Anglo-Irish Murders

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  Laochraí looked at Okinawa, whose camera was pointing at her, and lapsed into silence.

  ‘Fine,’ said the baroness. She handed the piece of paper to Amiss. ‘Do whatever needs to be done with that. Now, let’s get back to what we laughingly call work.’

  ***

  The hasty compilation of results Gibson had prepared at lunchtime made interesting reading. Of the twelve participants there had been quite a lot of agreement as to the deficiencies of the various communities. Taylor nodded in agreement with the description of the English as superior, patronising, snobbish, exploitative, uncaring, class-ridden, racist, appeasing (two votes) and blood-sucking (one). Wallace looked resigned at the news that Scots were mean, gloomy, quarrelsome, sectarian, bitter and unyielding. Wyn Gruffudd was not there to hear the Welsh dismissed as shifty, dishonest, boring, garrulous and self-pitying, but Pascal O’Shea laughed merrily at hearing his countrymen being described as sleeveens, gombeen men and mé féiners*, who were priest-ridden and money-mad.

  Accusations of Protestant bigotry, brutality, triumphalism, dreariness and land-grabbing seemed to depress Willie Hughes, but Steeples looked unmoved. MOPE bridled when they found themselves described as whinging, hate-mongering, self-pitying murderers as well as hypocritical black propagandists with no conception of right and wrong.

  Kelly-Mae in some ways had it worst, for the overwhelming view appeared to be that Irish-America was peopled with ignorant, narrow-minded, cowardly armchair-generals. ‘Some of the MOPEs must have broken ranks,’ whispered the baroness to Amiss.

  If anything could graphically prove how insular were most of those present, it was the shortage of pejorative adjectives for either Indians or Japanese. Indians were given a few votes for being violent, greedy and sectarian and the Japanese for being cruel and racist, but most people, reported Gibson, had awarded them no adjectives at all.

  Kapur smiled. ‘Oki and I did our best to denounce ourselves. I find it illuminating how little you know about us.’ He looked over at Taylor. ‘Or are prepared to say about us. Really, the tender consciences of the English are a constant source of wonder to me.’

  The Sailor’s Hornpipe sounded. ‘Hello…yes…yes…Very well. I’ll tell them.’

  Amiss turned to the baroness. ‘May I? That was Inspector McNulty, the garda in charge of our security. He’s coming to speak to us now.’

  Kelly-Mae glowered.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said the baroness.

  No one seemed to disagree.

  ***

  ‘Mr Pratt’s death was either an accident or murder,’ said McNulty. ‘At least I can give you the consolation that suicide is almost certainly ruled out.

  ‘You will understand that I am not prepared to go into details at present, but for reasons we do not yet understand, it seems that Mr Pratt intended to put an Ulster flag on the vacant flagpole. He seems to have placed a ladder against the pole, but unfortunately the bolt gave way, catapulting him over the edge of the battlements.’

  ‘Bolt?’ asked O’Shea. ‘Why would a flagpole have a bolt?’

  ‘So it could be brought down to the horizontal.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that to it?’

  ‘Flagpoles have to be painted sometimes, Mr O’Shea,’ said McNulty patiently. ‘Something ’twould be bit hard to do if it was vertical. So this one had a hinge at the bottom which would be secured by a bolt. And the bolt gave way.’

  ‘How could the bolt give way?’ asked the baroness.

  ‘That’s what we’re investigating now, Lady Troutbeck.’

  ‘What about the press?’

  ‘We have issued a straightforward press release giving bare details of the accident along with your statement of condolence.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘So that presumably means that the reptiles will be staking the place out in a couple of hours.’

  ‘I hope not, Lady Troutbeck. We’re playing this down as much as possible. I’d be grateful if you would all make yourselves available for interview by some of my men. We would like to have details of your movements earlier today.’

  ‘Why?’ asked MacPhrait.

  ‘For the record,’ said McNulty. ‘Please, sir. Let’s keep this simple. We’re just doing our job.’

  ‘So he is,’ said the baroness. ‘Let’s not have anyone making a human-rights issue out of answering a few questions.’ She looked at MacPhrait menacingly. ‘You wouldn’t want it thought that you didn’t care about Billy’s death, would you?’

  There was no answer from MacPhrait.

  ‘Right, Inspector. Now, tell us what you want to do and where you want us to do it.’

  ***

  Irish television was short of news that night, so the death of Billy Pratt and the Slievenamná Orange parade made the first and second items respectively. The coverage was relatively low-key, for though Pratt was popular among Dublin’s political chattering classes, he was little known to the average Irish viewer whose normal reaction to hearing the words ‘Northern Ireland’ was to change channels.

  Over a picture of Pratt shaking hands with the Irish prime minister, the presenter spoke solemnly. ‘Billy Pratt, who was admired and liked in Ireland as a leading figure in the struggle for peace, died in a tragic fall at Moycoole Castle earlier today while participating in an Anglo-Celtic conference on reconciling cultural differences.’ The Irish minister for foreign affairs, a DUPE spokesman and a British junior minister were pulled in to talk about Pratt’s crucial contribution to bringing peace to Ireland.

  By agreement between McNulty and the baroness, journalists were barred from the castle or its grounds allegedly for security reasons, but although conference participants had been asked not to speak to the media, Laochraí had broken ranks. Over a crackly mobile phone she spoke of her affection for Billy and how he had shown the way forward to a future when loyalists would recognize their Irishness.

  ‘Great. That’ll really get the Prods going,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Sshh,’ said the baroness. ‘This is us.’

  ‘In an unrelated incident,’ said the presenter, ‘in nearby Slievenamná, the residents’ group protested today at an Orange parade past a Catholic church.’ He cut to an interview with Murphy. ‘The Slievenamná residents have determined not to any longer put up with this flaunting of sectarian bigotry. Today we have made a stand in the name of peace and inclusiveness. We were appalled that as an act of deliberate provocation, an Orangeman travelled from north of the border to take part in the parade.’

  ‘When asked to respond to this allegation,’ said the presenter, ‘Mr Gardiner Steeples refused to comment.’

  ‘You have to hand it to them,’ said the baroness. ‘Not only do they split infinitives, but they take hypocrisy to hitherto undreamed of levels and the media swallows it all.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ said McNulty. ‘It’ll die a death. What’s important is the Pratt investigation.’

  ‘Have you learned anything from the interviews?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but I want to keep an open mind. Dublin wants me to conclude it was an accident, but I won’t till I’m ninety-nine percent sure. I haven’t yet been able to get hold of the maintenance lad who had charge of the flagpole.’

  ‘Where’s Billy’s body?’

  ‘In the local morgue awaiting the autopsy. Not that it’s likely to tell us anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ***

  The intention all along had been to leave people free to do what they liked on Sunday evening. As previously arranged, Steeples was picked up by his friends and taken to an evening service followed by a family get-together, while the MOPEs and Kelly-Mae were taken off to a local republican club. Kapur excused himself and disappeared to his room.

  ‘So what are you going to do with yourselves?’ asked Pascal O’Shea of the rest of the gathering as they clustered in the bar.

  ‘Any ideas?’ asked the baroness.

  ‘I’ve heard there’s a céilí on in the local,’ s
aid O’Shea. ‘It’s a good pub and it might be a bit of a laugh.’

  Hamish Wallace and Okinawa brightened up, Gibson and Pooley looked alarmed and Taylor looked deeply worried. ‘In view of the tragedy, would attending such an event not seem very hard-hearted?’

  The baroness, who had been brightening up even more, shook her head. ‘Nonsense, Charles. If you’re embarrassed, you can say you wanted to stay here saying prayers for Billy’s soul but that you felt professionally obliged to examine the local culture.’

  ‘How would you feel about it, Willie?’ asked Amiss.

  ‘I’m that fed up at the minute,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t mind getting out of here.’

  The baroness clapped him on the back. ‘Good man, Willie. Right, all of you. I want no nay-sayers here. Let’s get going. Though first I’m going to change. I have the very garment for the occasion.’

  ***

  ‘It’s striking, I grant you,’ said Amiss, circling the baroness as she stood impatiently in the hall. ‘But I thought you didn’t approve of the ersatz?’

  ‘Nothing ersatz about this.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Outré is a better word. I don’t associate kaftans with County Mayo. And it’s just such a very vivid green. Then there’s the gold…what are they?’

  ‘Harem pants.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing what the locals make of it all.’

  ‘They won’t know what to make of it, but they’ll be faintly flattered.’

  ‘And I see from your footgear that you mean business.’

  ‘Much as I deplore many aspects of modernity, I acknowledge that trainers have their place.’

  ‘You’re certainly an arresting mix of the old and the new.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Come on. Where is everyone? Rout them out and let’s get this show on the road.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The pub, about whose unspoiled attractions O’Shea had eulogised in the car, was all he had promised and more. There wasn’t a tourist in sight—just a few dozen young and middle-aged couples and a scattering of unattached youngsters and perhaps half-a-dozen solid citizens with red, lined faces who were, O’Shea explained, what were known as mountainy men. ‘Some of these guys mightn’t see a soul from one end of the year to the other. This lot would be the sociable element who come down for a feed of pints once a week and look in at the céilí maybe in the hope of finding a bride.’

  He surveyed his companions, now arranged comfortably around a long wooden table. ‘What’ll you have, Jack?’

  ‘A pint of stout, of course.’

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘Lager, please. Now don’t start, Jack. I’ll drink what I like.’

  O’Shea took orders from everyone and disappeared for a while. He returned five minutes later with a tray, bearing a pint of lager for Amiss, pints of stout for himself, the baroness, O’Shea, Hughes, Taylor and Wallace and half-pints for Pooley and Simon Gibson. Okinawa had opted for a large whiskey, which O’Shea and Wallace were also having as chasers.

  ‘Sláinte mhait—and thank God we’re not fond of it,’ said O’Shea, whose first swallow lowered the level of the black liquid by a third and whose second halved the amber.

  Taylor made a face. ‘You don’t seem to be enjoying that stout,’ said Amiss.

  ‘I don’t really like it,’ whispered Taylor.

  ‘Why drink it then? Noblesse oblige?’

  ‘Really, Robert, you make me sound patronising. It’s just that it seems offensive to refuse what is, after all, the national brew.’

  As he spoke, a be-aproned woman emerged from the back of the bar and placed on it a vast platter. The baroness looked up and an expression of ecstasy crossed her face. ‘Crubeens. Bliss!’

  ‘Crubeens?’ asked Amiss.

  ‘Pigs’ trotters. The greatest delicacy in Ireland. Greater even than their oysters, if you force me to a choice. Go on, Charles, you’re nearest. Grab that plate.’

  As clearly reluctant as he was obedient, Taylor departed and returned several minutes later with a tray containing a platter piled high with trotters, along with plates, cutlery and napkins. The baroness, who was almost slavering, grabbed the largest trotter. ‘Get rid of those knives and forks and all the rest of that unnecessary paraphernalia. This is good peasant food. Let’s behave like good peasants.’

  Okinawa, Hughes and O’Shea followed suit. Taylor caught Amiss’ eye and then unhappily reached out for a trotter, put it on a plate and started to work gingerly with a knife and fork.

  ‘Cheer up, Charles,’ said Amiss. ‘Look on the bright side. It could have been pigs’ eyes.’

  The evident enjoyment on the faces of their companions gave Amiss and Pooley the courage to investigate a trotter apiece. The baroness stopped eating long enough to berate Gibson, the only defaulter. ‘Come on, Simon. Even yellow-bellies like Robert have passed this test. What’s wrong with you?’

  Gibson shook his head impenitently. ‘Sorry, Jack. The ancestral stomach. Becoming a Catholic doesn’t magically get rid of the old taboos. I could no more eat pig than Chandra could eat cow.’

  ‘Hmm. That doesn’t explain why you’re doing so badly with your Guinness.’

  ‘Alas, being a Jew is usually inhibitive of the enjoyment of vast amounts of alcohol.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Amiss. ‘My ex-girlfriend was afflicted by hideous moderation. You lot are brought up with too civilised an approach to alcohol to understand why people get drunk.’

  Gibson sighed. ‘I can’t imagine what it would be like to be an Irish Jew. Or do they get a special social dispension from pig and drink?’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said O’Shea. ‘Will it be the same again?’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Pooley, who had made only a slightly greater impression on his Guinness. A few of the others, including Amiss, indicated more half-heartedly that they’d rather wait a while, but their protestations were brushed aside.

  ***

  By ten o’clock, the pattern for the evening was clear. There seemed to be a common acceptance that Gibson and Pooley were allowed to skip several rounds, but that this applied to no one else. Amiss was one of those permanently battling with the backlog of drinks arrayed in front of them. The musicians—two fiddlers, an accordian-player and a man with a bodhrán*—had arrived by now and having had a couple of pints, were getting ready for action. The bodhrán player uttered a few words of welcome and the music began.

  Within a few minutes the pub was alive with people dancing what had been announced as ‘The Walls of Limerick.’

  ‘Let’s join in,’ said the baroness.

  ‘Why?’ asked Amiss. ‘I thought all Irish dancing was anathema unless it consisted of a drunken old man…’

  ‘Céilí dancing is different. Like country dancing in general, it is for letting off steam and encouraging sexual intercourse. I’m all in favour of it. I hope you’ll prove a worthy partner.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘You’re no fun. Pascal?’

  ‘Never could dance,’ O’Shea answered hastily. ‘Never, never, never, never.’

  The dance seemed so fast, demanding and complicated that even Taylor could not be bullied into acceding to the baroness’ impassioned demand for a partner. She surveyed them with contempt. ‘So much for you,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to find a beau among the natives.’ And carrying her pint she crossed the floor to a table of mountainy men and sat down with them.

  ‘The Siege of Ennis’ called the drummer. ‘Take your partners for The Siege of Ennis.’ Watched with fascination by her discarded comrades, the baroness leaped up and held out her hand to a tall man in wellingtons. Pausing only to drain his pint and wave at the barman, he took her hand and they joined the nearest group assembling themselves for a set.

  Okinawa was mainly lost to them from then on, for although he returned for more whiskey rations from time to time, he was intent on filming the entire céilí. Th
e dancers responded by cavorting ever more energetically in the hope of impressing him and posterity.

  As the evening went on, Amiss struggled desperately to stay sober, but every time he refused a round he was ignored and when he drank slowly O’Shea or one of the other urgent drinkers would accuse him of being a party-pooper.

  ‘When is closing time?’ he asked, as the eighth round arrived.

  ‘About an hour ago,’ laughed O’Shea.

  ‘What?’ cried Taylor. ‘You mean we’re breaking the law?’

  ‘In this country licensing laws are more honoured in the breach than in the observance, I think you’ll find,’ said O’Shea. ‘Jaysus, you couldn’t finish a céilí at 10:30 and all those people having driven miles for it.’

  ‘Dinna fash yourself,’ said Wallace thickly. ‘You Anglo-Saxons are slaves to yourselves.’

  ‘But what about the taxis? Surely they were booked for closing time?’

  ‘Not at all. Pascal told them not to have a bother on them till midnight at the earliest.’

  A look of sheer misery crossed Taylor’s face. ‘I haven’t got the kind of stamina necessary for this kind of life. I’m already exhausted from two late nights.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Gibson, Pooley and Taylor, as the baroness arrived red-faced but triumphant to order a round for her ex-friends before returning to her new.

  ‘The Stack of Barley’ bellowed the drummer, and the baroness took to the floor, this time in the company of a man in hobnailed boots.

  ‘She’s certainly approaching this con brio,’ said Gibson.

  ‘If a touch unorthodoxly,’ said Pooley.

  ‘I don’t want to watch,’ said Amiss. ‘I might feel somehow responsible.’

  ‘Another round,’ said Wallace.

  ‘Please, please no,’ said Amiss. ‘I’ve got three pints of lager lined up here and I simply can’t drink them. My stomach doesn’t have the capacity. I’m English, remember.’

  ‘Why don’t you move to the hard stuff then?’ suggested O’Shea. ‘There’s a limit to how much you can drink of that ould lager. All that gas isn’t good for you.’

  ‘Well, just a small one,’ said Amiss nervously, ‘with plenty of water.’