Death in the Burren

by John Kinsella

  He noted with interest, but to no particular purpose, that the majority, nine, were girls.

  An American family of five, husband and wife, mid to late forties with two girls and a boy, late teens to early twenties, had arranged through a New York travel agent to take the course.

  McAllister was to learn later that both husband and wife were freelance authors who syndicated articles on, “…the wonders of the natural world.”, as they put it to him, to magazines and other publications.

  Jack Cameron and Andy O’Lochlen also sat in but this did not surprise McAllister as he had heard of O’Lochlen’s particular interest in the flora and fauna of the Burren and hoped he had shed some new light on this endless subject for him.

  Four French tourists completed the group, a married couple and two men who had come to the Burren to paint in oils and who were apparently fascinated by Piper’s work.

  When formal questions were finished Patsy McBride announced the arrangements for the next day’s itinerary, which included the visit to Poll Salach, and then the group broke up into discussions over tea, coffee and sandwiches.

  McAllister, a perfectionist by nature, circulated through the room to assess in more detail how his talk had been received, to answer individual questions, and, frankly, although he would not readily admit it, to enjoy being the centre of attention for a while.

  Finally he found himself talking to O’Lochlen and Cameron, who were very complimentary.

  “I was particularly interested in your classification methods,” admitted the former, “naturally many of the plants you mentioned are very familiar to me but the scientific approach to their study must be most absorbing.”

  “That’s true,” agreed McAllister, “ and your interest is all the more fascinating to me as you are essentially a man of the sea, as I understand it.”

  O’Lochlen’s eyes narrowed momentarily and he and Jack Cameron exchanged a glance.

  However O’Lochlen noted McAllister’s quizzical expression and quickly recovered.

  “A man of the sea, yes but I do spend some of my time on land.”

  He laughed uneasily and went on, “Like you I have laughed at ants as they raced about the stems of the twayblade orchid mindlessly helping in the pollination process.”

  McAllister couldn’t resist a smile. “One of the more bizarre jokes of Nature I must admit. Have you seen this happening?”, he turned to Cameron.

  The steely grey eyes regarded him intently, “No, I regret I’m not a great observer of ants and plants,” the Scot replied with dry humour.

  “Talking of the sea, how have you been managing to fish since Des Hyland’s death?”, McAllister enquired of O’Lochlen, who seemed rather taken aback by the change of subject.

  “Oh managing well enough,” he said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “By the way,” he went on, “how is that Garda friend of yours getting on with his investigation? Haven’t they charged Holland with Des’s murder?”

  “Yes, on the face of it things looks bad for Frank but I suspect the situation is not as straightforward as it seems on the surface.”

  “Really!” O’Lochlen was keenly interested. “Why do you say that?”

  “Just my opinion. I’ve known Frank Holland for a long time and he’s simply incapable of such an act.”

  “Maybe so.” O’Lochlen replied. “But there’s been something going on between those two ever since Holland opened up his business here last Spring. Des wasn’t a great talker but I knew him well enough to sense a problem. Last Monday’s incident wasn’t the first time they exchanged words. I’m not so sure that your theory about Holland would convince somebody who saw how he behaved on that occasion.”

  McAllister had to admit that O’Lochlen had a point and nodded soberly.

  “It would be a short step for his anger to drive him to do something more drastic given the provocation.” O’Lochlen went on, “Ask your Garda friend what he thinks about that next time you see him.” He added with emphasis.

  As he listened to O’Lochlen, McAllister was reminded of Patsy McBride’s remark that morning at Gregans Castle Hotel. He recalled her words, “It’s not good losing one’s cool like that. Anger can lead anywhere you know. Very hard to control once it escapes out of the bottle” and somehow began to doubt the certainty of his feelings about Frank.

  “Indeed, it would be difficult to dispute what you say, on the face of it.” McAllister responded to O’Lochlen.

  “More than difficult given the new evidence I’ve heard about.” O’Lochlen added with some vigour. “I have more than a little interest in this murder you know. I’ve lost a colleague, my work has inevitably been compromised and I want a clearer explanation as to what exactly happened and why it happened. Des had no family to speak of and I feel as the person closest to him that I owe him that much at least. I’m sure you will understand that I have more than a passing interest in seeing justice done for him.”

  Patsy loomed. “Sorry to break up this cosy chat but Monsieur Lautier from Cherbourg and his companion Monsieur Noir are just bursting to speak to you, John. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

  She beamed at O’Lochlen and Cameron, and whisked McAllister away before they could react.

  “Now, here’s Mr. McAllister for you at last. These gentlemen have come from France on a painting trip and are so excited by your lecture tonight, and what is to come later in the week, that they simply have to meet you personally. Monsieur Lautier assures me that the studies with you will have an inevitable effect on their work here in the Burren.”

  McAllister shook hands and was greeted warmly by the two young French artists who assured him that they were finding their whole experience in the Burren quite overwhelming. The natural beauty of the place had enchanted them and seemed to offer endless prospects for their work. Now having been drawn into close study of the flora by McAllister’s opening talk, in the presence moreover of Raymond Piper’s oil paintings, had pushed their Gallic susceptibilities almost beyond breaking point.

  McAllister was amused by their fresh enthusiasm and enjoyed their company as they pressed him with questions on a whole range of subjects and enquired about areas of the Burren which they should see when the course was completed.

  Their conversation was so intense that McAllister didn’t notice Con Curtis’s arrival, and became aware of his presence only when he glanced up momentarily and saw him talking with Patsy McBride.

  Curtis caught his eye and waved a greeting and then McAllister was reminded of his discussion with O’Lochlen and the whole business about Frank Holland.

  He brought his discussion with the French artists to a conclusion as smoothly as he could and made his way over to Curtis.

  McAllister intended asking Curtis about the progress of his investigations into the Hyland murder case, but noticing that O’Lochlen and Cameron were now standing in conversation close by decided to delay raising the matter.

  Curtis however had his own agenda and expressed a particular interest in McAllister’s conversation with the Frenchmen.

  “What did you say they were doing here?” he asked, making no great effort to keep his voice down, “oil painting?”

  “Well, yes, they’re on a painting holiday and have simply decided to take in my lectures and field trips as well. They feel it would add to their work to do some intensive study in the area.”

  “Oh do they now?” Curtis conjectured, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

  “Would you do me a favour, John?” he went on, “Would you keep an eye on them when they are with your group and note anything you think might be suspicious.”

  “Certainly Con, but I really haven’t the faintest idea what you are asking me to do. Everything could be considered suspicious unless you give me some inkling as to what you are looking for.” McAllister tried to keep his voice down as he noticed O’Lochlen and Cameron, who were still nearby, taking an obvious interest in his conversation with Curtis.

  “Just trust me John.�
� Curtis said with a knowing wink.

  “Could this have anything to do with your investigations?”

  Curtis wasn’t any more forthcoming. “Just trust me.” he repeated. “You could be a great help if you keep your eyes on them for me. I’m relying on you now.”

  And having said that he departed abruptly leaving McAllister totally baffled. It was however a state of mind to which he was becoming more accustomed as his time in the Burren went on.

  “I couldn’t avoid hearing that.” O’Lochlen was standing beside him again. “Was he linking those Frenchmen to the murder investigation?”

  “It sounded like it, but I really have no idea what’s in Con’s mind. If you ask me to be objective about it I would have to say he was showing signs of senility.”

  O’Lochlen laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far, but he certainly seems to have left you with a ridiculous task.”

  “Well I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. After all he is a senior Garda and has plenty of men at his disposal for surveillance work. I have enough concerns at the moment without regarding my course members as murderers.”

  “Maybe I could be of some help.” O’Lochlen went on. “I was thinking of stopping by Poll Salach in the morning to meet up with your party and if I now make a point of doing so I’ll be able to take a particular interest in your French artists for you. For a while at least.”

  McAllister was surprised. “You must know Poll Salach like the back of your hand, Andy. There’s very little I could point out to you that you haven’t seen already down there.”

  “Well you’ve renewed my interest in the natural beauties of this area tonight and maybe I’ll see sea lavender, orchids and mayweed in an entirely new light from now on. What do you think, Jack?”

  “It’s up to you.” Drawled the stocky Scot. “Go along if you think it would be of use to McAllister here, now that he’s doing undercover work for the Gardaí.”

  O’Lochlen laughed again, but McAllister wasn’t sure if Cameron was mocking him.

  “Oh, I think we’ll leave it at that for now.” said O’Lochlen. “I’d better be going and will probably see you in the morning.”

  “O.K.” said McAllister. “Thank you for your interest and for coming tonight. I’m delighted you found my lecture interesting.”

  “Of all the people who might blow in here tonight those two are the last I would have expected.” Patsy loomed when they had gone.

  “O’Lochlen seems keen enough. He’s a natural observer and is very much aware of his surroundings. Not surprising really now that I have spoken with him. Incidentally, he has offered me help with something.”

  He drew Patsy aside and having told her of his conversation with Curtis looked at her with concern.

  “You will be straight with me, Patsy, if you’re finding it difficult keeping things going here for me, and running Susan’s business at the same time. I’m certain we can cut corners at this end.”

  “All under control. I spoke to Susan earlier. She’s taken over now. It’s easier than she suspected, so I’ve eased out and let her get more involved. Don’t worry, I’m in constant touch with her. Take my word, it’s better that way.”

  CHAPTER 11

  ON MONDAY MORNING the sky was unexpectedly overcast with heaped up clouds surging in from the ocean on a powerful south-west wind. Heavy with accumulated moisture they unloaded their excess weight, on being pressured upwards by the obtuse Burren hills, and sped inland with renewed energy.

  The wind attacked the exposed Atlantic Guest House. At times it fluttered and whipped at the structure like an alien horde, as if frantically seeking a grip to shake the building apart.

  Then suddenly transforming itself into a broad wall of almost irresistible pressure it would concentrate on attempting to sunder the entire building from it’s foundations.

  It was to this demonic symphony that McAllister awoke.

  The open window rattled as the soaked curtains cracked and danced to the command of the wind god, and his first instinct, to close it as quickly as possible, succeeded, despite the protestations of the elements, which tried to enter the room and make it their own.

  As he sat on the edge of the bed drying his feet, which had squelched uncomfortably into the carpet by the window, McAllister realised that this was the morning of his trip to Poll Salach.

  He groaned with disappointment and looked blearily out through the window in disbelief at this sudden deterioration in the weather.

  What was he to do? He looked at his watch. Seven fifteen. Still quite early. The best thing was to have breakfast and then consider whether he should telephone Gregans Castle Hotel and talk with Patsy McBride.

  McAllister made his way to the empty dining room at eight o’clock and, thanks to the personal attention of Aoife, emerged half an hour later, after a substantial breakfast, feeling better able to cope with whatever decisions he would have to make.

  He looked out to sea and his hopes rose when he saw that the sky had lightened to the south-west. McAllister’s experience of Ireland’s west coast oceanic climate told him that a significant improvement in conditions would quickly follow and he returned to his room with a lighter heart. His judgement was proved correct when he re-emerged from the guest house, loaded with equipment, to go to his car, and saw that the wind had abated to a surprising degree, and was now coming from a more southerly direction.

  In the meantime, a telephone call to Patsy confirmed that he was on his way, and that the group was ready to set out as scheduled. They arranged to meet at Poll Salach.

  As McAllister had a short three mile journey south, while Patsy’s party had to make the longer trip from Gregans Castle Hotel, through Lisdoonvarna and Ballinalacken, he took a leisurely pace and enjoyed the early morning drive along the coast road.

  Despite the vexations, mysteries and indeed horrors of the past week he felt a sense of healing and renewal as he drove once more along this primeval frontier between sea and land. The age old hostilities between them, which had been re-enacted last night, were moderating, and these ancient elements were once more agreeing on a period of peace.

  He reached Poll Salach before the minibus, gratefully eased himself from the Sierra and took a deep breath. The quality of the air was intoxicating, giving him a feeling of elation, and the breeze flicked playfully at his hair. The demons of last night had tamed and mutated into sylph like creatures eager to beguile him, and he submitted to their charms as he closed his eyes and rested his arm on the open car door, his face turned to the strengthening sun.

  McAllister could have stayed in this reverie indefinitely but the distant hum of an engine signalled an end to this coalescence with his primal surroundings.

  The sound of the approaching minibus faded and strengthened alternately as it negotiated the twisting roadway and rose and fell with the contours of the land.

  McAllister waited with mixed feelings for it’s arrival, somehow hoping, almost willing, that it would never reach him, so that he could return to his sensuous daydreaming.

  It was not to be, however, and he was soon standing in the shadow of the noisy minibus watching the magisterial figure of Patsy McBride descend from the doorway as if she were claiming this part of the Burren territory for some higher authority.

  Her troops filed out and grouped themselves around her with an air of expectancy as they all looked towards McAllister.

  “I surrender,” he quipped in mock terror. “I promise not to resist.”

  They laughed, but in some puzzlement because they could not quite appreciate the effect of the tableau from his viewpoint.

  Patsy smiled briefly, but was too concerned with the details of organisation to enter into the spirit of McAllister’s little joke.

  The minibus driver had other journeys to make but because of the somewhat unstable weather they arranged for him to return as soon as possible, for support, in case of heavy rain.

  McAllister however had planned a long day at Poll Salach and, if
conditions permitted, they would be there until early evening, at least.

  Patsy ensured that all bags and packed lunches were unloaded from the minibus and then departed with it, as she had to make a trip to Ennis during the day.

  McAllister began by producing a rough map of Poll Salach on which he had marked four areas. He divided his group into four teams and appointed a leader to each, whose task was to ensure that the allocated area was systematically examined and all identified plants listed. The locations of unidentified plants were to be marked for subsequent reference to McAllister. He himself would move from group to group during the course of the day to assist them with their research.

  The result of their labours would be a chart of the Poll Salach area showing the pattern of plants there at that time. He himself would compile this chart from their day’s findings and use it as the basis of a lecture later in the week.

  Having given a final briefing on the range of plants they would expect to find, McAllister exhorted his students to proceed with care and respect for their unique surroundings and sent them on their way.

  He then crossed the low stone wall on the landward side of the road and walked up the slope until he found a vantage point from where he could follow the progress of all four teams. He watched in some amusement at the different degrees of thoroughness which they displayed and made mental notes for comments when he rejoined them.

  McAllister then leaned back against a rock outcrop and resumed his reverie while his eyes drifted out over the ocean, with the Galway coast and distant mountains to his right.

  As he mused on this scene he noticed out of the corner of his eye a sudden movement far up on the hill behind him. He turned sharply but there was nothing to be seen. Perhaps an animal of some sort, he thought. Resuming his daydreaming he surveyed the scene, but again became aware of a movement behind him to his right. This time it was more distant and there was a momentary flash of reflected sunlight.

  He rose to get a better view but, again, there was nothing to be seen.