The walk up through the wood was pleasant. Unhurried, enjoying the moment’s solitude, he sat on a tree stump and lit a pipe. Birds, unoffended by the rising tobacco smoke, sang obligingly over his head and sunlight shone silver on the distant bay. On a day like this Kerry was a paradise and Faro recalled his childhood Sunday school where the missionary hymns of Reginald Heber were great favourites.
From Greenland’s icy mountains,
From India’s coral strand,
Where Africa’s sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand...
How those words had coloured his early days. The magic realms of imagination open wide and untarnished by the bitterness of age and experience. Yet there still lurked within him unfulfilled dreams and ambitions of unexplored frontiers of travel...And what bitter truth lay in those lines:
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.
‘Vile’ also spelt ‘Cara’ and the unpleasant task that lay ahead. Sighing, he knocked out the pipe and continued towards the Donnelly’s cottage. The door was unlocked - as it had been before. Nothing inside had changed, the air of melancholy of two lives brutally cut short, their pride and dreams for a future never destined to be theirs, continued to linger in the pristine newness of the sad, empty rooms.
In the hope that it would reveal a motive for their murder, some secret of the past, Faro returned to that photograph album, taking out and turning over each of the picture postcards, collected by the young couple as souvenirs of their limited travels in Cork and Kerry. Several mailed from Dublin were addressed to Peg Foster at the church home. A scrawled greeting, ‘Thinking of you.’ The last card, also with a Dublin postmark, was addressed to ‘Mr & Mrs Donnelly’. It bore the same conventional greeting, written in the same hand, but unsigned, with no clue to the identity of this person who had remembered Peg over the years.
Faro flipped back to those few personal photographs he and Desmond had looked at. There was a space. One had been removed. He thought for a moment, recalled the image of a young man and, with a sense of triumph, memory prompted that this was the same face he had seen very recently - on Molly Donaveen’s desk. What was the connection? The door was unlocked, so who had come into the house and taken the photo? And, more importantly, why? And did that action have some significance? Did it hold any vital clue regarding the murdered couple that Desmond recognised?
At Maeve’s home, Imogen was alone, washing dishes from the extended lunch. Throwing him a tea towel, she said, ‘You’ve just missed Desmond, he’s back from Molly’s. Young Conn did very well - very official he was. He even confiscated that bottle of poteen we saw this morning as being illegal.’ She laughed. ‘As you know, Molly was keen to be rid of it. Begged him to take it away, saying it was only fit to pour down the sink. Desmond was quite outraged at the idea. Insisted that it wasn’t all that bad - a lot better than some of that blended stuff you get in shops. An acquired taste, I fear.’
Drying her hands, she put her apron over the clothesline above the fireplace and said, ‘I’m off to the library. They’ve promised me some old newspapers for my research. Coming?’
As they walked down the road Faro said, ‘I need to see Desmond. I’ll call on him later.’ About to tell her of his discovery at the Donnellys’ cottage, she interrupted. ‘You’ll have to wait a couple of days. He’s off to Dublin to see Edith...’
‘Who is Edith?’
Imogen looked surprised. ‘His wife, of course.’
‘You didn’t tell me Desmond had a wife.’
‘Has a wife - I thought you knew.’
‘I did not. As he was retired and living alone, I presumed he was unmarried or a widower.’
Imogen shrugged. ‘There was a problem. Edith is English and she never liked Kerry. Unfortunately Kerry didn’t seem to like her either and it saved the worst possible weather for whenever they came on holiday. Edith had her heart set on some warmer dryer place when Uncle retired, but no, it was Carasheen for him. Edith refused to even consider it. She would stay in their nice warm dry Dublin house where they had lived for so many years.’
‘How extraordinary,’ said Faro. ‘There must have been very little communication between the pair of them for such a situation to arise.’
Imogen shook her head. ‘I don’t think there ever was very much.’
‘Have they any family?’
‘None. A childless marriage - perhaps that was part of the problem. And couples don’t talk about that - I mean, who was to blame or why’
She looked at Faro, guiltily aware that he wanted to marry her but that she had always taken refuge in the excuse, although it wasn’t true medically, that she was too old to have children.
‘I never encountered Edith for more than a short visit, a few hours at a time, so I didn’t have much chance to get to know her. However, I got the impression that she was something of a social butterfly and I’m sure Uncle Des would have liked a string of bairns. Maybe that was why he always made such a fuss of me.’
On the steps of the library, a new and rather handsome sandstone building of which Carasheen was justly proud, she said, ‘You know, I have a feeling that he doesn’t mind her living in Dublin and just meeting occasionally. Perhaps it’s the most amicable arrangement that suits them both. By the way, another reason is that he intends finding out what happened to those urgent police reinforcements he was promised weeks ago for the Donnelly murders.’
Chapter 11
Surveying the splendid new bookshelves while Imogen chatted to the librarian, Faro thought about Desmond in Dublin. He hoped that the ex-detective would impress upon his onetime colleagues the urgency of immediate action and that he was no nearer solving the unofficial investigation they had set him. Luke Cara’s demise had reduced the suspects in the Donnellys’ murder to the remaining two brothers, unless Luke’s accident had been deliberate – and by whom?
Imogen approached with an air of triumph. Because of her famous reputation, she was allowed to take the old newspapers home with her - a quite unique dispensation, he gathered, overhearing the librarian’s careful instructions.
Outside Imogen chuckled, ‘Did you hear that? A writer being considered a most reliable person. I wonder how many she has met - and I know a few other quite famous folk with excellent reputations who could very rapidly change her opinion.’
When she declined his polite offer to carry the bundle of newspapers, he asked wryly, ‘Do I take that remark to indicate that I am included in the unreliable persons bracket?’
Imogen laughed and hugged his arm. ‘Touché. Not being personally acquainted with your study in Edinburgh, I could not swear to that. But, from Vince’s description of a "rats’ nest" and how poor Mrs Brook was on pain of death never so much as to whisk a duster in front of the piles of paper, I think our librarian might have a good point.’
Mention of Edinburgh and Vince brought a sudden shaft of homesickness. Remembering his doctor stepson’s expertise in helping him solve many murders in his long career, he remembered the dangers they had shared and wistfully thought of how much he would have loved to have him here in Kerry. He felt a sense of pride and gratification that Vince had been one of the few to be sent a postcard, with warmest greetings to Olivia and the two children, adding that he was always thinking of them. ‘Thinking of you’ was such a conventional sentiment, liberally over-used. Again he remembered those anonymous postcards in the Donnellys’ album and the intriguing possibility that the mysterious sender had some intimate connection with Peg both before and after her marriage.
Imogen was saying, ‘I have to collect a book from Uncle’s house. He promised to give me it for my research but, in the dash for the Dublin train, he said it was on his desk.’
Desmond Crowe’s front door was unlocked. Which seemed surprising when he was to be away from home. When Faro said so, Imogen laughed. ‘Nobody here ever locks doors. They all trust one another and I doubt if most folk even possess keys. Most old houses, like
this one, have been handed down from father to son for generations. Doubtless keys must have existed at one time - there are keyholes to prove that. But, if you examine the locks, you’ll notice that the original keys must have been so enormous it would risk grievous bodily harm to carry them around in one’s pocket. So presumably they were laid aside and have been mislaid or otherwise vanished through the years.’
Faro followed her across the neat hall where a large brimmed hat with a leather band and a feather held dominion over the hallstand. That belongs to Aaron,’ she said. ‘One of several belonging to his "Saviour of the Wild West" days - a special gift of one lawman to another. Alas, I cannot imagine anyone as conservative as Uncle Des wearing such a creation in Carasheen.’
The study was also neat and tidy. Files of papers, books arranged by size and, he suspected, by alphabetical order on the bookshelves hinted that the librarian would have instantly catalogued Desmond Crowe as a reliable person. One volume was slightly out of line and spoilt the symmetry. Deciding to restore Desmond’s sense of order, Faro eased it out and, in doing so, a piece of card fluttered down to the floor - a photograph. Retrieving it he stared into the face of the same young man missing from the Donnellys’ album.
Imogen had picked up the book and was ready to leave. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, holding up the photograph.
When he told her of his morning visit and how the photo had been removed from the album, this did not have the dramatic impact he had expected. Imogen merely shrugged. ‘Wasn’t Uncle Des with you the first time you went there?’
‘Indeed he was. We were looking at the album together and I left him with it while I went on with the search.’
Still the significance did not seem to strike Imogen. She studied it and then laughed. ‘Of course, then, there’s your answer. He must have decided to remove it for some reason and bring it back with him.’
‘Then why didn’t he mention it?’
Imogen ran a hand through her hair, an action that he had long since recognised as an indication that she thought he was making a fuss about nothing. ‘He probably didn’t think it important. Perhaps he forgot all about it.’ It was a logical explanation but Faro thought that Desmond’s failure to mention the removal of the photo was odd. Could it be connected with some private piece of investigation? Was it some information that Desmond was unwilling to share with him and Conn? Or was it merely that, having been put in charge of the case by Dublin, Desmond wanted all the glory for himself, which he dismissed as an unworthy thought.
Imogen seemed eager to study her newspapers. He left her spreading them across the table and returned to the inn where Conn was having a drink.
Invited to take a glass of stout, they moved to a vacant table. Sounding anxious, Conn leaned across and said he hoped that Mr Crowe’s visit to Dublin would be productive and result in those police reinforcements coming back with him.
‘It’s quite extraordinary, Mr Faro. I have been sore tempted to send them a telegraph but I fear Mr Crowe would be offended by my acting out of turn, so to speak. He might think that I was getting too big for my boots - or my helmet,’ he added with a wry smile. Pausing to clear his throat he asked: ‘What is your opinion about Luke Cara’s drowning, sir?’ Before Faro could form a suitable reply he said hastily, ‘Sure now, perhaps it is myself that’s developing a suspicious mind but I keep wondering whether it was an accident or, knowing the feelings of folk here, did someone kill him and push his body into the lough.’
Faro had thoughts along the same lines but said, ‘Murder is going to be exceedingly difficult to prove - especially as we gather from Dr Neill that his brothers removed his body before he had a chance to examine it.’
Conn nodded. ‘In the circumstances, no one can be certain that Luke is dead.’ He sounded resentful as, emptying his glass, he replaced it thoughtfully. ‘No call for a doctor or for the priest - nothing official at all. I put it to you, Mr Faro, that there could be another burial up there in the vault - without any religious committal. That’s what happened with their father. It terribly upset our priest and shocked the whole neighbourhood...’ He frowned and then added cautiously, ‘Do you think it might have a more sinister interpretation?’
Faro looked at him sharply as he continued, ‘The Caras are a bad lot, devils all of them, with no love or loyalty even to each other. We were witness to that angry quarrelling, Mr Faro. Could it be that, as there was such bad blood between them - over who Mrs Donaveen would choose - and maybe believing she favoured Luke, as the youngest.’ Pausing dramatically, he stared at Faro intently. ‘Do you think that the other two might have decided to get rid of him?’
Faro thought for a moment. ‘Your theory has interesting possibilities,’ he said and, waiting for two more drinks at the bar, he knew full well from his experiences that fratricide was not uncommon among families with personal vendettas to settle or where inheritance was concerned.
Returning to the table, Conn thanked him and said heavily, ‘On another matter, Mr Crowe has told me he is doubtful whether we will ever solve the Donnellys’ murders. Have you any ideas, any action to suggest, sir?’
‘As a matter of fact, I visited their house this morning,’ said Faro casually.
Conn leaned forward eagerly. ‘And did you find any clues?’
Faro realised he should tell the young policeman about his examination of the photo album but, in all conscience, he could not do so since the missing photograph had turned up subsequently in Desmond’s house. He still considered, despite Imogen’s simple interpretation, that the circumstances of the removal of the photo needed a more plausible explanation and that somehow Molly Donaveen was involved. However, he decided to remain silent until he had spoken to Desmond on his return from Dublin. Conscious of Conn’s watchful gaze, he said, ‘The house was unlocked. That rather disturbed me. Miss Crowe tells me that few houses even have keys to them. Is that true?’
Conn nodded. ‘Sure, that is so.’ At Faro’s shocked expression, he grinned. ‘Life in the city has made you suspicious, sir. Country folk are different.’
‘Different or not, I think open doors are inviting trouble.’
Conn shook his head sadly. ‘Maybe you are right, Mr Faro. Times are changing. Folk trusting one another belong to the days before we had to deal with villains like the Cara boys. When they ride across the common, folk rush inside and close their doors. Maybe they would feel more secure if they had keys and could lock them,’ Taking another sip, he added darkly, ‘Even the police station is no longer treated with awe and respect. I had an intruder this afternoon,’ And before Faro could do more than look surprised, he went on: ‘Someone came in and stole that illegal bottle of poteen I confiscated from Mrs Donaveen this morning.’
‘Was it not under lock and key?’
Conn looked uncomfortable. ‘No, it was on my kitchen bench, quite visible, I’m afraid, to anyone looking through the window,’ he added regretfully and, at Faro’s quizzical expression, he added, ‘I had just left it there for an hour at most while I was out on my beat. I realise that, considering the important matters we have on hand, a stolen bottle of illicit whiskey hardly merits an enquiry.’
‘Stealing from the police station is still a criminal offence,’ Faro said sternly and Conn nodded. ’I agree and it makes me very uneasy I am aware that there is quite a taste for illegal poteen here and, therefore, it could have been anyone passing by. Like Paddy who has a habit of peeping in at windows.’
‘Does Paddy like poteen?’
‘He does indeed,’ said Conn grimly. ‘Father McNee has tried to get him out of the habit since it has a very bad effect on him. He’s a mild enough lad but poteen can make him quite aggressive.’ Pausing, he added, ‘The Caras were in the vicinity too, getting their supply of free groceries as usual. But I can’t imagine them stealing what they are already known to brew illicitly at home. Bit of a mystery, isn’t it?’
It was a bit of a mystery, a rather silly and inexplicable piece of stealing, an
d the culprit was most likely the simple Paddy. However, the combination of the missing photo and what Imogen had said about Desmond’s reluctance to pour it down the sink, on Molly’s advice, lurked heavily on Faro’s mind - especially as it had vanished before the afternoon train left for Dublin. Had Desmond sneaked back and lifted it on his way to the railway station? Perhaps, knowing it would be wasted, he took it quite innocently as a gift for his wife or some policeman friend.
A stolen bottle of poteen seemed rather inconsequential but Faro decided that he had a lot of questions to which he required answers when Imogen’s Uncle Des returned.
Chapter 12
Faro was enjoying an excellent breakfast of bacon, eggs and sausages - the best he had ever tasted. Having laid aside his fork and knife, he was tackling the toast when Imogen rushed into the dining room.
Waving a letter, she said, ‘This morning - from my publisher. Wretched man wants to move the publication date forward by two months to fit in with an anniversary. Two months! I ask you! This really is too much,’ and, sitting down opposite him, she sighed. ‘But seeing I got a hefty advance as a commission - which I have now spent - I cannot but agree.’ Groaning, she covered her face with her hands. ‘And that’s not the worst either. The worst is yet to come. Remember I was to give a talk in Dublin? It’s on Friday.’
‘This Friday?
‘This Friday,’ she said meekly, avoiding his eyes.
‘Imogen, this is Wednesday.’ Faro reminded her patiently.
‘I know that,’ she said, throwing down the Jetter. ‘And it’s my fault. I wrote it into my diary - the dates for Dublin and Paris - but I somehow got it on the wrong page. Oh, Faro, this really is too awful,’ she wailed. ‘I have nothing prepared for Friday and now we’ll be leaving for Paris on Tuesday.’
Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13) Page 8