Death in the Burren (2 page)

Ann, a doctor practising in Dublin, had been too busy to accompany him, but was hoping to drive down to Derreen later.

“Tell me what happened at Black Head today,” said Holland as they sipped Gaelic Coffees.

McAllister gave a graphic account of his brush with death and the strange, even suspicious, reaction of the French couple.

Susan was very concerned at the thought of what might have been, but Frank was pensive.

“You know,” he said eventually, “the obvious explanation for their behaviour is that they assumed they were totally at fault and panicked. But it doesn’t quite add up. The natural thing to do would be to apologise. O.K., they were obviously not the apologising type, but not to have checked the state of their car before speeding off, that was very risky. They were prepared to ignore their own safety just to get away from you. That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Yes, and the sight of the driver in a frenzy trying to restart the car is something I will never forget,” said McAllister, “ however I will report to the Gardaí in the morning. I don’t want the bother now.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Holland suggested going for a short drive along the coast to the Orchid Hotel for a night-cap.

“It’s just south of Poll na Doibe. A retired Aer Lingus pilot, Michael Balfe, built it three years ago. It’s in a beautiful location just up the hill beyond the slipway and he seems to be very popular with continental visitors. Michael’s always busy. He arranges package deals with travel agencies in France and Italy and goes to the Continent at least twice a year to keep the business healthy. Very enterprising.”

“Perhaps my French desperadoes stayed with him.” suggested McAllister. “Yes that’s roughly what I had in mind.” agreed Holland. “Michael might confirm if they stayed at the Orchid.”

The journey to the hotel was just a mile, south , along the coast road. McAllister took a leisurely pace and admired the afterglow of the sunset on the ocean horizon. The slumbering Aran Islands quietly dominated the scene and he wondered if his dolphins slept like that too.

At Poll na Doibe the water approached to within a few feet of the roadway and he marvelled at the peaceful atmosphere which thinly concealed the timeless tension between ocean and rock.

With a fleeting sense of dejavu McAllister found himself distracted by a shape out to sea, something dark off the headland which bounded the shallow bay to the south.

He pointed it out.

“That’s Cloch an Oilc,” said Holland, “ a sharp rock only visible at low water. I imagine it could be a hazard to small fishing boats, but the locals know it well, of course.”

“I’ve never noticed it before.” Remarked McAllister.

“You’ve probably only passed here at high water. It does look rather sinister at dusk, though…….like a spider waiting for it’s prey.”

Susan shivered involuntarily.

Holland laughed and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

The road turned gently inland beyond Poll na Doibe and Holland directed McAllister up a sharply rising sideroad to the left. At the top of the short incline, on a corner, just before the road looped erratically further inland, nestled the Orchid Hotel. A low structure, it was particularly well blended with the landscape of tiny green fields with their boundaries of low loose stone walls. A short curving driveway led to the west facing entrance and McAllister admired the spacious entrance hall, which again subtly echoed the predominant colours of the Burren.

It was a sharp transition from the quietness of their short journey to the buzz of activity inside, and McAllister was struck by the number of continental visitors.

The contrast was all the more noticeable because of the enthusiasm with which they conversed and he enjoyed the arresting blend of French and Italian.

McAllister had noticed the tour buses and the sprinkling of left hand drive cars among those parked outside but he had not been prepared for the vibrant energy inside the hotel. It was quite stimulating.

They made their way to the lounge which, for the moment, was almost empty, and were soon joined by Balfe, who had noticed their arrival.

Michael Balfe was sixtyish, medium height, pleasantly rotund with a matching round face. Balding but with generous grey locks swept back at the sides, he exuded vitality, and was the possessor of a most disarming smile.

He greeted them warmly. Holland introduced McAllister.

“You must be the botanist fellow that Andy O’Lochlen mentioned.” Balfe said, “Are you giving the lectures at Gregans Castle next week?”

McAllister nodded.

“O’Lochlen is one of our most successful local fishermen even though he operates on a small scale. He keeps me well supplied with lobster and crab among other things and he seems to be looking forward to your visit and the lectures. Did you have a good trip?”

McAllister again nodded and then remembered to mention his accident. He described the French couple and their car as best he could and asked Balfe if they had stayed at the Orchid the previous night.

He wrinkled his brow in thought. “I’ll check through the register. But it’s not a very detailed description and it might be difficult to identify them positively. That’s if they did stay here of course. I’ll see what I can do.”

Balfe then excused himself explaining that he had to make a telephone call. The trio chatted away over drinks while they waited for Balfe to return.

Shortly afterwards McAllister noticed two men entering by a door at the rear of the lounge, probably from another part of the hotel. Both were quite young. The taller of the two was in his early thirties and an Irish speaker as his lapel Fainne showed.

The other was a few years younger. Both were used to the outdoors judging by their complexions, and probably local.

They sat at the bar and McAllister could see that the younger of the two had been drinking for some time. He sat crouched with his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands.

Eventually looking blearily around the room he caught sight of McAllister ,Holland and Susan.

He slowly eased himself from his chair and staggered towards them as if hypnotised.

Stopping just short of their table he looked fixedly at the back of Holland’s head.

“And how is the bloody cameraman?” he shouted in a slurred voice, “as if you had bloody well nothing else to do, going around photographing every shagging thing you see. Why don’t you and that bitch of yours get to hell of here and leave us alone?”

His companion made to restrain him, but Holland was quicker.

In one swift movement he rose from his seat, turned and struck the man a sickening punch to the side of the head. The drunk crashed to the floor and lay inert. Holland stood over him, white-faced and shaking with anger.

Balfe appeared and, quickly and discreetly as possible, helped the taller man remove his companion from the room by the door through which they had entered.

“There was really no need for you to react like that, Frank,” said Susan, “that was completely over the top.”

“I swore before if that lout didn’t stop harassing me I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions.” Holland was almost hissing with anger.

Balfe returned and apologised profusely, saying that he was always trying to discourage the man from drinking at the Orchid.

He explained to McAllister that the taller of the two was in fact Andy O’Lochlen and the other, Des Hyland, was a partner in the fishing business.

“I have to steer a middle course as you will appreciate. I can’t ban him from the place.”

Fortunately, the lounge had remained almost empty during the incident so there was no major embarrassment to Balfe.

At this moment a tall lithe slender girl entered the lounge from the reception area. She was in her mid-thirties, athletic and very poised and graceful in her movements, but with the saddest, most melancholic face McAllister had ever seen. She drifted towards them with just a flicker of recognition for Susan and Frank.

Michael introduced her to McAllister as Eileen O’Leary and she nodded a greeting.

Her brief smile was not reflected in her soulless eyes, yet McAllister detected a great warmth of personality beneath the all pervading sense of depression.

Frank was later to explain to McAllister that Eileen had lost her husband in a drowning tragedy at Fanore, further up the coast, the previous year and had not yet begun to come to terms with it.

She was an accomplished sculptress and had been a professional flautist of distinction.

Michael had been very kind to her since the death and she spent her evenings in the hotel helping out in small ways.

During the day she sculpted and sold her work in a small shop beside her studio, which was just a mile to the south along the coast road.

Frank and Susan felt her friendship with Balfe might become closer when more time had elapsed.

Eileen was obviously unaware of the incident which had just taken place and they talked briefly before Susan suggested leaving, as she was feeling tired.

As they drove home in silence McAllister remembered that Balfe had not said anything more about the French tourists.

He decided not to try to make conversation but to allow jangled nerves to settle.

Susan made an effort but Holland was so morose that she let things be.

“So good old Frank hasn’t changed after all. Still as tense as ever underneath,” thought McAllister as he pulled in at the Atlantic car park.

“I
T WAS A BEAUTY OF A PUNCH
I must admit, despite my misgivings.” Susan chuckled as she sat briefly with McAllister at breakfast.

They were discussing the events of the previous night and her quirky sense of humour allowed her to see the bizarre encounter in the Orchid Hotel the previous night in a lighter perspective.

“Yes Frank surprised me even though I know him of old. He always had a reputation for quick reactions, but I thought at his age he might have been more restrained. He’s normally so laid back, even more so now since he met you.”

McAllister then asked her about Hyland.

“Oh he’s alright, a bit of a lout as Frank said. His brain power wouldn’t register at all on an IQ test. Hyland just seems to resent newcomers moving into the area, but I do agree his objection to Frank in his roving photographer role is a bit obsessive. For some reason best known to himself it seems to bug him and that’s what he was slobbering on about.”

“How is Frank this morning? I thought he might have been circulating at this hour especially with breakfast in full swing”

“He decided to lie on. Probably a bit embarrassed. So you may not see him before you go.”

McAllister looked at his watch. “Oops I’d better be off. I’ve got to see Mrs McBride at Gregans Castle at 10.30. She’s a stickler for time but she’s a brick. Patsy will have everything organised to a tee so I’ll only have to devote my mind to the lectures while she makes sure everything I need is at my fingertips. What a woman!”

“Oh by the way,” said Susan, “I nearly forgot to mention there’s a concert of Boccherini quintets in Ennis this evening. Would you like to come with us?”

“That’s unusual,” said McAllister. “OK, I’d like that.”

Half an hour later he cruised up the driveway of Gregans Castle Hotel. His journey had taken him south for a few miles, then inland above Lisdoonvarna, through Toomaghera and into the heart of the Burren. He eventually descended the aptly named Corkscrew Hill into the long fertile valley which made it’s way up from the coast at Ballyvaughan, and which was flanked by two long imposing hills of limestone. Cappanawalla guarded the valley’s descent to sea level on the left.

The hotel was situated snugly at the head of the valley among trees, and surrounded by rolling grasslands. From it’s entrance one could look north over Galway Bay, and beyond, into Connemara.

McAllister eased himself from the Sierra and stood looking down the valley towards the sea. He tried to appreciate the peace and beauty of what he saw but it eluded and yet overwhelmed him. He felt inadequate. He would need time to succumb and become a part of it. Total peace could not be easily achieved.

“There you are John. Bang on time. Great to see you.” A stentorian voice exploded behind McAllister and he quivered momentarily.

He turned to face the imposing figure of Patsy McBride. Fifty eight years of age, five feet ten inches tall ,broad shouldered, handsome features , tanned complexion with short cut brown hair showing just a few flecks of grey , she exuded health and stamina and yet was curiously feminine. Her smile was all consuming as she bore down on McAllister.

“Patsy. It’s you.” He said somewhat inadequately as he returned her smile.

“Of course it’s me. Come on coffee’s waiting.” She put an arm affectionately around McAllister’s shoulders and led him inside.

Gregans Castle was an exclusive country house hotel. One had a sense of slipping back in time in the comfortable interior. Thick carpets and generous curtaining absorbed all but the most penetrating sounds , and these were few. Just the odd clink of cutlery and glass as the unseen staff made advance preparations for lunch somewhere in the distance. They entered a large, comfortably furnished lounge which featured a welcoming log fire, despite the clement weather. A stairway curled away at one end and a venerable grandfather clock stood guard as it brooded in a corner. Orchid paintings graced the walls and the dancing flames were reflected in the brass furnishings around the open fireplace.

They sat and drank Java coffee.

“I have a room reserved for Sunday evening. I’ll show you that shortly. Stills and movie projectors will be set up and the hotel has a very good portable screen which I can borrow. The back up notes which you sent me have been duplicated and everyone attending the lectures and field trips will be provided with notebooks and maps. Also I have made arrangements to have a minibus available as needed for the field trips.”

“You’re a marvel Patsy.” laughed McAllister.

“That’s the least of my many qualities,” she boomed. “Now let me show you the list of names.