Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13)

by Alanna Knight

‘We all went back to the lough.’ Conn shook his head. ‘A useless journey. No corpse and no sign of the other two Caras so there was nothing we could do.’

  Considering the uncertain tempers of the brothers, Faro had no fault to find with that decision, as Desmond put in, ‘We’ll talk to Molly Donaveen, of course, find out if Luke was visiting her before the accident.’

  ‘But it’s a mere formality - as far as we’re concerned there is no need for any enquiry,’ said Conn. ‘Since we have not been officially notified of any death and Dr Neill only saw him carried away...’

  ‘Without a closer examination, I had no evidence that he was dead - the circumstances merely suggested that was the case,’ the doctor interrupted hastily.

  ‘But he might have been merely injured and unconscious, is that not so?’ asked Conn.

  Heads were shaken in agreement and the mood, among the men gathered in the bar, indicated high hopes that Luke Cara was indeed dead, one bad penny fewer, one fewer to fear in Carasheen, a desirable and satisfactory conclusion for the Cara boys’ victims. However, it did appear to Faro that, if Dr Neill was correct in his presumption of death and taking into consideration that Luke, the most vicious of the brothers was hated and feared by all, there were undeniably suspicious circumstances regarding the accident. He decided on an early visit to the scene before too many others had tramped over it.

  Father McNee, having heard the news from his housekeeper, arrived at the inn where speculation was running riot. And Imogen, displaying another example of her ability to read Faro’s mind, whispered to him: ‘A trip to the lough? Not a very grand day for it, alas, but I do still have the gig.’

  As they drove out of the village, Faro said, ‘If the lad is dead, will there be a funeral for him?"

  Imogen shook her head. ‘They don’t belong to the church - excommunicated long ago, I suspect, when they refused to let the priest conduct a service for their father. Everyone, good Catholics, were shocked and there are still horrendous accounts of Father McNee being thrown out.’ She paused to negotiate a sharp bend in the road. ‘They have a family vault belonging to the old castle which they said was good enough for the Caras - they didn’t need any snivelling priest to say prayers for any of them. I think, in that case, Father McNee won’t be tempted again. The only thing the folks here will be regretting is the lost opportunity for a wake,’ she added cynically.

  Faro was silent and she asked, ‘Having doubts about it being an accident or is that just the policeman in you coming out?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think when we reach the lough.’ As the road rose sharply above the water, he said, ‘I’ll get out here and walk. No, don’t drive after me. I want to look at the road on foot.’

  In the muddy aftermath of the previous night’s heavy downpour, there were hoof prints and also human footprints - men wearing large boots by the look of them. He looked down the slope. The reeds and grass were disturbed in a rough line down to the lough, consistent with a body rolling down to the water’s edge.

  Imogen was at his side. ‘Have you any theories?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure now, it looks as if Dr Neill’s account was right. The riderless horse - well, it threw him and, injured by the fall, he rolled down there and drowned. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, my dear, but let’s consider - he’s an excellent horseman, knows his animal well, so why did it throw him?’

  Imogen frowned. ‘There was a storm. Could have been thunder or lightning that scared him.’

  ‘True. What else?’

  ‘An engineered accident, you mean? Some human agency?’

  ‘Exactly. From what we know of the Cara boys’ unpopularity, it could have been almost anyone from the village.’

  ‘And, of course, everyone knew that they were frequent visitors at Donaveen courting Molly,’ Imogen added triumphantly.

  Faro was bent down examining the grass verge. ‘See here - wheel marks. Someone other than a rider was on the road - and it whoever it was probably moved over to let someone pass,’ He sat back on his heels considering. ‘Not the doctor - he was on horseback. Not a large carriage either - the wheels aren’t wide or deep enough for that. Something much lighter, most probably, a pony cart.’ Frowning, he stared back up the road. ‘And from the direction of Donaveen.’

  Imogen thought for a moment. ‘And the driver pulled over to let a horseman pass,’said Imogen.

  ‘Or not to let him pass,’ said Faro grimly. ‘This individual might have had a quite different intention - to give Luke Cara’s horse the fright of its life so that it reared and threw him off. And we are presuming it was a "he",’ he added thoughtfully and smiled at her. ‘As I recall, females also drive pony carts in Carasheen. Like yourself.’

  ‘And many others.’ Imogen looked at him shrewdly as he led the way back to the gig.

  Helping her aboard, he said, ‘I think this would be an opportune moment for that introduction to the Widow of Donaveen that you promised me.’

  There was no problem with admission. Imogen had visited before and the lodge keeper, an ancient man, bent in the back and unsteady on the legs, puffed and blew as he doffed his cap and opened the gates for them. On closer acquaintance, the house was as impressive as it had looked from a distance. The woman who opened the door and greeted Imogen so warmly was the housekeeper Annie who had been with her mistress from the day she came to Donaveen as a bride. She politely informed them that, yes, the mistress would see them.

  It was a fine house on the outside, splendid too on the inside as they set entered the richly panelled hall where a marble-tiled floor touched the foot of a sweeping oak staircase, embellished by the inevitable family portraits staring down from its walls. While they waited, Imogen pointed out the painting of a pretty young woman. ‘Molly as a girl,’ she whispered. Faro looked more closely. He’d seen one like it somewhere.

  ‘Come this way, please,’ said Annie. The sitting room was also panelled and had great windows overlooking Dingle Bay. Tantalising vistas of the Blasket Isles lay beyond the huge vases of fresh flowers at the windowsills. The vases were set on antique tables that had come from France and Italy, hinting at exotic travels. But there were homelier touches too - two great old sofas, both well cushioned and large enough to accommodate four persons, faced each other. Between them a large marble fireplace whose mantelpiece bore a magnificent antique French clock modestly ticking the hours away.

  The sound of dogs’ claws on polished floors, accompanied by a woman’s voice, announced Molly’s entrance accompanied by two spaniels that rushed forward to greet the visitors. She kissed Imogen’s cheek while the exuberant dogs introduced themselves to Faro and decided to give him their undivided attention. Calling them to order, Molly took his hand, saying, ‘So this is your young man, Imogen Crowe, and we are to have a sight of him at last.’

  Faro smiled, flattered by the ‘young man’ but telling himself that Molly was only being polite. He was, however, just a little put out when she donned spectacles for a closer look.

  Then for a while, as the two women spoke in the Irish, he was forgotten so he took the opportunity to drift over towards the window, past a huge desk with elegant crystal decanters, a large black bottle and, somewhat incongruously, a box of pills. He picked them up idly. A label indicated Dr Neill’s dispensary and the date.

  There were photographs alongside, of Molly herself, like the painting in the hall, looking young and unrecognisably slim, the wedding photograph with Sean Donaveen, some taken on their travels, and one of a smiling young man. Diverted by the dogs demanding his undivided interest, he patted them enthusiastically and fondled their long silky ears.

  In English, for his benefit he guessed, Molly was questioning Imogen about the years since they had last met. She was particularly eager to know what was the fashion in Paris these days. A devotee of the ladies’ journals, she greatly admired the new style of skirt and blouse with tailored coat that were soon to replace the bustle and elaborately frilled day gow
ns - it was certainly more suited to the modern young woman, like Imogen herself, who was emerging with the 1890s. ‘You’re the height of fashion, my dear,’ Molly said with an appraising glance.

  Imogen laughed, smoothing her skirt. ‘Two of these and a selection of blouses, plain for day - like this one - and lace for evening is all I need for our travels. Hats only when strictly necessary and I find the sailor variety is much preferable to carrying a flock of birds or a fruit basket on my head. Men have no such problems,’ she added and both women turned and smiled across at Faro. Indifferent to changing fashions, his basic wardrobe had long been a Norfolk jacket, serge or tweed trousers and an overcoat known as an Ulster.

  Their talk moved on to Imogen’s kin and her cousin’s wedding and, as this was a conversation in which he had no part, he was able to take stock of the Widow of Donaveen.

  A handsome woman of ample proportions, he thought wryly, who would have made two of Imogen Crowe. Large in every direction from the top of her head, where a mass of white hair was inexpertly held and seriously lacking in the application of a hairdresser’s scissors for many years past, he thought. A smooth and rosy complexion with more than one chin, a merry expression. Yes, he concluded, as the conversation drifted back to include him again, a very attractive widow, large as a feather bed and doubtless equally as comfortable. Certainly no mate for any of the vicious Cara blackguards.

  Imogen was telling her about Luke’s accident. Faro listened and watched. She said nothing, but her face lost its smiling look and took on a haunted expression. At the end of it, she shook her head. ‘God in his mercy knows I should be sorry for a young life lost and that I should pray for his soul, but those...those young devils have made my life sheer hell.’ And, pausing to pat the dogs that had returned to her side, she added, ‘They killed one of my darlings and beat up my factor. To be honest, if you had said all three had been drowned, I would not have shed a single tear. I would have thanked God.’ And, to Faro, in case he was shocked by such sentiments, she said, ‘You cannot imagine my relief, Mr Faro.’

  ‘Please call him Jeremy,’ put in Imogen with a smile in his direction.

  The housekeeper entered with a tray - good strong tea, scones and gooseberry jam. No alcohol despite the decanters, thought Faro with an instant’s regret. His look of longing towards the desk had not gone unnoticed and Molly smiled. ‘You can help yourself to something stronger from over there. But avoid the black bottle - a courting present from Luke Cara,’ she added with a grimace. ‘Poteen of the homebrewed variety. Dreadful stuff. I’d have thrown it in his face if I’d dared.’

  ‘Did he bring that last night?’ asked Faro.

  Molly looked at him and frowned as if trying to remember. She shook her head and said slowly, ‘No, not last night.’ Then, addressing Annie, ‘My pills, Annie.’ There was some little delay about the pills as Annie wondered where they were. Faro walked over to the desk and held up the box to Molly’s great relief and Annie’s chiding during which time he considered that small hesitation concerning Luke Cara.

  Molly was laughing. ‘I have a terrible memory for taking pills,’ And a terrible memory regarding Luke Cam’s last visit, Faro thought. If Luke had met with a fatal accident on the way home after visiting her, then, for her own reasons, she was keeping silent about it.

  ‘You’re not ill, are you?’ asked Imogen anxiously.

  ‘Of course not, my dear. Just a touch of indigestion and Peter, who is such a good friend, makes me up some pills and brings them himself. He enjoys the excuse for having supper with me. How is he, by the way?’ she asked casually as she handed Imogen a plate.

  ‘He’s very well.’

  ‘Good, I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  The conversation drifted to Scotland. Molly sighed. ‘Poor Sean and I were in Edinburgh the year before he died. Would you believe it? We might have met there,’ she said smiling at Faro.

  Imogen laughed. ‘I think that would be very unlikely, unless you had been engaged in some criminal activity’ Molly frowned and stared at Faro as if seeing him in a new, less happy light.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said hastily. ‘I did have another life apart from the City Police,’ he added, his sharp glance in Imogen’s direction acting as a reprimand for her rather tactless remark.

  There was more from Molly about Edinburgh and the places further across the world that she and Sean had visited. Then it was time to go.

  On the way back to Carasheen, Imogen talked amiably about Molly and what a fine woman she was and, although he made the appropriate rejoinders, Faro’s attention was elsewhere. He was thinking about the date on the pill box - yesterday’s date - and, if Dr Peter Neill had delivered Molly’s pills personally, then he had gone to Donaveen on the same day as Luke’s accident had happened. The weather had been bad that night and Donaveen was some distance away. This meant that the doctor would probably have used the pony cart with a sheltering umbrella rather than ridden a horse as he had claimed he had done.

  Recalling those wheel tracks near the spot where the accident had occurred, his thoughts then returned to Molly and how she had enquired after the doctor’s health with her emphasis on the fact that it was some time since she had seen him. Someone was lying. Faro again remembered grimly that, in a case of murder, the person who discovered the body was most often the prime suspect. Was it possible that the doctor, on his way back from Donaveen, had met Luke Cara with fatal results? And was his good friend Molly providing him with an alibi?

  Something else was worrying Faro - the photographs on Molly’s desk. A face that he had seen somewhere before. And he was to encounter the poteen bottle - or one very like it - in far more sinister circumstances.

  Chapter 10

  At the inn, an unusual buzz of voices for this time of day, when farmers should have been engaged in more productive outdoor activities, indicated that Tom’s customers had not been eager to disperse. Everyone in the area now knew that Luke Cara was dead, the news spreading like wildfire to even the remotest farms. The whole of Carasheen was agog with speculation for the details of what might or might not have caused that fatal accident.

  Conn’s opinion was being sought as people wanted to be sure that Luke was really dead. It wasn’t just a rumour and they could breathe freely again and thank God for removing the most hated and feared of the Cara brothers. Glowing in his new importance as Carasheen’s policeman, his face flushed with excitement, Conn came over to greet Faro and Imogen. Nodding towards the men clustered around the bar, he said, ‘I’ve never heard so many different versions of what might have happened,’ and to Faro, ‘Looks as if we have a team of amateur detectives ready for recruitment.’

  Desmond, sitting by the window, shook his head sadly. ‘The Good Lord forbid. That’s something we can be doing without.’ Obviously bored by all the speculations and glad of a chance to change the subject, he smiled a greeting at Imogen and Faro. ‘And where have you two been?’

  ‘We’ve just called on Molly Donaveen,’ Imogen told him, at which Conn buttoned up his tunic.

  ‘I was just going there myself as soon as I could get away from this lot. Find out if she had a visit from Luke Cara. Just as a matter of interest, of course,’ he added hastily, ‘there being, as yet, no official report of any death.’

  ‘We can give you the answer to that,’ said Imogen. ‘He hadn’t called on her.’

  Faro looked at her quickly, remembering Molly’s hesitation - or was it evasion - as Conn said, ‘Nevertheless, useful to have her statement to that effect. Just a routine call,’ he added sternly

  Desmond winked across at Faro and, as if Conn was not at hand and listening, he commented, ‘Our policeman’s eagerness to visit our rich widow on official business may have less to do with a sense of duty than the fact that Molly is very liberal with her hospitality Annie is a fine cook. Her fruit cake’s a bite of heaven.’

  Conn smiled shyly ‘Well, I’ll be off now.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said De
smond.

  Conn looked momentarily put out and Desmond added casually, ‘Donaveen House has other attractions too. I hear that the factor has an exceedingly pretty daughter. How is the lovely Clare?’

  The tide of colour that flooded Conn’s face almost outdid his red hair and indicated that Desmond’s remark had hit its target.

  Imogen was to have lunch with some friends of Maeve. ‘I can’t get out of this,’ she told Faro. ‘If I know anything of these lunches they last until after three and slide imperceptibly into afternoon tea.’

  Seeing his look of disappointment, she said hastily, ‘I’m sure the ladies would make you very welcome. And Maeve would be pleased. An attractive man - especially a famous one - is great value,’ she added heartily. ‘Your presence would certainly give the occasion a splendid boost.’

  Faro cut short her enthusiasm. ‘No, Imogen, most definitely no,’ he said sharply.

  Imogen smiled. ‘Sure? You’re missing a treat. I understand the menu is to be quite splendid.’

  Faro shuddered. ‘Not even ambrosia and nectar, Imogen, and your own dear presence would tempt me.’

  She regarded him gravely and sighed, ‘Well now, can you amuse yourself for a few hours without me?’ As she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, well aware that time he spent alone was never wasted, he felt that her regret might have held a modicum of relief, knowing from experience what his reactions might be and how she would be constantly anxiously glancing in his direction for those signs of boredom.

  ‘Perhaps you should invite your friend Aaron to share the feast. I am sure he would be delighted to join the ladies. His adventures would enthral them,’ he said hoping that his somewhat cynical remark did not betray his increasing dislike of the American.

  Imogen smiled sweetly. ‘What a good idea.’ Certain that she was joking, Faro gave her a hard look, followed by a swift kiss and as he left her, amusement was far from the plan he had in mind. This would be an excellent opportunity for a second visit to the Donnellys’ farm. There might be clues he had overlooked, he knew he worked better alone. Imogen’s presence would have been as distracting as Desmond’s had been on that first visit.