by Dicey Deere
“It can be fixed, Kevin.” Mr. Coffey handed him back the fork and handle. “Meantime, you’ll find another fork in box number four. Four is storage, for now.”
“Yes, Mr. Coffey.”
Taking down the other pitchfork, Kevin wondered if he and Mr. Coffey would be out of a job. They said in the kitchen that Winifred Moore, the new owner, didn’t plan to keep a stable. Mr. Coffey had a long face on him about it. Troubled, he was. Gloomy. And a bit jumpy.
37
It rained all weekend. The mountains around Ballynagh disappeared, hidden by drifting rags of fog. Hazy yellow lights shone from O’Malley’s Pub and the few shops. The fruit on Stevens’ outdoor stand was wet; people sloshed with hunched shoulders; the bus splashed its way on the main street, north to Dublin, south to Cork. Sergeant Bryson had Saturday afternoon off; he was in his garage at home, working on his bicycle.
In the Ballynagh garda station Saturday afternoon, Inspector O’Hare sat absorbed over an open account book on his desk. Strange and revealing this account book. In some way that he couldn’t understand, it gave Inspector O’Hare a sense of poetry. Yet there was no poetry on the pen and ink pages. It was, simply, a small account book he had taken from Miss Tunet’s bedroom at Castle Moore.
Miss Tunet earned money erratically: Greece, Portugal, Spain, Belgium. Jobs that paid decent amounts of money. She spent it confusingly. She lived as frugally as the Little Match Girl. She drove a ten-year-old car. She’d bought no clothes during the past year except a winter coat from a thrift shop in Boston, thirty dollars. She’d sent away to a mail-order house for a six-dollar gadget for cutting her own hair. Yet she was making sizeable monthly payments for an expensive van with special handicap controls. The van had undoubtedly been bought for Donna Lefebvre, the paralyzed victim of Miss Tunet’s first thievery. A guilt purchase. So Miss Tunet at least felt guilt or remorse about her friend. Maybe she had two sides: good and evil.
Inspector O’Hare sat back. Miss Tunet’s career, her interpreting jobs, took her to countries all over Europe and Eastern Europe. A beautiful cover-up for stealing. O’Hare pulled thoughtfully at his nose. Miss Tunet had an oddly lovely face beneath that satiny swatch of dark hair that fell across her brow; she could get away with a lot with a man, make a dupe of him until too late. Maybe she gloried in it. Maybe she kept double books and had an account book of a strangely different nature secreted somewhere.
The phone rang. It was Chief Superintendent O’Reilly in Dublin. “The Desmond Moore investigation, Inspector,” came O’Reilly’s deep voice. “Ms. Winifred Moore, of London, will inherit Castle Moore and other assets of her late cousin. So I presume—”
“Yes, Superintendent,” O’Hare said quickly, “I’m aware that Miss Moore has had considerable enmity toward her cousin—her parents having been cut out of the Moore fortune thirty-five years ago and it no doubt rankling. I have an appointment to question Miss Moore on Monday as to her whereabouts at the time of Desmond Moore’s death.” O’Hare felt an enormous relief to be able to report his appointment with Winifred Moore to Chief Superintenent O’Reilly. He had, always, a chilling fear that he would overlook a simple, obvious bit of routine investigation; he had nightmares of his superiors at the Garda Siochana headquarters in Dublin regarding his dereliction with surprise, scorn, contempt. Or worse: laughter. He added, now, “The bits and pieces are falling well into place.” When Superintendent O’Reilly had hung up, O’Hare thought, Waste of time questioning Winifred Moore. He looked down at the account book on his desk. Yes. Pointless to interrogate Winifred Moore.
38
On Sunday afternoon, in the unseasonably cold and drizzling weather, Rose arrived back at Castle Moore from her trip to London. She was so exhausted that she was trembling. She dropped her overnight case on the chair in her room in the west wing, pulled off her wet raincoat, and collapsed onto the bed. The crossing from England to Dun Leoghaire on the Seal-ink ferry had been rough; a lot of passengers had been seasick, though Rose had only felt queasy and had eaten nothing on the ferry. Then there had been the bus trip to Dublin, changing to the bus that went through Ballynagh, and walking along the hedged road and up the winding drive to Castle Moore beneath a lowering sky in the raw, bone-chilling drizzle. She yearned for a cup of hot tea and some crackers and jam. Later, when she got up the energy, she’d undress, put on her flannel bathrobe, and fill her electric teapot at the bathroom faucet. The jam and the box of crackers were on the closet shelf.
“So you’re back.” Janet stood in the doorway, tying on a starched, freshly ironed white apron. Her small eyes, so monkeylike, looked searchingly at Rose. “How is Hannah? Did she come back with you?”
Rose smiled at Janet, grateful for the concern in Janet’s whiskey-hoarse voice. It was no secret to Rose that Janet Slocum went often to Dublin to sit at AA meetings in church basements and community houses, going off even on rain-swept days or on cold winter nights, taking the bus to Dublin and back. The knowing had somehow made a closer friendship between them; they shared confidences.
“Hannah’s fine, but she’s staying in London two more days. The ferry trip would have been too rough for her, considering…”
They looked at each other. Rose settled back and closed her eyes. “In two weeks, Hannah will be seventeen.”
39
On Sunday afternoon, Luke crossed the immense, lofty hall of Castle Moore, his footsteps echoing on the polished flagstones. He went into the library, walking now on priceless Aubusson carpets. The library was gloomy, the long windows rain darkened; it had been raining all day. Luke pressed a switch on the left of the carved doorway. A half-dozen lamps on chests, tables, and breakfronts immediately lit the library with soft lights.
Luke crossed to the broad mahogany table. He would collect his sketches for the landscaping project. Desmond’s tax-saving landscaped gardens were a vanished dream. Good-bye to his twenty-thousand-dollar fee. And good-bye to poor Desmond, most foully murdered.
He glanced at the gilt-framed painting of the Duke of Comerford. Ruddy-faced Albert, Duke of Comerford, in his flowered waistcoat, one well-kept hand on his gold-knobbed cane. Had Duke Alfred beaten the stable boy with that gold-knobbed cane? Or had he snatched up a horse whip and whipped the boy? Rage and power spinning out of control.
Luke turned from the portrait. Four of his six rolled-up sketches were on the mahogany table. He saw the other two behind Desmond’s leather chair at the Florentine desk, propped against the bookcase whose bottom shelf held a row of videos.
He picked up his sketches, glancing at the titles on the video sleeves. Then he looked more closely, surprised. Landscaping of Traditional Gardens and Irish Gardens, Twentieth Century. The sleeves of those two videos looked well-handled, the corners worn.
Luke’s eyebrows rose. Had he underrated Desmond Moore’s aesthetic interest in landscaping? Had Desmond had a stronger interest in Irish gardens than Luke had suspected?
The video player was on an ornate, polished table beside the fireplace. Luke loaded the Irish Gardens, Twentieth Century video into the player, turned on the power, set the channel, and pressed the play button. The video came on.
Five minutes later, sickened, he turned it off. He removed the cassette and put it back in the bookcase, next to the other well-handled Landscaping of Traditional Gardens, which he could only presume would be as obscene, as lascivious, as perverted as the cassette he had viewed.
Then he stood whistling between his teeth, eyes narrowed, thinking. What he was thinking was farfetched. But … worth pursuing?
He left the library.
40
In her bedroom, Torrey wearily put down the list she’d made of words that were the latest slang with Hungarian teenagers. The newest slang in Budapest could pop up at the conference, even from that fussy Hungarian who had recovered from his upset stomach but had now lost his voice. Laryngitis.
All this rainy weekend, she’d worked on her translations. Luckily, she hadn’t been fired from the Hungarian-
Belgium job. She guessed that the Hungarians and the French-speaking Belgians didn’t look at Ireland’s RTE television or read The Irish Independent. Or maybe they’d felt they couldn’t easily shift horses in midstream? She was their original horse.
Meantime, until little Mr. Fusspot got his voice back, which might be in a day or even a week, she was on reduced pay. So—She shivered. She had time to worry, to sweat, to drive herself half-mad trying to figure out how to save herself from an indictment for murder and theft.
She pushed aside the list of Hungarian slang and got up. She was in her gray slacks and black turtle-neck. It was already six-thirty; she should shower and change for dinner. Winifred had invited her and Luke to remain at Castle Moore as her guests during the investigation.
A gust of wind, a spatter of rain; curtains billowed at one of the long windows. She crossed to close it. At the window she gazed out a moment at the gray veil of rain over the hills and craggy mountains; somehow beautiful. She leaned out and looked down to the left. She could see one end of the stables. There, on the cement walkway, Brian Coffey and Kevin had come upon Desmond Moore’s body.
Brian Coffey. And Kevin, the new lad.
Torrey drew back inside. She pulled the window closed and latched it. Brian Coffey. And Kevin.
She stood by the window a moment longer, thinking.
Tomorrow morning after breakfast she would drop in at the stables.
41
Monday morning at eight o’clock, the air was brisk and sunny; fat white clouds floated in a brilliant blue sky.
In the stable yard, Brian Coffey said apologetically to Torrey, pushing a hand through his red hair, “No, ma’am, sorry ma’am, not the chestnut, not Black Pride, he’s too big and strong willed. Only Mr. Desmond rode Black Pride.”
“Oh…? I just thought he was beautiful. Any horse will do then,” Torrey lied. She smiled innocently at Brian Coffey and twitched her nostrils as though she might smell out a whiff of a clue to Desmond Moore’s murderer.
She had awakened at six. She didn’t have jodhpurs or breeches and boots, but wore blue jeans and sneakers, a white pullover, and a khaki waterproof shell. She’d had a buttered roll and a cup of coffee standing up in the kitchen, too tense to eat anything more.
“Well, what horse then?” If she had to ride some damned horse to justify her coming to the stables, she’d do it. Covertly, she studied Brian Coffey. He had a thin, worried-looking face, an unhappy face. And pale. As though his freckled skin might never have been touched by the sun; it was not a skin that tanned.
“The brown mare, then,” Brian Coffey said. “You can have Walk Baby. She hasn’t yet had her morning exercise.”
“Fine.” She followed Brian Coffey into the stables, close on his heels. She looked around at the stalls with their half doors. The hay-strewn cement walkway smelled of horse and fresh hay. Kevin stood before a stall, filling a red aluminum pail with a hose; he ducked his head at Torrey. He looked as innocent as a gosling. “Ma’am,” he said, as they passed.
In their stalls, two horses jerked their heads at her. One lifted a quivering lip, showing yellow teeth, and stamped its feet. A rusty pail of currycombs sat on a low wooden bench.
In front of box four, Torrey saw an open carton filled with shiny new steel hasps. The door of the stall itself was a splintered mess of rotten wood.
“That’s where…?” Torrey stopped and folded her arms. Come on, Brian, let’s chat, let’s talk. Tell me about it, Brian. I’m a friend, Brian, right? Finding Mr. Desmond’s body must have been a horror, right, Brian? She toed a bunched bit of damp hay.
“Yes, that’s it.” Brian’s voice was toneless as he gazed at the splintered door. “That was Black Pride’s stall. That day … the murder … When it happened, the loud noise terrified Black Pride; he went wild. Burst right through that old, rotting wood.” Brian blew out a breath; Torrey smelled stale beer. Loud noise? Did he mean voices? More than voices?
“All the stalls needed new doors,” Brian went on in that odd, dead tone. “Mr. Desmond had already ordered the wood and hardware, new hasps and such. But now…” Brian kicked the carton of hardware. His shoulders had a defeated look.
“Loud noise?” Torrey’s heart beat hard. She said, deliberately scornful, “Voices aren’t that loud! And horses are used to barking dogs. So you can’t tell me—”
“The shot!” The words burst defensively from Brian Coffey. Then he gasped and jerked his head up. The look he gave her was as startled and confused as though the words had not come from him. “No, I mean their voices were loud … like shooting anger at each other, like shots. That’s it … That’s what I meant.”
Torrey felt a wild, dizzying excitement. Got you, Brian! Desmond had been viciously knifed to death. But … a shot? Could there have been a gunshot that Brian Coffey hadn’t reported to Inspector O’Hare? Brian Coffey must know more than he’d told. She’d find out what it was. But don’t rush it. Brian had hunched up his shoulders as though he’d ducked back into a shell.
Now, damn it, she’d have to ride that mare, Walk Baby, or Brian might get the wind up.
* * *
Two miles from Castle Moore, she reined in the mare. This was surely a bridle path she had come across; there were distinct hoofprints in the soft earth and broken branches on one side. Possibly it was the bridle path that Desmond Moore and Brian Coffey had taken two days before Desmond was murdered, the day the man from Helsinki was strangled. She looked around at the woods. It hummed with crickets; birds sang; small creatures scurried in the underbrush.
A branch snapped. She turned in the saddle. Nothing. Nobody. But somewhere out there was Desmond Moore’s murderer. She imagined a still, watching figure, a masked face, the murderer’s head in a black, knitted balaclava. Under the mask, he was smiling. He wanted her to pay for his evil deed, while he went free.
He was out there, somewhere. But she was on a track. She would keep Brian Coffey in her sights.
42
At eight o’clock Monday morning, Luke Willinger walked quickly through the upper hallway and down a half-dozen stone steps. He made a right turn and was in the south wing of the castle.
His head ached. Appalling nightmares of men and children, outgrowths of Desmond’s Irish Gardens, Twentieth Century video, had awakened him during the night, leaving him feeling as if he was gasping on some rocky shore, only to drift asleep again and be borne back into a poisoned tide.
Then, abruptly awake, he’d suddenly remembered something Janet Slocum had told him at their second encounter at the coffee shop in Dublin. Janet Slocum, an odd one, with bits of conjecture that she dropped at odd moments. Janet Slocum … finger tapping significantly at her temple. He’d have a look right now.
He’d dressed quickly in corduroy pants, white shirt, and black V-necked sweater. Whatever hell people made on earth, it was a glorious morning, the air a drink of fresh cold water through his open windows.
He strode along a corridor through a series of dark-stained, polished arches and equally dark wainscotting, with royal blue walls. At the end of the hallway on the left was a wide, ridged door with a filigreed bronze knob. Luke turned the knob and opened the door to the late Desmond Moore’s bedroom.
For the next five minutes he stood leaning back against the wrought-iron footboard of Desmond Moore’s bed, arms folded, staring at the gilt-framed oil painting on the Regency-striped red-and-gold wall. So this was the painting that Janet Slocum had told him about. “Shows he wasn’t right, upstairs”—tapping her temple—“or why’d he have that?”
It was a portrait of a lady in silks and satins. She was seated on a stone bench in a garden. She had two children at her knee, a boy and a girl, exquisitely dressed, and three lean hounds lying nearby. The little boy was about three, the girl about eight or nine.
The gold plaque on ornate frame said CATHERINE, DUCHESS OF COMERFORD AND HER CHILDREN, 1790.
* * *
Luke finally stirred. Downstairs, he came into the raftered
kitchen with its cavernous fireplace, heavy cupboards, and the big, modern iron range.
Rose was there, alone. She was at one of the marble counters, cutting bread, singing under her breath
“Morning, Rose … Is Janet about?” There would be corners of Janet’s mind, that, stirred up, would bring something important to the surface that he could grasp. He had the damndest feeling that if he could discover the machinations of the mind of the late Desmond Moore, he might save the very alive Torrey Tunet.
Rose shook her head. “Janet’s gone to Dublin. Has one of those—” she stopped, almost biting her tongue. She went red. One of those meetings, Luke guessed. An AA meeting. A meeting for drunks. Like me.
Rose cut herself a thick slice of bread. The crust crackled under the knife. “Would you like a slice, Mr. Willinger?”
“No, thanks, Rose.”
“You’re sure? ’Tis bread from heaven, that tasty! Still warm from Mrs. Devlin’s oven. I must ask Ms. Winifred, does she want to keep on having the bread delivered. T’was Mr. Desmond who’d always insisted on it.”
“Yes?” He was restlessly wandering the kitchen, thinking of the portrait in Desmond Moore’s bedroom; Dublin was a half-hour away. If Janet Slocum had gone to the eight o’clock meeting at Saint Anne’s she might be back at Castle Moore by nine-thirty.
“This here’s the heel,” Rose said. “It’s the best part, and with a dab of butter on it. Chewy.” Rose buttered the heel and put it on a plate. “Go ahead … This past week, Maureen Devlin’s been delivering it herself. A hardship, it must be, what with her having to get to O’Curry’s in Ballynagh at six.”
“Who? What?” He picked up the buttered heel and bit into it.
“Where she works. Mrs. Devlin. O’Curry’s butcher shop. Till last week, the little girl delivered the bread. Half-asleep she’d be, flaxen hair, hardly combed, lids halfway down over her eyes. Just slits of the bluest blue showing. Shy, she was. Sometimes I’d be up and have the kitchen door open and she’d hand me in the bread. A pretty little thing, the child. Finola, her name is. About eight. You’d see her playing in the woods.”