Midday was the official opening time and, based on Phil’s sleuthing, the ETA for the judges was somewhere round half past twelve. But you couldn’t be sure: by the time they’d arrived in Carrick, for example, the TV celebrity who’d charged a fortune to cut the ribbon had gone home.
So Phil had avoided an opening ceremony. Instead, the Lissbeg event was to be in full swing by twelve thirty, apparently unconcerned by the judges’ arrival. In the background, armed with a walkie-talkie, she’d be working to a schedule. But everyone else had been urged to assume an easy, nonchalant air.
Mrs Draper, the former chairwoman of the Christmas Fête, privately told Bríd that she couldn’t be doing with it. Phil would want to cop onto herself before she had the whole town laughing at her. Not that it wasn’t already, because it was.
Bríd, who was arranging Christmas cookies and pots of relish on the HabberDashery stall, was about to agree when Phil appeared beside them. ‘It’s ten minutes to kick-off, and you won’t believe what’s happened! The priest’s produced a whole new order of carols. And half the choristers don’t know half the tunes, and the others don’t know any of the words!’
‘Can’t they just say no, and stick to what they’ve practised?’
‘Well, you’d think, wouldn’t you? But they’re in there like hares caught in the headlights. And now he’s saying they’ve grouped themselves wrong and they’ll all have to swap places.’
Mrs Draper, perceiving that her moment had come, removed her shoulder from the side of the stall and, ignoring Phil, turned majestically to Bríd. ‘I suppose I’d better go inside and put manners on him. Stick a dozen mince pies in under the stall for me, Bríd, and a chocolate Yule log. I’ll pick them up when I’ve got things back on track.’
Ten minutes later, crowds were beginning to gather in the nuns’ garden, though most of them had had to come in through the courtyard gate. Phil had decreed that the red carpet should remain roped off until Ferdia – strategically placed on the roof – should signal the approach of the judges.
Aideen had begun to heat up the first batch of punch and Dan, with his hammer still stuck in his belt, was poised by the Winter Warmers stall. There was a board in front, saying ‘OPENING SHORTLY’, which Phil had instructed him to whip away as soon as she gave the word.
The HabberDashery stall was at the other side of the garden, with the stained-glass windows behind it, and the light from the refectory throwing coloured shapes on the snow. Bríd’s Christmas produce was already selling hand over fist. She was doing a great trade in pots of cranberry jelly, tied up in gauze with gold ribbons, and oat biscuits, in hand-painted boxes, for serving with cheese. Everyone began by saying they had their presents got already, and then decided that some aunt or cousin could do with a salmon roulade or a mini Christmas pudding.
The pale winter sunlight was almost lost in the riot of festive lighting. All around the perimeter of the garden the trees were sparkling, light streamed from the café windows and, on either side of the red carpet, the rows of lanterns were lit. The crowds on the gravel paths were beginning to move indoors, and more people were arriving every minute.
Behind her, Bríd could hear the choristers bursting into song in the refectory. Everyone seemed to be singing the same carol, with great confidence. So, apparently, Mrs Draper had put manners on the priest.
With no one to help her, because Aideen was on the other stall, Bríd had hardly had a moment to raise her head. But as she handed over a customer’s change, she noticed a group of figures clustered on the red carpet. Phil was in the middle, looking pretty frantic, and, to Bríd’s annoyance, Cassie was there as well. Wasn’t it just like her to get herself front and centre for the judges’ arrival? Not that it mattered a damn, but it was irritating as hell.
Then, seconds after the thought crossed her mind, the group on the red carpet shifted, and Bríd realised that it couldn’t be the judges’ arrival after all. Not unless they’d come with a police escort.
Her eyes widened. The two figures beyond Phil and Cassie were a couple of guards in uniform. They weren’t looking the least bit festive. And one of them, with his notebook out, seemed to be questioning Dan.
47
Cassie was on her way to begin her face-painting when she saw Phil summon Dan. Then, as a woman with a toddler on her shoulders moved out of the way, she saw the police uniforms. The older guard, who was short and a bit portly, she knew by sight as a sergeant stationed in Lissbeg. The taller, younger one, holding a notebook, was Shay.
Her first instinct was to cross the garden and find out what was wrong. Then she wondered if she ought to find Bríd first. As she dithered, Shay, looking very assured and threatening in his uniform, stepped in closer to Dan. Moving back instinctively, Dan found his way blocked by the sergeant, whose rocklike placidity looked to Cassie to be even more forbidding. On a thick leather leash, he was holding a quivering dog.
All of a sudden, Cassie knew exactly what was happening. As she stood there in dismay, Fury and The Divil appeared beside her. Apparently intent on lighting a roll-up, Fury eyed her slantways. ‘What’s the story?’
‘I think it’s Customs. It must be Dan’s brandy. I know they’ve been waiting to make arrests.’
‘And how exactly would you know that? No, wait, you can tell me later.’ Fury flicked his match into a herb bed, where it sizzled in the snow. ‘Get over there now and keep them talking. I’ll get rid of the brandy.’
‘What? Hang on. Wait a minute. What’ll I talk about?’
But he was gone, with The Divil close behind him, and she crossed the garden with no idea of what she was going to say.
On the red carpet, Phil appeared to be about to go into hysterics. Cassie decided that her own best course was to be a dumb foreigner. So she tapped Phil on the shoulder and demanded to know where the face-paints had gone.
‘What?’
‘The paints. For my face-painting.’ She turned to Dan, as if she hadn’t noticed the guards. ‘You haven’t seen them, have you, Dan?’
Then she rounded querulously on Phil again. ‘I ordered them specially from the internet. And I know I’m a volunteer, and that all this is for charity, but I did pay for them myself, Phil, and now they’ve disappeared.’
Phil goggled at her. Shay, who couldn’t have expected Cassie to appear, looked simultaneously angry and wooden. The sergeant, who, Cassie suddenly remembered, was called Mossy Connor, took her elbow. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Miss, we’re asking a few questions.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Of course. It’s just that my sign says that the face-painting starts at twelve thirty. It’s in the programme too. And we can’t disappoint the kids, can we? Not at Christmas.’
She could see Shay beginning to look suspicious.
Beside her, Phil peered wildly at her watch. ‘Oh, my God, is that the time? The judges . . .’
Cassie beamed at the sergeant. ‘Not real judges, you know. Just the Winter Fest ones. They’ll be here in a moment. We’re all very excited.’ Catching sight of the dog, she bent down to pat it. ‘What a gorgeous fellow! What’s his name?’
The dog, a silky-haired spaniel, looked at her severely.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t pat him, should I? Not when he’s on duty. Or is that just guide dogs? I’m never sure.’
The sergeant said that the spaniel’s name was Bullseye. ‘It’s a kind of a literary joke, you see, Miss. Bullseye in Dickens’s Oliver Twist was a dog belonging to a criminal. While Bullseye here is a serving member of the Force. Mind you, we had other literary options. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s spaniel, Flush, for example. Or Montmorency, from Three Men in a Boat.’
Cassie had no idea what he was talking about but, catching the word ‘literary’, she asked madly if he’d ever considered joining a creative-writing group. ‘They have one here at the library and it’s really vibrant. I mean, it releases so much hidden talent and potential. Not to mention being a wonderful chance to make new and interesting friends.’
; Shay cut across her, turning to Phil. ‘Right, Mr Cafferky will have to come with us. And we’ll need to search the premises.’
‘The premises?’
‘The whole area. Garden. Buildings. Outbuildings, if you have them.’
‘But you can’t. We’ve got the judges coming. And – oh, my God! – the press. Journalists. Television! I can’t have the place overrun by sniffer dogs and guards.’
‘I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.’
Shay put his hand on Dan’s shoulder, and Cassie was groping for something else to say when she heard Fury’s voice. Looking round, she saw him approaching, the pinched-out rollup behind his ear and The Divil at his heels. ‘How’re you doing, Mossy? Ready for the Christmas?’
The sergeant nodded placidly. ‘Sound out, Fury. How’s things with you?’
Spotting the spaniel, The Divil bared his teeth ferociously. Fury hitched him firmly onto his hip. ‘Never better, Moss, boy. What’s the story?’
The sergeant jerked his head at Shay. ‘We’ve had word from our colleagues that a stash of contraband was found down on Couneen pier.’
‘Go to God!’
‘In young Cafferky’s shed.’
‘Would you look at that!’ Fury turned to Dan. ‘Someone must have broken in and used it while you were away.’
Bullseye looked at The Divil and the sergeant looked at Dan. ‘You’ve been off somewhere, have you?’
‘Not at all, man. He’s been here day and night, working for me. Well, I tell a lie. For Phil. But you haven’t been down to the pier, have you, Dan?’
Cassie saw Dan’s eyelashes drop, but he looked up again immediately, taking Fury’s cue. ‘No.’
Fury shook his head. ‘God, Mossy, you couldn’t be up to them. To break into a poor lad’s shed and use it like that.’
The sergeant nodded placidly again, but Shay squared his shoulders and flipped his notebook shut. ‘This isn’t getting you anywhere, Mr Cafferky. We’ve arrested Declan Donovan. And his uncle. And his Spanish associates. Mr Donovan who, I believe, is a business partner of yours?’
‘No. Well, I mean . . .’
‘Do you intend to give in evidence that he’s not your business partner? Because you do share a business account.’
‘But there’s nothing in it!’ Dan turned to Fury. ‘He kept saying he’d put money in, but he never did. And I don’t have any money. We didn’t do any business.’
He stopped suddenly, his jaw dropping. ‘Ah, shit. There is money in it. But it’s what Phil paid me for the work I’ve been doing here.’ He looked desperately at the sergeant. ‘Your man said he’d be my investor. But I haven’t seen a red cent of his, honest.’
Fury controlled The Divil, who was scrabbling to get down.
‘Well, there you are, Mossy. He spots a gobdaw with a shed on a lonely pier. And he’s in like Flynn, making a right fool of him.’
Quelled by a flicker of a glance from Fury, Dan visibly restrained himself, while the sergeant nodded lugubriously, as if despairing of the evils of the world.
For a moment it seemed to Cassie that the police might buy Fury’s story, but Shay turned menacingly on Phil. ‘Right. Well, I think we’ll begin by tasting these Winter Warmers. After which, Madam, you might like to explain where you sourced the ingredients.’
Cassie realised that, ever since Fury had arrived, he’d been easing the group counter-clockwise, so that Shay and Mossy, with Dan between them, were facing the Broad Street entrance, and she and the others were looking towards the Winter Warmers stand. Behind it, unseen by the guards, Bríd and Aideen had been working like demons, and by now the ‘OPENING SHORTLY’ sign had been taken down, and a queue of people was forming.
Marching down the red carpet, with the others in his wake, Shay thrust himself to the front of the queue, demanding a drink. Aideen smiled at him politely and, dipping a ladle into the steaming pot, filled a cup with a dark brown liquid, adding a shaving of orange zest and a couple of liberal shakes of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cassie saw a man and his wife, who had just bought drinks, pulling faces. As she watched, the woman discreetly tipped the contents of her cup into a herb bed.
Shay, who was intent on the stall itself, seized the cup from Aideen and knocked back a mouthful. Immediately his face went scarlet and he choked. ‘Jesus Christ, what is in that?’
The sergeant sniffed the cup. ‘I’d say the base is probably Rooibos. Maybe a dash of hibiscus. Cayenne? Chilli? Something with a kick. No brandy anyway.’
Fury snorted. ‘Ah, for God’s sake, man, have a bit of sense. Would she be handing out Spanish brandy in cardboard cups?’
Shay swung round and eyeballed him. ‘Who said the brandy was Spanish?’
Everyone else’s eyes swivelled towards Fury, who cocked his head at Shay. ‘Well, you did, didn’t you? At least that’s what I gathered. When you said your man’s associates came from Spain.’ He winked at the sergeant. ‘Mind you, I thought that was the kind of detail you lads weren’t supposed to blab about.’
The sergeant made an appreciative noise and Shay jabbed his finger at the stall. ‘Your advertising says drinks free for all.’
‘And drinks free for all is what’s gettin’ gev out. Hot, spiced, nonalcoholic tisanes.’
‘The posters say punch.’
‘God, for a man of your trade, you’re not very observant. There’s a sign over there says “Cakes and Ale” and they’re serving quiches and lattes. Have you not noticed Phil’s medieval theme?’
Sticking his jaw out, Shay rounded on Phil. ‘Right, we’re combing the premises.’
Before Phil could answer him, her walkie-talkie squawked. ‘Oh, my God, it’s Ferdia. The press are coming!’ She flicked a switch and listened for a minute, the colour draining from her face. ‘And he’s sighted the judges!’
Fury looked at the sergeant. ‘What’s wanted here, Mossy, is a bit of discretion. There’s no call to go letting Lissbeg down. I’ll keep an eye on Dan the Man, and you two go on inside with Phil and get searching. Though you won’t find a sniff of any brandy. You can take my word for that.’
The sergeant nodded and said he’d suspected that would be the way of it.
‘Ay, well, you were right, but, shur, you’d better earn your pay.’
Phil pivoted on her heels, looking frantic. ‘But the greetings, the press packs . . .’
Fury gave her a shove. ‘You can leave that to Cassie and me. Just keep the guards out of sight.’
The next twenty minutes felt like a circus. Propelled by Fury, Cassie galloped down the red carpet to where the group of judges seemed slightly perplexed to be greeted by a scarecrow figure in a torn waxed jacket, the indignant Divil, and a snub-nosed, effusive Canadian with green and silver hair. Smiling, shaking hands and handing out press packs, she could see Bríd scuttling back to the HabberDashery stall, and Aideen continuing to ladle out drinks to people who grimaced and spat as soon as they tasted them.
With the introductions performed, Fury and The Divil melted away, leaving Cassie to lead her group around the garden. Dredging up a disjointed assemblage of facts culled from half-remembered conversations, she outlined the Old Convent Centre’s genesis in the discovery of Sister Michael’s herbal, and explained how Lissbeg’s determination to hang on to its local library had impacted on the town’s regeneration. ‘It’s really amazing, the difference that one book made . . .’
Ushering them along a path towards the open door to the old convent building, she saw Bullseye dragging Shay along a corridor, with Mossy and Phil bringing up the rear. Immediately she swerved to the left and led her own group towards the library courtyard. ‘. . . and not just one book, either. You’ve heard, of course, of the famous Carrick Psalter . . .’
As she bustled them up the library steps, she could see an elderly judge panting for breath. One of the others, a tourism official in fake Manolos, had ricked her ankle at the sudden left turn, and was now hobbling slightly. A photograph
er, with a better turn of speed, asked if they were going to have time to take pictures.
‘Of course. Definitely. There’s a photo-op arranged.’
With no idea whether there was or not, Cassie swept them through to the exhibition space.
‘The layout here, of course, is state-of-the-art. And the psalter, which is, er, medieval, is one-of-a-kind and definitely local. Locally made. Definitely. Artisan painters were involved. And it was gifted to the town, of course . . .’
The elderly judge, who had got his breath back, looked impressed. ‘My goodness, that’s remarkable. Who was the donor?’
Cassie panicked, unable to remember the name. ‘Er, well, he’s rather a reclusive old gentleman. A philanthropist. I’m not sure that he’d necessarily want me to say . . .’
At that moment the judges and the press gaped collectively, as a figure appeared from behind the psalter case, extending a genial hand. He had a long silver beard, highly polished black boots, a scarlet suit trimmed with ermine, and a scarlet cap with a white bobble perched on the side of his head. ‘No, no, I’m very happy to meet you all, and more than happy to speak about it. In fact . . .’ he beamed round at them expansively ‘. . . the giving of this particular gift may have been the greatest pleasure of my life.’
48
Phil didn’t stay to supervise the clear-up. By the time the judges, the press, and the public had left, she’d developed a massive migraine so Cassie and Bríd had told her to go home.
The surreal sense of two separate events happening concurrently had continued right through to the end of the day. As Cassie led the press and the judges down the corridors and in and out of the studios, Phil had hustled Shay, Bullseye, and the sergeant ahead of them, while Fury dodged nimbly between the two groups. Each time Cassie turned a corner, his stork-like figure would signal to her discreetly, and her hasty U-turns in response had bewildered her charges. At one point she’d whipped them into a room off the kitchen, where Maurice, the retired baker, was sitting with Mr Maguire, gorging on mince pies, and her hasty improvisations about quality control had baffled Maurice as much as the judges.
The Mistletoe Matchmaker Page 26