Cruel Winter: A County Cork Mystery

by Sheila Connolly

  A couple of the men groaned theatrically. Maura addressed the group and raised her voice. “Don’t you dare complain, or you won’t get any soup, and I’ll send you out into the snow to fend for yourselves.”

  Seamus raised both hands. “You won’t hear any complaints from me. Nor Danny, here. Right?” Danny nodded.

  Maura turned back to Diane. Since Diane didn’t appear to be in a mood to share, and food was a long way off, she might as well explain how she had come to be tending bar in a very small village in Ireland, she decided.

  “So what am I doing here? My grandmother was born a couple of miles from here. She got married and had one son—my father—and then her husband died, so she figured she’d try her luck in Boston. They got by well enough, but my father was killed in a construction accident when I was a baby, and then my mother took off, so my gran raised me. She passed away a year ago, but she told me I had to come here to say her farewells in person. When I got here, I discovered she’d been plotting with Mick Sullivan, who owned this place. He died shortly before I showed up here, but he had no children, so he left me the pub and his house in one of the townlands. I didn’t plan to stay, but I’m still here.” Maura raised her voice. “Did I hit all the high points?” she called out to the others in the room.

  “Close enough,” Seamus yelled back.

  Diane laughed. “I keep forgetting how everyone lives in each other’s pocket around here.”

  Maura smiled at her. “You are so right. It’s hard to keep a secret from anyone. I still don’t know how word gets around, but it sure does.” Maura debated briefly about asking Diane about her own story, but she hated to seem nosy. If Diane wanted to talk, she had plenty of time to do it: she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. It was now nearly full dark outside, even though it wasn’t yet four o’clock, and the snow, where it caught the light from inside the pub, was blowing sideways.

  Rose came out of the kitchen and stopped when she saw Diane. “Oh, hello—I’m Rose.” Then she turned to Maura. “You think I can ask Billy to shift away from the fire a bit?”

  “If it means a meal, I’m sure he’ll do it,” Maura assured her. “But I thought you and the old stove had worked out a truce, and you’re cooking on that. So what’s it going to be?”

  “Vegetable soup, and the stove’s workin’ fine. The fire’d be for toasting bread if anyone’s interested,” Rose said. “You’ve heard the story Stone Soup?” When Maura shook her head, Rose went on, “A man comes to a village and says he wants to make stone soup, see? And he has a pot and a stone, so he puts the stone in the pot and adds water and puts it on the fire. And of course the townspeople come ’round to watch. So he says, ‘This’ll taste grand, but you know what it could use? A bit of cabbage.’ So a woman steps up. ‘I have a nice cabbage at home—let me fetch it for you.’ And she goes off to find it. You get the drift?”

  Maura laughed. “I do, except these people aren’t going anywhere, and I don’t think they carry cabbage in their pockets. Did you get everything you needed?”

  “All but some salt,” Rose said, looking unhappy. “I forgot there wasn’t any here.”

  Diane spoke suddenly. “As it happens, I have some salt.” When Maura and Rose turned to stare at her, she said, “I was clearing out an old house, and I found some herbs and spices. Most were too old to be of much use, so I pitched them, but I thought the salt might be all right, and I liked the shape of the shaker. You’re welcome to use it if you like.” She fished around in her bag and emerged with a bottle of salt—far from new, but Maura didn’t think that salt could get stale. Diane handed it to Rose.

  Rose dimpled. “We would be delighted to have your kind gift of salt, Diane. Maura, I got the last of the bread at the store, and I’m thinkin’ we could toast it over the fire. Did yeh happen to see any grills or firedogs in your search of the cellar, Maura?”

  “I don’t recall, but it’s worth another look. And I haven’t a clue what a firedog is. I’ll go down and check. Excuse me, Diane.”

  Maura headed for the cellar stairs again. She had to duck her head to avoid hitting the ceiling beams, and of course Jimmy, annoyed at being asked to do something, had scattered rusty pans all over the floor during his search. Maura sighed. Giving orders to other people was one part of being manager that she really hated, and Jimmy didn’t like to be told what to do. Jimmy was not happy working part-time at Sullivan’s, but Maura wasn’t sure he’d be happy working anywhere. She had no idea if he had any other jobs—on or off the record. He’d never mentioned any. Too bad Rose was stuck looking after him, but it didn’t look like any woman would take Jimmy off Rose’s hands, and besides, Maura wouldn’t wish Jimmy as a husband on anyone.

  She poked around the dark basement without much hope. She’d never made a lot of fires, and she was pretty sure the ones she had made had used wood, not peat or lumps of coal. What would Rose want for making toast? Maura’s fires at Sullivan’s had consisted mainly of a pile of kindling and, when that caught, some well-dried turf and/or coal. Add too much at once and the fire went out; add too little—and the fire went out. It was a constant juggling act. She had no idea how anyone could maintain a steady heat to boil something in a pot, but Rose seemed to have that part under control. Right now all she needed was something strong and sturdy enough to support pieces of bread.

  She’d managed to shove the pots that Jimmy had scattered back into their corner and thought she’d spied some kind of iron grate when the single light bulb went out. Maura stood still rather than risk tripping over things she couldn’t see. Blown bulb? No: from the protesting voices coming up from the main room, it was the power for the whole building that was gone, and that probably meant the town as well. Great. Could she find her way out of the basement without falling? And if she didn’t find that grill, the toast would be, well, toast.

  The bobbing of a flashlight—no, she had to remember to call it a torch around here—signaled the arrival of someone else: Mick.

  “Rose said you’d come down here, and I know how dark it is.”

  “Thanks for rescuing me, Mick. But I think I saw a grill that we could use over the fire, just as the light went out. It was over there.” She waved vaguely toward the corner.

  “Don’t move—I’ll take a look.” Mick shone the light along the floor, then at the pile of odds and ends stacked against the walls. As Maura watched, he reached in and grabbed something, then tried to pull it free. That resulted in more clashing of metal objects and some colorful curses from Mick, until he finally emerged triumphant with a metal grill about two feet square. It didn’t look very sturdy, and it was covered with rust.

  “And how is that supposed to help us?” Maura asked.

  “I’m guessing you were never a Girl Guide?”

  “We call them Girl Scouts, I think. No. I’ve never cooked over an open fire out in the woods while singing happy songs, and at home we always had a stove.”

  “Well, yer lucky that yer pot’s taken care of on the stove upstairs, or yer job would be that much harder. All yeh have to do now is toast yer bread, and fer that, all it takes is to make the grill steady and level, once you’ve got yer fire goin’. And cleaned it up a bit, of course. As you heard Billy say, many’s the house where the cookin’s been done over an open fire before now, with a pack of children waitin’ to eat. Just go with it, Maura.”

  “Fine. We’ve got a fire, and we’ve got bread. All we need to do is clean up the grill here and prop it up over the fire. Easy.”

  As she tried to get past him, Mick grabbed her arm with surprising urgency. “Wait—there’s somethin’ else.”

  Damn, she hoped this wasn’t about whatever personal relationship they weren’t even pursuing. Maybe some people thought being stuck in a dark basement was romantic, but she wasn’t one of them, and there was a lot to be done to get the toast going. “What?”

  “That woman who came in last—Diane, did she say?”

  “Yes, that was it. Why? Do you know her?”


  “Not personally, but . . . I might do better to say nothing, or I might well be wrong, but since we’re stuck here together fer a while, I think it’s wise that I mention it—between us at least.”

  “Mick, will you get to the point? I need to get back upstairs. What about Diane? What is it you think I need to know? She’s just somebody who wanted to come in out of the storm.”

  “Yeh haven’t been around here fer long, Maura, so you wouldn’t know the story.”

  “What story?” Maura was getting colder by the moment, and she wanted to get back upstairs.

  “Back some twenty years ago,” Mick began, his voice low, “there was a murder done, the other side of Skibbereen. Surely you know by now that murder is a rare event in this country? Particularly in our part of it?”

  “Yes, I got that. What’s it got to do with Diane?”

  “The murder was never solved, to this day. I’m not altogether sure, but I’m guessing that yer Diane up there is Diane Caldwell. She was suspected of killing a neighbor, Sharon Morgan. She was interrogated by the gardaí a time or two, but they had to let her go, for they had no evidence to hold her.”

  Maura struggled to process what Mick had just said. First, she tried to picture the rather faded woman she’d just met as a killer—no, that wasn’t working. “So she was never arrested or went to trial?”

  Mick shook his head. “There was no case to be made against her—just the suspicion.”

  “Here in Ireland, is it like back home? Innocent until proven guilty?”

  “That’s the principle, sure enough. But there were plenty ready to condemn the woman, proof or no. People talk. People then wanted to put this crime to bed, so they looked to the nearest suspect. I’m not saying they’re right, but you can understand why they’d want to.”

  “I guess. But she said she lives in England.”

  “The death took place at the other woman’s holiday house—they were both just visitin’ at the time. Diane’s house came to her through her grandparents by name of Wolfe.”

  “So maybe she came back now to finally sell the house—she said she was clearing up some legal business here. Wonder why she waited for so long,” Maura said to herself. “Well, fine, now you’ve told me. What am I supposed to do about it?”

  “I’m not askin’ yeh to do anything. But if I recognized the woman, others might too. Jimmy, fer one. Billy. The other two local men.”

  “I don’t think Billy would say anything. Jimmy I’m not so sure about—he likes to make himself look important, and pointing out an accused murderer in our midst might fit the bill. And stir up a bit of trouble. Should we try to shut him up?”

  “I wouldn’t go borrowin’ trouble. If he starts in, I’ll do what I can. It’ll be close quarters tonight if none of us can get home, and we don’t need people arguin’ and takin’ sides.”

  “Amen to that. Well, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t know anything. I’ll treat Diane just like any other person who walks in out of the storm. And if this does come out, I won’t put up with anyone hassling her. Fair enough?”

  “It is.”

  “And we’re depending on that same fire to keep us all warm, aren’t we, if Jimmy’s little borrowings have drained the tank? I’d like to strangle Jimmy. What was he thinking?”

  “Yeh might have noticed that Jimmy takes the easy way, whatever the case.”

  “Easy for him, you mean.” Maura sighed. “You carry the grill. And can you grab one of the oil lamps? I’ll take the other two—looks like we’re going to need the light. Oh, and one last question: do you remember why Diane was the main suspect?”

  “I don’t,” Mick admitted. “I was in my teens then and not very interested in the news, even if it was happenin’ in my backyard.”

  As she followed Mick up the stairs, Maura wondered if she really wanted to know why Diane had been accused of murder—and if she could prevent it from coming out at Sullivan’s tonight.

  Six

  When she arrived at the top of the stairs, juggling two lamps with their fragile glass globes, Maura was startled to see light in the front room. Then she realized that most people had pulled out their mobile phones and turned on their flashlight apps. That was something that had never occurred to her, since she’d seldom had the money—or the need—for a mobile phone until recently and hadn’t bothered to explore the world of apps, nor did she plan to any time soon. But she figured the phones would lose their charge quickly enough, so the lamps would come in handy—and now they would have some light to get them set up and working.

  Kerosene lamps were something else she was unfamiliar with. “Mick, what are we supposed to do with these things?” she asked, setting her lamps on the bar.

  Mick set his down alongside hers and looked them over. “Yer lucky they’ve still got their wicks, but I’d guess Old Mick kept them at the ready, since losin’ power is not a rare event here. Where’d yeh put that kerosene? I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  “In the back room—I don’t trust the stuff,” Maura told him, “and I’d probably burn the place down.” She checked to see that the fire extinguisher was nearby, just in case something went wrong. Mick raised one eyebrow at that but said nothing. He retrieved the kerosene, then wiped off the very grimy exterior of the first lamp and carefully lifted the glass top from it. “This is the chimney. It’s fragile, but it’s necessary to protect the flame. Yeh take that off to light the wick. The wick is this woven thing that soaks up the fuel from below. Once it’s wet, it won’t burn itself, but it will keep drawing the fuel up and keep the lamp lit. It’s also adjustable, but you don’t want to turn it up too high.”

  “Can you just light the thing?” Danny, at the other end of the room, demanded. “Me phone’s about gone.”

  “Just explaining to Maura here,” Mick said. “Seems she’s never seen one of these. And since it may be our only light until morning, it’s best we all know how to use one.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the man muttered, but he didn’t say more after turning off his phone.

  “And treat them carefully,” Mick added. “Here we go.” He carefully filled the bottom part with kerosene and screwed on the wick in its holder, then waited until the wick was wet. Then he struck a match and applied it to the wick, put the chimney back on, and adjusted the height of the wick. “And there you have it.”

  The group responded with applause. Maura had to admit it gave off a pleasant light, not out of place in the old building, but she wouldn’t want to try to read by it. “Good work. Where’s Rose?”

  “Right here,” Rose said. “Soup’ll be ready soon, whether it’s dinner or supper. I made enough fer both. If yer hopin’ fer toasted bread”—she said to the group, and a couple of men nodded—“then we’ll be needin’ a grill.”

  “Found one,” Mick told her, “but we thought some light would be welcome first. Else it’ll be a long, dark night.”

  “Well, I’ll be glad for the light to cook by, but we should think about the fire now.”

  “That we can,” Mick told her. “Jimmy, can yeh find us something to prop this thing up on? And maybe rub some of the rust off?” he asked.

  “Yeh’ve got me on cleanup duty again,” Jimmy mumbled. He didn’t sound pleased.

  Rose opened her mouth as if to volunteer to do it, but Maura laid a hand on her arm to stop her. “Rose, you’ve done your part with making us food. Jimmy, just get it done, will you? We’d all like to eat sometime tonight.”

  “Right,” Jimmy said, biting off whatever he might have been thinking of adding. The mood in the room lightened a bit when Jimmy grabbed the grill and retreated to the kitchen in back, where he seemed once again to be making a lot of noise for what should be a simple chore.

  Maura turned back to the others. “So we’ve got soup. Rose, how’s the bread supply?”

  “I managed to find a loaf or two, which will see us through tonight. How do yeh want to serve up the food? We’ve no bowls or cups in back. Mick never wanted to have to
serve any food here.”

  “Mugs from the bar,” Maura told her firmly. She turned back to the room and raised her voice. “We’ve got few spoons—you people may have to wait your turn.”

  Mick started doling out the sturdy mugs from behind the bar but quickly ran short of spoons. “Look in the kitchen, you lot. Guys with both mug and spoon now, line up so Rose can serve yeh yer soup.”

  Obediently, the younger men did, but Maura was happy to see that they carried filled mugs over to Billy and Gillian first. Two others went into the dark kitchen, and there was much clattering of metal cutlery and a bit of cursing—seemed like someone had found a knife by accident. Maura went to stand by Rose, who was ladling out the soup like she’d been doing it for years. Jimmy came stalking out from the kitchen with the still-dripping grill and ignored the dirty look that Maura gave him. “Where do yeh want this thing?”

  “Give it to me, Da,” Rose said. “Billy, yeh’ve probably got more experience than the lot of us with fixin’ fires. Can yeh help me with this, please?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Billy said, and he began the slow process of getting out of his seat. Gillian rose and took his arm to help, and together they moved the battered armchairs away from the fire, giving Rose a clear shot at it.

  “The turf’s fine fer keepin’ us warm,” Billy told them, “but fer cooking, the coal would be better—gives off more heat and lasts longer. How’re we fixed fer that?”

  “Will it see us through makin’ the toast, Billy?” Rose asked him.

  “It might do,” he told her.

  “Then let’s eat first and see to the coal in a bit,” Rose said firmly. Once everyone was holding a mug, Rose said, “There’s a loaf of sliced bread just there, Maura. Make sure nobody takes more than one slice fer now.”

  “Yes ma’am!” Maura started doling out slices. “You know, Rose, if ever you decide to run a kitchen, you’re doing fine with giving orders.”