Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1)

by Alexia Gordon

  “I’m not sure, Irish. I’m just—supposed to.” She tried a brogue. “Intuition. A hunch.”

  “You really need to work on the accent.”

  “Why’d you agree to help me? Not just because I stroked your ego.”

  Eamon put on an American accent. “Dunno. I’m just—supposed to.” He vanished.

  A loudspeaker crackled to life. Gethsemane stared up at the brown box in the corner. Tinny Debussy floated down—the same piece Eamon had played to open his concert at the Peabody.

  Gethsemane headed to the Athaneum after school, eager to see what space she had to work with. Cheered by Eamon’s promise to compose a violin concerto, she whistled as she approached the one-hundred-fifty-year-old building. Once a venue for a steady stream of operas, plays, lectures, and variety shows, the Athaneum now sat dark except for quarterly productions by the Dunmullach Amateur Dramatical Society and, when Dunmullach took its turn hosting, the Annual All-County School Orchestra Competition.

  Inside, her whistling took on a nervous tone as she waited for the theater manager to turn on the lights. She’d never liked darkened auditoriums. Empty seats lurked like gremlins in the gloom. She relaxed as the familiar ch-chunk of overhead lights transformed the hulking shapes into velvet-covered chairs. Gethsemane walked down the center aisle trailing her fingers along the faded blue fabric as she passed. Fuzzy. The theater’s Victorian beauty reminded her of Miss Havisham, past her prime but still proud. She closed her eyes and imagined the sounds of an orchestra filling the auditorium. String, woodwinds, brass, percussion. A soft thud from the orchestra pit jolted her back to the present. Something white flashed by. She craned farther over the rail and spied an arm partially hidden in shadow. She called, “Hello.”

  No answer.

  “I can see you there. Come on out.”

  Movement in the pit. Gethsemane looked down at a delicate blonde girl dressed in a white top and a skirt the same shade of blue as the velvet. She recognized the green eyes from that morning. “What’s your name?”

  The girl dropped her gaze and remained silent.

  She tried again. “My name’s Gethsemane. What’s yours?”

  “Saoirse,” the girl whispered.

  Colm’s sister. “A lovely name. What are you doing down there, Saoirse?”

  Saoirse scuffed her shoe at a spot on the floor.

  “Well, whatever you’re doing,” Gethsemane said, “I think you’d better come up.”

  Saoirse disappeared from view. Footsteps approached then the girl stepped from behind the curtains. She descended the steps from the stage and stood next to Gethsemane. “They used to have magic shows.” She dashed back up the steps and ducked into the wings.

  Gethsemane followed. She found Saoirse staring at an old advertising poster proclaiming the appearance at the Athaneum, for three nights only, the astonishing Sullivan the Magnificent performing feats of prestidigitation to delight and amaze both young and old.

  “Sullivan the Magnificent,” Gethsemane said. “Can’t say I’m familiar with his work.”

  “He only did tricks, illusions. He didn’t do real magic.”

  “Real magic?” Gethsemane studied Saoirse’s face. The girl wore a serious expression, no sign of joking. “What are you talking about?”

  A door latch clicked. Gethsemane turned toward the sound. When she turned back, Saoirse had gone. The theater manager stepped backstage.

  “All finished, Dr. Brown? I was hopin’ to head out. The missus’ll have dinner ready soon. Don’t like to keep her waitin’.”

  “Did you see where she went?” Gethsemane asked.

  “The missus?” The manager looked puzzled.

  “No,” Gethsemane said, “the girl. Saoirse. She was here beside me a minute ago. I looked away for a second and she was gone.”

  “Oh, the Nolan girl. She’s an odd duck, that one. Always popping in and out. Doesn’t go to school. Doesn’t play well with others, I hear.” The manager shrugged. “Her parents have money so they hire tutors. Father Keating and Peg Sullivan most recent. Other than that they pretty much let her be.”

  “Let her be to just roam the village unsupervised?”

  “Sure, she’s never done no harm. And she’s not exactly unsupervised. We all keep an eye on her, make sure she wanders home eventually. She spends time at her lessons every day. Real smart, she is, a certifiable genius. Father Keating and Miss Sullivan watch her then. Kieran Ross in particular looks after her. The two of ’em ‘talk’ to each other. The girl’s a bit strange but harmless. Although, truth be told,” he lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned close to Gethsemane, “she does give ya the creeps sometimes. You’ll turn ’round and find her standing there, staring at ya like she’s trying to see inside ya. And she knows things.”

  Gethsemane lowered her voice to match his. “What things?”

  “Things that haven’t happened yet. She sees things too, things other people don’t see.”

  Gethsemane bit her lip to keep from smiling. She and Saoirse had something in common. “How do you know, if you can’t see them?”

  “Sometimes you’ll catch her looking at empty space, but not like she’s daydreaming or sleepwalking. Like she’s looking at something or someone she sees as clearly as I see you.”

  “Why are we whispering?” Gethsemane asked.

  “You never know,” the manager looked around, “who might be listening.”

  Gethsemane straightened up and thanked the manager in her normal tone of voice. With a last look at Sullivan the Magnificent’s poster she headed for the exit, peering into the orchestra pit as she passed, unable to resist the urge to see if two green eyes would meet hers.

  The pink-orange glow of sunset shone through a gap in the ever present clouds as Gethsemane walked up the stone steps leading to Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. The hinges of the iron gate in the fence standing sentry around the Gothic church squealed as she pushed it inward. Gethsemane started for the main entrance but changed course toward voices coming from the path near the graveyard. Around a corner, Father Keating knelt in a flower bed. Colm Nolan stood over him.

  “Evening,” Gethsemane said as she approached the duo. “Not interrupting prayers, am I?”

  “Not prayers,” Father Keating said. “Weeding.” He held up a handful of freshly yanked plants, dirt dripping from their roots.

  “I’ve come to fetch my sis,” Colm said to the priest.

  “You’ll find her in her usual spot,” Father Keating said. “You know how she loses track when she’s in the garden.”

  “Do you really think it’s a good idea, Father, teaching Saoirse about poisons?”

  “Not just poisons, Colm. All aspects of botany.”

  “But the poison plants are the one she goes on about. Why’s she need to know about mandrake root and wolfsbane?”

  “Curiosity, Colm. Saoirse’s got a curious mind. Besides, knowledge never hurt anyone. It’s what you do with the knowledge that matters. And I don’t think Saoirse’s planning to bake any poisoned biscuits.” Father Keating extended a hand to the boy. “Help me up, would you? There’s a good lad.”

  Colm pulled Father Keating to his feet. Father Keating brushed dirt from his pants. “I seem to remember you asking for some botanical advice not so long ago. Wasn’t it a love potion for a certain young lady on the choir?”

  Colm blushed and glanced at Gethsemane.

  “N-no, it was just, um, flowers for, for Ma’s birthday. Asked what kind to get. You, um, must have me mixed up with one of the other lads, Ruairi maybe. He’s the lovesick one.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be off after Saoirse now.” He nodded at Gethsemane. “Miss.”

  Gethsemane returned the nod. “Colm. See you in class tomorrow. On time.” Colm didn’t answer. He turned and headed toward a wrough
t iron enclosure beyond the graveyard.

  Gethsemane moved closer to Father Keating. “What was all that about poison?”

  “Our poison garden.” Father Keating pointed in Colm’s direction. “Down there.”

  “The church has a poison garden? As in Arsenic and Old Lace poison?”

  “More like Socrates. Arsenic’s a metal.” The cleric removed his cap and scratched his head. “We’ve got foxglove, hemlock, belladonna, aconite, Jimson weed, oleander, some others.”

  “I’ll rephrase. Why does the church have a poison garden? Incentive to tithe?”

  “The Church hasn’t been that severe since the Inquisition. Our garden’s of historical interest. The nuns of the Sacred Society of Apothecaries had their abbey here in the fifteenth century. They planted the garden for medicinal purposes.”

  “The garden’s six hundred years old?”

  Father Keating shook his head. “This garden is an exact replica of the original. Well, maybe not exact. We added some additional safety measures—an industrial grade lock, cages around some of the deadlier plants.”

  Gethsemane looked up at the church building. “A Gothic church with a poison garden on the far side of the graveyard. It’s very—”

  “Irish?”

  “I was going to say operatic. Maybe I’ll write one. Has an opera ever won the All-County?”

  “First time for everything.” Father Keating looked at the darkening sky. “If you plan to do some composing you’d best get home. You won’t make it before nightfall as it is. This way to the bike.”

  Gethsemane followed Father Keating to a small stone outbuilding at the rear of the church. He put a key in the lock. It wouldn’t turn. He tried the handle and laughed as he swung the door open. “Always forgetting to lock this thing.” He reached inside and flipped on a light. “Not that there’s anything to steal except the bike, I guess, and you’re about to take care of that.”

  Gethsemane followed the priest down a short flight of stone steps. Garden tools and flower pots hung from hooks and filled shelves along two walls. A wheelbarrow rested in a corner. The shelves on the third wall held books crammed into every inch of shelf space, stacked next to and on top of each other. Gethsemane moved closer to read the titles: Malleus Maleficarum, Psychology and the Occult, A Practical Treatise on the Banishment of Daemons, The Book of Enoch. Gethsemane turned to Father Keating for an explanation.

  “My inheritance from my late brother, also Father Keating. An exorcist.”

  “An exorcist? Like William Peter Blatty, three-sixty head spins, Georgetown steps exorcist?”

  “Not quite that dramatic. No head spins.”

  “A legitimate exorcist?”

  “Church sanctioned. In fact,” Father Keating said, “the Church is recruiting. Trying to replenish the dwindling supply. So if you run across any boys thinking of taking Holy Orders…”

  Gethsemane jumped at a noise outside. The hair on her arms stood up. “The bike?”

  “Yes, of course. What you came for. You have to rein me in sometimes. I do get to talking.” Father Keating pulled aside a canvas tarp and revealed a vintage Pashley, hunter green with wicker basket.

  “She’s gorgeous,” Gethsemane said.

  “She’s meant to be ridden, not to prop up a canvas sheet.”

  Father Keating and Gethsemane maneuvered the bicycle up the stairs.

  Gethsemane climbed on. “Don’t forget to lock up.”

  Father Keating thanked her and locked the door.

  “Thank you,” Gethsemane said. “I promise to take good care of her.”

  “I know you will. See you in church on Sunday?”

  “I’m Episcopalian.”

  “Come anyway. Maybe I’ll make a true believer out of you.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Gethsemane said as she pedaled off toward Carraigfaire. “Stranger things, indeed.”

  As she rode she spied two women sitting on a bench on the green in front of the post office. Both slender and gray-haired, the taller wore her hair in loose waves that tumbled to her waist. The shorter wore her hair pinned up in a style borrowed from another era. They both wore dresses, the former billowy and floral, the latter tasteful and buttoned-down. Only the shorter woman wore shoes. A pile of books sat between them on the bench. The women stared at Gethsemane so intently as she passed she almost stopped to ask if something was wrong.

  Eamon materialized on the Pashley’s handlebars. Gethsemane swerved and nearly fell. She swore as she struggled to regain control of the bike.

  “Careful, darlin’. You don’t want to wreck Father Tim’s lovely machine. And such language. What would your mother think?”

  “Who do you think taught me to curse? Get off my bike.”

  “I’m not too heavy for you, am I?”

  “You’re not see-through.”

  Eamon dematerialized enough for Gethsemane to see the road through him.

  “That better, darlin’?”

  “What are you doing here? And quit calling me darling.”

  “It’s dark so I’m here to escort you home. And I didn’t call you darling. I called you darlin’. I call most women darlin’. The ones I like, anyway.”

  “It’s annoying.”

  “No more than you Southerners calling everyone ‘dear’ or ‘hon.’ Or you calling me ‘Irish.’”

  “Touché, Irish.” She jerked her head back toward the post office. “Who were those two women?”

  “Nuala Sullivan and Deirdre Lynch.”

  “Why were they staring at me?”

  “Why were they staring at the most remarkable thing to hit this village since the Famine? One guess. Kieran Ross stared at you, too.”

  “I didn’t see anyone but the women.”

  “You don’t see Kieran unless he wants you to. But he’s always there, watching, listening.”

  Gethsemane shivered but not from the night air. “This is how you make a girl feel safe on the ride home?”

  “Sorry. How’s this?” Eamon’s aura lit up a bright green-red, illuminating the bike and the road for several yards in front of them.

  Gethsemane glanced around.

  “Don’t worry, no more gawkers. Even if there were, they wouldn’t be able to see my light.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How about some music to go with the light show?” He whistled.

  “‘Put on a Happy Face’? Seriously?”

  “One of Orla’s favorites. Never failed to cheer her up.”

  “Probably because the idea ‘gray skies are gonna clear up’ in Western Ireland struck her as hysterical.”

  “Whatever works. Join in if you know the tune.”

  Eamon whistled and Gethsemane hummed the rest of the way back to the cottage.

  Five

  Her home-to-school commute time shortened thanks to Father Keating’s Pashley, Gethsemane arrived at the cottage the next day with energy and time to spare before supper. The bright sun and crisp autumn breeze beckoned her up to Carrick Point. She’d walked the lighthouse grounds before now but hadn’t gone in, Billy’s warning about the stairs fresh in mind. Today, emboldened by clear skies over wildflower-studded cliffs and calm waters stretching out from the beach at their base, she grabbed the ancient wooden door’s handle—

  And swung it open with ease, to her surprise. No squeaking, no shower of rust as the hinges moved. Someone maintained at least this much of the place.

  Light penetrated from windows in the wall high above her to the ground level, casting shadows over large boxes crowding the floor between the entrance and the spiral staircase coiling up the tower’s center. Gethsemane stepped inside and immediately banged her shin on the edge of a box she failed to notice protruding into the doorway. She let a string of s
wear words fly and hobbled to the wrought iron stairs. She sat on the lowest tread only to jump up as plaster rained down from anchor screws loosened in their sockets under her weight. A “bit” dicey, Billy said.

  “Kieran will see to that.”

  Gethsemane, startled, banged into another box. “Damn it.” she said to Eamon’s apparition materialized behind her. “Would you stop doing that?” She rubbed her other shin.

  “Doing what, darlin’?”

  “Sneaking up on me.”

  “I’m not sneaking. This is my normal method of going from place to place. See?” He vanished and reappeared at the top of the stairs. He vanished again and popped up next to her.

  “Yeah, well, you oughta warn people. Send a blast of your soap and cologne before you just—” She made a “pouf” motion with her fingers.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” He nodded at her legs.

  “Yes. No, not really.” She kicked a box. “What’s in all these?”

  “Books, papers mostly. A few bits and bobs Billy collected.”

  Gethsemane pulled up the corner of a box top. “Anything that might help your case?”

  “No. I checked.” He sat on a box; the backs of his thighs disappeared into the cardboard. “Orla used to write her poems up here. No boxes then. She set up an office in the clockworks.”

  “You and Orla worked together up here?”

  “Not in immediate proximity. ‘Worked well with others’ is not engraved on my headstone. I was terrible company when composing, so deep into each new piece you could’ve set fireworks off in the front yard and I wouldn’t have noticed. I had a desk and a cot on the floor below Orla. I’d spend days up here with little more than a guitar and a pen. Orla’d bring food and remind me to eat. She’d work up here when I was at the piano. My banging on the Steinway, or maybe my cursing while I played, kept her from concentrating on her poems. We often climbed up to the lantern together and stared at the landscape for hours, not saying a word.”