Murder at the Monks' Table (33 page)

“Don't you wish?” Mary Helen collapsed on the couch. As soon as she did, she knew it was a mistake. All her energy seemed to leak out, and she wondered if she could ever get up.

“I can't believe the week went so quickly.” Eileen sighed. “And tomorrow we leave for home.” She studied Mary Helen.

“What is it?”

“I was just wondering what we should say about the Oyster Festival when the nuns ask us?”

“That it was an experience we will never forget,” Mary Helen said. “And you must admit it was.”

“No mention of the murder?”

“What's the point? It would only upset them. And the truth is, we will never forget it.”

“Are you packed?” Eileen asked.

“Almost,” Mary Helen said.

“Do you think you'll be able to sleep?”

“I hope so. How about you?”

“Shall I make us some hot chocolate and maybe put in a drop of brandy? That ought to help.”

Eileen had just served their drinks when the telephone rang. “What now?” she said, picking up the receiver. “Oh, hello!”

Whoever it is,
Mary Helen thought,
she sounds happy to hear
from him or her.

“It's my niece,” she mouthed to Mary Helen. “Yes, love, we had a grand time. Thank you so much. I was going to call you in the morning. The Oyster Festival was an experience we'll never forget.” Eileen rolled her eyes at Mary Helen.

True enough,
Mary Helen thought, blowing on her hot chocolate.
And what's more, this Oyster Festival is one that no one
in the village, no, the whole county, is likely to ever forget.

 

 

The Final Blessing

 

T
rue to his word, Paul Glynn arrived at the mews at 10:30 sharp, in plenty of time to drive the nuns to the Shannon airport.

“Have we everything?” Paul asked, about to close the boot of his car. “Two suitcases, two carry-ons, and one wrapped package.”

“That's Jake Powers's wonderful photo of the Burren,” Mary Helen said.

“Maybe we should keep it in the car with us,” Eileen suggested. “We don't want anything to happen to it before we get it home for the other Sisters to enjoy.”

Mary Helen agreed.

“Fine,” Paul said, moving the package. “That's it, then?” he asked.

Eileen nodded, and Paul gave the boot a confident slam.

Sister Mary Helen stood on the cobblestone sidewalk, drinking in all she could of the picturesque village. The acrid sweet aroma of peat was in the air. A wafer of sun rose over the clouds, gilding the chestnut trees and the rooftops.

Save for a host of sparrows dropping onto the village square in search of worms, the place seemed deserted. The jamboree tent had been dismantled, and oddly, no cars were in the church car park or parked along the road. It was eerie.

Frowning, Mary Helen turned to Paul. “Where do you think everyone is?” she asked.

“Gone to the funeral at the cathedral in Galway City. This morning they are giving Willie Ward a grand send-off.”

Mary Helen was surprised. “I didn't know he was so popular,” she said.

“Oh, he's not.” Paul shook his head. “As the old saying goes, ‘There will be many a dry eye at his funeral.' I'd say most are there to make certain that he's dead and buried.”

“May he rest in peace,” Eileen said as the two nuns climbed into the backseat of the hackney.

“Amen,” Paul answered piously. “And did you hear about poor Patsy Lynch?”

Fortunately, he did not wait for an answer. “They say that she was the one who killed him.”

Without so much as a backward glance, Paul turned on the ignition, put the car in reverse, and pointed it toward Shannon.

“Nobody is saying why, but someone told my missus at the post office this morning that Patsy had her reasons. I'd have put my money on Jake Powers, but Patsy, never.” Paul was quiet for a moment. “You never know. As my old mam used to say, ‘There's so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it little behooves any of us to talk about the rest of us.' “

“Isn't that the truth,” Eileen said.

As the hackney started down the road, Sister Mary Helen felt a sudden sadness. She wondered what would happen to those she had met on her short visit to this lovely village.

Fat raindrops, like so many tears, bounced off the roof. Turning, she gazed out the rearview window, watching the Monks' Table grow smaller.

The familiar words of the old Irish blessing tumbled through her mind. “Until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of His hand. May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.”