Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  A pool of red soaked the stranger’s chest and seeped into the ground around him. Partial footprints surrounded the body. Most likely, Father Kearney’s prints, but she snapped photos with her mobile before the snow could obliterate their existence.

  This was personal. The thought struck her hard and fast. Close range. Perhaps one shot to the heart. A passion kill. She would have to keep her opinions out of the report, as her college advisors often reminded her: “Your opinions, Ms. O’Sullivan, are to stay out of your reports. They’re going to get you in trouble one day, if you’re not careful.”

  She bit her lip. Conjecture frowned upon? What kind of training was that? Her instincts had served her well in the past. And even if she wasn’t going to put them into the report, her opinions began to flood in. The killer didn’t just bump into his victim. He or she most likely lured the poor soul here. Who wandered into a cemetery at this hour of the morning? There was another possibility, one that prickled the hairs on the back of her neck. Someone might have chased this poor man into the cemetery.

  She found herself wanting to apologize to the corpse, to console him. Another bit that had been frowned upon in her training: Do not get emotionally involved with a case, let alone a corpse. There was sense to that, of course. One must keep all possibilities alive while investigating. An open mind was an investigator’s most precious tool. Let the facts guide you to a conclusion. Do not come to a conclusion and then try and force the facts to fit. Stay flexible but sharp. Professionalism above all else.

  But really, would a quick prayer kill anyone? She silently offered one and then picked up her mobile and called it in.

  Chapter 2

  Siobhán was about to leave the crime scene and wait for the guards when a glint of a medal on the dead man’s lapel caught her eye. She edged closer. It was a pin of an American flag. Was he an American tourist? She swiveled the light on the ground. A piece of cream-colored paper was partially covered in snow. A small corner was visible, but all Siobhán could make out was a smear of black ink and what appeared to be the letter A. She sighed and took a photo. She was dying to pick it up. If only she had the authority and knowledge to do everything herself.

  There was nothing else to see on the ground, for the snow was already covering up the crime with its soft blanket. If there were bullet casings, or a gun, or any other clues, they would remain buried until the state pathologist arrived. She glanced at his protruding finger once more. His right hand. The rest of the fingers were curled in tight, and the index finger stretched forward. His finger was slightly crooked at the end, as if his hands had been stricken with arthritis. She followed the trajectory of his finger to the closest headstone:

  JOHN MALLON

  1828–1903

  There was a puzzling inscription on the headstone:

  Out to the field

  E_ _u A_ _

  The very bottom of the headstone was faded with time and Siobhán could only make out the vowels E, U, and A, with too many spaces in between. She had never been one for crossword puzzles. Her dear mam had loved them. Her slim figure was always hunched over a puzzle, solving it with a Biro no less. Siobhán would have needed pencils and a stack of erasers. If only she could turn to her mam now for a little help. In lieu of that, perhaps they would be able to find something in the church burial records. She made a note to speak to Father Kearney about it, then snapped photos as quickly as she could.

  Was he pointing at the name John? The surname Mallon? Something about the dates? “Out to the field.” That was a nice way of describing the great beyond. She hoped everyone was in a gorgeous field, filled with love and peace.

  The victim had used the last few moments of his life trying to communicate, desperate to tell her something about his killer. If only she knew what he’d been trying to say. “I’ll do everything I can to find the person who did this to you,” she said softly to the stranger on the ground. “I promise ye that.” The man wore a gold wedding band. If this were a robbery, wouldn’t he, she, or they have taken it? She wished she could search the body for a wallet. She had no patience for waiting, but, of course, everything had to be done properly. A detective sergeant would have to be assigned to the case. Would it be Macdara? A shiver ran through her at the thought of seeing him again. In the distance a wail of sirens penetrated the silent night. Siobhán clenched her fists. Why were they running their sirens? She’d made it crystal clear when she called it in that the poor fella was dead. The sirens would wake up the insatiable curiosity of the townsfolk. Should she mention this to her superiors? Too late now. Besides, it was probably best to wait until after her first official day before doling out sound advice. The guards were here. Time to step back.

  * * *

  Siobhán stood on the church steps with Father Kearney as the guards trekked back to the crime scene, fat rolls of yellow tape clutched in their gloved hands. “Our victim appeared to be pointing at a nearby headstone. John Mallon.” She showed him that photograph. “Can you look into Saint Mary’s burial records?”

  “Whatever would you gain from that?”

  Siobhán shrugged. “Sometimes you don’t know until you see it.”

  The priest sighed. “Of course. But don’t expect a quick turnaround. Records of that age may not be easy to locate.”

  “I’d appreciate whatever you can do.” Next she showed Father Kearney the pictures of the victim, just to make sure he had never seen the man before. He stared at them and then shook his head. “Poor fella.” He crossed himself. “On holy grounds no less.” His voice was thick with sadness.

  “Have you seen anything unusual lately?” Siobhán asked. “Anything at all?”

  He looked as if he thought of something, then shook his head. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Go on.”

  “I have seen an old lady wandering the churchyard the past week.”

  Siobhán nodded to show she was listening, but that was hardly alarming. In addition to the regular visits from the folks of Kilbane, cemeteries were a popular tourist destination. They even had a name for them: Tombstone Tourists. “Not a local then?” Siobhán asked. Could this old woman be related to the victim? His wife?

  “I’d say not. She was nearly six foot tall. And she left indentations in the ground!” Father Kearney’s hands flew off his ample belly and gestured wildly as spittle flew from his mouth. He was very protective of his churchyard.

  “Indentations?”

  “Stabbing around my churchyard in heels. Why does an elderly lady need high heels when she’s already up to the clouds?” He folded his arms across his belly and harrumphed his displeasure.

  Siobhán, nearly up to the clouds herself, took a deep breath and held her tongue. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “Twice I spotted her from my window.” He gestured toward his living quarters that loomed over the churchyard. “She was pacing back and forth along the back row.”

  “The same row where our victim was found?”

  Father Kearney gasped. “The very same.”

  That could be significant. “Go on.”

  “She was frantic. Mad as a bag of cats, I tell ye. Both times I ran down.” He looked around.

  “And?” As much as Siobhán loved the anticipation that came with great stories, she was eager for him to spit it out.

  “Gone. Poof. Vanished.” He rubbed his chin. “I thought maybe it was me. Getting senile. Seeing things in my old age.”

  Siobhán felt a shiver, and knew the weather wasn’t to blame. If anyone else had been telling this story, she would have marked it down to foolishness or tall tales. But Father Kearney was a somber man, even in the best of times. Who was this old woman, and why had she been pacing in the cemetery? Did she have anything to do with the murder?

  Siobhán pulled out her notepad. “And you’re sure she wasn’t from Kilbane?”

  “Never seen her before in me life.”

  “I’d like a full description, please.”

  “Well, I
’ve only seen her from high above. She was a tall one. Like you. She was wearing a long coat and a small hat.”

  Siobhán frowned. At Templemore they had been taught the importance of clear descriptions. The tiniest detail could crack a case wide open. But if she went around Kilbane asking after an elderly woman in a long coat and a small hat, she’d be laughed out of the village. Tall, elderly ladies were a rarity in Kilbane. Most of them were petite, even shrinking with age.

  “How do you know it was a woman?”

  Father Kearney tilted his head. “She had long gray hair. Like a witch.”

  Siobhán wrote down the description, once again biting her tongue. Her silence was a disappointment to women with long gray hair, feminists, and witches everywhere. “Anything else?” Father Kearney shook his head. “Do you remember the color of the hat or the cap?”

  He started to shake his head again. Then thrust his index finger up. “Red!”

  “The cap or the coat?”

  He frowned. “The cap. No wait. Or was it the coat?”

  She sighed as she made a note and added a question mark. Eyewitness accounts were notoriously flawed and had to be taken with a grain of salt. Siobhán took out her mobile again and swiped through the photos. Their victim looked tall. “Is there any chance it wasn’t a woman you saw, but this man instead?”

  “Unlikely,” Father Kearney said with another harrumph. “Unless you found a long gray wig on him and high heels, then I’m sure your training didn’t encourage you to play guessing games.”

  His words stung, but she didn’t let it show. “Then is it possible that the figure you saw running away from the churchyard is this mysterious old lady?”

  “Possible? Why anything is possible. A blur, I said. A blur!”

  Siobhán took a deep breath. Murder had a way of tilting everyone on edge. She’d struck a nerve in the priest. Maybe he felt she was accusing him of not paying enough attention. He’d been squinting lately too. It occurred to her that he was having problems with his eyesight and didn’t want to admit it. Most likely at war with growing older. He’s a priest, but human first. Siobhán didn’t inquire any further into the sighting of the old lady. That could wait.

  Siobhán put her notepad away and looked up to see Garda O’Reilly making a beeline for her. Her favorite guard, Sergeant O’Brien, had retired last year, and Garda O’Reilly was nowhere near as jovial. He was a bullet of a man, with all gun and no powder. He had protruding red ears and a constant look of irritation on his pale face. He glared at Siobhán. “You came straight here, instead of calling it in?”

  “I begged her to come,” Father Kearney broke in. “I thought it was a vandal.”

  Garda O’Reilly tipped his cap to the priest. “I’m not angry with you, Father. But this one knows better. She should have called the station.” He squared off with her.

  “I called it in the minute I saw the body. Like Father said—”

  Garda O’Reilly held up his hand. “Go home.”

  “I took as many photographs of the crime scene as I could.”

  “I said go home.”

  “But I thought you would like to see them.”

  O’Reilly’s eyes traveled over her. “Are you wearing your pajamas?”

  There was no way around it. “I am indeed.”

  The red in Garda O’Reilly’s ears spread to his face. “One more word and I’ll be putting your first warning into your file,” he sputtered. “And I’m reporting this to the detective sergeant assigned to this case.”

  Siobhán’s lips moved, wanting to ask who that might be, but she was smart enough to know when to shut her gob. She nodded to the priest and the senior guard; then she left without another word, heading back down Sarsfield Street to her bistro as the wind and snow swirled around her. A verbal warning. She hadn’t officially begun her first day and she had already been issued a verbal warning. What if becoming a guard had been a colossal mistake? She’d sacrificed two years for this. Commuting back and forth every single weekend, and never feeling like she was giving enough to either endeavor. She’d lost out on the social relationships cultivated between students on the weekends—parties, study groups, and dates—and lost precious time with her siblings during the weekdays. She’d lost the affections of Macdara Flannery just a year into their blossoming romance. She’d placed a high burden on her brother James, who took on the running of the bistro and the care of the young ones so that she could become a guard. It had been exhausting. On all of them. But it had been for a reason, a purpose. How could she have been so foolish? She would make up for it, do whatever it took to get back in O’Reilly’s good graces.

  She pulled her coat around her and picked up her pace, as if trying to outrun her thoughts. Her father’s voice came into her head like a gentle touch. “Those who know better do better, petal.” And she would. From now on, she was going to do better. She was going to do absolutely everything by the book.

  Chapter 3

  Gráinne O’Sullivan draped herself over the counter at Naomi’s Bistro and blew out a puff of air, sending her black fringe temporarily airborne. “Elise yelled at me twice. In my own bistro, like.” She lifted her pale hands in an approximation of strangling someone. “Don’t ye just want to?”

  Siobhán threw a look of warning at her younger sister, then glanced at the kitchen door, behind which the subject of Gráinne’s consternation was lurking. Most likely listening. There was something very sneaky about James’s new love, but saying that to him would amount to disaster. Her older brother had been smiling so much, she was starting to worry about his jaw, and that was worth something. Even if Elise was like a tiny fly zizzing around, driving you mental. Making you want to squash her.

  Monday morning had engulfed them and Naomi’s Bistro would open in a little under an hour. The comforting smells of Irish rashers, the black and the white pudding, soft-boiled eggs, brown bread, and coffee mingled in the air, and Siobhán clung to them like miniature life rafts. It was one thing to say that it was the little things that made life worth living, but you had to actually stop once in a while and smell them.

  “Why are ye sniffing?” Gráinne said. “If you’re getting sick, stay away from me.”

  “I love the smell of brekkie in the morning, I’m taking it all in,” Siobhán said, exaggerating the sniff this time, given that it was irritating her sister.

  Gráinne shook her head and drummed her painted nails on the counter.

  Blue! What will customers think when they get a look at her long blue nails? Siobhán didn’t have the energy to lecture her about it. She hadn’t slept since returning from the cemetery. She was to wait here until the guards contacted her. Torture. Were they going to suspend her? Write her up? Who was the poor man in the cemetery, and where was his killer at this exact moment?

  She hadn’t breathed a word of the dead man in the cemetery to her siblings, and keeping that big of a secret was clawing a hole in her stomach. She thought changing into her running clothes and charging up and down the stairs would calm her down. Instead, she was just as anxious, and now perspiring on top of it. Cheer up, her Da used to say. Things will get worse. She had a feeling that saying would bear out today. Her siblings, not to mention the entire town, would hear soon enough, and then gossip would rage through the village like an uncontrolled and unstoppable wildfire. They would pour in, hoping to hear Siobhán’s firsthand account of the crime scene. She wouldn’t say a word, of course, but it would be good for business. Folks would gather around heaping plates of comfort food and mugs of Barry’s tea, just to turn over every tidbit as the case unfolded.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the victim. Somewhere somebody was missing him. Most likely, calling his mobile over and over again. Worrying. Waiting. She prayed the guards would identify him as quickly as possible. There was nothing worse than worrying and waiting.

  Not to mention there was a killer nearby. Had he or she fled Kilbane, or were they weaving in and out with the locals? It had been sno
wing steadily since the early hours of the morning. It stopped just short of a foot. She hoped the guards would change their minds and want to examine the photographs she’d taken of the scene.

  “Are you listening to me?” Gráinne barked, her dark eyes fixed on Siobhán. “Or do you just want to sniff some more?”

  “Sorry. What are you on about?”

  Gráinne’s pretty eyes narrowed into slits. “What is the matter with you this morning?”

  “It’s my first day at work.”

  “So what are you still doing here?”

  “Never mind. I’ll be going in soon enough.” I can only hope. “What are you on about?”

  “Elise!” Gráinne said.

  “She makes James happy,” Siobhán said, lowering her voice. “And I need him here.”

  The sound of thunking, like a body being dragged, diverted their attention past the French doors leading into the bistro and to the stairs. Like a lot of families who owned businesses on Sarsfield Street, the O’Sullivan Six (as they were known about Kilbane) lived above the bistro. The youngest O’Sullivan girl, Ann, was on the descent, huffing and dragging her camogie equipment down the steps. When she reached the foyer, she let out a whoop of relief, abandoned her equipment bag where it lay, and bounded into the dining room.

  Siobhán sighed. “How many times have I told ye you can’t leave your bag in the middle of the floor for someone to trip over?”

  Ann looked up and at first Siobhán thought she was rolling her eyes, but she was only counting. “This makes twenty-three.”

  Siobhán couldn’t help but laugh, and Ann’s cheerful laugh came bouncing back at her. Since none of the lads had ever joined the hurling team, it was a surprise when Ann took to the stick-and-ball game like she’d been born hoisting up the winning trophy. Almost identical to hurling, camogie was an all-female sport. And their sweet, shy little Ann was a raging tiger on the field. Her siblings never ceased to fill Siobhán with wonder.