Helen made a face at the gruesome thought. “Lucas Riordan,” she said, turning to me. “His father is Liam Riordan. They’re a very prominent family in Thurles.” Helen had the gift of gab but not the gift of remembering. I nodded and didn’t mention she’d told us already, at breakfast on our first morning. I expected to hear the rest, that Charles used to party with Lucas Riordan. I caught a look in Finn’s eyes—not disapproval, exactly. More like skepticism.
“I should speak to him. Extend my condolences.” Charles threw back the last of his drink and excused himself.
Lucas Riordan, with his sharp nose and sloping forehead, brought to mind a rodent. I couldn’t help it. That was my first impression. And yet he was surely the kind of man who believed he was handsome. I could tell from a distance that his immaculately-cut jacket was expensive. He had dark, wavy hair that he might have used to disguise the severe slope of his forehead, but he wore it combed back, emphasizing the waves. The way he carried himself, leaning into the bar, not slumping, like the working men near him who kept their distance from him, the confident air that the well-to-do possess—he was easy to pick out as the son of the “very prominent family” that Helen kept mentioning.
Charles spoke to him and he seemed startled, as if he’d been in a daze. I wondered if they knew each other as well as Helen had suggested, but then Lucas clasped Charles’s shoulder and called on the bartender—Brendan—for drinks. Apparently, he was glad to see Charles. Sad that he seemed so alone, I thought, if he’d come to the pub to find comfort among friends. But from what Grace had said about him, maybe it was no surprise that people didn’t flock to him.
“Seems they found the body of poor Dr. Malone out in the Red Stag Crossing,” Finn said, startling me out of my own daze. “I can’t imagine what he was doing out that way, though I’ve heard he took medicines and such to the old woman out there, name of Magdala.” He began to wipe the bar. “I liked Dr. Malone. Can’t say much for his wife. I’m no seer of the future, but when the doctor married Norah Riordan, I never thought it would last. Coming from that posh Riordan house to live in rooms above a doctor’s office—not a promising move!”
“How long were they married?” I asked.
Finn paused to run his fingers through his thick white hair. “Five, six years, I’d say. Not long. She’d left him in recent months. Gone back to her father, who’s not well, I’ve heard. Someone said Parkinson’s disease, and someone else said it’s a heart problem, so what do you believe?”
His son motioned to him, and Finn’s eyes twinkled. “Guess my break’s over.”
“We’ll let you know if we can get a group together for some sightseeing,” I said.
“You do that now!” he said.
Alex gave me a curious look. I shrugged. Something about Finn. He had his finger on the pulse of Thurles. He was someone we needed to know.
Helen set down her glass. “Lucas Riordan is not exactly what I expected.” I wondered if she had the same rodent thought I’d had.
“You haven’t met him?” I said.
“No.” She gave a little laugh. “Charles and Lucas knew each other in their youth, long before I met Charles. They were all about partying and golfing, that sort of thing, but then Charles’s career took off. Lucas didn’t have what it took to be a professional golfer. Oh, he wanted it! But he didn’t have the discipline.”
“They’ve remained friends, it seems,” Alex said.
“They hadn’t seen each other in years until last month when they were both—quite coincidentally—playing at Turnberry. We invited Lucas to our wedding—that was seventeen years ago—but his mother died and her funeral was the day of our wedding. The very day! Isn’t that a remarkable coincidence?” Helen paused to sip her drink but before I could manage a comment she took up her story again. “So there we were at Turnberry, and Lucas invited us to Thurles. Oh, I don’t know that you’d call it an invitation exactly, but he said Charles might be interested in a development he’s planning. Something that’s not public knowledge, but a golf course will be part of it. So that’s why we’re here. Charles is hoping Lucas will bring him in to consult on the golf course. He would be a great asset! He’s done that sort of consultation from time to time. Not recently.” She began to toy with her necklace. “Oh, I’m afraid I’ve said too much! Charles would be furious with me!”
Alex and I exchanged a glance. “We won’t mention it,” I said.
We had walked into town. Not my idea. Given that Alex had made the Kilmacoliver Walk today—more than two hours of walking, he’d said—I worried that this would be overdoing it. But he’d insisted, and it was a mild night. Colin had said, “You’ll need a torch,” and had given us his.
I was glad we had the flashlight as we left the lights of town and turned onto the dark road that led to Shepherds. I was thinking of Bridget O’Toole, out alone and cold on the night she went to see Dr. Malone, when someone called from behind us: “Alex! Jordan! Wait up!”
It took a moment to identify Ian Haverty, running to catch up with us.
“We didn’t see you at Finnegan’s,” Alex said.
“No, I was at The Monks Pub tonight.” Ian took a few deep breaths. “Listening to Celtic music.”
“That’s what we’ve been doing. Friday night must be the night for music,” I said.
“That it is. I was at Finnegan’s last Friday night, my first night in town. Good band. So it was tonight at The Monks. The one at Finnegan’s might play a little more in a traditional style, but both grand.” Ian was setting the pace now, and I had to ask him to slow down a bit. He laughed. “Sorry. You know we walk everywhere so we think nothing of it.”
“Age comes into play, too,” I said.
“Speak for yourself, Jordan,” Alex said.
“I was!” I said.
Now the lights of town were some distance behind us. The flashlight was of some use, illuminating the ground in front. I would not have wanted to be out here alone. No cars passed.
“This is early for you to be turning in, isn’t it, Ian?” Alex said.
“Ah, maybe so, but I was out much too late last night,” Ian said with a chuckle. “Charles Prescott can hold his drink. I’ll say that for him!”
We walked a little while in silence, except for the gentle tramping sound our footsteps made on the roadside. As we passed a stand of trees, an owl hooted and Ian jumped. “Mother of God!” he said. “Sounds like the bird is right on us!” I was surprised by his skittishness.
A little farther on, Alex said, “You didn’t finish the story you started when we were at Finnegan’s—Wednesday night, was it?”
“I remember. The Quinn ladies came over. I suppose they were there tonight, too?”
“No, Molly’s performing at The Source tonight,” I said. “I’m sure that’s where Doreen is. Alex and I are going to the performance tomorrow night.”
Before Ian could indicate whether that was of any interest to him, Alex put in. “What about the man with the cows, the priest who performed secret mass—the story you were telling us?”
“I can give you the short version, but you know, I have it on my blog,” Ian said.
“Your blog?” Alex said.
“That’s what they call it. You post a blog about—well, about whatever you fancy.”
“I know what a blog is,” Alex said with a trace of irritation. “It’s just—everyone seems to be posting blogs these days.”
“Or reading what someone else posted.” I was remembering what Colin had said about Mr. Sweeney. He’d read someone’s blog about Shepherds.
“Tell us the rest of the story, Ian,” Alex urged.
He began, and as before, his voice took on the lilt of a storyteller. “In the days of Cromwell’s siege, a man lived with his daughter in some remote part of County Tipperary. He had a spotted cow and a white one. His neighbors knew, if he took only the white cow from the barn in the morning, it meant the priest was coming to his cottage to say mass in secret. Catholics were for
bidden to practice our religion, but they couldn’t be stopped.” Ian paused and looked around him, as if he might have heard something.
“What is it? Is this story too scary to be telling out here on this lonely road, on a dark night?” I was only half-serious, but Ian seemed uneasy, and that made me uneasy.
“It’s not so scary as it is sad,” he said. “The story goes that one day some of Cromwell’s men intercepted the priest as he was leaving after he’d said the mass, and they went back and dragged the man from his cottage because he’d been hiding the priest. The daughter rushed after her father, screaming and crying. One of the soldiers raised his weapon and shot her. She fell, clutching her breast, and there she died, under an alder tree. Legend has it a patch of shamrock plants sprang up from the ground where her blood soaked into the earth.”
It was a long moment before Alex spoke. “A powerful story.”
“ ’Tis that,” Ian said. “I hope my telling of it, the writing of it, I mean, does it justice. You should go to my blog.”
A distant light came into view. Shepherds. I was glad to be this close.
And then a shot rang out.
Instinct took over. We all crouched on the ground, shouting, shrieking—that was me, actually. Alex pushed me down, leaning over me, whispering, “What in damnation was that?”
Ian groaned.
“Ian? Are you all right?” I said, getting my bearings.
“Holy Mother. I think I’ve been shot,” he said.
CHAPTER 8
“What’s the emergency number?” I said as we tended to Ian, there on the roadside. Alex tied his handkerchief around Ian’s upper arm. I was still crouching beside them, afraid to stand up.
“It’s 999, isn’t it?” Alex asked Ian. “We need your phone.”
Alex was clear-headed enough to realize that it would be an international call on my phone, country code and other numbers, but it should be easy enough with Ian’s phone.
“No doctor, no Guard. I don’t think it’s too bad.” Ian touched his arm and made a face, but he was insistent. “Just get me to Shepherds.”
There hadn’t been a lot of blood. That seemed promising, but I didn’t know much about gunshot wounds. “You don’t want to risk an infection,” I said.
“We must call the police—the Guard,” Alex said. “Someone may still be out there.”
Ian might have relented, but the first car lights we’d seen since leaving town came into sight. Not an ambulance, but it was better than nothing. Alex stood and waved. I hoped he was wrong about someone lurking in the dark hedgerows. The car slowed down and pulled over.
“What happened?” a young man called, standing at his car door.
“He’s been shot.” Alex said. “Those lights. That’s where we’re going. Can you give us a ride?”
“Of course! That’s Shepherds.”
“Who shot him?” asked the young woman in the passenger seat who had opened her door to get a better look.
“We don’t know,” I said, looking around, wondering that myself.
“Someone must be half-cracked to discharge a weapon out here by the road,” she said.
“If it’s a hunter—I’m not one myself, but I do know those who go hunting for foxes and rabbits at night. But I expect you would’ve heard dogs,” the young man said.
He started the motor. We huddled in the back seat. Ian was able to sit up between Alex and me, but his expression, a brave grimace, showed that he was in pain.
Overly-friendly, as Alex often alleged, I asked, “Do you know the O’Tooles? Colin and Grace?”
“Of course!” said the young man.
The young woman said, “I went to school with Bridget.”
Alex darted a look at me. He must have thought I was going to ask a lot of questions about Bridget. Really! I had better judgment than that, under these circumstances. I said, “Thank you so much for stopping to help us.” We could have been carjackers. On the other hand, they could have seen us as easy prey to rob. Sometimes you just had to trust.
“We’re coming home from a concert,” the young woman said. “It must have been divine intervention that made us stop by the pub—or we would have been along this way an hour ago.”
Divine intervention or coincidence—whatever it was, I was happy and thankful for the safe conveyance to Shepherds. The color had drained from Ian’s face as the car turned into the driveway and pulled as close to the door as possible.
Alex reached over the driver’s shoulder with some bills. “You have done a good thing,” he said, giving the shoulder a pat. I didn’t know the denomination of the Euros, but the young man drew in a quick breath before voicing his gratitude, and the look he gave the young woman indicated that Alex must have been generous.
I helped Ian out of the car. He managed to say “bless you” in a weak voice.
I was prepared to rouse Grace and Colin if necessary, but Colin was working in the office. “I’ll get Grace,” he said. “She’s not been upstairs ten minutes. Go to the keeping room.”
Ian walked, propped up by Alex and me. I thought he was about to faint before we reached the keeping room and helped him to lie down on the daybed. I brought him a glass of water and braced his head with my hand while he took a sip. Colin came back with some towels and blankets. “What in bloody hell happened?” he asked.
We told him what we knew, which was not much. “You didn’t see anyone? You have no idea what it’s all about?” No, we insisted. With a swipe at his face, Colin said, “Good God. What’s happening in Thurles? It’s always been such a peaceful place.”
By the time Grace arrived, some color had returned to Ian’s cheeks. Grace was wearing a robe. She’d had time to remove her makeup. She might have even been asleep already. Colin had said ten minutes, but he hadn’t actually timed it. My bet was, if Grace’s head had touched the pillow, she’d slept. With infinite calmness, she examined Ian’s arm. “It’s a superficial wound. You’ll be fine,” she said.
“I knew it. Though my arm feels like it’s burning off,” Ian said, his voice a little stronger now.
“Just because the shot grazed your arm, it’s doesn’t mean you won’t hurt like hell,” Grace said. “It just means I can fix you up right here with peroxide and bandages, and you won’t need to go to the A&E tonight. There’s nothing to dig out.” Ian scowled. I think I did, too.
“Now we should call the police,” Alex said.
“I’m not keen on going to the Guards station to make a statement,” Ian protested. “Not tonight.”
“I’ll call. Maybe someone at the station can come out,” Colin said without great enthusiasm. I imagined he was ready to be finished with the Guard.
No more than ten minutes later, the police arrived. Colin gave a sigh when the uniformed officers, male and female, flashed their badges and introduced themselves. If they knew anything about the investigation that morning by Inspector Perone, Sergeant Casey, and Garda Mallory, they gave no indication. They took the information from Alex and me and the female officer said, “We’ll be letting you know what we find.”
“Not likely they’ll find anything,” Alex said after they were gone. “But we had to report it.” I agreed that it was the right thing to do. Was there a chance the shooting was somehow connected to Dr. Malone’s murder? I couldn’t see how, but at least the police had the report.
A moment later we heard voices in the front room, Helen’s, in particular, her shrill question: “What on earth were the bobbies doing here?”
Colin said, “Better that I explain to them so they won’t worry. Or speculate.” He left us in the keeping room.
“You should sleep here,” Grace said to Ian. “I’ll get you something for the pain.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Don’t know that I’m up to climbing the stairs.”
“You will be tomorrow,” she said.
The Prescotts and Quinns had come in all at once. Even Mr. Sweeney had returned, it seemed, while Colin was telling the guests
what happened, trying to ease any fears they might’ve had about Thurles. Everyone in but Patrick and Enya. “Friday nights they usually go to Dublin,” Grace said. “To dinner or a club, and then overnight with Enya’s parents.”
“It’s the compromise Patrick makes,” Colin said, closing the door of the keeping room, leaving Ian to sleep after the other guests had gone to their rooms.
“Maybe he enjoys it,” Grace said, hooking her arm in Colin’s. “You may not remember, Colin O’Toole, but it’s good to have a night out sometimes.”
“I remember,” he said, “and I swear we’ll be having one ourselves, girl. Just as soon as we can get all this other business settled.”
In my room, I checked my phone. I had a text from Catherine, saying she was leaving Emory, on her way to Savannah. “Relief, a 4.0!” she wrote. “Have fun! Stay out of trouble!”
I hadn’t planned on trouble, but I had to wonder: Was the shot meant for Ian? Or for Alex? Or for me?
“Lovely! It was simply lovely!” Doreen was saying as I came into the breakfast room. “I must say Molly outdid herself. She wouldn’t like me to boast, but it’s true.”
Grace was unloading the breakfast cart. I saw that Colin was in the kitchen with Little Jimmie and remembered that Patrick and Enya were in Dublin.
“Looks and smells scrumptious, as always,” I said. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Oh, yes. Running a B&B, you have to learn how to get by on a few hours. Last night was better than some. How about you? You’re up early,” she said.
“I’ve been waking at the crack of dawn, eager to get on with my day, I guess.”
“I heard you had some excitement last night,” Doreen said as she made her tea. “Any idea what that was all about?”
“Not a clue,” I said. “Did you and Molly walk home?”
“We started out to walk, but Helen and Charles stopped for us.”
Probably a good thing, I thought, though I couldn’t shake the notion that the shooting was not a random thing.
“How is our patient?” I asked Grace.
“He’s up. Colin went with him to his room but he said Ian was surprisingly strong on his feet.” Grace pushed the empty cart away from the buffet. “Go ahead. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Secrets and Shamrocks Page 7
