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Authors: Dicey Deere

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BOOK: The Irish Cairn Murder
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J
asper.
Not in Kinsale. Here. Looking rumpled and wearing that sweater with the horizontal stripes that made him look twenty pounds heavier. Torrey felt that warm, cozy, amused, loving feeling she'd had from the day she'd first met him a year ago. What in
hell
was he doing here?
“Oh, God! The press!” Kate Burnside said to nobody in particular. “That's Jasper Shaw. He must get the news by osmosis. I thought he scoped out bigger things like a New IRA bombing. Not a provincial little village murder.”
Sergeant Bryson tensed and looked questioningly at Inspector O'Hare; never mind that Shaw lived half the time in that cottage with Ms. Torrey Tunet.
“I'm afraid, Mr. Shaw,” O'Hare began, then stopped. Jasper Shaw had seen Ms. Torrey Tunet over there, leaning against the wall, he was already at her side and saying loud enough for O'Hare to overhear, “I have something—I wanted to get here earlier. The traffic—What do they know, so far?”
Inspector O'Hare, his blood pressure rising, said sharply, “Mr. Shaw! You are in this room on sufferance! Now, if you'll please—”
“Oh, sorry!” Mr. Shaw was unflustered. “Been following
this Ricard case closely, Inspector. Getting a bit ahead of myself. Not, believe me, Inspector, that I'd make any attempt to …” He grinned at O'Hare.
To scoop the Gardai,
O‘Hare finished grimly to himself,
to leave us with our faces red,
and Chief Inspector Emmet O'Reilley thinking Inspector Egan O'Hare in Ballynagh is a waste of Garda Siochana money. Well, too late, Mr. Shaw. He folded his arms, feeling smug.
“Mr. Shaw. I will prepare a statement for the
Irish Independent.
In essence: regarding the murder of Mr. Ricard, we have a confession from Ms. Brenda Plant of Buffalo, New York.”
“Well, now!” Mr. Shaw's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Indeed!” His glance sought out Brenda Plant. She was mechanically settling and resettling the two curved combs in her hair; she seemed oblivious of anyone's presence, or even of where she was.
“So, Mr. Shaw,” Inspector O'Hare continued, with satisfaction, “Ms. Natalie Cameron is absolved from suspicion. For any further information on that score, Mr. Shaw, you can refer to her attorney in Dublin.” And thank God that at least Jasper Shaw wasn't accompanied by a news photographer.
Jasper Shaw sent a congratulatory smile toward Natalie Cameron. Her white-lidded hazel eyes looked back at him with faint curiosity. Dakin, beside her, seemed numb; wherever he was in his mind, it was not here in this Garda station.
Inspector O'Hare abruptly wished Jasper Shaw would disappear in a puff of smoke. He knew the reputation of this investigative reporter. A smudge of dust, a feather, an incautious word; Mr Shaw could find a clue or an answer in the shape of a snowflake.
But Mr. Shaw wasn't disappearing. He was, instead, saying, “Congratulations, Inspector. I hope I can call and set up a personal interview with you for the
Independent
? On exactly how you solved this perplexing murder.”
Inspector O'Hare nodded, but for the moment he felt embarrassingly overinflated. He eyed the somewhat rumpled and overweight Mr. Shaw.
“Meantime, Inspector,” Mr. Shaw said, “Just one thing: about a connection between the murder of Mr. Ricard and the attack on Mr. Brannigan, I have learned that—”
“Not again!” Dakin Cameron was on his feet, “Not to hear it
again
! That he's my father!
Brannigan!”
“Darling!” Tears in Natalie Cameron's eyes.
“Ah,” Jasper Shaw nodded. “I did hear something of the like, that's my business, ear to the ground. Found it worth investigating.”
Inspector O'Hare swallowed. He pulled open his desk drawer and shook a fruit drop into his hand and popped it into his mouth. What he really wanted was a shot of whiskey. Barely three feet away, Dakin Cameron sank back down again beside his mother. He put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands.
Jasper Shaw said, “Turn over a bit of turf, that's the thing. God knows what you'll find. An old army boot. Buried treasure. A map of Atlantis. Excalibur. A hub cap.” He glanced at Torrey Tunet beside him. “Ms. Tunet gave me certain information. It led me to do a bit of investigating in Dublin this morning. My investigation involved a car accident that occurred one autumn evening in Dublin, some seventeen years ago.” He hiked up the side of his horizonally striped sweater and drew a slip of paper from his pants pocket:
“October twelfth. Two young women driving in a Rolls in rain and fog. The Rolls crashed into a streetlight on Heytesbury Street. Luckily the accident was not far from Meath Hospital, and the young women were taken there. One of them was uninjured. But the other young woman suffered a damaged arm and a concussion.”
Jasper Shaw paused. “Or rather, at first it was
supposed
that those two injuries were all. But the young woman had suffered a
third
injury due to the car accident. It became evident during her overnight stay at the hospital. At approximately midnight, the young woman had a miscarriage and was delivered of a female fetus.”
T
wo hours later, at Sylvester Hall, Jessie was excitedly on the telephone to Rose at Castle Moore. “I didn't understand the half of it! Mr. Shaw explaining and then Ms. Burnside jumping in all of a sudden. Between them, I could hardly—It was all about a piece dropping right out of Mrs. Cameron's memory!
Months!
And not even knowing she'd lost a baby girl! So then, Dakin conceived, like on the very
heels
of—Oh, my!” and here Jessie lost her breath. Anyway, Breda was motioning to her to get the tea things ready, it was almost four o'clock.
 
Inspector O'Hare watched as Sergeant Jimmy Bryson began lifting stones from the cairn. The pile of stones was at least two feet high and maybe three hundred years old, from the time of Cromwell. There was moss and dirt and bits of weed and grass and pebbles on top, and even a few shards of glass. Then—
“Got it!” Bryson reached down and picked it up carefully between two fingers and handed it to O'Hare.
“Sinbad.” O'Hare studied the butt. “Same as the pack among his things from Nolan's.” As Brenda Plant had said, he dropped the cigarette and grabbed up the knife. Would
this help in her defense? Maybe. An hour ago, two Gardai had arrived in a police car and taken her off to Dublin.
O'Hare took a breath. He looked over the fields. For a moment it was as though a frigid, wintery wind froze his marrow. What if, when the exasperating Ms. Tunet had invaded his office in her red slicker, he hadn't broken free of his exasperation at her poking her nose in where it wasn't wanted? What if? But once again, he had played her game, not quite daring
not
to.
“Wind from the north,” Jimmy Bryson said, seeing him shudder. “Getting cold.”
“Yes,” O'Hare said. Cold as the gaze of Chief Superintendent Emmet O'Reilley would have been on him, had it later been discovered he'd gone down the wrong path. And, given Ms. Tunet being who she was, it would have been discovered. Touch and go.
 
On Saturday morning at ten o'clock in the library at Sylvester Hall, Dakin looked from his mother to the visitor.
It was strange, his mother smiling at the thin, pale, good-looking man who'd written the prize-winning book called
The Dakin Poems.
For a whole, agonizing night and day, Dakin had believed this Canadian to be his father. And then, not. He could tell that Tom Brannigan still loved his mother, the way he looked at her. But now his mother loved Marshall West, who'd arrived last night from New York and had put his arms around Dakin's mother and rocked her a bit saying stupid loving things like, “You should have called me!” and “I would've killed him!” Then Marshall had gone off to a low-cost housing meeting in Dublin. Now his mother, looking happy, was talking with the visitor, who looked, well, wistful, if that was a word you could use about a grown man.
“Ma?” Dakin said suddenly “What's
Cloverleaf?”
“Cloverleaf? That's the name of the company in Bray that
mailed me my pregnancy test results.” She looked at Tom Brannigan. “Mr. Ricard was holding it over my head. To return in exchange for the blackmail money.”
Tom Brannigan said, in his light, cultured voice with the touch of brogue, “The Cloverleaf? I was drunk enough to've told Ricard about it, but it's in my safe deposit box in Montreal.”
“What?”
But then she laughed and put a hand up to her eyes, and the bracelet with the unicorns made a tinkling sound. She would wear the bracelet now and again. Marshall would have to cope.
 
“Well!” Sheila Flaxton said to Winifred, who was pulling on a plaid jumper for their before-lunch walk. There was even frost in the air and Sheila was well bundled up and had her Finnish gloves on already. “Well, Winifred. I saw Tom Brannigan in the village putting his bag into his car. He's off.”
“A tragedy,” Winifred said, “A damned tragedy! He's lost his son. In his head for all of sixteen years, Dakin was his son. His pride and joy. Saving reports of Dakin's tennis trophies, his wrestling matches, his school prizes.”
“Yes, dreadful.”
“Still … Maybe now he can let go of the dream of uniting with Natalie and Dakin. He's what? Barely forty? Not too late to wake up from the dream. To look about, start a new life. Even to—”
“To fall in love!” Sheila gave such an ecstatic wiggle that her woolen shawl almost slipped off her shoulders. “I am abso
lutely
with you there, Winifred!”
 
Noontime, Sergeant Jimmy Bryson came into Finney's for his midday meal. He was getting over his injured feelings that Inspector O'Hare hadn't briefed him beforehand about what he'd been up to at that meeting. Colluding with Ms. Torrey
Tunet! Jimmy had spent a sleepless night about it, and on top of that, the shock about Brenda.
Brenda!
In the morning, Bryson had shaved with a trembling hand and nicked the side of his chin. But at eight o'clock when he got to the station, Inspector O'Hare had hot tea going and Bryson's favorite apple-cinnamon bun and had explained, “Knowing your, ah, fondness for Ms. Brenda Plant …” and so on. Bryson had to admit he could see that.
Brenda!
It would be a while before he'd get over it. Still, in a way, a relief.
“Here you are.” Mary, Finney's wife, set down the plate, hot corned beef, boiled potatoes and mustard pickles. Jimmy's mouth watered. And tonight was Hannah's night off; they were going to a film in Dunlavin.
 
“Good morning, Mr. O'Boyle.”
Sean stopped raking the gravel. He hadn't heard her biking up. She was wearing that turquoise-and-gold peacocks bandana around her head and a dark red jumper and jeans. She ought to get new brogues, they were scuffed and worn.
“Morning, Ms. Tunet.”
Tunet.
Lucinda had said it meant “thunder” in Romanian.
Ms. Tunet was smiling at him. “Ms. Cameron safe, after all! Been quite an ordeal for her. And of course for everyone at Sylvester Hall. You've been here the longest, Mr. O'Boyle. You've seen Natalie grow up. So I can imagine how worried
you
must've been.” It was almost a question. Ms. Tunet seemed to be waiting.
“Yes,” Sean said. He moved the rake a bit on the gravel.
Ms. Tunet yawned. She was still sitting on the bike, “It was electrifying at the meeting when Mr. Shaw told what he'd discovered. About what happened that night at Meath Hospital.” Ms. Tunet put a forefinger to her chin. “I guess Ms. Sybil was the only one who knew about the spontaneous abortion. What with her getting the bill from Meath Hospital.”
“I expect so.” Under his hand, the rake handle felt slippery. It was dry weather but the sun was hot.
“At the meeting, you mentioned that in those earlier years, you were the one who picked up the morning post. Remember?”
“Yes. I suppose.” He moved the rake a little on the gravel, a bit to the left there, it was humped up, it needed evening off.
“After all these years, you probably wouldn't remember any particular letter, of course. The one from Meath Hospital, I mean.” Ms. Tunet heaved a sigh. “Life is peculiar, isn't it, Mr. O'Boyle?”
Sean looked up from the gravel; for an instant he looked into Ms. Tunet's gray eyes, then he turned away. “I've things to do in the greenhouse, Ms. Tunet.”
“Oh, sorry!” Ms. Tunet put one foot on a bike pedal. “Stingy, wasn't she?—Ms. Sybil. So I've heard. Even saving a few cents over lamb chops!
Hon
estly!” She pushed off. Sean watched her down the avenue.
 
At one o'clock, Sean arrived home for the usual hour off that he allowed himself. Caitlin was out somewhere and had left a loaf and some sliced ham on the table for him. He took a piece of the ham and stood munching it. Then he went upstairs.
In his bedroom, he unlocked the top bureau drawer and took out the envelope from Meath Hospital addressed to Sybil Sylvester. He unfolded the bill. A list of charges for drugs, therapy, even surgery. What it came to was treatment of arm injury, concussion, spontaneous abortion.
Back then, when he was the one who picked up the Sylvester Hall post, he'd found the bill. It had arrived the week after Ms. Sybil had taken Natalie off to Italy in such a hurry. Sean had thought of that hurried departure as a kind of kidnapping, as though Ms. Sybil had placed a hand over
Natalie's mouth and tied her hands behind her back. He'd heard things, seen things—kitchen talk.
He'd had no excuse for opening the envelope. All he had was a kind of worry about Natalie. Then he'd opened the bill. A week after, he'd paid it. He knew Ms. Sybil wasn't one to ring up the hospital asking for a bill she hadn't received. Later, through the years, he often thought how Sybil Sylvester would always believe that Dakin was the chauffeur's son.
Now he folded the bill back into the envelope and put it into a pocket of his windbreaker. Then he knelt down and pulled open the bottom drawer. He unwrapped the tissue and shook out the yellow party dress. He could still see the ugly look on Ms. Sibyl's porcelain-stiff face as she'd thrust the yellow dress deep into the trash bin that would be emptied into Egan's cart. Why he had rescued it, he didn't know. No more did he know why he had kept it.
Downstairs, he added peat to the coal fire that Caitlin had left. Then he thrust the bill from Meath Hospital and the yellow party dress into the fire and watched them burn. After that, he made tea to go with the bread and ham. Sitting at the table and eating, he thought of when he'd first known about the thing gone wrong in Natalie's head, that had now gone right again. It was about the dog. When she'd got back from Meath Hospital, she'd come out to the greenhouse where he'd been working, she'd come to ask after a newborn pup a week old. “Tom,” she'd said, “is he coming along all right?” But the pups were five months old and there was no Tom.
 
A week later, Dakin drove the Jeep down the rutted road and stopped beside the O'Sullivan's barn. There was a brisk wind, so that tree branches creaked and dry leaves skittered across the road. Dakin sat for a minute in the car, hands resting on the steering wheel. The blue BMW with its mud-splashed
sides was gone; it wouldn't be seen here again. The barn already looked neglected—one of the windowpanes above the door was broken. Why he had come, he couldn't have said. But this time he came without his usual desperate need, drawn back helplessly to this barn, thirsting for the feel of her hands and the soft, chuckling laugh, and the need at first as though he were an inexperienced girl surrendering, and then he became a boy, and then a man, yet each time he was more and more in thrall, bewitched, no will of his own. Kate. Kate.
She was gone now, even her Georgian house in Dublin shut up. Majorca for the winter. Then, who knew where. She got about, mostly in Europe.
Dakin backed up and turned the Jeep around. It hadn't rained for a week; driving off, he could still see the tracks made by that dirty, mud-splashed blue BMW. “Why clean it?” Kate had once said, screwing up her face. “Everyone knows that under the muck it's a beauty.”
BOOK: The Irish Cairn Murder
8.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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