Death in the Burren

by John Kinsella

“You are rather a tonic, Patsy. But I’m very much aware that you are on holiday and this type of responsibility will fall far short of your expectations for a break in the Burren.”

  “This is just it, Susan. I can go mad sitting around reading and waiting for the next meal. Liam would tell you that. Of course he’s as bad as me in his own way, so he’s in The States for a month’s golfing. Golfing, I ask you, could you think of a more imbecilic way of spending your time. Absolutely puerile.”

  Susan had been mystified by the mention of Liam but quickly realised that he must be Patsy’s husband, whom she had never met.

  “Anyway, he would be lost down here, but I couldn’t live without my few weeks in Gregans Castle and the Burren. If there’s nothing special on, like John’s project this year, I usually drum up some activity myself to work off the effects of the food. So you see, managing your business for a while is just what I need, now that we have the lectures, and all that, wrapped up.”

  “But you’ll be missing out on your creature comforts.”

  Patsy held up her right hand. “You must promise me, Susan, that this subject is now closed. I have made a decision and you’re stuck with me. Now, what do you wish me to do.”

  McAllister smiled and he winked knowingly at Susan.

  “However,” Patsy went on as she pointed the index finger of her raised hand towards the ceiling, “before we go into that I would like to say that I am very sorry about the fix you are in and about Frank being taken away by the Gardaí. I don’t know him all that well but simply cannot imagine him being involved in such a thing. That fellow Curtis must be trying to impress his superiors by making an early arrest.”

  Susan frowned. “I hope it’s as simple as that. But no, that would be a very rash thing for a professional to do. Con has nothing to prove careerwise anyway. He’s very highly regarded.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask you, in all the confusion earlier, if Con referred to the incident with Hyland the other night. Was that part of his suspicion about Frank?” McAllister asked.

  “I’m not sure if it was his suspicion, John, but he asked Frank why he felt so provoked.”

  “I see,” said McAllister thoughtfully,” but that in itself wouldn’t be sufficient reason for an arrest. What did Frank say?”

  “He confirmed my own impression. Frank maintained that he surprised even himself and it was all over before he realised what he had done. It took an awful lot out of him afterwards, as you know. He was really out of sorts. It seemed to weaken him somehow.”

  “I can understand a man reacting like that when his wife is insulted in public. Full marks I say.” boomed Patsy.

  “Yes indeed,” agreed McAllister,” but Hyland was obviously a pathetic type, hardly worth the effort. What intrigued me more was his apparent obsession with Frank’s photography. What was that about Susan, do you know?”

  “I really have no idea.” She looked blankly at them.

  “Has Frank spent a lot of time out with his cameras?”

  “Recently, yes. When we were building up the business he had no spare time but has been taking a lot of seascapes in the past few weeks. You know how Frank becomes obsessed with an idea. Some of the work he has done is really beautiful.”

  “Why would that concern Hyland?” puzzled McAllister.

  “I really have no idea. He was very drunk and presumably didn’t know what he was saying.”

  “I’m still not clear as to why Curtis took Frank away.” said Patsy.

  “I’m not too clear on that either,” admitted Susan. “Before he left, Frank told me Con’s main concern seemed to be that none of us saw Frank on Tuesday night - that combined with his anger towards Hyland. You remember, John, it was the night of the Ennis concert, and Frank slept alone because he wasn’t feeling well. He didn’t want to be disturbed when we returned and it was next morning before I saw him.”

  “Yes that’s true,” agreed McAllister, “but surely there’s nothing unusual about that. Frank was feeling out of sorts and he wanted to have an undisturbed night’s rest.”

  “Most natural thing in the world,” added Patsy. “Instinct, you know. Any animal would teach you that. Feeling a bit dodgy, so, go to ground for a while. Absolutely natural.”

  “Frank was in a very sombre mood that evening,” recalled McAllister. “He said something strange about Boccherini’s music making him sad. I can’t recall the words right now but it did strike me as a rather gloomy comment.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “However, I suppose we could go on talking like this until Doomsday.”

  McAllister looked around the room.

  The American party had left and the trio sat alone in the restaurant. The dining room staff had also departed and there was no sound to be heard. The light’s of a distant fishing boat could be seen rocking on the swell.

  They sat in silence for a moment. Susan looked totally dejected as she hunched forward at the table. She was leaning on her elbows with her hands tightly clasped, the knuckles showing white. She cried again and her two companions comforted her as best they could.

  While Susan regained her composure McAllister pondered on the seriousness of the situation. Curtis could point to a flimsy motive, and an equally flimsy theory, about Frank having an opportunity to carry out a murder because he hadn’t much of an alibi. McAllister knew in his bones that Curtis’s suspicions must be stronger than that, otherwise he would not have taken Holland in for questioning. Curtis must know something else.

  McAllister recalled the events of Tuesday night. After the concert Susan and he had some tea before retiring, and that was about it. Nothing remarkable. Then he remembered the car which woke him at 3 am. He decided to ask Susan if any of their guests were expected to return late that night.

  But not now, not while she was so upset.

  A telephone rang. Susan rose to answer it. McAllister put his hand on her shoulder and indicated that he would take the call.

  “It’s at Reception,” she said. “Thanks John.”

  The caller identified himself as Seamus Higgins, the solicitor who was acting for Frank Holland. He wanted to speak with Susan.

  She returned, white-faced, but showing an unnatural composure. They knew something was very wrong.

  “Frank has been charged. New evidence has come up and the situation is serious.”

  “Did Higgins say what the evidence is?” asked McAllister.

  “Apparently they found traces of paint from Frank’s car on the low wall at Poll Salach and, much worse, blood smears matching Hyland’s on the boot surrounds. They are on their way now to impound the car.”

  As he lay in bed that night McAllister tried to come to terms with the fact that his good friend Frank Holland might be a murderer. Not exactly an impulsive murderer, but one who was quick to grasp the opportunity afforded to him on Tuesday and use it to track down Hyland and dispose of him.

  The more he dwelt on the situation the more confused he became. How, for instance, did bloodstains get on the boot of Holland’s car? Had Frank killed Hyland in one place and then transported the body to Poll Salach? And if so why?

  More fundamentally, why did he kill him at all? No convincing motive had come McAllister’s way. But then he didn’t necessarily know the whole story.

  He could console himself, however, with the knowledge that Frank Holland, as he knew him, was simply not the type of person to kill.

  But how well did he really know Frank?

  How often had he heard of instances where people had suddenly acted out of character? Why should Frank be an exception?

  Nonetheless his gut feeling told him there was something drastically wrong with the way events were unfolding.

  The frustrating thing was there was absolutely nothing he could do.

  CHAPTER 9

  NEXT MORNING, despite a fitful night’s sleep, McAllister vowed he would have to concentrate on assembling the material for his opening lecture at Gregans Castle Hotel on the following night.
r />   It was necessary to integrate his observations at Poll Salach into this lecture so that the field trip there, next Monday morning, would be of maximum interest and benefit to his class.

  He had had a quick breakfast and noted that the restaurant was working as efficiently as usual. Susan had left early to keep an appointment with Frank’s solicitor, and to see Frank himself. Patsy McBride was enjoying her new role and making a particular success of her imposing front of house presence chatting with diners and generally creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

  McAllister laboured long into the morning. He was a fastidious worker and was not satisfied until he had organised his material into a well rounded lecture.

  This done he rose stiffly from his chair and resolved to go for a walk along the coast road to clear his head and stretch his tired limbs.

  It proved to be a good decision. A soothing breeze fluttered in from the ocean and enveloped him in a moist warm cushion of air. He enjoyed the gentle movement of the wind across his face and stopped from time to time to close his eyes and experience it to the full. He breathed deeply, feeling the balmy air fill his lungs, and soon felt the tiredness draining from his limbs.

  In this mood McAllister tried to take an objective view of the events of the past few days. He sat for a while looking out over the huge expanse of water with it’s gently flickering surface and was reassured by the normality of it all. Somehow he felt that matters must come right in the end. Perhaps he was being a naïve optimist, but what was wrong with that?

  Eventually, realising that his conjectures were unlikely to reach a more profound level, he rose and made his way back to the guest house.

  He arrived to find a couple checking in. They were in deep conversation with Patsy who beckoned to McAllister when she saw him. He joined the group and Patsy introduced him to the visitors, who had just arrived from Dublin.

  “John,” she went on, “Mr. Tynan here has just given me some disturbing news about a drowning this morning up the coast at Fanore strand. He thinks the woman involved was named O’Leary.”

  McAllister frowned. “You don’t mean Eileen,” he said in disbelief.

  “Don’t know,” Patsy went on, “ but you might like to make enquiries. You met her recently, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, over in Balfe’s place, a beautiful girl. But, hopefully, we’re jumping the gun.” He looked quizzically at Mr. Tynan.

  “We stayed in Ballyvaughan last night and, driving down this morning, noticed a commotion at Fanore, past The Rabbit Warren area. There was a Garda car, and quite a few people standing around. An ambulance was leaving. Apparently a dog belonging to a family holidaying nearby attracted them to the beach quite early with it’s persistent barking. When they went to check they discovered the body washed up on the shore.”

  “Was there a description of the girl?”

  “We heard that she was in a swimsuit and that she was tall and athletic possibly a good swimmer.”

  The Tynans completed their check in and went to their room.

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Patsy.” said McAllister. “It’s probably too soon to ring, but I think I should have a word with Con Curtis.”

  “Yes, John, I’ve had a report about the drowning but no identification so far,” Curtis responded crisply.

  “Some holidaymakers who passed Fanore this morning heard it was a swimmer. A tall athletic girl.”

  “Yes, it certainly could be Eileen. We’re checking and should have a positive identification shortly. I’ll ring when we know.”

  McAllister thanked him and turned to Patsy. “He’ll telephone. I hope my instincts are wrong.”

  “You feel it might be Eileen?”

  He smiled wryly. “Let’s wait and see.”

  He went to his room and lay on the bed. “I hope to Heavens I’m wrong about this.” He thought. “Eileen had a strange aura about her though, something fatalistic. Her playing the other night was haunting, unearthly somehow. She was the sort of person who gave the impression of having a slim hold on life, probably due to the death of her husband. Frank did say that she hadn’t come to terms with it. Sometimes a loss like that makes a wound which won’t heal and the enthusiasm for life wanes into mere existence, it can even lead to a death wish.”

  “But not in one so young,” he tried to reassure himself,” …. yet her husband had died of drowning……”

  McAllister started when the telephone rang. It was Curtis.

  “Bad news, John, I’m afraid. We’ve a positive identification on Eileen O’Leary. I’ve sent a man over to Michael Balfe to let him know. I thought that was best, he was closer to her than anybody to the best of my knowledge.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “Not really at this stage. Just a straightforward drowning I would imagine, but we will go into that. She was known to swim a lot and may simply have gotten into difficulties. It happens all the time, people should never swim alone no matter how good they are.”

  “Indeed. Well thanks Con. This is certainly a bolt from the blue. She was a beautiful girl. I think I’ll drive down and see Michael.”

  He told Patsy and was driving away when Susan arrived. She was naturally shocked and decided to come with him to see Balfe.

  As he drove they spoke of Eileen, and Susan also told him about Frank.” He’s coping quite well, and more annoyed than anything else, claiming strenuously that he was framed. He doesn’t bear any grudge against Curtis and readily understands having to be questioned. Higgins is making his own investigations and seems confident enough about the outcome, although he wouldn’t be specific.”

  “Sounds good,” McAllister responded,” but this opens up the prospect of something very sinister going on around here. Murder, framing Frank for it and now poor Eileen drowning.”

  Susan looked at him sharply. “You’re not suggesting they’re connected.”

  “I really don’t know what I’m saying, but since I arrived here I’ve experienced a feeling of unease. Some people have been acting very strangely. Take Michael Balfe, for instance, in some dispute with that Italian manager. Hyland also, and even that car which nearly killed me at Black Head. Now we have two deaths, one of which was a deliberate calculated murder.”

  Susan looked pensive as they drove up the short hill to the Orchid Hotel entrance.

  “Death in the Burren,” he murmured.

  She shivered and recalled how she had done so the evening they passed Cloch an Oilc with Frank.

  McAllister was quite taken aback by Balfe’s appearance. He seemed to have aged considerably since the previous day. His eyes dull and sunken in his pallid face regarded them without expression.

  “I’m so sorry Michael,” Susan hugged him.

  Balfe did not respond and tears welled up in his eyes.

  McAllister shook his hand but could find no words. He felt terribly awkward and confused as they stood there. Balfe seemed incapable of reacting. It was as if he was totally numbed by Eileen’s death. He looked at them in silence and McAllister thought he was about to say something, but the moment passed and he just uttered a sigh.

  McAllister decided it would be better to leave and say they would call again later.

  “Is there anything you would like me to do? Anything at all?” Susan asked.

  Balfe just shook his head. “Thanks for calling,” he said in a whisper.

  “This confirms to me, Susan, what I was saying earlier.”

  They were driving back along the coast road both feeling somewhat puzzled when McAllister first broke the silence.

  “Do you mean about Michael?”

  He nodded. “Curtis’s man must have called only a short while before we arrived and yet Balfe seemed to me to have been in shock much longer than that.”

  “I know what you mean, John. But, on the other hand, the news must have stunned him.

  “It’s more than that, Susan. I’m convinced it’s not quite so simple. Did you notice that he wanted to say something
but couldn’t bring himself to? I wonder what was in his mind.”

  They completed the journey in silence.

  CHAPTER 10

  “AND, FINALLY, if we are prepared to search thoroughly tomorrow, and, of course, if luck is on our side, we may be rewarded by seeing some examples of Spiranthes spiralis, or, Autumn Lady’s tresses, as this tiny elusive orchid is appropriately named.”

  McAllister signalled to Patsy and a new transparency appeared on the screen.

  “You will see from this picture that it’s size, merely three inches tall at most, and it’s refined white and green colouring make it difficult to spot. It can be found at Poll Salach only during the months of August and September. “And,” he added, with a mischievous glint in his eye,” only by those who are prepared to search on hands and knees.”

  In response to the anticipated groans from his audience McAllister held up a schoolmasterish hand.

  “It’s the only way we are going to add this little pearl to our list of discoveries and furthermore it’s the only way you will experience the sweet fragrance of this very strange orchid because the scent is as shy as the plant itself. I say strange because of it’s quixotic reproductive habits which I will describe later on in the course.”

  “And now I will be happy to take your questions before we close.”

  McAllister was pleased with the response, and the questions and discussions which followed lasted for at least a half hour. He felt that the lecture had succeeded, if the rapt attention of his listeners was a guide.

  The Corkscrew Room at Gregans Castle Hotel had been set aside for the lecture and, with some ingenuity, had been temporarily reorganised to suit McAllister’s purpose. It was a most appropriate venue graced as it was by Raymond Piper’s famous oil paintings of some of the Burren’s native flowers and McAllister had Patsy McBride and the hotel management to thank for the idea and it’s implementation.

  The audience was an interesting mix. The core consisted of twelve young students, mainly from Limerick and Galway universities, who were attending McAllister’s course as a supplement to their studies.