Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2)

by Dr. Barbara Golder

  The drive up the coast was beautiful in the early morning light. The road to Ballycastle tracked the north Antrim coast. There were enough clouds in the sky to make the lingering sunrise interesting, but the weather was better than it had been since I arrived. Still cold, but not nearly so dank. And Charles was right: I pulled into the lot next to the Ballycastle pier at a few minutes before ten.

  The ride over was much better than the literature that Paul had led me to believe. The channel was behaving itself, and the most that the ferry had to manage was the customary heave forward through gentle swells. She docked without incident, and I soon found myself on the Rathlin Island pier. I looked about to take my bearings.

  There was a long crescent cove, along which stood a cluster of buildings extending out to the far point. I knew from the maps that the bay was at the flex of the island, the longer leg extending to the west and the shorter to the south. An old stone church stood to my left, the Anglican one, I supposed. Civilization clearly lay to my right. I headed down the asphalt road in that direction.

  I had underestimated the cut of the wind off the water. By the time I reached the far end of the bay, I was shivering, despite my jacket, and wishing I had remembered my cap and scarf. I passed several shops that bespoke the island’s summer clientele, arts, souvenirs, and snacks, but they were all shuttered. Apart from the crew at the pier, I saw not a soul on my walk. From the ferry, I saw a long, low building with Good Food emblazoned on the roof. I was hoping they were not gone for the winter, too.

  Luckily, as I approached, I saw a short, wiry man standing on a ladder, scraping paint from the side of the building. He was more sensible than I, bundled in a dark watch cap and loosely knitted scarf in a riot of colors. It reminded me of Pilar’s mittens.

  He turned from his work as I approached, warned perhaps by the crunch of my shoes on the gravel of the driveway. He waved in greeting and backed down the ladder.

  In typical Irish fashion, he greeted me like long-lost kin. “You poor wee thing! What brings you to Rathlin this time of year?”

  Wee, I reflected, must have a different definition in Ireland than at home. That was twice since arriving I’d been called “wee,” and I towered over this man. Moreover, his question made me realize I had not thought this trip through at all. Somehow, I suspected that some key to this whole mess with Eoin lay in Rathlin, but I had not stopped to think what it might be or how I might go about discovering it. Like a fool, I just rushed off. I finally settled on a response. “I’m looking for some information about a friend of mine, Eoin Connor. And his family. Do you know them?”

  “Ah, Eoin. He’s in the slammer, you know.”

  I shifted from foot to foot and hugged myself tighter. “I know. That’s why I am here.”

  He regarded me cannily for a second, then waved in the direction of the door. “Come in, lass. Let’s have a drink and talk a bit. You must be freezing.”

  He noticed. I entered the restaurant, a modern room with simple tables and booths and the inevitable bar. Posters and tee shirts advertised Rathlin Red, something I supposed to be a local beer. The man shuffled me onto a barstool and began to unwind himself from his clothes. Once all the layers were shed, a man about Eoin’s age stood before me, his face lined and tanned by salt and sun, bright blue eyes, curly gray hair, and a close-cropped beard. He extended a hand. “Devon Burke, at your service. Coffee?”

  “Jane Wallace. Yes, please.” I emphasized the last word. “I didn’t think it would be so cold.”

  “It’s the wind off the sea,” he said. “It’ll be a few minutes before the coffee is done. Do you want a dram to warm you while you wait?”

  I looked at my watch. It was after eleven, and I was still chilled. I pulled off my gloves, laid them on the bar, and smiled. “Please. Brandy?”

  “Done.”

  I dug in my pocket and pushed a five-pound note across the bar.

  “No need,” he said. I smiled and shrugged, so he slid it in the drawer, anyway, and poured me a generous measure. It burned and warmed all the way down.

  “What is it that you need to know?”

  Honesty is always best. “I have no idea. Everything I have found out so far tells me Eoin is guilty, but I don’t believe it. The poison came from the farm.” I paused. “I guess I’m just here to see what I can see.” I took another sip of the brandy. “What do you think?”

  Devon passed a damp cloth over the counter, even though there was nothing to clean. Barkeep’s habit. “I don’t know Eoin all that well,” he admitted. “I’m not from here. Moved here after I retired, from Belfast. Tired of the rat race. I was a barrister.”

  “That’s quite a change.”

  “I always wanted to run a pub. A restaurant is a bit more than I bargained for, but I like it well enough.”

  “Eoin,” I prompted.

  “The family keeps a farm up near the lighthouse. I gather it’s the old family farm, sold when the family fell on hard times. I gather Eoin bought it back, and his brothers and sisters keep it.”

  “Year round? This place is pretty well shut down now. Do they stay?”

  “Some of them do. The brother next to Eoin, Terry, really loves the place. I am not so sure Molly does, but she keeps with him. Mick and Joe come in during the summer and winter for a couple of weeks to give them a spell off. Eoin comes when he can.”

  I pondered that information for a minute. Not much there, but I followed the only odd piece I heard.

  “What would Molly and Terrance do if it weren’t for the farm? Is it something they feel obligated to do for Eoin?” I could imagine Eoin’s passion for the old place overtaking his sibs, who might not relish life on a remote Irish island as much as he did.

  “Terry was a joiner, like Eoin. I suppose he could take that up again. Mick’s a plumber, making a good living in the Republic. Joe owns a hardware store in Enniskillen. Molly never worked apart from the house, taking care of the parents, then of Terry. When the farm was lost, she and her parents were on the dole. The boys helped out when they could. When Eoin made something of himself, he took care of his parents and Molly. I think the farm is sentiment for him.”

  I mulled that over for a moment. I’d seen too many instances where well-meaning altruism became a despised trap for the recipients. As long as I was casting about for alternative motives, Eoin’s family seemed as good a place to start as any. And bartenders are a reliable source of community gossip.

  “So everything isn’t necessarily well and good in the Connor family?” I pushed the thought out and hoped Devon would rise to the bait. He turned to pour me a cup of coffee before he answered, setting a blue mug in front of me, along with a sugar bowl and a tiny pot of cream. It looked so rich, that for once, I poured some in the coffee and added a spoonful of sugar for good measure.

  “You’re asking whether anyone had a reason to be angry with Eoin. What does that have to do with the death of his tart?”

  So Fiona’s reputation preceded her even here. “Reasonable doubt. The Black Leaf 40 had to come from the farm. Maybe killing Fiona and framing Eoin served someone’s purposes.”

  I listened in the silence to the tick of the clock, one for each second as the thin, red hand made a complete circuit of the face before Devon answered. “I’ve heard nothing from Terry, mind you,” he said. “But people talk. And it wasn’t about Fiona, it was about you.”

  “Me?”

  “I gather that Eoin is smitten with you and plans to marry you. But he can’t just yet, because you’re known in all provinces as a righteous woman, and he isn’t free in the eyes of the Church.” He paused and added a bit of advice. “Lassie, life is too short to worry about such things. Marry the man if you love him.”

  “Go on.” I’d heard the advice before. More than once in the last few weeks.

  “Anyway, some of the local biddies were in here one evening, having a bit of craic. Let’s just say it came out that Molly is worried that should Eoin marry you, he’ll sell the farm, and
they’ll be displaced. Much harder these days than those years ago. I suspect that Molly doesn’t fancy another go at a council flat.”

  I was taken aback. I’d never thought of myself as a threat to anyone. The last time I made that mistake, it almost cost my life. I wondered whether it would cost Eoin his this time. Not a comforting prospect, but I decided in for a nickel, in for a dime. Or was it penny and pound? “Anything else?”

  Devon had gone from wiping the bar to polishing glasses. He smiled. “Well, now, there might be. A bit ago, another woman showed up here on the island. She popped in here because it was a foul day, rain almost sideways, and I’m just about the only thing open on the island in winter.”

  “An elegant redhead?” I remembered Charles’ slip about Fiona and Ballycastle.

  “Not at all, lassie. It wasn’t Fiona. I’ve seen her pictures in the papers. It was a short woman, all right, plain as toast. She said her name was Dee Matthews and when the rain stopped, I saw her heading up the road in the direction of the East Light. English her name is, but she’s as Irish as I am.”

  I mulled that bit of information over again in silence. Devon put the glass away and continued. “But sure, the East Light is something to see, and the Connor farm is right nearby. You can’t miss it.” He grinned. “I expect you’ll want to head up there yourself, but don’t expect Terry and Molly to greet you. They went into town on the first boat. Shopping day. I gave them a list for myself. No sense all of us going.”

  Devon lifted the gate on the bar and stepped out. “Let’s see what I can find in the lost and found that might keep you a bit warmer on the walk.”

  ***

  Pilar finished washing the last of the cutlery and stacked it neatly in the drainer. She had never gotten the habit of using the machine for doing dishes. Taking care of them herself gave her a chance to relive the day, the plates and cups and pots serving as icons for the threads that all came together in the day’s meals. As she washed, she thought and she gave thanks. For the family she shared, all those lives connected to hers. For Señora Doctora. For the food, of which, for once, there was an abundance. For the kitchen, large and warm and comfortable and the house it was in. For the time to cook for people she cared about and who cared about her. For those who had less. And for the small priest who had been with them the past few days.

  Yesterday morning, when he sat at the counter, a raven had appeared at the window behind him, cocking his head this way and that. She had shooed him away. The big black birds were an omen of bad luck. One — perhaps the same one — had appeared on the sill the day that Señor Eoin returned, and that evil woman had arrived to unsettle everything. She crossed herself involuntarily at the thought of her and all that followed, especially Señor Eoin in jail and Señora Doctora who had gone after him. She despised the birds. The thought made her glance at the window again. No raven. Good.

  The priest had laughed at her, teasing her good-naturedly about her superstition. They spoke, as always, in Spanish, hers the language of the Mexican streets, his of old Castile. And, as always, he moved easily between times and places, as though the borders of life did not exist anymore for him. Yesterday he mistook her for some young woman he knew long ago in Barcelona. Her name was Eva. It made Pilar smile. To be mistaken at her age for a young woman, obviously so important at one time to this odd man, was a pleasure. His world was confusing, but somehow it was still beautiful. The terrors had not set in, and she shuddered to think of what they might be like for him. Her own Pablo had descended into darkness all too soon. For him it was the terror of being chased and caught. Perhaps it was death that chased him. Perhaps this good man would not experience that. She smiled as she cleaned the counter and offered a prayer to St. Michael, protector of the innocent and escort of the faithful to heaven, that he intercede for it to be so.

  The small priest was still asleep, unusual for him. Like so many old men, he nodded off during the day and could not sleep at night. He was almost always at the table before everyone else. Today, Lupe and Isa and the children rose, ate, and were off, and he was still abed.

  Suddenly, the raven appeared again, this time in the window over the sink. A chill went down her spine. She dropped the sponge into the last of the soapy water, and, drying her hands on her apron, hurried up the stairs.

  The small priest was still in bed, the light on the table still burning, a rosary of wooden beads tight in one hand, the sheets clutched in the other, his knees drawn, and one leg half out of the bed. She knew without touching that he had already gone cold. She made the Sign of the Cross, reached out with gentle hands to close his staring eyes, and arranged the bedclothes to cover his leg before calling Father Matt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As a southerner, I always take directions that end with “you can’t miss it” with a grain of salt. It generally means the place in question is so far off the beaten track that it requires a local guide and three mules to get you there. In this case, however, I was prepared to believe Devon Burke was right, in part because of the local geography. The top of the island, which I reached easily by a paved road, was rolling with green, low vegetation. Anything man-made, including the rock walls that divided the pastures and the skeletons of a couple of windmills, was easily visible. I took my time, enjoying the landscape and the views out over the ocean, now that I was bundled up in a warm, wool scarf and had Devon’s own black watch cap on my head.

  The Connor farm was at the end of the road, Devon said. I turned onto a gravel path that led through a well-kept stone wall to a small and traditional thatched cottage, whitewashed and sturdy. The yard around it was tidy with beds, now cleared, waiting for spring planting. The door to an outbuilding was open, and tire tracks confirmed that my bartending co-conspirator was right. There was no one about.

  I decided to take a stroll around the premises. The location was breathtaking. The lighthouse was a formidable sight on one side, and on the other, the land simply dropped off in cliffs that ended in a spill of rocks at the sea below. I stood at the wall that would keep the unwary man or beast from falling into the surf below, watching the waves for a long time. No wonder Eoin liked this place. It was a wonder he didn’t retreat here to write. Molly need not worry that I would inveigle Eoin to sell it, though I might have conned him into building a second little cottage, just for us.

  I shook the thought from my mind. There was no “us.” Not now, at least, and it was looking like not ever. I might prevent Eoin’s being convicted by tossing out a few more equally likely suspects, but nothing I had found so far proved his innocence to me. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but not my heart. It surprised me.

  The wind at my back tossed the end of the scarf back over my shoulder as I walked to a stone building built low into the ground, half-buried, with a rough, wooden door and no windows. As my eyes adjusted to the dank interior, I saw that it was divided into stalls on one side. The closest stall had been converted into shelves, covered with the sort of detritus that tends to accumulate on a farm. I stepped inside, switched on the flashlight on my smartphone, and inspected the place.

  A variety of implements were stacked against the wall: a hoe, rakes, a spade; and a box of smaller tools: trowels, an adze, a mortar hawk, a couple of chisels, and a bolster. These were dusty and most of them rusted. By contrast, on the wall of the last stall hung an assortment of other tools, clean and well-polished: shears, clippers, hammers, two saws, and a level. It was easy to see what work was regular here. A snag of white wool bespoke sheep. I wondered where they were.

  On the top shelf were bottles of liniment, linseed oil, two different pesticides, a bottle of fish emulsion, an assortment of paint, some whitewash, and some bushes, and like the hanging tools, all clean and tidy. And modern. The second shelf was another story. The boxes, jars, and cans were from another era, with faded, simple labels from time past. Something called wound powder. A jar of old nails. Something labeled ‘black salve,’ in a squat, round tin. They were cove
red with dust, and a few cobwebs were strung among them. I surveyed the shelf more closely, looking for something out of place. At one edge, I found it: the mark of something recently removed, the clear, rough wood surrounded by the same thick dust that covered the bottles and boxes. No doubt the prior home of the Black Leaf 40.

  No surprise. I knew that the poison had its origin in the Connor farm. There was simply no other explanation for it, especially given that Eoin’s fingerprints were on it. What I had proved was how easy it would be for someone to get to it, if he knew it was there. This little stone building was apart from the house, half-hidden by a swale and accessible by a path that went between the pastures, no doubt to give tourists access to the spectacular views of the coast without disturbing the residents or the sheep when they were in residence.

  The question was, who and when and why? Dee Matthews loomed faceless in my mind. The name was familiar, but I was not sure why. I’d revisit the file and figure it out when I got back to Belfast. My fingers touched the ring where the bottle had been, and I drew a sticky glove. Well now, I thought. That bottle leaked.

  That was interesting. The first reflex most people had when handling a bottle like that would be to wipe it off. But that would not make sense if preserving fingerprints were foremost in your mind.

  That gave me plenty of fodder for thought as I took the long way back to the pub.

  ***

  Sadie dropped by Leona’s for lunch, as had become her custom. Until the last two days, the old man dropped by, too, and they had lunch together. Some days she was Sadie, and some days she was Liana. It didn’t matter. He was entertaining and charming, and it made lunch more pleasant. He even walked her out of the restaurant every day to whatever her next stop was. The last day she saw him, she was headed to the Proserpine office. It was one of the times he didn’t recognize her, but he was agitated when he left her there. She wondered why.