Chapter 5
Driving down the hedgerow-bordered lane to the croft, Desmond told Faro something of the background of the tragic young couple. Peg Foster was an orphan, a foundling put in the care of the church home. Last year, she went to the market at Tralee to sell eggs from the home and Will Donnelly was up from Cork selling his pigs.’
So the lad was a newcomer, thought Faro. That might have some significance.
‘Anyway, Will came into some money, bought the croft and they were married.’
Coming into money was perhaps also significant. ‘Where did the money come from?’ he asked.
Desmond shrugged. ‘No one knew but Peg who bought a few hens and began selling eggs.’
‘That was how she encountered the Caras?’
‘Correct - looking for new customers, she went up to the house with her basket. And we know what happened then,’ he said grimly.
‘Surely she knew something about their reputation.’
Desmond shook his head and sighed. ‘I’m afraid neither she nor Will were particularly bright, they could barely read or write, two gentle souls, lost in each other and their own tiny world. They went to Mass regularly and one can only presume that Peg believed that, being a married woman, she would be safe from the attention of the Cara lads.’
Rape was bad enough but being made pregnant. Yet her husband did nothing about that and it ended with them both being murdered. It still didn’t make sense to Faro. It simply wasn’t logical and, when he said so, Desmond shook his head, ‘Since she lost the baby anyway, I expect Will thought it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘Or sleeping villains!’ said Faro. ‘But Peg’s rape could have been the reason for the murder. Did the Cara lads taunt him or, faced with them, did Will’s feelings of rage overcome his determination to remain silent? Had Will made the initial move, then the subsequent tragedy would have made sense.’
Desmond shook his head. ‘That we will never know, what happened in those last moments and we have only Paddy’s word that the attack was unprovoked’
Faro wondered if things were always back to front in Carasheen. A peeping Tom who loved to watch lovers but lived with the priest who swore that this sole witness never lied and had told the truth in the confessional. Doubtless all the good Catholics of Carasheen were eager to accept the priest’s testimony. It might well be so but Faro’s years of experience demanded more than this insubstantial evidence. He wanted to know Paddy’s movements at the time of the murder and if he could be taken back to show them the exact spot from where he had witnessed the scene. He was prepared to bet that Paddy had kept well out of sight and certainly out of earshot of the exact words exchanged between the Cara brothers and the Donnellys. As for Will’s sudden fortune and the termination of Peg’s pregnancy, he wanted to know a lot more about that too, making a mental note to have a word with the local doctor.
Leaving the pony cart they walked through a clearing towards a once neat and tidy garden that was already beginning to look unkempt and overgrown. A neighbour was apparently looking after the pigs and hens. Desmond pushed open the door and led Faro into the kitchen. Beyond, he could see a parlour and bedroom. In their simple furnishings, the neat and tidy rooms managed to reflect something of their owners’ characters. In the parlour, handmade rugs on the floor, a crucifix, plus a few religious pictures solemnly looked down on a cheap wooden table and chairs, the gleaming pots and pans indicated wedding presents. Through the door was another room, another crucifix and a bed with a knitted spread, a cupboard for holding clothes and an ancient well-worn chest of drawers.
Faro looked around. The house certainly did not suggest an abundance of evidence. Everything was fairly basic and impersonal - as if their few months of occupation had not been time enough to leave any imprint, any hallmark of possession. Opening one of the drawers of the chest, his thoughts were confirmed by folded linen with cards still attached. There was also a photograph album.
Desmond was looking over his shoulder as he skimmed through the contents. ‘Mostly postcards gathered from who-knows-where,’ he said. Postcards were the current fashion. ‘Thinking of you in...’ - a faster smarter way of communicating with family and friends, especially for those who found writing letters tedious or difficult.
‘Everyone sends them these days - the lazy way,’ Desmond interpreted his thoughts and Faro nodded vaguely, guiltily aware that he now gratefully availed himself of this convenient method of keeping in touch with his own family. Desmond’s words reminded him that he must buy some postcards. It was a sadly long time since he had written to Emily in Orkney or Rose in America, using his travels in Europe with Imogen as the excuse for such an omission.
Desmond was turning the pages of the album. Among the postcards, there was a wedding photo of the Donnellys and, alongside it, a rather faded sepia and outdated image of a young man. Turning it over there was no name or identification of the subject, only a blurred photographer’s name with ‘Dublin’ legible.
‘Parent, do you think?’ Faro asked.
Desmond was studying the photo intently. Frowning, he shook his head. ‘I can’t say. I know nothing of the lass’s origins. Maybe someone she met in the home.’ Then, with a sigh, he replaced it saying, ‘We’ll never know,’ while Faro continued his futile search for some clue in that might identify the Donnellys with their killers.
Desmond reappeared. ‘Shall we go then?’
Still wrestling with the frustration of that complete lack of evidence, Faro stared at him. ‘Go? Where had you in mind?’
‘Cara House, of course. I thought that was decided.’ Desmond sounded braver than he felt.
Faro shook his head. ‘Not without an official member of the local constabulary.’
‘Conn?’ Desmond laughed. ‘He won’t be back until tomorrow - besides he’s useless.’
‘Useless or no, he officially represents the law in Carasheen. You are a retired detective and I am merely a visitor here...’
‘But...’
Faro cut short his protest. ‘I am not moving until Conn returns. We cannot legally make arrests without him or a sight of those Dublin reinforcements you were promised - preferably with both.’ Shaking his head, he added sternly, ‘And at the moment, I need a lot more evidence than I have heard and seen so far.’
‘Evidence?’ Desmond made it sound like a new word in the vocabulary.
‘Yes, I need firm facts rather than circumstantial evidence before I take another step in this matter.’
‘I thought I had told you all I know,’ was the reproachful reply. ‘Is that not enough?’
‘You have been most helpful but I need to talk to the doctor.’
‘I don’t see how Dr Neill can help you.’
Faro smiled patiently. ‘You will forgive me for pointing out that you have newly returned to Carasheen after a long absence and Conn is a mere youth, but am I right in presuming that the doctor has been here for many years?’
‘All his life.’
‘Exactly. Then the chances are that he can fill in some of the missing background concerning the murdered girl. Perhaps also for the Cara family - he must have written the death certificates for their father, mother and stepmother.’
Desmond gave a weary sigh and Faro did not care to remind him that such practicalities as he required had been routine procedure with Edinburgh City Police where every person who had any connection, however remote, with the murder victim was closely questioned.
Desmond looked glum and said huffily, ‘Well now, if we aren’t going anywhere, I have other matters to attend to. I’ll show you where Dr Neill lives though you’ll be lucky to find him at home at this hour of the day.’ he added and, as the pony cart approached the common, he pointed across the square to a handsome stone-built Georgian house with a neat garden. A notice in the window declared, ‘Surgery. Apply within.’
Parking the pony cart by the gate, Desmond said, ‘You must realise there are few calls on the doctor’s time - folk
s here are very healthy - and he spends a lot of time out fishing in his boat down by the harbour.’ A woman Desmond addressed as Margaret opened the door. She informed them that Dr Neill was at home and he would be pleased to meet Mr Faro who was aware again, as they were ushered into the consulting room, of the careful scrutiny with which he was received in Carasheen. An awesome reputation as a detective, played up no doubt by Imogen’s relatives, he decided, accounted for his cautious reception.
The doctor appeared, introductions were exchanged and for a moment, it looked as though Desmond, cordially invited to take a drink, might stay. Politely he shook his head, ‘Mr Faro has some questions for you, Peter. I’ll be leaving you to it then.’
As the door closed on him, Neill led the way across the hall and Faro was gratified to observe that the interior of the house was as neat as the exterior promised. Everywhere there was the woman’s touch, the good smell of furniture polish, flowers in pretty vases, with masculinity sternly reasserting itself in the oak-panelled study with wall-high bookshelves, leather armchairs and a very large desk.
Invited to take a seat, Faro was asked, ‘Questions, sir. How can I help you?’
‘Mr Crowe has asked my help with the Donnelly murders.’
A shocked exclamation of ‘Dreadful, dreadful!’ came from the doctor who on closer acquaintance had the prosperous look of authority. A well-groomed, well-preserved sixty-year-old, with a well-trimmed fashionable moustache; neat beard and a bedside manner as smooth as the pillows his patients rested their heads upon. Taking the other side of the desk, he placed his fingertips together and leaned forward in an attentive manner - an attitude that reminded Faro fondly of his stepson Dr Vince Laurie. Was this, he wondered, the traditional doctor’s pose as set out in the textbook for young medical students and guaranteed to inspire confidence in their apprehensive patients?
‘I gather you have been resident in Carasheen for some years, Dr Neill.’
‘Indeed, yes. Born and bred, sir, born and bred. Did my medical training and qualified in Dublin, then came back home. Margaret and I have never had the slightest desire to live anywhere else, especially with the family so reluctant to leave Kerry.’ Pausing to open a drawer in the desk, he extracted a bottle of whiskey and poured out a generous dram that he set before Faro.
‘Your good health, sir.’ And, taking a sip, he looked round and added, ‘Sure now, and this was a piece of paradise in the old days when Sir Michael Cara was alive. A great chap, a great chap he was. Not like these young villains he left behind. He must turn in his grave when he sees what Carasheen has become...’
They were interrupted as the door opened and Margaret came in with soda bread, oatcakes and cheese. Smiling, the doctor introduced proudly: ‘My wife.’ An attractive woman in her late-fifties with white hair and classical features, she looked strikingly like an older version of Imogen. He wasn’t surprised when Neill said, ‘Margaret is a Crowe - I married into the clan.’
While they wrestled with Margaret’s delicious offering, which went so splendidly with the whiskey, there was quite a bit more talk involving confusing relationships in Carasheen. At last, dusting down the crumbs, they set depleted plates back on the tray.
Neill was about to resume the conversation when the grandfather clock interrupted, cutting short any such intentions by the dramatic onset of a stately and somewhat loud and lengthy harmony, concluding with twelve solemn chimes. The doctor immediately drew out his watch, consulted it carefully, clicked it shut and said, ‘I have a patient to see in half an hour.’ Then, leaning forward to resume that bedside manner once more, he said: ‘If you please, Mr Faro.’
‘As I mentioned, Mr Crowe has asked for my cooperation in the Donnelly case. I am willing to give him all the help I can - but murder without a motive?’ Faro shook his head. ‘It seems quite illogical.’
Neill nodded eagerly. ‘Indeed it does - those were my own thoughts exactly.’ Pausing, he waited for Faro to continue.
‘I have a feeling that often, in such cases, there may be a clue lurking in the past.’
‘Indeed.’
And the doctor gave Faro an oddly shrewd glance as he asked him, ‘What do you know about the murdered girl?’
Neill looked thoughtful. ‘A foundling, Mr Faro.’ And, replenishing Faro’s drink, he sighed. ‘Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?’
Chapter 6
‘The baby Peg was left at the church door. Not much help there, I’m afraid.’
‘No idea about parents?’
Neill shook his head. ‘None. Her maiden surname was Foster but that simply reflects the fact that she was fostered. If her real parents had been local folk, everyone would have known.’ He sighed. ‘The lass grew up to be a fine young woman - bonny, hardworking, industrious, a credit to us. We were fine pleased when she married Will Donnelly’
‘What about his inheritance?’
‘So you heard about that.’ Neill shrugged. ‘Again, shrouded in mystery - an unknown benefactor. And folks here were happy to accept his good fortune without question. I have to tell you, sir, that we accept things as they are told to us,’ he said sternly. ‘We take folks as they are, we don’t pry into personal matters and respect privacy’
And Faro found himself listening to a repetition of what Desmond had already told him, none of it the slightest help in solving a murder case. At the end he said, ‘So you have no ideas, Doctor?’
‘None at all.’
Faro said carefully, ‘Desmond told me the girl was raped, got pregnant by the Cara boys.’
‘That piece of villainy was common knowledge.’ The doctor was watching him carefully as he went on: ‘I understand that she lost the child.’
Neill nodded vaguely. With a shrug of dismissal, he said, ‘Miscarried - a frequent occurrence in the early months.’
‘Did you attend her?’
Was there a growing tension, a cautious tightening in Neill’s candid manner? ‘I am not sure what you mean by attend,’ the doctor said coldly, choosing his words carefully. ‘Miscarriages are spontaneous - nature’s way of getting rid of an unhealthy foetus.’
In Peg’s case, this was very convenient, Faro thought, needing little imagination to visualise the distraught and terrified girl. And something unspoken in the doctor’s manner suggested that she may well had been assisted out of a tragic plight. ‘How did her husband react?’
Neill regarded him steadily. ‘I think the lad was grateful...er...greatly relieved.’ He laughed uneasily. ‘Wouldn’t any husband confronted with such a situation be so?’ And, as if aware of Faro’s unspoken suspicions, he added smoothly, ‘As you no doubt know from your long experience, abortion is a criminal offence. And, in Ireland, it carries the additional moral threat of hell and damnation and excommunication.’
‘Quite so,’ said Faro. ‘But what really concerns me is whether this tragic event lay behind the motive for their murder.’
The doctor shook his head firmly. ‘The motive for their murder was sheer wickedness. The Cara boys were chopping down trees, probably had been drinking heavily and decided, when the Donnellys appeared, that they were trespassing. I suspect, although I will never know for sure, that Will put up a resistance and...and you know the rest.’ he added grimly.
‘From Paddy’s statement, yes.’
Neill regarded him fiercely. ‘You have my word, Father McNee’s word - and the entire village will back them up - that what Paddy saw and told us was the truth - the murder as he witnessed it. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind in Carasheen about that,’ he added firmly
Silent for a moment, Faro then asked, ‘What can you tell me about the Cara family? You were their doctor, weren’t you?’
Neill smiled grimly. ‘Only in extremis, one might say.’
‘I understand that Michael Cara met with a fatal accident.’
‘Indeed, that is so.’
And, as Faro expected, the doctor reaffirmed Desmond’s story of how the sick man, a semi-invalid, had falle
n downstairs.
‘Did you believe it was an accident?’
The doctor frowned. ‘It appeared to be so, according to his sons, who found him there when they returned home in the early hours. By the time they came for me, he had been dead for several hours.’ He was silent for a moment then said slowly, ‘Their father drank rather too much and was partly paralysed from a stroke.’
‘He had been married twice, I was told,’ Faro said. ‘Did you attend his first wife in her last days?’
‘I did indeed. But Michael left it too late for me to do anything. He had expected an easy birth, as had been the case with the other three boys, but there were complications this time. She died and the baby too. He was to have been John, completing the four apostles,’ he added grimly. ‘Poor Michael was half mad with grief, utterly devoted to her. ‘
Faro found himself back with his own bleak memories of his beloved Lizzie’s death in childbed, with the baby son, they had both longed for, stillborn beside her. After all these years, that memory could still haunt and hurt, rising as bitter as gall in his throat.
Neill continued, ‘Everyone thought it was the end of Michael too and we were all thankful when he came back from a visit to Dublin with a new young wife. English she was, but none the worse for that. However, she never got on well with the stepsons.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid rumour ran rife when she fell to her death from an upstairs window at Cara House.’
‘An accident?’
‘So it appeared.’ was the cautious reply. ‘To be honest with you, Mr Faro, I have always had grave doubts about it. But how could I point a finger at three boys, the eldest not fourteen years old, without breaking their father’s heart once again. So I held my peace.’ Again he shook his head sadly ‘But Alice’s death was Michael’s deathblow too. Things went from bad to even worse. I have often wondered, in fact, if he knew, or suspected like the rest of us, that her death had not been accidental. What could we do?’
Faro was appalled that anyone could sit back and do nothing about the vile situation that Neill had put into words, as he continued: ‘We were - are still - a small community. Unlike the Caras, we have no authority. They were our feudal lords, Sir Michael’s sons are his legal heirs in charge of the estate that gives us our living. How could we hope to put them away, lock them behind bars?’ Pausing for a moment, he added significantly, ‘There is always the possibility however that they will save us the trouble.’
Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13) Page 4
