Murder in an Irish Cottage

by Carlene O'Connor

  “Closer to the publication date, I’m afraid.” He didn’t seem afraid. He seemed quite proud of himself.

  “And when is that?”

  “Eager for it, are you?” He grinned.

  “I’d like to see that photo now.”

  “I’m going to have it authenticated first.”

  “You should at least show it to the guards.” If he was telling the truth. If Dylan Kelly was the killer, his motive was practically written in swooping letters over his big head: “best seller.” He was hyping his book, using the tragedy to wind people up. Shameful. “Who is your publisher?”

  “Why?”

  “I looked you up. I didn’t see any mention of the book.”

  He stood straighter. “They’re a small press.”

  “They still have a name, don’t they?”

  “You seem unaware of the dangers of sharing too much information,” he lectured. “It puts my idea at risk.”

  “I think a murder investigation trumps protecting your ideas, don’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Believe me, there’s no clue to a murder in the photo.”

  “You don’t know that. If the photo shows a figure— hours before a murder occurred—it could either be our victim, or her killer.”

  “No, no, it’s not human, it’s ethereal.”

  “So, you say. Why don’t you hold it up for me to have a little peek? I won’t even touch it.” She eyed his pockets again.

  “I’m sure skeptics will try and rip it apart, but this is the proof that’s going to rocket the book to fame.”

  “That’s a high bar.”

  “I was called here. Destiny, Garda, it’s destiny that I happened to be there researching fairies when the terrible event occurred.”

  “A human being killed Ellen Delaney, Professor, and you’re one of the few people in the village who can help spread that truth instead of riling them up with these stories.”

  “I believe now.”

  “You only believe in selling your book.”

  “You must watch your step.”

  She could not believe a professor was speaking like this, but he had best-selling book on the brain and he was sticking to his part like glue. “Has anyone had an early read?”

  “Of course not.” He tilted his head away from her and looked at her sideways as if he was a parrot instead of a man.

  “Are you sure?” With his ego, he’d definitely shown someone, or several someone’s early drafts of his book.

  “I’m quite sure.”

  She wasn’t. He was lying about it, that’s what she was sure of. The question was . . . why?

  The professor pushed his glasses up yet again, making Siobhán want to tape them to his head. “I see that you’re determined,” he said. “So if I mention something to you, something that is most likely quite innocent, I trust you’d treat it with the discretion it requires?”

  “You have my word.”

  He sighed. “The last time I remember seeing Ellen Delaney was after a council meeting.” He paused. “She was in a heated argument. I couldn’t make out the words, but she was quite irate, reading someone the riot act as it were.”

  Siobhán stepped closer. “Reading who the riot act?”

  The professor lifted his head. “The councilman. The subject of Ellen Delaney’s rage was Aiden Cunningham.”

  Chapter 17

  The bells of Saint Mary’s cathedral rang into the air and the large crowd gathered on the steps awaiting a special mass dedicated to Ellen Delaney. After, everyone would be welcome to take a walking tour of Kilbane, including a chance to walk around the town square and the abbey, then lunch would be served at Naomi’s, and finally they would end the evening at O’Rourke’s Pub, where they would hold a wake for the mother, sister, aunt, and neighbor they’d lost.

  Siobhán had to give the people of Ballysiogdun credit; they all showed up to pay their respects, and so far everyone was on their best behavior. Siobhán couldn’t help but wonder if part of it was fueled by guilt for not treating Ellen well when she was alive, and the other part driven by an insatiable need to stay close to the case. There was safety in numbers, and one amongst them was a killer. Sergeant Eegan and Garda Danny MacGregor were in attendance as well, and folks knew that suspicion might be drawn to anyone who did not show up. Everyone was watching everyone else, bringing a sharp edge of paranoia into the gathering. It was so palpable, Siobhán could feel it, the way some could feel rain in their bones.

  Father Kearney gave a lovely mass, and a few even shed tears as they exited. Siobhán noticed several taking in the cathedral and she felt a swell of pride. Built in 1879, it boasted ten gorgeous stained-glass windows, three of which were modeled on the windows of their abbey, bright colors intersecting into a five-light arch.

  Joe and Mary Madigan were accompanied by Geraldine and the children. Annabel the art teacher, as Siobhán had dubbed her, was flitting between groups of people like a social butterfly. Aiden Cunningham (despite proclaiming a busy schedule) was one of the first to arrive. And Professor Kelly, who really had no excuse given his recent talk at nearby Lough Gur, seemed the most uncomfortable with the crowd. Siobhán got the feeling that unless the subject revolved around his book, he was not a people person. The most surprising attendee of all was Eddie Doolan. He had put on a suit, which while slightly too big, looked clean and pressed, and he smelled, thankfully, recently washed. He was even carrying a small bouquet of daisies, which he presented to Jane at his first opportunity. Gone was the theatrical storyteller; Eddie looked like a young lad asking a girl on a date for the first time. He even seemed to be humming a little tune to himself as he thrust the bouquet at her.

  Jane brought them up to her nose and grimaced. The minute Eddie shuffled away, a shy grin on his face, she tossed them to the ground. Siobhán picked them up and handed them to Ann, who agreed to put them in water back at the bistro.

  The crowd gathered at the underpass to King John’s Castle, where, to Siobhán’s delight, her brood seemed willing to give the villagers the oral history of the magnificent four-story tower. Over time it had been an arsenal, a hospital, a depot, and even a blacksmith. Now it was a local treasure. Although the interior of the structure was no longer open to the public, folks liked to traverse the underpass, where voices would echo beneath the damp stones.

  It was there that Siobhán caught two male voices speaking in hushed tones. Professor Kelly and Aiden Cunningham were in the shadows, heads bowed together. Suddenly, the mumbled conversation came to an end with the last sentence ringing out as clear as a bell.

  “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours!” Aiden Cunningham finished his proclamation and then strode away. Professor Kelly whirled around and took off in the other direction. Siobhán looked around but everyone else was making their way to the abbey. She had no other witnesses to the odd exchange. Scratching each other’s back. In what way exactly?

  She hurried after Aiden Cunningham, intending to find out.

  * * *

  The councilman was keeping a brisk pace, heading down Sarsfield Street, away from the church and in the opposite direction of the abbey, where the rest were making their way. Siobhán hung back, keeping close to the shops, but if he was aware he was being followed, he gave no signs.

  He stopped at the corner where there was a rubbish bin. Siobhán squeezed against Liam’s Hardware shop as Aiden removed a piece of paper from the pocket of his suit and dropped it into the rubbish bin. Great. Digging through garbage, a delightful part of her job. She prayed the bin wasn’t too full.

  He hurried along, crossing before the light, causing the car turning to beep and swear at him. He reached the other side, then his hand dove into his suit pocket again, only this time he produced a pack of cigarettes. He began to smoke, staring at the rubbish bin, as if he knew Siobhán was waiting to dive in.

  Siobhán moved toward it. Given she was now on the same side of the street as the bin, even if he spotted her, she would reach it
first. She didn’t have her gloves on her, so she popped into Liam’s Hardware to buy a box of disposables. She opened the box, stuffed several in her handbag, and left the rest with a puzzled Liam, telling him she’d be back for them. She then hurried to the rubbish bin. Aiden Cunningham was no longer staking it out; he’d moved on down the street.

  Siobhán put on a pair of the gloves, then dove into the bin, which now she wished was full because she practically had to bend into it to retrieve the paper. What she brought out seemed to be a boilerplate agreement. It was between Ellen Delaney and Geraldine Madigan. Notarized and witnessed by Aiden Cunningham. She scanned it. Just as she suspected, Geraldine was the woman behind the bet that Friday evening. If Ellen Delaney spent the entire night, Geraldine agreed she would drop all efforts to have the cottage bulldozed. Likewise, Ellen agreed to move out if she was unsuccessful at spending the entire night.

  Siobhán shook the letter off, then folded it and placed it in her handbag. Why was he hiding this? She wasn’t even sure it would hold up legally, and all terms were moot considering what had happened.... Was he protecting himself or Geraldine? This was a step they were taking to solve the problem, which suggested that none of them had reached any murderous crescendo—in a way wouldn’t this agreement vindicate both Aiden Cunningham and Geraldine Madigan? After all, if Ellen had lost the bet by scurrying home that evening, then Geraldine could have claimed a victory. And Aiden could claim that no fool would murder a woman on the very eve of the agreement.

  It was his behavior now that made him look suspicious. Geraldine had also lied, although it had been quite obvious to Siobhán that she had been involved in the bet. Should Siobhán confront Aiden right away or take it to Danny and Sergeant Eagan?

  Or Macdara . . .

  If she took it to Danny it would be a good excuse to remind him that she still wanted to get into the cottage and see what was in the sink. If evidence had been removed she hoped he’d show her the crime scene photos. Yes. Like it or not, Danny MacGregor was the man to see. She turned and headed back for the abbey, stopping in for a quick basket of heavenly curried chips from the chipper.

  * * *

  By the time she arrived at the abbey, the guests were spread out, exploring the historical ruins and the grounds. Siobhán found Eddie Doolan standing in the middle of the structure, in the section that used to be the kitchen. The storyteller seemed mesmerized by the remains of the fireplace. Although he was alone, he was telling a story, his arms gesturing, his legs twitching to move. Siobhán felt a stab of pity for him. It was as if this chosen profession was his entire reason for being, and he didn’t know how to just be Eddie—he always had to be performing. Or maybe he’d been lonely for too long and was comforted by the sound of his own voice.

  “How do you like our abbey?” Siobhán asked, when he finally noticed her. Their twelfth-century Dominican priory, with a fifteenth-century Franciscan bell tower, was always a striking vision, set back in a field, with a river in front where the monks used to brew beer. The sun was starting to set, sending shards of sunlight beaming through the gaps in the ancient stone.

  The ground floor held the church, the refectory, the kitchen, and the Tomb of the White Knight. The upper floor made up the monks’ dormitories, and a final set of stairs led to the bell tower. Although just the bones of the structure remained, there were still carved stone heads tucked in walls, gorgeous arches, ornate recessed niches, and of course the remains of the five-light window, said to be the most gorgeous in Ireland. Siobhán was always thrilled to show it to visitors.

  “Remarkable,” Eddie said, throwing up his hands. “So many stories here.”

  “Indeed.” Siobhán wished she knew them all. “I think it’s admirable that you became a seanchaí.”

  “You do?” He seemed leery of her compliment.

  “I do. Did you start the practice to help improve your speech?” She wanted to be sensitive about his stutter, but she was curious.

  “First singing. Singing helped a lot.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Do you like to sing?”

  “Only after a few pints.” Siobhán laughed at her own joke. None of the O’Sullivans were very musical, something she lamented. Of all of them, James probably had the best singing voice, but you never heard him using it. Gráinne liked to belt out tunes, but she’d need some training to help with the high notes. “Who taught you to sing?”

  “I had a teacher.” He was suddenly looking everywhere but directly at her.

  “Wonderful.” A teacher.

  His head snapped up, and this time he did make eye contact. His dark eyes swam with pain. “Who mocked me.”

  “Oh.” She’d answered too quickly. “I’m sorry.” Was Ellen Delaney his teacher? Was this her stalker? A former tortured student?

  “She’s sorry,” he said. His voice took on a threatening tone.

  “Your teacher?”

  He nodded. Siobhán stepped up. “Eddie? Was Ellen Delaney your teacher?”

  “We sang a lot of nursery rhymes to practice,” Eddie said. “Do you like nursery rhymes?”

  “I don’t sing them much. I like Christy Moore.”

  “He’s a storyteller and singer.”

  “He is indeed.” Siobhán tried to find Macdara or the other guards in the crowd. Finally, Danny caught her eye and after a quick nod headed over.

  “How ya?” he said as he approached.

  Eddie started to leave. Siobhán touched his arm. “Stay.” She used a polite but firm voice.

  “What’s the story?” Danny said.

  People were starting to gather around the Tomb of the White Knight. Eddie looked ready to flee. They wouldn’t have much more time alone with their storyteller.

  “Why did you move to Ballysiogdun?” she asked Eddie, now that Danny was listening.

  He put his finger up to his lips, then looked around. “It’s a secret.”

  “Go on. We love secrets.”

  He glanced at Danny. “I can’t tell you.”

  “I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Danny said. He jerked his thumb to Siobhán. “And I went to garda training with this one. She’s even better at it than I am.”

  Eddie was starting to visibly sweat. “You don’t talk ill of the dead. You do not.”

  Siobhán smiled at him, a difficult feat given her heartbeat had picked up, her blood was pumping. Eddie had a very important piece of this puzzle; he was holding that piece in plain view, but dangling it over a cliff. One wrong word, one misstep, and he’d drop it into oblivion. She had to get him to hand her the piece. “In our line of work, we investigate stories.” Eddie arched an eyebrow, and his body was still turned away from them, but he was listening. “Ellen Delaney, our victim, has a story that needs to be told. A story about what happened to her. And every little piece of the story helps. You of all people should know that.” She gave Danny a look.

  “Yes,” Danny said. “He’s a professional. Of course he knows that.”

  “Okay, okay,” Eddie said, a smile overtaking his wide mouth. He held his hands up as if they were applauding and he was begging them to stop. “Yes. Yes. Ellen Delaney was my teacher.” His face immediately turned red and he curled his hands into fists. “And she was a bad, bad teacher. Very, very, bad.”

  * * *

  They gathered in the Kilbane Garda Station in Interview Room 1. Next to them in Interview Room 2 was Eddie Doolan. Siobhán made sure he had a nice cup of tea and a slice of pie, and she put him in there with a tape recorder in case he wanted to practice. This seemed to cheer him up, and every time she glanced through the window between the rooms, she could see his lips moving. Back in Interview Room 1, they were all fixated on the speakerphone in the middle of the table. The sergeant in the Waterford Garda Station was announcing that he was sending over the report that Ellen Delaney had filed before they moved. The clerk should have it any minute now via e-mail. Yes, he confirmed, Ellen Delaney had claimed she was being stalked. By a strange man, a large
man, possibly a homeless man. The description fit Eddie Doolan. He’d been questioned by the guards at the time, but he’d insisted he wasn’t stalking her, he was performing for her, waiting for her to recognize him. To recognize that this was the same stuttering boy she used to mock. That he’d been practicing. That singing and then storytelling had helped him overcome his stutter. When Ellen Delaney was informed of the latest development, that her stalker was a student she used to mock, days later, a moving truck pulled up outside Ellen’s home, and a day after that she was gone. Eddie Doolan remained in Waterford for the next year. The sergeant informed them that they had no reports of violence on Eddie, and that most in town put up with his odd ways, and threw him a few bob for his stories. They had done their due diligence and confirmed that Eddie Doolan had been a student of Mrs. Delaney, back in primary school. They ended the meeting by agreeing that despite Eddie’s lack of a criminal record, Ellen’s accusation of stalking may have been more serious than they realized, given that Eddie had followed her to Ballysiogdun.

  “She never came to us,” Sergeant Eegan said. “She had to have recognized him.”

  “It must have come as quite a shock when Eddie Doolan was suddenly in town.”

  “Jane has never mentioned anything about her mother having a stalker—has she said anything to you about Eddie Doolan?” The question came from Danny and was directed at Siobhán.

  “It’s not clear how much she knows,” Macdara interjected. “But I don’t think my aunt shared it with her.”

  “Jane mocked Eddie,” Siobhán said quietly. Just like her mother. “At the pub in Ballysiogdun.” Was it because she knew who he was and what he’d done, or was it simply part of her nature? Unfortunately, Siobhán suspected the latter.

  “I don’t think she knows who he is,” Macdara said. “Even though Jane is a grown woman, I think my aunt treated her like a child. I’m only guessing, and I’ll dig further into it, but I repeat—I don’t think Jane knew anything about this.”

  “I can see why Ellen wouldn’t be proud of it,” Siobhán said. “And in Waterford when she tried to report him, they had to let him go. Maybe this time . . .”