Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  A sly smile spread across Greta’s face. “I work better alone.”

  Siobhán could feel Macdara tense beside her. Greta had defied his order, and now he perceived her as mocking him. Siobhán didn’t think Greta was self-aware enough to be mocking them, and she placed her hand on Macdara’s arm to calm him. After a moment she felt him relax. She turned to Greta and gave her a smile that suggested, “Just us girls.” Had she had a rendezvous with Frank earlier this evening? Could that explain the makeup? “What did you find?”

  Greta batted her eyelashes and took off her glasses. Another smile crept across her face. “I know what explosive secret Peter discovered.”

  “You mean it wasn’t the headstone?” Siobhán asked.

  Macdara leaned forward. “What is it?”

  “I believe it was this.” She slid a photocopied document across the table. It was a copy of a ship’s manifest dated 1853: J & J Cooke Shipping Agents Records. The Swan. From Cork to New York. Greta had highlighted her discovery. Three passengers were listed in a row:

  John Mallon

  Ann Mallon

  Michael Mallon

  Michael Mallon. There it was. A brother. Siobhán couldn’t wait to tell Macdara later on that she’d told him so.

  “Ellis Island?” Macdara said.

  “No,” Greta said. “Ellis Island didn’t open until 1892. Prior to that there was Castle Garden on the southern tip of Manhattan, later named Castle Clinton. But prior to that, as in our case here, ships simply sailed into docks on the east side of Manhattan.” Greta turned her attention back to the passenger list and put her finger next to the name of Michael Mallon.

  “A child?” Macdara asked, squinting to read the document.

  “No,” Siobhán said. “A brother.” She pointed across the manifest, where the ages of the passengers were listed. Ann was eighteen; John was twenty-five; Michael was twenty.

  Siobhán scanned the papers, mulling it over. Michael was five years younger—the same as the discrepancy of the birthdates on the headstones. Oh, this was something, alright. The headstone in Ohio was engraved with Michael’s birthdate. Michael Mallon was buried in Ohio. Under the wrong name. A circumstance that would either be very unusual or very deliberate. Siobhán’s fingers began to tingle. Even Greta, the great historian, had missed a very important clue.

  Cain and Abel . . .

  “A brother,” Greta confirmed, eyes flashing with excitement.

  “Peter never knew that his great-grandfather had a brother?” Macdara asked. Neither of them seemed to have pieced together the bit about the graves, and Siobhán waited patiently to point out her discovery.

  “He did not,” Greta said. “There’s more.” She slid another paper across the table. The document was a copy of a crude passenger arrival list, all written by hand. Two names appeared:

  John Mallon

  Ann Mallon

  “No mention of Michael Mallon,” Macdara said. “Did he somehow escape the notice of the clerks documenting the arriving passengers? Human error?”

  “I don’t think so,” Greta said. “After all, even Peter never even knew there was a Michael Mallon.” Greta threw up her hands. “It’s as if he disappeared from the boat.”

  And yet he was buried in Dublin, Ohio.... under the name John. Siobhán was sure of it.

  “A lot of passengers got sick and died,” Macdara said. “Terrible journey.”

  “Exactly,” Greta said. “I’ve searched as many records as I could. The only other official mention of a Michael Mallon is when he and John were boys. Here’s the census report.” She slid it over. John was twelve and Michael was seven at the time of the report.

  Siobhán studied the dates and ages carefully. “Wait,” she said. “You said this is the only official mention of a Michael Mallon.”

  Greta began to blink rapidly. “You’re good.” She slid a piece of paper across the table. Siobhán and Macdara leaned over to read:

  Michael accused me of making Ann sick. He’s not well. He has Da’s temper. I hate to say this, hate that the thought has even crossed me mind. I think my brother is in love with my wife.

  “You too?” Macdara said.

  It was Greta’s turn for a shock. “There are others?”

  Something about the way Macdara had exclaimed “You too” was bothering Siobhán, but she pushed it away for a moment and turned to Greta. “Where did you get this?”

  Greta pushed her glasses up. Her hands were shaking. “It was slipped under my door this morning. I assumed it was Jay leaving me a note about accompanying me. I didn’t want to deal with him, so I just shoved it in my pocket. I didn’t even read it until just before the two of you arrived.”

  Macdara sighed. Siobhán stared at him. He cocked his head. “You too?” His words floated back to her, swirled around her mind. That’s it.

  “Et tu, Brute?”

  Everything was coming together now. She could see how this genealogy research was addicting. She felt as if she were following a treasure map and had just discovered where X marked the spot. It was time to let them in on the excitement. She turned to Greta. “Do you also have a picture of John Mallon’s headstone from Dublin, Ohio?”

  Greta laughed. “Yes. We all have copies of it on our cell phones.” She brought up the photo and handed it to Siobhán. Siobhán brought up her photograph from their churchyard, laid them side by side, then jotted down on one of the photocopied sheets the birth dates of the boys, using their ages in the census report.

  “Do you see it?” Siobhán said. She stared at the uncomprehending faces in front of her. “Come on! I expect to hear a few ‘Holy Cows!’”

  “ ‘Cows’?” Macdara said. “Isn’t it just one?”

  “Not when you’ve got something this crazy.” She tapped the photos of the headstones, and then pointed to the birth dates on the records Greta provided. “Notice anything?”

  Macdara studied it. “The birth dates match the headstones?”

  Greta leaned in; then her eyes flicked between documents. “But our John Mallon has Michael’s birthdate.”

  “What are you saying?” Macdara rubbed his eyes in confusion.

  Siobhán felt alive with excitement. “Do you have a marriage license for John and Ann?”

  “Yes,” Greta said, digging through her papers and finding it. “They married in Cork City shortly before they came to America.”

  “ ‘Explosive’ is right,” Siobhán said.

  “Spill,” Macdara said.

  “I don’t think it’s Michael Mallon who didn’t get off the boat. It’s John.”

  Greta gasped. “How can that be?”

  Macdara frowned. “Just based on the dates?”

  “Not just the dates,” Siobhán said. “There’s the matter of the headstone.”

  “I don’t understand,” Greta said.

  “We learned something after our meeting at the cemetery,” Siobhán explained. “You see we thought ‘Out to the field’ was some romantic reference to heaven. Instead it’s a quote from the Bible.”

  “Cain and Abel,” Macdara said. “On that headstone John Mallon was referencing a brother killing a brother.”

  “My God,” Greta said. “You’re saying . . . one of the brothers killed the other on that boat?”

  “Obviously not,” Siobhán said. “For we have proof that John Mallon returned to Ireland and went on to live quite a bit longer. But he made a point of accusing his brother of murder on his headstone. Attempted murder.”

  Greta studied the materials in front of her. “You think Michael tried to kill his brother, John.”

  “Yes. The headstone for your John Mallon in Ohio has Michael’s birthdate.”

  Greta’s eyes widened. “You’re suggesting that Michael Mallon is buried in Ohio in a grave bearing his brother’s name?”

  “Correct,” Siobhán said.

  “How on earth could that have happened?”

  “I believe Michael Mallon took on his brother’s identity when he g
ot off that boat.”

  Greta, who had just taken a sip of her Guinness, began to choke. Macdara pounded her on the back, then turned to Siobhán. “What are ye on about?”

  “Bear with me,” Siobhán said. “Let’s go back to the headstones. Our John Mallon has John’s correct birthdate—we know for sure he was five years older than his brother—and it makes a veiled accusation at his brother with ‘Out to the field.’ Then there’s the bottom portion. I always suspected the last word was ‘Ann.’ Now I’m pretty sure I know what the other two words are.” She brought up her photograph of the headstone:

  E_ _u A__

  Siobhán filled in the word “Ann”:

  E_ _u Ann

  Greta cocked her head and studied it. “I don’t get it.”

  Siobhán smiled.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Macdara said.

  “May I borrow a Biro?” she asked Greta.

  Greta frowned. “A what?”

  “Sorry. Your pen.” Greta handed her the pen. Siobhán filled it in:

  Et tu Ann

  Macdara let out a low whistle. “He’s accusing his wife of betraying him too.”

  Siobhán nodded. “Because she allowed Michael to pretend he was her husband when they entered America.”

  “Why on earth would she do that?” Macdara asked.

  “Because John didn’t make it off that boat. But John and Ann Mallon were married. It was hard enough to make it in a new country as an Irishman back then. But an unmarried Irish woman? The prospect would have been terrifying. I think Michael convinced her to let him pretend to be John.”

  “Wow!” Greta said. “I’m speechless. But not quite following this. Why did Michael have to pretend to be John? Did John change his mind about America?”

  Siobhán couldn’t help but feel a flush of pride. “I’ll get to that.” Maybe she was good at crossword puzzles after all. “ ‘Et tu, Ann,’ ” she said, directing Greta’s attention back to the Irish tombstone. “John Mallon is pointing the finger at his wife. Plus there’s the portion of the letter we found. ‘My Dearest Ann. How could you?’ ”

  Greta straightened up. “What letter?”

  Siobhán felt her insides freeze. She’d gotten so excited, she forgot she wasn’t supposed to be sharing information. She flashed Macdara a guilty look.

  “It’s okay,” Macdara said. He nodded to Greta. “We found portions of a burned letter at the crime scene. They appear to be from John Mallon to his wife, Ann.”

  “We couldn’t read much of it,” Siobhán said. “Just, ‘My Dearest Ann. How could you? . . .’”

  “ ‘How could you?’ ” Greta repeated. “ ‘How could you enter America with my brother?’ ”

  “And allow Michael to steal his identity,” Siobhán filled in.

  “Cain and Abel,” Macdara said.

  Siobhán nodded. “Cain and Abel.”

  Macdara pushed his Biro around his notepad. “You think Michael Mallon tried to kill his brother on the boat.”

  “Something happened. Perhaps an argument. Michael could have pushed John overboard. Assumed he was dead. Only John survived.”

  Macdara leaned in. “Must have been a hell of a swimmer. Do you think Michael knew his brother was still alive when he got off that boat?”

  “It doesn’t seem like it,” Siobhán said. “You’d have to be pretty confident to steal a man’s identity. Confident that the real man isn’t going to come back to claim it.”

  Macdara picked up the story. “But somehow John Mallon survives. Makes his way to America. Sees that his brother is pretending to be him, and his wife is going along with it.”

  Siobhán nodded. “He returns to Ireland a jaded and bitter man.”

  “And starts purging his anger in his journals,” Macdara mused.

  A journal someone may have used to lure Peter Mallon to his death, a journal that was now being distributed in dribs and drabs.

  “I’m not sure I’m convinced,” Greta said. “How could they do that?”

  “We’ll never really know,” Macdara said.

  “Unless we find John Mallon’s entire journal,” Siobhán said. She looked at Greta. “I have to ask you something.”

  “Anything.”

  “It’s very delicate. But it’s imperative you tell us the truth.”

  “Go ahead,” Greta said.

  “Were there any problems in your marriage? Anything that could have been troubling Peter?”

  “Of course not!” Greta said. “We were well-suited. Maybe we weren’t head over heels in love, but we were happy.”

  “I believe you,” Siobhán said. If this were true, then all of Peter’s comments about “not really knowing someone” had been about Michael and Ann Mallon. Their wonderful love story. Imagine finding out the truth of it.

  “Out to the field . . . Et tu, Ann?”

  Greta was convinced that Peter would have wanted the truth to come out. Siobhán wasn’t so sure. Not when the truth was this devastating. Not when one had built his entire family dynasty on the legend of this hero. And not when the hero had fallen so far. Siobhán floated her theory to Greta.

  “It was Michael Mallon who created the Mallon family dynasty,” Greta said. “He’s still a hero.”

  “A hero who tried to murder his own brother and stole his brother’s wife,” Siobhán said deadpan.

  “Oh,” Greta said. She slumped in her booth. “How painful,” Greta said, as if reading Siobhán’s mind. “Peter must have been crushed.”

  “Betrayal is always crushing,” Siobhán said, her voice thickening. She didn’t dare look at Macdara, but she could feel his eagle gaze on her.

  “Maybe John was sick. Maybe he got off the boat somewhere else, told them to keep going,” Greta said.

  “Then why the bitter headstone?” Siobhán said.

  Greta chewed her lip. “You’re right.” She straightened up. “Let’s assume that you’re right,” Greta said. “At least some version of it. What does this have to do with Peter’s murder?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Siobhán said. “Do you think someone could have been extorting Peter? Using this information to get money? Have any large sums gone out of the family account?”

  “No,” Greta said. “Wait.” She paled.

  “What is it?” Siobhán leaned in.

  “Shortly before the trip Frank and Peter were getting in awful arguments. It wasn’t like them. I pressed Peter on it, but all he would say is that it was a financial matter.”

  “So you think Frank was paying a blackmailer?”

  “It’s possible. But I hate accusing someone without proof.”

  “Can you access the financial records?”

  Greta shook her head. “Only if I inherit the estate.”

  “We need to get our hands on Peter’s will,” Siobhán said.

  “I’ll call the executor right away,” Greta said. “I’ll stress the urgency.”

  “If it doesn’t work, have him call me,” Macdara said.

  Greta let out a frustrated cry. “It still doesn’t make sense. Peter would have wanted the truth. No matter what. He wouldn’t have paid anyone to keep this secret. You must believe me.”

  “Maybe that’s why he was arguing with Frank,” Siobhán said. “Maybe Frank had different ideas about how to deal with this secret.”

  “Another brother killing a brother?” Greta said. “I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. Frank is a decent man.”

  “This documentary business,” Siobhán said. “Did it come up before or after this quarrel about the money?”

  “After,” Greta said. “Definitely after. Why?”

  Siobhán felt her excitement growing. “Maybe it was Peter’s answer to the blackmailer. Make a documentary that showcased the truth of their family story. Wipe out the ability to be blackmailed by being the first to get the story and the truth out there.”

  “ ‘Right a great wrong,’ ” Macdara said.

  “ ‘Right a gre
at wrong,’” Siobhán repeated. But the man who said that was supposed to have been a young man. Was the eyewitness simply mistaken?

  Or did Jay Shepard know more about this family story than he was letting on? He was just as much of a researcher as Greta. What if he had stumbled upon John Mallon’s journal while filming Dancing Irish? Then used it not only to get the job as the documentary filmmaker for the Mallons, but to blackmail them as well?

  “My God,” Greta said. “That’s exactly what Peter would have done. Why didn’t he tell me?”

  Siobhán placed her hand on Greta’s arm. “Let us handle this. Please. Not a word to anyone.”

  “Of course,” Greta said.

  “She’s right,” Macdara added. “Not a word. No matter who it is. Your life could depend on it.”

  Chapter 23

  It was happy hour and Cork City was buzzing. People streamed in and out of the pubs, the weight of the workday thrown off their shoulders, putting a bounce in their steps. Laughter and music spilled out of the pubs. For a second Siobhán wished she didn’t have any commitments. She wished she and Macdara could turn back time and go back into the pub and drink pints of their own and listen to trad music.

  “Good work in there,” Macdara said. “Imagine. Your first murder probe turns out to be of biblical proportions.”

  “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

  He flashed a grin. “It was painful holding it in.”

  Siobhán laughed. Then she grew serious. “It couldn’t have been Peter who was going around Kilbane saying he was here to ‘right a great wrong.’ ”

  “Why not?”

  “Because more than one witness said it was a younger American he overheard.”

  Macdara caught on. “Someone younger, but very close to this secret. Someone like Jay Shepard.”

  “And Jay is making a lot of money making this documentary.” They walked in silence for a moment, their boots echoing on the footpath. “He would have also had the skills to research this secretive and explosive family history. He is a storyteller after all.”