The Best British Mysteries 3 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  ‘I was coming back to my uncle’s mill, for Blinne told me that you had gone there in search of me. You are thedálaigh from Cashel, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am. There are a few questions that I must ask you. You see, Bláth, I am not satisfied about the circumstances of your brother-in-law’s death.’

  Bláth, who was a younger version of the attractive Blinne, pouted. ‘There is no satisfaction to be had in any death, but a death that is encompassed by supernatural elements is beyond comprehension.’

  ‘Are you sure we speak of supernatural elements?’

  Bláth looked surprised. ‘What else?’

  ‘That is what I wish to determine. I am told that you heard the wailing of the Banshee for three nights?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘You awoke each night and investigated?’

  ‘Investigated?’ The girl laughed sharply. ‘I know the old customs, and turned over and buried my head under the pillow to escape the wailing sound.’

  ‘It was loud?’

  ‘It was fearful.’

  ‘Yet it did not wake your sister or your husband?’

  ‘It was supernatural. Perhaps only certain people could hear it? Glass, my uncle, heard it.’

  ‘But only once.’

  ‘Once is enough.’

  ‘Very well. Were your sister and Ernán happy?’

  Fidelma saw the shadow pass across Bath’s face.

  ‘Why, yes.’

  There was hesitation enough and Fidelma sniffed in annoyance. ‘I think that you are not being truthful. They were unhappy, weren’t they?’

  Bláth pressed her lips together and seemed about to deny it. Then she nodded. ‘Blinne was trying to make the best of things. She was always like that. I would have divorced Ernán, but she was not like that.’

  ‘Everyone says that she and Ernán were much in love and happy.’

  ‘It was the image they presented to the village.’ She shrugged. ‘But what has this to do with the death of Ernán? The Banshee took him.’

  Fidelma smiled thinly. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I heard —’

  ‘Are you trying to protect Blinne?’ Fidelma snapped.

  Bláth flushed.

  ‘Tell me about Tadhg,’ Fidelma prompted, again sharply, so that the girl would not have time to collect her thoughts.

  ‘You know...?’ Bláth began and then snapped her mouth shut.

  ‘Did this unhappiness begin when Tadhg returned to the village?’

  Bláth hung her head. ‘I believe that they were meeting regularly in the woods.’

  ‘I think that you believe a little more than that,’ Fidelma said dryly. ‘You think that Tadhg and Blinne plotted to kill Ernán.’

  ‘No!’ Bláth’s face was crimson. ‘There was no reason. If things became so unbearable, Blinne could have sought a divorce.’

  ‘True enough, but there was the farmstead. If Blinne divorced Ernán, she would lose it.’

  Bláth sniffed. ‘You know the laws of inheritance as well as I do. Land cannot pass to a female heir if there are male heirs.’

  ‘But in Ernán’s case, there were no male heirs. The land, the farmstead, would go to the banchomarba, the female heir.’

  Bláth suddenly gave a deep sigh of resignation. ‘I suspected something like this might happen,’ she confessed dolefully.

  ‘And you invented the story of the Banshee to throw people off the scent?’ queried Fidelma.

  Bláth nodded. ‘I love my sister.’

  ‘Why not claim an attack by a wolf? That would be more feasible.’

  ‘Anyone would realise the wound in Ernán’s throat was not the bite of a wolf. Questions would be asked of Blinne and...’

  ‘Questions are now being asked.’

  ‘But only by you. Brother Abán was satisfied and people here would not question the old ways.’

  ‘The old ways.’ Fidelma echoed the words thoughtfully.

  The girl looked nervously at Fidelma.

  ‘I suppose that you intend to have Blinne and Tadhg arrested?’

  ‘Tonight is the funeral of Ernán. We will see after that.’

  ‘You have some doubts still?’

  Fidelma smiled sadly. ‘We will see,’ she said. ‘I would like a word alone with your sister.’

  Bláth nodded towards the farmstead. ‘I forgot something at my uncle’s mill. You’ll find Blinne at the farmhouse.’

  The girl left Fidelma and continued up the path to the mill while Fidelma went on to the farmhouse. As she approached, she heard Blinne’s voice raised in agitation.

  ‘It’s not true, I tell you. Why do you bother me so?’

  Fidelma halted at the corner of a building. In the farmyard she saw Tadhg confronting the girl. Blinne looked distracted.

  ‘The dálaigh already suspects,’ Tadhg was saying.

  ‘There is nothing to suspect.’

  ‘It was obvious that Ernán was murdered, killed by a human hand. Obvious that Bláth was covering up with some story about a Banshee. It did not fool me, nor will it fool this woman. I know you hated Ernan. I know it is me that you really loved. But surely there was no need to kill him? We could have eloped and you could have divorced him.’

  Blinne was shaking her head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know what you are saying. How can you say this...?’

  ‘I know. Do not try to fool me. I know how you felt. The important thing is to flee from this place before thedálaigh can find the evidence. I can forgive you because I have loved you since you were a child. Come, let us take the horses and go now. We can let Bláth know where we have gone later. She can send us some money afterwards. I am sure the dálaigh suspects and will be here soon enough.’

  With a thin smile, Fidelma stepped from behind the building. ‘Sooner than you think, Tadhg,’ she said.

  The young man wheeled round and his hand went to the knife at his belt.

  ‘Don’t make it worse for yourself than it already is,’ snapped Fidelma.

  Tadhg hesitated a fraction and let his hand drop, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

  Blinne was gazing at them in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand this.’

  Fidelma glanced at her sadly and then at Tadhg. ‘Perhaps we can illuminate the situation?’

  Blinne’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘Tadhg claims that he has always loved me. When he came back from Finnan’s Height he would waylay and annoy me like a sick dog, mooning after me. I told him that I didn’t love him. Is it...it cannot be...did he...did he kill...?’

  Tadhg looked at her in anguish. ‘You cannot reject me so, Blinne. Don’t try to lay the blame for Ernán’s death on me. I know you pretended that you did not love me in public, but I had your messages. I know the truth. I told you to elope with me.’ His voice rose like a wailing child.

  Blinne turned to Fidelma. ‘I have no idea what he is saying. Make him stop. I cannot stand it.’

  Fidelma was looking at Tadhg. ‘You say you had messages from Blinne? Written messages?’

  He shook his head. ‘Verbal, but from an unimpeachable source. They were genuine, right enough, and now she denies me and tries to blame me for what has happened...’

  Fidelma held up her hand to silence him. ‘I think I know who gave you those messages,’ she said.

  * * * *

  After the burial of Ernán, Fidelma sat on the opposite side of the fire to Brother Abán in the tiny stone house next to the chapel. They were sipping mulled wine. ‘A sad story,’ sighed Brother Abán. ‘When you have seen someone born and grow up, it is sad to see them take a human life for no better reason than greed and envy.’

  ‘Yet greed and envy are among the great motivations for murder, Brother.’

  ‘What made you suspect Bláth?’

  ‘Had she said that she heard the Banshee wail once, it might have been more credible because she had a witness in her uncle who heard the wail. All those with whom I spoke, who had claimed to have heard it, said they heard
it once, like Glass did, on the morning of Ernán’s killing. The so-called Banshee only wailed once. It was an afterthought of Bláth’s once she had killed her brother-in-law.’

  ‘You mean that she was the one wailing?’

  ‘I was sure of it when I heard hat she had a good voice and, moreover, knew the caoine, the keening, the lament for the dead. I have heard the caoine and know it would have been only a small step from producing that terrible sound to producing the wail associated with a Banshee.’

  ‘But then she claimed she had done so to lay a false trail away from her sister. Why did you not believe that?’

  ‘I had already been alerted that all was not well, for when I asked Blinne about her sleep, I found that she had not even awoken when Ernán rose in the morning. She slept oblivious to the world and woke in a befuddled state. She was nauseous and had a headache. Blinne admitted that both she and Bláth knew all about herbal remedies and could mix a potion to ensure sleep. Bláth had given her sister a strong sleeping draught so that she would not wake up. Only on the third night did an opportunity present itself by which she killed Ernán.

  ‘Her intention all along was to lay the blame at her sister’s door, but she had to be very careful about it. She had been planning this for some time. She knew that Tadhg was besotted by Blinne. She began to tell Tadhg an invented story about how Blinne and Ernán did not get on. She told Tadhg that Blinne was really in love with him but could not admit it in public. She hoped that Tadhg would tell someone and thus sow the seeds about Blinne’s possible motive for murder.’

  Brother Abán shook his head sadly. ‘You are describing a devious mind.’

  ‘One must have a clever but disturbed mind to set out to paint another guilty for one’s own acts. Bláth had both.’

  ‘But what I do not understand is why - why did she do this?’

  ‘The oldest motives in the world - as we have said - greed and envy.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She knew that Ernán had no male heirs and so on his death his land, under the law of the banchomarba, would go to Blinne. And Bláth stood as Blinne’s banchomarba. Once Blinne was convicted of her husband’s death, she would lose that right and so the farm and land would come to Bláth, making her a rich woman.’

  Fidelma put down her empty glass and rose.

  ‘The moon is up. I shall use its light to return to Cashel.’

  ‘You will not stay until dawn? Night is fraught with dangers.’

  ‘Only of our making. Night is when things come alive; it is the mother of counsels. My mentor, Brehon Morann, says that the dead of night is when wisdom ascends with the stars to the zenith of thought and all things are seen. Night is the quiet time for contemplation.’

  They stood on the threshold of Brother Abán’s house. Fidelma’s horse had been brought to the door. Just as Fidelma was about to mount, a strange, eerie wailing sound echoed out of the valley. It rose, shrill and clear against the night sky, rose and ended abruptly, rose again and this time died away. It was like the caoine.

  Brother Abán crossed himself. ‘The Banshee!’ he whispered.

  Fidelma smiled. ‘To each their own interpretation. I hear only the lonely cry of a wolf searching for a mate. Yet I will concede that for each act there is a consequence. Bláth conjured the Banshee to cover her crime and perhaps the Banshee is having the last word.’

  She mounted her horse, raised her hand in salute, and turned along the moonlit road towards Cashel.

  <>

  * * * *

  Ken Bruen

  Fade to...Brooklyn

  Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.

  Man, isn’t that a hell of a title. I love that. Pity it’s been used, it’s a novel by Thomas Boyle. I read it years ago when the idea of moving to Brooklyn began to seriously appeal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going, got a Gladstone bag packed. Just the essentials, a few nice shoirts. See, I’m learning Brooklynese, and it’s not as easy a language as the movies would lead you to believe. I’ve had this notion for so long now, it’s an idee fixe. Like the touch of French? I’m no dumbass, I’ve learned stuff, not all of it kosher. I don’t have a whole lot of the frog lingo, so I’ve got to like, spare it. Trot it out when the special occasion warrants. Say you want to impress a broad, you hit her with a flower and some shit in French, she’s already got her knickers off. OK, that’s a bit crude but you get the drift.

  I’m hiding out in an apartment in Salthill. Yeah, yeah, you’re thinking...but isn’t that, like, in Galway, Ireland? I like a challenge.

  Phew-oh, I got me one right here. If only I hadn’t shot that Polack, but he got right in my face, you hear what I’m saying? So he wasn’t Polish, but I want to accustom myself to speaking American and if I don’t practise, I’m going to be in some Italian joint and sounding Mick. How the hell can you ask for linguini, fried calamari, cut spaghetti alia chitarra, ravioli, scallops with a heavy sauce, and my absolute favourite in terms of pronunciation, fresh gnocchi, in any accent other than Brooklyn? It wouldn’t fly. The apartment is real fine, huge window looking out over Galway Bay, a storm is coming in from the east, and the waves are lashing over the prom. I love the ferocity, makes me yearn, makes me feel like I’m a player. I don’t know how long this place is safe. Sean is due to call and put the heart crossways in me. I have the cell close by. We call them mobiles - doesn’t, if you’ll pardon the pun, have the same ring. And the Sig Sauer, nine mil, holds fifteen rounds. I jacked a fresh one in there first thing this morning and racked the slide, sounds like reassurance. I’m cranked, ready to rock ‘n’ roll. Sean is a header, a real headbanger. He’s from South Armagh, they grow up shooting at helicopters, bandit country, and those fuckers are afraid of nothing. I mean, if you have the British Army kicking in your door at four in the morning and calling you a Fenian bastard, you grow up fast and you grow up fierce.

  I was doing a stretch in Portlaoise, where they keep the Republican guys. They are seriously chilled. Even the wardens gave them space. And, of course, most of the wardens, they have Republican sympathies. I got to hang with them as I had a rep for armed robbery, not a very impressive rep or I wouldn’t have been doing bird. Sean and I got tight and after release, he came to Galway for a break and he’s been here two years. He is one crazy gumba. We had a sweetheart deal, no big design - like they say in twelve-step programs, we kept it simple. Post offices, that’s what we hit. Not the major ones but the small outfits on the outskirts of town. Forget banks, they’ve got CCTV and worse, the army does guard detail. Who needs that heat?

  Like this.

  We’d drive to a village, put on the balaclavas, get the shooters out, and go in loud and lethal, shouting, ‘Get the fuck down, this is a robbery, give us the fucking money!’

  I let Sean do the shouting, as his Northern accent sent its own message. We’d be out of there in three minutes, tops. We never hit the payload, just nice, respectable, tidy sums, but you do enough of them, it begins to mount. We didn’t flash the proceeds, kept a low profile. I was saving for Brooklyn, my new life, and Sean, well, he had commitments up north. I’d figured on another five jobs, I was outa there. Had my new ID secured, the money deposited in an English bank, and was working on my American.

  Sean didn’t get it, would say, ‘I don’t get it.’

  He meant my whole American love affair. Especially Brooklyn. We’d been downing creamy pints one night, followed by shots of Bushmills, feeling mellow, and I told him of my grand design. We were in Oranmore, a small village outside Galway, lovely old pub, log fire and traditional music from a band in the corner, bodhrans, accordions, tin whistles, spoons and they were doing a set of jigs and reels that would put fire in the belly of a corpse. I’d a nice buzz building, we’d done a job three days before and it netted a solid result. I sank half my pint, wiped the froth off my lip, and said, ‘Ah, man, Fulton Ferry District, the Brooklyn Bridge, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, Park Slope, Bed-Stuy, Bensonhurst, Bay Ridge, Coney Island.’

  These n
ames were like a mantra to me, prayers I never tired of uttering, and I got carried away, let the sheer exuberance show. Big mistake, never let your wants out, especially to a Northerner, those mothers thrive on knowing where you’re at. I should have heeded the signs - he’d gone quiet, and a quiet psycho is a fearsome animal. On I went like a dizzy teenager, saying, ‘I figure I’ll get me a place on Atlantic Avenue and, you know, blend.’

  I was flying, seeing the dream, high on it, and he leaned over, said in a whisper, ‘I never heard such bollix in me life.’