by Anne Crosse
THE MYSTERY OF SUNDAYS WELL
Murder in a small Irish town
ANNE CROSSE
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2019
© Anne Crosse
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
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We hope you enjoy the book.
For my three sons: Colin, Shaun and Alan.
Be careful what you say, it could get you killed.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
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CHAPTER 1
Councillor John Hanton studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He had come a long way from the days of being subjected to jibes and taunts, because nowadays everyone doffed their caps when they saw him coming. He was so proud of the many battles he had bravely fought and won, so proud of his well-deserved status. He was the most important person in Magnerstown, and by God he had earned it.
If only his mother was alive to witness the success of this fatherless child. She would be so proud of him. You have turned into one hell of a handsome devil, she would say, and we did it all on our own without that cad.
The buzzing of the doorbell broke in on his thoughts.
His special mission this morning was to attend a photo session just outside town. Work had started on the refurbishment of the area, and the local newspaper The Crier would be doing an article on how he had single-handedly managed to get funding to turn Sundays Well into a tourist attraction.
He was the hero of the hour, even if he said so himself, and the businessmen who had up until now looked down their noses at him, were scrambling to be seen in his company. As a result of this venture, money would pour into the town, which had become a shadow of its former self; money that was, according to a committee set up by a group of the townspeople, badly needed for its survival.
Martin Hayes greeted him when he answered the door. “John, I hope you don’t mind me calling, but they are all waiting for you.”
John looked at his watch. “I’m so sorry but I thought…”
“We brought the time forward, didn’t your wife tell you?” Martin asked.
John flushed with fury. She had done it on purpose, the witch, probably because she wanted to take the car to go off on some mad hare-brained scheme of hers. Oh, he would give her such a right rollicking tonight. “Just let me get my coat,” he said.
“I’ll drive you out.” Martin made the offer when he noted the absence of the counsellor’s black Mercedes Benz in the driveway.
“Just give me a minute and I will be with you,” John said.
Martin slipped into the seat of his humble, battered Jeep. He would love to tell Councillor John Hanton what he thought of the whole stupid idea. Revamping the old well was laughable. The right thing to do would be to knock the thing down, cover the blooming thing in, and build a new one altogether. It would be cheaper and quicker. But no, we have now entered the age of ‘preserve our heritage’ and all that new historical nonsense. “Heritage, my arse,” Martin growled. He flicked his cigarette out the window when the man of the moment plonked his bony arse down onto the passenger seat beside him.
As Martin drove out to the site, he tuned out from the counsellor babbling beside him.
How the hell this gimpy geek managed to get a wife for himself, was an absolute mystery. Her name was Ella and she was a nice woman, he’d been told. Taking a quick sideways glance at the excuse for a man sitting beside him, Martin felt extreme sympathy for the woman who had to share a bed with him.
“Here we are.” John stated the obvious as they arrived on site.
One of the workmen ran up to Martin as soon as he stepped out of the Jeep. “There’s something down in the well. Mick McCarthy is checking it out.”
Martin walked over to the well and leaned over the edge.
“Come up at once, Mick!” Martin shouted. Health and safety would have his guts for garters if the man came a cropper.
“It’s foul,” Mick announced as he emerged from the well.
“Birds is it, or chickens?” Martin said.
“Not that kind of fowl,” Mick replied.
“I was only joking, Mick. Now get out of my way,” Martin ordered.
Martin climbed down the ladder armed with a torch and a stick. He would have to see for himself exactly what was going on because Mick was inclined to be a bit of a drama queen. He knew that from past experiences. He was certain all he would find down there would be a few flying rats – crows, in other words.
Joey Tyrell felt a fluttering in his chest. He had a premonition to bring his very best camera with him today, and his premonitions were always well founded. There hadn’t been breaking news in town since the murders two years ago, and he somehow had a feeling in his waters that something big was about to go down.
Martin shone his torch around the small confines of the well. He could just about make out a few rags.
He poked the stick into the middle of the rags and felt something hard. He rummaged around and felt other items, like sticks or something. Then something bigger.
A blackened head leered up at him. Dropping the torch like it was a hot potato, Martin scuttled up the ladder without looking back.
“Well, boss,” Joey Tyrell drawled, “is it a case of ding dong bell, there’s a pussy in the well?”
“Is everything going well in the well?” Councillor Hanton laughed.
Everyone stared at the counsellor blankly.
“Well, do you get it? It’s a pun,” the councillor said, sniggering.
“You are a right comedian.” Joey Tyrell humoured him.
“Sure, isn’t the whole town laughing at him?” Martin managed to sound normal even though he was feeling far from it.
Everyone laughed at Martin’s remark, giving him the cue to move off to the side of the road. With a shaky hand, he punched in the number of the local Garda station. Why he was even bothering making the call, he didn’t know. All that was up there now in the two-bit station was one desk sergeant and a young one doing the paperwork.
“Hello, Magnerstown Garda station,” the voice at the other end announced.
Martin couldn’t help thinking that this feeble exercise would be like going into a hardware store and asking for a pint of milk.
“There’s something in Sundays Well,” Martin said.
“Water, is it?” the desk sergeant asked.
“Oh fuck off!” Mart
in snapped.
“Sorry, do go on,” the desk sergeant said.
“A skeleton,” Martin said.
“Right, leave it with me,” the desk sergeant answered.
Martin switched his phone off and almost collided with Joey Tyrell who had crept up behind him.
“Ding dong bell, there is a pussy in the well.” Joey smiled.
CHAPTER 2
Detective Inspector Robert Carroll searched his pockets in vain for the cigarette butt he had carefully wrapped in a tissue.
Martin Hayes produced a packet of cigarettes, took one out, and handed it to Robert. “I presume that’s what you want,” he said.
“Thanks,” Robert said gratefully. “I just got here an hour ago and I’m not quite settled in yet.”
“From the big smoke, are you?” Martin asked.
“Yeah, from the big smoke to the sticks, and before you say it, yes I am badly in need of this smoke,” Robert replied.
“Population five thousand, four hundred and twenty-two, and the killer is amongst them,” Martin said as he handed over his lighter.
Robert coughed after taking a drag.
“Strong, eh? I buy them from a Polish lad who runs Cliff’s Restaurant.”
“I’d imagine he’d need the sideline. Shouldn’t think Cliff is paying him much,” Robert said with a snarl.
“Sorry I’m late, sir.”
Robert turned to face the long-haired young man and made a huge effort to sound sincere. “James, we meet again,” he said.
James held out his hand to Martin. “I’m James Sayder,” he said.
Not wanting to be left out, Robert introduced himself too.
“And I’m the Queen of Sheba.” Martin laughed.
“And pussy’s in the well,” Robert grinned.
“Not quite right, there were two bodies in the well, and they’ve been moved to the hospital mortuary,” Martin said.
“Nothing should have been removed until I… I mean, we got here,” Robert admonished.
“Any idea who they are?” James intervened.
“One dead head is the same as the next,” Martin said, and laughed.
“You find this amusing, do you?” Robert asked.
“There hasn’t been a murder in this town for a while now. That’s what I’ve been told by the photographer from the local newspaper,” Martin said.
“Murder, you say.” Robert blew smoke into the air.
“They hardly threw themselves in,” Martin said in defence.
“Who threw them in, little Tommy? Can never remember his name,” James said.
Robert fixed James with a look and scowled. “Enough of this frivolity.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“It was Thin, little Tommy Thin,” Martin said. “My mother was a great one for the nursery rhymes.”
“Yes, you are right, it was Tommy Thin,” James said.
“Who pulled him out, little Tommy Stout?” Martin said.
“It was indeed,” James agreed.
“I said enough…”
“Sorry, sir,” James said.
“Best thing we can do now is head back to the hotel, James, because I’m starving,” Robert said.
“Shouldn’t we check into the Garda station first?” James asked.
Robert stubbed out the remainder of the cigarette underfoot and strode off in the direction of the road. “All in good time,” he called over his shoulder.
“Do you two not want a lift back to the hotel?” Martin asked.
“It’s only a ten-minute walk, the air will do us good.” Robert gestured to James, who dutifully followed.
* * *
Robert put his knife and fork down. “So, what room did they put you in, James?” he asked.
“Number twenty-two, sir.”
“I’m next door then.”
“In twenty-three?”
“Twenty-one.”
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” James remarked.
“I hate hotels,” Robert said.
“Could you not have stayed in Forge Cottage, sir? Sorry, shouldn’t have asked, it’s none of my business.”
“She, I mean Maggie Lehane…”
“To give the woman her full title,” James interrupted.
“She has allowed Mossie Harrington to take up residence there.”
“You mean the fellow who works for her?”
“Yes, The Crier’s printer, or compositor or whatever they call themselves nowadays,” Robert said.
“Is he house-sitting, then?”
“Apparently he was turfed out of his own house.”
“Why?”
The pretty young receptionist smiled at James rather than at Robert. “Excuse me for interrupting your breakfast,” she said.
James smiled back.
She turned her attention to Robert. “A message for you,” she said.
“What is it?” Robert asked.
“Doctor Morris called last night, and he left a message for you.”
“Is that old goat still around?”
“He said he’ll be carrying out the autopsy.”
“Here we go again,” Robert said.
“That’s the number you can contact him at.” The receptionist handed a small envelope to Robert and quickly turned on her heels.
James laughed inwardly. When he first met Robert Carroll two years ago, he immediately came to the conclusion that he had just met the most bad-tempered person one could ever meet, and the man hadn’t changed on that score. He was still rubbing people up the wrong way, but apart from that, he had to admit, if only to himself, he liked Robert Carroll despite all his faults.
“So, what happened between you and your little nurse friend, Katie; wasn’t that her name?” Robert asked.
“She’s gone off to Australia. She is doing some kind of medical course. But, to be honest…”
“Going a bit stale, was it?” Robert interjected.
“And you, sir, how are things going between you and Maggie Lehane?” James couldn’t believe he had actually asked Robert that question.
“She got herself a job for a newspaper in London, and she couldn’t wait to get on the plane. In fact, now that I think of it, she ran up the runway like she was being chased by a dragon.”
“I never thought she’d leave The Crier,” James said.
“That beardy photographer fellow who was snapping away out at Sundays Well today, Joey fucking whatever he is called, and that Mossie Harrington jack of all trades idiot fellow are both running the show now.”
“From the horse’s mouth you got that information? Not that I am calling Maggie Lehane a horse, you understand,” James said.
“No, it was the builder Martin Hayes who told me,” Robert said.
That didn’t sound good, James thought. Robert and Maggie Lehane must have cut all ties. He must remember that and not allude to them being in contact. Keep your mouth shut, James warned himself.
“So, you’re not still living here, sir?” James said, treading carefully.
“I couldn’t stick this place anymore, so I got the opportunity to spread my wings. No, that’s a lie.”
“Let’s apply a need to know basis,” James said.
“Thanks, James.” Robert nodded gratefully.
James knew exactly what Robert had been getting up to since he last worked with him on the Joubert murders. His uncle, who was now the ex-superintendent of the local Garda station, had run off with the lovely Maria, the live-in help, to give her, as Katie often said, her full title. They had set up home together in another town, and for once James admired his uncle for having the gumption to stand up to his domineering wife Helen, the queen of snob-land.
Despite all this, James’s uncle was very much in the know, and he still had a lot of influence with the long arm of the law. He had filled James in on Robert’s whereabouts, and what he was doing at the present time.
Apparently, six months after Maggie went off on her new adventure, Robert rented out his hou
se and moved away from Magnerstown. He got office work with the force in Waterford. He was inputting information and data, which he only did part-time because, with the rent he was getting for his house in Magnerstown, he could afford to pay for his new rental accommodation and not have to dip into his small earnings.
What else could he do, anyway? He was not the sort of man who would want to be learning new skills, and with his grumpy and stubborn attitude, he wouldn’t last a day in an upskilling course. He would make too many enemies and be flung out on his ear.
‘I wanted you to investigate the case, but I had to recommend Robert Carroll to work alongside you, seeing he is supposedly qualified in that field and you are not, but that’s debatable.’ James’s uncle was laughing when he said that.
“So, here we are, back in Magnerstown,” James said with a smile.
“Are you still studying law, James, in the capital city?”
“Yes, I am indeed, sir. Only because I’d be good for nothing else. If you are wondering why I got assigned to work with you…”
“Your uncle arranged it,” Robert said, cutting in.
“That’s right. Like us, he moved away too, but he still has influence here,” James admitted.
“Good for him on both counts,” Robert replied.
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” James asked.
“Another pot of coffee first, don’t you think? Tea for you, and then we show our faces over at the Garda station.”
“It’s been closed down, they moved to a smaller building farther up the road,” James said.
“Is it a newer building?” Robert asked.
“Older,” James replied.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Robert said.
“I’ll nip upstairs and change into my suit. I may as well look important, even if I’m not,” James said.
“I haven’t brought a suit with me. I never felt comfortable in one, to be honest. I always felt like a scarecrow when I wore one,” Robert said. “I’ll stick with my civvies if you don’t mind.”
James stood up and said, “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Take your time, James. Would you find someone and ask them to bring me…”
