Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13)

by Alanna Knight

  How about those reinforcements Dublin promised, he was about to say when she turned to him imploringly. ‘There is another problem if you don’t see it. Uncle Desmond in his retirement is now one of our community here. And, like everyone else, his existence - his personal safety –depends on steering well away from the Cara boys. He has a very nice home, peace and quiet for his old age, and he wants it to stay that way.’ The grim shake of her head allowed him to complete the picture.

  What about my retirement and our lives together, thought Faro, with rising feelings of indignation as she continued in a somewhat mollifying tone:

  ‘He thought that you, being a stranger and a famous detective, might wield more power.’

  Faro ignored that and asked, ‘Does anyone know what the Cara lads had against the Donnellys?’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘The rumour was that Peg was delivering eggs to the house - she keeps hens. They were drunk and they raped her. It’s a very sordid story but these things happen here. Will was away in Tralee at the time and she swore they got her pregnant.’

  Faro took this in. Logically, the murder should have been by the outraged Will defending his sweetheart’s virtue rather than the other way round.

  ‘What happened to the baby?’

  ‘Peg miscarried.’ Something in Imogen’s tone hinted that this particular miscarriage had been assisted and debarred further questioning.

  She regarded him sadly as she unwrapped smoked salmon sandwiches. ‘You must help, Faro. When you meet the Caras, you’ll see what it’s like. You’ll get the same reply as Conn. They will laugh and say, "We know nothing about a murder. Prove it." And, if Paddy is pushed forward, if he dares, they’ll just laugh and say again, "Who is going to take the word of the village simpleton against us? If any do, then they had been better watch out, for we have long memories and their lives won’t be worth living."’

  Faro’s appetite for Imogen’s delicious picnic had faded away. Why had he ever come to Kerry? Why hadn’t he arranged to meet her in Paris or in Heidelberg where they had many friends? Anywhere but here!

  At that moment, as he watched a train steaming across the country in the direction of Dublin, he wished with all his heart that they were both on it and heading away from the last thing he ever wanted - yet another murder case.

  The sky had clouded over. A sudden chill in the air faded the bright colours and turned the landscape into a washed-out watercolour. Trees and bushes shed vivid greens as the cool breeze echoed like a melancholy dirge, turning their leaves inside out.

  ‘We’re in for a shower.’ Imogen shivered and watching her hastily repack the hamper, Faro’s depression deepened. He eyed it regretfully - so much for the picnic. Hardly time for half a glass of wine. The horror of the young wedding guests’ brutal murder had destroyed all thoughts of what he had expected and so eagerly anticipated as his introduction to Carasheen and a loving reunion with Imogen.

  The brooding sky released its first raindrops and Faro took the warning to heart, guessing that, when it rained in this part of Ireland, it was seldom a mere shower but would last, heavy and unrelenting, for some time.

  As they clambered downhill and boarded the pony cart, Imogen took the reins and the horse trotted briskly down the narrow lane. From under the large umbrella he held aloft, Faro glimpsed a group of houses, a rural nest succoured by sheltering green hills and pastureland. Many of the houses crouched under thatching and a church steeple bravely pierced the glowering sky. Even distantly, it presented a picturesque scene where a stranger might wish to linger.

  ‘Carasheen?’ he said

  Imogen nodded and pointed to the right. ‘That’s Cara House.’

  On the hill above the village, a tall square unlovely grey house stared down upon them over the trees. Faro guessed that the whole village must be observable from its upper windows. An excellent vantage point for anyone with a telescope making it their business to keep a firm eye on comings and goings.

  As the lane widened into a road surrounding a common with an ancient Celtic cross, Imogen pointed towards the far side. ‘There’s the Cara Arms. But perhaps you’d rather see Uncle Desmond first. I’ll take you there.’

  Faro smiled. Her anxious tone and nervous glance in his direction hinted that perhaps the detective from Dublin was waiting for him and that she had promised this visit.

  The rain had momentarily ceased. Folding the umbrella he said: ‘Just let me leave my luggage at the inn, then we’ll go and see him.’

  But there was no need of that. Desmond Crowe was expecting them. Seated by the inn’s window for some considerable time, he had been consulting his watch with increasing anxiety since Imogen had gone off, full of promises, to meet Faro’s train.

  His patience was running out. Waiting made it seem like hours had gone by and it was with a great sigh of relief that he heard the trotting horse, recognised Imogen’s red hair and the tall man helping her to alight was unmistakeably Faro.

  Desmond smiled. A handsome couple indeed and immensely proud of his young cousin, he had done some research on the Inspector from Edinburgh City Police who had also served as a personal detective to Queen Victoria and had saved her life on several occasions during his career. Often regarded as a Lowland Scot, Faro was an Orcadian and, as they crossed the green towards the inn, Desmond decided that the Viking strain was still evident.

  Under thick once-fair hair now tarnished with grey, the high cheek-boned face gave no concession to gentle contours but closer inspection revealed stern lines softened by a well-shaped mouth that would have done credit to a Roman sculpture. His full lips hinted at gentleness and humour too. Perhaps an indication of vulnerability but Faro had not taken advantage of the current fashion for facial hair, Desmond thought, stroking his own luxurious beard as he hurried to the door to greet them.

  As Imogen made the introductions, Faro’s handshake was strong and firm, the eyes shrewd, piercingly blue and slightly narrowed - as might have become a watchful Viking invader. Desmond repressed an inward chuckle. Put a horned helmet on this man and you’d have the ultimate Viking - a quite extraordinary resemblance.

  He smiled. ‘Well, well, so this is the famous Chief Inspector Faro.’

  ‘Not any more,’ was Faro’s modest reply.

  Desmond smiled. ‘Come now, only the very famous are invited to address learned philosophical societies in Ireland.’

  Faro gave him a quick glance. Was there a hint of envy there, he wondered, following Desmond into the snug where a substantial dram of whiskey was immediately slid across the table towards him.

  ‘Slainte!’ A very welcome toast. Faro relaxed and so did Imogen, who gazed delightedly from one to the other.

  Casually taking stock of Desmond, Faro sensed that he was also nervous about this first encounter. A tall man, about his own age, entirely bald, his hair having slid down into sideburns, moustache and beard, all of which hid the lower part of his face. All that was visible now were his bespectacled eyes. Large dark eyes full of melancholy, with an uneasy life of their own. Restless, they darted about the room, assessing every shadow, exploring every corner, never settling on either Imogen or himself as they spoke.

  Faro was used to making quick assessments and a first glance said that here was a perturbed and very worried man. To an observer of Faro’s calibre, those haunted eyes, mirrors of the soul, hinted that Desmond Crowe had not found happiness or contentment in his retirement. Married or a widower? It seemed that whatever he searched for and hoped to recapture in Carasheen had eluded him.

  ‘So you are at the inn,’ he was saying. ‘I would have invited you to stay at my cottage - I feel badly about that. You see, I have only one spare room, at present occupied by an American visitor here to research his family roots . . .’ Desmond stopped suddenly and Faro intercepted a quick warning glance from Imogen as he continued hastily, ‘There’s a maid’s room in the attic if you’re not entirely happy. I could move her out but I couldn’t recommend it.’

  ‘I ab
solutely forbid you to do that, sir,’ said Faro. ‘I would not think of causing such inconvenience.’ The dark, grim, panelled snug, with its spittoons and decades of stale tobacco smoke seeping through the walls, hinted gravely that the rooms upstairs might not be a great improvement but he managed a hopeful and reassuring, ‘I’m sure I will be quite comfortable here.’

  Desmond brightened at that and brought forth an eager recommendation about Tom’s good food and wine, excellent beds - and the warning that he was a bit of a gossip.

  ‘He’ll have your whole life story in the first ten minutes and the whole of Carasheen will know all there is to be known about you, including some of his own embellishments and speculations, of course, in half an hour.’

  Faro smiled and Imogen chuckled. ‘Not this gentleman, Uncle. He could give clams lessons in closeness.’

  ‘Good at keeping secrets, are you?’ laughed Desmond, hastily topping up his emptied glass. ‘A necessity in our profession, of course.’

  Suddenly his face darkened. He nodded towards Imogen: ‘You have told him?’

  Imogen sighed. ‘Yes, Uncle. But I left most of the details ... to you. I couldn’t somehow . . . bring myself . . .’ She fell silent with a weary shake of her head.

  Desmond regarded her with compassion and put a hand on her arm. ‘I don’t suppose you want to hear it all again. Well, later will do.’

  Imogen stood up. ‘No, please get on with it, Uncle. Time is getting short. It doesn’t get any easier to bear. The sooner you get it settled the better for everyone - except Peg and Will.’ With her eyes filling with sudden tears, she turned to Faro, ‘I’ll come back for you. Maeve will have made a meal for us.’

  She looked across at Desmond who nodded and said:

  ‘Give us half an hour.’

  Relieved, Imogen smiled at Faro. ‘See you later, then.’

  Chapter 3

  Watching Imogen leave, Faro felt as if he was witnessing the departure of a polite stranger. At his side, Desmond was singing her praises.

  ‘A fine lass, indeed. The whole family are proud of her. And no wonder. All that she has been through and suffered - for Ireland.’ A sigh and then, suddenly businesslike, the detective in the interviewing room took over from the genial host.

  Sitting opposite leaning his elbows on the table and regarding Faro shrewdly, he said, ‘A dreadful business this murder. Both those fine bairns killed, slaughtered like sheep. Paddy - has she told you about Paddy?’ Faro nodded and Desmond continued, ‘Sure, Paddy saw it all. They got the lad first - seized him from behind - the girl screamed, went to drag them off him . . . You can guess the rest - both were felled by that axe. God knows they died immediately but it was a terrible scene.’ For a moment, those restless eyes were still - wide open with the picture of horror he had seen indelibly seared on to them.

  He shuddered and went on, ‘No one would believe Paddy when he came back. He doesn’t speak very well - his tongue is too big for his mouth and he stutters. They could only gather that Peg and Will had crossed the path of the Caras while they were chopping wood. But when he showed them the axe they - every one of them - ran after him to where Peg and Will were lying dead and bloodied, in their Sunday best clothes.’

  Pausing, he put his hands over his face. ‘Awful it was, awful. They came for the doctor but it was too late for that. Then they came for me, knowing the police lad Conn couldn’t cope. And I have to tell you, Mr Faro, that, although I have witnessed terrible scenes, this was one I’ll remember until my dying day. I sent a telegraph to Dublin immediately, saying that we would need help and this was beyond a local village policeman. Conn goes all to pieces if he comes face to face with a poacher. Dublin said they would send someone down with a back-up team but meanwhile asked if I would take over - organise the inquest and so forth.’ Pausing again, he smiled sadly at Faro. ‘It is a huge responsibility they have set me and, quite frankly, I am not sure that I am up to it any more. Certainly not single-handed,’ he added pathetically. ‘So I will be greatly obliged, sir, if you would give me your assistance.’

  Although he no longer had Imogen’s eye upon him, Faro knew he could not refuse. The old urge was still there, to see justice done, whether he wanted it or not, whether it was inconvenient or not. He could not turn his back, gather up Imogen and walk away from the brutal murder of two innocent victims.

  ‘I’ll do what I can. Are we to arrest the Cara lads on Paddy’s evidence?’

  Desmond nodded. ‘That’s the general idea but we must walk warily. Conn took the axe into custody, for what it’s worth.’ He shrugged uncomfortably. ‘Those young villains are not going to like it and others - the folk of Carasheen - might be made to suffer. No one has ever questioned them yet and they believe they are above the law. So arrogant, Mr Faro, riding about on their black horses as if they own the entire universe. Folk speak of them as that unholy trinity. Even their names. Matthew - Mat - he’s the heir, then there’s Mark, then Luke. There was a fourth, the youngest, John, if God or the Devil had willed it to complete this quartet of villains with Biblical names, the four apostles. We’ve often wondered what John would have been like had he survived beyond his first year.’

  Faro was no coward - he had faced terrible odds in his long career. A picture was taking shape in his mind as he looked at Desmond and saw two detectives retired and well past their best days of fitness, plus the village policeman, whom he had yet to meet, who was, by all accounts, highly nervous and inexperienced. Three of them riding up that hill, confidently striding up to that grey-faced mansion, hammering on the front door, sternly accusing the Cara brothers of murder and arresting these three active strong vicious youths who were so keen on brutality and violence. Then bringing them down to Carasheen in handcuffs, keeping them under lock and key in a house near the common, one of those fragile-looking thatched dwellings, Faro supposed, that went by the imposing and unbelievable designation of ‘local police station’. His imaginary journey continued with them leading the three villains to docilely board the train in a jail van, helpfully provided by the Dublin police, in which to carry them to the High Courts for trial. He laughed out loud. If it had not been so serious, the whole idea would be ludicrous.

  Desmond coughed nervously as he solemnly observed Faro’s reactions. ‘As with all unpleasant tasks, sir, the sooner we get it over, the better. I think, in the best interests of everyone concerned, we should proceed as soon as possible, confront the unholy trinity and see what happens.’

  Faro regarded him desperately. Had the man no imagination? What he was suggesting wasn’t merely unpleasant - it was absolute madness. Trying to sound calm, he managed to gasp, ‘I think we should hold out until those reinforcements arrive.’

  Desmond shook his head. ‘Better not, Mr Faro. Can you imagine what would happen in this village if the Cara boys got wind of that? What a vengeance they would take?’ While Faro was considering a suitable argument to be put into words, taking his silence as acceptance, Desmond gave an audible sigh and eyeing Faro somewhat reproachfully, he said:

  ‘I thought you would be particularly good at confrontation, sir, with all your vast experience. No doubt you can put the fear of death into them,’ he added heartily and, before Faro could utter a word of protest, added, ‘you being a stranger here and a famous detective.’

  Faro shook his head. ‘A very forlorn hope, I fear, from all I have heard of these villains so far,’ he said, seeing Desmond’s suggested confrontation through the mocking, derisive eyes of the three Cara boys, unafraid and merely amused at two old men and a scared boy coming to arrest them. As for the ex-detective’s hopes that Faro’s presence would scare them, tales of his formidable reputation having ever reached Cara House were highly unlikely.

  ‘Tomorrow, then, shall we say?’ asked Desmond, mightily pleased and relieved. With the time arranged, he left feeling that it had not been such a struggle to enlist Faro’s help as he had originally imagined. A most agreeable man.

  After seeing him off the
premises, Faro found a silent shadow hovering to show him upstairs to his room. A great shambling bear of a man was Tom Kelly, the curious resemblance borne out by a forehead so narrow as to appear like a furrowed track separating fierce grey eyebrows from the matching bush of unruly grey hair.

  Faro followed up the dark brown staircase with its cracking paint and abominably creaking boards. At the top, a door was opened to reveal a shabby room of monastic severity. It was furnished, if such a word implying luxury and comfort could be stretched to apply to the scene before him, with bed, chair and washstand table. There was one small window and he approached it hopefully but this was not the lovely heart-warming landscape he had been looking forward to, with a glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean. It stared bleakly across a narrow alley on to a high blank wall. Sounds of activity, the clash of pans, wafts of steam and smells of bygone meals floating upwards, suggested that the room was situated directly above the kitchen.

  Sternly he regarded the single bed and the crucifix nailed to the wall above it. He suspected that the mattress was hard and unyielding and, although the sheets were white and clean, he was also to discover that the pillows were so robustly feathered they resembled stone boulders gathered from the shore.

  Perhaps Tom was disappointed by this guest’s silent reception of his accommodation as, with a defiant stare, he said sharply, ‘Breakfast at eight,’ leaving Faro to gaze despairingly round the room that defied any prospect of the romantic dalliance with Imogen that he yearned for. Impatiently throwing down his luggage, he said aloud, ‘So much for dreams.’

  He had looked forward to seeing Kerry but now, before his visit had properly begun, it had turned sour on him - not only sour but dangerous. He did not care to think too much about what he had taken on as an obligement to Imogen’s uncle Des. The Cara boys boasted that they could make life not worth living. In the case of two retired detectives well past their best days, this might even imply the death of both of them.