The Irish Cottage Murder

by Dicey Deere

  Sheila Flaxton, congratulating O’Hare, said, “Life is so startling, Inspector. One thinks one knows another person, but actually, one never…”

  “One never does,” O’Hare agreed and looked over at Maureen Devlin (three men, boundless sexual activities). Fergus Callaghan was standing beside her, glaring at Brian Coffey, who simply stood, looking uncertain.

  O’Hare said to Sergeant Bryson, “Get that plaid horse blanket from the stable at Castle Moore. The technical crew in Dublin will analyze it. The yellow stuff, and maybe blood.” To Brian Coffey, he said, “You’ll give a deposition at the Garda Siochana in Dublin. I’ll let you know the date.”

  Standing beside his desk, Inspector O’Hare leaned down and rubbed Nelson’s shaggy head with rough affection, meanwhile glancing sidewise at the phone. When everybody’d cleared out, he’d phone Chief Superintendent O’Reilly at Garda Siochana headquarters and say crisply, “Concerning the murder of Mr. Lars Kasvi, I’d like to report…” And so on. Then he’d listen to O’Reilly, chief superintendent of the Murder Squad at Dublin Castle, congratulate him. Next, he’d call Lars Kasvi’s family in Helsinki.

  He snapped the cassette from the recorder. Evidence. He had to give Miss Tunet credit. Her knowledge of Gaelic and her clever taping of Brian Coffey’s phone call to Oughterard had cracked the Lars Kasvi case. Maybe from now on he’d call her Ms. Tunet instead of Miss. A lot of the Garda Siochana in Dublin these days were saying Ms.

  “Inspector?” Ms. Tunet was at the desk, such an innocent-appearing young woman, seemingly incapable of criminality. “Congratulations, Inspector.” She was looking searchingly into his eyes. Did she expect him, because of her help, to call off the dogs?

  “Thank you, Ms. Tunet.” He felt a momentary regret that Torrey Tunet’s charm concealed a thieving, murderous heart. She was clever. She had done him a remarkably good turn with her Gaelic and her cassette. But he could not turn a blind eye. He’d nail her yet for the murder of Desmond Moore. “Thank you,” he repeated, his voice flat, his eyes unblinking. At that, Ms. Tunet flushed and turned away.

  “I’m off, Inspector.” Winifred Moore came up, drawing on driving gloves. She and Sheila had come in the Jeep and were going on to Dublin to an art exhibit, Manet or Monet, she’d mentioned; O’Hare could never get them straight. One was water lilies.

  The police station cleared out. Ms. Tunet, her shoulders stiff, her face like thunder, went off with Mr. Willinger. Mr. Callaghan, with a final infuriated look at Brian Coffey, left with Maureen Devlin. Only Brian Coffey remained.

  “Mr. Coffey,” O’Hare said kindly, “you’d better get some rest. You’ve been under a lot of stress.” O’Hare thought he had never seen a young man look so exhausted. And his eyes!—As though he had not slept for days. Nights.

  “I’ll go along then,” Coffey said.

  “Do.”

  Through the front plateglass, Inspector O’Hare saw Coffey get on his motorbike, an expensive, new-looking bike. Coffey sped off.

  54

  A half-hour later, in the back room of O’Curry’s Meats, Maureen Devlin and Finola and Fergus Callaghan were having a lunch of liverwurst sandwiches on brown bread, Finola’s favorite. They had hot barley soup from Maureen’s thermos, spooning it out of plastic cups, and a bag of pears.

  There was only the stool, where Finola sat and the one chair for Maureen. So Fergus sat on a wooden crate. Out front, the shop was busy. Fergus could hear Mr. O’Curry, in a fine mood, joking with his customers. Mrs. Blake, the chemist’s wife, was still there. She had come in to help Mr. O’Curry when Inspector O’Hare had requested that Mrs. Devlin be at the police station this morning. Mrs. Blake’s pay had been deducted from Maureen’s salary. Maureen had also paid Mrs. Blake two pounds extra to keep an eye on Finola. Finola always came with her to work now, sleepy-eyed and quiet; she sometimes brought a book, but other times just sat.

  Fergus, spreading mustard on his sandwich, felt tremulous with worry and happiness. On the street, after leaving the garda station, Maureen had put a hand on his arm. “T’wasn’t true, Fergus. Never! Never did I bed the Finnish man!”

  “I know!” Fergus had cried out, rushing to comfort her—and had stood stricken when she drew back, blue eyes wide with shock.

  “You knew?” She looked searchingly into his eyes; then shook her head, a brief acknowledgment of something she saw. “It’s all right, Fergus. Don’t protect me. Don’t hide it. I already know. But … You! You knew, how?”

  “Well…,” he said; and there on the street he spilled it all out: the buried doll, the little shoe he’d found on Desmond’s desk.

  But now, spreading mustard on the bread, “Maureen?” It was painful to ask, he didn’t want to ask, but he was going to. “When Brian Coffey said that about you and the Finn, you know”—he glanced sidewise at Finola—“ah, being together”—he realized he was blushing—“could you have said then that it was a lie, that you weren’t even at the cottage; you were working at O’Curry’s? You could’ve proved it.”

  Maureen said slowly, “But I couldn’t’ve proved it. T’was the sixth anniversary of Danny’s death. Mr. O’Curry let me off for an hour. I went to visit Danny’s grave, but that was none of Mr. O’Curry’s affair, so I only told him ‘personal business.’ As it turned out, I was alone at the graveyard; nobody saw me. So you see? And anyway, Fergus Callaghan, if I could’ve proved it, I wouldn’t have.” She looked at Finola, who was pensively eating the last of her sandwich. “Honey, will you get my shawl. It’s on the hook behind the counter.”

  Finola gone, Maureen leaned toward Fergus. She said passionately, “Don’t you see, Fergus? I don’t want them to know! I don’t care what they think about me! How many men they think I’ve slept with! So long as it protects her.” She gave a sudden shudder and hunched her shoulders and rubbed her arms as if they were cold. “Fergus, she saw! Finola saw that violence. She saw it happen.”

  Fergus felt a chill.

  Maureen said, “I won’t let her be submitted to any more! She’s already had more than a child could stand and stay sane. I’ve found someone in Dublin I can take her to for help. Meantime, I’ll do anything to protect her.”

  Fergus thought how Maureen’s every choice in life was like another chord of music that sank him deeper in love with her. “Well, then,” he managed.

  Back with her mother’s shawl, Finola sat down and began eating the last of her sandwich.

  “Finola,” Maureen said, “your chin. I’ll do it.” She reached across with her paper napkin, tipped up Finola’s face, and wiped mayonnaise from her child’s chin. Finola, silky, flaxen hair ragged on her forehead, smiled at her mother. Maureen said, “There. It’s all right now.” But she stayed leaning forward a moment longer, smiling at Finola. For an instant, Fergus thought his heart would break.

  55

  In the garda station, alone with Sergeant Bryson, now that everyone had gone, Inspector O’Hare, pacing, gulped down a pork sandwich from O’Malley’s Pub. He was too exhilarated to sit down. He had phoned Dennis O’Curry at the butcher shop and checked that Maureen Devlin had taken last Tuesday morning off for personal business. Very personal, O’Hare had thought wryly, hanging up. In bed with the Finn.

  Then, ducks all in a row, he had called the Garda Siochana at Dublin Castle with the news of the solving of the Lars Kasvi’s murder. Chief Superintendent O’Reilly of the Murder Squad had heartily congratulated him.

  Happily, Inspector O’Hare edged a decent-sized bit of pork from the sandwich and fed it to Nelson.

  56

  Torrey drove the rented convertible back to Castle Moore, Luke Willinger beside her. She wore dark glasses in case of tears; she had pulled on an orange-and-black baseball cap that a former renter had left in the glove compartment. The midday sun made the hills and mountains seem to shimmer, or was it because of tears? “Chagrin,” she said to Luke, “from the French. Reflexive, in this case: ‘to take on’; ‘to fret oneself.’” She looked ahead at the road winding bet
ween the hedges. Already it was second nature to drive on the left side of the road. “That cassette tape—I was a house cat bringing a mouse to lay at my master’s feet. Inspector O’Hare’s feet. I had a crazy hope that Brian Coffey would get so rattled under Inspector O’Hare’s questioning that he’d make a slip. I thought there was a chance he’d reveal something about the murder of Desmond Moore in the stables. Something to help get me off the hook. But it didn’t work. Inspector O’Hare can’t wait to chew me up and spit me into prison.”

  “What d’you mean, reveal something?” Luke, one arm along the back of the seat, the other on the door, had turned to look at her. “How can Coffey know anything about Desmond’s murder? He was in Ballynagh at that Flaherty place, about harnesses. He and the lad, Kevin.”

  Torrey kept quiet, watching the road. Her suspicion was too ephemeral. But, damn it, Brian Coffey knew something.

  She felt prickles of excitement down her back. Her foot went down on the gas pedal. The car shot ahead. The wind whistled. “God!” Luke Willinger said, “what’s this? The Le Mans Four Hundred?”

  But already she had gone beyond the speeding car. Already she saw herself in the woods. There was a pair of binoculars hanging from a peg in the back hall beside the mackintoshes. Tomorrow morning, early …

  “What’re you up to?” Luke Willinger asked.

  “Nothing.”

  57

  At one o’clock, Ms. Tunet, just back from Ballynagh, came into the great kitchen at Castle Moore. She had an orange-and-black baseball cap on the back of her head and her face was a little sunburned. “Something smells delicious,” she said, and went sniffing around the pots on the big stove.

  “You had a phone call from Boston, Ms. Tunet,” Rose said. She dug the phone message from her apron pocket and handed it to Ms. Tunet, blushing a little at her handwriting. It was such a schoolgirl scrawl, though only those twelve words: Your check for forty thousand dollars not yet received. Please fax intentions.

  “Thanks, Rose.” Ms. Tunet read the message. She stood very still. Then she crushed the phone message and shoved it into her pants pocket.

  “Pea soup for lunch,” Rose said. “And cold beef.”

  “I’ll be right there, Rose. I just want to get my sweater. I’m chilled.”

  “Ms. Tunet?” Janet had come in and was holding out Torrey’s navy wool sweater. “Is this the one? Brian Coffey found it in the stable yard early this morning.”

  “Thanks, Janet.” Hiding in the horse box with the cassette last night, she had felt stifled, had slipped off the sweater and tied it around her waist. Later she hadn’t missed it. “I’ll thank Mr. Coffey.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Torrey said casually, “That’s quite an expensive new motorbike Mr. Coffey has, isn’t it?”

  “That it is, ma’am.” Janet hesitated. “Mr. Desmond bought it for him.”

  “What for? To do errands?”

  “Hardly, ma’am.” Janet sounded definite. “Just that Brian was always saying he wanted a motorbike.”

  “I didn’t know Mr. Desmond was that generous.”

  Janet said scornfully, “That he wasn’t! Mr. Desmond was niggardly. So he must have liked Brian more than he liked the rest of us.” Janet looked away. “Or something.”

  “Or what?”

  Janet met her gaze. “Who knows?”

  Torrey asked abruptly, “Did Mr. Desmond have a gun?”

  “A gun?” Janet looked startled. “Not him! Mr. Desmond didn’t care for shooting. Horses, yes. Hunting, no. He said hunting was too English for him.”

  “Too English?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Desmond liked to quote Mr. Shaw about that. Mr. George Bernard Shaw, an Irish writer. About Englishmen going foxhunting. Mr. Desmond said that Mr. Shaw called foxhunters ‘the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable.’ Not that Mr. Desmond was a vegetarian like Mr. Shaw. Mr. Desmond would laugh and say, ‘I like my lamb rare and my beef bloody.’”

  “I see.” Torrey looked curiously at Janet, the plain face, the intelligent, small eyes, the pockmarked cheeks. Janet seemed to her a woman who could be your friend, unexpectedly warm and compassionate, or cold-eyed and cynical to those she had no use for. She was, Torrey had noticed, gentle-voiced with Rose.

  * * *

  Winifred and Sheila were back from the Monet art show in Dublin in time for dinner. A chill had settled over Wicklow like a clammy hand. Janet had laid a sizable fire in the library. The wood smelled of hickory. The wall lights glowed. There was a plate of crackers on the mahogany table and a dish of smoked salmon bits and thin-sliced scallions.

  Torrey, back to the fire, wore the one pair of wool slacks she’d brought to Ireland and two sweaters. She saw that the others were as warmly dressed: Luke Willinger wore a turtle-necked sweater and tweed jacket; so did Winifred. Sheila seemed wound around in yards of heavy shawls, a medley of maroons and greens.

  Winifred, putting salmon on a cracker, said, “‘Poor is the family that can’t afford one black sheep.’ An old Irish saying. Funny, I always thought of my father as the one black sheep. Or myself. But not Desmond. I wonder who found him out … who slipped into the fold, at night while the shepherd slept, and with a knife—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Winifred!” Sheila’s voice was a shriek. “Haven’t we had enough for today?”

  But Winifred, holding the cracker, said, “I can’t wait to hear the fat lady sing.”

  Torrey said, “Neither can I.”

  58

  By eight o’clock Wednesday morning, Kevin had finished his chores of watering the horses and filling the feed boxes in the stalls. He had swept the scattered bits of hay out into the stable yard. The morning smelled of rain, a fresh, invigorating smell. No use to finish painting the white fence around the field, though; painting needed a dry, sunny day. In the stable yard, he leaned on the broom.

  “Get out the tarps and cover the hay. It’ll get moldy otherwise; it’s going to rain,” Mr. Coffey said, coming up behind him. He was wheeling his gleaming new red motorbike into the stable yard. Mr. Coffey was wearing his black windbreaker and a cap. It was the first time Kevin had seen him unshaven; he looked funny with that red stubble on his white face. It looked raw. Mr. Coffey hadn’t eaten his usual breakfast of boiled eggs, bacon, and bread. He’d only had coffee and had accidentally spilled some of it on the kitchen table. Janet Slocum had given him a sharp look. Janet didn’t care for Brian Coffey; Kevin could see that. She was nice enough to Kevin, though.

  Off went Mr. Coffey on his red motorbike. Kevin got the tarps from the storeroom. They were heavy canvas, a dingy gray. He was covering one of the bales of hay when he heard a footfall behind him.

  “Good morning, Kevin.”

  He looked around, surprised. It was Ms. Tunet, the American woman. He was astonished that she knew his name. He felt flattered. She was wearing an old mackintosh, too big; the shoulders drooped. It was likely one of those from the back hall, the buttons missing, so it hung open. Beneath it, she had on dark brown corduroy jeans and a tan shirt, and a worn-looking, red webbed belt. Her short dark hair was covered by a bandanna, orange, with a blue design. She had tied it under her chin. She looked like any farm-working pretty colleen from back in Kerry.

  She was smiling at him. “I saw you exercising Darlin’ Pie yesterday, Kevin. I envy the way you ride. I do it so badly.”

  “Oh, no.” He blushed. But it was true. He was a natural, like part of the animal. As for her, she’d never be able to do it right. It made him feel gentle toward her.

  “Is Mr. Coffey about?” Her voice was husky soft, like Mary Ellen’s in Kerry. He thought often about Mary Ellen.

  “No, miss. He’s gone to Eamonn Flaherty’s, a harness place in Ballynagh.”

  “Oh.” She bit a fingernail and looked about. “The stables are so big, aren’t they? Pretty, too. That U-shape around the stable yard. But, after all, they’re a castle’s stables.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Wh
at’re those two-story sections at the ends?”

  “Mr. Coffey says they’re more recent built, miss. Upstairs quarters, they were, for a chauffeur and a gardener.”

  “Well, it’s all lovely.” She was smiling at him again, a warm, friendly smile. “Doesn’t Mr. Coffey live in one of them?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “The one nearer the castle, isn’t it?”

  Kevin studied the canvas tarp that he’d forgotten he was still holding. “No, miss. The other one.”

  “Well … I’m sorry I missed Mr. Coffey. Will he be back soon, Kevin?”

  He gave a quick upward glance from the tarp. She had thrust her hands deep into the pockets of the big mackintosh; her eyes were bright and she had a high color. She was edgy as a filly in cold weather.

  “Likely in an hour or so, miss.” He found he could not look her in the eye.

  “I’ll be back later then. Thank you, Kevin.”

  He did not turn to watch her go. He unfolded another tarp. Why was this American woman, Ms. Tunet, lying to him? An hour ago, crossing the stable yard, he’d glimpsed her, a still figure, watching the stables from the woods. It had been the flash of light on the binoculars that had caught his eye. He was famously keen-eyed, at least famous in Kerry for it.

  So the American girl watching from the woods had seen Mr. Coffey zoom off on his motorbike, rackety-clack, out the stable yard and up the drive to the road.

  She’d known Mr. Coffey wasn’t there. So why?

  At a sudden thought, Kevin half-turned and looked toward the upstairs quarters where Brian Coffey lived.

  * * *

  Torrey came into a low-raftered room with two casement windows that overlooked the hills to the north. It was a bed-sitting room with a worn carpet and comfortable-looking old furniture. She glanced hastily through a doorway on the left and saw a kitchenette with a dusty counter and stove and a tin wastebasket filled with empty beer cans. Next to the kitchen was a pocket-sized bathroom with a soiled cotton bath mat, the color of rust. The shower curtain was the same unfortunate color.