‘Matters we wish to discuss...’ mimicked Mark. And, turning to his brothers, he said, ‘He’s a spy, a rotten English spy’
‘Throw him out!’ shouted Luke.
Matthew held up his hand and glared at his youngest brother. ‘Hold your peace!’ Then, to Conn, ‘We have nothing to say regarding the unfortunate deaths of the Donnellys. We were not even in the region where they were found.’ Indicating his brothers in a sweeping gesture, he added, ‘Is that not correct?’
Two unkempt curly heads nodded eagerly and grinned. ‘We were out fishing on the lough that night, weren’t we?’
‘That is correct.’ said Matthew. ‘Since no one had the courtesy to invite us to a Carasheen wedding - it has never before been known for the Cara family to be left out.’
Faro glanced at Conn, expecting some rejoinder, but Conn was useless. He had nothing to say and, as far as the Caras were concerned, he was beneath their contempt. He might as well not have existed as he stood there frowning at the floor and biting his lip. His anxious glances towards Desmond and Faro indicated that he was leaving it to them from now on.
‘We understand from a witness that you were there at the scene of the crime,’ Desmond put in boldly.
‘We have heard all about this "witness" - Paddy the village idiot,’ said Matthew wearily and he suddenly swung round and pointed an accusing finger directly at Conn who, by this point, was trembling visibly.
‘What are you here for, policeman? And why are you bringing these two...men to question us when we told you last time that we were not there and that a pack of lies is being told about us?’
‘Besides.’ put in Luke with a snigger, ‘who in this wide-world would dare take the word of a simpleton against ours?’
‘If that is all you have to say, I think you had better leave immediately and stop wasting our time.’ said Matthew.
‘Aye, come back when - and if - you find a better witness.’ said Luke.
‘Until then, jolly well leave us alone,’ piped up Mark.
Their mood had changed from benign to ugly. The angel faces were lost in leering devilment. Moving forward, their manner became threatening. ‘Now, get out before we throw you out.’
With as much dignity as they could summon, the representatives of the law made their way across the hall where Luke acknowledged Conn’s unwelcome presence with a swift kick at his retreating backside. Conn swung round, fists clenched. It was a nasty moment. Desmond and Faro recognised that this was what the Caras had been waiting for.
They were spoiling for a fight. Taking an arm each, Desmond and Faro seized Conn and hustled him down the steps before any further damage could be done. Oaths and roars of laughter followed their undignified exit as the door crashed shut behind them.
The sun was still shining outside but, to Faro, it would have seemed more appropriate if the house they had just left had been surrounded by dark and threatening clouds. ‘A humiliating experience.’ murmured Desmond.
‘Indeed. Those children in the house - the one who let us in and his companions - who takes care of them?’ asked Faro.
Conn laughed grimly. ‘They are the property of the Cara brothers. Gypsy children.’ he added, glad of a change of subject from the scene of his humiliation witnessed by his companions. ‘They ride into the encampment down by the lough, take young Romany lads, eight or ten years old, and make them work as slaves in the house.’
‘Surely their parents make some resistance.’ said Faro.
Conn laughed. ‘Once it was a tradition. Now there is no other way of recruiting domestics since no one from the village - certainly no maids - would voluntarily work in Cara House. Just consider the fate of Peg who merely called at the door.’
‘It hardly looks as if having cheap labour, or anyone at all, would make much difference to the squalor we have seen.’ said Faro. ‘Do the Romanies accept this vile procedure without protest?’
‘They are helpless, living on Cara land on sufferance.’ said Desmond. ‘Granted they have done so for a hundred years - side by side with those earlier generations of Caras who would never have treated them as slaves. Romany children were employed in the house but they were never maltreated - in fact, it used to be considered an honour to have one of your children work in the house and educated too, if he showed promise. But now, if they protest or try to stop their children being taken, they will be evicted.’
‘Rumour has it that they take two or three youngsters at a time. What happens afterwards no one knows. They are never seen again. Presumably they are worked - or starved - to death.’ said Conn.
‘No worse, from all the accounts we hear, than many a workhouse across the water in Britain.’ Desmond added grimly.
As they walked back down the hill, Faro broke the ominous silence at last. ‘I’m afraid this is it, then - we can do nothing more without those Dublin reinforcements.’
Desmond nodded. ‘I can’t understand the delay.’
‘Maybe they’re waiting for some evidence before coming all this way.’ said Conn helpfully.
‘I’ve done all I can. They know that we have a witness.’ Desmond sighed. His face was red and his voice full of suppressed anger. ‘I’ll get another telegraph away to them right away, tell them that we tried today. That should speed them up,’ he added hopefully. A sentiment that went unshared by his two companions.
Chapter 8
Imogen was waiting for Faro at the inn. One look and the question of how it had gone died on her lips. ‘I thought that wouldn’t take long,’ she said grimly. Still bemused by the scene he had left and somewhat taken aback that, in the streets of Carasheen, the glorious summer morning was untarnished by the miasma they had just left, he told her briefly about the confrontation and his concern about the gypsy children.
She knew about them. ‘The Lees have been here almost as long as the Cara family. Even if they had wanted to evict them, there was a certain amount of reason for keeping on good terms.’
‘Blackmail?’ queried Faro with memories of tinkers in his own country.
Imogen laughed. ‘Nothing so dramatic - just caution. The Romanies are an ancient race with their own laws, language and rules. They make a living selling baskets and the men work in the turf-cutting. The women also tell fortunes. It is said that they put a curse on the young Caras.’ She shrugged. ‘When all else fails, try the supernatural. But maybe their powers aren’t what they used to be - this curse certainly isn’t working.’
At Faro’s glum expression, she took his arm and said, ‘You look as if you need a change of air. I’m off to Caherciveen. It’s research - I want to see Daniel O’Connell’s birthplace.’ Faro frowned and she said quickly, ‘If you don’t want to come with me, Aaron would be delighted. He’s been angling to take me there since he arrived...’
‘I thought he’d come all the way from America to find his roots.’
‘He can afford it! His original reason for coming to Carasheen...’
‘Was to see you...’ Faro put in testily.
She smiled. ‘That too, perhaps. But he was coming here to buy a pedigree Kerry bull for his ranch to breed a fine herd and remind him and everyone else back home of his Irish roots.’
Faro scowled and she smiled gently. ‘Forget Aaron McBeigh. Let’s talk of better things.’ At that suggestion he brightened immediately. ‘It’s time you saw a better face of Kerry, my darling - you’ve had too much of sordid local crime and intrigue.’ And, indicating the gig outside, she added, ‘It’s a tidy step so I thought we could do with something more substantial and comfortable than the pony cart. Maeve made us up a picnic. Have a look at the map.’
As the horse trotted out of Carasheen and along the shores of Lough Beigh past Glenbeigh, he pointed to the spirals of smoke, the rich aroma of cooking rising into the clear air. ‘The Lees’ cooking fires,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what it is they eat out there but the smell always gives me an appetite. Enjoy it, Faro, on this perfect day. This land is rich in memories of Oisin,
the son of Fionn, who came back here after his long sojourn in Tir nan Og, the Land of Eternal Youth. He had left with Niamh, a golden-haired beauty he met over there on the Rossbeigh strand and went away to search for his companions in the Fianna - a band of warriors. When he came back, he did not understand that 300 years had passed while he was enchanted and that those he had left were long dead.’
Imogen chose a favourite spot overlooking the lough. A warm breeze moving the reeds, ruffled the waters as they spread a rug and ate Maeve’s sandwiches and drank the red wine.
‘Do you hear it?’ Imogen said lazily.
‘The breeze?’
‘Nay, my love. Those are the whispers of the Celtic princesses once kept prisoners and drowned in the lough. Fancy a swim?’ she laughed. ‘Pity, it’s time we moved on.’
‘Your research, of course,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I had forgotten.’
Leaning over she kissed him. ‘Me too, and it is my own fault for bringing you to an enchanted place. Diarmud, who was the foster son of the love god Aonghus Og, was also a member of the Fianna. The goddess of youth put her love spot on him, so that no woman could resist loving him.’ Again leaning over, she kissed his lips firmly. ‘Like that. Like you - and me,’ she said softly as he drew her into his arms.
Some time later, much dishevelled but very happy, she sat up and tidied her hair and, as she gathered up the picnic, a much happier Faro said, ‘You never finished the story of Diarmud.’
‘Did I not? He eloped with Grainne who was betrothed to Fionn MacCumhail and the Fianna pursued them for sixteen years. Eventually, they made an uneasy peace with Fionn who took Diarmud hunting in the forest where he was gored by an enchanted boar...’
‘Mm,’ Faro interrupted. ‘Accident or design?’
She laughed out loud. ‘The legend didn’t say.’ As they boarded the gig, she smiled at him and said, ‘Today, this place - does it remind you? Back in Scotland - another island - Inchmahome, wasn’t it?’
He laughed. ‘It was indeed. You told me the story of the Fianna that day and I never forgot it.’
‘We little thought...’ she said softly, ‘did we, then?’ And, looking at her with eyes of wonder, he could never have imagined what the future held for himself and this alleged Irish terrorist, a writer who had saved his daughter Rose’s life, this beautiful woman with a price on her head he had helped escape from Scotland who had changed his whole life. For her love, he had accepted exile from all that was once dear to him.
And Ireland was her land. Sometimes Kerry was gentle and soft as a woman’s curves, with hayricks in golden fields that were flagged by silvery stone walls and grey ribbed hills. Then a dramatic change in the landscape tumbling over with wild glens, boulders like sleeping warriors and flocks of scattered sheep. Over all the spread of a golden eagle’s wings, hovering in the cloudless sky, as far below its ever-watchful eyes, the turf cutters worked and loaded their donkeys. And always, somewhere at hand, there was that glimpse of the sea, of Dingle Bay and far beyond the boom of the Atlantic Ocean, the shores of another continent.
It was teatime before they reached Caherciveen with its memories of the great reformer who had been respected by Catholic and Protestant alike, a rare reputation in a country so fiercely Papist as Southern Ireland. There was a plaque to his memory. As they waited to be served in the tea shop of the village that was so proud of Daniel O’Connell, they were asked if they had they seen the church dedicated to his memory. And so they visited the church and Faro watched as Imogen dipped her fingers in the holy water, crossed herself and knelt in one of the pews.
He stood at the back watching her, this new Imogen, wondering what she prayed for, speculating whether those prayers would be granted and curious to know if there was a place in them for him.
The same thought was with both of them that the day was too happy to be sullied with the dark bitterness that lay back in Carasheen. Perhaps in both their minds, rippling below the surface of words spoken, that they should find somewhere to spend the night. It was easier than they thought. A quiet farm, just outside the village, took in visitors, stabled and fed horses.
They were accepted as man and wife - no one questioned that. After a fine supper of soup and bread, they at last came to the place of the great feather bed and the snowy pillows that Faro had dreamed of. It was a night of stars in the firmament, too many to count as they looked out of the window - a night for lovers, for hearts and bodies to be united in the perfect end to a perfect day.
Fortified by a hearty farm breakfast next morning, Faro handed over the modest sum asked for and they started back to Carasheen by a different route.
‘So that you can enjoy the grand tour,’ said Imogen. ‘This is the road through Donaveen,’ she added as they drove past a handsome house, half hidden by trees, with imposing iron gates leading down the drive.
‘Who lives there?’ asked Faro.
‘Molly Donaveen, the richest woman in Kerry.’
‘The widow woman the Caras are courting?’
‘The same. All you can see as far as Dingle Bay belongs to her. This is her property - it was willed to her by her husband when he died two years ago and the Cara boys are exceedingly eager to get their hands on it.’
Looking at him slyly, she said, ‘She’s nearer your age than theirs. Past fifty - an artist and a good one. Looks her age, I must confess, but she was quite a beauty in her day, I’m told. Even if she was ugly as the devil, that wouldn’t matter.’
‘Surely past fifty is a bit old for the Cara boys?’
‘Not necessarily. They aren’t wanting to bed her, they just want her married to one of them so that they can have legal possession of her property.’
‘Aren’t there any other Donaveens?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘No, alas. A childless marriage, Sean was the last of his line and there aren’t - as far as we know - any living members of the family.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Molly, she’s terrified of the Cara boys - keeps the gates locked but they jump their horses over the wall. She appealed to Conn but what could he do? What can anyone do against those young villains if she can’t even lock them out? Maeve has known her for years - that’s who we got the story from - and she says even her servants are deserting her now. They’re terrified. The man who has been her factor was beaten up and her pet dog shot. And, if she did give in, I wouldn’t rate her chances of surviving very high, once the deeds were signed.’ After the scenes he had witnessed the previous morning at Cara House, Faro agreed that it was more than likely an unfortunate accident would soon befall the new Mrs Cara.
‘I must take you to meet her sometime,’ said Imogen as they drove back along the road towards the inn where the weather had changed. In its strange unpredictable Irish way yesterday’s perfection seemed to have been for them alone for, the previous night, there had been a terrible storm in Carasheen and, as they were soon to discover, another death.
Chapter 9
Desmond and Conn met them at the inn. ‘There’s been an accident,’ Desmond informed them. ‘One of the Cara boys - the youngest, Luke - was drowned in the lough while you were away.’
‘Accident or design?’ was the immediate thought that had already registered with most of Carasheen by the time Faro and Imogen arrived.
‘Peter will tell you about it.’
Dr Neill was drinking a whiskey in the bar surrounded by an attentive audience of eager residents who had drifted in from their homes and surrounding farms, all avidly awaiting the details of what had happened. Faro immediately observed a certain lack of concern for the victim of this unfortunate accident. In fact, he detected a general air of jubilation and heard one farmer mutter, ‘The wrath of God. One less Cara to torment us.’
Women were not usually welcome in that man’s domain, the public bar, but Imogen Crowe was an exception to the rule. A local heroine, who had fought for Free Ireland, Carasheen had excellent reasons to be proud of her and, as Tom looked kindly upon her presence, it did not raise a single fro
wn.
The doctor hailed them. He had made the discovery. ‘Delivering a breech birth at a farm way beyond Donaveen, I sheltered until the worst of the thunderstorm had abated and then rode fast for home. At the lough, a riderless horse passed me on the road - a fine black beast that I guessed belonged to one of the Cara lads. Naturally I wondered what was going on so I rode along the edge of the lough. There’s a bit of a hill and the path narrows - a steep slope down - you know the place.’ Heads nodded vigorously. ‘I saw a body lying face down in the water. I guessed it was one of the Cara lads and, as he wasn’t moving, I guessed he had probably broken his neck when his horse threw him and had then rolled down the hill. If he wasn’t dead after that, he was now almost certainly drowned.’ He paused dramatically. ‘I was about to go down and examine him, my professional duty, when I noticed two riders leading the riderless horse. I guessed it was the brothers so I made myself scarce. I stayed out of the way. I’m not ashamed to say I hid behind a tree and watched the proceedings.’
‘What if your services had been needed - if he was still alive?’ asked Faro.
‘They won’t have anything to do with doctors. Haven’t been in the house since their father died.’ And, giving Faro a defiant look, added, ‘So what would have happened if I had made my presence known?’ No one spoke but all thoughts were the same. Knowing the black hearts of the Cara boys, the doctor would somehow have been accused of causing the accident and this would have provided yet another excuse for extending their reign of terror on Carasheen.
‘Which direction were they coming from?’
The doctor frowned. ‘Up the lough, from Donaveen way’ His sudden glance at Faro indicated that he considered the question unnecessary as he went on quickly. ‘I waited until they carried him up the slope and put him over the saddle of his horse and departed. Then I rode back, collected Conn and Mr Crowe - who were both at the inn here.’ This was greeted with more vigorous nods and murmured assents from those who had been present.
Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13) Page 6