by Paul Charles
But back when they’d first started their relationship, the fact that they’d first become good friends and he’d genuinely liked her was also the reason behind his suffering endless sleepless nights worrying that he’d lose her to an older boy. He knew more than any of those who came chasing, and were thankfully kicked into touch, exactly how special Maggie was. Equally, he knew how bad it felt to be shot down by a girl, and sometimes the girl he’d been shot down by had been Maggie. He remembered how some girls would even invite you out, only to say ‘no’. And you would know for certain that they were going to either shoot you down or drop you, but you’d still go, just so you could be close to them for the final time when they uttered the heart-breaking ‘no’. Maggie had recently claimed she’d said ‘no’ to him just to be sure.
Yes, Starrett knew for a fact that Maggie Keane was genuinely beautiful, but what was it about beauty that worked so? Why did he hurt deep in the pit of his stomach whenever he couldn’t see her? Once again he considered what it was that pulls a man and a woman together? Do either really have any say in this magical process? What is a good look? Is it the look from someone who is appealing only to a certain individual, or is it the germ of attraction, set in motion by the hint we see, or think we see, of that individual’s spirit? Is that why someone – such as Dr Samantha Aljoe, who had the ability to smile sincerely, yet effortlessly – tend to be more attractive? Starrett was most certainly attracted to a heart-warming smile, but yet it was Maggie’s flawed smile that hooked him like no other ever had.
One of the many things Starrett loved about Maggie Keane was that she was great fun; she’d always enjoyed a keen sense of humour and a sharp mind. Plus, of course, the aforementioned stunning looks – there was quite simply no other way to describe her. On top of all of that, he wanted to do naughty things with her, but the most appealing thing of all was that she actually encouraged him to do just so. Maggie had always whispered to Starrett. A lot. Not in an ‘I don’t want anyone else to hear this’ kind of way, for in fact she rarely ever whispered to him while they were in company. No, her whispering was more special than that, an intimate language between the two of them and no one else. Starrett in his AM (After Maggie) dating days, would come across girls who would make love to people they didn’t actually love, yet in some instances they would not make love to people they claimed truly to love. Maggie Keane suffered from no such hang-up.
The thing Starrett found interesting about love was that you couldn’t make yourself love someone, nor could you make someone love you. But the saddest thing of all is that you couldn’t make yourself not love someone; you couldn’t choose who you loved.
So, taking all of this into consideration, why had it all gone wrong?
To this day it was the one question he’d continually asked himself and, to this day, he’d never been able to come up with an acceptable answer.
Maggie and Starrett had dated through college, growing closer all the time, but not that close. Then he’d made a decision, a life-changing decision, for them both. The only problem was that he hadn’t bothered to tell her about it.
They went out for what he had planned would be their last time together.
She’d interpreted his ‘distance’ as a sign he was about to split up with her. She’d felt, she’d recently claimed, with all her heart and soul that she didn’t want to lose him to anyone else. If they could just stay together through the troubled times, at the end of college they’d be okay, they’d make it as a couple. And Maggie had wanted to make it with Starrett, to be with him forever, and so she had seduced him to keep him.
After the seduction, Starrett was even more guilt-ridden. He couldn’t tell her then what had been on his mind, about his plan.
The following morning he caught the coach down to Armagh, to train to be a priest, and he didn’t see Maggie again for another twenty years. In those twenty years Starrett had left the seminary – not too long after his and Maggie’s last night together, in fact – moved to London, got involved (eventually as a partner) in a highly successful classic car company, moved back to Ramelton fifteen years later and, thanks to his father’s friend, Major Newton Cunningham, had joined the gardaí.
In those same years, Maggie had married Niall Keane and had birthed three children, the first a boy called Joe – who Starrett had recently learned was his son– and the second and third, Moya and Katie, both daughters with Niall. Niall had died following a brave fight with a vicious cancer, which had spread its malevolent tentacles throughout his body before it had even been diagnosed.
Until recently, Starrett had been oblivious to most of the details of Maggie’s life, but the two of them had met up again a few years before. And, after some time, she’d told him that Joe was his son.
He’d apologised as best he knew how, offered not to bother her any more. As an act of penance he would leave her alone forever. But she said she had totally forgiven him. She’d also gone to the trouble of warning him it would probably take him a lot more time to forgive himself.
Two years later, he was still working on that one.
Now here he was, living with Maggie Keane, and everything was working out great. He knew that things never stayed the same, yet he was still so annoyed when they didn’t.
Starrett allowed Maggie to wrap herself around him; she wasn’t as sleepy as he’d thought. She made her way to his ear and whispered to him.
‘The last time was for you, to bring you away from your work and back to me. This time is for me.’
Twenty-eight minutes later they had collapsed in a heap of sheets and sweat. Being careful not to disentangle from her, he covered the both of them with the sheet and a blanket, which he’d awkwardly rescued from the floor.
Just as he thought Maggie Keane was about to fall asleep he heard her whisper.
‘The terrible thing that happened to you, that you said we’d be able to talk about one day – has it come back?’
‘The very same Maggie, the very same.’
‘Starrett, please remember that no matter what it was, no matter what else you had to do, this time you’re not alone.’
Chapter Twelve
Day Two: Thursday
First thing the following morning, Gibson picked Starrett up – she’d borrowed his car overnight – and the idea was to take him to see his boss, Major Newton Cunningham, at his house out on the Ramelton to Rathmullan Road. Starrett felt, because of Bishop Freeman’s involvement in the case, it was imperative that he briefed the Major on his findings thus far. Starrett knew that, aside from the Major’s usual canny overview on all of his cases, he would be invaluable in dealing with the politics on this particular one.
The Major’s current wife – his own affectionate way of describing his long-standing and only wife – came out to the car as soon as they drove into the drive of the unique-for-these-parts American log-cabin-influenced, waterside property.
She seemed a little upset, but for all of that she held her usual dignified pose as she advised Starrett and Gibson that the Major was ‘not himself at the moment’, and had requested she allow him to sleep in this morning. She assured Starrett that, in the Major’s words, ‘it was nothing’, and he’d be fit as a fiddle when he woke up. Starrett said his business with the Major would keep till later in the day. He offered his services for shopping purposes, or perhaps even getting a doctor to his senior.
‘As you know better than I, Starrett, if I did anything as rash as that he’d consider it grounds to commence divorce proceedings,’ she said, not quite hitting the humour she’d been aiming for.
Starrett laughed and after promising to return to visit the Major on his way back from Donegal Town, he and Gibson set off to Steve’s Café for their morning fortifier. The usual crew of builders, farmers and malingerers, at various stages of breaking their overnight fasts, were present, silently nodding to each newcomer. Starrett ordered well but ate meagrely, while Gibson was content with her usual tea and toast. Starrett didn’t even take his
usual pleasure from hearing Brendan Quinn via Highland Radio, as broadcast to the diners in Steve’s. But he did feel good after his evening with Maggie. She and the home life she afforded him, and the fact that he was no longer alone, made the dark clouds appear less bleak. However, he was definitely troubled about not being able to talk to the Major. His boss was always a reliable sounding board and a great listener. After his evening with Maggie Keane, he knew he’d be able to go about the investigation in a professional manner, deal with it as it came along. The only thing niggling him was his potential conflict of interest, and he’d hoped the Major would’ve noted his concern, cautioned him, and told him to get on with it, but, without that safety net, he needed to be careful and work this case by the book. Not that he knew of any other way to work a case, of course, but he still felt he needed to mentally red flag the issue.
It was a beautiful autumnal morning as they drove to Letterkenny, past Locky Morris’ exceptional telegraph pole sculpture – probably more of an installation than a sculpture, Starrett figured, but a phenomenal piece of work nonetheless – out the other side of the sculpture, up the steep Ballybofey Road, eventually through Ballybofey on the south bank of the River Finn, home to McElhinney’s Stores (the plural is essential) and Finn Harps football team. Pretty soon they were out into the beautiful hilly countryside again, then through the Barnesmore Gap, passing Biddy’s O’Barnes, the 200-year-old pub, where nothing was as old as the flagstones but the vegetable soup was always second to none. Next they followed the cold River Eske (to their right), which fed Lake Eske, just below the spectacular Blue Stack Mountains.
They were making good time up to that point then they hit Donegal Town, famous for its congested streets. Situated right at the mouth of the River Eske in Donegal Bay, Donegal Town or Fort of The Foreigners, was the town that gave its name to the county.
Starrett grew edgy at their lack of movement. They’d a lot to do and although it was still only 8:40 in the morning, he always liked to get a break on both the day and the case. Soon, but not soon enough, they were through to the south of Donegal Town and on to the old Ballyshannon Road. Ballyshannon was the home of Rory Gallagher and Starrett could never pass a road sign for the town without remembering one of the greatest live artists he’d ever had the pleasure of listening to and watching.
They took a quick right turn, very easy to miss, a couple of miles south of Donegal Town, just after they passed the Donegal Craft Village Shop off the new (ish) bypass, on the lazy road to Lagney. Eventually, up that minor road, they came to the causeway, which took them across to St Ernan’s Island.
The wee island was originally owned by the Hamilton Family. John Hamilton was born in Dublin in 1800 (Starrett would readily admit he knew this only because he had Katie Keane, all of thirteen, Google it for him the previous night). Hamilton had picked St Ernan’s as the site on which to build a home. The family had originally leased land in nearby Ballintra from Dublin’s Trinity College, but John’s wife was poorly and they reckoned she’d benefit from St Ernan’s sea air. So in 1824, work commenced on converting the house on the island into what was to become a historic mansion, with stables, a coach house, and various outhouses.
The biggest challenge facing John Hamilton was not so much the refurbishment of the property, but more the building of the access out to it. Previously, access to the island could be gained only by rowing a boat or wading out in low tide in Wellingtons. Hamilton’s plan, after he’d completed work on the house therefore, was to connect the island to the shore with a causeway. The difficulty came not from the construction of said causeway, but from the tides – the first attempt was washed away before work was completed. In a time when landlords were both hated and feared by their tenants in equal measure – such as was the case with John George Adair and the Earl of Leitrim – John Hamilton’s consideration and support of his loyal tenants during the famine was repaid in spades when they all turned out in the dead of night to help him make another attempt at the causeway. It proved to be one monumental fight, humans against the elements. This time the tenants, from both sides of the religious divide and working for only food and drink, laboured wearily through the night and against the tides, successfully completing the construction, which still stands today as a lasting testament to the unbreakable bond not just between the island and the mainland but, more importantly, between this land owner and his tenants.
Starrett was greatly amused by the fact that on the morning after work was completed on the causeway, not one tenant would stand up and admit he’d been involved in the nocturnal goings on, and not for the reason that, even under the cloak of darkness, they didn’t like to admit they were happy to work with their fellow men, but that, in the cold, bigoted light of day, they were somewhat reluctant to admit to working with anyone other than their fellow pew-dwellers. The church has always tried to exercise a strong hold over its congregation but, then as now, good neighbourly conduct trumped bigotry every time.
John Hamilton was heard exclaiming, ‘Well, if none of you men did this wonderful work, the causeway must have been built by the Leprechauns.’
Starrett took great comfort from the fact that the story had lasted for nearly 190 years, so the owner must indeed have been as good as legend portrayed him to be, if only because the story was carried first by folklore and now by the current digital media. For the first time since he’d come into contact with Father Freeman on this case (he never would accept that he’d been ordained a bishop), he accepted that quite clearly some men are capable of doing good in the world.
They drove over the narrow ancient causeway, passing to the right of the sugar-pink St Ernan’s house and up pretty close to the back door.
‘What a great day to change a five punt note,’ Starrett declared, as he exited the ancient BWM, while exercising his fingers.
Upon their arrival, Packie Garvey reported that he and Romany Browne had watched Bishop Freeman’s room all night. Father McCafferty had visited the bishop’s room once, at 21:33, staying that time for seven minutes, and had returned for a second time, at 21:55, with a tray of food of mostly cold cuts, apple pie, ice cream and tea.
After digesting the update, Starrett shocked Garvey, Browne, and Gibson when next he instructed both Garvey and Gibson to interview the bishop, and immediately. As both Ban Garda and Sergeant scooted off to the bishop’s room with the air of a pair of bemused twins, Starrett then instructed Browne to lay his hands on some of the same supply of potatoes – the aforementioned blues, as originally used by Father Matthew – and time how long it took to boil the potatoes until they passed the fork test. He also asked the garda to repeat the experiment, but the second time to take the potatoes off the boil for fifteen minutes, and then to put them back on the heat and bring them back to boiling point until they, again, passed the fork test. That way, they could compare the net timings.
‘What’s the fork test?’ Garda Romany Browne asked.
‘Have you never seen your mum boil potatoes?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ Browne replied, looking genuinely bewildered. 'Someone always cooked our food. I–’
Browne looked for a moment like he was going to develop the dialogue into a non-work related conversation for the first time ever. Starrett felt for him at that moment, and he knew it was mainly due to his own son, Joe, whom he’d only recently come into contact with after sadly being totally unaware of his existence for the first twenty years of his life. Joe Keane was at University now and so Starrett felt he never saw him nor conversed with him as much as he would have liked to. Romany Browne had an additional problem to Joe, though. Not only was he fatherless – in his case his father, a very good friend of the Major, had been killed in action – but he also had movie star looks. Starrett knew however that the closest Mr Browne was going to get to Hollywood was if he were ever to visit Country Antrim and drop an ‘L’ on the way. Mind you, Dr Aljoe seemed to be paying him very close attention at the m
oment, so there were clearly certain advantages.
‘As I see it, Romany,’ Starrett started, addressing the young Gardaí officer for the first time by his Christian name, ‘the main problem with someone who wears glasses is that picking a new pair of glasses is always extremely difficult…because, when you’re trying them on, you can never really see how they look – this would account for so many people wearing inappropriately framed glasses.’
‘In other words, you don’t need to be able to do everything yourself?’ Browne offered confidently, after risking a fissure across his sculptured looks with a hearty laugh.
‘Exactly. And always find someone who knows how to do the things you don’t.’
‘So how do you tell if your potatoes are properly boiled?’ Browne asked.
‘Okay,’ Starrett began, feeling they were getting somewhere, ‘you stick a fork into the potato – never a knife, always a fork – and lift said potato out of the boiling water using the fork, and if the potato slides off the fork back into the water it means they’re properly boiled.’
Inspector Starrett then left Browne, who was trying desperately to commit the steps of the fork test to memory, to collect Father Robert O’Leary, whereupon both of them walked to the other end of the corridor, to the last room, on the opposite side of the building as O’Leary’s, that is to say the front of St Ernan’s. The permanent resident of said room was a certain Father Peregrine Dugan.
