‘Well and good,’ Jack repeated.
‘Then listen to me and I’ll tell you exactly how we’re going to do it.’ He turned to his mother. ‘Forget what I told you about Badger, Mam.’ Mrs Doyle, who was used to her son’s intriguing, nodded her head solemnly before turning back to her Bible. ‘For it to work, Jack, you have to do exactly what I say.’
Emer was at the castle having tea with Bridie when the butler announced that the Garda were at the door asking after Mrs O’Leary. Bridie looked at Emer and frowned anxiously. It was obviously urgent if they had tracked her down to the castle. ‘Please show them in,’ she said.
Emer had gone pale. ‘Sweet Jesus, Bridie. It’s Jack.’ She stood up and hurried to the door, her breath burning her lungs with panic. She grabbed her neck with a white hand as the two men walked in with their hats in their hands.
‘Mrs O’Leary?’ said the first one gravely. Emer nodded. ‘My name is Inspector Cremin. I think you might like to sit down.’
Bridie now stood beside her. ‘What’s happened?’ she demanded. ‘Speak up, for the love of Jesus.’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident,’ he said. ‘Your husband’s car came off the road at Malin Point and fell onto the rocks below. I’m sorry to tell you, but your husband is dead.’
Emer swooned and the two men and Bridie helped her into an armchair. ‘How is that possible?’ Bridie asked.
‘I don’t know, Countess, but the car caught flames and the poor lad didn’t have a chance.’
Emer started to howl. ‘I know who did this!’ she cried. She grabbed Bridie’s skirt. ‘I know who killed him!’
‘I’m afraid it looks like an accident, Mrs O’Leary,’ said the other inspector.
‘Of course it looks like an accident,’ she snapped, eyes blazing. ‘They want it to look like an accident!’
‘Who wants it to look like an accident?’ asked Inspector Cremin gently, taking out his notebook.
‘Those Yanks. They wanted him dead.’ She began to sob uncontrollably. Bridie stroked Emer’s arm as her grief over whelmed her. When at last she had calmed down enough to speak, she added, ‘They said they’d deliver the present to Jack O’Leary by the end of the week. Ask Nora O’Scannell. She’ll tell you.’ The two Gardai looked at each other in bewilderment, then Inspector Cremin put away his pad.
‘We’ll come back when you’ve had time to grieve, Mrs O’Leary,’ he said and his tone was deeply sympathetic, as if he was talking to a distraught child.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the other and they departed.
Bridie asked a maid for two large glasses of brandy and crouched by Emer’s chair. ‘Why would those Yanks want Jack dead?’ she asked, her eyes glittering with tears.
‘Because Jack was running from them. That’s why we fled New York and went to live in Argentina. We’ve been running for years. I thought we didn’t have to run any more, but I was wrong. They got him.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The Mafia,’ said Emer, and the way she looked at Bridie made her wonder whether, in her anguish, she had gone a little mad.
Bridie put her arm around Emer who cried softly onto her shoulder. ‘What are you going to tell the children?’ she asked.
But Emer didn’t hear her. ‘I’m going to get them,’ she said. ‘I’m going to find those two bastards and kill them with my bare hands.’
Chapter 26
The brandy did little to calm Emer’s nerves. She sat sobbing in Bridie’s drawing room, unable to comprehend that Jack was gone. Jack whom she loved so dearly. At last she asked Bridie to drive her home. ‘I think I’d better go and break the news to the children before they hear it from someone else. Aileen is with Julia, the other two . . .’ Her voice trailed off. No mother wants to tell her children that their father is dead. Bridie recalled her own sense of desolation at the death of her father and her heart went out to those poor children. She helped Emer up and led her out to the car. She would go with her. Emer wasn’t in any fit state to go anywhere alone.
The chauffeur drove the car down the drive and along the meandering lanes towards Ballinakelly. The golden light bounced off the water and the beauty of it made Emer cry all the more. The two women sat in silence. Bridie gazed out of the window, remembering the time Jack had made love to her in New York only to leave in the night without a word. She had grieved for him once already; now she was grieving for him again.
Ballinakelly was quiet, bathed in the grainy pink veil of dusk. The car motored down the main street and Bridie wondered how long it would take for everyone to know that Jack O’Leary was dead. It seemed strange to watch people going about their usual business, unaware of the tragedy that had just struck at the heart of their community. Suddenly Emer shouted at the chauffeur to stop the car. He slammed on the brakes and Bridie and Emer were thrown forward as the car came to an abrupt halt. Before Bridie realized what was happening Emer had opened the door and was scrambling out into the road. Bridie watched in bewilderment as she rushed at two men who were standing on the pavement. Emer threw herself upon them like a raging lioness, scratching and screeching, and Bridie realized they were the Yanks Emer accused of murdering her husband.
Bridie climbed out of the car, but by the time she reached Emer the men who had been drinking in O’Donovan’s had already been drawn into the street by the commotion and were trying to break up the fight. ‘You’ve murdered Jack!’ Emer was shouting at the top of her voice. ‘You’ve murdered my husband! I won’t let you get away with it. I have proof! It wasn’t a bloody accident. I know who you are and where you’re from and you won’t get away with it! I’ll see you swinging from the gallows, if it’s the last thing I do!’ Paddy O’Scannell managed to tear her away but her nails had already scratched Jim Callaghan’s face, leaving an angry red line from his eye to his mouth. His son Paul looked terrified. He was visibly trembling. Emer shook Paddy off and lifted her chin. ‘You’re from the Mafia and you came to murder my husband. You’re not tourists at all. You have no connection with Ireland, I’d bet my life on it.’ Jim and Paul Callaghan glanced at each other nervously. Paddy and the local men stared at the two foreigners with suspicion.
‘I don’t know what she’s talking about,’ said Jim Callaghan, backing away. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. Someone should take you home so you don’t assault anyone else.’ He touched his cheek and observed the blood on his fingers. ‘When you calm down and realize your error, I’ll be happy to hear your apology.’ The two Americans pushed through the throng and set off at an urgent pace up the pavement in the direction of Vickery’s Inn.
By now Mrs O’Donovan had come out onto the pavement. On hearing the shocking news she pulled Emer against her large bosom and stroked her hair. ‘Let’s get you home,’ she said softly. ‘Someone call Father Quinn at once and tell him to come without delay.’ She patted Emer’s trembling back. ‘If those two men had anything to do with it, my dear, they’ll swing.’
‘We’ll lynch them ourselves before the hangman has a chance,’ added Paddy O’Scannell darkly.
News of Jack’s death spread through the town quicker than an airborne disease. Kitty was at the supper table with Florence and Robert when it reached her. ‘Jack O’Leary’s been killed,’ the maid said tearfully, bringing in a dish of cold meat. ‘His car went off the road at Malin Point and crashed onto the rocks below. They say the Yanks did it. They say they’re not tourists at all but Mafia.’ Kitty felt the world give way beneath her chair as if a great hole had opened up in the floor and she was falling into it.
‘That’s Alana’s father!’ said Florence, blind to her mother’s shock. ‘JP must go to her at once,’ she added. ‘We must telephone him. He’s with Grandpa.’
Robert stood up. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. He glanced at Kitty, who had gone as white as death itself. He assumed she was distressed on JP’s behalf. He touched her shoulder. ‘Two murders in Ballinakelly in the space of a few months. It’s like the Troubles all over
again.’ Kitty didn’t hear him. The blood had rushed to her ears and was pounding against them, drowning out any sound. Unable to speak she pushed out her chair and staggered to the door.
‘Are you all right, Mama?’ Florence asked. Kitty swayed in the doorframe and then fell softly, like a doll discarded on the nursery floor. She didn’t want to wake up. She didn’t want to ever wake up.
As soon as JP heard the news he borrowed his father’s car and drove over to see Alana. When he arrived it was nearly dark. He recognized the priest’s small Ford and the shiny racing-green automobile belonging to the Countess di Marcantonio. He knocked on the door and waited. A moment later Mrs O’Donovan appeared, her face both distraught and imperious, leaving JP in no doubt that she was in charge of the situation. She didn’t say a word but nodded in acknowledgement and opened the door wider to let him pass.
JP stepped into the small hall. He could see into the sitting room where Mrs O’Leary was being comforted by Father Quinn. The Countess sat beside her, holding the widow’s hand. She looked distraught and JP suddenly remembered to take off his hat. It was only a few months ago that the Countess had lost her own husband and JP felt sorry for her. As if sensing his compassion Bridie raised her eyes and looked at her son. Ignorant of the invisible bond that would always connect them, he bowed slightly – he was not sure how else to show his respect. Bridie’s features softened, and her heart, made all the more fragile by loss, seemed to cave in as she watched him watching her. She nodded in response and suppressed her longing. Then Alana stepped between them and the moment was gone.
There was a quiet dignity to Alana’s grief. JP knew she was being strong for her mother’s sake and for the sake of her brother and sister. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled with recent tears, but she lifted her chin and held her shoulders back with surprising control for one so young. JP was a man who was not unacquainted with death. He had lost his brother Harry in the Blitz and many friends besides, and he knew how deeply cut the wounds of such losses. He drew her into his arms and held her there until her stiff body sagged a little and she allowed him to unburden her of some of her restraint.
The following day dawned as it always does. In the O’Leary cottage by the sea the women sat around the coffin, which had been placed in the front room, bathed in candlelight and prayer. The coffin was closed on account of the terrible state of the body within, which happened to be Badger Hanratty’s corpse that had been put in Jack’s car and pushed over the edge at Malin Point. The car had caught fire and Badger’s body had burnt beyond all recognition. ‘If you kill the Yanks there will only be more from where they come from,’ Michael had told Jack. ‘You need to kill yourself in order to shake them off your tail once and for all.’ So together with Father Quinn, the three of them had planned Jack’s death. Putting his family through agony for a hoax was better than putting them through it for real. Once they were sure that the Americans had fled, Jack would be permitted to come out of hiding and start his life anew.
Outside the cottage the men were smoking and drinking and sharing stories about Jack. Michael had explained Badger’s disappearance by telling everyone that Father Quinn had sent him to Mount Mellaray to cure him of the booze and no one suspected any trickery. After all, Badger had brewed his own brand of potentially lethal poteen for years and was one of the only men in Ballinakelly who had a liver strong enough to take it. Mrs Doyle kept her lips tightly shut as Michael had instructed her to do.
Inside, the women gossiped and drank whiskey. Julia, Jack’s mother, sobbed into a sodden handkerchief, whimpering that her life was over. Alana comforted her while Emer and the two Nellies, Nellie Clifford and Nellie Moxley, who had no body to lay out, kept themselves busy making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink. Mrs O’Donovan, exhausted with the effort of taking command, topped up her whiskey glass and sat down beside Mrs O’Scannell with a long-suffering sigh.
The Weeping Women of Jerusalem had by now drowned their grief in whiskey and unfettered their tongues. ‘I wonder will Miss Deverill that was turn up,’ said Joan Murphy in a loud whisper.
‘Kitty Deverill? Why wouldn’t she?’ Maureen Hurley asked.
Joan sniffed through dilated nostrils and lowered her voice. ‘Didn’t Mag Keohane spot Jack putting a note in the kitchen-garden wall up at the castle and may God forgive her, didn’t she read it. It was a love letter to Kitty and it looked as if they were going to run away together. Poor Mag wasn’t in the better of it for weeks. It was a terrible burden to be carrying,’ she said.
‘What was she doing in the kitchen garden?’ asked Nellie Moxley, hoping there was some mistake.
‘She’d business there. ’Twas when Frank Nyhan was gardener for Lady Deverill,’ Joan informed her. ‘A long time ago now, but one doesn’t forget hearing something like that. Mag’s not one to pry but curiosity got the better of her.’
‘Another drop of whiskey and a fag when you’re passing, please, Nellie Clifford. They say that a drunken woman speaks a sober mind – God help us,’ said Maureen Hurley, cackling softly.
Kit Downey was not to be outdone when it came to gossip. She lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes. ‘Sure, that might have happened long ago, but I have a more recent tale to tell. When I was blackberrying last year up at the stone circle, didn’t I see the pair of them canoodling. Jesus, I don’t know how I got home with the shock of it. And I’ve kept it buried inside meself ever since, God save us. I’m like a tomb when it comes to keeping secrets.’ A tomb that was now positively unlocked, thought Nellie Moxley wryly.
Joan Murphy gasped. ‘In the name of God will ye hold yer tongues or Emer will hear and it will kill her outright on the spot, God help us.’
In their drunken state they hadn’t noticed that Alana had heard every word.
Jack anxiously paced the floor of Badger Hanratty’s farmhouse. The thought of his family’s suffering was unbearable. He couldn’t eat and he couldn’t sleep and he only drank because stout dulled his senses and took the edge off his own suffering. His regret at having resumed his affair with Kitty gnawed at his conscience until it felt as if it had bitten a hole right through it; a hole that ached and burned and stung. How could he have allowed himself to be seduced by the past when his present was more radiant than the embers of an old passion could ever be? How could he have been blinded to the woman at his side whose love was unsullied and pure? He loved two women, of that there was no doubt, but he had made his choice. He only wished he had made it years ago, before he had found Kitty on the cliffs and broken his marriage vows. He was certain now, more certain than he had ever been: it was time to give up Kitty. He drained his glass and banged it down on the table. Kitty was a mirage, a ghost from bygone times, the sweet allure of nostalgia, nothing more. Emer was real.
Jack shrugged on his jacket, pulled his cap low over his head and stole out into the night. He crept through the darkness, careful to keep off the roads and tracks so as not to be seen by anybody, although few were awake at this dead hour. The moon was high in the sky and bright. It illuminated his way with its watery light and he hurried deftly over the shadows without stumbling. When he saw his home, nestled in the embrace of high rocky cliffs and lulled by the gentle sound of waves breaking onto the beach, his heart lurched with longing. He yearned with every cell in his body to walk through the door and into the warm, familiar kitchen and to find his lovely Emer there, smiling at him from the stove and gazing at him with her kind and trusting eyes. He cowered behind shrubs and gazed up at the dark windows where his family slept, believing him dead. He felt like a ghost, unable to make contact with the living, and he shivered, recalling the two American men and how close he had come to death.
He remained hidden in the darkness for a long while, wondering how long he’d have to continue this pretence, wishing he could end it now and start his life anew. Then his attention was alerted to a movement in an upstairs bedroom. His bedroom. The bedroom he shared with his wife. He stopped breathing for a moment and st
ared hard as the curtain twitched and a pale arm pushed open the window. Emer’s face was visible in the silver moonlight and he could see, even from where he hid, that his death had altered her. Indeed, her features were so pinched and twisted with pain that she looked like an old woman. He opened his mouth in shock and groaned. He would have given his right arm to cry out to her then, but it was his life they wanted and he could not give them that, so he remained concealed and wracked with craving until she disappeared and closed the curtains.
Jack returned to the farmhouse with a heavy tread. He threw himself onto the bed and closed his eyes and it wasn’t Kitty he saw, but Emer, with her tender smile and gentle gaze, and he sobbed as he thought how close he had come to losing her through recklessness and self-indulgence. Never again would he be so careless with her heart.
Alana had slept fitfully. Grief had exhausted her but her fury had made her restless. She could not forget what she had overheard at the wake. Was it true that her father had been carrying on with Kitty Trench? Or was it just malicious gossip? Alana knew what those old women were like, and she didn’t want to malign her dead father if malicious gossip was all it was. But it pained her to think of her poor devoted mother being nothing but a loyal and loving wife while her husband was having an affair with another woman. And Kitty Deverill wasn’t just any woman, she was JP’s half-sister and soon to be Alana’s sister-in-law.
Dawn was merely a glow in the eastern sky when Alana tiptoed into the little room that had been her father’s study and began to quietly open drawers in search of evidence. She wasn’t sure what to look for, and she hoped she’d find nothing to incriminate him, but she had to know one way or another if she was going to marry a Deverill.
The Last Secret of the Deverills Page 31
