DEATH AT CARASHEEN
An Inspector Faro Mystery
Alanna Knight
ALANNA KNIGHT MBE has published more than sixty novels (including sixteen in the acclaimed Inspector Faro series, and seven featuring his daughter Rose McQuinn), as well as non-fiction, true crime and several books on Robert Louis Stevenson, numerous short stories and two plays since her award-winning first book ‘Legend of the Loch’ in 1969. A founding member and Honorary President of the Scottish Association of Writers and of the Edinburgh Writer’s Club, born and educated on Tyneside, she has two sons and two granddaughters and lives in Edinburgh. Her MBE is for services to literature.
Homepage: https://www.alannaknight.com
Blog: https://alannaknightcrime.blogspot.co.uk
Chapter 1
Murder was the last thing in Jeremy Faro’s mind as the soft Irish countryside floated past the carriage window. Momentarily vanishing under the train’s smoke it emerged again radiantly green. This was Imogen’s homeland, unfurling in a glory of colour, a vast chequered quilt of variegated greens, yellows and browns, fields and mountains interrupted by glimpses of long fingers of land reaching out into fierce seas hurling white foam against the shore. Seas where islands lurked, mysterious shapes, holding their own against the elements, watching the land like basking primeval whales.
This was a land fierce and proud as Imogen Crowe herself. Soon they would be together again, but he was finding their separations harder and lengthier these days, as Imogen became more involved in researching a book on the life of the great Irish reformer and her personal hero, Daniel O’Connell, her reason for abandoning their travels in Europe and returning to Kerry.
As for Faro, in compensation and to save him the ordeal of a Crowe family wedding in Carasheen, she had saddled him with a lecture tour in Dublin, Wexford and Cork. His final contribution last night had been a dry and (he thought) severely academic lecture on the crime methods of Edinburgh City Police, from which he had gladly retired a year ago, but talking about murder was not one of his favourite leisure activities. As Chief Inspector Faro, a detective whose fame had spread far beyond the confines of Scotland, he was learning to evade invitations from eminent societies where as guest speaker, in addition to the notes he never used, he was unable to enjoy a glass of wine.
Sometimes, however, escape was impossible. His equivalent in the Irish Gardai in Dublin was an old colleague and it would have been churlish to refuse. Nevertheless, he hated giving talks, standing on a platform under the unflinching gaze of a sea of expressionless faces as he searched in vain for amusing anecdotes to lighten the atmosphere and bring a smile to their lips - such incidents were harder to find than clues to track down killers.
True, he had put up a firm resistance to Imogen’s original tour idea but had weakened to her wheedling. ‘Just a little favour.’ Especially as the organiser was a Dublin professor and fine poet, an old friend of her great uncle who had known Daniel O’Connell? So how could he, Jeremy Faro, the famous detective, ignore and refuse such an honour? Besides, always with a practical side, she had whispered that the fee was generous indeed, more than an advance for one of her books, and it would come in very useful for their further travels.
‘Perhaps even further afield than New York. Think of that!’ And, smiling sweetly, she had added, stroking his cheek. ‘There is another reason, too, remember?’
Faro recoiled even further from that additional reason for this long-delayed and brief return to Kerry and the ordeal he had been spared. A favourite cousin from long ago, Imogen had promised to dance at her wedding. If anything, he decided, family weddings were more to be dreaded than lectures to learned societies. Circumstances had conspired so that he should miss his two daughters’ weddings - Emily’s in Orkney and Rose’s in America. And this particular family celebration in Carasheen would be a dreaded introduction to Imogen’s vast, sprawling clan of relatives.
He pictured a terrifying sea of faces, from the very old to the newest screaming arrival, all with impossible Gaelic names - Imogen, it seemed, was the one exception - names he would never remember or be able to pronounce correctly.
Shaking his head sadly, that other sea of unfamiliar scholarly faces he had just left was infinitely preferable, especially as he could already hear the Crowe clan’s whispers across half of Kerry. ‘Is that Imogen’s man? And why then aren’t they married? A widower, isn’t he? And her an auld spinster (a term applied to anyone over twenty-five). No just cause or impediment there.’
Faro shuddered as he imagined a more insensitive guest, emboldened by drink taken heartily, demanding, ‘Sure now, and when is it yourself and Imogen are going to name the day?’
To say Imogen was neither mistress nor wife but described, by his family and, politely, by those who knew them both not too intimately, as his friend and travelling companion just wasn’t a decent or satisfactory explanation for Imogen’s marriage-orientated family.
Faro sighed more deeply than ever. Even in this enlightened year of 1890, mistresses were only for princes and aristocrats, the rich and the famous that could afford to flaunt convention with a defiant stare as they tore up the rules. Mistresses were not, definitely not, officially recognised by respectable Edinburgh and a whiff of such scandal had brought down many a promising career in the New Town.
Imogen’s role in his life was not Faro’s choice. He would have willingly slipped a ring on her finger any day of the week but she stubbornly declined the honour as an outrage to her firmly held feminist principles. Not that she didn’t love Faro. She did. But a wedding ring signified the bondage she had scorned through her long career as a writer, defying convention, her main target women’s rights and social injustices.
Truth to tell, as far as the British Government was concerned, Imogen Crowe was on record as an Irish terrorist who had spent time in a London jail. She had been wrongly accused, as it happened. Orphaned and sixteen years old, her uncle and guardian Brendan Crowe, a fanatical Irish patriot, brought her to London with a plan to assassinate Queen Victoria driving down the Mall. The attempt failed and he shot himself in their lodging. Imogen was taken prisoner as a suspect but ultimately proved innocent. However, even with her name cleared, she had assisted fellow countrymen to escape back to Ireland and would be back behind bars if she ever set foot in Britain again. It was this sad truth that also accounted for Faro’s long exile from his family and friends.
Such were his thoughts as the train slowed down and slid along the platform at Carasheen station. Reeling down the window, he leaned out and there was Imogen staring anxiously at the carriage windows as they flashed past. Tall, slim, auburn-haired, white-skinned with black-lashed dark green eyes, that first sight of her, as always, was like a hammer blow to his chest. She was so lovely; the passing years took no toll. Touching forty, like Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, age could not wither her nor custom stale her infinite variety. Faro smiled, priding himself for a moment that her eager, concerned expression hinted that she had missed him more severely than he dared hope in the two weeks they had been apart.
Gathering his luggage, he jumped out of the carriage and as she ran towards him ready for that first embrace, he began, ‘Well, how was the wed . . .’ But he never finished the sentence. Shaking her head impatiently; she seized his arm.
‘Thank God, you’re here! Something absolutely dreadful has happened. There’s been a murder. Ten days ago, just after the wedding.’ Before he could ask any questions she hurried through the gate and indicated the waiting pony cart.
‘I’ve put you in the local Inn. I thought you would prefer that,’
Faro didn’t, ima
gining a great bedroom with windows looking towards the sea, a four-poster bed, snowy white sheets and Imogen’s head on the pillow beside him.
She knew him well, rightly interpreting his slight frown for the same thought had been in her own mind. ‘Folk come a long way for family occasions like weddings, sleeping three and four to a room. All were so shocked by the killings of the Donnellys that they decided it was only proper and respectful to stay on for the funerals - and a wake. Now they’ll be inclined to stay until the whiskey runs out.’ She sighed. ‘No one in the Crowe family knows the meaning of time.’
Aware of Faro’s set expression, she smiled and squeezed his arm. ‘Besides, I’m just fortunate to have even a tiny room to myself. My Cousin Maeve’s best friend died last month of consumption and she’s nobly fostering four wee orphans. Very noisy. I couldn’t inflict that on you, now could I?’
‘Tell me about this murder,’ was Faro’s grumpy reply, aware that these were delaying tactics and that she was reluctant to talk about it.
Imogen shook her head, bewildered. ‘The dancing and the drinking were in full swing - the bride and groom were off to Scotland on honeymoon. It was just before dawn and the effects of it all were beginning to slow the revellers down. Peg and Will Donnelly - recently married themselves - were on their way home, just a mile away, a little croft, and someone attacked them - took an axe . . .’ Gulping, she closed her eyes, shutting out the scene. ‘Dear God, it was terrible. Terrible.’
As they stepped into the pony cart, Faro seized the reins from her, ‘Tell me later. Now, which way?’
Imogen’s hands ceased their trembling. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said briskly, ‘and I’ve put a picnic in the back. Thought we might have a bit of peace, a few hours on our own.’
‘What about the inn?’ said Faro, thinking of a bedroom waiting for him.
Her reply was given with a sad, mocking smile. ‘Sure, that would be fine and dandy, wouldn’t it, now? But the inn’s packed too, crawling with Crowe kin. And they would only talk about us, wouldn’t they?’
Faro considered. At that moment, longing for Imogen, he would have faced and ignored family gossip. With a very recent brutal murder to discuss, surely the Crowe kin would be considering that more than enough to keep their minds occupied rather than speculation about whether or not he and Imogen were ‘living in sin’.
The cart jogged down a narrow lane ablaze with scarlet-blossomed fuschia. Over thick hedges, black Kerry cows grazing in quilted fields patterned in golden hayricks.
‘Where are we going?’
Turning to him, Imogen pointed. ‘Up yonder, see - beyond the cliff path, there’s a wood with a waterfall that drifts down into the sea. I used to go there often when I was a child. I thought you might like it.’
A few moments later, having safely negotiated a perilously narrow cliff path, with horse and cart settled by a tree, they climbed towards the hill’s summit to be rewarded with a breathtaking panorama. Kerry’s long fingers of land extended out across the peninsula. Below them, the shining waters of Lough Beigh stretched right out to Dingle Bay, touched by the first fierce whispers of the Atlantic Ocean.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ said Imogen and, pouring the wine, she told him about Peg and Will who had been laid to rest two days ago and how the wedding feast had become their funeral wake. Still deeply shocked, she found if difficult to describe the murder and kept it as brief as possible. With a convulsive shudder, she shook her head. ‘Uncle Desmond will give you all the details. He’s hoping that you will help them to make an arrest.’
‘An arrest?’
‘Sure. The local police - well, it’s beyond the local Garda. Young Conn has never had more than a bit of poaching to deal with.’
‘Wait a bit - who is this Uncle Desmond?’
She stared at him. ‘Sure now, haven’t I’ve told you about him before? He’s more of a cousin really but he was that bit older and it seemed more respectful to call him Uncle when I was a child. He’s one of your lot - a detective in Dublin.’ Pausing, she looked at him for a response. ‘Don’t you remember, when we first met, that was just about the only thing we had in common?’ she persisted.
Faro nodded. He had a vague recollection of that boasted law connection but, at the time, there had been more urgent and pressing matters to engage his attention than such a coincidence prompted by the abrasive woman writer. He could smile now at the memory of that first meeting. Little had either of them foreseen what lay ahead and or dream that one day, anger and resentment might undergo such a transformation.
‘Uncle Desmond’s retired now,’ Imogen went on. ‘He came home to Carasheen a few months ago. After the murder, he got straight in touch with Dublin and they promised to send reinforcements but, meanwhile, asked if he would take over the case and arrest the killers.’
‘So they knew who they were?’
‘Oh, yes - all three of them,’ she said grimly. ‘This will be the easiest case either of you has ever tackled. You see, there was a witness - Paddy, a sweet lad, but tuppence short of a shilling, as we say over here. Bit of a peeping Tom too, likes to follow lovers, watch them - that sort of thing. Annoys some folk but there’s no real harm in him.’ A particularly nasty habit though, thought Faro, staring uncomfortably over his shoulder at the rows of apparently innocent bushes and trees.
‘Paddy saw the murder and the Donnellys’ killers – the three Cara brothers, the unholy trinity, as folk about here call them. They live in the big house but no servants will stay there and the best they can get is gypsy children, kidnapped of course.’ She shuddered. ‘According to the few who have ever been in Cara House - they inherited two years ago - they live in complete squalor. Their father, Sir Michael Cara and the generations before him have been Carasheen’s feudal lords, our landowners, and right back to the time when Elizabeth of England imposed tyranny on Ireland. As you will realise from that, they are Anglo-Irish in origin, regarding themselves as more fiercely Irish than the Celtic peasantry but staying loyal to the hated English crown, fighting their battles on land and sea and sending their sons to be educated at English universities. Sir Michael did well enough by Carasheen but not by his sons. Their mother died young and folk said he never got over that and let the three boys run wild. After his second wife, who was English, also died in what many considered were mysterious circumstances, he seemed to give up, go to pieces and let the estate go to rack and ruin.’
Pausing, she smiled wryly. ‘That pedigree herd of Kerry cows - you’ve seen some of them in the fields we passed as we came up the road - breeding them was once his pride and joy.’
‘How did he die?’ Faro asked.
‘Poor man, folk said he took to the bottle, had a stroke, fell down the stairs at Cara House and broke his neck. After that, his sons decided to turn the clock back to the feudal system.’ She shrugged. ‘They have been terrorising the village ever since.’
‘What sort of terrorising?’
‘Everything from droit de seigneur to blackmail - protection money from the richer farmers. If they don’t pay up, then bad things happen to their cattle, beatings, barns burnt, animals slaughtered, horses stolen and so forth. As for the inn and the village shop, the Caras reckon they are merely to keep them supplied with whiskey and groceries without any payment being made.’
A very unpleasant picture of life in Carasheen was emerging for Faro as he said, ‘And this lad Paddy actually saw them kill the young couple.’
‘Oh, yes, and he brought back the axe as evidence.’
Faro’s mind was racing ahead. ‘People don’t usually murder without reason, Imogen. And an axe seems an odd choice of weapon . . .’
‘Peg and Will were taking the short cut through the wood where the Cara boys were chopping down trees. No peat fires for them - they use the trees for firewood.’
‘Motive?’ asked Faro.
Imogen shook her head. ‘They don’t need any motive for violence. Anyone whose shadow crosses their path, who looks sideways a
t them, is enough. You have to understand.’ she added desperately, ‘these aren’t normal naughty boys we are dealing with. These three are monsters - wicked mad monsters . . .’
‘Proven murder is still punishable by death,’ Faro said grimly. ‘And wicked mad monsters can’t be allowed to get away with it. Surely that is why your uncle Desmond has been put in charge? I expect Dublin will want them arrested and brought to trial.’
‘Sure - and this will be the easiest case either of you have ever handled.’
‘Wait a moment, you said that before. I thought it was a slip of the tongue.’
She looked away from him, gazed towards the sparkling horizon. He demanded, ‘Precisely what has this to do with me, Imogen?’
A smile. ‘He wants you to give him a hand. Help him make the arrest.’
‘He wants what?’
‘He hopes you might take over the case,’ Imogen said weakly.
Chapter 2
Faro was appalled. The very last thing he wanted was to be involved in another murder investigation. In someone else’s country was bad enough but to be brought in quite unofficially and quite unwillingly at the stage when the bodies and all the evidence had been buried days before he arrived, that made it even worse.
‘I cannot possibly do this. What about the local policeman?’
Imogen cut short his protests, saying hastily, ‘You must help, Faro. Our policeman Conn O’Flynn went to the door to question them - a brave lad, doing what he sees as his duty, but hopelessly inexperienced in serious crimes, utterly helpless against them. Imagine the scene. They wanted to know what was this nonsense about them killing the Donnellys. Where was his proof? A witness? The village idiot. Who would believe him? They threw him out bodily, kicked him down the steps. Threatened him with worse if he ever darkened their doors again.’
Pausing for a moment to let this sink in, she said desperately, ‘Don’t you see how helpless we all are, Faro? Only you and Uncle Desmond are experienced detectives capable of dealing with such a situation. No one here in Carasheen has the authority or the experience.’
Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13) Page 1