Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2)

by Dr. Barbara Golder

  “John was my complete other half. He was as gentle as I am cantankerous. As believing as I am cynical. He was gentle and kind and patient, and he never once raised so much as a finger to me in all the years we were married. He couldn’t even set a mousetrap; that was my job.” I drained the last of the water in one swallow, wishing it were something else. “Eoin Connor came after me with a baseball bat. Tell me, Father, how am I supposed to love a man like that?” The fact was, I did love him, or had, and it was frightening. How could I have been so wrong about the man who had been so careful of me as we kept company over the last few months? I stood as still as I could, but done with the conversation, with Father Matt and with myself.

  Father Matt stood, too. “Eoin Connor is a working man. He came from a rough life, Jane; he was a dockworker: tough, hard, not like John. He opened up for the first time in thirty years to let you in only to have Fiona walk in and toss the applecart from him. He was drunk, Jane, and in great pain, and he didn’t come after you. He came after a door. Yours and mine, too — nice, safe, inanimate objects to take out his anger on. And I’ll tell you, I’ve never — never — seen a man in such pain. Never. He loves you, Jane, and the thought of losing you sent him over the edge. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I understand that at first it’s doors and then it’s faces, Father. I understand that men who hit things hit people. That’s what violent men do, Father. I understand that I can’t live with that.” I folded my arms across my chest for emphasis. “I can’t love that.”

  Father Matt took a step back and regarded me, and he suddenly smiled. Not his usual radiant smile, something softer and unsettling, as though he understood something for the first time and was not going to share it with me. “Perhaps,” he finally said. “But you do, Jane Wallace, you do. And if he’s not cleared of this murder, really cleared, you’ll never be able to marry him.”

  “Father, if he is convicted, I wouldn’t marry him, anyway.”

  “That’s not what I mean. All it takes for a not-guilty verdict is a bit of doubt. The tribunal is not likely to see things that generously.”

  “Fiona’s dead. Eoin is free to marry. Why would the tribunal get involved?”

  Mistake. He knew he’d pricked my interest in spite of myself. Damn my curiosity. I didn’t really care. I reminded myself to keep repeating that from time to time.

  “This is pretty high profile: murder of a man’s wife — in the eyes of the Church — presumably because the offended husband wants to be free to wed again. Crimen — the obstacle of crime, which is, in this case, the murder of a spouse — is an obstacle to marriage.”

  “No worries. I won’t even think of marrying him if he is convicted. If he’s not, then he’s not guilty.”

  “He has to be innocent, Jane. That is different than not guilty, and you know it. The tribunal represents a law — well, not unto itself, but unto the Church. Different standards, often higher ones, especially in a case like this. Unless the evidence shows Eoin to be clearly innocent of the crime, he may still not be free to marry.”

  One of the problems with close friends is that they know your Achilles’ heel. Mine is running the facts to ground wherever they lead. I can’t stand loose ends, even when they don’t affect me. This particular loose end, if it ever appeared, would affect me greatly. Maybe. Perhaps. Then again, maybe not. I didn’t know.

  Father Matt glanced sideways at me. He knew he’d won. He knew I’d never take that risk.

  “I can help you book your flight,” he said, with the faintest of smiles.

  I shook my head. “No need. But you can drive me to the airport.”

  ***

  “I didn’t kill her. God knows that I had enough reasons and sometimes, I wanted to…but I did not kill her.” Eoin Connor regarded his defense counsel across the expanse of a metal table in an interrogation room. He supposed they all looked alike — spare, down-at-the-heels and furnished in the latest in second-hand, dented metal chic.

  He saw Peter Suskind, the man in charge of defending the ‘celebrated Eoin Connor,’ look at him over his half-glasses. A man in his mid-forties, he had a reputation as the best in criminal defense in all of Northern Ireland. He probably expects such a statement from his client, thought Eoin, but if he understood lawyers, it didn’t really matter to him so much the truth of the matter as much as how he would put the prosecution to the test of its own theories. The corners of Suskind’s mouth turned up slightly, and he ran a well-manicured right hand, which was adorned by a signet ring in the family crest, through his brown hair before he answered.

  “Never mind that. Where were you on the night Fiona died?”

  “I visited her in her room, right enough. She was in the same hotel I stayed in, by design, no doubt. She never was one to take no for an answer.”

  “Why did you visit her?”

  “She wanted to talk. She wanted to reconcile with me. She’d broached the subject several times before, and I refused. I went to make sure she understood I meant business.”

  “Say more.”

  Eoin thought back, tipping back in his chair, calling up a vision in his mind of the rooms Fiona had taken as suites in the Malmaison. He was sure it was for proximity rather than style; Fiona generally detested modern furniture, and the suites were done up in stark black and gray with the odd splash of golden-orange tossed about for relief. All angles and very minimalist, the opposite of Fiona’s taste. He had taken a seat in an overstuffed club chair — gray — next to the gas fire, deliberately so that she could not sidle up to him and sit close. He wanted distance between them, real distance in space as there was in his heart.

  Fiona had sighed and took her place in a chair of the same style opposite his. She raised a languid hand to mute the television, currently tuned to some overwrought drama or another — just Fiona’s style, in contrast to the furniture. He waited for her to speak first.

  “Eoin, darling. I admit I’ve behaved badly, dreadfully to you. Especially last evening in the bar. I did not mean to fight with you. But can’t we put that behind us and make a new life together, in the time we have now? Can’t you forgive me? For the fight and for the past?”

  Forgive you? he had thought to himself. Yes, I can forgive you, but I’m damned sure not going to give you the chance to hurt me again.

  “She wanted to reconcile. I told her no.”

  “Just like that?”

  “More or less.”

  “Why did you initially part ways?” Suskind was fishing.

  “She ran off with another man.”

  “How did you take that?” Baiting the hook now.

  “Given that I was on the lam myself, I didn’t give it much thought at the time.”

  The solicitor sighed and leaned forward to rest his arms on the table and pass a hand over his forehead. “For a storyteller, you are certainly parsimonious with details. What did you think about it later?”

  Eoin’s mind wandered back again to the suite. The gas fire had been a good one, with the flames playing along ceramic logs enough like the real thing to pass. He had stared at them for a long time as Fiona talked.

  “Why did you lie?” he had asked.

  “Lie?” She had been all innocence. For a moment, he thought it was genuine until he saw the telltale duck of her chin. Fiona always did that when she had something to hide.

  “Wasn’t it bad enough to leave me? Did you also have to steal any chance I might have at happiness later on?” Remembering it, he felt the anger rising just as it had that evening. “How did you convince Father Clancy to lie and tell me my petition had been submitted, let alone denied?” Her face blanched, and for an instant, she lost control of her face; the horror of being found out played across it. In an instant, he knew.

  “Holding me in reserve, weren’t you — for when you were too old and faded to find another fancy husband.” He saw her eyes widen, and he pressed it home. “Understand me once and for all, Fiona. I am not your husband and never was. I was willing
to have you once, but you tossed that away. I am not willing to let you back in my life now. I’m filing that petition with the tribunal now, and I’ve no doubt it will be approved. Live alone and die alone, I don’t care. You’ve done enough damage to me and mine. I am marrying Jane Wallace, count on it. I am going to make the life for me that I’ve missed out on all these years because of you.” He recalled the sheer force of will it took for him to maintain a veneer of calm. It still did.

  Eoin looked up at Suskind. “I thought she was a vindictive bitch and was glad to be shed of her. It didn’t bother me too much until recently. Somehow she arranged for the local parish priest to lie about a decree of nullity I asked for. I found out about it when I went to reapply, because I want to marry Jane Wallace. I have a motive. A good one.”

  “But you didn’t kill her.”

  “I did not.”

  “How did your fingerprints get on her glass?”

  “She asked me to fix her a drink. I did. Campari and soda. One of her affectations. I had scotch.”

  Eoin watched Suskind relax and his posture telegraphed his approval of the details. Eoin chuckled inwardly. I’m getting positively voluble. Good.

  “Do you know anything about Black Leaf 40?” Suskind asked.

  This time Eoin Connor laughed out loud. “As much as any farmhand would. We used to use it. Awful stuff —thick and dark and poisonous as hell but a good insecticide.”

  “So you knew it was poison?”

  “I did.” A pause, then, “I can’t imagine sneaking that into a drink. It’s dark, and it stinks. It would never pass.”

  “The autopsy shows she died of nicotine poisoning. There were traces of nicotine in the glass, and it had only your fingerprints and hers on it. And there was a bottle of Black Leaf 40 in the trash in the suite. Your fingerprints were on it.”

  Eoin laughed again. “That ought to prove my innocence right there. After writing about so many crimes, do you think I’d be daft enough to leave the poison there, complete with my fingerprints on it? Or use one so crude? There are so many better ways to off someone with poison. Cyanide. Strychnine. Ricin. But remember, poison is a woman’s weapon. Had I actually killed Fiona, I would have broken that pretty little neck of hers. But I didn’t. And I didn’t poison her, either.” He paused for a long moment of thought, casting his mind back to the byre and all the old bottles and jars in there. The only way a bottle of Black Leaf 40 with his fingerprints got into that room was because it came from the farm. He wondered how. More importantly, he wondered why.

  Setting aside that unpleasant line of thought, he continued. “More information from my stash of true crime investigation. Nicotine deaths are rare. And they are ugly. Nausea, vomiting, sweating, seizures. I don’t care what the coroner says. Nothing could have induced Fiona McLaughlin to drink enough Black Leaf 40 to die. And if she did, she did it after I left.”

  “Reports don’t lie.”

  “Then there is more to it. And I did not kill her.”

  “How did your fingerprints get on the container?”

  “No idea.”

  “Who else might have a motive? Or access? How did that Black Leaf 40 get in Fiona’s suite if you didn’t take it there?”

  The last few minutes of that night suddenly became clear in Eoin’s memory. His last, harsh words to Fiona had faded when she looked at him with an expression somewhere between regret and anger. “Don’t count on marrying your precious Jane just yet, Eoin. There’s still a matter of the tribunal. She won’t marry you if there is a cloud on your title.”

  Just like you to equate marriage with a real estate transaction, Eoin had thought as he rose to leave. All he said was “Fiona. It’s over. Whatever we had — and it wasn’t much — it’s gone now.”

  She had remained motionless in the club chair, reaching for her glass of Campari and soda. Such an awful drink, so bitter, he thought, and then with a wry smile to himself thought it fitting. A bitter drink for a bitter woman.

  He had let himself out into the hall. The doors to the tiny, dark elevator opened and a short, plump woman had pressed by him, her head down and her face almost obscured by the scarf wound around her neck. She gave him a brief, upward glance, all eyes and cheeks between the scarf and the hat pulled low on her forehead. Her face was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it, quite. It was as though he knew her in her youth, though, and she had been important.

  As he reconsidered that moment and regarded Suskind with a level gaze, it came to him why he knew that woman, who she was, and what she meant. Could it have been Deirdre? Poor, bewitched, abandoned Deirdre? He wasn’t sure.

  Suskind repeated his question. “Is there anyone else who had motive and access, Eoin?”

  Eoin Conner shook his head. “Can’t think of a soul,” he said, and made it clear to his QC that the interview was over.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  January 19

  The nice thing about flying charter is that the seats are comfortable, it’s easy to sleep, and the food is good. I spent most of the flight dozing intermittently and thinking about the past few days. All of my children had called me when they heard about Eoin’s arrest, alerted, no doubt, by Ben, my ginger-haired youngest, away at Georgia Tech, learning even more mysterious ways with computers. Only he, Luke (my carpenter son), and Adam (my daredevil seminarian) had actually met Eoin. My daughters, pregnant Zoe and med student Elizabeth, and Adam’s twin, Seth, studying for the priesthood in Rome, knew him only second-hand. But they all called. I suppose they were worried that I might collapse under the strain as I had when their father was killed. Truth be known, I considered it, but I’m made of sterner stuff these days.

  I arrived in Belfast early in the morning, my first trip off American soil. I was sad that I was not making it in the company of John, and I had fantasized about making it with Eoin, but here I was, clearing customs in Northern Ireland all by myself, with a pristine passport and no real idea how to manage myself in a foreign place. At least they speak English, I thought.

  Once I approached the glass cubicle, I wasn’t so sure. The uniformed man with the florid face had to ask me three times what the purpose of my visit was before I understood him. “Pleasure,” I lied.

  I assumed the next question was about duration, and I replied, “Two, three weeks,” which seemed to satisfy him. He stamped my book and waved me on. I gathered my bag, anticipating a stop in customs, but strolled right through with no problems. I sighed with relief. Airports were airports pretty much anywhere. I flagged a taxi and climbed in.

  “Where to?” The driver’s accent sounded much like Eoin’s at his best. I was relieved. I fished my smartphone out of my purse and consulted my notes.

  “The Malmaison. Victoria Street.”

  “Know it well. We’re off. First time to Belfast?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Ah, well then, shall we take the scenic route? Bit of a tour?”

  I considered the proposition. It was early, and my room would hardly be ready. I appreciated his straightforward suggestion. Might as well get a little sightseeing in. Learning something about the city might help me in the long run.

  “The Blue Plate Special, please,” I replied.

  The tables turned. “Beg pardon?”

  I smiled. “Yes, please. The best tour you can. I am in no rush, and I have never been to Ireland before.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He smiled at me in the mirror and touched the brim of his cap. For the next two hours, he drove me all over Belfast, giving me a running commentary of life in the still-divided city. On the one hand, he drove me past Victoria Square — right across from my hotel, he pointed out — and the Titanic Quarter and the shipyards, the place that Eoin worked so many years ago. The waterfront near downtown was clean and inviting, though I wondered a bit about the huge sculpture of a woman perched on a large sphere and holding a giant ring. On the other, the segregated Protestant and Catholic communities made me uneasy with their political murals, the remains o
f ruined houses, the Peace Wall, and the gates that still closed at night to keep the two groups apart from each other.

  My simple grasp of Irish history, supplemented by some of Eoin’s stories, led me to believe that most of the conflict was behind as of the mid-1990s. That was hard to believe when I passed a house with a hooded sniper painted on the side, taking aim at anyone who passed. It was one of those paintings that seemed to follow the viewer no matter his perspective, and it made my blood run cold. To my mind, the Catholic sectors looked a bit more prosperous: the dooryards were cleaner, with fewer ruined lots. I supposed that impression might be the selective presentation of my driver, whose name was, of course, Paddy, and who sported a miraculous medal around his neck. But there were murals there, as well, celebrating martyrs to the cause, and showing solidarity with political prisoners near and far, including one for imprisoned Basques. There was even one expressing welcome for Middle Eastern refugees. I had not quite appreciated how deeply the English occupation affected Irish life, and as a result, how strong was the identification with the downtrodden. It gave me pause to see support for causes not quite so well-known, and certainly not so popular, in the States.

  By ten, we were headed back to my hotel, passing the murals on Falls Road. The Troubles weren’t ancient history; they were supposedly past, but still very much alive on Falls Road and the Shankill. The Irish had long memories and short tempers, or so it was said about them. It proved true in my own beloved South, still scarred by a war nearly a hundred-and-a-half years ago. I hoped it would not prove true of Eoin.

  The Malmaison was housed in a dun-colored, Victorian building. From the outside, it looked very conventional, all arches and windows. The inside was a different story.

  I felt as though I had fallen through Alice’s rabbit hole. The lobby was decorated in black and shades of purple, with a checkerboard carpet and a chair that looked for all the world like the Queen of Hearts would be arriving any moment to hold court. A gigantic wooden box camera stood to one side, near the elevator. I chose the hotel because it was where Fiona died, the better to nose around. I was perplexed. From what I knew of Fiona, this was anything but her style.