Death at Christy Burke's

by Anne Emery

  Not surprisingly, the patrons expressed their determination to watch whatever the blathering arsehole had with him. Finn, with obvious reluctance, went into the back and returned with the equipment. He set it up, and McCrum handed him the tape.

  “This is a comedy routine,” McCrum explained. “The fellow comes on late at night and pokes fun at the day’s news. It’s a British program my nephew always tapes. Normally I don’t bother with it, but he put me on to this episode. Roll the film, Mr. Burke!”

  Finn pressed play, and a young man appeared on a stage. He had kind of a foolish rubbery face on him, but that would be an asset in a comic. He was talking about death. He spoke in a Cockney accent until he got to the subject of Ireland, at which point he switched to a stage-Irish brogue.

  “And speakin’ of death. Our Irish friends across the water are big on death. And I can say this, ’cause I’m half Oirish meself, so I am, begorrah and begob! Admit it, all you Paddies out there. You love it when somebody croaks their last. Ever been to an Irish wake? Party! Party! Party! But you can’t just die; you have to die right. Worst thing an Irishman can say to another Irishman is ‘May yeh die roarin’ for a priest!’ Worst case scenario for yer Paddy, dyin’ without the priest. Anyway, listen to this. According to a news item out of Dublin today, this bloke died because he disrespected his local pub! Oh, they take their drinking holes seriously over there! Dead serious. The bloke apparently got himself murdered. Why? Because he messed up the walls of the pub, put a little bit of graffiti on there. Can’t you picture it? The man is tanked to the gills in his favourite shebeen and he’s doin’ some thinkin’, and he says to Pat and Mike at the bar, ‘Sure, this place could use a coat of paint, sure it could! What do youse all think of that?’ But the other boozehounds, they don’t want the place painted. They like it just the way it is. Don’t be making changes to an Irishman’s pub; you could get yourself killed. And that’s what happened to this guy. He stumbles out of the pub, decides to do a bit of a paint job himself, puts a message on the place for the rest of them, shag the lot of them, and they kill him for it! Word is, the coppers over there think it’s one of the pub regulars that done him in. I been there, I can believe it! But it’s not as bad as it sounds. If it’s like every other Oirish pub I’ve ever been in, there was probably a priest or two on the premises supplementing their meagre allowance of communion wine, so maybe Father O’Toole was on hand to answer the victim’s roaring before he breathed his last!

  “And the Eyetalians. Death is big on their agenda too. Ever see the old crones all in black? You see one of them coming, it’s-a lights out, Tony! Well, the news out of Sicily today is that —”

  Finn snapped the tape off. “Fuckin’ maggot!”

  Frank Fanning was outraged. “They’ll be voting him in as prime minister next. That little Tan bastard is just saying what they all think: the Irish sit around all day and drink till they’re spiflicated!”

  If anyone thought this was an odd remark from one of Dublin’s most renowned pintmen, someone who sat in a pub every afternoon and evening of his life, pouring Guinness down his throat and getting spiflicated himself, nobody let on.

  A couple of other men looked ready to punch somebody in the mouth. An Irish pub was no place to be calling the Irish down as drunks. Jimmy O’Hearn looked perturbed. Tim Shanahan, too, looked unhappy. The priest in him, perhaps, taking umbrage at the callous way a man’s death had been turned into fodder for the television audience.

  Eddie Madigan, though, seemed to find it all rather droll. “If youse think the man is full of shite about us, stand up for your principles: take the pledge! Go off with the monks and come back cured.” He raised his pint and downed it. “A refill for this Paddy, my good man, or may yeh die roarin’ for a priest! Not a problem in this place, though, Finn. Fathers Shanahan and O’Flaherty are on permanent assignment here, and I believe I saw your nephew, Father Burke, offering the sacraments behind the bar not long ago.”

  Finn belted the video machine and grabbed the tape when it came out. He shoved it at Blair McCrum without a word and busied himself behind the bar. McCrum moved off to a table near the window, where he could survey the comings and goings in the street.

  Michael

  The admittedly daffy notion to expand the investigation beyond the Irish Sea got a boost early Monday afternoon, when Monty called Michael with another bit of information about the shyster, Carey Gilbert.

  “I was thinking again about the English lawyer.”

  “Oh, yes. You found out he had left the country and had not been heard from again.”

  “Right. But I wondered whether he had set up shop somewhere else.”

  “Why he’d ever have to work again, I don’t know. He could be living like a lord off his ill-gotten gains. If he’s still among the living!”

  “Well, his name didn’t come up as a partner in any law firm. But I looked at the directories listing practising lawyers in the Commonwealth and the United States. There are two lawyers named Carey Gilbert. By a process of elimination, I finally tracked our Carey down. Alive and well and working in Toronto.”

  Relief descended upon Michael. The lawyer hadn’t been murdered after all. Of course he hadn’t. Michael scolded himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. “He’s in Canada?”

  “Yes. He’s an associate in a large firm on Bay Street.”

  “An associate.”

  “Right. Not, or not yet, a partner in the firm.”

  “Hiding his light under a bushel perhaps.”

  “Perhaps. But why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “What? Call him, you mean?”

  “Hop on the boat and go see him.”

  “Boat to where?”

  “Old Blighty. He’s visiting his mum, in a place called Huntingdon, for a bit of a holiday. I called his firm, and his secretary told me that much. Didn’t give me the address or number, of course, but if the mother is Mrs. Gilbert, you may be able to smoke him out. Better not leave it too long, though; he’s due back in Toronto on August eighth. This is what? The third.”

  “Can’t leave today though! And it takes the better part of a day to get there. But what do you think, Monty? Are you really saying I should go see him, or are you just winding me up?”

  “If you want my honest opinion, I’d strongly advise you to stay out of it, Mike. If this guy is a shyster, a fraud artist, a crook, you’re not going to get anything out of him, so what could you possibly gain by confronting him? It sounds to me as if you’ve gone as far as you can go with this. We know he wasn’t murdered. I commend you on your investigative powers, Sergeant, but it might be time to close the file and move on to your next case.”

  Brennan

  “Shall I affect a regional dialect?” the MacNeil asked her fellow conspirators in a very creditable posh British accent.

  “Perfect,” Brennan replied. “Go ahead.”

  They had all gathered in Brennan’s room Monday afternoon for the phone call to the questionably existent Abigail in London.

  MacNeil spent a few minutes on the line obtaining the number of the Public Record Office. Then she made her call. “Good afternoon. I’m hoping to reach a person who assisted me some years ago in your office.”

  “Good move,” Monty whispered, “checking to see if she was there years ago.”

  MacNeil continued, “I believe her name was Abigail, though I’m not absolutely certain of that. Lovely. Thank you.” She gave her co-conspirators a thumbs-up.

  Michael said, “She exists!” Then, concerned, “What’s Maura going to say?”

  “Have no fear, Michael,” Brennan assured him. “She’s never at a loss for words.”

  They fell silent and gave their full attention to the telephone.

  “Yes? Abigail? I don’t know whether you’ll remember me or not. My name is Blythe Badgely-Venables.”

  Br
ennan had to make a conscious effort not to snort with laughter.

  “Rather a mouthful, I know, and you may not recall the name. But perhaps you’ll have some recollection of the assistance you afforded me. It would have been four or five years ago. I was inquiring about a man my grandfather had in his employ. Did work about the grounds. Simple sort of fellow by the sound of it, not all there. Sad. Collins was his name.”

  Brennan smiled across the room at poor Collins.

  “There was a scandal. Something to do with the animals, something ghastly, well, the less said the better. And the poor devil had to be dismissed. Those were harsher times, and I’ve always wondered what became of him. He had a cottage full of children. But pardon me for running on. I had asked you back then about the poorhouse records. Does any of this sound familiar? No? Well, of course, why should it? I can only imagine the number of requests you get in the run of a week. What’s that? It was in, uh, Staffordshire. Oh! Blurton, did you say? Splendid! I’ll look into it. Thank you so much, Abigail. Cheerio!”

  She hung up and faced the men in triumph. Retaining her British speech patterns, she announced, “Abigail Howard is alive and well and working in the Public Record Office and was doing so five years ago. And Collins,” she added, giving him a pitying look, “you might find records of your family’s unfortunate stay in the Blurton Poorhouse. Lovely word, isn’t it? Blurton. Suits you to a T, I daresay.”

  Brennan began the applause, and everyone joined in.

  “Well done, Blythe!” he enthused in an accent matching hers. “Smashing performance!”

  “Now what?” she said in her normal voice.

  “After all that, we can hardly just leave her there,” said Michael. “She’s a resource waiting to be tapped. Now that we know she’s real, we may have to give some credit to Motor Mouth McCrum for having at least part of the story right. I say we go over and meet her,” he urged them.

  “We can’t gang up on her,” MacNeil warned. “One or two of you go, and see what you can find out. And you’ll need a cover story.”

  “I don’t suppose,” Brennan said, “that she’ll fall for Collins getting released from Blurton at this late date.”

  “I’d say not. She sounded very bright, very precise, and well-spoken.”

  “Did she sound like a temptress?” Monty asked.

  “Not to me, but then, who knows what wiles she’ll use on you lot?”

  “All right,” Monty said, “Brennan and Michael —”

  “Oh, not me, Monty,” Michael demurred. “If there’s a cover story, I’d never be able to pull it off. I’m not a good liar at all.”

  “We believe you, Mike,” Brennan said.

  “Okay. Monty and Brennan go as plumber and seducer, or in some other capacity. You guys figure it out.”

  “Here’s the story,” Monty declared. “And it only requires Brennan. Two of us would look as if we’re tag-teaming her. Brennan goes in dressed, not as a lounge lizard but as a plainclothes detective.” He turned to Michael. “Are you sure you want to duck this assignment, Sergeant O’Flaherty?”

  “It pains me to admit it, but I’m sure. Besides, I think she’d suspect I’m a few years past retirement age for a copper. We’ll unleash Brennan on her. If she gets out of line, as she may have done with Madigan, Brennan has a more intimidating persona than I could ever work up myself!”

  “And,” MacNeil put in, “if she tries her feminine wiles on him, Father Burke will be immune to all that, saintly priest of God that he is. That’s why we can’t send Monty. He’d only lie down on the job.”

  “You might be surprised to hear that a few young ladies have given old Monty the eye over here, and I have been a model of decorum.”

  “You’re right. I would be surprised. But let’s get on with the program. What is Brennan going to say to Abigail?”

  “Are you people daft?” Brennan remonstrated.

  Monty ignored him. “He’s going to say he’s an inspector with the Dublin police, the Garda Síochána. How about Detective Inspector Jack McGuire?”

  “Yes!” MacNeil concurred. “Put him in a trench coat, stick a fedora on his head and a cigarette in his mouth, and he’s definitely a Jack McGuire.”

  “And he’s investigating Edward Madigan on another matter. A sensitive matter but not an international one. We don’t want her running to the authorities over there if we can help it. How about this? Madigan is being investigated for a series of incidents that took place over a period of several years in the mid- to late 1980s. We have heard that he may have been out of the country, that is, in England, at the time of one of these episodes. Her name, and that of the Public Record Office, came up in the investigation. We’re trying to determine exactly where he was at that time. The whole point is to get her talking about him, see if we can find out what happened, if anything. Think you can handle that, Burke?”

  “Do I get to take Motor Mouth McCrum by the throat and squeeze if all this turns out to be for nothing? Which I suspect it will?”

  “The witness is being unresponsive, My Lord. Please answer the question.”

  “Let me answer your question this way: I don’t think there will be anything to handle, and I’ll be out of there in five minutes. The reason I’m willing to take part in this absurd little pantomime is that my sister is in London this week, and I’ll have a visit with her.”

  “Brigid?” Maura asked.

  “Maire, better known as Molly.”

  “Where does she come in the family? She’s the oldest, isn’t she?”

  “That’s right. She teaches history at the University of London but has been in Monserrat all summer doing research.”

  “Remind me to put in for a sabbatical studying the legal system in Monserrat when I get home,” Maura said. “She’s obviously got a good thing going.”

  “True enough,” Brennan agreed. “Now she’s home in London for a few days, so I’ll have a night on the town with her.”

  Michael

  Michael caught up on all the latest news when he dropped in to Christy’s early Monday evening. He knew of course all about the vandal’s body being discovered, knew that the amateur investigation Brennan was conducting with Michael’s assistance had become a murder investigation, and that he and Brennan were way out of their league. The Garda Síochána were on the job. But Michael had had a little chat with Brennan about it all. Brennan’s understanding of his uncle’s wishes in the matter was that, whatever was behind the graffiti and the murder, Finn wanted to know about it before the police did. So, in that way at least, nothing had changed. One of the things that piqued Michael’s interest was the report that the guards had been spotted in the Bleeding Horse. The way he heard it, they went in looking for someone but did not ask anyone where the person was. A sensitive matter? Maybe, maybe not. It could be something minor or routine. But Michael knew one of the regulars at the Bleeding Horse, so why not stop in for a casual visit and do a little probing? He looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. He knew Bill McAvity worked during the day at his auto repair shop and arrived at the pub after that. Michael decided to take a walk across the Liffey to the Southside.

  The barman at the Bleeding Horse recognized Michael and nodded when he entered the pub. Michael looked around, but McAvity was not in his usual spot. Delayed at work, perhaps. Michael sat at the bar and ordered a pint of Smithwick’s, which he knew was brewed on the property of a Franciscan abbey in Kilkenny. Wouldn’t that be a nice sideline to develop back home at St. Bernadette’s! He drank his pint slowly, nursed it so to speak, while he waited for Nurse McAvity to make his appointed rounds. But by seven forty-five there was no sign of him. Michael asked the barman whether Bill had been in. No, he had not. Michael thanked him and went on his way.

  He took a turn in the confessional at the Aughrim Street church when he got back to Stoneybatter. A smattering of penitents came and went, absolved of the
minor transgressions they believed had besmirched their immortal souls. Some of the words, deeds, thoughts, and omissions reported were so mild that even Michael, with his overdeveloped conscience, would not have taken the trouble to confess them. But then came the Dark Lady of Drimnagh. She was a single mother who got caught peddling drugs and went to jail. Her four children were put in foster care as a result. The day she was released on parole, she went on a bender and got picked up for disturbing the peace. This was a breach of her parole, so she went back in the slammer. When she got out the next time, she attended a meeting with her social worker to arrange the return of her children to her council flat. She left the meeting to walk home and get the place ready for the return of her family, but she stopped into her local, met an old boyfriend, got drunk with him, and they got into a row. She belted him in the eye, and he hit her back, knocking out a front tooth. She stumbled away, spotted a car with its engine running and nobody in it, hopped in, and stole it. Inevitably — it was inevitable to Michael, if not to her — she got stopped by the gardaí and was charged with theft and with drink driving. When she finally served all her time and was reunited with her children, she struck one of them in anger, and the child fell down the stairs; the woman was charged with assault, and the whole cycle started up again. The only surprise to Michael was her presence in the confession box, her apparently sincere craving for forgiveness. In addition to his spiritual guidance, he urged her to seek help and offered a number of suggestions.

  Nobody came into the confessional after the Dark Lady left. Michael wondered, as he always did at times like this, how people could let their lives spiral so far out of control, how they kept making the same bad decisions over and over again. Every time there was a fork in the road, they chose the wrong way. Every single time. He said a prayer for the woman but, as strong as his faith in God was, his faith in the poor, sad penitent was fragile. God would rain down His grace upon her, but she was a creature with free will and, if Michael had learned anything about human nature in his long, long life, he knew she would keep taking the wrong fork in every road ahead of her until she died as she had lived, in squalor.