Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13)

by Alanna Knight

  ‘I would be very interested to learn a little more about Sir Michael Cara - he was what we call a laird in Scotland,’ said Faro.

  The doctor nodded. ‘A fine gentleman in spite of his English ways. All that going across to be educated and such nonsense and then coming home again to ape Ireland’s old enemy,’ He shook his head. ‘But, in spite of him carrying on the tradition of landowners and overlords, our misfortune for past centuries, he was very fair and very popular. No one had a bad word to say against Sir Michael. Poor gentleman, he suffered greatly after his first wife’s death.’

  The maid came in, curtseyed and, drawing the curtains on the setting sun, lit the lamp and stirred up the peat fire. Dr Neill indicated that they should move to the armchairs where the fire’s warm glow enveloped them, casting out the room’s dark shadows. Watching the maid leave, the doctor said, ‘They will tell you medically that a human heart cannot break but I am sure that, one day, science will be proved wrong. For a broken heart, without hope of any cure from me, was the melancholy condition I witnessed here in Cara. When he met the English lady, everyone was so pleased for him - the whole village wished him well and it seemed to me that perhaps I had been mistaken and that particular heart was going to be mended after all. They were so happy for their short time together. No bairns, alas, to threaten the future of those three young devils. But, even so, how they hated her.’ His face darkened and he looked earnestly across at Faro. ‘I am telling you, sir, something I have never told a living soul.’

  He paused and Faro said softly, ‘You thought that they were responsible for her death.’

  The doctor started guiltily. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Mere conjecture, Doctor, knowing the vile nature of the creatures. Please go on.’

  Neill gave a great sigh and shook his head. ‘I am sure they destroyed her but there was no way I could prove it. She fell out of an upstairs window - according to them, she was trying to adjust the latch. That is how it was described to me. But, oh, if you had seen Sir Michael’s face, the anguish and despair - and the way he looked accusingly at his three sons, standing together, smug and smiling. That scene aroused doubts in my mind and gave me nightmares, I can tell you.’

  ‘You believe she was pushed out of the window.’

  ‘I do. I am certain of it and I suspect that Sir Michael was too. But he could not face the horror that his three sons might be responsible. I did not see him very regularly after that until he had the stroke that left him partially paralysed. Visiting the house, I saw it with my own eyes then - he lived in terror of his three sons. I suspect that he might have called for me earlier, during those last days, but he was restrained. Then somehow he got a note to me, delivered by his gardener, a very frightened man, gazing over his shoulder all the time, eager not to be seen at my door. The note said that he wished to see me privately as fast as I could arrange a visit.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I went immediately but, by the time I got to the house, I was too late. He was lying at the foot of the stairs with his neck broken. Taken a fit and fallen, according to his sons who seemed remarkably unconcerned by this tragedy.

  ‘As I reluctantly signed the death certificate, never believing for one moment that it was an accident, they stood over me smiling, asking about my wife and my pretty daughters. In any other family, such conversation would have been perfectly normal and polite but their eyes gleamed, a sort of terrible triumph. Then they couldn’t get me out of the house quickly enough, not forgetting to give their fondest regards to Mrs Neill and in particular to those two pretty girls. That, even to a man with little imagination, seemed to hold a hidden threat.’

  He paused and looked again at Faro. ‘I was scared, I have to admit it. I knew it was weak of me to sign that certificate when I suspected that old Cara had been thrown down the stairs. But I knew - as God is my witness - that, if I had made a fuss, it would be the worse for me. The threat to my dear wife and children had been made quite obvious. I was a coward, I confess, Mr Faro, but my family had to come first. Now, sometimes, knowing they are safe from the Caras, I think if only I could have brought that unholy trinity to justice then, Carasheen might have been spared these past years of tyranny.’

  It was a fearsome story of an uneasy conscience that the good doctor had lived with for years now, and would continue to haunt him for the rest of his days. For Faro, it explained many things. In particular, he now understood the doctor’s caution and his eagerness to describe the Cara deaths as accidents rather than face the consequence of telling the truth and dredging up the past that would destroy any doctor’s plausibility and would certainly not add to his list of trusting patients.

  Mrs Neill came in with tea and fruitcake. Her sunny presence destroyed the last dregs of her husband’s confession and, again, the conversation reverted to normality. Dining around that pleasant table had been like a breath of fresh air for Faro. He enjoyed briefly witnessing a normal family life. During his long service with the Edinburgh police, he had come to know what guilt was all about and carried his own burden, despite having done his duty to the utmost of his abilities. He had guarded the community and caught criminals with the consequent neglect of his orphaned daughters.

  He had now come to realise that his hopes with Imogen were being similarly blighted. He had no one to blame but himself for falling in love with an ardent feminist whose early association with Irish nationalists and her term in an English prison now barred her forever from Britain. Thinking of Imogen at that moment was a sharp reminder of what she had been doing, a sickening blow in the pit of his stomach. While he had been, as she put it, ‘too busy’ tracking down clues as to how the Cara boys had died, she had spent the day with Aaron McBeigh.

  A melodious clock in the hall struck ten o’clock. Thanking the Neills for their warm hospitality, Faro made his excuses and bade them a hasty goodnight. Imogen should be home by now.

  Chapter 26

  There was a bright moon to light his way across the common. What a stroke of luck, he thought, as he noticed a lamp still burned in Maeve’s parlour window. She had not yet retired and was doubtless sitting by the fire talking to Imogen who would be telling her of the day’s events. As he reached the front door, it opened. ‘I thought it was you coming up the path, Jeremy. Is there something I can do for you?’

  ‘Imogen?’ The word was a question.

  Maeve looked baffled and shook her head. ‘She isn’t back yet.’ And, glancing at the darkening expression on his face, her surprise turned to embarrassment. ‘I expect she got delayed,’ she said soothingly and then, with a twinge of anxiety, she added, ‘I do hope she’s all right. It has been a very long day for her - away practically at the crack of dawn, like that, without having a proper breakfast in her either...’

  But Faro was no longer listening. He did not need to, she was voicing all the fears in his own heart. He bid Maeve goodnight and told her not to worry, Imogen could take good care of herself and that there would, no doubt, be a simple explanation. Utterly unconvinced by his own comforting words, he set off for the inn. Could Imogen take care of herself? Did this token of her failure to return from the outing to Derrynane House put the cap on his worst fears? As he crawled into his lonely bed, he decided that he had lost her forever. The visit to Kerry and Carasheen that had promised so much had robbed him of the woman who was most dear to him in the whole world.

  Sleepless, he now saw the Irish visit not as a mere holiday but the building up of a crisis in their lives together. The victim of his own remarkable memory, he went over every tiny detail, every small argument or clash of wills. The pillow beside him would forever remain empty. Somewhere between Carasheen and Waterville, Imogen and Aaron were spending the night together. At this moment, she was in his arms. He was making love to her...

  The visions were so terrible, so unendurable, that he sprang out of bed and, lighting the lamp, he took out the notes he had written earlier in the day and added Dr Neill’s revelations about the Cara family. It was a m
onstrous catalogue. He now believed that his suspicions about the unholy trinity, as they became known, had been confirmed - they had indeed started their vile murderous activities at an early age and were responsible for the death of their young stepmother and their father.

  The hours ticked by and he was still at work. With only one more day left, he went carefully over every word he had written, fully realising, in his own heart, that he was naming Aaron McBeigh as the prime suspect. Not because the evidence was stronger against him than it was against Desmond, who at least had a strong motive, but because he had never liked the American, his rival for Imogen Crowe. The main trouble was that Aaron, the doctor and Desmond all had alibis. For a detective like himself, that was a stumbling block. His other severe handicap was not having been present to examine the evidence at the crime scenes, where the murder of the Donnellys and the subsequent so-called accidents to the Cara boys had taken place. He had a sudden realisation of what he had overlooked. All at once, he knew exactly what had happened. He threw down his pen with a laugh of triumph. The truth was like a blinding light. Except that the blinding light was real and it came from outside.

  Below his bedroom, the inn was stirring, doors were closing, people were shouting. He heard calls of, ‘Fire, fire!’ and he rushed to the door where he was met by Tom’s startled face. ‘I was just coming to tell you, sir, Cara House is on fire...’

  Dressing hastily, Faro ran out of the inn to join the stream of people heading up the hill to the most magnificent bonfire ever to be seen in the history of Carasheen. The house on the hill was enveloped in an aura of fire and flames leapt into the sky as they licked the roof and chimneys. As Faro ran towards the blaze, he saw faces he knew - Conn, Dr Neill and Desmond - and, although they possessed gigs, they had not waited to harness horses but were racing ahead on foot. Many were strangers to him for it seemed that the whole of Carasheen was heading up to the fire. The beacon must have been visible for miles around.

  By the time he reached the drive, some had already visited the burning house and were rushing past him, down towards the village, clutching pictures, chairs and small pieces of furniture, clocks and candlesticks. They were exclaiming excitedly to one another. ‘Anything left?’ someone called.

  ‘Fine pickings - plenty for all!’ was the response as, behind him, Faro heard the rumble of farm carts. At last, he stood on the lawn, facing the house. He watched the villagers emerging from the right wing not yet ablaze. From somewhere there came a monstrous thunder as part of a roof collapsed and sent a pillar of flame shooting upwards. People continued to rush past him, laughing to one another as they proudly brandished their trophies. No one was attempting to put out the blaze. They would have been hard put to find water enough and soon the house would be a charred ruin. The village was taking its revenge for the tyranny it had suffered and amongst their haul some mementoes were valuable, some worthless.

  Conn came to his side. He too was smiling. ‘They might have waited for that auction - it would have brought them more than this.’

  ‘You think it was deliberate?’

  Conn stared at him as if he was mad, shrugged and asked, ‘What else?’ What a waste, thought Faro, as Conn said, ‘I imagine that they wanted to make certain sure they had seen the last of the Caras.’

  He sounded remarkably unconcerned, thought Faro, as shouts from nearer the scorching flames had him rushing forward. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Seems they think they saw someone - in the house.’ Conn shouted over his shoulder and Faro followed him, reacting without thinking to the natural instinct to rescue another human being from the inferno. But then they saw it was only one of the statues that had fallen against a window. ‘Just as well she’s made of marble, no human could have survived that,’ said Conn and he disappeared into the crowd.

  Faro moved well away from the fire and stood on the lawn by an old elm that seemed to shiver as if in terror. There was nothing he could do but watch that unending tide of people who seemed, from the distance, to be as small as an army of ants carrying away their booty.

  Suddenly he heard a voice nearby. ‘Faro - where’s Faro? Oh dear God...’ A sob. The voice was familiar and the figure who emerged into the light was Imogen. She saw him and threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh thank God, thank God! Someone told me they’d seen you rushing into the house - something about gypsy children.’ Moaning as she spoke, Imogen clung to him, kissing his cheek. ‘Oh dearest, dearest Faro - I thought I had lost you.’

  Assuring her that he was fine and that the house was empty, he said, ‘There’s nothing we can do here. Shall we go?’

  She nodded mutely. ‘I heard all about it on the way up. I ran all the way. They were all telling me to hurry while there were pickings left.’ As they were leaving, there was a final thundering sound and they looked back to see the remaining wing of the house collapse in a cloud of flame. It was the wing that contained the old chapel and the family vault, so the destruction of the Caras was now complete. Even the bones of their generations, the old coffins and effigies had vanished forever into a scene from Dante’s ‘Inferno’.

  They reached the common and, as they walked past the inn, Imogen asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To Maeve’s, of course. Isn’t that what you want?’

  She eyed him narrowly. ‘No, it damned well isn’t, Jeremy Faro. I’m not leaving you tonight. I’m staying with you, even if we have to sleep under a hedgerow.’ And, so saying, she marched towards the open door of the inn. She turned to him and said, ‘I remember which is your room. Correct me if I’m wrong.’ Once inside, she closed the door. The lamp was still lit and the room looked grey in the predawn light.

  Looking at him, she said softly, ‘Are you waiting for something? Are you too tired perhaps?’ In answer he took her in his arms, his embrace convincing her that he was certainly not too tired. He led her towards the bed and, as they undressed, she said, ‘I have a lot to tell you.’

  In answer, he placed his fingers over her lips and feeling her so warm, so willing in his arms, he said, ‘Nothing that cannot wait until morning when we will both have a lot of explaining - in particular to Tom, I fancy,’ he added wryly.

  From the depths of his arms she laughed, saying, ‘But meanwhile we have a few precious hours - that are all our very own.’

  All passion spent, they slept well into the morning. Normal life of the inn had been resumed. The maid knocking at the door, after she had found the key had been turned in the lock, awakened them. Opening the door cautiously so as not to disturb the still sleeping Imogen, Faro took in the ewer of warm water and began his morning ablutions. At last he was aware of her face in his mirror. She was sitting up in bed and looking very pleased with herself. They exchanged the conventional remarks about having slept well and then he said, ‘You were going to tell me something last night - an explanation of some kind.’ She looked at him, frowning slightly, as he said, ‘Go ahead - I can listen to you while I’m shaving.’

  She watched him soaping his face and taking up the razor. Sitting up and clutching her knees, she said, ‘I don’t know where to begin. I presume you got my note.’ He nodded and she said, ‘We had a very pleasant day in Derrynane. It was Aaron’s last chance - and mine too.’

  Turning slightly, he said, ‘Spare me the details if they are painful.’ She scowled at him and he smiled. ‘What I am really interested in is what delayed your return. What kept you both so long in Waterville or wherever you went to after the O’Connell house?’

  She shrugged. ‘You have got it all wrong, Faro. Aaron wasn’t with me - I returned here alone last night and left him in that splendid hotel where we all had lunch - remember?’

  ‘I do indeed. But surely it did not take you eight hours to get back?’

  ‘Will you listen - for once?’ She demanded impatiently. ‘After Derrynane, which was splendid and very useful for my book, we went to Waterville where Aaron was hoping to complete his research into his family roots. On the way we had a sl
ight accident with the gig - ran off the road taking a corner too sharply and damaged a wheel. It was then five o’clock. We limped into Waterville and Aaron took the gig to the carriage makers whilst I went to the hotel to wait for him. He came back with the news that they could not provide a new wheel until tomorrow so it looked as if we would need to stay overnight. He said he had booked us into the hotel and asked if that was all right with me,’ Pausing, she looked at Faro as if expecting an interruption but there was none. ‘I said no, it was not all right and that I was not to be compromised by staying in Waterville overnight with him. He seemed surprised, tried to persuade me that you would not mind when you knew the circumstances.’

  She laughed, wide-eyed. ‘I realised he had not the slightest idea of what you were like - or that, had I been your wife officially, this would have been, what your lawyers so quaintly call, a case of criminal conversation or adultery. At first I thought he was just naive then, making an excuse to leave him, I looked in the register and found that he had booked us into a double room. I was simply furious. He blustered and said there was only one room available - there was a wedding in the hotel - and that he was prepared to sleep on the sofa. I said that would not do at all and that I was determined to make my way back to Carasheen that night. I had not the least idea how I was to do this. I was certain of only one thing - that we were to be nowhere near each other, not even in the same village that night. Then, by a stroke of fortune, as I rushed out of the hotel, a crowd of young guests from the wedding were leaving. They asked me if I wanted a lift somewhere and it turned out that they were heading back to Tralee. That must have been about ten o’clock. I was grateful until I realised how long this journey was going to take. There were ten of them - boys and girls, all very young - and each one, it seemed, had to be deposited at his or her own farm on the way back. And, at each place, there was an invitation to come inside and have a jar, with the result that we did not even get as far as Carasheen, with two couples still to go to Tralee, until the early hours of this morning. And what greeted me? An inferno at the Caras’ house. Everyone away to it and you know the rest.’