Grace started to speak but instead she got up and went to the stove.
I said, “We’ll get out of your way now,” darting a look at Alex, who added that our trip to Kilkenny had been enjoyable but also tiring. “We had a light supper at The Source, the little café—Doreen is quite the tour guide,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
Grace stirred with a ladle. “Colin hates that he hasn’t spent any time with you,” she said, looking at the stew, not at us. “If you feel like it, come down later tonight after everything settles down, and we’ll open a bottle of wine.”
We said we would, but she might not have heard us. She continued to stare into the pot.
In the large front room they called Reception, which was the sitting room of the original house, Charles Prescott and Ian Haverty were playing chess. Helen was lounging on the Victorian-style sofa, reading a paperback. It was the first time I’d seen the guests gather in the room, but then we had arrived only yesterday. Was that possible, that we’d been in Thurles just a little over twenty-four hours? So much had happened. It was incredible that of all the citizens of Thurles, the man who was murdered—stabbed!—was someone we had met just last night. More significantly, he was someone with a connection to the O’Tooles. Grace had been visibly shaken by the news of his murder, and especially by the fact that he’d been found near the cottage where she believed their daughter to be. What a time for Alex and me to be visiting!
Alex went on upstairs to work on his notes, while I spoke with Helen. “We spent the day in Cork. Lovely day, though Charles was not at all happy after the sun came out,” she said with a glance his way. Charles didn’t look up from the chess board. I had the urge to brush back the hair that was hanging in front of his eyes—how could he see?—but then he shook his head and pushed the strands behind his ear.
“He wanted to come back and play golf, of course,” Helen said. “We had quite a row.”
“We did not have a row, Helen,” Charles said, still not looking up. “Simply a discussion.”
“We most certainly did, but it’s of no importance now.” She patted the seat beside her. “Please, Jordan, won’t you join me? Let me tell you about Cork. You should go. It’s a beautiful city, and small enough that you can see a lot in a little time.”
I sat beside her and listened to her travelogue. She made a point of mentioning the influence of the English. They’d had lunch at the Ballymaloe Cookery School and perused the English Market. “I purchased some delightful chocolates,” she said. “And the architecture! Someone said you’re an architect. You should definitely go. I went on a walking tour—very nice. Oh, the churches—I don’t remember all the names.” She raised her voice, as if to be sure her husband heard. “I’m sure the pub was nice, too, wasn’t it, Charles?”
“Quite,” he said.
“Did you kiss the Blarney Stone, Helen?” Ian asked, his voice playful.
“Kiss the Blarney Stone?” she said.
“Blarney Castle is one of the sights in County Cork. I’m surprised you don’t know of it. According to the legend, if you kiss the Blarney Stone, you’ll always have the gift of gab, of eloquence. But you have to hang upside down from the tower to do it.” Ian’s attention turned back to the chess board, where Charles had made a big move. “Oh, you’re a dirty dog, you are.”
“You see what can happen when one concentrates on the game,” Charles said.
“We did not go to any castles today,” Helen said, “or kiss any stones.” She turned back to me. “I wish we could have taken a tour of the Big Houses, the homes of the Anglo-Irish gentry before the Irish Civil War. Splendid country houses. Many were burned, but a few still exist.”
I nodded. “I read Elizabeth Bowen’s Last September.”
“My great-grandfather was sent to Ireland, to keep the peace,” Helen said, repeating the announcement she’d made earlier that day. “My grandmother died last year, and we found letters from her father to her mother that none of us had ever read. He told about his duties in Cork. In one of the letters he wrote about the burning of one of the Big Houses by the rebels and what a shame it was. Though the family made it out alive, they could not rescue the wolfhounds.”
Ian, who had hunched over the chess board, straightened his shoulders and turned his gaze on Helen. “He was a tan? Your great grandda was?”
I remembered that Alex had said Helen might not want to broadcast that fact. Now she bristled, too. “He was a British soldier, sent by the Crown to keep the peace because the Irish were fighting among themselves. He was a man of honor.”
The fire in Ian’s black eyes did not match his soft voice. “I won’t say anything against your family, but there’s a whole story there that you might not know. The tactics they used, the black-and-tans, how they terrorized whole villages. And if you’d dug into Cork’s history a little deeper, you might have come upon the story of how the tans burned down the center of the town.” Ian’s voice rose a notch. “I don’t expect you to know all of Ireland’s sorrows, but be careful talking about honor among the tans. We don’t see it that way.”
Helen’s natural gift of gab seemed to momentarily fail her. Charles chimed in. “Look, old boy, all of that happened a long time ago. Some tensions between England and Ireland may exist, but not the violence, not anymore. Even the Queen has visited Ireland. Isn’t that something?”
“It’s something,” Ian said. “One goodwill gesture for all that England’s done to us for centuries.”
Charles stood up, reaching over to clap Ian on the shoulder. “What say we go to the pub and cool off. Our game can wait.”
Ian drew a long breath and stood as well. “I don’t like losing my temper like that, but it’s a touchy subject, the long, tortured history of Ireland.”
Charles took care as he lifted the chess board, with the game unfinished, and transported it to a spot behind the Reception counter for safekeeping. Notwithstanding the English–Irish differences, the Prescotts seemed quite at home here at Shepherds.
Helen assumed the tone of one who, in the face of victory, chose to be charitable. “Charles is right, Ian. We should not dwell on the things that happened a long time ago. We should put the past behind us. We should try to forget.”
I caught a flash in Ian’s eyes that might have been renewed anger, but it passed quickly. His words actually seemed to hold compassion, as he looked hard into her face. “Ah, you don’t know us, Helen,” he said. “The Irish don’t forget.”
In my room, I sent texts to my daughters and my brother, Drew, who was also my business partner. Since it was afternoon in the States, I managed to connect with all of them except Claire in Santa Fe, the only one who would go for hours without checking her phone. Alex would find it amusing that all but one of my family members had their phones in hand and replied to me within minutes—even Michael, who said he was in class. Alex had only recently bought a cell phone and hadn’t brought it on our trip. “Why should I?” he’d said. “You have yours if we need instant communication.”
Sometime after nine, I went down to see Colin and Grace, as she had suggested. No one was in the kitchen, but I heard voices and saw that a door I’d earlier wondered about was partially open, revealing a small sitting room. Alex was already settled in a comfy-looking chair with a glass of wine. “Jordan!” Colin said, popping up from the loveseat he shared with Grace.
“I just this minute said I should go knock on your door,” Grace said. Her cheeks were a little flushed, her glass nearly empty, and she was smiling. It was not a joyful smile but, rather, one that masked unease. I could only imagine her thoughts, with Bridget at the center.
Colin hugged me. “Ah, Jordan, I can’t tell you how good it is to have you and Alex with us. It’s been far too long. Come. You sit with Grace. Sweet Mother, you don’t look a day older than the girl we knew in college.” He reached for the wine bottle on the low glass-topped table, poured my drink, and topped off his own glass and Grace’s. The bottle was nearly empty, but anoth
er one, yet uncorked, awaited our next round.
“And you, Colin, are just as full of blarney as you always were,” I said. Everyone laughed, Colin included. I had a memory of something I’d heard about the Black Irish, brooding, given to anger or passion, like Ian, and the Red Irish, like Colin, fun-loving and charming.
Colin took a seat in the chair next to Alex, one with arms but not overstuffed. The cozy sitting area was configured around a fireplace that I suspected got plenty of use throughout the year. Dark-paneled walls and bookshelves filled with books, beige tones with coral accents, warm lighting—it was a most inviting room. I told Colin and Grace that I had been speculating on the floor plan, trying to figure out where all the rooms were, but this room came as a surprise.
“You know how it is with these old, old houses,” Colin said. “So many additions and renovations, what you get is a hodge-podge.”
“Like Kilkenny Castle,” Alex said.
“Right you are,” Colin said. “Now that’s a muddle, if ever there was one.”
“Disjointed, but fascinating,” I said.
“I like disjointed. That’s a good word for this place, too,” Grace said.
I couldn’t keep from asking questions about the house. “How old is it? Do you know?”
“We know it was built before 1800,” Colin said. “There are records of the family ownership through the years. Around 1960 the house sold to a man named Riley who made some renovations and opened an inn. He had a good business head and his family kept it going for about thirty-five years. Called it the Dark Horse Inn.”
“I like Shepherds,” I said.
“That’s our contribution,” Grace said. “Dark Horse sounded too ominous. And by the time we bought it, the inn was needing a whole new personality.”
“The people who came after Riley—two brothers—just about ran it into the ground,” Colin went on. “Maybe it was greediness, maybe just poor business sense. They cut up some of the bedrooms to accommodate more guests. What’s that saying in the movie: Build it and they will come? Well, they didn’t come.” Colin reached for his glass.
Though I hadn’t been in any of the bedrooms but my own, I’d noticed that some doors had been added later than others. An effort was made to match the style, but it didn’t quite work.
“In all fairness,” Grace said, “Thurles was growing, and this place had competition, and all the hotels and inns and B&Bs were advertising on the Internet. The Dark Horse Inn just couldn’t keep up.”
“What made you decide to buy it?” Alex asked. “You owned a pub in Dublin, I believe.”
“Running a pub is hard work, let me tell you. Finding staff you can trust, keeping the late hours. I had no life besides the pub. An opportunity came our way—it was like a sign from God.” Colin looked at Grace as if signaling her to take up the story.
“I had a clerical job at a real estate firm,” she said, “and Mr. Riordan from Thurles—Mr. Liam, the old man—had holdings in Dublin. I got to know him. He’d call from Thurles and I’d take care of things for him. We got to know him, Colin and I.”
Colin chuckled. “He spent a good bit of time at the pub when he was in Dublin. Like my own da, bless his soul, Mr. Riordan liked his Guinness a bit too much. Sometimes I’d help him to his hotel after closing. He had to give up the drink after he had a bad heart attack, but he’d still come by the pub to chat. He’s the one told us about the Dark Horse Inn for sale. The owner was deep in debt, letting it go for a song. Mr. Riordan considered buying it for Lucas to run, but he backed off. Though he didn’t say it, he had to know his son was good for nothing but partying, playing golf, and spending the Riordan money.”
“Colin and I wound up making an offer on the inn, and Mr. Riordan helped us with the financing, and here we are.” Grace reached for the corkscrew and the second bottle of wine.
I was still interested in the layout of the first floor. Colin confirmed that the once-spacious dining room was now the breakfast room and an office with a door that opened behind the Reception counter. I’d noticed that door, too. “Patrick must have been working in the office earlier tonight,” I said. I didn’t mention that he’d cracked the door and looked out when Ian and the Prescotts were having their heated discussion about England and Ireland.
“Patrick’s in there every night, on the computer. God bless the boy. I don’t know what we’d have done if he hadn’t come to help us—Enya, too.” Colin and Grace exchanged a private glance, and he said, “Ah, Grace, don’t be so hard on her. You can believe Enya didn’t imagine she’d be working in a country inn when she was flittin’ all about Dublin.”
“That much is true,” Grace said, rising. “I think I’ll get us some cheese.”
Colin continued to answer my questions about the house. I had figured out that Helen and Charles, Doreen and Molly had rooms in a first-floor adjoining wing. Colin and Grace, Patrick and Enya had rooms in one wing of the second floor that they could enter from the stairs in Reception or from a separate staircase behind the kitchen. My room and Alex’s were on the second floor at the top of the main staircase. There were two others in the main wing. “One is Bridget’s. Used to be hers and Little Jimmie’s, but now the boy’s with Grace and me. Bridget comes and goes, but it’s her room. She’ll be back. We don’t rent it.” Colin looked to me and then to Alex. “Grace said she told you about our Bridget.”
I nodded. Alex, who had been less talkative than usual, surprised me by saying, “She told us about Dr. Malone, too. His death, tragic as it is, may be the thing that leads Bridget to another doctor, one more capable of dealing with her needs. A specialist.”
“A psychiatrist, you mean. I pray you’re right.” Colin took a long drink of wine. Grace returned with a plate of cheese and crackers, and Colin continued as if he’d never left off. “The other room on the second floor, down from yours, Alex, is Ian Haverty’s.”
“What about Mr. Sweeney?” I said.
“On the third floor that’s mostly attic space, there’s a room with a toilet, sink, and bed, not luxurious, to be sure,” Colin said. “Mr. Sweeney called just last week for a reservation. We told him we were full, but he was so insistent, we finally agreed to give him the room on the top floor. We told him what to expect. He didn’t seem to care and he hasn’t complained.”
“Why didn’t he just call another B&B in Thurles?” I said.
“I suggested that he do just that, but he said something about—someone had posted a blog about us—I don’t remember exactly. I guess I was seeing a few more Euros in our pockets.”
“A blog?” Alex raised his palm to me. “I know what a blog is. Isn’t that a picture, though, Mr. Sweeney following blogs? Makes me feel I’m far behind when it comes to technology.”
“Ah, Alex, you’ll be posting blogs, I’ll wager. Promoting your books,” Colin said.
We stayed with our friends until it was close to midnight. Alex did talk about his books, but mostly we reminisced about good times at UGA. We didn’t discuss the murder.
“One more question about the house,” I said as we were all saying goodnight. “Did you redecorate this room yourselves? It’s so tasteful, so welcoming.”
“The keeping room was one of Mr. Riley’s additions,” Colin said. “A nice room, but, oh, it was in dire need of redecoration when we moved in. You’re so right. All of this is Grace’s touch. We didn’t have the money to spend on other upgrades, but it was important to Grace to have a pleasant keeping room. She’s in the kitchen so much.”
She beamed at her husband. It was good to see such affection between them, good to see that, for a moment, the worry lines had eased from around Grace’s eyes.
The smells of coffee and bacon were evidence that Grace had already been working in the kitchen. I hadn’t slept well. Ian had come in at about two a.m., making too much noise on the stairs and in the hall. Calling down to Charles, something about making sure the front door was locked. After that, my sleep was fitful. Too much swirling in my mind.
“And what might you be wanting with my daughter?” Colin asked.
“We have some questions for her,” Perone said. “You’ve heard about Dr. Malone?”
“For God’s sake, what does that have to do with Bridget?” Colin said, his voice rising.
“We’ll not know for sure till we get some answers.” There was no sympathy in the inspector’s voice as he said, “Your daughter may have been the last one to see the doctor alive.”
CHAPTER 6
“That’s ridiculous!” Grace came in from the breakfast room. “Dr. Malone was at Finnegan’s that night. I’m sure Finn and a dozen others can swear to it. Bridget wouldn’t have seen him after that.” As she said it, her gaze turned up to the stairs. “Jordan! You saw the doctor. You told me.”
I could no longer remain unobtrusive. I came downstairs and joined the little knot. “Yes, my uncle and I were at the pub, and we were introduced to Dr. Malone.”
“What time was that?” the inspector asked.
“Ten o’clock, maybe. It could have been earlier. But Grace is right. The pub was full. There may be others who know exactly when he left.”
Secrets and Shamrocks Page 5