  “Guess,” asked Simon sarcastically, waving his own letter, his expression one of deep disgust. “Or maybe he hasn’t bothered any of your friends yet?”

  “Oh that!”

  “What do you mean, Simon?” I asked, alarmed enough on my own account.

  “Just that Dad’s been to Pete Snyder, Doug Nevins, Popper Tracey, and—”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Ahhh, had they heard from me in Ireland, where was I, what were we doing there, and-”

  “Oh, Mom, don’t worry!” Then Snow made a face as she gave me a second, longer look. “Okay, what’s Aunt Betty saying?”

  “That your father has been phoning constantly, wanting to know what we were doing, what I was up to, taking his children away from him.”

  “I’ll bet I know what Aunt Betty told him,” said Simon, chuckling. He was very fond of Betty and her droll manner of speech.

  “More or less,” I said by way of agreement but without elaborating. I reread Betty’s disturbing news:

  Teddie-boy seems positive that you have a) gone off with another man, totally unsuitable as a stepfather for his children, b) inherited a fortune, which is amusing when you consider that he had categorized the Irish as a shiftless lot of do-nothings, ignorant, stupid, and lazy. Between you and me, I hope you did inherit a fortune. Frankly, you may need it. Teddie was raving about withdrawing support money until you capitulated. So I took the liberty of phoning Hank. Then if Teddie is day-one late, Hank can leap on him. I won’t tell you not to worry, because you will and do. But I want you to know that if there isn’t a pot of gold, and Teddieboy cuts off the support money, you need only wire Charlie and me for moral and financial assistance. I mean it, honey.

  It was so like Betty to offer help. But Teddie couldn’t… or would he? I didn’t have all that much left in my checking account. I knew we shouldn’t have spent so much on paint!

  Being a glutton for punishment, I hurriedly opened Mother’s letter. She had much the same news and suspicions as Betty, and had conveyed the same to Hank. I began to get angrier and angrier. Mother closed her letter by saying that I could always count on her for any financial help I needed to tide me over. And if I trotted obediently back to the States to placate Teddie-boy, I was no daughter of hers.

  I was wondering where Ted had got his notion that I had inherited a lot of money when I opened Jen’s letter and found out. Of course, she had known all along that I was to be Irene’s principal beneficiary, and now I learned that Aunt Irene had even consulted Jen’s lawyer-husband about American tax laws. Unfortunately, Jen had taken great pleasure in informing Teddie of my good fortune: “I told Teddie that Aunt Irene had left you enough to buy and sell his agency if you chose.”

  My dear elder sister occasionally gets carried away!

  “I’d have Hank write him a letter, Rene, threatening him with a court injunction before he alienates all your friends. He’s calling everyone, saying the most outrageous things about you and your reasons for going to Ireland. I used to think you exaggerated about that man. Now I know you didn’t tell the half. So I owe you an apology.”

  I could just wish that she owed me the allegiance of silence, too. Jen always meant well.

  When I lowered the last page of her letter, I saw that both my children were waiting.

  “Your father doesn’t seem to approve of our sojourn in Ireland.”

  “So … what else is new?” asked Simon.

  “Has your father—”

  “Missed anyone?” asked Snow sarcastically. “I doubt it. According to him, Ireland is the bog of iniquity, the cesspit of humanity, the modern Sodom and Gomorrah-gold-plated and shamrock-trimmed, of course. I mean, like, what is with the man, Mommy?” A hint of desperation had crept into her final question.

  “When we were home,” Simon said, “he only saw us if it rained and he couldn’t play golf. Or if he was throwing”—Simon’s expression turned very adult and hard—“one of his bashes and needed free butling and a … a cook.”

  “What did you start to say, Simon?”

  “We know Snow can’t cook that well!”

  I knew that he knew that he hadn’t fooled me. But I also realized that I wouldn’t get him to explain … not yet, at any rate.

  “Not to change the subject,” Simon said, doing precisely that as he stood up, “I gotta answer some of these. With the expurgated truth. I don’t have much time before our taxi arrives. You ready, Snow?”

  “Will be. Now, Mother, you write Hank—if Gammy hasn’t already talked his ear off. There must be something you can do to shut Daddy up.” She rose, frowning at me. “And don’t stand there wringing your hands. Take positive action. Write!”

  I got my writing case, located a ballpoint that wasn’t clogged with grease (other people’s ballpoints always write better for me than my own), and settled myself at the little table in the living room. I’d a view of the front garden of my queendom, the rolling field beyond, and to the left up the hill… the hill that Shay Kerrigan wished to populate with … no, he’d definitely said they wouldn’t be ticky-tacky boxes. And if he positioned them judiciously …

  I forced myself away from the subject of Shamus Kerrigan. I was spending far too much time thinking about that charmer.

  My hand had got a cramp by the time Mark Howard came up the lane to collect my pair.

  “Now, don’t worry about us if we’re not back for supper, Mom,” Snow said, kissing me. “You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

  “If someone doesn’t try to murder me, yes, of course.” I meant to be funny but Snow’s eyes got very wide. “For Pete’s sake, Snow, go along. I’ll be perfectly all right.”

  I was, and then again, I wasn’t. I finished my letters and made myself some lunch, feeling a little lonely. Ah, well, I was truly delighted
that the twins had met such an amiable group and were getting about.

  I was drying my lunch dishes when I thought of it. If old Mrs. Slaney had died of a heart attack, then Tom would have been released from jail. And he might come back here.

  Michael Noonan’s line was busy, so I hopped down to Kieron’s house, but he was out. Then I recalled that Shay Kerrigan was very friendly with Sean the Garda.

  Shay Kerrigan told me not to worry—he was highly amused by the fact that I was worried, but he’d phone Sean the Garda right away and give me a shout back.

  I was sitting on the steps, waiting for that reassurance, when I heard a car stopping in the lane. One thing certain, Tom Slaney had no car. I peered cautiously out through the glassed porch, because I also didn’t wish to encounter any of those aunts of mine. From the angle of the window and the front porch, I could catch only a glimpse of masculine shoulders and trouser legs.

  Never in my right mind would I have voluntarily opened the door for Brian Kelley, but it was he, smiling pleasantly, an exercise that only reminded me of Porky Pig in a winning mood.

  “Yes, Mr. Kelley?”

  “My client has requested that I approach you again, as he is willing to increase his original offer to you.”

  “Mr. Kelley, I can do nothing until probate is accomplished.”

  “Then you do intend to sell?” His eagerness was palpable.

  I developed a case of the “smarts,” as Snow would call it.

  “I’m not at all sure I can abide remaining here,” I said, and shuddered as I glanced toward Mrs. Slaney’s cottage. Of course, he might not have … ah, but from the expression in his eyes, that leaping of porcine hope, I could see that he had.

  “Most regrettable, most regrettable.”

  “Well, you can appreciate my position. Even if the coroner’s verdict was heart failure …” He didn’t know that. “However, if you could assist in speeding up the probate, and, of course, the price is right, I’d be most happy to see the last of this place.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that matters can be speeded up most satisfactorily,” and he was rubbing his sausage hands together with anticipation. “Oh, that won’t be a problem at all.”

  “Ah …” I stopped him as he turned to go. “You didn’t mention how much higher your client was willing to go?”

  “Well, I’ve managed to get him to offer thirty-five thousand pounds,” he said, with the smug satisfaction of the wily entrepreneur.

  “Yes, that would be a lot of money, wouldn’t it?” I managed to sound impressed and wistful, although I knew the property was worth double that.

  “And I can have a word with the odd man and see that there’s no delay in probate.” He leaned toward me with the conspiratorial subtlety of a sea lion.

  “You would? I mean, I don’t want to be stuck here in Ireland any longer than necessary.”

  “Nothing could be easier, my dear Mrs. Teasey. Particularly once my client is assured of your acceptance. Of course, it wouldn’t be wise to mention the fact that you’d accepted. I mightn’t be able to speed matters up if word got about.”

  “Oh, of course, naturally. Mum’s the word,” and I started to ease the door shut.

  He’d his hand raised to keep it open when the phone saved me.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” I said, “you’ll have to excuse me. And do let me know if you’re able to secure probate.” I gave him my most beatific smile and all but slammed the door in his face.

  Shay was chuckling as he told me that Scan the Garda said that Tom Slaney was still very much in the nick, “so as not to be an embarrassment to the nice American lady.”

  “He’s not being accused or anything?”

  “Well, I believe the fiction is that he is assisting the Gardai with their inquiries. In short, they’re not quite satisfied with his varied interpretations of the last interview he had with his mother. But the cause of death was definitely heart failure. The head wound hadn’t bled sufficiently for it to have happened before her death. Sorry about the details, Rene,” he said, for I’d given an audible gasp. “Still, Tom wasn’t your prowler, so Sean the Garda said they’d be keeping a tactful surveillance on the lane for you. Could have been a tinker for all of that.”

  We chatted a few more moments about the latest Kelley encounter, and then he excused himself. I was a little disappointed that he hadn’t asked if he could drop by that evening. Then I chided myself that he’d given up a good deal of his time already to sorting out my problems. And further, I oughtn’t to put myself under too great an obligation to him.

  Why had Aunt Irene turned against him? Or had he just come on sweet enough to her to get access up the lane? No—from what George and the Ladies had said, the friendship had been of long standing.

  To take my mind off such dilemmas, I began to commune with the house. Since I was now obliged to stay here for the summer, I intended to make this house into my home. We would need additional pieces of furniture. Simon couldn’t continue living out of a suitcase, and Snow wouldn’t stay happy long in her sparsely furnished room. There was no reason why Hillside Lodge couldn’t be turned into a very elegant Georgian farmhouse.

  I found the previous evening’s newspaper and scanned the announcements of furniture sales and auctions. I had seen auction room signs on my travels. Recently… I thought hard and remembered where, in Dun Laoghaire. So to Dun Laoghaire I repaired, notions of what to look for bouncing about in my mind.

  The people in Buckley-the-Auctioneers were delightful and explained the whole thing to me: that you viewed the furniture on a Wednesday and up till 2:30 on a Thursday, and then waited until the lot number came up and put in your bid. If you were successful, you collected your new possession on the Friday. There were a few beautiful pieces on display in this section of Buckley’s, but suitable only for rooms four times the size of my farmhouse. Still, I could see that I’d be spending a lot of time haunting auction rooms, looking for what the Buckley’s people described as the “odd piece.” I was beginning to appreciate the unique flavor of the Irish “odd.”

  The weather hadn’t exactly settled out into a clear day, but it was bright, with tremendous clouds skittering across the sky, and black thunderheads that went innocently about their business despite omnipresent threats of deluge. And with such clear air, the views were superb—of sea on the one hand, a brilliant blue-green in the sun, and the hills, equally green and worthy of description, on the other.

  I followed the “scenic route” until it fed into the main Bray road and then took an inspired right just before the town, toward Wicklow. When I was about convinced that there was nothing spectacular in this direction, I came to a dual carriageway, and the urge to try the Mercedes at speed was unbearable. Away I went, and the car could really travel. After a lunch at the Glenview Hotel, I found my way back via a different route.

  Dublin summer evenings are blessed with a golden light, a clarity which lifts all out of the commonplace. The effect of so many rainbows? The leakages from a commensurate number of pots of gold?

  I drove up my own lane, enjoying an unusually euphoric sense of well-being. Mary and Molly were gardening in the golden light, the scene positively idyllic. Mary beckoned me to join her. Trying not to behave like lady-of-the-manor, I parked my car in my drive and went back to join them. The only flaw in the scene was the closed door of Ann’s cottage.

  “Kieron took them all on a picnic up Ballycorus Hill,” Mary said, smiling to relieve my anxiety.

  The sense of tranquility returned, and I sat on the grass, plucking the odd (I was getting obsessed with the word) weed from the border.

  “Ann was that worried, I know she didn’t sleep last night,” Mary told me. “For all of that, neither did Kieron.” She laughed a little. “He’d’ve done better to sleep across her threshold instead of sitting up all night at the gate.”

  “Do you think it was her husband last night?”

  Mary shrugged. “Who can say? I’d guess no, for surely, as I remember th
e man, he’d’ve been back as soon as all was quiet again, trying to sneak in the window.”

  “He’d be that persistent?”

  She gave me a piercing look, as if I were a trifle lacking in wit. Then she gave a little sigh. “Of course, you’ve never met him, so you’d not know.”

  I shook my head vigorously and was restored to her good opinion.

  “I suppose because this is a Catholic country, divorce is out of the question?” Mary nodded. “But isn’t there something she can do?”

  Mary yanked fiercely at a small innocent buttercup. “Stay out of his reach!”

  “Not even if she can prove … what do they call it… oh, ‘irreconcilable differences and breakdown of the marriage’?”

  Mary shook her head again.

  “Well, at least she has Kieron to help her.” My observation may have been casual, but it had the effect of a casual bomb on Mary.

  “She wants no part of Kieron Thornton! Or any man!” Mary’s savage tone didn’t apply to just Ann.

  “You feel that way about George Boardman?” It just popped out.

  Poor Mary. I seemed to be saying all the wrong things and distressing her no end. She looked frantically about her as if the fuchsia hedge had sprouted transistorized “bugs.”

  “You just got here last week!” she exclaimed, which confirmed my suspicions about Mary and George.

  “My ex-husband used to say that I was magnetic for disasters and secrets. The rule of Rene— anything that can possibly go wrong will.”

  She touched my hand with quick remorse. “I didn’t mean it that way, Rene.”

  “I know. And I’m generally the last person to see subtleties of any kind. It’s just that I saw the look on Kieron’s face when Ann discovered …” and I gestured toward Mrs. Slaney’s empty house, noticing that someone had boarded up the window Kieron’d broken. “And then George comes baring in here wild-eyed and bushy-haired for you and Molly, so it was obvious to me. Why are you worried that others would see it? I think George is a doll… And … oh, but you’re not married and not divorced. What the hell, what difference dies it make?”