The Irish Cottage Murder

by Dicey Deere

  In the phone booth, she could hear the loudspeaker announcing a flight; not hers. Then, in her ear, “Ms. Schwartz is still on another phone. Please hold.”

  “Thank you.” Waiting, she closed her eyes. Alas for her and Luke, the North Hawk past was inextricably tied to today, impossible to forget; the past would send out thorns. Making love, she had known it, had known it in the deserted groundsman’s cottage, in the satiny whisperings in the bedroom of the castle, on the purple hills of Wicklow.

  “Ms. Tunet? Ms. Schwartz says will you please hang on, she’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Okay, thanks.” She felt for more change. Petty expenses didn’t matter. She was seriously broke. Ten thousand dollars in debt. The Moore diamond necklace had turned out to be worth barely twenty thousand dollars. But she’d gotten the ten-thousand-dollar reward offered by Lars Kasvi’s family. So that made thirty thousand, leaving her still owing ten thousand to Mass General.

  “Torrey?” Myra Schwartz’s voice on the phone, excited, elated. “Lucky you called! Hold onto your hat. I just got a go-ahead from my cousin Harry at Roget Productions. They like Foreign Slang for Kids. They hate the title but like the concept. They want an option.”

  “An…”

  “An option, an option. Could be something they’d like to peddle to PBS. Who knows?”

  Torrey swallowed. “How much? The option.” Ten thousand, she prayed. For God’s sake, ten thousand. She had only $233 in the North Hawk Savings Bank.

  “Twelve. And could you work with them on it, they want to know. Part of the deal.”

  Torrey, dizzied, gave a wild little laugh. “Myra! My, God!”

  “I’ll call you in Istanbul when I get more from Harry.”

  When Torrey hung up, she was perspiring. She stepped out of the phone booth. Then she stood still, eyes wide. Languages had been her refuge from that tragedy in North Hawk, her escape. It had led to interpreting and finally to her concept of kids learning languages, starting with foreign kids’ slang. It harked back to a six-year-old Spanish child she’d helped when she herself was only twelve. Kids and words. Weird.

  “Excuse us. Sorry … sorry.” A couple brushed past her, hurrying, pulling baggage on wheels, carrying magazines, children trailing. Beside Torrey, several people were gazing up at the Arrivals and Departures schedule; others dozed in chairs or read paperbacks. The loudspeaker was announcing a flight departure for Brussels.

  “De nada,” Torrey said softly after the couple. She fingered the peacock bandanna she wore at her throat, the one from her footloose Romanian father. But now—introducing kids to foreign languages. Only an option, but a start. If it wasn’t Roget Productions, it would be another outfit. She could, for instance, work on language projects anywhere. Anywhere. Even—

  Her eyes widened. She was seeing the deserted groundsman’s cottage in Ballynach. The Finn had been murdered there; yet she and Luke Willinger had made love there. The cottage. So … suppose a new roof, freshly painted walls, a sparkling bay window. She saw herself in the cottage, munching a buttered hunk of soda bread while working at a pine-smelling desk that held a computer and fax; she saw herself on-line in Ballynach talking to Roget Productions in New York. Talking to any company in the world. She laughed with pleasure. “Why not?” she said aloud. “Why not?”

  “Flight 347 for Istanbul now boarding.” The loudspeaker.

  Her flight. Her last job for Interpreters International. Smiling, tickled with herself, Torrey picked up her carry-on, walked out to the departure gate, and boarded the flight for Istanbul.

  CONTINUE READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM DICEY DEERE’S LATEST BOOK

  The Irish Manor House Murder

  AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER FROM ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR

  It was a horror. First, Torrey heard the horse’s hooves pounding; it was like a thudding in her heart.

  She was coming from the old groundsman’s cottage in the woods to take the shortcut across the Ashenden meadow to the village. October, three o’clock, bright sunlight.

  She drew in a breath of the fresh-cut grass as she reached the fence that enclosed the meadow. A hundred feet to her right, on a hill, rose Ashenden Manor with its four stone chimneys.

  Then Torrey saw a figure. Someone was crossing the meadow, coming from the Manor and going toward the woods at her left. She recognized the spare, upright figure of Dr. Ashenden, who must have just arrived home to the Manor from his office in Dublin; he was still in city clothes.

  Then suddenly the pound, pound, thud, thud, shaking her—

  A great gray horse came galloping across the meadow toward Dr. Ashenden, the girl astride him crouching low on his neck, her red hair wild, lips drawn back. Reaching Dr. Ashenden, the horse reared, neighing, eyes rolling, frantic. But the girl on his back, gripping the reins, fiercely forced him to do her bidding, and his great hooves rose and came down like giant hammers on Dr. Ashenden … then again … and again. All the while, the girl in the saddle was screaming down at the man’s fallen body. Then abruptly she wheeled the horse and was gone.

  “No!” Torrey moaned, stunned, sickened, “No!”

  * * *

  On her knees, Torrey brushed dirt and crushed grass from Dr. Ashenden’s face. He lay on his back, jacket torn, his white shirt ripped, his tie twisted. His face was dirty and bruised, his eyes closed, and his silvery hair was globbed with mud. Dead?

  “Dr. Ashenden…?” But now he moaned. He opened his eyes, heavy-lidded eyes under thick, gray-white eyebrows. His dazed look, unfocused, met Torrey’s. He moved his lips, he said faintly, “My shoulder … broken, I think. Or, maybe … I rolled aside just in—” His gaze sharpened in recognition of Torrey in her faded navy turtleneck and jeans. “Ah, Ms. Tunet.” He took a breath, gasped in pain, then in his elegant clipped style, he said quickly, irritably, “That damned stallion! Rowena can’t control him! I’ve warned her again and again—But she doesn’t listen!”

  Torrey gaped, stunned. “Yes, yes.” She saw that Dr. Ashenden was trembling. He must be in terrible pain, and of course, shock. He was in his late seventies. And this murderous attack! Was he out of his head, thinking the hellish attack was an accident?

  Confused, she gazed at a dark red bruise covering his cheek. Then blinked. Odd, that it was already swollen. Something off.

  “… or if not broken, possibly sprained,” Dr. Ashenden was probing his shoulder with trembling fingers.

  Definitely off. But clearly he didn’t want anybody to know that his granddaughter Rowena had tried to kill him. Torrey shifted her knees in the grass and looked down at Dr. Ashenden. “Can you get up? I’ll help you.”

  “No. No, thank you, Ms. Tunet … I can manage.” He raised himself on an elbow and shook his head as though to clear it. “I’m all right.”

  But a hearty Wicklow-accented man’s voice at Torrey’s shoulder said, “Here, let me, Dr. Ashenden.”

  Only then did Torrey realize that she and Dr. Ashenden were not alone in the meadow. Someone else had witnessed Rowena’s murderous attack on her grandfather.

  She looked up at Sergeant Jimmy Bryson.

  * * *

  “So that’s when I arrested Rowena Keegan,” Sergeant Jimmy Bryson said to Inspector Egan O’Hare at six o’clock in the glass-fronted room that was the Ballynach police station. “When I got Dr. Ashenden back to the Manor, by luck Dr. Padraic Collins was there. He’d dropped in, as usual. Between us, we got Ashenden upstairs. Sprained shoulder, contusions, and some undetermined kind of blow to his face. Abrasions and so on. I’d’ve sworn he’d be dead.”

  Sergeant Bryson pushed his cap up off his forehead and looked over at his neatly typed report on Inspector O’Hare’s desk. He was twenty-two, narrowly built, and loved a bit of excitement which ordinarily was in short supply in Ballynagh. Still, the ugliness of what he’d seen in the meadow a bare two hours ago had rattled him. “What a shocker! I was coming back from O’Shaughnessy’s when I saw it. Jesus!—Rowena Keegan galloping into the meadow and riding her g
randfather down like a crazy woman. She meant to kill him. I saw her face!”

  Inspector Egan O’Hare glanced at the report, then leaned down from his desk chair to give Nelson, the black lab, his six o’clock biscuit. Nelson took it delicately between his teeth and settled down by the Coke machine. O’Hare said to Bryson, “Well, now, Jimmy, you say that Ms. Tunet was crossing the meadow. Torrey Tunet. So presumably she’d be a witness. But she denies—”

  “Absolutely, Inspector! Swears she didn’t see a thing! Looked me right in the eye and said she’d accidentally stumbled over Dr. Ashenden’s body.”

  Inspector O’Hare sat back, pursed his lips, and for a moment regarded the wall behind Sergeant Bryson. “Ms. Tunet may not be the soul of truth, considering that she and Rowena Keenan have become such fast friends. Walking the woods and hills, tea at Miss Amelia’s Tea Shop, feeding acorns to squirrels. Keep an eye out, Jimmy.”

  “That I will, Inspector.”

  O’Hare tapped a finger on Sergeant Bryson’s typed report. “This, about O’Malley’s Pub. Sean O’Malley says Rowena Keegan’s hardly ever been there before.” He frowned down at the report. According to Sean O’Malley, Rowena Keegan had come into O’Malley’s and started drinking heavily about an hour before her attack on her grandfather. Straight whiskeys. Leaving the pub, paying Sean, she had muttered under her breath, “That bastard! That inhuman bastard! He belongs in Hell!” Sean had sworn those were her words. He said the girl was crying.

  “That’s it, then, Jimmy?”

  “Everything, Inspector. Except that Sean O’Malley said that for a pretty girl, Rowena Keegan looked a sight, her red hair wild and those green eyes all bloodshot. Made me think, ‘Jesus!—What’s happened?’ Them always so thick before, Rowena and her grandfather.”

  Inspector O’Hare, reading the report and listening to Sergeant Jimmy Bryson, was wondering the same thing. He was fifty-four years old, and had been Inspector in Ballynagh for the past twenty-two years. There was little he didn’t know and much that he remembered. He was recalling now that from the time Rowena Keegan was three or four years old, she’d been her grandfather’s darling. Dr. Ashenden taught the child to ride, to swim, to fish, to play tennis. By the time she was twelve, they rode together daily when Dr. Ashenden returned from surgery in Dublin. Whenever Rowena Keegan caught a cold, had an earache, or cut a finger, Dr. Ashenden treated it like a major emergency. In the village, they laughed about it, what with Rowena Keegan being such a bloomingly healthy young woman.

  In any case, the bloomingly healthy young woman was presently not in residence at Ashenden Manor. She was, instead, in the only cell that the police station in the village of Ballynagh possessed, exactly twenty-five feet away from where Inspector O’Hare now sat. At half six o’clock, Sergeant Bryson would go across to Finney’s to get her dinner. It was Friday night. Baked shad, mashed potatoes, spinach.

  * * *

  The cottage was chilly when Torrey woke up. She hadn’t known about October in Ireland. Shivering, she took her morning shower; the water was lukewarm as usual and only a frustrating dribble. Back in the damply cold bedroom, she put on a gray woolen skirt and her heaviest cotton jersey, a red turtleneck that she’d bought two months ago back home in North Hawk, just before going on to the Boston airport. “Have a nice trip, Ms. Tunet,” the elderly clerk had said, taking her credit card, “How I do envy you!”

  “Thanks.” But this time it wasn’t her usual trip. It wasn’t an interpreting job, staying in Europe’s luxury hotels, speaking Danish or Italian or any of her dozen other languages, wearing her tailored suit, her time-sweep efficient watch on her wrist. No conference rooms and occasional evenings of polite formal dinners, wearing glittering earrings and discussing political and common market problems.

  No: This time it was the dilapidated old groundsman’s cottage in Ballynagh. The Children’s Language Institute had offered her a contract: a three-language series of books for kids. She hadn’t been able to resist. Kids and languages! Four months of hard work and she’d deliver the first book in the six-book series. “Half payment in advance,” they’d stipulated cautiously about this first book, “the other half on delivery and acceptance.”

  Hardly enough money to scrape by on. She had no savings. Having grown up poor, she enjoyed spending. So now it was back to her early days of half-cans of tuna fish, dried beans, powdered milk. But irresistible. Kids and languages!

  She’d thought back to the time in North Hawk when she was twelve and won that prize of twenty-five dollars translating for little kids from Spanish-speaking countries who didn’t speak English. She’d learned Spanish from tapes she took out of the library. Why? “I don’t know,” she’d told the North Hawk Weekly reporter. These days they said it was genetic, her peculiar language ability. Her Romanian father had been the same. So had two other interpreters she’d met at the United Nations. Yet how she had slaved for years to learn! She was now twenty-eight, and had a passport stamped with exotic foreign destinations and an unflattering, rather wistful-looking photo showing her dark, wavy short hair, her narrow chin, and her gray eyes that somehow looked better without mascara. She was five feet four, slim, and addicted to pasta and to chocolate bars with almonds. She was also helplessly fascinated by other people’s lives. Nosey, some people called it.

  Fingering the check from the Language Institute, she’d thought at once of the old groundsman’s cottage in Ballynagh. It would be a cheap rental. There was blood in its recent history. She knew that well enough. She’d been in Ballynagh four months ago, when she’d worked at the conference in Dublin. The Ballynagh villagers still shuddered and steered clear of the cottage in the woods, in spite of a low rent. So, cheap. Hopeful, she made a long-distance call to the owner, Winifred Moore of Castle Moore, and pinned down a six-month lease of the cottage. Already she’d been here two months.

  Still shivering, she picked up her jeans from the chair beside the bed. They were muddied and grass-stained at the knees from when she’d knelt in the meadow beside the body of Dr. Ashenden.

  She stood holding the jeans. She had a sudden, flashing vision of Rowena Keegan astride the stallion, the upraised hooves, Rowena’s enraged face.

  Torrey gazed down at the jeans. She saw herself yesterday afternoon standing in the great hall at Ashenden Manor with Sergeant Bryson in his blue uniform and cap. She heard her own smoothly lying voice, protecting Rowena. Then, footsteps: Chubby, balding Dr. Collins, Dr. Ashenden’s old friend, coming down the staircase in his familiar olive-green tweed jacket, bringing the reassuring news that Dr. Ashenden’s main injury was a sprained shoulder. Dr. Collins’s kindly voice, and his honest blue eyes, made her feel ashamed of her lying.

  Stay out of it.

  But of course she wouldn’t. She never could. Besides, having lied to the police, she was already in it. And Inspector O’Hare was not one to let sleeping dogs lie. He’d kick them awake. Or more likely lure them awake with a biscuit held under their noses. Better not underestimate the paunchy, comfortable-looking Inspector O’Hare.

  But above all, Rowena! There had to be an explanation to that horrifying scene in the meadow, that scene of madness.

  What could have happened to turn Rowena so murderous? Rowena was not that person on the galloping, plunging horse. The Rowena Torrey knew was a warm-hearted, loving young woman who was studying to be a veterinarian. Rowena had a gentle hand with horses, dogs, cats, and any living thing. A week ago, she’d crawled on her stomach through a rotting, maggot-ridden log to rescue a frightened kitten.

  Torrey felt a stab of hunger. Breakfast was in order; it was already past eight o’clock. Sunlight flickered through the trees and shone through the small bedroom windows. Torrey went into the fireplace kitchen with its pine chairs and table and shabby couch. She’d have coffee and buttered day-old brown bread. Passing the table, she switched on the little radio that she kept tuned to RTE, Ireland’s national radio and television network. Slicing the bread she heard the weather report. There was a
break-in at the Brewley’s on Grafton Street, thieves making off with two sides of bacon and a turkey. A fracas near Trinity College over a soccer match. Then the commentator’s voice said:

  “Dr. Gerald Ashenden, Ireland’s justly famous thoracic surgeon, late yesterday afternoon suffered a riding accident at the Ashenden estate in Ballynagh. An expert horseman, Dr. Ashenden faults a broken stirrup which resulted in the fall that sprained his left shoulder. A speedy recovery to you, Dr. Ashenden!”

  Torrey, holding the coffee pot, said softly, “Well, bless me for a bloody lie!”

  “Yes,” Rowena said, from the open doorway. Torrey turned.

  * * *

  Rowena was standing just outside, on the lintel. The sun flickered on her red hair, which was short and curly. She came in. She wore a parka and jeans and well-scuffed brogues. A thick brown muffler hung from around her neck. Her tanned face was pale. Her eyelids were heavy and tinged with pink.

  “Coffee?” Torrey said, with a great sigh of relief, “I’ve only one egg, but I can make us French toast.” She turned off the radio.

  Rowena shook her head. “Nothing, thanks, I had breakfast at the jail. Sergeant Bryson sent over to Finney’s. He said breakfast’ll be covered by the Ballynagh taxes we pay. Can you imagine? It made me laugh.” She walked aimlessly across to the sink and back to the table. Her unzipped parka hung open, her hands were thrust into the pockets. “I came to thank you. I saw Sergeant Bryson’s report, what you said. You lied, didn’t you? You saw.”

  “Actually, I didn’t see what happened,” Torrey said, lying again. There was something so strange and troublesome about Rowena standing there, so unlike the Rowena who was always whistling, laughing, speaking Gaelic slang to Torrey for kicks, or showing her how to feed a baby guinea pig. “Except it was a horrible accident.”