Cynthia laughed. “I’m sure you were, Perry.” The look that she gave her brother was a blend of affection and something else to which Duffy was unable quite to give a name; there was possessiveness in it and yearning and calculation. “All the same there was no need for you to be so noisily amused. You might have had the grace to look sympathetic, like Hector.”
“Ah, but Americans always have so much better manners than we do. In these countries we’ve got pretty slipshod, I’m afraid. Aren’t you appalled by our casualness over here, Hector?”
“No, I’m not. I find the lack of formality rather charming.” The young man grinned rather charmingly himself, with all the more effect because of his habitual solemnity. “I think the general standard of politeness is higher over here–in these islands, I mean–than at home, but every time I stop in London I certainly notice how haphazard people have become about introductions. It worries me if I don’t know who I’m talking to.”
“Ah yes. I always found New Yorkers most punctilious about that.” With exaggerated care Cynthia accepted, from Dominick, a fresh drink to replace the one that had been spilt. “I did find, though, that once conversation started most of the people I met at parties in The States stopped listening. They’d concentrate like mad on getting your name right, finding out where you came from and making one or two appropriate remarks–but after that they just wouldn’t listen.”
“Mhm–agree with you up to a point,” Peregrine admitted. “But there are exceptions. Hector, for instance, is a most admirable listener.”
The American laughed. “Not always,” he said. “I think it’s a national habit to listen and observe overseas, but to go yakkity-yak at home. Personally, I’m not at all sure that it’s possible to listen at a big party, though when were away from our own country we’re so afraid of missing something that we try. But I had no idea that you had been to New York, Cynthia. My father can’t have known about it at the time either; he was a great man for family reunions.”
“My dear Hector, it was a long time ago. You must have been about seven at the time and you were still living in Massachusetts, as far as I remember.” Cynthia Walton had taken one or two sips of gin and had become very gay–determinedly so, it seemed. “I embarked on a course at the Columbia School of Journalism, but then the war started and I had to come home; so no career as a writer for poor little me. I don’t suppose there would have been anyhow. My brother was given all the talent that was going on our side of the family.” She displayed her teeth in a smile.
“Not talent, just industry,” said Peregrine modestly. “By the same token, I must stop loafing here and get something done. Can I run you home, Cynthia, or are you staying to lunch?”
Miss Walton, it appeared, was staying to lunch. Her brother and his secretary promptly took their leave of Mrs. O’Brien Moore, and Duffy followed suit after he had pointed out that his movements were uncertain but that he would probably be back at Moore Court before the end of the day. Dominick accompanied the three departing guests out onto the steps, close to which Duffy’s car was waiting.
“I won’t say good-bye, Superintendent.” Nevertheless Dr. Walton offered his hand to the detective. “We shall probably be seeing you out our way within the next few days. This is where we part company though; my wagon’s in the yard.”
“Unless I have better luck than I anticipate, you’ll probably see a lot of me,” Duffy agreed. “But, if you don’t mind answering a quick question or two now, I shan’t have to bother you or Miss Kennedy again to-day.”
“By all means. Fire away.”
“First, just to satisfy my curiosity, how was it that you didn’t hear about the murder till this morning?”
“I had to go to Galway yesterday to a meeting of the Archaeological Society; Lua came with me. It’s a long way and we started early. There was nothing about the murder in the morning papers, and we didn’t see an evening one, nor listen to the news on the wireless. We had dinner in Salthill and got back well after midnight. My housekeeper gave me the news with my morning tea to-day. That’s the main reason why we are here now; I had to collect some chickens as well, though.”
“I see. You live about five miles from here, don’t you? How did you spend last Tuesday afternoon?”
Peregrine gave the detective what might be described as an old-fashioned look. “Yes. Just about five miles,” he said, “at the head of the bay. On last Tuesday afternoon I had to go to the wedding to represent the family. You know about the wedding?”
Duffy nodded. “I realise that offence might have been taken if no one was there. Did you see the party out?”
“God forbid.” The writer shuddered at the thought. “I stayed a couple of hours and had about ten drinks, then I helped to put Martin Clohessy, who was making a nuisance of himself, on Iris horse and start him on his way. After that I set off to walk home; it was threeish, I think. Look here, Superintendent! It’s perfectly obvious that I haven’t the vestige of an alibi. I can only assure you that I went more or less straight across country and didn’t come any nearer to here than the top of that hill.” He waved a hand to indicate tire point from which the detectives had earlier in the morning had their first view of Moore Court. “Something over half a mile as the crow flies–what?”
“I wouldn’t venture to dispute distance with an expert.” Duffy laughed. “If you read detective stories, Dr. Walton, you will know that the lack of an alibi is a most disarming thing–if a bit of a nuisance. One can’t break what doesn’t exist. At average speed you should have reached the road on the brow of the hill at about 3.30, if my memory of the map is correct. Is that right?”
“Thereabouts. Didn’t look at my watch.”
“I’ve noticed how good the view is from up there. Did you see anything moving on the water? A boat, or even anyone swimming––?”
“Nothing was moving on the water that I saw, and I did look; I can never resist a long view over water. A boat was beached on Friar’s Island, but I expected that.” He glanced at his secretary. “Lua will be able to tell you about it.”
“If you’ll be so kind, Miss Kennedy,” Duffy said.
“The boat was mine.” The secretary’s attractive face was grave, but her green eyes showed no especial concern at being questioned. Standing up, she looked pleasantly athletic and rather taller than her employer. “I don’t mean that I own it; I’d borrowed it from Miss Walton for a few hours. This end of the bay is too shallow and the shore is too muddy to make swimming worthwhile, so when I found that I had a free afternoon I took tire opportunity of going out to Friar’s Island where the water’s deepish and clear and there’s a decent bit of sand to sunbathe on.” A smile transformed her face and made it beautiful. “It’s a good place to relax after being slave-driven. I often go there.”
“Do you usually borrow Miss Walton’s boat?” Duffy inquired.
“When I go alone I have to borrow one from somebody; I don’t like rowing and I can’t cope with a sail–anyhow there wasn’t a breath of wind on Tuesday. My employer doesn’t believe in engines.”
“I can’t afford one,” put in Dr. Walton automatically, as if he were saying so from argumentative habit rather than with the expectation of being believed.
“I drove Dr. Walton to the wedding feast in the wagon,” pursued Lua Kennedy, “and got back for lunch shortly after one o’clock. So I suppose that, by the time I’d tidied up after the morning’s work, it was about 2.30 when I went to ask for the boat. I swam and lazed on the island till five–I felt a bit cold and looked at my watch, and it was right on the hour–then I returned the boat, had a cup of tea with Miss Walton, and went home. Mine was the only boat on the bay, I’d swear.”
“Friar’s Island isn’t marked by name on the map,” said Duffy, “but if it’s the one I think it is, it completely commands the approach to Moore Court from the water. If you’re not in a hurry, let’s go and have a look. I want to be clear about this.”
Without making a point of reluctance but
at the same time without any obvious enthusiasm, Dominick O’Brien Moore led the way through the trees to the western or seaward end of the peninsula on which his house stood. Immediately behind him came Lua Kennedy, while Duffy and Dr. Walton followed, side by side, in silence. The irrelevant thought that occupied the detective’s mind during the short walk was that no one would have guessed from the easy grace of her movements that the girl had ever broken a leg; indeed her rear elevation was most elegant in a dress of lilac-coloured linen. As the gleam of water showed through the foliage, however, Duffy turned his mind to more urgent matters. He was soon in a position to observe for himself the indisputable muddiness of the shore and the lack of sufficient depth for diving. Three small boats were moored at a concrete jetty a little to the right of the point at which the group had reached the water’s edge, but the place did not look suitable for sunbathing. By contrast a bright sandy beach some half a mile away across the water seemed infinitely inviting. Dominick waved a hand in its direction.
“Friar’s Island,” he said and went to lean against a tree a few yards away, as if to dissociate himself from the questions and answers that were to come.
“Are you quite sure you didn’t fall asleep, Miss Kennedy?”
“I didn’t.” She shook her head vigorously in reply to Duffy’s first query. “You see, I wanted to make the most of the early sun, so I had nothing on. It seemed safe enough, but you can be sure that I kept a jolly good lookout just in case there were any bird-watchers about. If anyone had even been swimming around here, I’d have seen it. Honestly, there wasn’t a moving thing on the water all afternoon–except a cormorant.”
“A cormorant!” exclaimed Dr. Walton. “Sign of bad weather.”
“You were certainly in the best place to see,” Duffy admitted, staring at the tiny island. “And the best place to be seen. I don’t mean you so much as your boat; it must have rather advertised your presence, so that, if the murderer was here before you reached the island, he might have realised that he had to stay here till you had gone home. It seems more likely now, though, that he must have slipped in from the landward side in Red Indian fashion–which brings us back to where we were. Thank you, Miss Kennedy.” Duffy caught the eye of the girl’s employer fixed a little anxiously upon him. “You’d got as far as the road at the top of the hill, hadn’t you, Dr. Walton? Did you see anyone on the road, or near it?”
“Yes, I did. I saw a young woman in a car, no one else.” The writer’s stare did not falter, but he gave the impression that for some reason he was choosing his words with more than ordinary care. “I can only suppose, now, that it was the poor girl who was killed, though I didn’t recognise her positively at the time. She’d stopped the car just on the town side of the hilltop and had walked forward to look down into the valley, towards this place. She turned round when she heard me jump down from the fence, then looked away again as if she didn’t know me. Up to then I’d had the idea that there was something vaguely familiar about her, but I decided I must have been mistaken.”
“How was she dressed?” Duffy asked.
“I didn’t take particular notice, to be honest.” Dr. Walton’s unease seemed to have increased; his normally crisp utterance became indistinct. “No idea I’d have to answer questions about her afterwards, you must remember. She was slimmish and gave the impression of being young, and I thought I’d seen her about; that’s all I can tell you.”
“I see.” It seemed to Duffy that the description had intentionally been made vague. “Was she wearing a bikini?” he asked.
“A bikini! Good God, no.” Walton guffawed in what appeared to be genuine amusement. “I should have noticed if she had.”
“Then surely you can tell me something else about her: whether she was wearing a skirt or slacks, for instance, light colours or dark?”
“Oh, well–I rather think she wore slacks, though I couldn’t actually swear to it, and some sort of a sweater, or cardigan. As to colour, I can only say there was nothing very striking or I’d remember.”
“Was she dark or fair?”
“I couldn’t see,” said Walton quickly. “She had a head-scarf on.”
“Are you sure of that?”
The writer hesitated, looking speculatively at Duffy. “Yes, of course I am,” he said at last.
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere,” Duffy observed. “The time factor is important here because Joan Allison was seen to drive in through the gates of Moore Court at about 3.30. I understand that that about wouldn’t stretch to more than five minutes either way. I suppose you couldn’t be more specific about your time-table?”
Walton shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“After you’d crossed the road did you see or hear the young woman driving away?”
“No. I didn’t look back, though. And, while one can hear the sound of an engine climbing for quite some distance, you must remember that her car was facing downhill.”
“That’s true. What sort of a car was it?”
“Ah; I can’t tell you its make but I can describe it. I notice cars.” Dr. Walton gave the impression that he no longer felt himself to be on treacherous ground. “Before the war, y’know, there was no difficulty telling one make from another. Designers tried to make their cars distinctive. Even when you saw a particular type for the first time you could at least tell whether it was American, British or Continental, at a glance; nowadays, though, these chaps seem to have no idea except to copy each other. The car I saw on Tuesday was a couple of years old, a black saloon of ten or eleven horse-power which could have been of any of the popular makes. If I hadn’t been looking at the girl I’d probably have noticed the maker’s name and the registration letters, but I wasn’t to know I’d be cross-examined about it afterwards.”
“Of course not,” Duffy agreed. He was disappointed, if not altogether surprised, to have been given a description that might apply not only to Joan Allison’s car but to many thousands of others throughout the country. “You’d have spotted a G.B. plate, if there’d been one though, wouldn’t you?”
“Not necessarily–I only looked at the car sideways on.”
That was all that Duffy learned from either the writer or his secretary on that morning; the detective felt that the further questions which he would have liked to ask had better be kept for a more formal occasion when no unauthorised persons would be within earshot. As Dr. Walton with the tall willowy girl at his side strutted off towards the yard, where his wagon and his chickens awaited him, Duffy strolled back towards the front of the house with Dominick O’Brien Moore as a somewhat unforthcoming companion.
“This really is a lovely place,” Duffy observed after they had covered some fifty yards in silence; he was speaking his thoughts but he was also to some extent fishing for a reaction. “It’s seldom that one sees both a house and its setting so completely delightful and so right for each other. And it’s really surprising, on the bog’s edge.”
“I like it.” The words were scarcely extravagant, but the young man’s voice suggested that, just for the moment, he had forgotten that Duffy was a policeman. “Glad that I have a son to inherit it.”
“It’s entailed, I suppose?”
“As a matter of fact it isn’t. During the Penal days, when Catholics weren’t allowed to own anything, my ancestors found it convenient to be able to pass the place about from one member of the family to another–as they became suspect of popery–so they never got round to securing the succession. I said I was glad to have a son because they’re rare in our branch. I was the youngest of seven and I’ve got six sisters.” He laughed rather ruefully. “So you see I’m accustomed to being ordered about by women.”
“A strong man’s privilege,” commented Duffy with a bachelor’s smugness. “Do your sisters not live here now?”
“Two of them are career women, one is a nun–and a career woman too, perhaps–and the others are married. There’s no hunting around here, y’know; too much mountain and bog. Anyhow my si
sters got bored with life and made tracks at the first opportunity.” He walked on for a few seconds in silence, then returned to the impersonal tones in which he had answered Duffy’s more official questions to add–“None of them is within a hundred miles–certainly not near enough to have had hand, act or part in the murder.”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” said the detective unblushingly. “You remind me, though, that I ought to have a word with your wife. I understand she’s away staying with friends. I should like her address.”
The young man gave Duffy a cold glance but answered without any trace of feeling. “I can’t imagine what she could tell you, except that I’m not very popular with her at the moment. She’s staying with people called Weldon at the other side of Moycarrick and has been since the Monday of last week. Striking coincidence that she should have left on the day after Joan Allison arrived in Newtown Moore for her holidays! The Weldons’ place is called Shantubber, by the way.”
Duffy was grateful for the opening that had been presented to him. “Was Joan Allison the cause of your trouble with your wife?” he asked.
“Hardly that. To begin with, at any rate, she was a result of it.” Dominick halted where the last of the trees still screened them from the gravelled sweep before the house where Sergeant O’Callaghan waited by the police car. “I suppose I’ve got to tell you about it some time?”
“I have to find out all about it from someone; it seems better that it should be from you,” Duffy agreed.
“All right! Well, after my first bad spat with Ivy, about a year ago, I met Joan at a subscription dance in aid of some charity in the town hall. We’d been aware of each other’s existence before but not much more than that. I found her a charming, intelligent girl with the two great virtues–rare hereabouts–of having something fresh to talk about and of not being acquainted with my wife. To her, I suppose, I was just someone who was relatively sophisticated in comparison with most of the local types and yet didn’t make a pass at her. After a tentative start we saw each other as often as we could without setting tongues wagging too badly. During the winter I had to spend a couple of weeks in London, and we had half a dozen evenings together; we could easily have had more than that but we didn’t. I want you to understand that we were not lovers, whatever you may hear to the contrary. Apart from anything else, it happens that I take my marriage vows seriously.” He gave a short self-derisory laugh. “Not sufficiently so for the sustained effort that would make a reconciliation possible, perhaps,” he admitted, “but seriously enough to steer clear of adultery. I can’t tell you what would have happened in the end if she’d lived, but––” He suppressed a sigh and added in a barely audible whisper: “She’s dead. Joan’s dead.”
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