Michael introduced her to McAllister as Eileen O’Leary and she nodded a greeting.
Her brief smile was not reflected in her soulless eyes, yet McAllister detected a great warmth of personality beneath the all pervading sense of depression.
Frank was later to explain to McAllister that Eileen had lost her husband in a drowning tragedy at Fanore, further up the coast, the previous year and had not yet begun to come to terms with it.
She was an accomplished sculptress and had been a professional flautist of distinction.
Michael had been very kind to her since the death and she spent her evenings in the hotel helping out in small ways.
During the day she sculpted and sold her work in a small shop beside her studio, which was just a mile to the south along the coast road.
Frank and Susan felt her friendship with Balfe might become closer when more time had elapsed.
Eileen was obviously unaware of the incident which had just taken place and they talked briefly before Susan suggested leaving, as she was feeling tired.
As they drove home in silence McAllister remembered that Balfe had not said anything more about the French tourists.
He decided not to try to make conversation but to allow jangled nerves to settle.
Susan made an effort but Holland was so morose that she let things be.
“So good old Frank hasn’t changed after all. Still as tense as ever underneath,” thought McAllister as he pulled in at the Atlantic car park.
CHAPTER 3
“IT WAS A BEAUTY OF A PUNCH I must admit, despite my misgivings.” Susan chuckled as she sat briefly with McAllister at breakfast.
They were discussing the events of the previous night and her quirky sense of humour allowed her to see the bizarre encounter in the Orchid Hotel the previous night in a lighter perspective.
“Yes Frank surprised me even though I know him of old. He always had a reputation for quick reactions, but I thought at his age he might have been more restrained. He’s normally so laid back, even more so now since he met you.”
McAllister then asked her about Hyland.
“Oh he’s alright, a bit of a lout as Frank said. His brain power wouldn’t register at all on an IQ test. Hyland just seems to resent newcomers moving into the area, but I do agree his objection to Frank in his roving photographer role is a bit obsessive. For some reason best known to himself it seems to bug him and that’s what he was slobbering on about.”
“How is Frank this morning? I thought he might have been circulating at this hour especially with breakfast in full swing”
“He decided to lie on. Probably a bit embarrassed. So you may not see him before you go.”
McAllister looked at his watch. “Oops I’d better be off. I’ve got to see Mrs McBride at Gregans Castle at 10.30. She’s a stickler for time but she’s a brick. Patsy will have everything organised to a tee so I’ll only have to devote my mind to the lectures while she makes sure everything I need is at my fingertips. What a woman!”
“Oh by the way,” said Susan, “I nearly forgot to mention there’s a concert of Boccherini quintets in Ennis this evening. Would you like to come with us?”
“That’s unusual,” said McAllister. “OK, I’d like that.”
Half an hour later he cruised up the driveway of Gregans Castle Hotel. His journey had taken him south for a few miles, then inland above Lisdoonvarna, through Toomaghera and into the heart of the Burren. He eventually descended the aptly named Corkscrew Hill into the long fertile valley which made it’s way up from the coast at Ballyvaughan, and which was flanked by two long imposing hills of limestone. Cappanawalla guarded the valley’s descent to sea level on the left.
The hotel was situated snugly at the head of the valley among trees, and surrounded by rolling grasslands. From it’s entrance one could look north over Galway Bay, and beyond, into Connemara.
McAllister eased himself from the Sierra and stood looking down the valley towards the sea. He tried to appreciate the peace and beauty of what he saw but it eluded and yet overwhelmed him. He felt inadequate. He would need time to succumb and become a part of it. Total peace could not be easily achieved.
“There you are John. Bang on time. Great to see you.” A stentorian voice exploded behind McAllister and he quivered momentarily.
He turned to face the imposing figure of Patsy McBride. Fifty eight years of age, five feet ten inches tall ,broad shouldered, handsome features , tanned complexion with short cut brown hair showing just a few flecks of grey , she exuded health and stamina and yet was curiously feminine. Her smile was all consuming as she bore down on McAllister.
“Patsy. It’s you.” He said somewhat inadequately as he returned her smile.
“Of course it’s me. Come on coffee’s waiting.” She put an arm affectionately around McAllister’s shoulders and led him inside.
Gregans Castle was an exclusive country house hotel. One had a sense of slipping back in time in the comfortable interior. Thick carpets and generous curtaining absorbed all but the most penetrating sounds , and these were few. Just the odd clink of cutlery and glass as the unseen staff made advance preparations for lunch somewhere in the distance. They entered a large, comfortably furnished lounge which featured a welcoming log fire, despite the clement weather. A stairway curled away at one end and a venerable grandfather clock stood guard as it brooded in a corner. Orchid paintings graced the walls and the dancing flames were reflected in the brass furnishings around the open fireplace.
They sat and drank Java coffee.
“I have a room reserved for Sunday evening. I’ll show you that shortly. Stills and movie projectors will be set up and the hotel has a very good portable screen which I can borrow. The back up notes which you sent me have been duplicated and everyone attending the lectures and field trips will be provided with notebooks and maps. Also I have made arrangements to have a minibus available as needed for the field trips.”
“You’re a marvel Patsy.” laughed McAllister.
“That’s the least of my many qualities,” she boomed. “Now let me show you the list of names.
They read through the enrolment forms. Twelve were from young students throughout the country and five Americans had been netted through a travel agent.
Patsy explained that there would be an interest in individual lectures on an ad hoc basis and asked McAllister if he would be happy with that.
He agreed and they went on to discuss the arrangements in more detail.
Over lunch they chatted generally and McAllister told her about his adventures since he arrived in the Burren. He noted her concern about the incident at the Orchid.
“Hyland has a bad reputation and Frank should keep out of his way. It’s not good losing one’s cool like that. Anger can lead anywhere you know. Very hard to control once it escapes out of the bottle.” McAllister thanked Patsy and took his leave shortly afterwards. On his return journey he called to the Gardaí at Lisdoonvarna and reported the accident at Black Head.
The “Atlantic” was strangely quiet when McAllister returned and he made his way to his room without meeting anyone. He spent the next few hours preparing material for the following week, showered and took a short nap.
He awoke refreshed and called Frank on the internal line to make arrangements for an early dinner and the trip to Ennis.
Susan answered and they arranged to meet in the dining room at six o’clock. When they arrived Susan looked quite striking in a pink suit with matching high heeled shoes but Frank’s strained expression, unkempt hair, jeans and crumpled pullover were hardly the preparation for an enjoyable evening.
It transpired that he was still feeling unwell and would skip the concert.
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” he complained, “that affair with Hyland left me feeling a bit washed out so I’ll just keep an eye on things here until dinner is finished and have an early night. One of the guest rooms is free, Susan, so I’ll bed down early and if I sleep well I shoul
d be as right as rain tomorrow.”
“That’s a good idea,” she agreed, “I won’t disturb you when we get back. On the other hand a night of Boccherini might be just the cure for you Frank. It’s not too late to change your mind.” She looked at him quizzically.
“I’m tempted……but no, best leave it. The beauty, yes, but the yearning sadness behind it could be counterproductive in my state of mind.”
“What a strange comment,” thought McAllister.
When they were leaving for Ennis Frank gave Susan an affectionate hug and waved them off. McAllister glimpsed him in the rear view mirror, a sad, lonely figure standing in the doorway. He was disturbed by the picture but shrugged it off. “Feeling a bit sorry for himself. Frank will be okay in the morning.”
He smiled at Susan as they made their way along the coast road. They admired the calmness of the immense seascape and agreed it would be an ideal night for being out at sea. Passing Andy O’ Lochlen at Poll na Doibe they returned his friendly greeting.
The concert at the cathedral in Ennis had attracted a lot of interest. McAllister had to park some distance away but they eventually settled themselves among a large cosmopolitan audience to enjoy a most unusual evenings music.
The Quintetto di Lucca were playing a complete programme of quintets by their fellow Luccan, Boccherini. The addition of a second ‘cello to the normal string quartet enriched the sound to a degree which enthralled McAllister and set him wondering why this music was not played more often. He made a mental note to expand his CD collection in that direction.
As the concert progressed he became conscious of how accurate Frank’s phrase “yearning sadness” was in relation to this music. Even the fast movements were pervaded by a gentle melancholy. It was as if the composer’s awareness of the transient nature of life was heightened by the beauty of his surroundings. The strange sadness of a summer evening. McAllister recalled something of how he had felt earlier that day at Gregans Castle Hotel.
The interval came quickly and they left their seats to walk about the cathedral. McAllister spotted an old friend, Superintendent Con Curtis of the Gardaí, who had been based in Ennis for many years. He waved across to catch Curtis’s attention and they made their way through the audience to talk to him. Curtis, in his early fifties, seemed stocky but, when one was near him, taller than first impressions suggested. His penetrating blue eyes were set in a pleasant malleable countenance and he was obviously delighted to see McAllister, who introduced Susan. They talked for a while and Curtis asked if either of them had seen Balfe at the recital.
McAllister replied in the negative. “Eileen would be more likely to come, being a player herself,” he went on, “although I suppose it’s always possible that she might entice him here.”
They made their way back to their seats, McAllister having promised to call on Curtis before returning to Dublin.
As they settled down for the second half Susan tugged at McAllister’s arm and pointed towards a door to the side of the altar from which the performers would shortly be emerging. Inside they could glimpse two men talking animatedly. One they had seen earlier positioning the music stands and setting out the music before the performance had begun. He was obviously the all purpose manager of the Quintetto di Lucca, but the other was Michael Balfe ! They were having a very heated discussion and it didn’t look too friendly. Suddenly the men became aware of the door being open and it was immediately closed over.
Soon afterwards the quintet re-emerged and the cathedral was again filled with the beautiful liquid sounds of Boccherini.
Neither Susan nor McAllister saw Balfe again. They tried to find Curtis in the crowd to tell him about Balfe but he wasn’t to be seen either.
While they were looking, Balfe and the Italian group were leaving the cathedral by a rear entrance. They loaded their instruments and other equipment into an Orchid Hotel minibus and left together. They weren’t to know that the occupants of a discretely parked car were watching them and would follow into the night.
“Michael seemed to be very involved with those Italians” commented Susan as they journeyed home along the coast road much later.
“I thought the whole episode was very odd,” said McAllister, “what could they have been saying and why wasn’t Eileen there?”
“It’s likely that the Quintet are staying at the Orchid and something went wrong with the arrangements. You know how demonstrative Italians can be. Even a discussion about the weather can appear volcanic.”
“I’m not so sure,” McAllister said. “I’ve been uneasy since I got here. There have been so many peculiar incidents. First there was the near miss at Black Head and those people scooting off. Then Hyland having a go at Frank. You must admit Frank’s reaction was a bit over the top. Now we’ve just seen Michael having a run in with that Italian string quintet manager, while Eileen, the musician of the duo, missed such a wonderful concert. I don’t know, I must be in need of a rest.”
By this time Susan was almost convulsed with laughter as McAllister reeled off his litany of misgivings.
“I recommend a few days break, John. Why not sail away into the sunset and leave it all behind you like those people out there, whoever they are.”
Susan pointed out to sea.
They were passing Poll na Doibe and McAllister glimpsed a fishing boat sitting lazily in the water near Cloch an Oilc.
Then the weak moonlight was obscured by a bank of cloud and the boat merged into the darkness.
“Perhaps you’re right, Susan,” agreed McAllister wearily, “perhaps you’re right.”
The Atlantic guest house was dark and silent when they arrived.
After a quick night-cap they said goodnight and went to their rooms.
McAllister had no trouble sinking into a sound sleep with the music of Boccherini in his head, soothing him like a lullaby.
Wakened briefly during the night by a flash of headlights and the sound of a car coming to rest in the car park he noticed the green digits on his bedside clock showing 3 am., and then his slumbers resumed.
CHAPTER 4
THE MUTED TRILLING OF THE ALARM CLOCK drew McAllister gently from his dreamless sleep towards the new dawn.
He took his part in this process like a docile fish accepting it’s fate as the angler eased it gently towards the bank.
When consciousness had asserted itself he drew back the covers, swung his feet out onto the floor and took stock of the situation sitting on the edge of the bed.
It was Wednesday and he planned to cover a lot of the ground chosen for his field trips, so it was to be an early start. The clock showed three minutes past seven and he now remembered that he had made arrangements to have breakfast at 7.30. Aoife, who cooked most mornings, had been more than willing to accommodate him and to start operations in the kitchen half an hour earlier than usual.
“I’d better get a move on,” he murmured to himself, “this sea air has me drugged. Must be in time or she’ll kill me.”
This thought put a spring in his step and with a steady increase in energy he shaved, showered, dressed and packed his equipment into a shoulder bag.
Fresh and alert McAllister arrived in the dining room at precisely 7.30. It was empty but the kitchen aromas reached him.
Going to the window he looked across the ocean. The day was calm but overcast and the islands gave the impression of being asleep.
“We may have showers today,” he thought,” better go prepared.”
“Good morning Mr. McAllister. I’ll be with you in a moment.” A voice called from the kitchen.
“Thanks Aoife, take your time.”
Because of the long day and the probability that lunch time would come and go when he was well away from somewhere to eat, McAllister had decided to break with his normal practice and have a full Irish breakfast.
At home he would have a light meal of nutty brown bread and lots of tea but he would sometimes treat himself on holiday. Today was one of those days, added to the
fact that he needed to store away extra calories for the physical work ahead.
Aoife appeared with some fruit juice and advised McAllister to bring rain gear.
“I’ve just had the same thought.” He smiled and thanked her for her concern.
She had a clear complexion, auburn hair flowing in curls to her shoulders and intelligent eyes set in a smiling face, tall and very efficient.
“She’s part of Frank’s success story,” he thought, “a real charmer with brains to match.”
Subconsciously he was comparing her with Ann, to whom she bore a strong resemblance. He made a mental note to telephone Ann before leaving this morning. “Might catch her before she goes to the hospital to do her rounds. Pity she couldn’t break free to come with me this week. Anyway we’ll make up for lost time.”
“There you are Mr. McAllister.” Aoife broke into his thoughts again.
This time she had brought a large tray and McAllister’s appetite was immediately stimulated by the mixed aromas of his freshly cooked breakfast. Lightly smoked bacon, perfectly cooked eggs , subtly spiced sausage, sautéed mushrooms which had more than a nodding acquaintance with crushed garlic, and lamb’s kidneys browned beautifully in butter. Accompanied by piping hot crisp crust brown bread and, unusually for him, coffee, this feast presented a challenge to McAllister which he accepted with zest.
His enjoyment was heightened by a nagging, but pleasurable, sense of guilt. This was his secret. His and Aoife’s. Nobody else would know.
Half an hour later it took a little effort to detach himself from the remnants of Aoife’s masterpiece and load his equipment and flask of hot tea into the car. Then a quick call to Ann and a farewell to Aoife.
He thanked her profusely and drove away as the first guests were drifting into the restaurant. A perfect start to a perfect day?
Death in the Burren Page 2