Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  “He was meeting someone,” Siobhán said. She allowed herself for a moment to pretend that everything Brandon was saying was the truth. First, to encourage him to keep talking; and second, to see if the sequence of events made sense with the facts they already had.

  “He said there were going to be some changes in our family. That we were all going to start being honest, no matter what.”

  “Did you ask him what he meant?”

  Brandon shook his head. “I didn’t have to. He was talking about me. About my weaknesses. I was so grateful he wasn’t going to take me out of the will. But then I realized we were leaving Cork. I asked him where we were going.” Siobhán and Macdara were on the edge of their seats. She nodded for him to continue. “He said he had a contact in a neighboring village. He was meeting someone who had pertinent information about our family history. That’s a direct quote. ‘Pertinent information.’ ”

  Once again, assuming Brandon was telling the truth, that someone was Peter Mallon’s killer.

  “Did you ask for more information?” Macdara said.

  “About this ‘pertinent information,’” Siobhán added. Macdara frowned.

  Brandon waved the question away. “I told you, I didn’t care about that stuff. I did ask him why we were meeting him so late.”

  “What did he say?” Siobhán asked. Her Biro was poised over her notepad.

  Brandon shook his head. “ ‘There’s no “we”.’ ”

  Macdara frowned and Siobhán stopped taking notes. “Pardon?”

  “He looked at me and said, ‘There’s no “we”.’ ” He told me he would drop me off at a pub and fetch me after his meeting.” Brandon shook his head. “‘Fetch’ me. Like I was a dog.” He sniffed. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way. But I hate that those were the last words my father ever spoke to me.”

  “Did you try to argue?”

  “No,” Brandon said. “It was late and cold, and I was losing my buzz. I didn’t care about his meeting. I just wanted a pint.” Shame filled his voice. Siobhán found herself feeling sorry for him. She took a deep breath and pulled back. He could be a liar. And a murderer.

  “So you went to Butler’s,” Siobhán said.

  Brandon hung his head. “Yes. Ask the bartender.”

  “We will,” Macdara said.

  Yet another witness who hadn’t come forward. John Butler certainly had some explaining to do. If Brandon was lying, they would know straightaway. If he was telling the truth, she was going to see if they could fine or even arrest Butler for not calling the guards. Having an American in one’s pub was not a crime, but Butler surely had realized that one of the Americans was in his pub on the night another was murdered.

  Macdara pressed on. “What time did you arrive at the pub?”

  Brandon sighed. “I only know it was after midnight.” He looked up as if listening to something in the distance. “I heard the church bells toll.”

  Saint Mary’s bells did emit a beautiful sound, but Siobhán kept that to herself.

  “So how did you end up at the cemetery?” Macdara asked.

  “The bartender tried to throw me out at half past twelve. I couldn’t believe a pub in Ireland wouldn’t stay open longer. I had a full pint in front of me. I managed to delay until ten past one.”

  “How did you happen to remember the exact time?” Macdara asked.

  “Because the bartender yelled, ‘It’s ten past one! Get out of me pub!’ So I did. I was surprised to see it was snowing. I could clearly see my father’s footprints in the snow. I followed them to the cemetery.”

  Siobhán shivered at the thought of Brandon literally following in his father’s last footsteps.

  “You know the rest,” Brandon said, the tears starting again.

  “But you only saw your father. No one else? No one fleeing the cemetery, no one at the cemetery, no one on the streets?”

  “It was a ghost town,” Brandon said. “Beautiful and eerie.”

  “Did you hear a shot?”

  “No,” Brandon said. “I swear. I saw no one. I heard nothing.” Is he telling the truth? “There’s only one thing I can tell you. And it doesn’t make sense. It’s probably nothing.”

  Those are the best clues. “Go on,” Siobhán said.

  Brandon sighed, reached into his pocket, and laid two identical pins out on the desk. The American flag. Brandon pushed one forward. “My father wasn’t wearing that American flag pin when he left for the cemetery.”

  Siobhán was on full alert. “How do you know that for sure?”

  “Because right before he left the pub, he took it off and gave it to me.” Brandon nudged the other pin forward. “One of these is mine.” He pointed to the second pin. “The other belongs to my father.”

  Siobhán and Macdara locked eyes. Somehow this was a very important clue. “Why did he take it off?” Siobhán asked.

  “He hadn’t been wearing it for a while. He took it out of his breast pocket. Said he was done worshipping the past. Said from now on, he was more about truth than pride.”

  Macdara shook his head. “You didn’t think that was strange? Ask him what he meant?”

  “Father had been acting strange ever since this documentary business started. I’m afraid I agreed with Tracy. Our father’s mental state was deteriorating. Tracy was right to look after him.” He shrugged. “My pint arrived. Father said he’d be right back. Wait.” Brandon sat up. His eyes filled with tears. “Those are the last words he ever said to me. ‘I’ll be right back.’”

  He looked up at them with grief-stricken eyes. “I’m sorry I lied. It was wrong. But I was afraid. I’m still afraid. Who would want my father dead? Who was he meeting? What if they saw me?”

  Macdara leaned back, crossed his arms, and stared at Brandon. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

  Brandon’s head jerked up. “You’re letting me go?”

  “For now.” He pointed at Brandon. “I’m going to assign a guard to follow you until we verify your alibi.” Brandon swallowed hard, then nodded. Macdara left the room and returned a few minutes later with a guard by his side. He gave Brandon a warning. “You keep your mouth shut. And I’m not promising there won’t be charges filed. And from now on, if we ask you a question, you spill absolutely everything you can think of about the subject.”

  Brandon continued to nod furiously, reminding Siobhán of a Bobblehead doll. “Go back to your room and get some sleep.” Brandon was out of the chair in a flash, racing for the door. The assigned guard had to run to keep up with him. “And see to it that he takes a shower,” Macdara called after them.

  Chapter 17

  Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub was impossible to miss. Largely due to the huge sign above it that featured an older gentleman lifting a pint. This was the only funeral home in town, so jokes abounded, mainly of the drink-and-die variety. Some said it ought to be named The Last Pint. Today Butler’s had a sandwich sign posted outside: CUSTOMERS WANTED. DEAD OR ALIVE! NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. APPLY WITHIN.

  Siobhán rolled her eyes; Macdara shook his head and laughed. They entered the pub and found John Butler alone behind the bar, wiping down the counter.

  “I don’t suppose you’re here for pints or a viewing,” he said in a pinched voice. He was a thin man with slicked-back hair. He dressed theatrically, and today was no exception. He was wearing a white shirt with ruffled sleeves and a red jacket, which resembled a topcoat. His cane was perched behind the bar, as if sitting out this dance and waiting for the next one.

  “Do you have any idea why we’re here?” Macdara said, the anger in his voice obvious.

  John sighed. “Yes, he was here. The young American and his da. The night of the murder.”

  Macdara slammed his hand on the bar. “Why on earth didn’t you say anything?”

  John Butler flushed. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to this town?” The question was pointed at Siobhán. Macdara straightened up and took a step forward. Siobhán placed her hand on
his chest and shook her head. She could fight her own battles.

  “Me?”

  “Murder follows you around,” he said, pointing a bony finger at her. “You’re making this town into some kind of spectacle.”

  Siobhán thought it was an extremely hypocritical comment coming from the one man in town who profited off death, but she kept the thought to herself. Instead she turned it back on him. “We could wrap this case up a lot faster if the residents of this town did the honest thing and came forward with pertinent information.”

  “At half twelve I told him he had to go. He didn’t stumble out until ten past one, shortly after it began to snow.”

  Father Kearney heard the shot at one in the morning. Was it possible the priest’s clock was a little slow? She glanced at the clock behind the bar. The time matched the one on her mobile. If he was correct in his account, and Father Kearney’s clock was correct, then Brandon couldn’t be the killer.

  “How did he seem while he was here?” Macdara said. “Did you chat about anything?”

  “I don’t like Americans,” John said. “He seemed eager to talk about horse racing. I nodded my head a few times, but that was it.”

  “Was anyone else in here?” Siobhán asked.

  “His father—the dead man—dropped him off. As you know, he didn’t come back.” For a second he looked abashed. “Well, he’s back now. But you know what I mean.” Unfortunately, they did know what he meant. Peter Mallon’s body was in the basement, awaiting shipment back home.

  “How did Peter seem?” Macdara asked.

  “Irritated. Like me.”

  “Did he say anything?” Siobhán prodded.

  “Not to me. He might have had a word or two with his son, but I wasn’t listening.”

  Siobhán sighed. “Did you happen to see him hand his son a pin of the American flag?”

  John Butler nodded. “As a matter of fact I saw the younger one place two of them on the bar. Self-centered, the Americans. I wouldn’t be wearing that if I was them.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” Macdara said. He looked eager to get out of the dim, depressing pub. Siobhán felt exactly the same.

  “If you ask me, the man shot himself. He had that look. I’ve seen it before.”

  “We’re not asking you to make wild guesses,” Siobhán said. “Did you see a gun? Did you hear him say he was going to kill himself?”

  John Butler shook his head. “I didn’t see or hear a t’ing.”

  * * *

  Siobhán set the timer on her mobile as she and Macdara walked from the pub to the cemetery. They kept a moderate pace. It had been dark and snowing, and Brandon Mallon had never set foot in Kilbane. By the time they arrived at John Mallon’s grave, fifteen minutes had passed.

  “If he left at ten past one, and it took him fifteen minutes, then he was here at one twenty-five.”

  “And you arrived?”

  “One forty-five.”

  Macdara glanced up at Father Kearney’s window. “And the shot was heard at one.”

  “We should make sure Father Kearney’s clocks are working,” Siobhán said.

  “And if they are,” Macdara mused, “then Brandon isn’t our killer.”

  “Are you going to charge him with interfering?”

  Macdara sighed. “I’m not taking it off the table. But what I really want is to ship them all out the first chance I get.”

  So they were getting on his nerves too. She hated how happy this made her.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s have a look at Father’s timepiece.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, after confirming that Father Kearney’s clock was indeed telling the correct time, Siobhán and Macdara found themselves in the churchyard again, this time with all of their suspects. Everyone stood in a semicircle around John Mallon’s headstone. So far none of them had said anything, but eyes were wide and mouths open as they took in John Mallon’s grave. Brandon seemed as shocked as everyone else, which meant he hadn’t noticed the headstone that evening. Macdara had decided not to tell the rest of the group about Brandon’s recent confession. The less they knew, the better. Eventually everyone would find out, and Brandon would have to face up to his lies.

  “So you can see what brought Peter to the cemetery,” Macdara said at last.

  More openmouthed stares.

  “He must have been excited to see his great-grandfather’s burial place,” Siobhán said. The family exchanged looks.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” Jay said, zooming in on the headstone with his camera. “This is explosive, alright.”

  “This can’t be,” Frank said, clearly agitated. “What is going on?” He glared at Jay. “Is this one of your cinematic tricks?”

  “I don’t practice cinematic tricks,” Jay shot back.

  “I don’t understand,” Siobhán said. She expected them to be surprised, but their reactions were very strange indeed.

  Brandon pulled out his mobile and swiped through screens. A few minutes later he turned the phone to Macdara and Siobhán. Macdara had to move in close behind Siobhán to look at the photos, and she had to concentrate even harder on what Brandon was trying to show them. It was a picture of a headstone:

  John Mallon

  1833-1913

  A Loving Husband

  Siobhán looked up quizzically.

  “That’s my great-grandfather’s burial place,” Frank said. “In Dublin, Ohio. John Mallon never returned to Ireland.”

  Macdara took his cap off and ran his hands through his hair. “You’re saying there are two John Mallons?”

  Siobhán pointed to the photo on Brandon’s phone. “This John Mallon was born five years later, and lived ten years longer.”

  “And there’s no mysterious letters at the base to puzzle out. Just ‘A Loving Husband,’ ” Macdara pointed out.

  Frank glanced at the headstone in front of him. “Very strange indeed.”

  “Isn’t John Mallon a common enough name?” Tracy asked.

  “I don’t like it,” Siobhán said.

  “Maybe his family here never heard from him again,” Hannah ventured. She gestured to the plot. “Maybe it’s an empty grave.”

  “And they just guessed at the date of death?” Siobhán said, hoping her sarcasm was showing. She knew an Irish priest would never allow for an empty grave.

  Jay peered in closer. “ ‘Out to the field,’ ” he read off the tombstone. “Maybe that means America.”

  “We thought it meant heaven,” Siobhán said.

  Jay zoomed in with his camera.

  “Or maybe the grave in Ohio is empty,” Hannah continued.

  “What’s this mean?” Brandon knelt down to see the bottom of the tombstone where E_ _u A__ __was visible.

  “I believe the last word is Ann,” Siobhán said.

  “His wife,” Tracy said. “My God.”

  “What about the rest?” Brandon asked.

  “Haven’t figured that out,” Siobhán said. “All we know is that Peter was found with his arm outstretched and his finger was pointing at this headstone.”

  “Only the vowels survived,” Brandon mused.

  “Could it be . . . Europe, United States of America?” Hannah asked.

  Everyone stared at her.

  Siobhán tried not to laugh. “I don’t think all that would have fit on the tombstone.”

  “So they abbreviated it,” Hannah sulked. She didn’t like being wrong.

  Greta began to pace. “The murder has something to do with the past. Something in the Mallon family tree.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Tracy said.

  “We’re wasting our time,” Brandon said. “Father may not have even been pointing at the grave.”

  “If this were any other headstone, I’d be inclined to agree,” Siobhán said. “But it’s not. It’s John Mallon. We simply cannot ignore that fact.” She turned to Hannah. “Whether one of the graves is empty or not.”

  Hannah shrug
ged and thrust her pretty chin up in defiance.

  “It’s an exercise in frustration,” Frank said. “There’s no telling how discovering this grave led to my brother’s murder.”

  Siobhán spoke softly. “A witness in town said he overheard an American man say he had come to Ireland to ‘right a great wrong.’ ”

  “‘A great wrong,’ ” Jay repeated. “Can I get you to say that again, only this time look at the camera and speak from your diaphragm?”

  “No,” Siobhán said.

  “Brilliant!” Hannah exclaimed. “The killer is a man.”

  “How do you figure that?” Brandon snapped.

  Hannah pointed at Siobhán. “She just said a witness heard a man say he had come here to ‘right a great wrong.’ ”

  “Are you saying it was the killer referring to my father?”

  “What else?” Hannah asked.

  “How about it was my father referring to whatever ‘great wrong’ it was that he had discovered?” Brandon interjected. His glance flicked to Siobhán and Macdara; then he looked away.

  The witness swore the statement had come from a man much younger than Peter. They had assumed it was Brandon. Brandon denied telling anyone he had come to Ireland in order to “right a great wrong.” He said the only night he’d been in Kilbane up until now was the night his father was murdered. John Butler didn’t recall Brandon saying anything of the sort. Could it have been Jay Shepard? It was a dramatic proclamation, one a filmmaker might make. He was relatively young. Was he bragging about his documentary again? Did he know more about the family saga than he was letting on?

  If Peter was meeting someone he already knew, why meet at the cemetery? That had bothered Siobhán. Why not just meet in Cork? But if he was meeting Jay, that would make sense. Jay wanted to capture everything on film. Peter wouldn’t have found that odd. And night shots in a cemetery offered up an eerie atmosphere, something that would have been in Jay’s wheelhouse.

  He merited a much closer look. She hoped Macdara would agree.

  Hannah piped up. “It’s obvious to me that the killer isn’t a woman,” she said again. “I’m so relieved.” Her eyes lingered on Tracy. “Surprised. But relieved.”