Read The Irish Cairn Murder Online
Authors: Dicey Deere
The Irish Cairn Murder (7 page)
O
n Tuesday morning a few minutes before noon Natalie Cameron arrived back from an early-morning meeting in Dunlavin where she'd passionately supported a low-cost housing proposal. In the front hall, she picked up the morning's mail from the tray, stared down at the letter, and tore it open. The message this time was on a scrap of ruled paper:
n Tuesday morning a few minutes before noon Natalie Cameron arrived back from an early-morning meeting in Dunlavin where she'd passionately supported a low-cost housing proposal. In the front hall, she picked up the morning's mail from the tray, stared down at the letter, and tore it open. The message this time was on a scrap of ruled paper:
Tuesday noon at the cairn. Forty thousand pounds. If you don't appear, Cloverleaf goes to the Dublin papers. An ugly tale for your son and fiancé to bear on television news or read about in the press. This is final.
The sharp handwriting had dug into the paper.
Natalie cried out, an inarticulate cry of ⦠anger? fear? rage? She hardly knew. She crushed the letter spasmodically in a fist.
“Ma'am?” Jessie, coming from the kitchen, looked alarmed. “Is something the matter?”
“No ⦠no.” She ran past Jessie and up the stairs In her bedroom, she went directly to the dresser, fumbled out what she wanted and ran back down the stairs. Jessie was still in the front hall, looking worried, and said instantly, “Mrs. Cameron? Rose at Castle Moore says Coyle's has raspberries, I can get some for lunch if youâ”
“Never mind.” She tried to pull herself together, Jessie was looking at her so funny. Lunch seemed a foreign word. “Eggsâeggs will do, Jessie. Omelettes? Dakin's off on a job.” Luce was at school. “Eggs. I'll be back inâshortly.” In her right-hand jacket pocket her fist tightened on the letter.
Past the coach house, walking fast, she turned left and climbed over the rail fence and half ran across the meadow, the long, dry grass swishing against her pants legs. She'd meet him, all right, this blackmailer! She drew in a breath that turned into a shuddering sob. She reached the stand of fir trees where the woods began and passed the tree where as a child she'd buried treasures of dolls' clothes, bits of gimcrack jewelry, play money.
She walked faster. Her brogues scattered dry leaves. Sun filtered through the trees. In a minute she'd come out at the ridge and reach the cairn, that pile of stones marking the division between Sylvester Hall and Castle Moore.
Cloverleaf
? It meant nothing to her.
? It meant nothing to her.
A thought widened her eyes and slowed her steps. What if ⦠Could this extortionist know some secret about Andrew? Something she'd been ignorant of? Loving Andrew, bearing his children, was there something hidden that all along she hadn't suspected? Another life? She thought of Andrew's business trips to Dublin, she saw him walking up a garden path to a secret little house in Ballsbridge, saw a door opening, heard a woman's lilting voiceâ
Oh,
stop
it! Not Andrew! Never. Besides, the extortionist's first letter had said
a
revelation about you,
hadn't it?
stop
it! Not Andrew! Never. Besides, the extortionist's first letter had said
a
revelation about you,
hadn't it?
For a moment, she faltered. She brushed a hand across her eyes. Something, a flash of light, a glimpse of a yellow party dress, shutter-clicked across her vision and was gone. She slowed, then hurried on. All around her was the peaceful countryside looking like a tourist's brochure of the Irish landscape in Wicklow, the field with the hillocks of green,
the tumbled stone fence enclosing it, the mountains beyond, and high on their slopes the scattering of grazing sheep. So innocent.
the tumbled stone fence enclosing it, the mountains beyond, and high on their slopes the scattering of grazing sheep. So innocent.
She slowed again, feeling a growing uncertainty. It was madness to come to meet this blackmailer. He was crazy indeed to expect her to deliver forty thousand pounds on a Tuesday morning. Did he think she kept money in her dresser drawer rather than in a Dublin bank? But no, he must know how in hours she could access it through her money market.
But ⦠And now she stopped. It was not the blackmailer's presumed madness but something else, some inner turbulence, a questioning, a fear, something frightening her because of what she had brought with her in her left-hand pocket, while the blackmail note was in her right-hand pocket.
She took a breath. She could see a figure standing under the oak tree by the cairn.
She crossed the field.
“
M
ushrooms!” Sheila said, “Winifred! We could get poisoned. You can't justâ”
M
ushrooms!” Sheila said, “Winifred! We could get poisoned. You can't justâ”
“Don't be silly. The illustrations are precise.
Mushroom Gathering,
by Dodson Barnaby. Cost me fourteen pounds.” Winifred turned pages. “Recipes in the back.”
Mushroom Gathering,
by Dodson Barnaby. Cost me fourteen pounds.” Winifred turned pages. “Recipes in the back.”
It was Tuesday morning, ten o'clock. They were in the tower room at Castle Moore, it was where Winifred wrote her poetry whenever she stayed at the castle. She used a quill pen for the occasional romantic poem and her state-of-the-art laptop for the others.
“But
Wini
fred! What about that Sacha Guitry film,
The Story of a Cheat?
The whole family of thirteen died after dinner from eating mushrooms they'd picked in the woods.”
Wini
fred! What about that Sacha Guitry film,
The Story of a Cheat?
The whole family of thirteen died after dinner from eating mushrooms they'd picked in the woods.”
“Yes, Sheila. The whole family, except the boy who'd been bad and was sent to bed without any dinner. That's a lesson to profit by, as he decided: be bad and stay alive to have a good and naughty time.”
“Winifred, really! Sometimes you make meâ”
“Sheila, do go down, it's too cold up here for you, you're turning blue. Besides, I want to work on a new villanelle about Irish women. I'm going to make it sound centuries old, the time of ladies weaving tapestries and the like. But I want
the reader to slowly realize, with a little frisson, that it's about Irishwomen in the year 2002.”
the reader to slowly realize, with a little frisson, that it's about Irishwomen in the year 2002.”
Sheila said, “Rosie is fixing lunch now. Ham sandwiches.” And at the door, “At least I know
they
won't kill me.”
they
won't kill me.”
Winifred, picking up the quill pen, said, “We can go after lunch and my yoga. We'll take the basket Rose uses for the kitchen garden. And the Barnaby.”
T
he sun was in Natalie's eyes, it flickered through the trees, so that she saw only the man's figure. She squinted and moved aside. Now she could see his face.
he sun was in Natalie's eyes, it flickered through the trees, so that she saw only the man's figure. She squinted and moved aside. Now she could see his face.
Pale eyes were looking back at her from a flat-cheeked face. It was a sensual face with a jutting mouth that right now bore a triumphant smile. His hair, faintly receding, was brown and looked dyed. He could be in his midforties. He looked fit, as though he worked out. He wore corduroys and an expensive-looking, diamond-patterned sweater. A brimmed suede hat lay on the cairn beside him; it had left a faint red mark on his forehead. “Well, now.” He surveyed her. “Finally! Wasted my time. You should've known better.”
Not an Irishman. American accent? Australian? A cultivated accent. She stared at him. He wasn't quite the Cro-Magnon man, the brute she had visualized.
“Well? Come on! The money! I haven't time to dither around.”
She was too enraged to speak. Her heart was beating hard. When her voice came out, it was hoarse and almost strangled in her throat. “Who are you? I don't know what your letters mean! And those trinkets! Iâ”
The man's eyes went narrow. He took a step toward her.
There under the trees, she hated his closeness. “YouâWhere's the money?”
There under the trees, she hated his closeness. “YouâWhere's the money?”
“I don't understand any of it! You've made some kind of mistake. I haven't any past! I haven't any secrets for you to blackmail me about! I came to tell youâ”
“The
money
,” the man said. His voice was incredulous. “The forty thousand pounds!
You didn't bring the money?
”
money
,” the man said. His voice was incredulous. “The forty thousand pounds!
You didn't bring the money?
”
“No, it's all wrong!” She was shaking. In the right-hand pocket of her jacket, her fist closed spasmodically on his third note. “I don't know, for instance, what you mean by Cloverleaf.”
“Liar,” the man said softly. “If you know anything you know Cloverleaf. The last thing you'd have wanted to know.”
She was in a nightmare. Was she really under the trees by the cairn at this corner of the Sylvester Hall lands? A nightmare, but here she was, sun filtering through the trees. The worst of the nightmare was that it bore some dreadful kind of reality just outside her reach.
“You ⦔ The man's face was furious. He reached out and gripped her arm. “Youâ”
“No!” She wrenched her arm free. “No!
You!
Invading Sylvester Hall! Sneaking in and creeping up the stairs and stealing my father's, myâ” For now
she
was the furious one, frightened but furious, and she dug her hand into her left-hand pocket and pulled out her father's ivory penknife. Her hand shook as she held it out for him to see. “You stole it! My father's, myâ”
You!
Invading Sylvester Hall! Sneaking in and creeping up the stairs and stealing my father's, myâ” For now
she
was the furious one, frightened but furious, and she dug her hand into her left-hand pocket and pulled out her father's ivory penknife. Her hand shook as she held it out for him to see. “You stole it! My father's, myâ”
The man stared at her holding the penknife. He said roughly, “Are you crazy?” He reached out and snatched the penknife from her hand. He was looking at her so strangely that her confusing, bewildering fear made her tremble. Then the man shook his head as though to clear it. He stepped away.
A breeze had sprung up, leaves scattered down from the
trees, turning in the sunlight. What now, Natalie thought, what now? But she was immediately to know, for the extortionist stepped close to her, his flat-cheeked face fierce in its anger. “You lying bitch! Enough of your games! I want forty thousand pounds
now!
Orâ” He raised the penknife in a menacing gesture. “Or I will cut your life to pieces! They will know about Dakin. And what you are.” His narrow, pale eyes glared at her. “You have an hour.” He stepped away. “I haven't much time. A bank check will have to do. After I cash it, I will send you the Cloverleaf.” He gave a short laugh. “You'll have to trust me.”
trees, turning in the sunlight. What now, Natalie thought, what now? But she was immediately to know, for the extortionist stepped close to her, his flat-cheeked face fierce in its anger. “You lying bitch! Enough of your games! I want forty thousand pounds
now!
Orâ” He raised the penknife in a menacing gesture. “Or I will cut your life to pieces! They will know about Dakin. And what you are.” His narrow, pale eyes glared at her. “You have an hour.” He stepped away. “I haven't much time. A bank check will have to do. After I cash it, I will send you the Cloverleaf.” He gave a short laugh. “You'll have to trust me.”
Â
From the cluster of trees, he watched her flee, blundering and tripping across the field. Liar that she was! He hadn't even had a chance to lay out the brutal facts, to spit out what he knew. He frowned, thinking of what she'd said about him stealing the penknife from Sylvester Hall. Because of course he hadn't stolen it. She knew that very well! Was she deviously clever? Apparently. For all the good it would do her!
Damn her! The money. He looked at his watch. An hour. After that, if she didn't come, he would show no mercy.
He picked up his suede hat, slapped it against his leg, and leaned back against the oak.
A
t Glasshill Hospital, Inspector O'Hare looked bitterly down at the unconscious man in the high, white bed. A bulky bandage slanted across his temple and was wound around his head; his face bore blue bruises; his eyes were closed, the lids a faint lavender. His lips were so pale they looked bloodless. Unconscious, blast it! Informative as a piece of wood. What a cock-up!
t Glasshill Hospital, Inspector O'Hare looked bitterly down at the unconscious man in the high, white bed. A bulky bandage slanted across his temple and was wound around his head; his face bore blue bruises; his eyes were closed, the lids a faint lavender. His lips were so pale they looked bloodless. Unconscious, blast it! Informative as a piece of wood. What a cock-up!
“I'm sorry, Inspector,” Head Nurse Huddleson, a buxom woman in her fifties, said apologetically at his elbow. “Mr. Brannigan became conscious. And the way he was talking, agitated, garbled, and so frightening, what with every other word being âkill.' So when I called and spoke to your Sergeant Bryson on the phoneâ”
“Yes, I see.” O'Hare wanted to lean down and shake the unconscious man awake. The trip from Ballynagh to Glasshill, thirty miles away, had been a time waster. The Tuesday traffic, ordinarily light, had been stalled because of an accident. If he'd used the police car instead of his Honda, he could've sirened his way through, blast it! Sergeant Bryson was still too much a novice to be sent to interview the injured man. So he'd had no choice.
“I only
thought,”
Nurse Huddleson began, but stopped short at a moan from the bandaged man. Brannigan's eyes
were closed, but the lids were twitching. Two deep lines formed between his brows. He jerked his head from side to side, his lips moved and he began to mutter.
thought,”
Nurse Huddleson began, but stopped short at a moan from the bandaged man. Brannigan's eyes
were closed, but the lids were twitching. Two deep lines formed between his brows. He jerked his head from side to side, his lips moved and he began to mutter.
“There, you see!” Nurse Huddleson was triumphant.
O'Hare slipped his notebook from his pocket and found his pen. The mutter was turning into words, at first indistinguishable, then clearly, “The old woman lied to me! Trapped, penniless ⦠There were keys in a green marble ashtray on the dashboard. âYou push the button to make it open.'”
Brannigan moved his head more violently from side to side. Suddenly he cried out, arched his back, and raised up, throwing his head back.
“It was a thunderclap!”
A heave, and he was half out of the bed, arms flailing, eyes open and staring.
“It was a thunderclap!”
A heave, and he was half out of the bed, arms flailing, eyes open and staring.
“Aldrich!”
Nurse Huddleson grasped at the flailing arms,
“Nurse Aldrich! Dr. Conners!”
O'Hare lunged forward and heaved Brannigan's body back onto the bed, and heard behind him a “Christ!” and swift footsteps; a white-coated arm reached past, held up a hypodermic, and plunged it into Tom Brannigan's upper arm. Brannigan's arched body collapsed, his staring eyes closed. He breathed evenly.
Nurse Huddleson grasped at the flailing arms,
“Nurse Aldrich! Dr. Conners!”
O'Hare lunged forward and heaved Brannigan's body back onto the bed, and heard behind him a “Christ!” and swift footsteps; a white-coated arm reached past, held up a hypodermic, and plunged it into Tom Brannigan's upper arm. Brannigan's arched body collapsed, his staring eyes closed. He breathed evenly.
“Well, now.” O'Hare straightened his police jacket and picked up his notebook from the floor.
Dr Conners, a young man with tired eyes, accompanied him out through the main hall. “It'll be at least a week, maybe longer,” Conners said, “before we'll see the light of day. Mr. Brannigan sustained a blow of considerable force. A heavy stick, was it, Inspector?”
“So we believe. But nothing found. As yet.”
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