by Dicey Deere
“That what?” O’Hare said, baffled, exasperated. He saw in amazement Dr. Collins’s pale face begin to redden as a blush spread slowly across it.
Oh. Oh. Inspector Egan O’Hare, gazing at the revealing blush, at that instant felt he knew the depth of shame in Dr. Collins. The respected Dr. Collins, family-proud, grave-faced ancestral portraits on the walls of Collins Court. Padraic Collins, that secret frequenter of hookers in Cork and God knew where else. And Inspector O’Hare wondered on which stormy night, with the roads deluged, had Dr. Collins found his way in the woods to the gypsy’s wagon.
So that was it. Frightened and ashamed, Dr. Collins, desperate to conceal his unbridled sexual need, had ended by killing the gypsy. Never mind that he had not meant to. He had done it.
“Dr. Collins,” O’Hare began, then stopped. He rubbed a hand across his face. Must he force Padraic Collins to reveal to the listeners the sexual weakness that had made him vulnerable to the gypsy’s threats? No. Spare Padraic Collins that shame. Later, he’d have Collins’s written confession.
O’Hare sighed. Disappointment plunged him down, flattened him. For perhaps four glorious minutes he’d thought he had the killer of Dr. Gerald Ashenden. Surely, Ms. Tunet must have thought so too. A mistake. But, at least, the gypsy. He could thank the exasperating Ms. Tunet for that.
But this informal little inquiry of his was over. No point, just now, in going on. Everybody go home, except for Dr. Collins. And he thought grimly, I’ll continue my own investigation, Ms. Tunet.
“Well,” he began and swept a glance around the room. A bitter taste of disappointment was in his mouth. The murderer of Dr. Ashenden was in this room. Possibly even laughing at him. His gaze stopped at Scott Keegan. It flickered over Dr. Mark Temple, then over Caroline. It settled on Rowena Keegan. He’d been right all along. “Well, under the —”
But the flutter of something caught his eye. Torrey Tunet was holding up that peacock-strewn turquoise bandanna, waving it at him. A signal? She was shaking her head violently. O’Hare clicked his tongue in annoyance. That exasperating ex-thief, Ms. Torrey Tunet! True, she had delivered one murderer to him. Not that the rich Dr. Padraic Collins would be prosecuted, under the circumstances of a roving, blackmailing, lying gypsy; that was the way of the world. But Torrey Tunet would do anything to protect Rowena Keegan. She was smart. Tricky too. O’Hare reminded himself that she had no regard for law. She’d lied about Rowena’s murderous attempt in the meadow, hadn’t she? No regard. Not when she’d gotten some conviction in her mind. Still, his curiosity was an itch. Who knew? Whatever she had in mind could be grist for his mill.
That bandanna, waving. O’Hare said to the room at large, “I think a short respite’s in order.”
64
They’d gone, Winifred Moore striding off toward O’Malley’s pub, Sheila hurrying to keep up. Rowena and Scott had accompanied Caroline and Mark Temple across the street to Finney’s, likely for a midmorning snack of Finney’s specialty of fried soda bread and tea. “We’ll continue at half past twelve,” Inspector O’Hare had said.
Helen Lavery, however, remained, crouched on one of the folding chairs, wiping her tear-reddened eyes. Aside from Helen Lavery, only Torrey and Dr. Padraic Collins had stayed behind in the police station. Outside, the day had turned gray; dark clouds obscured the sun. With the grayness had come a chill.
Over at his own desk, Sergeant Bryson was laboriously taking down Dr. Collins’s statement on the computer. Dr. Collins stood over him, recounting his unhappy tale in broken phrases, then correcting himself. “Did I say yellow daisies? Or dandelions? On the nightgown. Are there yellow daisies? Botanically?” Sergeant Bryson sweated.
Inspector O’Hare, standing beside his desk, said to Torrey Tunet, keeping his voice low, “Well, then?” But he was shocked at the way she looked. For a quite lovely young woman, she looked dreadful. Her face had gotten pale. Tension narrowed her eyes, and her brows were drawn together, creating two deep lines between them. Her lips, admittedly quite bewitching lips, were dry. Ms. Torrey Tunet looked as though she would never smile again. Yes. That unhappy. Or tragic. Surprising. Before Dr. Collins’s confession, she had not looked this way at all. Quite the opposite. Lively, eager, owning the world, confident about the information she’d put into the inspector’s hands. But something had gone off the rails.
Inspector O’Hare, confused, but with a sudden feeling of compassion said, “You’re all right, Ms. Tunet? Nothing’s the —”
“I’m fine.” Torrey Tunet bit her lips. “I’d hoped … Inspector, I can still help. There’s a road … I’d hoped not to have to travel down that particular … Will you trust me?”
Trust her? Inspector O’Hare stared. He almost had to laugh. Trust Torrey Tunet? He’d never gotten over that she’d been a thief, never mind how young. Moreover, she was given to illegal snooping on private property and among other people’s personal possessions. Had she done more of it, her snooping, in this murder of Dr. Ashenden? Undoubtedly. But —
He said, and then stood stunned at his own words, his incredible words of comfort, “Ms. Tunet, I believe that murder because of incest, particularly incest since childhood, has in some cases led the court to be lenient with —”
“Incest?” Torrey Tunet’s hand went up and covered her mouth. Her black-fringed gray eyes grew wide. “So that’s what you think I’m —”
“Pardon me, miss.” Sergeant Bryson had come up. Patches of darker blue under his armpits. And to Inspector O’Hare, “We’ve done, sir. If you want to go over the statement with Dr. Collins, he’ll sign it. We’d better get on, sir, it’s almost half past twelve. They’ll be coming back.”
* * *
Sergeant Bryson had time to get the broom and dustpan and sweep up the cigarette ashes and the cigarette butt from under the chair where Winifred Moore had sat.
Twenty minutes past twelve.
Torrey Tunet was standing over by the window, looking out at the gray weather, her hands clasped behind her back. She had a straight-backed boy’s stance, but right now it was altogether rigid, like stone. Over at his desk, the inspector was finishing reading Dr. Collins’s statement.
“Yes … yes.” The inspector nodded, then looked at Dr. Collins, who stood beside the desk. “You might want to read this over before signing, Dr. Collins.”
“No, no, Inspector!” Dr. Collins waved a polite, negative hand. From the breast pocket of his rumpled jacket he took out the tortoiseshell pen with the gold band, the pen that had belonged to his father, the pen with which he’d written up almost all the prescriptions in Ballynagh in the past twenty-two years. He leaned over Inspector O’Hare’s desk and with his familiar little flourish signed the document recounting his killing of the gypsy woman.
Helen Lavery, sitting bowed over on a chair, gave a choked, indrawn sob. Sergeant Bryson looked sympathetically at Helen Lavery. Then he glanced curiously over at Torrey Tunet, who was standing by the window. Staring out and biting her lips. Looked miserable, as if she were going to the guillotine or the like. A bit odd, wasn’t it? Especially, since Ms. Tunet should be singing and dancing, shouldn’t she? Smiling and the like, what with that wooden knitting needle business, so clever, catching the gypsy woman’s murderer, after all. And that it should be Dr. Collins!
“Helen.” Dr. Collins put his familiar-looking tortoiseshell pen away and looked kindly down at Helen Lavery. “Helen? If you wish to leave my employ now, Helen, I’ll send your salary to your brother’s in Meath. But if you’d please prepare me a bit of a late lunch? A salad with yesterday’s cod will do. And possibly bake a batch of scones? The ones with cranberries?”
“Cranberries,” Helen Lavery said, sniffling, eyes red, face tragic, “and cod. Yes, Doctor.” She left unsteadily, bumping against a chair on her way out.
“Well —” Dr. Collins settled the tweed cap on his head. “I ought to look in on old Mrs. O’Gorman. So I might’s well —”
“Dr. Collins! Please!” Torrey Tunet was suddenly
at Dr. Collins’s side. “If you’ll just stay, this’ll all be over before lunch. Here they all are now.” And it was true that Winifred Moore and Sheila Flaxton were already coming in, and on their heels came Rowena, followed by Scott, limping his way along. “I’ve something … there’s something you ought to hear.”
Dr. Collins hesitated. “Well…” He lifted a hand and ran his fingers slowly along an eyebrow, then down to circle slowly under one eye, where he had whitened the darkness. “Yes, well, but I ought —”
“It’s about Rowena.”
“Oh, well then, of course.”
65
In O’Malley’s pub, the woman who was drinking a ginger ale at a fireside table said to the friendly old fellow with the wild white hair, “I joined the Temperance when I was thirty. And not a drop since.” She had a Dublin accent, gray hair, and a friendly, kind face. She wore a nice-looking dark blue dress.
“Ah,” said Michael McIntyre, “and missed a lot of lusty memories and lovers, no doubt.” The woman smiled at that, but there were shadows in her eyes, and McIntyre, priding himself on being a sensitive old chap, got off the subject. “That fellow your son? The one with the Jaguar? Staying at Nolan’s Bed-and-Breakfast? That fellow who went up? Black-haired?”
“No, just a friend. Had an errand upstairs there, then we’ll be off. I’m not one for stairs. My house in Kilkenny’s all on one floor.”
And here came the black-haired fellow. Same one he’d had a beer with yesterday. But now, face all on fire, cheeks blazing like he had the Holy Grail tucked in his pocket.
In a minute, the pair was gone. McIntrye, going up to the bar for a couple of biscuits from the jar, saw out the window that they were walking up Butler Street. The fellow had left the Jaguar in front of Nolan’s. The top was up. Good thing. A wind was beginning to blow and it looked like rain. Ugly weather. McIntyre made a face. Might’s well be in the South Pacific.
66
Half past twelve. They were all back. Inspector O’Hare nodded whenever anyone’s glance skimmed across his. Everyone had chosen the same seat as earlier. Like ducklings, each one’s place imprinted in their brain. Odd, that. Odd for ducklings. Odder even for folks.
Each person, arriving, hesitated, then nodded a polite greeting to Dr. Collins, as though it might be good manners — or out of embarrassment? — to overlook the fact that he was now a confessed murderer. A few minutes before, Dr. Collins had stepped into the toilet, and when he’d returned and sat down, O’Hare had observed that he’d repaired any damage to that overly white makeup he wore around his eyes. O’Hare had the passing thought that Dr. Collins must have begun using cosmetics to appear younger and more attractive to those hookers he’d frequented. Poor lad, thought O’Hare, surprising himself. Besides, Dr. Collins was not a lad.
Torrey Tunet remained standing, leaning against the Coke machine back there. She’d tied that peacock scarf around her head again, and a dark band of satiny hair slanted across her forehead. But even from his desk, O’Hare could see the paleness of Torrey’s face. He thought: It’s up to her, now. Whatever she had in mind had better be good. Ms. Torrey Tunet: snoop, thief, liar, protector of the murderous Rowena Keegan.
As for himself, O’Hare made a wry face. Curiosity, that tantalizing bitch, had led him to allow Ms. Tunet this … this whatever it was. And his owing her for Dr. Collins’s signed confession that already lay on his desk and that within the hour he would have Sergeant Jimmy Bryson fax to O’Reilly, chief superintendent of the Murder Squad at Dublin Castle.
A rumble of thunder, then rain spattered hard against the plate-glass window of the police station. Sheila Faxton’s thin voice said crossly, “I told you, Winifred, you should’ve put the top up! Now we’ll be sitting in puddles!”
But in a matter of seconds, the spattering of rain dwindled, the wind possibly having shifted. And into the silence, Inspector O’Hare said. “I believe, Ms. Tunet, that before I conclude this informal inquiry that has been so productive — I believe, Ms. Tunet — what is it exactly you wished to contribute further?”
And when Torrey Tunet hesitated, O’Hare thought, Ah! Some tricky business regarding the incest. That’s it. But she’s losing her nerve, is Ms. Tunet. Doesn’t, after all, want to expose that ugly relationship in front of Winifred Moore and the rest. What’s she been thinking?
O’Hare looked over at Rowena Keegan, who sat between her brother Scott and her mother. At his look, Caroline Temple involuntarily reached out a slender white hand and covered Rowena’s tanned hands that were clasped in her lap.
“Yes, Ms. Tunet?” O’Hare said patiently.
No answer. Rowena Keegan turned her red head and looked back at Torrey, seemingly puzzled.
Then —
“Thank you, Inspector.” Torrey pushed herself away from the Coke machine. She came forward to stand a few feet from Dr. Collins. Her gray eyes, a little wide and very intent, regarded him. She said carefully, clearly: “I think, Dr. Collins, that your friendship with Dr. Ashenden ended the day before he was killed on the bridle path. It ended when you overheard a conversation between Scott Keegan and his sister, Rowena, in the library at Ashenden Manor, a revelation that enraged you beyond reason. Something that made you hate Dr. Ashenden. Hate him enough to —”
“What?” A strangled cry from Scott Keegan. He struggled to his feet, white-faced, unsteady, gripping his cane. He took a step toward Dr. Collins. “You were in the library? You heard?” His voice was enraged. He raised his cane. Instantly Sergeant Bryson was beside him, Firmly, Jimmy Bryson took the cane from Scott. Trembling, glaring, Scott sank back onto his chair. Beside him, Rowena sat very still.
67
Dr. Collins had flung up an arm and ducked his head to defend himself. His tweed cap slid off his lap to the floor. He seemed to shrink into himself. O’Hare, closest to him, saw that his small, corpulent body was trembling.
“Here, now!” O’Hare said, narrow-eyed. What was all this? Collins’s face had a shattered look, as though Scott’s cane had in fact struck him. He bent down and picked up his tweed cap. With shaking hands he began brushing it off, brushing and brushing, as though it demanded intense concentration.
“Padraic!” It was Caroline Temple, in a bewildered voice. “Padraic! Are you all right?” And to her son, reproachfully, “Scott! How could you!” And helplessly, “What’s going on?”
Dr. Collins’s fingers stopped brushing the tweed cap. He looked at Caroline, who was leaning toward him, her hazel eyes anxious. “It’s too late, Caroline.” His voice was tired, gentle. “No way now to put a stopper on the bottle. I’d thought to spare you this.”
Inspector O’Hare glanced over at Torrey Tunet. She looked unhappy but determined. She looked, in fact, like a young officer who had brought unavoidable bad news to the general.
Dr. Collins too looked at Torrey Tunet. “Clever! Clever!” He shook his head. “But of course, thinking to save your friend…”
* * *
Dr. Collins’s voice was low, but so clear that even Sheila Flaxton, with her poor hearing, did not have to strain forward to hear.
“That day, I’d dropped in for a visit with Caroline, Mrs. Temple, that is. I often did, of a late afternoon. She’d be in the sitting room, reading or knitting. We’d have a chat and a cup of tea. It was one of my favorite — But that day when I arrived, Jennie O’Shea told me Mrs. Temple was shopping in Dublin. I was quite exhausted. It had been a wearing afternoon — a scything accident, then a measles scare. And I thought, Why not a nap?”
So in the library at Ashenden Manor he’d settled into his favorite wing chair before the fire. He’d dozed. And then: “I awoke to hear them talking. Rowena and Scott. And I heard —” Dr. Collins’s voice faltered. He looked helplessly about. “I can’t, I can’t —”
“Don’t be so sniveling,” Scott said furiously. “You can’t stop now!” He started to struggle up, but Sergeant Bryson held out a warning hand, palm down.
“No … No!”
�
�All right, then, Padraic Collins! I’ll tell you what you heard!”
“No!”
“You heard that my sister Rowena was pregnant.”
Dr. Collins bent his head and stared at the floor. Not a sound in the police station. Scott, looking at Dr. Collins, went on, “You also heard me tell Rowena something I discovered two years ago but kept secret. I had told no one. But now, now that Rowena was pregnant —”
“No,” Dr. Collins breathed out, a hopeless, helpless plea.
“Yes, Padraic.” Inexorably, Scott went on: “You heard me tell Rowena that our grandfather as a young medical student had used X rays on Kathleen Brady, to kill their unborn baby —”
“No!”
“ — so he’d be free to marry a Danish girl with whom he was in love. He endangered Kathleen Brady’s life. He took that risk.”
“Kathleen.” Dr. Collins breathed out the name as though it were a melody. “Kathleen.”
Scott, his face drawn, went on bitterly, “But Kathleen Brady did not die. Neither did the fetus. The baby was born with weakened bones, damaged by the X ray. A legacy to hand on to future generations.”
“Jesus!” Mark Temple put his arm around Caroline’s thin shoulders.
Scott abruptly stretched out his crippled leg and yanked up his trouser leg. The metal brace gleamed. “So in the library, I told Rowena, ‘Look at me! Look at me! And our mother.’ I told her that she was lucky to have escaped it so far. But she carries the genetic fault to pass on to her child. I told her, ‘For God’s sake, Rowena, abort the baby! For your baby’s sake, abort it!’”
From the listeners, not a sound.
68
Inspector O’Hare heard something like a hum, a drawing in of held breaths, and through it the tinny clicking of the clock. He felt as though he’d been napping, only to awaken to a nightmare of reality. In the village of Ballynagh, this.