Murder in an Irish Cottage

by Carlene O'Connor

  All heads snapped to the road. The woman with the colorful staff shuddered. “Never heard anything so grief-stricken in my life. The scream of a banshee.” A banshee, Siobhán knew, was a harbinger of death, often depicted as an old hag shrouded in a dark cloak. Were these supposed events what had Macdara’s cousin so spooked? “It’s that cottage, don’t you know,” the woman continued. This time she jabbed her staff in the opposite direction. “Built in the middle of a fairy path.”

  “Whose cottage?” Macdara asked. “The Delaneys’?”

  “How did you know?” Nana pounded her staff into the ground and leaned on it like it was a third limb.

  “Ellen Delaney is me aunt,” Macdara answered.

  “Is she now?” the woman said. “I’m Geraldine Madigan, this is my daughter-in-law, Mary, and the wee one is William.”

  Siobhán smiled at the boy, who peeked out at the mention of his name, his big blue eyes twinkling.

  “Have you seen them today?” Macdara asked.

  Several glances were exchanged. The councilman stepped up. “I’m Aiden Cunningham. Welcome to Ballysiogdun. I’m sorry you’ve caught us in the middle of such high drama.” He laughed as if it was nothing, then looked around, his face turning grim when no one else joined in. He gestured to the distance. “The cottage is just over the hill.” He pointed again. “Down a ways until you see the gate; it’s through it, then to the left.” He glanced at their feet. “You have your Wellies. Well done.”

  Siobhán pointed at the hawthorn tree. “Is there a fairy ring there?”

  “Indeed,” Geraldine Madigan said. “And on the other side of the cottage you’ll find nearly the same, a fairy tree and a fairy ring. The cottage is in the middle.” She moved in on Siobhán. “That’s why it needs to come down, so.”

  Aiden Cunningham approached. “Let’s not burden our guests with this conversation.” It was clear he didn’t want them around. Why was that? Perhaps he didn’t want them spreading rumors that many of the folks of Ballysiogdun believed in fairies.

  “I wouldn’t stay long,” Geraldine said. “Either of you.”

  Siobhán turned to Geraldine. “Earlier someone mentioned someone dying.”

  Geraldine nodded. “Five past inhabitants of the cottage have met with untimely deaths,” she said. “It’s proof the Good People aren’t happy about the structure.”

  “Five?” Siobhán said. That sounded grim. “Over what period of time?”

  “We should go,” Macdara said. He tugged gently on Siobhán’s sleeve, and they started on their way.

  “The first man took his own life. Hung himself in the cottage.”

  Siobhán stopped and turned back. “Sadly, that happens.” She was a firm believer that they all needed to do whatever they could to bring the rates down. Relentless rain and too much alcohol or drugs never helped a person out of a black mood.

  “The second man was killed in a motor accident just two weeks after he moved in.”

  “Another common tragedy.” Siobhán didn’t want to dwell on this one as her own parents had been killed in an automobile accident several years ago.

  “The third died in his chair by the fire. The official word was he died from smoke inhalation.”

  “Smoke from the fireplace?”

  “It seems so.” Siobhán turned to Macdara to see if he was as riveted as she was. Instead, he shook his head. “The fourth was stabbed while traveling in Wales one month after moving in.”

  “And the fifth?” Siobhán had to hear it out now.

  “The fifth dropped dead in the doorway. Heart attack it was.” Geraldine leaned in. “Something put the heart in her crossways.”

  “Over what period of time?” Siobhán repeated.

  “Over the span of two decades, but that’s not the point.” Geraldine stepped forward. “Every single person who has rented it up until now has died. Would you want to live in it?”

  Geraldine’s words were biting. Siobhán had to remind herself that she had stepped into an ongoing drama that had nothing to do with her personally. “No. I surely wouldn’t.”

  “Last night was the last straw,” Geraldine continued. “They have to listen to reason now.”

  “They?” Macdara said. When no one answered, he filled it in for himself. “My aunt and cousin, you mean.”

  Professor Kelly stepped forward. “The people of this village are suffering.” He edged in closer and lowered his voice. “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” he said to Siobhán. “It’s what they believe.” His eyes flicked toward the hill. “And that scream last night. I must admit, it was like someone walked over me grave.”

  “What about the strange lights?” Siobhán asked.

  “Siobhán,” Macdara said, now pleading with her.

  “I didn’t see the lights,” he said. “It was the scream that woke me up. Maybe by the time I put my coat on and hurried outside the strange lights had disappeared.”

  Or maybe they were never there at all.

  “And until the deed is done those women should see fit to open the front and back doors of the cottage,” another added.

  A common belief was that if you couldn’t remove a building that was in the middle of a fairy path, you should open the front and back doors allowing the fairies to pass freely through the structures. Fairies, it was said, lived alongside humans, when they weren’t underground, and they simply asked that the humans stay out of their way. Back in the day you had to be careful where you emptied your pails of milk, lest you throw it out and drench a passing fairy. She turned to Macdara. “Is this why she called you?”

  His face seemed to reflect the same concerns. “If it isn’t, I’d hate to see what else is going on.”

  * * *

  As they trudged across the soft meadow, feeling the eyes of the villagers on their backs, Siobhán was grateful for her Wellies. It was hard to traverse the meadow and balance the sack, but she had no intention of dropping her brown bread. Macdara offered to carry it, but she trusted his sense of balance even less and waved him off with a look that made him laugh. The farther in they walked the softer the ground became, rendering the trusty boots a must-have. Once they were over the hill, the rusty gate as described by the councilman came into view.

  It was swaying despite the lack of a breeze, and Siobhán could hear a gentle squeak. Green paint flaked from the gate, and when it yawned open it revealed a narrow dirt path clogged with brambles and briars. Dark clouds swirled in, and the threat of rain hung heavy. Siobhán had a foreboding feeling. The calm before the storm. Her fingertips tingled. Fairies.

  They stopped just before entering the path, as if once they stepped through, there would be no return. “Have you ever seen a fairy?” she asked Macdara.

  “This again?”

  “Never hurts to ask twice.”

  “I beg to differ. You’re giving me a pain.” He paused. “Have you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s sorted then.”

  “My grandfather had some good stories though.”

  “The one who taught you to whittle?” Macdara took the first steps onto the path beyond the gate, and Siobhán followed.

  “The very same.” He’d taught her his hobby because he thought it would help calm her fiery temper. There was something about the never-ending rugged land that made her want to sit down and whittle the days away.

  “I grew up with tales of Cucúlin, and Druids,” Macdara said, as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the branches intertwined above. Tales of Druids and kings. Siobhán smiled, imagining a wee Dara transfixed by it all. “That’s as mystical as I get.”

  Out here Siobhán could almost feel the thin veil that was supposed to separate the human world from the fairy world, and she could not help but wonder, what if? Her grandfather had regaled her with tales of the Tuatha Dé Danann. A supernatural race in Irish mythology, they dwelled in the Otherworld but interacted with humans. The Tuatha Dé eventually became the Aos sí, more commonly referred to as fair
ies. Siobhán used to lose herself for hours in those captivating tales. She edged closer to Macdara, chiding herself for the twinges of fear. Her brother Eoin would love it here—so much material for his graphic novels.

  The path came to an end, opening up on a stone cottage in the valley to the left and a weathered farmhouse over the hill to the right. They were the only two structures as far as the eye could see.

  “The branches get thick through here,” Macdara said. “Watch out for nettles.”

  Siobhán was well aware of the awful sting of nettles and was always on the lookout for the pointy green herb. “We could make a soup.” Two minutes in boiling water and a handful of other ingredients could transform biting nettles into a nice healing tea or soup. The juice could even be used to cure the sting of a nettle, although it was handier to find a dock plant. Siobhán was starting to feel itchy and hungry in equal measure. She had brown bread in her pack for Jane and Ellen, and lamented that it would be rude to take a bite out of her offerings.

  The ground was uneven, challenging to traverse. “I’m starting to see why Geraldine was carrying a big stick,” Siobhán said.

  “Too bad she wasn’t speaking softly,” Macdara quipped.

  Straight ahead, behind a bush, she caught a flash of red. She squinted. It was a man, crouched down and peering out from behind the leaves. It was his shirt that caught her eye, a bright red flannel. Probably a farmer. Did he live in the house in the distance? If he was going for stealth he should have reconsidered his wardrobe. Seconds later his head popped out, giving her a glimpse of a black hat pulled low, covering his entire brow. He lifted something up to his eyes. Binoculars. Trained on them. A nosy farmer to boot. She waved at him. He dropped the binoculars, then crouched over and ran toward the farmhouse in the distance.

  “How odd,” Siobhán said.

  “What?” Macdara stopped to kick a rock out of his way.

  “There was a farmer hiding behind a tree. Peeping at us through binoculars.”

  Macdara’s head popped up, and he followed Siobhán’s fingers, but the farmer had disappeared. Beyond the tree, just ahead of them and to the left, a slip of a woman was tapping a cane left and right, making her way toward them. She wore a flowered summer dress, and large sunglasses covered most of her face. Macdara hadn’t mentioned that his cousin was blind. She stopped and lifted her head. She had Macdara’s messy brown hair, only hers was longer and falling over her shoulders. “Dara?” Her voice wobbled. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me, luv. How did you know?”

  She attempted a smile, but her lips shook as if it was an impossible task. “You wear the same cologne.”

  “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it,” Siobhán blurted out. She loved Macdara’s cologne. Intoxicating.

  “You must be Siobhán.”

  “Yes, hello, so lovely to meet you.”

  “There’s no time for introductions,” Jane said, her voice wobbling. “Something horrible has happened.” She swung her cane until the tip pointed at the cottage.

  Their heads swiveled to the stone building with flaking white paint. Moss crawled up the sides, and the red front door yawned open. A large window to the left of the door was shattered. A suitcase lay discarded next to the door. Colorful flowers spilled onto the front yard and manicured paths could be seen on either side leading to a back garden.

  “Were you robbed?” Macdara’s voice was in protector mode, a tone Siobhán knew well.

  Jane was already shaking her head. “Mam,” she said, pointing at the cottage. “I can’t.” She hung her head. “Mam is in there. She’s . . . dead.”

  Siobhán nearly dropped her sack with the platter of brown bread. She didn’t quite know what emergency she was expecting. Illness. Money trouble. Family arguments. Then when entering the town, she assumed the uproar was about the cottage. Why hadn’t Jane told Macdara straightaway that her mother had passed? She glanced again at the broken windows. Had someone broken in? Had the guards been called? This wasn’t her cousin, so she squeezed the platter of brown bread as tightly as she could as if that might keep her piehole from moving.

  Macdara moved in and gently laid his hands on Jane’s elbows. “Tell us everything.”

  “I was in Dublin all weekend for an herbal conference. I returned to find the door open, the window smashed, and Mam . . .” She broke down again. “She’s lying on the bed. I couldn’t feel a pulse or a breath. So cold. So still.” Jane shook her head as if trying to rid herself of her thoughts. “I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand.”

  “Did you call the guards?”

  “Yes. I called nine-nine-nine. Then I called you. I’ve been waiting.” In the smaller villages emergency services could be spotty, but this was taking it a bit too far. Siobhán wondered if the felled tree had rerouted them. “I told them she had passed, but I didn’t mention the open door or busted window. Perhaps my mother’s death isn’t an emergency to them.”

  “Stay here,” Macdara added. Jane nodded.

  Macdara gave a nod to Siobhán. “Stay behind me. Understand?”

  This was no time to quibble. She nodded back. “There’s a platter of brown bread here,” Siobhán said, setting it down next to the rock where Jane stood. “You probably need to force a little something into you, but believe me, you don’t want to faint.”

  “Hurry,” Jane said.

  Macdara approached the open door sideways, and Siobhán took up formation behind him. “Garda Flannery,” Macdara shouted into the cottage in a booming voice. “If someone is in there, get on the ground and put your hands on top of your head.” It was highly unlikely someone was hiding inside, but given the obvious disturbance it was smart protocol.

  They waited. Not a sound from the old stone cottage. “We should have booties and gloves,” Siobhán said.

  “I know,” Macdara said. “They’ll have to take our footwear impressions if it turns out to be a crime scene. Don’t touch a thing.” She nodded. Macdara took a step inside. The old floorboards creaked. Once, then twice. To their right was a plain but tidy kitchen, wiped clean of everything but a kettle on the cooker and a stack of papers on the counter. To the left a sagging green sofa and watermarked coffee table were arranged near a wood-burning stove. An oval wool rug lay over the cement floor. Nothing was out of place except for the open door and shards of glass beneath the busted window. There was a slight layer of dust and dirt on the floors, but given the location of the cottage, and the age of the home, it was probably rare that the floors were pristine.

  Macdara pointed to the narrow hall leading to the bedrooms and put his finger up to his mouth. A few steps in, a door to a bedroom on the left was flung open. A cross dominated the space on the wall above the bed. Lying beneath it was an older woman. She could have been sleeping except she was situated on top of the covers. The most startling bit was her outfit. She was wearing a fancy red dress, red heels, a white hat, and gloves. Her hands rested on top of her stomach, the right resting atop the left. The image of a woman dying peacefully in her sleep ended there. Her eyes were open and scarred by broken blood vessels. A white feather clung to her cheek, and an inordinate amount of foam pooled at the corner of her bruised mouth. The poor woman was indeed dead, but her passing had been anything but peaceful.

  Chapter 4

  “Is it your auntie?” Siobhán asked quietly as they stared at the body. She instinctively crossed herself.

  “’Tis.” Dara hung his head for a moment. He placed his fingers on the lifeless woman’s wrist, then neck. It was obvious she was dead, but Siobhán knew he had to check.

  Siobhán maneuvered to the other side of the bed. There on the floor was a pillow and an overturned teacup. She motioned for Macdara to join her. They stared down at the items. Neither the foam at her mouth, nor the bruising, was normal for natural death. “Poisoned?” Siobhán’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “And then smothered,” Macdara replied, glancing at the feather clinging to his aunt’s cheek. “
The poison must not have worked; it simply subdued her.”

  The killer had finished the job with the pillow. “Why didn’t the killer take the teacup? Or return the pillow to the bed?”

  Macdara took a moment to mull over her question. “Perhaps the killer thought no one would bother to investigate thoroughly.”

  “Or they were interrupted and had to flee.” Siobhán supposed that in this village anything was possible, even the improbable. She noted the one window in the room looked directly onto the bed. Pale curtains stretched open. She pointed. “Wouldn’t she have closed them?”

  Macdara turned his back on the body and studied the window. “I dunno. Isn’t that the point of living out in the middle of nowhere? There’s not supposed to be anyone peeking in windows. Let alone . . .” He dropped the thought.

  Was he browned off with her? She’d gone straight into investigative mode, had forgotten that this was his auntie. “I’m so sorry.” It was a strange feeling having to comfort him at a crime scene. “Do you think one of the townspeople did this because of . . . the Little People?”

  “I have no idea what to think.”

  Of course he didn’t, but posing the question was a standard back-and-forth for guards. He was too close to the victim to participate. She reached him and laid her hand on his arm. He moved away. “Why don’t you wait outside?” she said.

  “We both need to wait outside.” He turned to her. “How am I going to tell my mam?”

  His mam. Someone else she’d forgotten. It was necessary when investigating not to allow your emotions to interfere. But this wouldn’t be their case. He needed his fiancée right now, not a guard. “I’m so sorry, Dara.”

  He removed his mobile phone, held it up, and snapped pictures of the scene. This would probably be their only chance. Siobhán grabbed her mobile and did the same. Just like the front room, the bedroom was neat. There was a standing wardrobe in the corner and the door was thrown open. A suitcase was visible on the bottom shelf. They would have to exit and call the guards, but they’d already intruded, so they might as well take as many photos as they could. As Siobhán headed near the door, she glanced back and spotted something glittering from under the bed. “Dara,” she said. “Look.”