Death in the Burren

by John Kinsella

  “I was too shaken by the speed and near calamity of the incident to think clearly,” said McAllister ruefully,” but thanks for your help. Would you believe I’d forgotten all about them between the Hyland affair and trying to catch up with my lecture scripts.”

  “Oh yes, Hyland,” said Balfe. “That’s a strange business they’re saying it might be murder. Very likely I would think.”

  “Murder did you say?” , a short stocky man of about forty joined them. He exuded strength, and his steely grey eyes regarded McAllister inquisitively from a well weathered face. Though his shock of black/grey hair was mildly unkempt he was neatly, but casually, dressed. His accent placed him as Glaswegian.

  Balfe turned to him. “That’s right, Jack. The word is going around that the Gardaí suspect murder.”

  The short man looked knowingly at Balfe. “There should be no shortage of suspects with somebody as unpopular as Hyland. I presume it’s he you’re talking about.”

  Balfe nodded. “By the way,” he went on, “meet John McAllister from Dublin. He’s staying at Holland’s place. John, this is Jack Cameron. Jack is one of our local deep sea fishermen, despite the accent.”

  “Come on let’s get some drinks for you before the music starts.”

  Cameron said he would see them later and went through an open doorway which led directly off the floodlit lawn to a lounge. McAllister saw him join a very tall, lean and slightly younger man with a peculiar stoop. They were obviously companions and McAllister smiled to himself at their mismatched sizes.

  Balfe also made his excuses as he had many things to do, “You enjoy yourself Eileen. Relax now, it’s not often you have an evening of music laid on especially for you.”

  “It’s not just for me,” she smiled as she extended her arm gracefully to indicate the guests seating themselves around the lawn.

  By this time there was a feeling of anticipation among the audience of about thirty people. McAllister organised a small table and two chairs for Eileen and himself and ordered her choice of chilled Mateus Rosé.

  To enthusiastic applause the quintet walked smartly to their seats and fine tuned their instruments. McAllister noted how different they looked in casual dress - quite a change from the formality of the previous evening. “This is much better,” he thought, “this is the right atmosphere for chamber music. Nice and intimate.”

  The leader, a young dark-haired man with a neat goatee beard, rose to speak in a melodious Italian accent.

  “Tonight we play for you with great pleasure, but especially for Eileen,” he bowed gallantly in her direction, “she did not hear our concert in Ennis and at her special request we play tonight.”

  More enthusiastic applause as Eileen smiled in acknowledgement.

  “As some of you may know,” he continued,” we are touring with the music of our fellow citizen of the beautiful Italian city of Lucca, Luigi Boccherini. He died many years ago but left much lovely music for us to enjoy including 125 quintets for groups like ours. We do not have them all for you tonight… (feigned expressions of disappointment from the assembled listeners)..but we do have Eileen’s favourite, the one which has the famous minuet. I am certain you will all recognise it.”

  He sat down to prolonged applause and soon the music of sunny Italy was infusing the balmy night air of the Burren.

  McAllister was reminded of how serene he had felt the previous Tuesday morning when looking down the valley towards Ballyvaughan from the grounds of Gregans Castle Hotel. As he listened and let his gaze move across the starfilled sky and then to the placid ocean, out towards the twinkling lights on the Aran Islands, the words of the poet Joseph Campbell came to him, …..

  “The sense of the mystery and infinity of things overwhelms me, annihilates me almost.

  I kneel down, and silently worship.”

  He could see in Eileen’s expression, as she listened intently to the music, that she was also very moved by the experience and he wished Ann was by his side.

  Eventually the quintet finished with a flourish and the listeners showed their warm appreciation. They played an encore, and then as informality set in the leader played some solo music by Bach.

  As he acknowledged the applause he walked towards Eileen and took her hand. He led her back among his colleagues and turning to the audience said, “ Now that we have had the pleasure of playing for you and Eileen we have a request to make. We know that she is also a musician, apart from her other talents, and our wish is that Eileen would play now for us.”

  She was taken aback but, entering into the spirit of the evening, agreed readily enough. She went into the hotel and emerged a few moments later holding a gleaming silver flute.

  “I will play the most famous solo of all, Debussy’s “Syrinx”. The composer originally imagined it to be played by the ancient god Pan, as a lament for the dead nymph Syrinx.”

  A chair was placed for Eileen near the centre of the lawn and the listeners drew closer forming a rough semicircle in front of her.

  As she began to play McAllister was struck by the richness and purity of the sound she made. It seemed to fill the air around them. The long arch of the first beautiful lonely phrase floated on the air and he imagined it rising gently up the slopes behind them and into the ether to be lost forever. Then there were questioning phrases as if Pan was trying to come to terms with his loss. These became more earnest, and the opening melody soared up even higher with a burning intensity, before sinking down into the strangely rich hollow throbbing notes at the bottom of the flute’s register, in a mood of infinitely sad resignation.

  There was a long silence when Eileen had finished playing and then the entire audience rose as one to give her a standing ovation. McAllister however was very disturbed by what he had heard. He read into the performance Eileen’s own personal tragedy and sense of loss, and he felt very concerned for her.

  The emotion in her playing was a revelation to him and he went to congratulate her.

  Eileen gripped his hand warmly and despite her smile he could see that her eyes told another story. She looked at him earnestly and made as if to say something, but then turning away suddenly she resumed her seat and began to play a set of intricate reels in stunning style and with infectious rhythm.

  The audience were roused to dancing and in no time the Italian musicians became involved, at first improvising falteringly but soon learning the steps and joining in with Mediterranean gusto.

  This development set the pattern for the remainder of the evening. Eventually the merrymaking moved indoors and the dancing, to the accompaniment of traditional players who seemed to emerge from nowhere, continued late into the night.

  McAllister enjoyed himself to the full but eventually dropped exhausted into a couch to catch his breath and survey the scene. He realised after a while that Eileen was nowhere to be seen and then with a strange sense of dejavu he glimpsed through a half open door the manager of the quintet obviously in heated argument with Michael Balfe.

  This seemed to be a more intense sequel to what he and Susan had seen in Ennis Cathedral on Tuesday evening.

  McAllister’s thoughts were interrupted by a voice at his side. It was the quintet leader with the goatee beard.

  “Did you enjoy the music, signor. You were at Ennis, too?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said McAllister,” this was a rare treat to hear you play a second time. Perhaps tomorrow night as well?”

  The Italian smiled, “ That would be nice but tomorrow night we will be in Dublin to play in your National Concert Hall. We leave in the morning.”

  “Oh well, “ McAllister returned the smile, “ at least I will have my memories. The music sounded so wonderful outdoors.”

  “That is true. We play outdoors in Italy many times.”

  “Now let me offer you a drink to show my appreciation,” said McAllister.

  His companion accepted readily and soon they were joined by two other members of the group. McAllister found that, like other profession
al musicians he knew, they had their own brand of dry humour, and that paradoxical mixture of love for, and irreverence towards, their art.

  He enjoyed himself, and some time later was surprised, on glancing at his watch, that it was almost two o’clock.

  The Italians decided to call it a night and McAllister, who was by then a little over the top, found himself arranging to call over in the morning to say good-bye to his new found friends.

  At this point Eileen joined the group and seemed to McAllister to be quite agitated.

  However, his mental powers were not at their keenest, and when he thought about it later he was not certain that his perception had been correct. She did, though, earnestly make as if to say something to McAllister, but Balfe appeared and put his arm affectionately on her shoulder.

  Soon afterwards they made their farewells, and McAllister drove back to the Atlantic Guest House with that excess of care usually associated with learner drivers.

  CHAPTER 7

  FRIDAY MORNING dawned to the sound of pounding anvils and McAllister wondered if he had woken in the middle of some unearthly cataclysm.

  It took him some time to realise that these sound effects and the demented yo-yo trying to burst alternately through the top and sides of his head were but the price of his overindulgence the previous evening.

  He groaned and winced rhythmically to the demands of the demon yo-yo, wondering why he had been so foolish.

  Past experience had shown that the worst thing he could do now was to lie in bed feeling sorry for himself, so he made the supreme effort and about half an hour later nervously entered the dining room and sat at a corner table as far away as possible from any source of daylight.

  Luckily Aoife was on duty that morning. She caught a glimpse of McAllister arriving and realising all was not well came over to speak to him.

  “It’s just foolishness, Aoife, nothing that some black coffee won’t cure.”

  “I may be able to do a bit better than that, Mr. McAllister, if you’ll leave it to me.” She gave him an amused smile.

  “ Okay, doctor, I’m in your hands.” He looked wanly in return, not able, at this stage, to raise a smile.

  Some moments later she placed a long glass before him containing a yellowish frothy liquid.

  “This is my own secret formula. It has never been known to fail, Mr. McAllister. You’ll see,” and she left him to it.

  Trustingly he drank the potion and the beneficial effects, although gradual, were almost immediately noticeable. The blacksmiths began to play their anvils in a more sympathetic fashion and the yo-yo decided to slowly come to rest.

  “This is miraculous, Aoife,” he said, when she came to enquire some time later, “ tell me what was in that brew?”

  “Sorry Mr. McAllister, that’s a trade secret. Anyway, if I told you, you’d be more inclined to go on a binge again sometime. So it’s for your own good that you don’t know. Now I recommend a large pot of tea and some toast and you’ll be as right as rain.”

  He settled for that and soon felt well enough to set out for the Orchid Hotel.

  He arrived to find the Quintetto di Lucca loading their cases into the hotel minibus, which was to bring them to Galway. From there they would take the train to Dublin.

  His bearded friend, whom he now knew as Giuseppe Caminiti, and his companions greeted McAllister warmly.

  Michael Balfe was again in conversation with the quintet manager, but for once their attitude to each other seemed more businesslike than antagonistic as they stood at the reception desk.

  “Now let us have a last drink before we say bye bye,” Giuseppe suggested.

  McAllister and his new found friends chatted amiably at the bar for a while, although he confined himself to sparkling water and, with this, he toasted them and wished them success on the remainder of their tour.

  Some onlookers added their good wishes and they all drank a toast to the memory of Luigi Boccherini. McAllister then found himself making an unlikely promise to visit Lucca when the opportunity arose.

  Andy O’Lochlen, Jack Cameron and his tall friend had, by this time, joined Balfe and the group manager in conversation.

  When the minor festivities came to an end farewells were completed and the minibus departed down the driveway towards the coast road and Galway.

  “You seem to have been quite a hit with the group,” said Balfe as he and his companions stood in the hotel entrance.

  “Have you met Peter Considine, by the way?”

  McAllister shook hands with Cameron’s tall, slightly stooped, companion. Considine struck him as a most colourless individual whose most notable features were gapped teeth, top and bottom, and an ability to almost break finger bones in an uncouth handshake.

  Anxious to get back to the work, from which he had been distracted so often, McAllister avoided any possibility of further diversion and soon departed.

  However, his plans were to be dashed once again.

  He reached the Atlantic Guest House as two Garda cars were driving away at speed in the direction of Lisdoonvarna. McAllister caught a glimpse of Con Curtis and Frank Holland in the leading car.

  He found a confused scene inside.

  Susan, Aoife and other members of the staff were clustered at the reception desk being questioned by two men. A photographer was taking shots, particularly of Susan and she appeared to be in some distress.

  Realising there had been a Press invasion McAllister whisked Susan into the comparative quietness of the office behind the reception desk.

  “What in Heaven’s name is going on, Susan?” he asked.

  “It’s Frank,” she said in a hushed voice, “ they have arrested him on suspicion of murdering Hyland.”

  McAllister felt a stab of pain in his heart.

  “That’s absurd,” he gasped.

  “I know, but Curtis said certain evidence had come to light and he had to act on it”

  “What evidence?”

  “Oh, something to do with Frank’s car. I’m not really sure. I was so confused by the whole thing, John. I didn’t really understand what they were saying.”

  “And where are they taking him now?”

  “To Ennis, for questioning. Oh, I’m so frightened, John, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Is there anything we can do? Will Frank need legal help? And what am I going to do here with the guest house?”

  “You’d better leave it to me for the moment,” said McAllister, suddenly realising that it was up to him to establish order and assess what could be done.

  His immediate task was to clear the reception area and he firmly persuaded the reporters to leave.

  He then went back to Susan and discussed solicitors. A telephone call sorted that out.

  “Now what are we going to do with this place?”

  Susan just looked at him numbly.

  “I’m sure everyone will help out as much as they can,” Aoife chipped in, “you can count on me anyway Mrs. Holland. I’ll do anything extra you need me to.”

  Susan smiled her thanks.

  “That goes for me too, Susan,” said McAllister, “but with Frank away, and with you under this pressure, what we need is a somebody to take the strain off you for a while. A figurehead. I wonder … it’s a bit revolutionary but I think I’ve got the answer. I wonder would she take it on?”

  “Who?”

  “Patsy McBride. Patsy could manage an armoured division, let alone a guest house. Shall I ask her Susan? It’s up to you. She’s organising my lectures and field trips but they’re a mere trifle to her. What do you think?”

  “Well if she wouldn’t mind it certainly would be a relief. Frank will need all the support I can give him until we sort out this mess.”

  At this, Susan suddenly burst into tears and McAllister comforted her as best he could but she had to give way to her feelings after the shock of Frank’s arrest.

  They eventually persuaded her to take a rest, if possible to sleep.

  McAllister then d
ecided it would be better if he called on Patsy rather than telephone, so he set off once again, towards Gregans Castle Hotel.

  As if to deliberately compound the joylessness of his situation a strong wind had built up carrying with it heavy rain clouds which were soon lashing and buffeting the Sierra. It took all his concentration to keep the car on course and for a time his windscreen wipers, even on full speed, were barely able to cope with the downpour.

  Matters improved somewhat when he passed Poll Salach and turned inland towards Lisdoonvarna leaving the more exposed coast road behind him.

  Fifteen minutes later as he turned into the driveway of Gregans Castle Hotel the typical Atlantic coast rainstorm was beginning to lift. He hoped his idea would go down well with Patsy.

  Maybe the passing of the storm was a signal that matters would take a more optimistic turn from here on.

  There were so many concerns weighing on him just at this moment that McAllister felt both he and Susan could do with some good news.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE DINING ROOM AT THE ATLANTIC RESTAURANT was almost empty after evening dinner and the staff were putting the finishing touches to settings for the following morning’s breakfast. Most of the tables had been completed and two now remained occupied.

  A party of six American tourists, whose flight into Shannon had been delayed, and who had arrived just in time to catch dinner, were completing their meal. At the other table sat Susan Holland, McAllister and the majestic figure of Patsy McBride they were having coffee.

  Even though she spoke in relatively subdued tones Patsy McBride’s voice rumbled around the room in an arresting manner.

  “Not at all, Susan. When John put the idea to me I instantly saw it as a challenge which I couldn’t walk away from. Look, (a), you and Frank need somebody to run this place for a while, (b), I’m willing and able. So, let’s get on with it.”

  Even Susan, who was in quite a depressed state, could not resist a smile at Patsy’s bluntness.